Don't walk behind me, I may not lead. Don't walk in front of me, I may not follow. Just walk beside me and be my friend. - Albert Camus

The past 24 have had a lot of contemplation about right and wrong. Watching the sheer joy of the jabbering heads discussing the pictures of Saddam's neck snapping as captured by a cell phone camera have led me to think about what is right and wrong anymore, when it comes to government policy.

It used to be, the best government policy was the one that helped the most people. Now it would appear that the best government policy is the one that causes the least number of deaths.

As governments increasingly take on the role of vindicator, it is up to us, to try and preserve, in our own worlds any sense of morality.

Government as Superhero. What a thought. It's a flawed hero though. Unlike the idealized world of Superman and spider man though, this is a hero who bumbles, and stumbles his way, and hurts more innocent people than criminals. One of the reasons a judicial system outlaws vigilantism is because there is the likelihood of mistake. A mistake which cannot be repaired.

The body count rises on an hourly basis in the "war on terror" a war which will continue throughout my lifetime, and probably into the lifetime of my children. Years ago, someone said, this is a war that cannot be won, because it's a war on a tactic, not a war on an enemy. For every death, a new generation of soldiers is born. It would appear we have entered a state of perpetual conflict.

Death is not only an unusually severe punishment, unusual in its pain, in its finality and in its enormity, but is serves no penal purpose more effectively than a less severe punishment.
William J. Brennan


If there was ever a man worthy of being executed publicly, certain Hussein falls into that category. However, this does not make it right. All that was accomplished yesterday was another death in a war that has claimed far too many deaths as it is. Odds are, more people will be killed in revenge for Hussein's death, then more deaths in revenge for those deaths. Being put in jail, Hussein was no longer a threat, he had become a cartoon, a pathetic figure, ranting and screaming.

What moral obligation is served by swinging him by a thread and snapping his neck? Near as I can see, the world isn't any safer. The only purpose served was revenge, sating a blood lust.

Stories abound about the behaviour of those who witnessed the execution, stories of dancing around the corpse. Tell me this was the behaviour of a democracy. I defy you to find three presidents of the united states elected in the twentieth century who are not worthy of hanging by the neck until dead. Clinton? Bombing medical warehouses, Kennedy? He escalated the war in Vietnam, despite the revisions of history to claim he didn't. Roosevelt? His directives led to the development of the atomic bomb.

Canadian prime ministers are guilty of crimes as well, the nature of ours is less malevolent though due to our lack of a budget.

The absurdity of what happened on December 29 will cost a price that will be paid for years, in blood and death. Hussein needed to be kept in jail, humiliated, turned into a clown. Now he can grow in stature in the fuzzy reflection of history.

rea ipsa loquitur

Now that Bush has his pound of flesh, will he go home?


The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike the inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Thomas Gray

She asked for my love and I gave her a dangerous mind

I have a theory that the truth is never told during the nine-to-five hours.
Hunter S. Thompson

Weird sensations waking up this morning, a strange hand has gripped my forehead and is squeezing tight. Maybe it's just a lack of coffee, I'm never sure anymore, the yule season is an odd one, the ghosts outside the window are more schizophrenic than usual.

People want to to be nicer, but don't know how to, it's an unusual state of mind for people to be pleasant to each other, and doing so makes them well, jittery.

Weird noises coming from the magic box this morning, anticipation that a man will be hung by the weekend. Not sure, but a violent death like that never leads to anything good. I have a suspicion that next week we'll be talking about the aftermath of an incredible upswing in violence. I hope I'm wrong. The American media wizards are practically rubbing their hands with glee at the possibility that Hussein's execution will be televised.

Send lawyers, guns, and money.

The TV business is uglier than most things. It is normally perceived as some kind of cruel and shallow money trench through the heart of the journalism industry, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free and good men die like dogs, for no good reason.
Hunter S. Thompson

Your correspondent's clock has gone haywire, doing the graveyard shifts last night and tonight, I'm completely oblivious to what time of day it is, the clock on the wall glows purple and tells me it's 3PM, but it feels like 6AM. An attempt to sleep was made but this horrific electronic, shrieking, high treble version of "buttons and bows" kept playing, not sure if it was grounded in reality or a audio hallucination caused by exhaustion, either way it kept me awake and in a very agitated state.

Filling myself with caffeine is the only solution, this is the only solution to most of my problems that affect my state of mind. Exhaustion hounds me like a foul spirit. The ghosts that hang over my head in a perpetual state of torment, swarm on days like these.

George Harrison said it best "It seems like years since it's been clear". Despite the fact that the sun is shining today, there is a shadow that hangs over the day. Watching the magic box, the world is astounded that a 93 year old man who had been fighting pneumonia and heart disease has died.

Peering through the windows of the bunker, I see the hollow eyes of the ghosts as they wander the alleys of the urban jungle. Despite the commanded joy of the season, the streets seem to be filled with despair. Walking home in the morning, there is an imagic irony of a man in a sleeping bag seeking shelter from the elements in the doorway of a bank.

I need to sleep.

I'm a street walking cheetah with a heart full of napalm

Each blade of grass has its spot on earth whence it draws its life, its strength; and so is man rooted to the land from which he draws his faith together with his life.
Joseph Conrad

It occurs to me that I arrived in Vancouver 18 years ago. This is the longest I've called one place home in my life. Where I grew up, Ottawa, isn't my home. This is my home, in fact my apartment now, is literally 50 feet away from the room where I spent my first night in Vancouver.

I draw a strength from this city, I've been to hell and back in this burgh. For all of my whining and griping that appears on this journal of my life, this city is my strength, my spine, my heart, my courage, and my soul.

Perhaps it's the newness of the place. The ground is still ripping open and pushing up, it's not eroding like the eastern part of the country which emerged further back in time, and is falling back to the sea.

my life will span one tenth of a blink of an eye in geological time, but I feel a birthing going on here, more than a renewal, it's a creation.

Giving some more thought to solidarity, I'm compelled, for reasons of fairness, to think of reasons, beyond pure ego, of why people would sacrifice their brothers and sisters in a union for their own ambitions.

Systemic bigotry. Sadly, it does still exist today, homophobia, racism, and sexism are still rampant. The terms are couched a little nicer, and not as hostile, but it's still there.

This bigotry would not only require but would compel a person to step out and confront it on it's face.

solidarity forever

sol·i·dar·i·ty Pronunciation (sl-dr-t)
n.
A union of interests, purposes, or sympathies among members of a group; fellowship of responsibilities and interests.

"A Trade Union (Labour union) ... is a continuous association of wage-earners for the purpose of maintaining or improving the conditions of their employment."[1]

Over the last three hundred years, trade unions have developed into a number of forms, influenced by differing political and economic regimes. The immediate objectives and activities of trade unions vary, but may include:

Some people in my extended circle of colleagues, are in need of a reminder of the above two definitions. Frequently, in the past few years, I've seen members of a union hang out their brothers and sisters in order to further their own goals and ambitions.

At first, my own naivety wrote this off as a youthful misunderstanding of the purpose of a labour union. However, as time passes, I'm realizing that this is more of a trend, rather than an isolated, misguided attempt at ambition.

There are two ways to rise up through the ranks, one is to be carried up on the arms and shoulders of your co-workers, the second is to step on their necks and heads. Who do you think will have the more stable stay at the top?

The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary; men alone are quite capable of every wickedness.
Joseph Conrad

I've slept poorly for nearly 20 years now. With the exception of times I've been ill I've not slept for more than 5 hours since the early 90's. I'm haunted by a lot of ghosts. The blackness is torn open every night and new spirits are shaken out into the world.

Watching the feeds this morning, The yule season is dominated by stories of rape. Escorts, and soldiers, the christmas season is apparently the season for violent penetration.

When the room holds it's breath even the shadows listen to you

They talk of a man betraying his country, his friends, his sweetheart. There must be a moral bond first. All a man can betray is his conscience.
Joseph Conrad

Like a shade that's starting to fray, colours are appearing through the clouds this morning. A weird mix of purples and oranges poking through the blanket of grey.

According to the weather wizards, the rain is taking a break until this evening.

Weird flickers from the magic box this morning, whispers of terrorist attacks in England, talk of explosions in Iraq. This Christmas is deep in the grip of "the fear", a tragic and horrible season is a Christmas in the arms of the black beast.

As governments halfway around the world commit mass murder, the hemming and hawing seems to be to try and find a way to stop, much like a sociopath suddenly finding his conscience, but unable to contain his urges, the new year promises many disturbing twists and turns, periods of harsh inhumanity mixed with episodes of angst.

The United States is a troubled country of late, hiding from a threat it doesn't know how to contain. Committing military acts that far outweigh the original atrocities committed against them, and against the wrong people.

The original intention, I believe for the invasion of Iraq was to boost morale. An easy win against a foe who had previously threatened. This plan has backfired. Now the US is drawn too thin, if another foe, or it's original one, El-Qaeda presents itself, it will be unable to face the enemy. It has no troops left to dispatch. Barring compulsory military service, which it knows will not have any popular support The US has committed itself to a civil war, and doesn't even know which side to support.

The world moves on a woman's hips

The scrupulous and the just, the noble, humane, and devoted natures; the unselfish and the intelligent may begin a movement - but it passes away from them. They are not the leaders of a revolution. They are its victims.
Joseph Conrad

Another wind warning. The breath of God is going to make another attempt to blow confusion into the world this evening, this is getting tiresome.

As I strap things down in the bunker, the feeds cast their ominous shadows on the wall.

A new nuclear power has emerged in the middle east, this can't be good for anyone. Regardless of the country, this is a part of the world that's very unstable, and any government in control of nuclear weapons has to tread very carefully.

Some weird pieces of paper have made their way across my desk in the past few days, still trying to determine their importance.

Hobbes clearly proves, that every creature lives in a state of war by nature.
~Jonathan Swift

Another day of grey. This cocoon of absent colour is wearing on me. Pondering the feeds this morning, something occurs to me. There's a new trend developing amongst the chattering heads, "Blame the Iraqis". For 12 years the US bombed the bejeezus out of Iraq, killing, best guess, 500,000 children between 1990 and 2003, then a full scale invasion which dissembled their government, now the US is saying that the civil war in Iraq is the fault of the Iraqi people.

Sigh....

This magnificent butterfly finds a little heap of dirt and sits still on it; but man will never on his heap of mud keep still.
Joseph Conrad


The gremlins in my skull are dancing a weird jig this morning. As the feeds burn into the bunker, a weird sense of calm is wrapped around the bunker, almost a numbness. rain for the foreseeable future according to the weather wizards. This time of year always beats me up, we have little to no exposure to the sun for months on end. The gray that envelopes the sky, seems to eventually make it's way into my bloodstream. My life becomes gray.


It's difficult to remain motivated when everything is a battleship gray. The absence of direct light causes weird shadows on the wall, difficult to interpret, to understand. The flicker of the magic box beaming inhumanity into my living room is dulled by this weird blanket of gray, the lights are not falling the way they're supposed to.

The art, curve, line and swerve

Words, as is well known, are the great foes of reality.
Joseph Conrad

The feeds are humming this morning, a quiet day evidently. The heavens are an ominous grey which doesn't bode well for the day.

Attempting to escape my reality last night, I watched an old movie, THX 1138. A nihilist post apocalyptic view of the future made in the early 70's. 'Twas scary just how close to our world it was.

I'm an optimist by nature, but the feeds seem intent on ruining that part of my personality.

A wild storm ripped through last week, causing your correspondent to cower in fear in the corner of the bunker. Trees, supermodels, kittens, all flew past the window at terrific speeds.

Hold me down, I'm a wounded man

It is not the clear-sighted who rule the world. Great achievements are accomplished in a blessed, warm fog.
Joseph Conrad

As the feeds burn into the bunker this morning, I'm wracked with confusion about what the future holds for Iraq. On the one hand you have a great hew and cry for a staggered withdrawal of troops. In a distant corner you have a hawkish cry for more troops. There seems to be a movement to not only increase the occupational force, but to become more aggressive.

Occupations, historically, almost always fail. This is a historic truth. Provocative action will be received with even more violence.

Facing it, always facing it, that's the way to get through. Face it.
Joseph Conrad





Apparently the wind and rains are over, replaced by cold and snow. A good day to return to work I suppose. It would seem as if this cold weather will be a brief spell, only lasting a day or so.

The bunker is well fitted for the cold, not so much for the wet and wind. Alas the jabbering, floating heads were disappointed, no corpses washing down the streets for them to film.

As in political so in literary action a man wins friends for himself mostly by the passion of his prejudices and the consistent narrowness of his outlook.
Joseph Conrad

The wind was blowing like the breath of an angry god last night. Trying to get a fitful sleep last night was near impossible with a raging blow of air blasting past the bunker. Even more disturbing was the news coverage of the wind. You got the sense that small children and puppies were going to be blown off by this wind and carried to the nether world. "Prepare for the apocalypse!" the ordinarily staid news anchors screamed into the cameras.

Alas, here in the bunker, all was calm. I huddled by the window with a weapon prepared for the worst. Peering through the drapes, I'm not sure but I think I may have seen supermodel wisp past the window at 2:30 AM.

Any work that aspires, however humbly, to the condition of art should carry its justification in every line.
Joseph Conrad

I woke up, in the words of 13 engines, dreaming of Cocaine and Clowns. An odd duality of the tragic and the comic. Having been told by the weather wizards that I should be prepared for a storm of biblical proportions last night, I was battened down in the bunker last night peering through the mattresses stacked near the windows, prepared to see small children being swept away by the winds. However, it never happened. All we have is this damn blanket of grey that continues to depress.

The magic box is flickering strange shadows on the wall this morning. David Duke is in the news again, why do we keep putting this man in front of cameras? He is a small horrible little man, who needs to be pushed to the fringe, he's not dangerous, he's just a loon.

I'm braced for some ugliness this coming week, as the yule season approaches with a dizzying pace, the horrible songs have started piping over the speakers at all available opportunities, I'm not sure if the sugar plum fairies dancing in my head are a result of low blood sugar or a subliminal suggestion planted by the grocery store.

An artist is a man of action, whether he creates a personality, invents an expedient, or finds the issue of a complicated situation.
Joseph Conrad

I'm constantly on the lookout for new authors. New forms of provocative narrative, textured exposition, there is so little of it out there. Ondaatje is good, Eco even Better, I don't mind Douglas Coupland, but he's starting to wear on me.

Conrad was a giant, Orwell was too, Thompson, until he swallowed the pistol was a hero. Who is out there who can compare to them. Who are the modern giants?

I'm tempted to think of Umberto Eco, but he writes a book once every ten years.

The bunker is a cold place these days, huddled against the window, trying to find a light in the darkness caused by fog and clouds, I peer onto the horizon trying to find an end to the interminable. That's where the hunt for the new giant takes hold, an escape. Turning on the magic box is terrifying at best, poisoned writers, exploding cars, idolized killers. Hate as a form of comedy, this is what passes for fun these days.

To make matters worse, I look to the CBC for solace, and whose ugly mug is facing me? Mulroney's, I thought we finally got rid of him years ago, why does he keep coming back, like a poorly healed boil?

All ambitions are lawful except those which climb upward on the miseries or credulities of mankind.
Joseph Conrad


I've been writing about my difficulties in finding my voice since my return to the bunker. I've realized my problem, it's my lack of a muse. Despite my protestations of complete independence, I've come to realize I do need someone to get this muscle under my ribs "a-pumpin".

This dearth of passion is good for my emotional base line, days are free of ups and downs, but the ups and downs are what get me excited. Funny, when you have them, you want them to stop, when you don't have them, their absence affects you in ways you didn't expect.

Action is consolatory. It is the enemy of thought and the friend of flattering illusions.
Joseph Conrad

Flu is a terrible, terrible thing. Been lying in bed for the past 48 hours sweating and feeling sorry for myself. I'm not even enjoying the coffee. As I add up the tragedies I'm forced to take stock. The bunker is not a warm comfortable place to be, its a safe place. I'm reminded of the name of Superman's home, "The Fortress of Solitude".

I'm finding solace in escapism the past few days. Detaching myself from reality, reading the classics of science fiction. I've just finished reading Heinlein's "starship troopers" which I don't think I've read since my pre teen years.

This is a tough time of year for your correspondent. The weather is oppressive, an annoying holiday is on the horizon. Illness is around every corner, and my slippers are much to small for my feet.

The magic box is casting strange shadows, almost, almost filled with hope that the days of lying about the middle east are over, and perhaps the western world will confront honestly the reasons why so many people are willing to kill themselves in order to hurt the west.

A man's most open actions have a secret side to them.
Joseph Conrad

The ironically named "institute for peace" releases it's Iraq study group report today. Whether or not Bush heeds it's advice, only he and time can tell.

One has to beg the question, why has Bush set up these elaborate groups, with gravitas and budgets, only to ignore their collected wisdom? Did he hope in his heart of hearts that these groups would affirm that he's doing the right thing? Perhaps he hoped that "loyalty" which is so important to him, would override common sense. Loyalty is important to me, I wouldn't put myself in a position to criticize someone I was loyal to.

Methinks Bush has a niggling demon on his shoulder whispering into his ear. He knows he's doing the wrong thing, but his ego won't let him back down.

A caricature is putting the face of a joke on the body of a truth.
Joseph Conrad

The days are increasingly shorter, the darkness wrapping us like a shroud. November and December are cruel months, cold, damp and dark. They're not the cruelest, Eliot has reserved that distinction for April.

The shadows on the magic box are telling me that apparently the Liberals have taken a turn to the left. The new leader Dion, chose to harangue our honourable prime minister on his stand regarding gay marriage. Why in 2006 we are still debating a fundamental issue of human rights, I don't know.

The fallout from the pandering Rumsfeld memo continues to rain down on Bush. More and more, with each passing day it's evident that Bush is not only disconnected from reality, he has no interest in becoming part of reality. Wednesday brings the release of the baker commission on Iraq, with an expected call for troop withdrawal. Bush has already discounted that possibility.

I'm having a problem finding my voice with this journal, it's there, I just need to find it, I need a muse, an inspiration.

My choice of reading material of late hasn't been helpful in finding that voice, a lot of depressing material about the dark days in Baghdad, putting emotional strain on an already tortured heart. As I lean back in the chair, I listen to rags by Scott Joplin these days, in an attempt to cheer myself up. Sometimes it works, sometimes it does not.

In fact as I write this, I'm listening to “the entertainer” which makes me smile, just a bit.

A golden age of film, pops into my head, the early mid 70's. The Sting was part of a movement that came out of the sixties, that led to Scorcese, Coppola, De Palma and Ridley Scott. Alas, another part of that movement was Star Wars, one of my fondest memories of youth, but a movie that may have forever damaged the art of film making.

You can't, in sound morals, condemn a man for taking care of his own integrity. It is his clear duty.
Joseph Conrad

Rumsfeld's memo, which became public yesterday, has to be one of the most pandering missive's I've ever seen from a civil servant.

Publicly announce a set of benchmarks agreed to by the Iraqi Government and the U.S. — political, economic and security goals — to chart a path ahead for the Iraqi government and Iraqi people (to get them moving) and for the U.S. public (to reassure them that progress can and is being made).

That's all they need a little motivation, maybe we should think about drafting gym teachers to head over to yell at them.

Stop rewarding bad behavior, as was done in Fallujah when they pushed in reconstruction funds, and start rewarding good behavior. Put our reconstruction efforts in those parts of Iraq that are behaving, and invest and create havens of opportunity to reward them for their good behavior. As the old saying goes, “If you want more of something, reward it; if you want less of something, penalize it.” No more reconstruction assistance in areas where there is violence.

Why don't we just give them shortbread cookies every time they do something right, like good little children?

Begin modest withdrawals of U.S. and Coalition forces (start “taking our hand off the bicycle seat”), so Iraqis know they have to pull up their socks, step up and take responsibility for their country.

Wow, I don't even know where to start with that one.

Last week I said that the argle bargle in Iraq was akin to a revolution, the attitude shown in this memo is very similar to attitudes shown by the English towards the colonies in the 18th century which led to the US revolution.

It is the dull man who is always sure, and the sure man who is always dull.

H. L. Mencken

Speaking of things impossible. Yesterday the liberals elected a new leader. It occurs to one that this is the first liberal in nearly 40 years that comes to the post having fought for it at a convention, and didn't come to the post by way of obligation.

How does the bode for the Liberal's chances in the next election? Who knows? Dion is a bit of a mystery on all issues except Quebec nationalism.

The morning brings a return of the damn fog, with vicious hounds, and wailing children the morning is full of ill omens.

“Music expresses that which can not be said and on which it is impossible to be silent”

Victor Hugo

Often, to clear my head from my troubles, I think of the impossible. Pondering things that have no solution or no conclusion can be incredibly relaxing.

Having said that, I imagine Bush has his own imponderable to think about. How does he get out of Iraq, and maintain US credibility or honour. Alas, unlike me, this imponderable does not seem to be relaxing Bush, but rather is stressing him out.

The sun shines today, a welcome respite from the gray gloom which has hung over the city for the past few weeks.

The whiz bang of the magic box is booming out loud this morning, with the sounds of the liberal convention in Ottawa. Not sure who the leader is going to be, but the maneuvering is gearing towards a Stephan Dion victory on the 4th ballot.

Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin to slit throats.

H. L. Mencken

Well. the morning brings warmer air and dripping walls. Spent the night in the bunker escaping from the planet earth and soaring into outer space. An amazing thing the imagination. Now matter how bad things get, I can always escape by closing my eyes.

Sadly, reality has a way of crashing back through the walls of the bunker.

the strobing of the magic box is casting weird shadows on the wall this morning. Images of planes crashing, bombs exploding, and radioactive planes. When did the world become an Ian Fleming novel?

Sitting here drinking the coffee, pondering the clouds and wondering what surprises they bring today. We truly are slaves to the elements.