Leap In The Dark

Names. We're all given them when we are born, tags that are stuck on us before we have developed any of our own characteristics or personality. Most of us were given at least two at birth, maybe even more. One of them identifies who we belong too, which clan or family group we are associated with, and the other is what's known as our given name, or names as the case may be.

Sometimes we're named for a forbearer, sometimes for a family friend, and other times just a random name chosen by your parents from a book. However the name is chosen it's the one that we end up hearing almost everyday of our lives. If you are a Christian, one of the first ceremonies you will undergo is initiation into the church via baptism where your soul and name are tied together and introduced to God.

I've always found it a little odd that so much importance is given to an appellant that was chosen for you by people who hadn't met you yet. Some people at least wait until after the baby is born to name it, but you can't wait too long because you've got to have a name ready to give to the church as soon as the mother and child are able to get out of bed.

Even if you're not being baptized there is pressure on the parents to name the child right away. I've never understood why. The kid isn't going to be responding to it for a couple of years yet anyway. At most they will give it the same amount of attention a dog will give when you call its name, a conditioned recognition and nothing more.

In other words a name is nothing more than a convenience in the first years of a child's life. A way for the parents to have a means of addressing them in a manner more personal then pronouns and differentiating their brood from someone else's in crowded situations like playgrounds.

But, aside from teachers calling roll in class, the only other service that a name provides is ammunition for being teased mercilessly if your name is at all odd, or if you have become a target for bullying.

Supposedly we live in a world where we are free to make choices about who and what we are. Any child can grow up to be anything, but not with a name of their own choosing. If we really wanted a name to have something to do with the person who is being named, we would wait for them to reach a certain age and allow them to have a hand in naming themselves.

Family members use names as a means of laying claim to an individual. Parents stake out their claim to their children by giving them a name that will have expectations attached to it. Either the weight of living up to an ancestor's accomplishments, or matching the deeds of renown attached to a name, are loaded on your shoulders almost before you can walk.

What would be so bad in having children and young adults choosing their own names? Oh I'm sure there would be some kids who would change their name every hour on the hour for the first little while, but the novelty would wear thin after a while. By the time they would reach an age where having a name would begin to matter they would have learned to settle on one name for a while. Even the flightiest person in the world will eventually have to find a roost, and will realize the necessity of settling on one name for an extended stretch of time.

There are plenty of cultures through out the world where people search out there own names as part of their ritual for entering adulthood. Whether it's the vision quest of Native Americans, or some other ritual, the "finding" of your name is a means of establishing your connection to creation and taking your rightful place in society.

A few years ago I changed some of the names I was given at birth because they did not feel appropriate to the person who I had become, or wanted to be. For me what was most important was riding myself of the last name that I had been saddled with by my father.

My wife and I had just decided that we were going to get married, and I did not want to carry the name of my abuser over into this new life. I had never felt like part of that family to begin with, and always associated more with my mother's family, so I switched to my mother's family name of Marcus.

Everybody I knew understood completely. My mother of course thought it was great, as she had done the same thing almost thirty years ago when my parents had separated. My brother couldn't have cared less; he's always had his own unique names for me whose creativity was only matched by their disgustingness.

Changing ones name just doesn't seem like such a big deal to me, so I find it appalling that six years after my wife changed her first name, that some of her family are unwilling to call her by her legal name of choice. In Canada when you change your name it is changed on everything from your birth certificate on up. Your old identity has ceased to exist.

Like me, my wife had been through some hard time as a younger person, including watching the woman she was named after slitting her wrists in front of her when she was a child. She no longer wanted to carry that name with her anymore. Long ago she had dreamt a name that was more appropriate and fitting for her, but she had never felt right with making the change until six years ago.

I find it incomprehensible why people think they have any say in the matter of what a person should want to call him or herself. Maybe if they are the parent who chose the name to honour an ancestor they have some right to ask why. But the first thing they need to realize is that when a person chooses a new name it has nothing to do with anybody but themselves and what is right for them.

Does that sound selfish? How is it more selfish than imposing a name on someone who doesn't want it because it means something to you? Quite frankly I don't see the difference. In fact I think it's less selfish for a person to choose their own name than to force someone to live with a name they don't like because it makes you happy.

Every name has meaning; a name should express something of the person's nature and character. Does it make sense that the name someone is given when they are born is going to be able to predict the person they will become? What someone is known as when they are five or eleven has as much chance of being appropriate when they are twenty-one as a fortune cookie prediction.

It's not a crime to want to change your name. You have to wonder at people who are so attached to a person's old name that they can't let it go without a fight. If they genuinely loved that person wouldn't they wish them well in their continued growth as an individual instead of being so concerned with what they are leaving behind?

For some of us the past is a place we no longer wish to have anything to do with, and the names that we carried through those days are an anchor that drags us down into its depths. Cutting that chain is akin to being set free to discover a new world that belongs to us, and us alone.

If you can only criticize then be prepared to be left behind, there will be no room on board for you.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 10:19 AM | Permalink

How often is it that you can read a book that's over 800 pages long and when you finish, be left wanting more? When I turned the last page of James Barclay's latest book The Ascendants Of Estorea: Book One: Cry Of The New Born The only consolation offered were the words "book one" in the title guaranteeing the story will continue.

Ever since Barclay had wrapped up the adventures of the mercenary group the Raven with the seventh book of that series I've waited to see what he was going to bring us next. I thought he'd have a hard time topping his last series for scope and breadth, but this first book,Cry Of The New Born has already outstripped the previous seven books in quality and quantity.

The risk of a book with multiple characters and scenarios is that one takes the chance of either confusing the reader, or having them favouring certain scenarios over others. There have been far too many books that I've read where I've had no interest in the doings of one set of characters and have found it hard to sustain interest in the book.

That is definitely not the case with Cry Of The Newborn. The writing is so universally good, the characters so deftly drawn, that even those characters we abhor have the ability to hold our attention as they plot and connive against those who have won our affections.

The Estorea Conquord, in which this story unfolds, has similarities to Earth's Roman Empire in its technology, armies, navies, and social structure. Unlike the Roman's they practice a monotheistic faith, which is strikingly reminiscent of the young Christian church, especially when it comes to matters of tolerance for things that appear to be outside the laws of the God.

Normally this would only concern those realms not yet under the sway of the Conquord who still practice ancient beliefs based on the spirits of the land and the sea. But for one small community within the Conquord, the citizens of Westfallen, it is also pertinent. Its not that they do not worship the Omniscient, it's that they also follow practices that the order thinks were stomped out hundreds of years ago.

They believe in the Ascendancy; that humans are capable of living closer to the Omniscient than they do now, that there are powers that are only waiting to be developed which will allow humans to become that much more advanced. The power to communicate with the elements and control them to do one's bidding: the power of magic.

For generations they have nurtured children who have been born with talents in one of the four elements, fire, water, earth, and air. Some have had other, more unique abilities, like healing powers and the ability to communicate with animals. But none have been born with the talent for everything, to connect to all of life not just one strand; none that is until now.

Arducius, Gorian, Mirron, and Ossacer are the first four children born into true ascendancy, and represent the culmination of years of carefully selected breeding. By the age of five they have demonstrated powers far beyond those of any who have preceded them. But their power has come at a cost, the cost that is associated with breeding from too small a gene pool. Ossacer's immune system is so weak that he is blind before he's out of childhood, Arducius' bones are so brittle that can break upon sharp contact, and Gorian carries the seeds of madness and megalomania in his brain.

While the Ascendants are coming into their powers in their little part of the Empire, events in the outside world are taking place that will soon intrude upon their idyllic circumstances. The empire has finally over extended itself in its quest to control more and more territory, and her latest campaign has not only stalled, but seen the destruction of two of her largest armies, and the decimation of its third from illness.

What had started as an attempt to increase her holdings has turned into a desperate attempt at survival. The very heart of the Conquord, her capital city Estorr, is now exposed as the armies of the Tsardon prepare to sweep away the last of her defences.

In his previous series, the books of the Raven, Barclay showed a great talent for depicting how people's fears and superstitions can be manipulated; how willing people are to lay blame for events at the feet of people and things they don't understand. Certainly it takes somebody to point them in the right direction, but the willingness to lay blame has to be there in the first place.

Although it's inevitable that the Ascendants will come into conflict with the officers of the Omniscient, Barclay is such a skilled writer that even the foreseen is exciting. He adds enough twists and turns in the lead up, and the subsequent flight from, the exposure of the Ascendants, it is easy to get caught up in the emotional impact of the scene.

Barclay is a deceptively simple writer; he uses no fancy stylistic tricks or devices like so many authors in today's market. He simply recounts events, and intersperses them with dialogue and interior thoughts. But somehow he is spinning a web of words that draws the reader into the world he has created without it even being noticed.

A key to this book's success is its length. Mr Barclay has plenty of room to allow his characters to grow, relationships to develop, and battles to be fought. From the rulers and the senior statesmen of the various countries down to the civilians caught up in the conflict we are able to watch them make the decisions that shape lives from both inside their heads and through the reactions of those around them.

His battle scenes are remarkable; one moment we are in the heart of a face to face melee where all that exists is your sword and shield and the ever changing face of the person opposite you in the line, the next we are the general trying to make sense of the bedlam and look for the break that will mean the difference between defeat and victory.

But this is also the story of four teenagers who have grown to have powers that distinguish them from the rest of the world. Even when they try to help people they are hated and feared. Their few moments of peace are taken up with trying to continue to understand the very powers that define them, as they struggle to come to grips with meeting their full potential.

There is nobody they can turn to for those answers; they have to come from inside of each of them and from each other. Being the first of your kind is never easy, but being the first of a new stage in evolution is rift with extraordinary dangers, exhilarating highs, and devastating lows.

Once again Barclay displays his sensitive touch for mood and atmosphere. He resists the temptation of flamboyancy that would have turned those moments into sensations, and maintains his adherence to making everything as real as possible. The Ascendants and their powers are thus kept within the realm of the probable, even though they have powers beyond comprehension.

The Ascendants Of Estorea: Book One: Cry Of The Newborn is the perfect example of how epic fiction does not mean abandoning the human element that is so important in bridging a connection between author and reader. James Barclay has created a world populated with people who are eminently believable in all that they do, which in turn lends credibility to all that occurs.

At over 800 pages Cry Of The Newborn might appear to be intimidating; how can a book that long not bog down? Well it doesn't and if you're anything like me, the only complaint you'll have is that when you reach the last page, you don't want it to be over. That in itself tells you what a remarkable achievement this book is.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 05:25 AM | Permalink

On March 23rd/ 2006, three western kidnap victims were rescued from their captors by a joint British, American, and Canadian special operations task force. Unlike the majority of people kidnapped in Iraq, these men were active in work protesting the American occupation of Iraq.

Closely involved with this rescue operation were members of Canada's JTF2, Canada's Secretive anti-Terrorist squad, and officers of The Royal Canadian Mounted Police. No details are being released about raid itself, or the Canadian squads participation, except to say that it was a British led action. When asked to comment on the raid Department of National Defence spokespeople merely said that giving out any information would be too dangerous.

There is a non-descript building in downtown Ottawa that people walk by everyday without giving it a second glance. Why should they, it looks just like any other boring government office building. But behind that boring façade lurks the home of the notorious JTF2 squad whose identity is so well guarded that squad members don't even know they are members.

They are Canada's elite anti-terrorist squad; the beadiest eyed Canadians you'll find from sea to shining sea. As a counter terrorist organization its job is to keep track of all those who pose a direct threat to the citizen of our country. Those guards on parliament hill are not just for decoration purposes. They're in place to make sure that the members of parliament stay locked up in the House of Commons and don't escape to threaten and bother innocent Canadians.

Of course Canadian face other threats to the internal security of their country and the JTF2 must be ever vigilant in making sure that the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (R.C.M.P.) and the Canadian Security and Intelligence Service (C.S.I.S.) do something else aside from spying on each other, or resorting to old pastimes. There's nothing like a barn burning on a winter's night to keep you warm, and it does look pretty against the a cold night sky. (In the late 1970's it was revealed that the R.C.M.P. had set a series of fires, including a barn, and blamed the Front de Liberation de Quebec (F.L.Q.) for them.)

But today there is a more serious task at hand, Captain "X" (real names are presumably never used because it's doubtful that's the gentleman's genuine appellant) has been called to his superior's office to be debriefed from his last mission: the rescue of two Canadian and one British hostages from their kidnappers in Iraq.

Captain "X" entered the office of his superior officer where he was immediately blindfolded so as not to be able see the face of the man across the desk from him. He wasn't worried about the two men who had blindfolded him revealing his identity; they would have their eyes and tongues removed by the end of the day. Such prices had to be paid for the security of the country.

He was guided to a seat and the microphone/vocal disguiser was placed in front of him to talk into. When he spoke he would sound like Minne Mouse crossed with Elmer Fudd and no one would understand a word he was saying. Which was as it should be; these debriefings were so top secret that it had been decided that no one should be able to understand them, including the officer conducting the review.

Initially it had been debated as to what purpose a debriefing had if no one listening. It was decided that it would be good for the one being debriefed for the opportunity they had to go over the operation again in the cold light of day to analyse it for mistakes before he or she had their brains wiped of the information.

Captain "X" described how he and his squad members had met up with members of the British elite Special Armed Services (S.A.S.) squad who were in charge of the mission. They had already been able to secure one member of the kidnap team for questioning and had found out the location where the victims were being held

"We planned to go in at night, taking advantage of their night vision goggles, which would allow us to travel without light. As the one American hostage taken with the two Canadian and single British hostage had already been killed, we had no idea how long we had before they just killed the rest of them.

The raid and the release went off without a hitch, except for the disappointment expressed by some members of the unit at not being able to make us of any of their new toys. They had all wanted to see what the effect of a plague bullet would be on a human. Chimps had succumbed within a minute of being shot.

The hostages had not seemed particularly thrilled to see their rescuers, and there was quite a bit of muttering from the squad members that maybe their duty still needed to be carried out, and how the plague bullets needed to be tested. It didn't go much beyond that level of idle threats at that point.

But then the former hostages started to espouse their unchristian ideas of pacifism and became almost indignant about being rescued. Unfortunately we were not able to take any action against them at the time as medical personnel and press almost always accompanied them.

If worse comes to worst action can always be taken against them on their return to Canada. Accidents have been known to happen to people before, especially people who have just been through a very extended period of trauma. Stumbles down stairs, walking out into traffic are all common enough occurrences for someone whose mind will be having trouble focusing. We are currently evaluating the feasibilities of such activities.

Our assessment of the organization, Christian Peacemakers Team, is that they are a highly dangerous and subversive group that has been continually giving aid and comfort to the enemy. Their attitude towards war is dangerous, and if it spreads among the general population, could lead to severe outbreaks of peace.

Many of my men are good Christians and are highly affronted at seeing their religion being taken in vain in the name of peace. To say that Christ would have supported them over us is proof enough that they are a threat to order and good government in Canada, and must not be allowed to communicate these subversive tendencies to the rest of their citizens.

I recommend that this threat be eliminated in as discreet and expedient means as possible."

Posted by Richard Marcus at 08:03 AM | Permalink

At first, he would simply duck his head or avert his eyes in hopes of avoiding the scorn and derision of his father and older brothers. It was even worse if his sisters or mother came to his defence. Then there would be the hoots of “girly” and “maybe he should just stay in the kitchen with the hens”

So he learned how to be a proper guy. You hung out and talked of stuff. Stood in the shed and drank beer; talked about cars, motors, and sports. Told dirty jokes, complained about work, people who weren’t there, the government, and anything different was wrong and to be stamped out or ridiculed. This was his world so he had to fit or be lost. There was nothing else, was there?

The women gathered around the kitchen table, coffee, tea, and beer in hands, dissecting the lives of family members and neighbours with the knives of Christian piety, propriety, and white trash vindictiveness. Adhering to some old code of behaviour that dictated the segregation of the sexes, only coming together for meals, they played roles that had long lost any meaning. Richard Marcus The Trees Were Singing Unpublished, 2005 p.19-20

In some ways I lived a very typical upper middle class, liberal, life in my formative years. Put aside the sexual abuse, and you would have said my family's main distinction from those of the people I went to school with were their politics and sense of social justice. (Which is what makes the sexual abuse even more of a betrayal, but that's another story for another day.)

My parents were both die-hard supporters of the New Democratic Party (N.D.P.), which is Canada's equivalent of Britain's Labour party. This meant I grew up in a house where equality was taken for granted, and tolerance was preached across the dining room table. We worshiped the Canadian trinity of social justice: The Canada Health Act, which guaranteed Universal Medical care, The Canada Welfare Act that guaranteed nobody would do without, and the great myth of racial equality in Canada.

My father belonged to the intellectual wing of the party. These were the people who understood the theory behind supporting the rights of workers and unions, but would never want to spend any time amongst them. It was an attitude he inherited from his poor as church mice, but ever so proper parents. You don't mix with the hired help. For all his social justice beliefs, he was still more concerned with looking "proper" (The ironies are amazing when you remember the man was a rapist) than anything else.

I never lacked for anything as a kid in the way of food or shelter or material needs. Material wants was a different story as my mother believed that I should learn the value of goods by always having to contribute money to the purchase of any item that I wanted. All in all, I lived a pretty sheltered existence, only seeing how a small percentage of my society lived.

That didn't change when I went out into the world after University and began working in theatre. I switched from one sheltered environment to another. It was a much smaller community of professional theatre people in Toronto than it is now back in the 1980s. The mega musicals hadn't hit the city yet and it was still the preserve of the minority.

It wasn't until I met my wife that I became aware of a whole different world. I was astounded the first time I attended one of her family's functions and pretty much witnessed the scene described in the paragraphs that opened this article.

My wife was the only woman who was sitting with men in the living room of her uncle's house. The other women were being conducted by her aunt in the orchestration of serving, preparing, and ensuring a steady supply of beer to the men.

Tables were laden with plates of cold cuts, processed cheeses, macaroni salads, jello salads; a cornucopia of blandness the likes I had never seen before. I had thought that once the food was transferred from the kitchen to the table around which we all were seated that the segregation would come to an end and everyone would be together.

Nope, in fact I don't think I saw one of the women eat let alone sit down with husband or boyfriend. They were all back in the kitchen hunkered in around the coffee urn filling the air with cigarette smoke and the drone of their conversation. I looked around at the men I was sitting with and none of them seemed to act as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

I caught my wife's eye, she smiled a slight smile from where she was sitting with her dad and I could see her mentally shrugging. I felt like I had stepped into a black hole where the world was stuck in the forties and the fifties and equality between the sexes was something that had never happened. It was Steven Harper's idea of traditional family values down to the last detail.

As we were walking home that night, I turned to my wife when we were after we had only travelled a block and asked her how she had survived growing up in that environment. She laughed, and shook her head, and answered my question by saying she had as little to do with the family as possible.

Her dad and his two brothers had grown up near Golden Lake Ontario, in a rural farming community. The family homestead didn't have indoor plumbing until well into the sixties and electrical service came in at around the same time. He had been sent to live with his aunt at a young age because his mother had been institutionalized and his father had run off, and at fifteen he and his two younger brothers moved on down to Kingston.

The youngest brother they placed with a family that raised him, and he eventually married one of the daughters, while both my wife's dad and the nest in age tried to make a go of it as musicians. They both married young and gave up their music for their first wives until their first wives gave up on them.

Out at the homestead, when it was farming season, the men would be working in the fields from dawn until dusk. The women of the family would prepare their meals for them as a simple division of labour, and that's just the way things were done. It had been done like that back in the Frissen Islands where the family came from, and it was continued on here.

But the logic for that type of division of labour vanishes when you get into the city. Men and women are working equally at jobs these days, getting up, and going to work at the same time everyday. Why than does this behaviour continue to exist among so many women?

The occasional individual like my wife won't be content to sit in the kitchen, and she's looked on as some sort of freak. But as she says, what do I have to say to a bunch of women whose interests don't extend beyond the wall of their kitchen. Indeed, what does any woman of my generation or younger have to say, or have in common with them?

The answer to why comes from what you saw when you were growing up. I saw and heard people talking about equality, my mother had a university degree and went back to school to get another degree while I was in High School. I'm considered the academic failure because I didn't finish my university education, leaving after second year to go work in the theatre.

In my wife's family, she's a rarity in that not only did she graduate from high school, but also she went on to community college to get degrees and diplomas in an attempt to accomplish something, and learn a little more about what lay beyond the boundaries of her world. As far as women in her family go, she was the first one to have a post secondary education.

We're not talking about a developing country or the 1930's, we're talking about Kingston Ontario Canada circa 1980, and my wife became the first woman in her family to have a post secondary education. We talk about the opportunities denied women in other countries because of their inability to get an education, when we're missing the fact that those same conditions exist here, in a so-called developed nation.

How many thousands and millions of women across North America are still being conditioned to believe that is their role in life to serve men? People below a certain level of income don't believe that they can ever obtain any type of education beyond high school because the costs are just too high. How many men from the same backgrounds are in the same position?

When people are unable to be exposed to new ideas, they won't grow, and our society will stagnate. We are leaving people behind at an alarming rate, as across North America fees for Universities are rising, and its' becoming more and more difficult to raise the funds necessary to attend.

I grew up in a cloistered environment, where social justice was idealized but was also a type of snobbery. Never having experienced the effects of generations of poverty, or witnessing the effects it has on people, my initial reactions to it was to judge and find the people wanting.

But it is society that is wanting in that we have allowed them to slip through the cracks. By denying people access to the means to improve their lots in life, by stealing the hope from generation after generation, our society has created the permanent underclass we sneeringly call "White Trash".

If we continue to dangle the opportunities offered to everybody else out of their reach, if we continue along this path of higher education becoming a privilege, we continue to hold segments of our society in stasis and encourage the intolerance we preach against.

Perhaps it is time for all of us to climb out of the ivory towers that we use as our speaker's platforms and protection from the messiness of reality. If we truly value equality and tolerance then there are no excuses anymore for not climbing down from the artificial heights of snobbery and social elitism.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 06:53 AM | Permalink

There are few things that are liable to rile me up more than the exploitation of one people's culture by another group. The only thing that can usually anger me more is the instances that group doing the exploiting were also responsible for attempting to obliterate those cultures.

New Age religion is just another attack on a former subject race by its masters. Look over the history of the last two centuries and you will find it rife with examples of Colonial masters working to suppress people. The easiest way was to destroy their language, which in turn would lead to the suppression of their culture.

In a move typical of empire building the world over, closely following the armies, would come the missionaries, to bring the natives news of their salvation. Surely, they could not want to live without the benefit of Christ and suffer the eternal fires of damnation.

While the missionaries taught English and spread the gospel according to King James or the Pope from Shanghai to Bombay, to the deep woods of Northern Ontario, and the Amazon basin, governors passed laws to assist them in their holy duties. The laws would create schools for children to be shorn of their culture, ban the use of religious languages in sacred texts, and encourage the development of the narcotic trade.

Through the obliteration of languages and religion, it became easier to assimilate and convert an indigenous population. The Victorian English gave this process the quaint name of "The White Man's Burden", where in they saw that it as their responsibility to take the coloured people of the world and lead them into civilization whether they wanted to or not.

Once they had settled the issue of culture the creation of the period's history had to be taken care of. Historians and anthropologists would look for proof that supported theories that pointed out the primitive nature of the indigenous people's lives and how much better off they were under their new rulers.

But of primary importance, before anything else was to turn them into good Christians whether they wanted to be or not. It was just another part of the White Man's Burden to ensure that the poor, ignorant, people weren’t allowed to miss out on having their souls saved from eternal damnation.

So what's changed? Why are the grandchildren and children of the oppressors now seeking answers to their questions about God, religion, and spiritual enlightenment from the same cultures that their ancestors tried to obliterate? Or has anything changed at all in the way cultures of other nations are treated by the people who call themselves New Age.

On the surface, it looks as if there is a movement towards treating the teachings and religions of other cultures with respect. People certainly seem interested enough in learning about them. But is that the reality?

Look closely at some of the books that are for sale in either the new age section of your bookstore, or even scarier, a new age bookstore, and check out the titles. Predominate will be stuff like Ten Easy Steps To Empowerment, Hidden Secrets Of Mystical Buddhism Revealed, Shamanism, Dreams, And Power, or Bang The Drum Slowly: Power Dances of the Native Americans.

If the titles of the books didn't make you gag wait until you see the authors of the books and their biographies. There's never been a collection of blonder, blue-eyed Indians, Hindi, or Amazon basin Shaman in history. Well maybe they've studied, or done research, and in spite of their cheesy titles, the books are legitimate works of scholarship?

Well if you call channelling the spirit of a ten thousand year old shaman, or being the reincarnation of a Cree medicine woman, or making it up off the top of your head research, then yes they have. But even if they had some sort of access to knowledge, and even if what they were saying had any basis in reality, what right do they have to set themselves up as teachers and purveyors of another's culture.

Less then two hundred years ago, European and North American governments were doing whatever was in their power to obliterate these cultures. By some miracle, these people managed to survive our best attempts to destroy their traditions, and in some cases are only now managing to begin their recovery.

How do you think it feels for them to see the faces of their former oppressors looking back at them from the dust jackets of books claiming to sell their practices? Wouldn't it make them just a little pissed off?

I don't know if any of the titles I listed above exist or not, I wouldn't be surprised if they did, but there are many of similar type written by people claiming some sort of knowledge or other. What it boils down to in the end is just another form of imperialism. These people have decided that they, and they alone, are the ones qualified to teach people about cultural concepts belonging to other peoples.

That no one seems to question the right of buxom, buckskin clad, blonds, or red headed, sari draped seers, or golf slacks wearing gurus, to sell and teach paths to enlightenment based on cultures that are not their own only serves to show how little respect our society has for other people's faiths.

What does it matter that there are millions of people alive today who are legitimate followers of those faiths, who were born into a society governed by those philosophies. The implication is that they don't know as much about their own faith as these members of the elite.

Is it any wonder that in more and more cultures, especially those of former colonial countries, the populations are turning against North America and Europe? Our general attitude towards them is still condescending and arrogant, from our theft of their culture to our unwillingness to recognise their rights to have control over their own natural resources. In spite of their having gained independence they must still feel like they are treated as a lesser among equals.

In colonial India The British East India Tea Company forbid the printing of Hindu religious texts and histories in Sanskrit, and would only allow them to be printed in approved English translations. Not only did that destroy Sanskrit as a language but it ensured that everything that everybody read about their religion and history was from a British point of view.

Walking into a New Age bookstore today is like seeing that policy put in effect for the whole world. Not only is it rare to find a book instructing you in the practices of a culture written by a person of that culture, scarcer still are ones that have anything to do with the original intentions of that culture.

For people who claim to have found the path to enlightenment, the authors of these books are at best ignorant and at worst exploitive thieves. Cultural colonialism hasn't ended; it's just wearing a new disguise, and it's called New Age.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 08:17 AM | Permalink

"What you write is you. And you are what you write. How you became this person is part of the writing. And the reading."

Does it seem like I spend a lot of time writing about writing? Sometimes it seems that way to me; in fact, I worry about putting too much energy into that at the expense of my writing. I'm always telling people that the most important thing you can do is do. Or in other words if you're a writer write, a singer sing, and a painter paint.

Okay, technically speaking when I write about writing I'm writing so that means I'm writing, but is it writing? Did you even follow that sentence let alone the tortured line of reasoning behind it?

Look at it this way; there is professional baseball and sandlot baseball. It's the same game, but the skill set in one is substantially different than in the other. If someone like Alex Rodriguez were playing a game of sandlot instead of for the New York Yankees would he consider himself to be playing the same quality of baseball as if he were playing for his professional team?

Probably not, in fact I would hope that he wouldn't bring his "A" game to a pickup game with some buddies, because that would be rude. But at the same time he won't be able to turn off his natural talents and the skills that he's taken years to develop. He just wouldn't be playing at the same level or with same intensity that he would under normal circumstances.

Unlike Alex I can't seem to be able to do that. When I'm writing, I'm writing. Each time out I do my level best to make it the best thing I've ever written. The only time I seem to relax, to some extent, is writing personal letters, and even those can get pretty intense at times.

But I still feel there's writing and then there's writing. The distinction only exists in my head and has nothing to do with quality. I don't differentiate while I'm working; it's only after the fact that I will categorize something. The articles I write for Internet, even though they can range in diversity from novel reviews to analysis of the writing process, are lumped together in one area, while my book project is considered something else altogether.

The quote at the beginning of this post is from a letter from a friend of mine. He's been making suggestions to me about things I could be writing about, and to not limit myself to fiction alone. To me the quote implies that there is no separation between you and your writing, and that everything you write not only is you but also contributes to the making of you, which in turns feeds back into your writing.

Your subject matter, no matter what it is, is as much an extension of you as your arm. To deny that is to deny yourself. Distinguishing between different areas of my writing, and giving more credence to one over the other is denying who I am. A writer, like any other artist, cannot afford to be dishonest with him or herself.

Every artists strictly illimitable country is himself …and the artist who has played that country false has committed suicide. e.e.cummings Six Non Lectures, Little & Brown 1953.

Leaving aside Mr. cummings' dire warnings of self destruction, you end up doing yourself a great disservice ignoring that advice and acting like some of your writing is less you than others. First, it cuts off a potential avenue for sales, but more importantly, you end up devaluing yourself.

If you are dismissing over half of your body of work as "not as important" you are creating a diminished version of yourself and stifling your potential for growth. So many of us fall in love with the idea of being a novelist we lose track of the rest of our potential.

For the last four months I have envisioned myself as a novelist, and in doing so lost track of myself as a writer. In the last year I have written close to four hundred articles for my blog, Blogcritics, and other on line presences but do not consider myself a non-fiction writer. Doesn't that sound a little odd to you?

One of the things I've been wrestling with for a while is the idea of writing about myself. I've never been a big fan of the memoir, or the "sharing" of one's own story. But what else have I been doing, to one extent or another over the past year, if not just that. Just the simple act of setting fingers to keyboard and writing anything can't help but be writing about yourself.

Bits and pieces of me float to the surface of everything that I've written no matter what I've been writing about. I have no control over that, any more than I have control over the beating of my heart. Unlike a job which ends when you come home from work at the end of the day, being a writer never stops in as much as you never stop being yourself.

In the Hindu religion there is a term called dharma. A very simplistic translation of that term is duty, but it is more than that because it is duty to ones specific calling in life. To follow one's dharma is to follow the path of adhering to the truest form of your calling as possible. Be as close to the ideal of whatever it is you aspire to be.

My dharma is to adhere to the path of writing to the best of my abilities. That starts with recognising that all that I write is me and therefore each day I set out to tell you a little bit more about me. Not from a position of ego, or to elicit a reaction, but simply as a matter of course.

I don't actually remember when I made the conscious decision to be a writer, or even if I ever did. I think it has just evolved out of my love for reading and words. As I continue to understand my obligations as a writer, I realize the first debt I owe is to writing itself. It is what's important, not what kind I'm doing. As long as I'm writing, and doing so to the best of my abilities I feel like I'm giving it the respect it's due. Writing is writing after all.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 05:23 AM | Permalink

War. For a word with only three letters, it sure packs a wallop. War. There is nothing even remotely pleasing to the ear in the sound it makes when you say it. War. Supposedly the state or condition that humans work hardest to avoid, but seem to be most comfortable using as a means of conflict resolution.

We are at war. Four one syllable words that change everything. With those four words thousands of years of intellectual evolution can be erased and humans immediately revert to primal beings that react to me good, you bad stimuli.

There's the internal debate within the country that goes to war that brooks no compromise or middle ground. You're either for us or you are the enemy. Those against the war are just as astringent in their opposition as their opponents are in their support. Listen to the voices of those for and against a conflict, not the words the voices, and most of the time, you can't tell them apart.

For something that most of the world's religions and philosophies preach against, war is awfully popular among us. We create myths around our warriors and our generals, we invoke the attributes of the warrior when we want to praise someone, and the word itself is one we can all instantly identify with.

Why else would our governments continually utilize it when they want to give the impression of action? We have wars on everything now; poverty, child hunger, famine, debt, drugs, and even war. The only times we don't seem to have war anymore is when we are actually involved in armed conflict.

We have police actions, military interventions, occupation forces, peacekeepers, and peacemakers. They all involve the movement of troops, the firing of weapons, the destruction of property and the loss of life, the same as war does, but technically speaking none of them are a state of war.

As much as I hate doing this, I do have to cede Mr. Bush the point, that technically speaking, his announcement that day on the aircraft carrier that the war was over was correct. If you adhere to the definition that war is the existence of a state of conflict between two sovereign nations, then the war in Iraq has been over since that day.

Once the Americans became the official occupiers, they granted themselves the legitimacy that goes along with being the government of a country. This gives them leave to call anyone who continues to fight against them insurgents and terrorists, instead of enemy soldiers. (Which also means none of them need to be treated according to the terms of the Geneva Convention governing the fair treatment of enemies captured during conflict, but that's another story)

One can question the legitimacy of the American backed government until you're blue in the face, but it doesn't prevent it from existing. Much like the American backed government in South Vietnam in the sixties and seventies, the only reason the one in Iraq is able to exist is because of the presence of American military power.

Once again, although I don't agree with his rosy assessment of the situations timeline, I have to give Mr. Bush credit for admitting this truth. He makes no bones about it in fact, that American troops are there to stay until Democracy is established, or the Iraqi troops can handle the dissidents on their own.

(That this scenario could lead very easily to the return of a Saddam Hussein type strong man in power either hasn't crossed his mind or it's not something he likes to mention in public)

Aside from the idolatry we have granted military figures throughout human history, our connection to war comes through in the way our language is replete with its idioms and parlance. Why do we call a successful sexual encounter a conquest? If we weren’t so fascinated with military life would we refer to everyday activities as camouflage or a woman's make up as "war paint"

We have advertising campaigns, and political minefields. Every cooperate executive sees him or herself as a general sending troops into battle against the bottom line and exhorts them to take no prisoners in their war for profits. Even as children we are told to keep in step and not march to the beat of a different drummer.

For all anybody talks of peace, there are very few examples of language that would serve as a reminder of tranquility used in today's vocabulary. We are even told to avoid using the passive voice as it weakens our writing.

That is the heart of the matter right there: war is strong peace is weak. When Mr. Bush, or any politician, wants to lessen the impact of an armed struggle he won't refer to it as war, but something less aggressive. Peacemaking or peacekeeping sounds so much gentler than war.

Even a police action conjures up visions of a state trooper walking down the main streets of Baghdad, not a Marine. Nobody believes for a second that that is the reality, but it's a comforting image to hold onto.

Gentleness is considered weak. Being kind and considerate doesn't get you the recognition that fighting off a burglar does. I don't care how anti-war you claim to be, until we learn to change the manner in which we think, war will still be the primary emotional force of our society.

Conflict, and confrontations are everyday occurrences in most of our lives. Have you ever considered what it would be like to have one day when you didn't confront one person or react in anger to something you heard? Can you even picture a day like it?

Anger at actions done to you on a personal level is a healthy. But we live in a society that is constantly angry, that's constantly utilizing the language of conflict and war to define itself. That's not healthy. Not for us, not for our children, and not for the world. Perhaps it's time we did something about it.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 06:01 AM | Permalink

Inside each of us, either deeply buried or near the surface, lays our own opinion of ourselves. Dependent on our level of anxiety, insecurity, or confidence for it's definition, this highly changeable belief can wreck utter destruction on each and every one of us.

What we think of ourselves, self-esteem if you want to be fancy, can easily supplant any outside opinion of our strengths and weaknesses, because we claim to know ourselves better than others. What we fail to take into consideration is the myriad of events and circumstances that have gone into forming our definitions of self.

Our feelings of self-esteem are based on how we rate ourselves in a variety of categories. These range from our beliefs in our physical appearance, our intelligence, the status of our current relationships with others, our ability to conduct the tasks of a normal life, personality traits, and the way in which we feel about ourselves as a sexual person.

Now obviously we don't carry these opinions around with us consciously all the time. Usually they are deep-seated beliefs that only rise to the surface when circumstances dictate. For example if we have a low opinion of our physical appearance it will affect us most when we are placed in a position where comparisons are unavoidable.

In our society, which places such an emphasis on surface attributes, physical appearance has become of paramount importance. It has long been known that the way we feel about how we look can affect our behaviour in various degrees. The problem is, given our predilection for judging by physical appearance, we tend to place less credence on the other aspects of low self-esteem.

Probably intelligence would rank second after physical attributes, as a means of comparing ourselves unfavourably to others, followed by the other categories in order of personal applicability. But what is of more importance than their place in line, is how do we form these negative feelings of ourselves in the first place?

I'm not of the belief that we are all born worthless sinners who are meant to suffer a life of pain until we find salvation after death, so as far as I'm concerned we're not born feeling inadequate. Any and all feelings of insecurity and low self-worth are learned at the hands of others.

For a lot of people the root lies in that charming concept of Original Sin, we're all born guilty thanks to Adam and Eve and have to be redeemed by a Saviour, whether they know it or not. You can't help but be affected by the fact that it is considered a given that your species is philosophically and metaphysically worthless sinners.

The level of guilt created about feeling good will vary dependant on the level of your belief, but in one way or another it will touch all of us who live in a Judeo/Christian society. Far too many things, like sex and intoxicants, which are done for pleasure have guilt attached to them through their association with sin for people not to believe there is something inherently bad about feeling good.

If that weren’t enough of an obstacle to have to overcome, there is also the manner in which people treat you as your growing up. In a previous post I talked about Schemas and how those coping mechanisms and behavioural tendencies were formed by beliefs developed through your treatment at the hands of others.

If you were sexually, emotionally, or physically abused as a child by any authority figure you will develop behaviours that are suited to surviving your situation. As this was learned as a child at home, to you it will be normal and how the world works. Until you are given reason to believe otherwise, you will just assume that everybody will treat you in an identical manner.

I would think that it's pretty obvious where I'm going with this don’t you? The same treatment that formed your behaviour is bound to affect your self-image. Daddy saying you're bad, then raping you, and then telling you how much he loves might just affect how you view yourself.

Obviously, that's an extreme example, but it doesn't have to be that extreme. Going through public school as the one everyone picks on, having a mother who doesn't show any affection or interest in your life, being too poor to afford the same clothes the other kids in the class are wearing; any or all of those things are going to have an effect on how you view yourself further on down the road.

If you are susceptible to low self-esteem you will also end up in a vicious circle of comparing yourself unfavourably to others, thus further depreciating your value as a person. Of course it doesn't help that as you've grown into adulthood there is a constant bombardment of advertising reminding you of how inferior you are; that you should really consider losing those extra pounds, unsightly lines and contemplate vaginal reconstruction or penis enhancements.

In fact, a good chunk of our economy is dependant on people's insecurities, and most of our advertising is focused on taking advantage of, and even encouraging those feelings. If everyone felt good about themselves, who would buy ninety percent of the crap sold in the stores today?

It's a pretty sick little world we live in when we're pretty much encouraged to belittle ourselves from the moment we're born to the day we die. You want an easy test for yourself to gauge the level of your self-esteem? See how well you accept a compliment about anything. Do you dismiss it as flattery? Do you look for an ulterior motive? Do you have any trouble at all accepting it?

If you could answer yes to any of the above, you might want to ask yourself why.

There's nothing wrong with wanting to improve yourself; to increase your education, to change your hairstyle so that you feel more attractive, or to improve your skills in the workplace. But if you feel like you are less deserving of compliments, or less deserving of love, or just less deserving period, because you lack education, or an appropriate hairstyle than there is something wrong.

It has taken me years to learn how to accept a compliment, and it's still a new sensation to feel deserving of the sentiments expressed by people when they say something nice about me, or my work. I figure it will probably take a while to get used to it, after years of hearing the reverse or worse.

I'll let you in on a secret though, nothing does more for your self-esteem than enjoying being praised, so once you've managed that step, the battle's half over. The next time someone says something nice to you, instead of brushing it off, or denying it, or what your habit has been until now, try saying thank you and see what happens.

First of all, it's only polite; think of the other person's feelings. Secondly, the less often you deny that you deserve a compliment the easier it will be for you to accept that you deserve it. Think of it this way if you like, it was the opinions of other people who made you think you were of little worth in the first place, right?

Well it’s the same thing now but only in reverse. If other people were right in the first instance, they must still be right now that they are complimenting you. I know it's not a good thing to put your happiness in the hands of others, but I think in this instance you're all right.

At the very least, think of it as recompense for anybody that used to put you down, and your proof that they were wrong. Once you begin accepting that, it won't matter so much what other people think of how you look, or think.

It's not an easy thing to overcome years of conditioning and memories, but once you start accepting the fact that you deserve praise, you'll find it getting easier. Good luck, you deserve it.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 11:32 AM | Permalink

I'm sure most people have heard that wonderful Chinese curse, may you live in interesting times, or something along those lines, at once in their lives. Perhaps the first time you heard it you didn't quite understand it, thinking what's wrong with interesting or something similar. It's only after you've lived through a couple of interesting events that you begin to understand that there is a difference between interesting and interesting.

I'm sure that anyone living in Iraq, be they Sunni, Shite, man on the street, or American soldier, has a finer understanding of that statement right now than most of us. The same probably could be said for anybody living in Afghanistan, the Sudan, Malaysia, or any one of the other places in the world where the times could be said to be interesting. Hell there are days I find it too interesting to walk downtown in my little city, to be able to even imagine what it would be like to live under the continual threat of death like they do.

Boredom just doesn't get the recognition it deserves sometimes. Over the years it has received a lot of bad press with our emphasis on productivity and making oneself useful. Sayings like: "idle hands are the devil's playground" have gone a long way to in contributing to its bad name. That damn Protestant work ethic will get you every time.

Not only does that infamous ethic demand time's constant utilization, it also defines time's meaningful use as that which produces results of intrinsic value through sayings like "Time is money". A second that's used on something that doesn't have a financial return is a second wasted.

Capitalism, the pursuit of capital, that's what we call the way we live. Taken in that context, time is money, is as accurate a statement as any to describe how are lives are defined from the moment we are born to the moment we die. But the same can be said about any of the so-called isms that have been postulated as means for organizing our social structure.

Communism, socialism, fascism, Marxism, Leninism, Trotskyism, anarchism, any ism you want to mention is all about the division of time and how it is used for the ordering of the masses and being productive. It really doesn't make much of a difference if you’re a minimum wage slave for Wal-Mart or working in a collective farm in Minsk (I know they probably don't exist anymore, but let's just call it poetic licence and move on) you can bet the attitude towards time is the same.

Not only is it important that you don't waste time, but that you use it in as productive a manner as possible. Whether it's to earn those big bucks that Sam's kids are paying you or to help meet your quota for the month is immaterial, the social pressure is the same. Be that good little cog in the wheel that keeps the bigger cogs moving around, which keeps the, ah screw it, you get the picture.

So it doesn't matter what kind of government you grow up under, in the European/Slavic Christian world, boredom is frowned upon. (I offer that qualification based on ignorance not on any access to knowledge, I'd hazard a guess and say Japan and South Korea pretty much fall into those categories too, but I don't know enough about other societies and cultures to comment on their attitudes towards "spare time") We fill spare time with either hobbies or passive entertainments like television, movies, or video games. (By passive, I mean you don't need to initiate anything on your own, you simply react to a given situation)

Now I can hear an argument forming on the horizon, running along the lines of; if there is so much regulation and order in people's life, how do you explain all the violence among young people and gangs? The first thing I'll do is ask, what's the root cause of so much public violent crime today? (The majority of violent crime is domestic, which is a whole other valley of fear to walk through at another time) Monetary gain. It may be to get money for a fix, or just to get money, but it's still monetary gain.

If time is money, there's no quicker way to get it than a quick snatch at the local store, especially if your junk habit makes you next to unemployable. A bank robbery is probably the most efficient use of time going. The most gain for the least investment. Of course as with any high yield investment, the risks are higher, but that just makes it more interesting doesn't it?

What's a gang if not a type of corporate model? They have a hierarchy, from the underage "tinnies" who can't do time because of their age, to those running the show back in the shadows where they won't be touched. In a world where you are measured by your monetary worth, and expediency is condoned as a virtue, what easier way is there for a kid from the projects to get ahead than a local gang?

Money, power, and the respect we are taught that goes with them are there for the taking. To our eyes it looks like a perversion of the Protestant work ethic, but when you live in a third floor, cold water, walk up, it could look like the most productive use of your time.

I often wonder where this obsession with time and productivity came from. Was it a reaction to the cultures that preceded Christianity where individuals were encouraged to dream and spend time in contemplation? It's not like Christianity is against that sort of behaviour as its history is filled with Monastic orders that have offered refuges from the world to those wishing to meditate on the higher mysteries of life according to the faith.

But even in those situations look at the word used to describe that activity: retreat. That's a word loaded with negative connotations. Retreat is used to describe a failure to advance in military parlance or even worse to cede territory to an opponent. In most cases, a retreat is considered a defeat.

So what does that imply about people who "retreat" to a monastery. That they have been defeated by society, that they can't cope with the hustle and bustle of day to day living and have been forced to back away, give ground as it were, in order to survive.

That doesn't say much for our attitude towards a life of quite contemplation does it? Most of us would consider it a cop out in fact. You only need to look at the negative implications we have attached to the word dreamer or daydream and you'll begin to understand how deep rooted the antipathy is buried.

This probably goes a long way towards explaining the outsider status of artists. Although it is of vital importance for an artist to be doing his or her painting, writing, singing or whatever as much as possible, it is equally important that they spend time with their minds at rest in quiet contemplation.

I don't mean meditating or anything even that formal, just sitting and letting thoughts chase each other around your brain without any purpose. Sitting and staring out a window at nothing in particular and drifting, without the aid of any stimulant or intoxicant, without any intent or objective, is probably considered the epitome of unproductive behaviour, but I find it essential to my ability to create.

From such idle sitting sprang my novel's entire plot and outline. It didn't appear fully formed or anything, but I watched it take shape before my eyes and figured out how it could be written. The practical writing of it still had to take place, but that was easy considering I had already seen the whole story and only needed to fill in the blanks.

I can't imagine some of the great ideas of the world coming into being without their conceivers having had idle moments. Moments of artistic and creative inspiration are not usually born from the hustle and bustle of day-to-day life. They need to be accessed via our subconscious, and that's not possible if we never let our mind have a moment's rest while awake.

We suffer from constant information overload, continually bombarded with colour, sound, and scents. How can anybody think clearly while continually trying to process all that information? Think of yourself as a computer with an old Pentium 1 200 processor and 32 mb of ram trying to run one of today's complex games, and you'll have a good idea of what I'm talking about.

Is it any wonder so many people are taking anti depressants and anti anxiety medication? Our cerebral cortexes are being fried and we don't even know it, and not only are we encouraged to maintain this behaviour, but told to do otherwise is wrong. At the same time we have pundits wondering why productivity is down, and quality of service is decreasing.

The solution is having the freedom to do nothing. To have time on your hands to sit and stare out the window with no responsibilities weighing you down, or outside information intruding on your thinking. At first you might be bored, not know what to "do" with yourself, but that's the conditioning you need to be able to overcome; the feeling that you always have to be doing something.

Try an experiment, set aside a half hour each week where you will sit and just do nothing in as quiet an environment as you can create. Try not to look at anything specific, that's why staring out a window is so good, and see what happens. If you feel like it, record what the experience was like the first time so you have something against which to judge how things change if you continue the experiment.

Remember though, you have absolutely no purpose for doing this. Don't expect anything, don't anticipate anything, and see what happens. I think you'll be surprised at how much hard work it takes to just sit and do nothing.

I think it is about time that our society got it through its thick skull that there is nothing wrong with doing nothing. So give it a try, after all you've nothing to lose.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 05:34 AM | Permalink

Anonymity has always been the biggest attraction of the Internet. Everyone, from pedophiles, to politicians, and movie stars has taken advantage of the opportunities provided by being faceless and unidentifiable.

You can participate in conversations about yourself or send out trial balloons about new policies without ever having to commit to anything. Unfortunately, it has also allowed predators to find easy pickings by assuming an innocent guise to trap unwary victims.

For most of us who use the Internet, our aliases have been a chance to play again. To dress ourselves in the clothes of a pretend character and assume characteristics that are amusing to us and others. It's akin to playing a giant role-playing game where the only adventures we participate in are the ones we can invent the rules to as we go along.

There's an incredible amount of freedom that you get from wearing a mask. When nobody can see your face, they aren’t going to judge you by your appearance only by what thoughts you're willing to reveal. We all wear masks most days of the week anyway whether we know it or not.

There's whom we are at work, whether working, or hanging out of the water cooler with our co-workers, or the way in which we are with our superiors. We slip in and out of masks so many times in a day from necessity, that it shouldn't be any surprise that the first thing we do when signing up on the Internet is create a new one.

How many sites ask you to create an identity? When I first started playing around on the Internet back in 2000, I came to computer stuff late; I would create a new identity for each site that asked for them. Of course, that meant trying to keep track of who was on which site.

After a year or two of this, I eventually calmed down and began to settle on one persona and one persona only. The first name to pop into my head that stuck and felt appropriate was gypsyman. Aside form the romantic (notice the root word of romantic is very similar to the name that gypsy's have for themselves "Roma") connotations I had a few other reasons for finding that name attractive.

My mother's family name, which I've adopted, is Marcus. Marcus is a name of Romanian Jewish descent. What's interesting about the name is that when I was doing some research on it, before I took it for my last name, was that I discovered there was a good chance it was a Sephardic Jewish name.

Sephardic Jews are those people who lived in Spain during the time of its occupation by the Moorish empire. While most of the rest of Europe was making life absolutely miserable for Jews, The moors of Spain allowed them to live in peace and with full freedom to practice their beliefs. They had to pay an additional tax for the privilege, but that was far less onerous than the continual threat of death that their brethren in the rest of Europe lived under.

But all good things seem to come an end when you're talking about Jewish History, and eventually the Christian armies began the re-conquest of Spain. In some cities Jewish people and gypsies managed to flee together and set up shelters in the caves surrounding the cities.

My mother and I like to think that her family was one of those who continued east from the caves, retreating with the Moorish empire, until they came to Romania. Perhaps they were tired of running by than, or through their new friends they were able to blend in with the gypsies until thing began to settle down.

Taking the name gypsyman as a nom de plume was my way of offering up remembrance to those brave folk who sang and danced in the caves of Catalonia in defiance of death and torture at the hands of the Inquisition. Who knows for sure if any of them made it to Romania, or even survived to get out of Spain?

I had another, more metaphysical reason for selecting gypsyman, as my appellate for the Internet. I have had to do a lot of internal wandering over the years, dealing with posttraumatic stress syndrome brought on by being sexually abused as a child.

I have wandered the paths of oblivion that were offered by drug and alcohol abuse. Then I had to find my way back out of that fog into clarity. Those were fairly easy when compared to the task of wandering through the darker parts of my memory banks. Finding my way through a maze of self-loathing created out of memories of the mistreatment of friends and loved ones took all of the path finding skills that I had at my disposal.

But as the years have passed I've been discovering more and more about myself, and with help from my wife and some good doctors, I've started to discover parts of myself that I actually like. Once that happened, I realized it was only a matter of time until it I would put the old guy out to pasture.

I'm going to have to get used to it anyway, because sooner or latter I 'm going to be published and those books will have been written by me, not gypsyman. In fact gypsyman really doesn't do very much except hang out and look mysterious anyway, I'm the one who's done all the hard slogging to improve my writing and he's just been along for the ride trying to pick up chicks.

All right, that's an exaggeration, but the truth of the matter is that he's been getting all the recognition while I've done all the work. I'm beginning to feel like a ghostwriter for myself. As of today, that's history, gypsyman is history, and I will be taking over the writing of this space. So if I may take a second of your time and introduce myself I will let you return to your regularly scheduled programming.

My name is Richard Marcus; I'm forty-five years old and live in Ontario, Canada. I'm married and have four cats and no children and am on a disability pension. There, that should be plenty of personal detail for you to be getting on with for now. Don't worry we'll be seeing a lot more of each other from now on.

Photographs by Eriana Marcus

Posted by Richard Marcus at 08:01 AM | Permalink

I was once told a story that was concerned with defining how a man (or woman as the case may be) should view the role of provider to their family. Aside from supplying shelter, food, and clothing, the main objective was described as providing an environment in which someone is able to fulfill their potential.

The potential itself is not important, only that they are encouraged and supported towards that goal. While that may sound like some sort of new age cow manure, or touchy feely liberal sentiment which turns out undisciplined brats, to me it sounded like an awfully large responsibility.

The first thing that anyone needs instilled in them if they are going to accomplish anything is self discipline. In order for anybody to come anywhere near fulfilling their potential, they will need to be incredibly disciplined, dedicated, and motivated. One lesson they would have to learn is that nobody is going to do the necessary work for them.

Before they would be even able to begin the process they would have to learn how to take responsibility for their actions and decisions, which means someone would have to teach them. That would all be part of providing a person with the means to fulfill their potential.

When I used to teach acting and theatre to young people, it used to surprise so many of them the amount of "non-acting" that went into being an actor. They thought they should be able to get up on stage and start performing without any preparation.

That the first two weeks of a twelve week course was more about understanding your voice and body, and freeing your imagination then scripts and scenes would always come as a shock. But it was a means of instilling in them a sense of all that went into being an actor. It also started to give them an idea of the self-discipline that was needed and how much they would have to be responsible for, if they were serious about going further with it as a career.

But it was the parent's comments that used to catch me the most off guard. Things like "she's never shown the dedication to anything like this before" Or of a student who'd been with us for a couple of sessions, "I can't believe what a difference there is, he's never had this amount of self-confidence."

They'd act like we were some kind of miracle workers, when all we had done was show them what they needed to do in order to accomplish something. That they were able to translate that into other aspects of their life only shows how much they had wanted direction, from somewhere, in order to get started.

I often wondered what were these parents doing with their children. We had kids from all walks of life, where only one parent worked, both worked, or neither worked, and it was the same in almost all situations. Interestingly enough it seemed the kids of single parents (moms and dads) who were the most focused. Perhaps because of their situations, they had already learned to accept some responsibilities.

Of course there were the kids at the opposite end of the spectrum as well. The ones whose parents had scheduled their lives to death so they had no free time at all. They took dance, piano, figure skating, any class it seemed like their parent could get them into. They had so much going on that they couldn't focus on anything and were usually the unhappiest young people I'd see.

There wasn't anything we could do for those kids, because we couldn't provide them with the nurturing that they needed. It always felt to me that their parents were farming out the responsibility of raising their children to strangers. The kids would be in school on weekdays, and than classes after school, and on weekends they would be in more classes.

When did they ever spend time at home in the company of their parents? Were they ever given the impression that they were an object of affection, or were they just always an object? Without love, all the discipline and responsibility in the world become just so many fetters to be broken latter in life.

How many times have you heard a professional athlete talk about how much he or she owes to their parents? How their parent supported them all the way, drove them to their games, provided a safe environment for them to grow up in, and in general offered them an example of how to live a good life.

It \ seems to be especially prevalent among African American athletes who grew up in some the worst neighbourhoods, that it was their parent or parents who got them through. Sure, it can sound clichéd at times when an athlete thanks his or her parents, but even clichés have a basis in fact. They're lives have been shaped by the discipline and desire to achieve their goal, and the fact that there was a parent supporting them as best they could.

I'm sure this is an unfair generalization to make, but I've often wondered why it always seems like the people who come up from poorer backgrounds are more inclined to be thanking their families than others. Is it because the parent can afford fewer distractions for their children like games, computers, stereos, and are forced to have a more direct involvement with their kids?

Or do they simply desire a better life for their children than the one they have been forced to live. One of the common themes of the "I owe it all to my parents speech" is sacrifice. The parent so badly wanted their child to have a better life than them they gave up having one of their own to ensure that their child had a at least a shot at better circumstances in the future.

Obviously, they're occasions where it doesn't seem to matter what the parent does, and things don't turn out well for the child, or the child perseveres in spite of the parents. The majority of families, of course, fall somewhere in the middle, neither spectacularly bad nor amazingly special. Most people are just trying to get through as best as they can with bills to pay, mortgages to meet and jobs to keep while doing the best possible job they can for their kids.

It appears that the odds are stacked in our society against being able to develop our supposedly most precious resource. For all that politicians talk about families, what ever they define that as, none of them, no matter what their political affiliation, seem to get the point that the problem goes beyond specific issues.

What little time that parents may have to spend with their families as a whole are useless. If one parent has been working forty hours during the week prior they will be too worn out emotionally and psychically to be able to commit any resources to their children. What can they offer as guidance except punishment and reward like what they receive during the week?

Our carrot and stick way of living doesn't offer much in the way of nurturing and the only lesson it really instils is don't mess up. How does that provide an environment that enables a person to live up to their potential? When you are taught that the fear of failure far outweighs the risk of exploration, settling for mediocrity seems the best choice.

If a person were to look beyond their parents into the adult world they see politicians who spend most of their careers making excuses, business people who cut corners and a general unwillingness to accept responsibility for actions. Everybody always has a finger ready to point at somebody else. It's the president's fault, it’s the opposition's fault, it was my accountant's fault, but it's the rare person who says I'm to blame and I will face the consequences.

In a world where compassion and caring seem to be fast becoming equated with weakness and integrity is scarcer than a two-dollar bill, what hope is there for providing for our next generation? With the majority of parents running as fast as they can to just stay in one place, what time do they have to think of the future?

Until our society learns a new means of providing for its people, there is little hope that those who provide for the next generation will be able to live up to the expectations described in the story at the beginning of this article. Considering the demands placed on individuals these days, it is next to impossible to provide anyone with the means of reaching their full potential as a human being.

Is it any wonder that one in four people admit to being on some sort of anti-stress or anti depression medication? With the level of disappointment so many people are feeling in their lives it shouldn't be so surprising.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 05:53 AM | Permalink

I'm now finding out how big a coward I really am. How long ago did I post that I was starting editing and rewrites on my first draft? Feels like months, but it's probably only been about a week or two at most.

As of last night, I've done a grand total of three chapters. Yep, that's all three chapters. I finally started chapter four last night after procrastinating for a week. Everyday for the past week I've sat down at trusty old laptop with the best of intentions; I'm going to start rewrites today. But somehow, everyday, I've found something else that I've just had to do that prevents me from doing the necessary.

They've all been legitimate excuses, but every one of them could have been avoided by the simple expedient of not going on line. Instead of just simply opening my Word program and getting to work, I'll tell myself that I'll just check my emails first. Before I know it I've gone through three Blogcritic digests, answered a couple of letters, responded to a few comments and three hours have whizzed by.

If it's not email, it's something else of course. I've recently moved my blog and am still trying to iron out the kinks in my site. As code and I are not the best of friends this involves a lot of hit and miss work to make something reasonably presentable. Of course, there is also regular blog maintenance that has to be taken care of, updating links, adding new buttons, and renaming my archive. (When my archive was moved over from Blogger to the new site all of the titles vanished, so I now have close to three hundred posts that have their first lines as titles.)

Under the title of putting the cart before the horse, closing the gate after the horse has escaped, or just generally doing things backwards, instead of working on the novel, I decided to start researching agents and publishers. Seeing as most agents are going to want to see a completed manuscript, and, if you're lucky, even publishers may at some time want to read the entire novel, it was a real case of getting ahead of myself.

I justified it to myself by saying you're going to have to do it sometime, why not now. Anyway shouldn't you take a little time before starting to edit and rewrite. By walking away from a manuscript for a while you're supposed to be able to come back with a more objective eye.

I wonder what's said about running away from a manuscript? Is that even more objective or is it cowardly? It's not being afraid of the material being crap anymore. Having read over and edited the first three chapters now, I've managed to overcome that worry. I was able to read it, not recognize anything about myself in it, and actually enjoy what's been written.

Up to this point, I seem to have accomplished my goal of writing a book that I enjoy. If that's the case, than what is it that has me shying away from continuing on with the process of finishing the book? Is it fear of rejection, of criticism, or that no one will be interested in the story itself?

I'm pretty sure it's none of those, although I could be wrong, but they don't feel right. If those were my concerns I think I would have been obsessing over every line and word of the draft I've read in order to make it letter perfect. Not that I wasn't meticulous in my editing and rewriting, but it was done out of a desire to improve the story for myself, not to impress someone.

There comes a point that no matter what I do with the editing, it will come down to whether the publisher or agent likes my idea and my style. If they don't, there won't be any amount of edits and rewrites that will change their minds.

So what does that leave? What happens when I finish this project including my proposed second volume? What will I do then? What happens if this was the only novel in me and I can never think of anything else to write?

I've spent the past year in school, so to speak, writing on a daily basis, refining, and honing my sills just so I could write fiction. What if I don’t have any more stories in me? I don't want these to be my first and last works of fiction. I want to keep enjoying the feeling of being a novelist, a creator of tales for others to read, enjoy, and perhaps learn a little from.

When I was younger I used to dream of being the next James Joyce, a great intellectual novelist. Thankfully, I outgrew that and decided to find my own voice. I like what that voice sounds like, and want to hear it and write with it for a long time.

So many times in my life, things have been taken away from me because of my health and my circumstances that I now fear that happening on a regular basis. Will my health worsen to the point that I'm no longer able to write? Will some external force take away this opportunity before I even get a chance to discover how much I'm truly capable of?

I guess that all sounds sort of silly huh? But I can't help my thoughts. I can do my best to argue against them, but still they keep on creeping up on me. Each of them on their own isn't really enough to worry about, but when all of them start pressing in on me, they make me feel that once I've done this project there will be nothing left to do.

I try not to think about those things; inevitably, they come out and haunt me. Slowly but surely I'm working my way through the process of actually finishing my final draft. Not only will it mark the successful completion of my first novel, hopefully it will see the conquering of some old fears.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 05:35 AM | Permalink

He'd always been there. A brooding presence emanating from radios and televisions that bore witness to all the evil that people could do to each other. Even when he was a younger man, you swore he'd lived hundreds of years already. The black hair couldn't belie the creases and lines on that face or the voice scraped raw from screaming in the night.

Yet, I look at pictures of him in the last years of his life; the hair has gone white, his hands are gnarled and twisted by age as if he'd become a grand old oak tree that weathered many a storm, and the years have been stripped away. If some of us are born young to age and gradually be beaten down by the world, he was born old to learn innocence and to find his way home.

He's a walking contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction/Taking every wrong direction on his lonely way back home. Kris Kristofferson "The Pilgrim (Chapter 33)" 1970

In the long list of people who Kris claimed to have written the song for, his old mentor's name is listed as one amongst many, but I've always felt the rest were there as camouflage disguising the song's sole subject, and his isolation. In one of those great ironies that life plays, the cultivated image of the lone gunslinger dressed in black only served to hide the true nature of his lonely walk.

Johnny Cash's black clad figure has been as much a symbol of rugged American individualism as any other man in the last hundred years. Unlike other figures that have let their image be co-opted for various political movements or philosophies, he was never brought into any fold.

(Painting by Michael Aldana Creative Commons copyright "Johnny Cash Is Dead")

The music establishment in Nashville wanted nothing to do with him, but couldn't ignore the fact that he appealed to more people around the world than any of their other acts combined. They would try to claim him as one of their own, but it's hard to do that when you stretch out one hand in welcome and are using the other to try and shove somebody under the carpet.

I have often wondered what they used to say behind June Carter's back (Johnny's soul mate, and on again off again wife) about her relationship with Johnny. I doubt if anybody would have dared say anything to her face, but I'm sure there were things said along the lines of "How could a girl from such a good family…" or "He's only with her because of who she is".

June was the hand that reached out and brought Johnny back to safety when he was drowning in a sea of drugs and fame. But even she wasn't enough to keep all his demons at bay. Finding solace in drugs isn't a solution to anything, but when you feel like you have nothing else, it's an easy out.

I wouldn't presume to assume I know what demons possessed him; it's none of my business anyway. But I know that when I look at photos from certain points in his life the smiles seem to be hiding desperation. The unguarded pictures, the ones not posed or planned, transmit heartbreaking pain. Fatigue that goes beyond the physical emanates from every line etched on his face and tells more of his life's story than any biography ever could.

I'm not a Christian, and normally when people talk about their relationship with Christ and the Christian God, it makes me nervous. Too many of them make it sound like a threat. If you don't do like I do, than you're toast. But when Johnny talked of Redemption, you understood what he meant and you knew he was sincere.

He never talked about it like it was a treat that could be taken away from you if you didn't behave, or that it was only available if you sent in your box tops and twenty-five dollars. Not only was he seeking to redeem himself in the eyes of his God, he seemed to spend his whole live trying to redeem himself to the man who looked out at him from the mirror everyday.

You also knew that the only person that Johnny would ever sit in judgement on would be himself. (Well maybe the country music establishment in Nashville) I can't see him being self-righteous or holier than thou. His faith gave him strength and offered him a way home. Peace for a troubled mind is sometimes salvation enough that the additional promise about saving your immortal soul isn't necessary.

When Johnny sang a gospel song, I always felt like I was intruding upon a personal conversation, eavesdropping on a man's personal prayer. He wasn't singing to impress anyone or to convert them. He was genuinely giving thanks.

I never met Johnny Cash; I only listened to his music and watched him on television a few times. Most of the time all I ever would see of him was the carefully presented image of "The Man In Black". It's only been in recent years, the almost three since his death on Sept. 12 2003, and the couple of years before that when he was recording those last amazing records with Rick Rubin, that I began thinking about who he was beyond that cut out figure of the lone gunman.

It's truly amazing how just because someone is a public figure we think we know them. We refer to them by their first names when we either talk about or write about them, and we make casual assumptions about what their opinions on matters would be. We act like we have an intimate association; even though it's more than likely we've never even met them or exchanged a single word of conversation

No human being is so one dimensional that we can claim to "know" them just by what is presented as their public face. We can know facts and tidbits of information that will allow us to draw conclusions, conclusions that stand as much chance of being wrong as right, but nothing that justifies our proprietary attitude towards them.

On very rare occasions a musician comes along who lets pieces of his or her soul come through in their performances or their lyrics and like vampires we suck what ever nourishment we can get from them until they are bled dry. But even then, we aren't privy to their innermost thoughts and dreams.

Johnny Cash was one of those who bared quite a bit of his soul through performance, song writing, and his willingness to talk about himself and his life with a great deal of honesty. But last night as I listened to The Man Comes Around, one of those discs recorded in the last years of his life, for the first time, I realized that for all my familiarity with his work, that I hardly knew him.

I'm not usually one for caring overly much about the famous and their lives, but for some reason I felt a surge of regret over my lack of knowledge. Part of that stems from fascination, but part of me also feels as if it were owed him in return for giving so much of himself to the world. Maybe if we hadn't been so ready to idolize the hard living, rugged individual image that the record companies sold us, we would have seen the pain that it was masking.

Would that have made any difference in his life? I don't know, perhaps not. What I do know is, that very few people probably knew him as well as he deserved. We all enjoyed the "Man In Black" persona too much to want to know about anything else. Even the drug addictions and fallings out with his wife were considered only in terms of how they fit that image.

He was cool and tough and sang songs about prison. He was an Outlaw and a man's man and no one wanted to know anything different. Looking back now, I think it can be safely said, Johnny we hardly knew you. That's a real pity.

Johnny Cash was born on February 26th, 1932 and died September 12, 2003. His wife of thirty-five years, June Carter-Cash preceded him the previous May. I hope that somewhere, somehow they are together and at peace. They deserve it.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 07:21 AM | Permalink

"There aught to be a law against it" That's always been one of my favourite lines uttered by character actors in "B" movies. So many different connotations can be put into that one line from negative to positive that a good character actor can steal a whole scene if he or she plays it right.

Camera zooms in on old-timer standing on a street corner. Old timer shakes his head and squints into the camera, chews on the ends of her moustache, clears throat and spits a wad of unidentifiable something onto the street: "There aught' a be a law 'gains 't" they mumble. Camera pulls back as they deposit their other lung in the street.

There are times when I have no trouble agreeing with that sentiment. The most recent example arrived in my mail just the other day in the form of a new CD by an up and coming female singer from Great Britain named Corinne Bailey Rae. Before I'd even heard the first track from the young lady's new disc, Corinne Bailey Rae, I'd thought of one such law already.

Stop comparing new black female singers with Billie Holiday. Not only is that an enormous burden of expectation to place on any singer starting out, I've yet to hear anyone since sing Billie's style of music with anything approaching her ability, but there's a certain racist undertone to it that bothers me.

That's a little vague, I know, and I can't put my finger on why exactly it bothers me, it's just a gut reaction. The closest I can get is that it feels like whoever has made that comment is limiting the new performer to one genre of music because of her colour. Or that it was decided in advance that she could only sing that style of music because she's of African descent.

I know I'm leaving myself wide open to all sorts of ridicule and abuse for saying that, but it won't be the first time, so I'm used to it. But before you unload on me consider this, have you ever heard anybody comparing Sarah McLaughlin or Madonna to any white female singers from either fifty years ago or even the near past? Anyway, it just made me feel a little uncomfortable in her case; you may now fire at will.

Okay, now that I've got my sensitive-white-liberal–guilt out of the way, lets move along to the real issue at hand, the music. Once more, almost mantra like in its repetition, those infamous words sprang to my lips: "There aught to be a law against it."

Corinne Bailey Rae has a great voice, expressive, warm, and with some unique vocal quirks that could really distinguish her from the pack. This is a woman, who according to her bio sang in a Led Zeppelin style band ten years ago, so she's not ever going to be your average ballad singer or sweet little pop star. In fact, if allowed, I bet she could blow almost any female singer on the market right now out of the water.

Aye, and there's the rub, if allowed. Somewhere along the line, someone has taken her in hand and moulded her into an early 21st century clone of Sade and other earlier purveyor's of mellow, soulless, soul music. Listening to this disc it sounds like she's being aimed directly at the adult easy listening stations with no stops in between.

Of course it's not as if she's an unwilling player in this scheme, she receives a writer's credit on each of the discs eleven tracks, and plays the part in the promotional shots. Artfully messed curls, wide doleful eyes, and elegantly casual clothes combine to make her the complete package of safe, middle of the road soul singer.

The songs are all well crafted, with lyrics that are of more than average intelligence, but are languid to the point of tranquilizing. A sure sign of a so-called soul singer not willing to commit whole heartedly to the emotional demands of the genre is their music having all the excitement of processed cheese. It bears a passing resemblance to the genuine article, but lacks everything that makes it exciting.

There really aught to be a law against record companies and producers squeezing talented individuals into neat little marketable packages. Corinne Bailey Rae has the voice, and the obvious intelligence to be far more than the limited vision that EMI has imposed on her and that is presented in her debut album Corinne Bailey Rae

Lets hope that once they've established her and she's made them some money, they will give her a little more room to work in. I'd love to hear her unleashed and giving voice to the full range of emotion she sounds capable of producing. Her new album will be officially launched on June 6th and currently you can download three songs from the album at I-tunes.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 04:41 AM | Permalink

You know how people tell you that as you get older you will get more conservative? Well I never would have believed it of myself when I was younger, but it's gradually dawning on me that it's true. This doesn't have anything to do with politics or social issues; if anything, I'm even more radical now than when I was younger.

The thing is, as strange as it may sound; the two are interconnected. As I find myself more and more in opposition to what goes on around me in the world, I also realize it's because of my desire to conserve things that are in danger of being lost due to the constant push forward called progress.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not some sort of Luddite who is against progress and technology to the extent that I want to smash machinery and return us to the Stone Age. I make far too much use of technology, and appreciate the opportunities it gives me, to want that.

What bothers me is the fact that instead of technology being considered in light of what it can do to improve the human experience, it's the technology itself that has become the focal point. Technology for the sake of technology; building a faster computer because we can, not because we really need to, doesn't do anything except increase the profits of one chip developer at the expense of another.

Does anybody really need a 4gigabyte mhz processor for their home computer? What purpose does it serve? What kind of software is anybody going to run at home, which really merits that type of processing speed?

It used to be said that when you drove your new car off the lot it would depreciate by a good chunk of change. Now a days, by the time you get your computer home, unpacked, and set up its obsolete. That maybe somewhat of an exaggeration, but after six months I'll bet that if you wanted to stay au courant with the latest games or software, you'd have to go out and buy some upgrades.

But I shouldn't pick on computers; they are just an obvious symptom of our culture's ever increasing desire for bigger and faster. From food; super size me and thirty minutes or free, to cars; the Humvee, just like the Marines use for those off road desert battles, and even sexual potency; Viagra, get it up quicker and keep it up longer.

I'm sure people have always made this type of complaint throughout the ages. When the wheel was invented there was most likely somebody making doom and gloom predictions about it being an indication the world was going to hell in a hand basket. But the wheel actually improved the human condition, while super-sizing meals, and fast food in general, has led to North Americans being some of the unhealthiest people on the planet.

So much of our progress is devoted to providing quick fixes to problems. Instead of trying figure out a cause, we look for a means of masking symptoms. Viagra is a balm to the ego of predominantly middle-aged men, allowing them to pretend that the reasons for their impotency don't exist. But it's not a cure. A cure would involve having to actually think about what's causing your problems.

Almost every year Bill Gates and company release a newer, better and flashier operating system. Then the software developers, the game creators, and the hardware builders have to make everything compatible. Woe to the poor consumer who doesn't want to buy or upgrade to a new system. The next time they go to buy something for their computer, it's only to discover it's no longer compatible.

During the last twenty years, as personal computers have proliferated and millions of dollars have been spent on their development and promotion, the AIDS virus has reached epidemic proportions in Africa and is spreading into other South Asia. Just like computers. the AIDS virus has spread rapidly but none of our vaunted technology is being put to use to counter the outbreak and find a cure.

What drugs are available to help slow the onset of the disease are priced so expensively by their manufactures that those afflicted can't afford to buy them. Why we would put something so vitally important into the hands of people who are out to make a profit off the backs of other people's suffering is beyond me.

It seems that whenever we do make some technological advance that could benefit people, there is a price tag attached which puts it out of reach of those most often affected by the problem. Explain to me how that's progress.

We spend hundreds of millions of dollars devising the means to kill people more efficiently and to put cameras in bombs so that generals can give snappy press conferences complete with pictures and jokes. I'll never forget watching a press conference from the first Gulf war and some general showing film footage from the nose cone of a bomb as is closed on some poor person pedaling his bicycle for all he was worth across a bridge about to be bombed. The general made some joke and all the reporters laughed like little sycophants.

They were like children with new toys. That was the war where they started to use technology to supplant reporters, and go over their heads straight to the people using words like collateral damage to describe the death of hundreds of civilians. One of CNN's reporters, Peter Arnett, managed to file reports from Baghdad throughout the bombing raids.

When he started to substantiate the claims of the Iraqis that the "smart bombs" were still killing civilians, and blowing up hospitals he was accused of being brainwashed or un-American. He had the nerve to remind people that their new toys did just as good a job ripping people's arms off and killing woman and children as the old dumb bombs.

So much of our new technology seems to be centred on providing people with instant gratification and mindless entertainment. From the cell phone which can play music, send e-mails, take pictures, and who knows what else, to satellite television which gives you over three hundred television stations, there is always something available to provide you with a distraction from the world around you. To watch the movies you've made with your phone, or the latest episode of your favourite reality show you can now get a 100-inch television to further deaden your senses.

Of course if size is not the be all and end all for you, there are plasma T.V.s and High Definition television and lord knows what else. I look at all this stuff and I wonder why. What purpose does it serve other than to improve your television experience? Am I the only one who finds the idea of television being an experience an incredibility bizarre notion?

Is there anyone who can tell me how any of these things are a benefit to humanity? Do they do anything aside from cost a lot of money to buy? Every night after school and work the family gathers together; daughter goes on line to her chat room to talk to people who want to meet her; son plugs himself into his mp3 player to listen to songs about bitches and fancy cars; and mom and dad stare at there big screen television.

There's nothing wrong with progress when it is progress. The endless manufacture of newer, faster, bigger and shinier commercial goods is not progress; its greed. The constant development of more and more efficient means of destroying other members of our species is not my idea of advancements for the good of civilization.

Instead of moving away from our former existence as near primates who communicated in grunts, and used violence to solve our problems, we've just become far more sophisticated in our choice of clubs. The grunting hasn't changed much at all.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 09:03 AM | Permalink

Whenever I hear people talking about new immigration policies, or imposing quota's on the numbers of refugees we allow into the country at one time, I wonder at our ability to forget the mistakes of our past. I realize the 1930s were a while ago, but the events of that time are written down in enough places that I find it hard to believe anyone could profess ignorance of their occurrence.

Canada, the United States, and Great Britain all closed their borders to people clamouring to flee the rising horror of Nazi Germany. Jews and others considered inferior were condemned to death in the camps because of these policies. Canada and the U.S. literally had quotas in place stating how many Jews were allowed to immigrate in a given year.

In 1938, as the noose began to tighten around them, German Jews began casting about for anyplace where they could find refuge. For about 20,000 of them that place turned out to be the city of Shanghai. Up until 1941, prior to Japan's entry into World War Two, Shanghai remained a free city, which meant there was no need of passports, visas, or entry stamps, to gain admittance. All you had to do was be able to get there.

Shanghai's unique situation came about as a hold over of colonial times. Much like other cities scattered throughout the world it was divided up into segments representing the rule of each colonial power. In the case of Shanghai, that was France, Great Britain, and a so-called international zone. By 1937, the Japanese had also carved out a stake for themselves in the city, which was their springboard for continued assaults upon China.

When the Jews started to arrive in 1938 Japan actually controlled the port of entry to the harbour, but even though they were already allied with the Germans, their racial policy at the time was quite different. They also made no bones about their need for Western currency, so raised no objections to the influx of refugees during this period before their direct involvement in the war.

All this information, and more, has been gathered together and presented in a fascinating documentary that's just been released on DVD called The Port Of Last Resort. Co-directors Joan Grossman and Paul Rosdy spent four years researching and filming this project. To tell the story they've utilized letters written during the period, still photographs taken by the refugees, interviews with some of the survivors, and most fascinating of all, film footage shot during the time by some of the families who lived in Shanghai during the period

Unlike so many documentaries of this type, ones dealing with the plight of persecuted people, the filmmakers don't just dump images and figures into the audience's laps, in an attempt to impress the situation upon them. Instead, they have personalized the experience by focusing on the specific stories of a few of the survivors.

The script will pull back to offer a broad vision of events, then it will focus in on the specific experiences of each of the interviewees, giving a personal face to the different realities faced by the displaced people. Starting in Germany we hear about the circumstances that finally persuaded them it was time to leave, and we continue to follow them right through to the end of the war.

Once the war in Europe began it became harder for people to travel to Shanghai, as the ports were closed to them. But some still managed to travel the overland route through Russia by train until they finally arrived. When the Germans invaded Russia that route was closed and the Jewish community in Shanghai was cut off from the rest of the world until the arrival of Allied troops in 1945.

Listening to the people interviewed talk about their lives during this period is fascinating. First of all, there is the obvious affection some of them have for their time in that city. There was no denying that Shanghai was unlike anything, any of them had experienced before.

Shanghai was a fake, a phoney, neither occidental nor oriental. And yet – God forgive me – she was the most exciting and unique city in the world. She was poison, and the old-time Shanghailanders were addicts who never could free themselves of being in love with her.- Max Berges, refugee

The filmmakers, whether it was deliberate or not, I don't know, have interviewed people who all had different perspectives of the experience. One man lived a life of deprivation in shelters; a woman, whose family had access to money in Switzerland, lived in a modern apartment; and a man who worked in the nightclubs of the city.

It's the matter of fact emotional candour of these interviewees that gives this movie its true impact. Hearing one woman calmly recounting how her mother died three days after contracting dysentery, or one of the men telling of how his plans for vengeance against a Japanese tormentor came to naught because he could not kill him with a knife, are more poignant than any film footage or photos could ever be.

What's truly amazing is how little anger or bitterness any of these people express when talking about their experience. No one points the finger of blame at the countries that could have offered them shelter. The most anyone says is that their quota numbers for entry into the United States was to high to allow them to wait for their turn to come.

As they acknowledge, part of that comes with the awareness that they were some of the lucky ones. Even when the Japanese passed a proclamation stating that all Europeans who had arrived after 1937 without documentation, i.e. Jews, were required to live within the boundaries of a certain district, life might have become harder, and existence more precarious, but it was still bearable.

It wasn't until the end of the war that they discovered the reality of the situation they had left behind. Even then, it was months before they found out the true enormity of the horror they had only just escaped. Everyone had known the camps existed, but no one could have believed when they left Germany that they would never see the ones they left behind again.

The Port Of Last Resort provides a peek back in time at a piece of history that was largely unknown. It is also a timely reminder for us who have lives of safety and comfort, to both not take it for granted, and not be so quick to deny others access to what we cherish.

There are times when people are left with no choice but to pack up and leave behind all that is precious and dear to them. Let's hope if those times come again we can prove that we have learnt the lessons of the past, put aside our petty fears and concerns, and welcome them with open arms instead of slamming the door in their faces.

The Port Of Last Resort is an ideal documentary in that it makes no judgements and lays no blame, instead it paints a picture that's vivid and real. By letting the people and the pictures speak for themselves, the filmmakers have given this movie an intimacy that is too often absent from movies dealing with the subject. It's that human element that makes this such a successful film.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 05:11 AM | Permalink

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"It's a conspiracy. Well maybe not a conspiracy, but definitely an agreement. They're all in cahoots together so that people like me" here he paused and looked round the table, and nodded as if making some great concession, before continuing. "People like us, can't get published" He leaned back in his chair now, and picked up his coffee with a flourish, would have light a cigarette if you could still smoke in these places, leaving the floor open for anybody else who wished speak.

The young woman next to him leaned forward, carefully holding one of the many scarves wrapped around her body parts away from the pools of spilt coffee that were rapidly making an archipelago of their table top, as if to comment, then shrugged her shoulders and obviously decided against it.

She sighed the deep world-weary sigh that can only be managed by those in coffee shops of a certain age and temperament, and let a delicate frown line crease her forehead. She knew that it gave her the appearance of being pensive without marring her delicate features, as she had noticed the result in the mirror only just last week as she was rehearsing.

She had tried it out in public for only the first time last week to great success, at least judging by the reactions of the males at the table. They had given that hairbreadth's of a marring, the attention and normally accorded to the relics of a saint; if not actually physically prostrating themselves before it, at least genuflecting in spirit before her altar.

This time, there was something about the look that made one think there might actually be something going on behind those eyes for a change. Not that very many of them cared what was happening in her brain if they were being truthful about he situation.

She had shown up three weeks ago on Tom's arm, and it had to be admitted they made a striking pair. His permanently affixed look of brooding rage offset by her delicate Dickensonian match girl/waif appearance contrasted wonderfully. They looked the perfect pair of young artistic types.

Tom had confided to Sam that they had met a party thrown by some mutual acquaintances, and had immediately gravitated towards each other. Tom was sure she was going to be the one: his muse. Sam had nodded wisely, knowing better than to say anything about her being the sixth of seventh muse in the past year.

Far be it for him to tell Tom his business, Sam was still just grateful to be welcomed at the table. The Table: he remembered the first time he came into the café and seen Tom holding court. His muse of the moment to the left, and Jeff, Andy, Sue, and Eileen sitting semi circled in front of him.

Sam had picked up his coffee at the bar and made his way to a back corner table that allowed him the full view of the shop. Tom was in full flight that day talking about art, politics, law, and art. He always came back to art and more specifically writing. It was all very intimidating to Sam., because he knew he wasn't at all like that.

What kind of writer was he? Quiet and introspective he liked to sit in the corner and watch the world go by. Sure, he had a couple of short stories published in magazines, but that didn't mean anything, not compared to what that guy has published he mused

Wanting to get out of the house after being chained to the computer for months, he had printed out a draft copy of the novel he had just finished so he could at least get a change of scenery while doing his edits. Feeling rather self-conscious, he had carefully pulled out his manuscript from the case that first day and begun editing.

At one point, he had looked up and noticed Tom staring over at him in his corner. He had quickly looked down, but not before, he saw Tom lean forward to the others, whisper something, and seen all their heads swivel in his direction, and back again.

He had been slightly intimidated and had made a mental note to just deal with working at home, but life had other plans. After years of neglect, his landlord decided to grow a conscience and renovate his apartment. Since this meant everything from redoing floors to painting walls, Sam had to vacate the apartment for most of the daylight hours.

As his landlord had only deemed it fit to tell him the morning that work was supposed to begin he had had no chance to make any alternative arrangements for writing. He had grabbed his laptop, the printout of the manuscript and stuffed them both in his case, and walked out of the apartment not knowing what to do.

When he saw the café just as his arm was going numb from the carrying case's strap cutting his blood flow off at the shoulder, he took it as a sign. He made arrangements with the owner for use of an electrical outlet, and promised to buy at least a coffee every hour, and one meal a day while he was there.

Rent dealt with he was able to concentrate on working. It was just a little after he had eaten lunch when he felt like he was being watched; he looked up to see Tom staring over in the direction of his table again. Perhaps because there was no woman on his left hand side that day, or some other territorial reason, his face looked a lot stormier this time when he called his disciples down into a huddle.

Deciding that his place was a lot more secure now that he had made an arrangement with the owner, Sam choose to simply return to his work. It wasn't long before he felt the, not unexpected, arrival of somebody, to stand besides his table.

"So, are you a writer, or something?" Tom's voice was coolly arrogant, as if he wasn't really interested in the answer, but had only dropped by out of sympathy for a stranger and was making conversation out of the goodness of his heart.

Sam looked up at the turned up nose, and the eyes staring down it towards him from under a wide brimmed Fedora: "Of some sort? Yes, I suppose I am a writer of some sort." Sam replied with perfect honesty.

"I'm a poet" the other's voice took on a resonance that had been missing earlier, as he proclaimed these words. As Sam got to know Tom, he began to recognise the voice he used when talking about the craft. Some witches of course, will object to the use of the word craft in these circumstances, thinking they have sole proprietorship of self-righteously fuelled pretensions pronouncements utilizing that word. But they weren't the only ones capable of diminishing a word's meaning through appropriation.

After that announcement, he had sat down with Sam and proceeded to regale him with tales of the trials and tribulations of being a writer. This had been the first time he heard about he great conspiracy to deprive Tom of the opportunity to even have has work looked over by a publisher and agent. It would not be the last.

In spite of his writing, Sam must have seemed safe enough for Tom to invite to the table, because the next day as he entered the café, a chair was proffered and room was made for him on Tom's right hand side. Sam had been sitting here, long after his apartment had been finished, day after day, week after week, and month after month in the hopes that what was about to happen might just be possible.

He'd stopped bringing his laptop months ago, much to Tom's approval, but today he had not come empty handed. He had a business-sized envelope made out in his handwriting, addressed to himself, in his pocket, which he hadn't mailed. It contained an offer to publish the novel he'd been writing.

He'd been carrying it for a week now, in the hopes of Tom making his speech. As the new muse had yet to hear of the foul plot to deprive the world of Tom's poetic musings, Sam knew that the moment would not be delayed much longer. Although three weeks was a long time for Tom not to make it, Sam had faith that he would not be able to resist his new audience for much longer. What other excuse could he offer for never bothering to actually set pen to paper.

Casually, Sam reached into his pocket, placed the slim envelope on the table, and slid it over to lie in front of Tom. It sat there, a bright white rectangle marred only by the blocks of Sam's neat black writing in its centre. For a second, as it became the focal point for all eyes on the table, it seemed to glow with an internal light, instead of just catching the spill from the overhead track lights.

Tom dropped his glance down at it, and looked up quizzically. Sam just shook his head and indicated that he should open it and read it aloud to the table. Picking it up and removing the letter from the envelope, Tom made a presentation of snapping open the letter with a flick of the wrist.

As his eyes quickly scanned the text of the letter, Sam saw them get bigger and bigger, until they almost seemed to be bulging out of his head. Finally, he threw the letter down in disgust, into a puddle of coffee. He looked at Sam and drew himself up to his full height in his chair, stretched out a trembling hand, and hissed:

"Do you know what this traitor has gone and done? He's gone and got himself published." Tom was livid, he was shaking so bad Sam feared he might start crying. Instead, he simply looked at Sam one last time and said. "This table is for artists only, not for published authors. Please leave, you are no longer welcome here." He then fell back in his chair in a dramatic gesture speaking volumes of the perfidy of friends and the cruelness of the fates.

With that Sam stood up, leaned over and picked up the letter from the table, carefully placed it into the envelope, pushed his chair back into the table, and walked out, not looking back and never to return.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 08:11 AM | Permalink

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For most people Opera conjures up visions of large women wearing blond wigs with long braids, Viking helmets, and metal breastplates. The remarkable thing is that the characters associated with those trappings feature in only one Opera Die Walkure (The Valkyrie)

But "The Ride of the Valkyrie" has to be one of the most recognizable pieces of classical music for the general public. Either they've heard Elmore Fudd singing "Kill The Rabbit" or they have fond memories of Robert Duvall getting off on the smell of napalm in Apocalypse Now after attacking at first light with Wagner blasting from his helicopter.

Sometimes I wonder what must be harder for the ghost of Richard Wagner to live with; his associations with Nazism or Elmore Fudd. I'd say the former just because at least people think kindly of Mr. Fudd. It's also highly unfair to associate a man with people who co-opted and perverted his work to suit their needs as Hitler and his cronies did to the music of Wagner.

Der Ring Des Nibelungen (The Ring Of The Nibelungen), of which "The Ride" is merely one aria amongst four operas, remains one of the most ambitious musical projects ever attempted. I don't believe that anyone before or since has had the vision and the motivation (perhaps obsession) that it took to complete a project of such scope.

Four operas, fifteen hours of music, all built around an epic Norse/Germanic saga,The Nibelungenlied. Fans of the Lord of the Rings trilogy will have no problems identifying with these works; the fates of the Gods and the world are closely intertwined with a ring of gold, and comparisons between the Riders of Rohan and the Norse warriors will be inevitable.

The Ring Cycle, as the four are referred to in English, is comprised of: Dan Rheingold, Die Walkure, Siegfried, and Gotterdammerung. As far as a plot summery is concerned, it's probably best left in the hands of an expert. In the booklet accompanying the Opera d'Oro version under review, commentator Robert Levine offers this capsule review of the story:

…filled with codes and references about love, greed, and every other human and social subjects, (it) is also a thrilling series of mythic adventures…a hoard of gold is stolen, a helmet that allows the wearer to change form is invented, a rainbow bridge is built to a castle, twins are re-united…And all because the absolute power offered by the Ring forged from gold stolen by a wretched dwarf also holds a deadly curse…

Of course, there's a lot more to it than that, but you get the idea. We're talking non-stop action and adventure of the highest order. How many stories are there where the Gods die so the world can be re-born as a better place?

Wagner has crammed within The Ring Cycle all of the idealism and hopes for a better world that were so prevalent in the 19th century. His initial inspiration for the piece came just after the 1848 uprisings in what is now Germany. These marked the beginnings of people's attempts to wrest control of their lives away from the corrupt and moribund petty princes who ruled them. It wasn't until almost thirty years latter, 1874, that he was finally able to finish the complete cycle.

During those years, Europe had been witness to massive upheavals both politically and socially. The seeds of nationalism that Napoleon had planted during his years of occupation were starting to bear fruit as city-states began to merge into countries and the power of the Austro-Hungarian Empire began to ebb.

As in Wagner's operas, the old corrupt order was being torn down and destroyed, to be replaced by something that was hopefully superior. Unfortunately, men really are far more fallible than the Gods, and instead of the bright new world prophesied by Wagner in Gotterdammerung we ended up with World Wars One and Two and our current world situation.

In what was considered a rarity, and a sign of Wagner's sheer genius, is the fact that not only did he write the music for these operas he also wrote the libretto. His desire to have complete control over the piece didn't end with just the completed operas, but extended to its staging. He wanted a whole new opera house built specific to the requirements of Ring Cycle

Bayreuth Festival Hall is to this day considered the shrine to all things Wagner. Opera aficionados will make pilgrimages to Bayreuth to see Wagner performed there, believing that unless you've seen it at Bayreuth, you haven't seen Wagner performed to its fullest potential.

Bayreuth has been home to many unique and wondrous performances of all of Wagner's work, and The Rings Cycle has always taken pride of place when performed in the house that was built specifically for its production. Is it any wonder than that even a mono recording from 1953, has a certain power to it because it was recorded live from the stage of Bayreuth itself.

In what possibly was the first postwar performance of The Ring Cycle at Bayreuth one of the best Wagner casts available had been assembled. The conductor was Austrian Clemens Krauss. Ironically, what should have been the high point of Herr Krauss's career was also the last recording he ever made, as he died the following year at the age of 61.

That fact is sad enough on it's own, but after you listen to the recording you'll have even more regrets. While it is true that opera is primarily about the music and the blending of voice and orchestra to create mood, emotion, and atmosphere, Krauss was able to utilize the emotions expressed through that commingling to propel the story.

The cast articulates justifications and motivations for actions, sometimes unclear in opera, because Krauss is able to get them to react and respond to an aria's emotional context. Alberich's treatment at the hands of the Rhinemaidens in Das Rheingold is so cruel that it offers an explanation for his anger and resentment that lead to his reign of terror. As the rest of the cycle's action revolves around Alberich and his cruelty, providing a motivating force for his actions can only strengthen the story.

In somewhat of an unprecedented move for the times, and even today it's quite rare, Krauss assigned the same cast, to the same roles for all four operas. Although the operas are not performed on the same day, the risk of fatigue for a principle performer still remains quite high. But judging by the quality of performances on this disc he made the right decision.

There is a cohesion to the performance that might otherwise have been lacking. The performers are able to invest more energy into understanding the nature of the character they are playing and what they symbolize within the context of the cycle.

I must admit to being somewhat pleasantly surprised as to the technical quality of the performance. Remember this is a live mono recording done in 1953 long before there was anything near the quality of sound equipment we are accustomed to using today. The only time there is a discernable drop in the quality is during some of the quieter orchestral movements.

It takes a special kind of voice to sing Wagner, and in fact, there is even a separate type of tenor voice that is specific to this music. The Heldentenor, or heroic tenor, differs from what most people are accustomed to, in its timbre and strength. While a voice that sings the role of Figaro, in the Barber of Seville is warm and expressive, the Heldentenor is strong and warlike: think Teutonic Knight as opposed to Renaissance swordsman and you'll get the general idea.

Some of the voices that stood out especially for me in the production were Gustav Neidlinger as the evil and despicable Alberich, Ramon Vindy as Siegmund, Astrid Vandy as Brunnhilde, Wolfgang Windgassen as Siegfried, and Hans Hotter as Woten father of the Gods. As they are primarily the leads, they carry the bulk of the work, having to sing in principle roles in at least two of the operas.

It's among the interplay between the leads that the consistent casting really bears fruit. There's an obvious comfort level among the cast that only familiarity and trust can bring about. Their voices are working together to create the emotion needed for each scene. There is no striving for dominance, as is so often the case when stars are thrown together for a recording. This is a cast dedicated to performing a piece of opera for the audience not themselves.

Opera d'Oro's package of Der Ring De Nibelungen is fourteen CDs of spectacular music. It would have been nice of them to include a libretto, but since that would have the size of a small city's telephone directory, it is understandable that they haven't. If you do wish to view the complete libretto, including English translation you can go to Allegro Music where they've posted it.

Having never heard another complete version of The Ring Cycle I have nothing to compare this one with, but Robert Levine compares it favourably with the work of some of the twentieth century's bext conductors including James Levine of The Metropolitian Opera of New York and Herbert von Karjan of Berlin Philarmonic fame. If you've always wanted to own the complete Ring Cycle then you may just want to pick this up. You'll be more than satisfied.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 05:19 AM | Permalink

Al-Jazeera. Two words guaranteed to set hackles rising among right-wing media pundits. If you dangled them two, like raw meat, in front of someone like Bill O'Reilly he'd be rearing up like a tiger on its hind legs, jaws drooling, trying to rend them limb from limb with his teeth.

Reviled by the West as being in cahoots with terrorists because they broadcast their messages, accused of having an Arab and even perhaps a Muslim bias, the White House has gone so far as to perhaps have targeted them during the bombing of Baghdad. Even if they didn't attempt to blast them apart, any reports of civilian casualties issued by them were dismissed as propaganda or exaggerations, and obviously not to be believed, because they had an Arab bias.

Now, I know this asking a lot of some people out there, but lets try and examine some of those accusations in a calm and rational manner. First off, their willingness to broadcast demands and videos offered to them by terrorist organizations. You tell me, would any of the big American networks, A.B.C., N.B.C., C.B.S., or Fox turn down videotape from an organization holding American hostages?

Would any of them think twice about airing such an obvious ratings coup? If they are so appalled by them showing that video, and if showing that video make you in cahoots with the terrorists, why do all of the media outlets here always pick up the Al-Jazeera feeds for re-broadcast? It's news, nothing more, nothing less.

Al-Jazeera is an Arab language news station with International connections. They are also located in the Middle East, so they are the local station for most of these groups. What, you want them to mail the tapes to New York City? Have them held up in Customs as a potential bomb scare? By that time they might have well as released the hostages for all the good it will do them.

Picture the scene. A small brown paper wrapped package with Arabic writing scrawled all over it, return address somewhere in Iraq; what do you think would happen if that showed up in the American postal system? Mail delivery would stop for as long as it took them to test it for every potential hazard known to man and sniffer dog.

Is Al-Jazeera sympathetic to the insurgents in Iraq? I don't know, maybe they have sympathy for their cause, probably a lot of the Arab world does, who likes to exchange a dictatorship for what's seen as another form of imposed rule? Remember a good many of the countries in the Middle East still remember being under the thumb of either the British or the French. They have a much shorter history of independence than we do here in North American.

Foreign intervention is not something they are thrilled with no matter how noble the intent. Holding a gun to someone's head at the same time as you're telling them, "we're doing this for your own good", is not guaranteed to win too many hearts and minds. Remember, this a very proud and ancient culture, with parts of it predating Mohammad, and they don't take well to what they view as insults to their pride.

Obviously if it were proven that Al-Jazeera were acting as some sort of adjutant to the terrorists and actively aiding and abetting people behind the murder of civilians that would be a different story. But they are an Arab language broadcaster in the Arab world, so they report verbatim what is said around them.

How is that so different from what happens over here? The president or the prime minister speaks, the cameras whir, tape machines record, and the broadcasts are at six. Does that make our radio and television stations dispensers of propaganda? How much analysis do you ever see of video clips from a press conference or sound bight given by a politician on the six o-clock news?

If I don't agree with whatever President Bush says in a speech, and N.B.C. allows him to broadcast it verbatim, only offering up the usual mush mouthed, talking head, which manages to repeat what the speech was about without offering an opinion, as analysis; can I call that propaganda? It amounts to the same thing as Al-Jazeera reporting on the latest dung dripping from the mouth of Assad in Syria or the President of Iran and me not agreeing with him.

All networks reflect the interests of their audience or they would soon be out of business. People in the Arab world want to know what the leaders of the countries in that region are saying. You and I want to know what our political bosses have to say on a particular issue, why shouldn't the people of Jordan have the same right?

In fact, Al-Jazeera has an image problem in the Arab world; they are seen as being too Western by a lot of the more radical elements. They don't just play it safe and broadcast opinions that are going to appeal to the most vocal segment of their audience.

Russel Smith in his media column in the Globe and Mail talks about one show that recently aired on Al-Jazeera that would be guaranteed to raise the hackles of fanatical clerics everywhere. It was a discussion between an Arab-American female psychologist and a Muslim cleric.

Wafa Sultan, the psychologist had some incredibly strong and disparaging things to say about the Muslim faith. She freely admited to being a secular Muslim, but she's still a member of that community and probably has family who are far more devoted than her. Her commentary boiled down a very simple statement; the current struggle between Islam and the West is akin to a struggle between civilization and backwardness.

The thing she made perfectly clear was that she wasn't just talking about fanatics or extremists, but the religion as a whole. That's not the sort of thing I'd expect to hear beyond the confines of The 700 Club myself, let along an Arab language television news station.

Remember this show was not recorded for a Western audience; it was recorded for the Arab world. Now I'm sure there are some who are paranoid enough to say it's part of some really deep game they're playing; look what the corrupt West has done to this nice Muslim girl, but I find it highly unlikely. Nobody who believes that the West is corrupt needs that much convincing and there are more effective ways of proving that point than having someone call you a bunch of despotic misogynists.

I'd think that most on the extremist end of things would be incredibly pissed to hear these sentiments being expressed at all. The fact that a woman is expressing them would make it even worse. To them it would represent an indication of how great an influence Western Secularism has had on Al-Jazeera. People like Bin Laddin, and others of like mind, would see airing that type of show as a betrayal of the highest order.

Would one of our major networks air a segment with a Christian making the same sort o comparison between Christianity and barbarism? They might, but they would receive a lot of pressure before and after the fact concerning their actions. It would be a brave thing for them to air such controversial opinions; just as it was for Al-Jazeera to have aired this program.

The next time you hear somebody going on about the bias of the press in the Middle East, ask yourself what that means and remember, like the person reporting on that bias, they're just repeating what they hear their politicians say. Under those circumstances, is there any such thing as an unbiased media?

Posted by Richard Marcus at 06:50 AM | Permalink

It used to be that an independent movie was something special. A director or a writer had a screenplay that was just a little too out there for a major studio to risk investing money in, so they would have to go it alone. Maybe, if they were lucky, they would land a distribution deal after the movie was made, meaning they might make their money back.

But that was years ago, today independent movies can have budgets as big as those put out by major studios. Gone are the days when the director would mortgage his house, his grandmother, and steal his little sister's piggy bank to make his movie. Why bother when someone will give you five million bucks and actors are dying for parts in them to gain instant "artistic" credibility.

At this years Oscar's much was made of the fact that the nominees were predominantly independent productions. Funny thing though, it looked like all the same people acting, directing, and receiving awards. George Clooney isn't exactly an outsider when it comes to Hollywood

It's become so bad that Robert Redford, sometime actor, founder of the Sundance Film Festival for independent films, has been heard saying that Sundance is getting too big. When starlets like Lucy Liu, best known for stuff like Charlie's Angels start parading up and down the streets at the festival, or Jennifer Aniston turns in another ''brave" performance, you begin to wonder what's so damn independent about these flicks anyway.

The films themselves are starting to get predictable in their storylines and characters. Who'd have thought there was such a thing as a safe independent movie? The audience now has certain expectations when they go see something called independent, just as they do when they go see a major Hollywood blockbuster.

The characters and plotlines have become as clichéd as anything put out by the so-called studios as producers have found what they consider a winning formula and don't want to mess with it. Road trips to self-discovery, philosophical gangsters, deliberate plot misdirection, and quirky musical scores reign supreme. Oh, and of course, what would an independent movie be without lots of swearing and over the top violence?

The most surprising thing about My Big Fat Independent Movie is that no one had made it sooner. Crammed full of every cliché it can lay it's hands on, and openly disparaging of every independent movie made from Pulp Fiction to Run Lola Run its crude, disgusting, full of sexual innuendo, stupid dialogue, foul language and is hysterically funny from beginning to end.

Oh sure it's as subtle as a brick wall and as intellectually challenging as professional wrestling, but that's half the fun. Billing itself as the lowbrow comedy for the highbrow crowd, it makes no pretensions to being anything more than a brilliantly stupid movie. High art this isn't and thank goodness for that.

Like a scythe in a cheap horror movie it cuts everything down in size so no ones a head and shoulders above anyone. All your favourites are seen minus their aspirations to art hood. Oh sure some of the jokes are more stupid than funny, but that's to be expected when you're shooting target practice with a grenade launcher. You'll blow everything up, but stuff is bound to be a little messy around the edges.

In case you were wondering, there is a plot to this movie, mainly useful for bringing in the stunning variety of clichés and allusions to other movies that pepper the film, but it does provide a semblance of structure for the fun. Two thugs Sam (Neil Barton) and Harvey (Eric Hoffman) are sent to Las Vegas by their employer to botch a robbery of a suitcase.

On their way, they are supposed to pick up a guy with a guitar case full of weapons. Unfortunately, he has a tragic encounter with a semi-trailer while engaged in conversation with a French girl, Anomalie (Ashley Head) who just wants to make everyone happy. (If their idea of happiness is winding up dead in horrific accidents than she does a bang up job)

Instead, they pick up a guy with a trombone case, with a trombone in it; Johnny Vince (Darren Keefe) He's happy to go along because he's still recovering from breaking up with his girl friend, who he went out with twice five years ago. What with the restraining order and all, it's been difficult to try and get back together with her, and the lure of Las Vegas irresistible to the want to be hep-cat.

What independent movie would be complete without the confused and disillusioned woman who just can't be happy with her lot in life? With that in mind, they kidnap Julianne (Paget Brewster) after some really gratuitous violence in a grocery store. Julianne is so confused that she can't decide if her husband ignored her because he lusted after the male black gardener, or if she was dissatisfied with the life of being waited on hand and foot by a devoted husband.

As they continue along on their trip they stop for lunch at My Big Fat Greek Restaurant (the highest grossing independent restaurant ever), run over a German woman jogging, and meet up with the Lanky Man (Neil Hopkins doing a remarkable impression of Christopher Walken) who has the key to the warehouse where they are supposed to botch the robbery.

He also has the key to their obligatory fantasy scenes, until he gets so disgusted with the clichés involved he throws them all out. One of the sillier aspects, but still nicely done, of the movie is having the characters commenting on the "independent" aspects of what's happening in the scene. Whether it's choosing appropriately ironic music for a torture sequence, or deciding on the best way to get the audience to relate to your anti-hero psychotic tendencies, they're very concerned about ensuring that they make the grade.

Along with two sub plots; a trio of Hassidic hit men intent on discovering the formulae for the ideal corn beef sandwich, and a guy who can't remember anything except Kenny G. is responsible for his wife's death, our companions finally make it to the warehouse. After the obligatory surreal dance sequence, the final showdown can take place. Suffice to say it's just what you'd expect, but more.

My Big Fat Independent Movie is stupid, inane, pointless and howling funny. It is obviously made by people who are both fans of independent movies and who are aware of how contradictory that term is becoming. To genuinely appreciate this movie, it will help if you've seen the movies they're teasing. I'm sure part of the fun for some people will be trying to identify the thirty or more features referred to in the movie.

Watching Pauly Shore getting his head blown off with what looked like a rocket launcher, and Jason Mewes as a sex starved answering machine are just added bonuses to this delightfully intelligent, stupid movie.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 04:59 AM | Permalink

Before the Canadian election last January 23rd, I had posted a piece about Assembly of First Nations' Chief, Phil Fontaine and his worries about a potential Conservative victory. His concern was for the survival of two key deals that had been worked out with Paul Martin's Liberal government.

One deal was a finalization of compensation for those natives who had suffered abuse and damages during their internment in the Residential school system in Canada, and the other was the negotiation of an agreement with all ten Premiers and the federal government for investment in education, housing, and infrastructure on reserves. The object of the second program was to finally be able to break the cycle of endless poverty and abuse that has become prevalent on so many reserves.

Supplying each reserve with educational facilities, proper sewage, and housing would cost a lot of money and require careful monitoring, both of how the money is being spent and to ensure that standards are maintained after the fact. There's no point in building houses, water purification systems and schools, if there's no way of ensuring that ten years from now the houses haven't collapsed; that nobody knows how to maintain the sewage plants, and that students aren't getting an education equal to that of the rest of Canada.

Phil Fontaine is a patient man, he has played a wise and intelligent game with the governments of Canada during his term so far, playing out enough rope of conciliation to either build a bridge, or allow the government to hang themselves again. He's managed to keep a lid on the anger and impatience of many Native groups in Canada by being able to promise they would finally get more than just the dribs and drabs of recent memory, and be able to actually do something constructive for their people.

The agreements reached in November of 2005 went a long way towards justifying his methods. All the provinces of Canada agreed to the accord, and the funding was promised to ensure the present well being, and a brighter future, for his people.

While the agreement on compensation for the victims of the Residential school system wasn't nearly as big financially as the other, it contained some key elements long sought after by natives. The government agreed to follow the pattern established by the Australians a few years back and set up a reconciliation committee that would serve to first of all inform the Canadian public of the true nature of the Residential School system, and second to work at ways to reconcile the two peoples.

During the campaign leading up to the last election, the Conservative Party of Canada would not commit either way to the treaties in question. Phil Fontaine tried to force the issue by warning them that natives could swing up to sixty-four ridings in Canada. If natives could be convinced to vote as a block, they would represent a serious impediment to Conservative ambitions of forming a majority government.

Mr. Fontaine concern about the Conservatives was two fold; one they are noted for being social conservatives period, and not liking anything that smacks of handing out money, and in their previous incarnations as either the Alliance and the Reform parties, normal party policy ran the lines of, "We won, they lost, live with it." Not something to generate hope amongst the minds of his constituents. The Conservatives stayed mute about their plans during the election; the most they would say were the usual words about examining the matter closely once they formed the government.

So now, Phil Fontaine and his people have to wait and see how long the grass will be green and the water will run on these treaties. Will they be like so many others where the grass has been replaced by pavement, and the water damned and diverted to flood their hunting grounds? Or will the Conservatives follow through on what is now an initial expense, but that in the long run could lead to self-sufficiency and a reduction of native dependence on governments for survival.

In his column of the 7th of March in the Globe and Mail John Ibbitson stresses the importance of what's become known as the Kelowna Accord:

In Kelowna, everyone finally declared enough is enough. All sides resolved to spend their energies on improving the aboriginal quality of life, on breaking the cycles, on finally going to work on closing the gaps…If Kelowna is lost, then that opportunity is lost, an act of faith is betrayed, and there is nothing to look forward to except a return to the bad old ways…Because Kelowna is the last, best hope to improve the lives of natives in this generation.

So far, Indian Affairs Minister, Jim Prentice has publicly endorsed the treaty, but has also raised misgivings about whether or not the framework to ensure proper delivery of the funds is in place. Now while it appears that most Native leaders (the government of Canada still insists on using the archaic term Indian for some reason, maybe they don't want to pay to change the stationary) will be patient enough to let the new government figure out how to implement the treaty, they're not going to be too happy at anything that looks like deliberate attempts at stalling.

So far, no one in the government is making any commitment to the original amount of 5.1 billion dollars over ten years that was proposed in the agreement. But seeing how this is a fiscally conservative, as well as socially conservative, government there is a lot of holding of breath on the Native side of things.

For now they're going to have to wait a little while longer until the House of Commons re opens in April. Their first clue will come with the Speech From The Throne (the symbolic reading of the government's intentions for the upcoming session by the Queen's representative in Canada, the Governor General) and what if anything it mentions about the treaty. Then it will be up to the Finance Minister to announce the funding requirements will be met when he reads his budget shortly after.

If neither of those circumstances comes about, or if the funding is inadequate, compared to needs, it will just be another broken treaty that the Native people have signed. But if the Conservative government can honour the Kelowna accord it could mark the time we finally turn the corner after years of neglect, and Native people began the ascent into a world with a future for the first time in hundreds of years. I'd say that's worth a few billion dollars.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 04:20 AM | Permalink

We are told that primitive man lived in perpetual fear of the dark until he discovered fire. With its discovery was created a circle within which safety was assured. Fire, technology, has pushed back the darkness, and its accompanying fear, until we have reached the stage where there is so little darkness that we no longer even recognize it.

While for early humans the fears were real and tangible; there were things that went bump in the night, and were more than happy to eat them, and the light provided by fire was a necessity for survival, that is not the case for contemporary people. The light we have now does not serve to keep our community safe from predators and physical harm; it actually encourages us to live in fear by blinding us to its existence.

Our technology, combined with a philosophy that deems time not spent in gainful pursuit sinful, ensures that there is little or no room left for introspection. Without those moments of pause, seconds in which we can catch our breath, we are denied the opportunity to examine the fears that dominate us.

Although our attitudes have changed in recent years towards the practice of psychiatry and other analytical processes, there is still a stigma attached to those who have made use of these facilities. Conversely, there has been an outbreak of "Self-help" books that offer band-aid solutions, but very little assistance of substance.

Ten Easy Steps That Will Make You A Better You could be the subtitle for all of these books. Each of them promises to put a bounce in your step, a smile on your face, and if you're really doing well, money in your pocket. Come to the light is their empty promise and false blandishment. Blind yourself even further so you can forget the misapprehensions and fears you have about your life and the world.

It is fitting, that in the opening of his book, The Great Western Divide John Spivey invites us to sit at a fire with him. It's a small fire, only bright enough to illuminate the author's and the reader's faces as they sit together with the ancient darkness pressing in around them. It's a very small circle of safety that he offers, both for himself and those who are listening.

Fires have always been places where we can gather for story telling, even today a lot of us have memories of camp cookouts where the fire became brighter as the night deepened. Then the stories would be told. Usually stories that made us scared of the dark, stories that made us recall primitive times by huddling closer to the safety of the flames.

John has some stories he wants to tell us, and some of them are stories about the dark outside of the circle of light he has created. But his stories about the dark aren't meant to scare us away from its inky blackness; they are to help us penetrate the darkness lying inside of us that dictates our behaviour.

He has histories to tell us that span over 150 years of live in the Great Western Divide where his family settled in the 1800's. Some of them are personal, some are of the land, and some are of people who lived out their lives here a century before most of us were born. Each one of the stories is designed as an example for the point he is making at the time

We listen as he tells us of the exploration, development, and rape of the land surrounding the Southern Sierra Nevada. Years of government policy that gradually leached the water out of the ground by diverting and damming rivers, and draining marshland combined with the practice of growing only oranges has turned a once lush land arid.

Loggers and settlers seeing the Giant Sequoias dreamed of money and ravaged the forests. But unlike her redwood cousin, she was so brittle that the act of felling her splintered the wood so badly she was only good for fence posts.

As the environment around them changed so did the people. Not just the native population was affected by the changes, although they were the first to vanish, so too did the white population with the replacement of personal farms with agribusiness. But before that happened the first peoples as always were the first affected. John offers Hale Tharp's first hand observation of what happened and as an example of what is must be like to be intimately connected to the land you live in.

By the spring of 1862, quite a number of whites had settled in the Three Rivers area…the Indians had contracted contagious diseases from the whites…and they died off by the hundreds. I helped to buy twenty-seven in one day…Chief Chappo …came to see me and asked me to try to stop the whites from coming…When I said it was impossible, they all sat down and cried…their people loved this country, did not want to leave it, and knew not where to go…I think that by the summer of 1863 the Indians had left the district…I don't know what has become of them now. John Spivey, The Great Western Divide, Crows Cry Press, 2006, p.120-121

John feels that one of the reasons we are so lost and scared is that we have no means of connection to the place where we were born. As a species we have drifted away from the love of place that these people had, we don't belong anywhere anymore.

Near the beginning of the book, John asks you across the fire:

What did you see when you first looked into your parent's eyes? Did you gain a small taste of infinity submerged in the depths of your parent's love? Did you gain a first glimpse of who you really are reflected and magnified in the lens of their being? Or did you fall into the emptiness of their self-absorption and pain, the emptiness of being buried beneath their beliefs about life? ibid, p.37

By telling his personal story, John shows us how a person's spirit can be destroyed, and our fears are developed. Sometimes the inheritance left us is more than just physical possessions and monetary gain. We could be carrying emotional scars that dates back generations and with each new birth the wound is opened afresh.

Fears and beliefs about ourselves born in childhood can govern our behaviour for the rest of our lives unless we have the strength and determination to look into those dark places inside that scare us. The memories of actions that shame us the most are always a good place to start, because to find out why you did that will tell you so much about who and what you are. It's not looking for excuses, according to John, but explanations. Once you understand why you act like you do it’s a lot easier to affect change.

I've sensitive radar for what I call self-aggrandisement through pain and suffering. "Look at how amazing I am for having been through so much" stories that are told just for no purpose other than the author's need to inflict themselves upon others are the worst excuse for writing around these days.

John doesn't even come close to approaching this territory. He's writing about himself because that's what he knows best, and he serves as a good example for what he is trying to talk about. His journey into his personal darkness is told for a purpose; a road map of the ongoing process of self-exploration, not an exercise in self – flagellation like is so popular today.

You can't help but be moved by his experiences, but by the manner in which he recounts his story, and tells the stories of others, you know that you would have felt the same emotions if he had been talking of someone else. It is the sign of a great storyteller that he or she can talk about personal issues and not make it a cry for attention.

The Great Western Divide is not about John Spivey. He's one example cited along the way. His is not the only story that is being told in these pages, nor is it only his family, others like Hale Tharp quoted above make their entrances to be examples, offer advice, and serve as warnings.

Earlier I said his stories aren't meant to frighten us away from the darkness, but teach us to examine it. That does not mean that this book will not scare a lot of people. It asks you to take things you hold dear, accept as normal and right, and look at them in a different light. That is a very intimidating task that not many of our prepared to take on.

As an aside, and on a personal note, what was nice for me was to see someone articulate a lot of the things that I believe personally in such a thoughtful and intelligent manner. This book is such a refreshing change from what is out there; there's no divine message from angels, or channelling spirits from ancient cultures substantiating his theories. It's one man having the courage and the integrity to speak his mind about what he believes in.

Some of the theories, like childhood conditioning affecting behaviour for the rest of your life, are accepted theories of modern psychology, and some are hypothesises that he has generated from his own experiences. He's not proselytising a religion or a lifestyle or selling classes that in just seven days will make you a man, oh sorry, enlightened.

All he's asking is you sit by the fire with him for a while and listen to the stories he has to tell. What you get out them is up to you. I personally agree with everything he says, but seeing as how I started a similar journey twelve years ago, that's not surprising.

Just remember one thing before you start reading, you don't have to be afraid of the dark, because after a while your eyes will adjust and you'll be able to see. Think of The Great Western Divide as the infrared glasses you need to get you started and you'll be fine.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 04:55 AM | Permalink

The biggest obstacle facing a first time writer is writing the damn novel. What did you think I was going to say? Getting it published. That's sort of like putting the cart before the horse don't you think? You got to have something written before a publisher is going to look at you. (Well, maybe if you're Steven King you can walk into someone's office and say "I have an idea for a story" and they'll open the vault and ask how much do you want?)

But we're talking about you and me, the person contemplating their first novel. I've been dicking around with writing for the last twenty or so years, maybe longer. Like most people, I started with poetry, and after writing a few poems, I decided that I was ready to write a novel.

Why is it that so many of us novices all figure that we are capable of writing a novel right from the get go? We never even consider the short story, like its some sort of inferior creation that is obviously beneath our abilities and us. Well whatever the reason I've got three or four beginnings of novels stashed around my apartment that have never gone beyond the opening chapters.

Probably a good thing too, I doubt whether any of them deserved to see the light of day. It's hard to fathom my conceit at the time to believe that I had any stories to tell or anything of significance to say at that young age. Some people age faster than others, but me I was slow in ripening and it wasn't until I reached my forties that I was evolved enough for thoughts to formulate into story form.

Getting beyond oneself is a key to fiction writing. Sure, you may draw upon life experiences for character development and verisimilitude, but when you write only about yourself, you limit your horizons to the known and stifle the potential of your imagination.

Writing is like any other creative art. It takes a combination of things to actually make something worth reading: imagination, talent, and dedication are all essential ingredients any potential novelist should possess. To my mind, the reasons behind each of those are obvious, but one thing I've learnt is that audiences can't be expected to be mind readers so you need to tell them what you're thinking.

Imagination, inspiration, the muse; whatever you want to call it, is the place your ideas come from. It could be anything from the classic What if… scenario to the fictionalization of historic events. You might even have an idea for a character around which you can plot a series of adventures, out of which other characters will appear.

But if you don't have an idea, that spark that makes you want to sit down at your keyboard, you'll find it pretty difficult to create anything that anyone would want to publish or read. If you don't have imagination, chances are what you will write is only an imitation of something that has been done before.

Even with imagination that's a problem first time writers will face on a regular basis. What you think is an original idea stands a good chance of having been done before. Your job, if you choose to accept it, is to usually find a new way of telling an older idea. Look how many damn books have been written about King Arthur in recent years, they all wouldn't have been published if they weren't taking a different tack. Not that I'm recommending that as subject matter, probably the only thing left that hasn't been written is the story from the point of view of his horse.

It may seem like pointing out the obvious to some people, but you're not going to get very far in writing a novel if you don't have a talent for it. A couple of clues to look for to see if you have the aptitude for creative writing are whether you like to read and what's the state of your vocabulary.

Chances are if you watch more television then you read you are not going to have the skill to write a good novel. Your brain is not going to be thinking in the right way. Novels don't work in short bursts of information that get neatly tied up at the end of two episodes or even a half hour. Novels are messy and vague with loose ends that have to be picked up five chapters latter and woven back into the main thread of the story seamlessly.

Anyway, if you don't like to read what the hell make you want to write a book in the first place. No offence, but I don't want to read a novel by someone who doesn't like to read them. That's sort of like asking a vegetarian to prepare your next cow barbecuing festivities.

Under the heading of talent, I suppose we have to bring up the nasty subject of grammar and spelling. I know it's true most word processing software programs come with some sort of grammar and spell check, but do you really want your novel to be written by Microsoft?

Anyway, that's not the point; grammar checks can only point out what's wrong with a sentence when it comes to word order and sentence structure. If you don't have the skill to make yourself understood with paper and pen, how are you going to write a novel?

Digression Alert If you want you can skip ahead a couple of paragraphs and I'll pick up where I left off, but I need to vent about something in which talent and skill play a large part. I'm sure you've read in other posts about the difficulties involved with getting a publisher's attention let alone getting them to publish your work.

Not overly long ago, within my recent memory even, the majority of publishers would accept unsolicited manuscripts from authors. If they didn't accept a whole manuscript right off the hop, they would at least accept a query letter and some sample chapters. The letter would introduce you, provide a brief synopsis of your proposal, and let them know what else you may have done.

But now it's almost impossible to get a publisher in the United States to even accept a letter unless it comes via an agent. Why? Internet Web blogs. Now before I start receiving death threats for that statement let me explain what I mean.

There's nothing wrong with blogs; to quote Ford Prefect, they're mostly harmless. People create their own little space on the Internet where they can publish their thoughts on whatever they like and talk about anything under the sun. Some of them are wonderful, a lot of them are silly, and a very few are dangerous.

In of themselves web blogs aren't the problem, it's the illusion it has created that is the problem. I can't find the exact quote anymore, but one publisher said something along the lines of, if he had to read one more "what I had for breakfast " manuscript he was going to scream.

All of a sudden, everybody thinks they are a writer and their lives are important enough to write about. It's part of what I call the Oprah syndrome, (so maybe the blame shouldn't all be put on blogs), the overwhelming compulsion to "share" your life with the world. Everybody has some tale of woe or other that they figure no one else can live without, and it's their ticket to renown.

A heart-warming tale of a housewife in Birmingham that overcame her addiction to cream puffs. Read about the agony of her withdrawal etc. etc. ad nausea. Just because one person leaves a comment on your blog telling you that you should write more about your experiences does not mean you need to write a book about them.

Note to the world: not everyone is creative or talented enough to write something that can sustain people's interest over 80-100,000 words. But, unfortunately, far too many people started to believe that and publishers in the United States could no longer deal with the volume of submissions they were receiving.

With no other way of screening mail before it came to their offices, they had to resort to utilizing agents. Even agents are staring to feel overwhelmed. You go to some agent's sites now and they not only tell you what genre's they accept, but are really blunt about not wanting "thinly disguised personal stories".

There are a number of sites on the Internet where people who are serious about writing polish and publish their work. There are also personal blogs that have very good, thoughtful, and well-articulated articles on them. But to write a novel takes a lot more than being able to write a couple of pages a day on one topic.

Blogging is far more akin to journalism than novel writing, and while some journalists have made the transition to novel writing, their numbers aren't as high as people would like to believe. What journalists have going for them is name recognition that gets them through a publisher's door, but that doesn't translate into having the skills to write a novel.

Well now that I've beaten that point into the ground lets get back to the post. The final qualification I had listed was dedication. Can you sit down and write a hundred thousand words? Then sit down and rewrite them, follow that up with editing them, and finally doing it all over again just to make sure.

After doing all that, can you then write individual letters to each of the publishers/agents that you would like to look at your work. Are you willing to research agents and publishers to find out which ones are appropriate for you?

In order to be a novelist you at least have to agree to all of the above and most likely more. I didn't even mention the tedium of sitting staring at a blank laptop monitor praying for words to appear on the screen, because you can't think of any. Or the fact that you have to sit by yourself without talking to anybody for huge chunks of time and that your social life will gradually disappear the more involved you get with your project.

Unless you are willing to let your writing become the thing your world revolves around, whether you are sitting at your keyboard or not, and make sacrifices to accomplish the work, it won't get done. If you're trying to write and have a full time job, like raising kids or going to work, it means getting up before the kids make demands on you, or the boss yells at you for daydreaming.

The end of the day when you're exhausted and brain dead is not the best of times to try writing, at least that's been my experience. Maybe you're a night person and will work better at the end of the day, it's up to you to figure out when you can grab the time you need.

I'm sure other people will be able to think of other things you'll need in order to succeed in writing your novel (a certain level of obsessive compulsiveness doesn't hurt) but for me imagination, talent, and dedication are the holy trinity. Not everyone has the right mixture of all three to make a go of it, I don't know if I do and I may not know for quite a while.

Just like not all of us are born to be doctors, or chefs, not all of us are born with the right mixture of things that will make a writer. There's a myth still making the rounds that has people saying that everyone's an artist. That's not true. Everyone may be creative, but to be any type of artist requires a certain mixture of characteristics that not everybody possesses. That just might be your hardest job, figuring out if you have that mixture.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 05:04 AM | Permalink

At first, it had only been colours, veering in and out of unformed shapes behind his closed eyelids. More like the formless blobs left behind when your eyes have been momentarily blinded by a camera's flash attachment than anything else, he thought. But those were just the opening salvos to main event.

He had climbed up to this cave in the hills two days ago, and started the fast yesterday morning. He wasn't sure what he was expecting to happen, all he knew was that he was hoping to find some sort of enlightenment; a revelation that could help him make a new beginning.

Over twenty-four hours without food and water had left him dry mouthed and light headed. Perhaps he shouldn't have had MacDonald's as his last meal before going on a spiritual quest, but this had been a spur of the moment decision which had found him pointing his car our of the city towards the wilderness on the day his world fell apart.

He had gone to work as usual in the morning, only to find padlocks on the front doors of his employer's building. It turned out all their assets had been seized during the night pending an investigation into their bookkeeping practices. After a few phone calls on his cell phone assured him that the situation was completely unredeemable, he decided to head for home.

He probably would have found out soon enough, one way or another, but walking in on her with someone else between her legs wasn't the best way to find out she wasn't happy with their situation anymore. Not wanting to disturb them, he left the apartment without doing more than ensuring the windows were sealed, the gas stove was on, and a candle was burning in the kitchen.

He was rewarded by hearing a very satisfyingly loud boom from two blocks away as he drove off in her Hummer. She couldn't complain about him not making the earth move for her anymore, now could she?

All in all, though, things hadn't boded well for the future at that moment. He was out of work, single, and homeless all in less then half a day's time. If things didn't change soon, this downward spiral could continue and who knows where he'd end up.

He needed to make some changes in his life, that much was obvious. The first thing to do was to change his perspective of his situation. That's what the self – help guru they had gone to see a few months back had said: "Look on every loss as a new beginning, and it becomes a positive instead of a negative" In fact he'd used a scenario similar to Steven's own that very night.

Steven allowed himself a slight smirk at the thought of wondering what Mr. Self-Help would make of starting over from a couple of pounds of ground round. It had only taken a moment to recognise whose jacket had been tossed carelessly on the floor of what had been their bedroom. Look on that as a new beginning asshole.

But the fresh start thing was good thinking. The thing was how to go about it. You could always go out and get a new job and a new woman; they were all a dime a dozen these days. But that didn't sound like it would be enough this time.

This was the not the first time his embezzling had caused problems for his employers, or that he'd lost a woman to another man. However, the situations were getting out of hand in the ways in which they were resolved this time. He needed more of a solution than just moving on to a variation of the same old thing.

There had been this book she had been trying to get him to read, just after they had been to see the self-himself to my woman guy. It was all about shaman and dusty old guys like that who had gone into different states of consciousness to help them gain insight into themselves and understanding.

He had picked up the book, if only to keep her happy, and skimmed it quickly. It was all about how most of humanity's religions and belief systems were born out of people entering trance like states either through drugs or fasting. Some shit about obtaining a higher state of awareness allowing them to travel to different spiritual planes of existence and making discoveries.

Well, he knew some guys who had obtained higher states of "awareness" some years back, and they weren't about to see the outside of the psych ward for the rest of their lives. Anyways, he had said, there are enough religions in the world now screwing things up, as it is, why would we want anymore of them.

She had given him a look, like he was being an especially large asshole or something, and said that wasn't the point. The point was that people weren't willing to look in side themselves anymore and discover their own personal truths. The ones that could free them from the ruts they were in and allow them to discover what they were meant to be doing.

Well there was no denying he was in a rut right now. Seeing as the only copy of the book he knew of was probably in no condition to be read again, and he wasn't quite sure what was recommended to help induce a trance like state except fasting and drugs, (Stupid book hadn't even mentioned anything some tea you could only get in Brazil of all places) he figured he shouldn't take any chances.

He stopped by a local spot he had been able to score at before, and picked up a bag of weed, a gram of coke, some M.D.A., and a couple of grams of magic mushrooms. After smoking a fat one with the dealer and getting incurable munchies, hence, the stop at Macdonald's on the way out of town.

He figured he'd hold off on the coke until he needed the extra spurt of energy to get back into town after the fasting, keep the M.D.A. in reserve (he had no idea how clean it was after all) and just focus on chewing up some mushrooms after a day of fasting. He had remembered the cave from a previous trip to the mountains when he had been younger and he and a couple of buddies had sheltered there from a nasty rainstorm that had surprised them.

It had actually been kind of cool sitting there in the cave mouth, watching the lighting, and listening to the muffled sound of thunder from inside the mountain. It had been pitch black in the cave, and the dim light of the storm hadn't offered much illumination. He could still see how odd their faces had looked when light by the occasional flashes of lightning. Disembodied pale balloons floating in darkness was how he had thought of them at the time.

So now here he was, sitting in pretty much the same space, and bored out of his mind. He had taken the mushrooms over an hour ago and all he was getting still were the colours. Damn if things didn't pick up soon he'd snort half the coke, which should be enough to get him back to a hotel where he could order room service and sleep this off.

"What were you expecting, visions or something", said a voice in his head. "You've only been out here a day that doesn't count for anything in these matters. You've usually got to give it three, maybe four days before anything happens, and then its usually so obscure that it won't make any sense for years anyway"

Steven snapped his eyes wide open and looked around the cave. His pupils were dilated enough that even in the dim light he was able to make out shapes that he hadn't on his last trip here, but that didn't help him locate the source of the voice. He shook his head and was about to close his eyes again when the voice said:

"Oh I'm for real alright shithead, but I don’t feel like letting you see me just yet. I've been watching you for the last day, and wondering what you've been doing in my cave. Most people only stop in for a few hours at most, a quick shag, or for shelter from rain, and that's about it."

"But you've been here more than a day already and so naturally my curiosity is sparked. What you doing in my cave asshole? If you're meeting someone you can probably assume they've stood you up by now" There was a slight pause in which Steven had the distinct impression the voice was taking a closer look at him.

"Holly crap, what are you on? Look at the size of your eyeballs; they're like black boulders. You look like someone who's never seen the light of day." There was another pause. "Oh crap, you really are here on some sort of quest for eternal meaning, or some such shit aren't you?"

The voice sounded really pissed off now, as if that compounded some crime that Steven was unaware of even committing in the first place. For some reason Steven felt a little embarrassed, it could have been the scepticism that underlay the anger, but that didn't stop him form admitting that's what he was doing.

"Well I hope you don't think you're going to come up with some new religion or something stupid like that. Everybody seems to think that wandering around in the dessert or climbing a mountain to sit in a cave gives them the right to be a spiritual leader of some sort or another."

"I've got a cousin in the Middle East and he said a few years back, oh a couple a thousand or so, you couldn't go for a walk in the dessert without running into some fool idiot wandering around babbling to himself. Heat crazed and dehydrated. After a while he got so sick of them he began to mess with them."

"There was this one guy, it makes me laugh every time I think about it, really emaciated, must have been out there for close to thirty days, judging by how skinny and flat out bug-eyed crazy he was. Anyway, this guy was muttering about some Satan dude under his breath. Was getting himself into quite a state over how he was the root of all evil and had to be resisted at all costs."

"Now, my cousin had never heard of any Satan character before, but decided it would be a hoot to pretend he was him. So keeping himself invisible he sidles up to this guy and says howdy. Did he jump, must have been almost ten feet straight up in the air."

"The next thing you know he's flailing all about him with this staff he's carrying, damned near brained my cousin with it, and frothing at the mouth. Than he's standing there, rocking back and forth, praying is what my cousin figured he was doing, with his eyes closed. Every so often he open his eyes a crack and peaks around to see if anybody's there, and he'll shout out things like "Get thee behind me Satan" or some such shit."

"Now my cousin is genuinely worried about the guy, thinks he might be going off the deep end from no water and lack of food. So he figures the least he can do is offer him something cold to drink, and maybe a bite to eat; make up for the fright he gave him and all. But he figures the guy must have been really toasted by the sun, because he kept screaming out about temptation and evil, flailing about with that damned staff of his all over the place. Invisibility doesn't prevent you from getting your skull split open by a deranged loony if he manages to connect."

Than there was also another guy who thought, he was talking to his god because of a brush fire that my niece caused one day on a mountaintop. She always was a little careless with fire, bit of a pyromaniac if you ask me, but she's my sisters daughter, so what are you going to do? She ended up covering by telling the guy to chill, made up some nice things for him to believe in, and he went away happy."

"So I've got to wonder about anybody who parks themselves out in the middle of nowhere, are they in it for fame, fortune and fanaticism, or are they just plain nuts. That of course brings us back to you again, and the question of why you are here. If I remember correctly, the answer was "enlightenment". Is that right?

Steven could only nod his head yes in agreement. He wasn't sure if an invisible voice could see nods, but he was also pretty sure he couldn't talk right now even if he wanted to. He hadn't really known what to expect, but he was sure this sort of experience wasn't what everybody had in mind when they when they talked about finding a new level of personal awareness. All he had wanted was a few hints about how to get his life back on track and to figure out a way of things not always ending up always starting over.

"Well you could start by not being such a self-centred, selfish prick. Ditch the paranoia as well; if you didn't think everybody is out to get you than maybe you wouldn't be out to get them first. I'd also not get addicted to bumping off people you have personal issues with, it ends up getting messy, and you might get caught. You'll probably get away with it this time, but next time you might not be so lucky."

"Oh what are you acting so surprised about? If I'm a hallucination of some sort or another than I'm coming from your brain and sub conscience, and deep down you know what a piece of shit you are, even if you're not willing to admit it out loud. If I'm really the voice of some otherworldly presence than I'm going to be able to read your thoughts anyway. So, actually, it's immaterial whether I'm real or not, because either way it's all true."

"Quite frankly if I were you I'd just take a running jump out of this cave and hope to splatter myself all over the mountain side, but since I'm not, that decision is up to you. In fact, here's my big piece of advice for you asshole; you might want to write this down it's important. No, all right than."

" Everything is your decision and you always have a choice no matter what the circumstances. Take responsibility for your choices and you will live a good and happy life. Blame everybody else for your problems and you become the messed up dipstick that you are today."

Steven had been staring open mouthed into space the whole time the voice was speaking. When it got to the point of jumping off the cliff he started to get himself ready to leave. He'd snort some lines off the dashboard of the Hummer, and find that hotel room. Than he'd hunt down the jerk that sold him the mushrooms, and give him shit for this bum trip they had caused.

He was so busy thinking about that, he barely noticed the voice was done. He had completely missed the last few words said to him, but he figured they made as little sense as everything else that had happened since he got here. Saying goodbye loudly to the voice, he bolted for the cave entrance where he tripped over a bump in the floor he hadn't noticed before.

His balance was off from not eating and drugs and that probably explained why he couldn't regain his footing before he tumbled over the side of the cliff that the cave faced out onto. The lump in the floor stood up on its four legs and padded to the cave entrance and to the edge. A familiar voice, at least to Steven's ears if he was still listening, came out of the very canine shaped muzzle.

"Stupid humans never listen, haven't in thousands of year, and aren't about to start now I guess. Oh well not my problem"
(Anthropologists now believe that most major human belief systems came about when people have been in a trance like state, most likely induced by the hallucinogenic psilocybin.)

Posted by Richard Marcus at 08:38 AM | Permalink

Welcome my Mercies to the glorious city of Madrid. Spain, during the rule of its fourth glorious Phillip, lies basking in the last glow of its setting sun. Oh, she is still a wonder to behold; glittering and vain, boastful and proud, but like a healed over, infected sword thrust through the vitals, she is rotting from the inside out.

To look upon her, one could not tell that she is like a used up whore, beset by internal tumours that have wrecked such havoc upon her organs, she is a danger to all that would love her. Does this judgement sound harsh to your delicate ears my Mercies, than perhaps you have not the stomach, nor dare I say it, the fortitude, to withstand the sights and sounds of Purity Of Blood.

Not since the blessed Cervantes and Dumas blotted their last pages, and were called to write in more convivial surroundings by the great God our father, has an author created a hero, an unwitting hero it's true, but a hero none the less, the likes of Diego Alatriste. The good Captain, as he is known to all and sundry though he never earned his commission in fighting his blessed King's wars against the heretical Dutch, first flowed from Arturo Perez-Reverte's pen in the now renowned Captain Alatriste.

Those riveting pages brought to our attention how the fates of the good Captain and the narrator of these events, Inigo Balboa, the thirteen year old son of a God fearing soldier, who left this earth with Diego's promise in his ears to care for his eldest boy, were intertwined. Serving under a misapprehension about the good Captain's position in society, Inigo's mother dispatched him to Madrid, upon his departure from childhood, so that he might gain the advantages that only an officer who served God, the King and Spain, could provide.

It is well known, my Mercies, how the road to Hell can be paved with good intentions, but aside for an unfortunate incident, hardly worth mentioning, in which Inigo was forced to speed a man's journey to his Maker with the aid of well primed pistol, his life has not been so different from that of other boy's his age in the Spain of the glorious Phillip the fourth.

Yes, it is true that his master appears to have made a trio of deadly enemies over the trivial matter of his refusal to kill the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Buckingham, but enemies are stock in trade for a man who earns his daily meat and bread with the sword. Are you shocked my Mercies, to hear that a man of such high quality, who poets have immortalized in verse, is no more then a sword whose services can be acquired by any with sufficient weight in their purse?

You truly live in a different world than that of Spain under her glorious fourth Phillip. Pray, my Mercies, what would you have an ex soldier do to support himself? Beg? Become a servant in the house of some noble who sent him off to kill the heretics while he stayed warm and safe in Spain? Some hidalgo, who has no obligations except to serve his own vanity, and flaunt himself in the streets of Madrid?

I can no more see the Captain standing stiff in a starched footman's shirt, awaiting his master's beck and call, than I can see the Inquisition accepting Jews, Moors, and Heretics as equals. The Captain would be more likely to do without, than make do with that.

Ah, but I have been distracted from my true purpose, an accounting of the events that the esteemed Perez-Reverte so ably narrates in Purity Of Blood. As my own humble skills pale in comparison, your Mercies will forgive me restricting myself to the palest of sketches, as opposed to the finished article painted by the master.

Although Madrid is the centre of the civilized world, and one who tires of her splendour may be said to have tired of the world, it is also true that a change of scenery can be good for the soul. Or, as in the case of the Captain, whom you will remember has attracted a trio of powerful enemies, good for ones health.

It is with those thoughts paramount in his head that Diego has been considering a return to the battlefields of his King to fight the heretics in the Low Countries. (The Netherlands) But, alas, many a hand carrying the cup slips before it reaches the lips of its destination, and this is to be Diego's fate.

For not only is he unable to exercise his abilities in the service of the True Faith, but he becomes wrapped in a web of intrigue at whose centre glowers the evil spider of the Inquisition. Our good Captain's choice of enemies is as estimable as his choice of friends; they too are of the highest rank and a baseness equal to the goodness of those Diego counts among his allies.

What, at first glance, appears to be a risky but honourable venture, rescuing a beloved daughter and sister from the hands of a corrupt and venal priest from a convent, is only one layer of an intrigue whose icing is power over the King and country.

Ah, my Mercies what are we small men to do when caught up in the affairs of the great and powerful? If fortune favours us, perhaps we are able to keep our heads down and escape notice, but other wise we must stand proud and bear whatever is dumped on us. So, when events unfold and reveal that the hand of the Inquisition has been playing the strings all along, and the rescue effort has been doomed from the start, Diego's only recourse is to save his own skin.

But at such a high cost; two of his employers lie dead in the convent yard, the Inquisition seizes the object of the rescue, and most horrifically, young Inigo himself falls into their terrible clutches. There is no means of rescue available for Inigo, and the Captain himself is forced into hiding, dependant upon his friends of influence for any news of his ward.

Without the benefit of history's illuminating light, our heroes are not to know what is truly at the heart of this matter. The Inquisition, and those who have hitched their carts to its powerful team, is intent on eliminating from God's good earth all traces of anything not of the One True Faith. Against them are arrayed more practical men who see the need to temper faith with reason, or risk the ruination of Spain.

It was truly misfortune only that could have made the convent that was the Captain's target that night, one of the pieces at play in the war between the two sides. How was he to know that the Inquisition was planning on using the activities of the convent's priest as ammunition against its protector, their biggest opponent at court?

If one were to try and unravel the knots and weaves in the waft of all the interconnecting plots and intrigues during the reign of our blessed King Phillip IV, your head would be spinning before you found your way to one frayed end. Is it any wonder than that our erstwhile narrator, Inigo Balboa, offers the following description of life in his Spain?

And the decadence we Spanish were suffering across the world—seeds that produced, and will continue to produce, fields of thistles and nettles—can be explained, primarily, by suppression of liberty, cultural isolation, loss of confidence, and the religious obscurantsim created by the Holy Office. Arturo Perez-Reverte, Purity Of Blood, Putnam Press, 2006 p. 110

Oh your Mercies, it is a sad period of history that is recounted in Purity Of Blood. One word spoken against you and you disappear with family and friends unable to offer the slightest succour. What defence can be offered in any case against accusations that are indefensible because they have no basis in fact?

What can you offer as proof against an accusation that your great-great-grandfather converted to Catholicism from Judaism? Our poor Inigo is charged with being of less than pure blood, and accused of manifesting Hebraic beliefs. What harm, you are asking yourself, has this thirteen year old innocent done them that they should find reason to condemn him for such a crime?

Oh, you do not know how the minds of these evil men work like I do, my innocents. They seek to punish the Captain for his impunity in defying them by dangling the boy's fate in front of his eyes. They know his pride and honour will torture him, which would in itself give them pleasure.

Alas, that is not all they know. As sure as the sun rises in God's eastern sky every morning, Diego Alatriste will never abandon a comrade, even if it is only to bear witness to his passing. Inigo is the bait that will lure Alatriste into their eager palms.

As the ink flowing from the quill of our esteemed author takes us deeper into the lives of Captain Diego Alatriste and Inigo Balboa our hero comes into clearer focus. Captain Alatriste set the scene and introduced us to the players at hand. Now into the second act, with the introductions made and the relationships decided, more plots are exposed, and characters step out of the background and into the spotlight for clearer viewing.

There is poetry in the stylus of Arturo Perez-Reverte that has not been seen on the pages of books for a good long time. To read this book is to listen with your eyes and enjoy the play of the words in your ear. It is his deft touch, and sensitive ear, that is as much part of the enchantment as the stories themselves.

Those, like myself, who are forced to read these books in heretical English, owe a debt to the radiant translation rendered with the grace befitting a woman of undoubted virtue, Margaret Sayers Peden. Without her efforts, the good Captain's adventures could have been reduced to tiresome exercises in tedium.

If I may be so bold, my Mercies, in this final moment that I have your attention, to make a recommendation, it would be this. Wrap your cloak around your shoulders, place your hat upon your head, ensure your sword and dagger are within easy reach upon your harness, make your way forthwith to a bookseller of repute, and procure a copy of Purity Of Blood. (If you have not managed to read Captain Alatriste yet, shame on you, then of course read it first)

Now my Mercies, I must bid adieu. Perhaps if we are fortunate we will meet some other day to discuss further adventures of the good Captain. That, we will leave for the fates to decide.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 07:20 AM | Permalink

The ongoing saga of The Man Who Crossed The Floor continues to play out in Canadian politics. David Emerson, elected as a Liberal Member of parliament in the election of January 23rd 2006, only took two weeks to decide that he ran for the wrong party, and switched sides so that he could join the winners in the Conservative Party of Canada and become a member of Cabinet.

Well, after a month or so of opposition members of parliament saying something is not quite right, and the people who voted for Mr. Emerson based on the fact that he might actually stand for something, demanding he immediately resign and run as a member of the party he's decided to join, Federal Ethics Commissioner Bernard Shapiro has decided to launch a preliminary inquiry as to whether or not Prime Minister Steven Harper ran afoul of conflict of interest guidelines by proffering the bait of cabinet minister to entice Mr. Emerson to defect.

In the same letter that he sent to three opposition Members of parliament outlining his plans he also indicated that he would be looking into the conduct of Mr. Emerson as well:

"Although the subject of this inquiry is the prime minister, given that the actions of Messrs. Harper and Emerson in this incident were intertwined, questions will no doubt be raised during the course of the preliminary inquiry on the conduct of Mr. Emerson as well." The Globe and Mail Saturday March 4th/06

In the past year, Canada has seen two floor crossings, people switching parties, and one attempted sting to entice an offer of a floor crossing. It is the last incident that opposition Member of Parliament (M.P.) Peter Julian claims set the precedent for this investigation.

A Conservative M.P., Gurmant Grewal, attempted to get a then Liberal cabinet ministers to offer him a position in cabinet if he agreed to switch sides prior to a key vote. He taped the conversation in the hopes of being able to make it look like the Liberals were trying to bribe opposition Members to switch parties.

Mr. Grewal eventually found himself caught in a firestorm, when he released an edited transcript of the tape that made it sound as if he were being lured, but the actual tape recording showed him fishing for the bribe and the Liberal minister not making any promises. At the time, Mr. Shapiro said that if a benefit is offered to entice a M.P. to switch sides, than it is a conflict of interest.

So, lets see now. You go from being an elected Member of the opposition party with no power and the standard Members pay and travel allowance, to being a member of the Cabinet in the government which brings an increase in salary, perks, personal power, and benefits. Does that sound like any benefit was offered to entice Mr. Emerson to switch parties?

In what comes as no big surprise, the Prime Minster's Office has announced it won't co-operate at all with Mr. Shapiro's investigation. You see, Mr. Shapiro was appointed by the Liberals, and Mr. Harper refuses to recognise his actions being anything other than partisan.

According to his office, Mr. Shapiro was found in contempt of Parliament and had his decision-making abilities questioned. Since the vote that passed that resolution occurred during the days of a Liberal minority government, and wasn't considered a vote of confidence, (one that if the government lost they would have to call an election), it was probably a partisan motion to begin with; an attempt by the opposition to discredit the office of the commissioner when they didn't agree with his decisions.

One has to remember that when dealing with politicians it is quite amazing how the truth is shaped. Although what they are saying is technically true, parliament did find Mr. Shapiro in contempt, the circumstances of the vote would cast a light on the veracity of parliament's findings. Just because the people who don't agree with someone's decision question his or her judgement and hold it in contempt, doesn't mean the person was wrong.

So the big question today is, what happens if Mr. Shapiro finds this whole mess was a conflict of interest? Will Harper and his gang try to bluster their way out of it claiming partisan politics and by discrediting the Mr. Shapiro? What if the opposition parties vote to accept his findings if they are against the government?

As far as what the Ethics Commissioner can do, according to Apendix A of the Conflict Of Interest Code For Members Of The House Of Commons section 28 subsection 6 he can:

If the Ethics Commissioner concludes that a Member has not complied with an obligation under this Code, and that none of the circumstances in subsection (5)(Mitigating circumstances) apply, the Ethics Commissioner shall so state in the report and may recommend appropriate sanctions

Now obviously once the sanctions are recommended they will have to be voted on by the House of Commons, so that should be an interesting time. The first week of the Steven Harper's new government devoted to debating the ethical conduct of the new Prime Minister and whether or not he should be sanctioned for his actions.

For a government document the Conflict Of Interest Code makes for some interesting reading actually, and there are a few clauses that I would recommend Mr. Harper and his people read over carefully before they start spouting off too loudly. Section 27 subsection 5) which states…" Members should respect the process established by this Code and permit it to take place without commenting further on the matter" Or subsection 8) of the section which says that all members must co-operate with the Commissioner.

Now Mr. Harper may not like the commissioner personally, and may want to change the act and the way it's applied in the future, but right now, it is the law in Canada and all members of Parliament are subject to this act without exception. Whatever he may think of its current merits or demerits is immaterial to the fact that in commenting on the inquiry and refusing to co-operate with it, he is contravening an Act of Parliament.

Mr. Harper ran in the last election promising a government rid of scandal and corruption, without the taint of questionable ethics hanging over it. Parliament isn't due to open until sometime in April, and Mr. Harper has not only run afoul of the Ethics Commissioner, but he is in breach of the Act that governs the behaviour of Members of Parliament.

You and I are not above the law because we may not agree with it. Just because Mr. Harper is Prime Minister and wants to change the law, does not mean he can ignore it. He has already shown his disdain for the democratic process by actively subverting the votes of all those who wanted a Liberal candidate in Mr. Emerson's riding, now he ignores the laws of our parliament.

It's a good thing he promised to clean up government. I'd hate to see his idea of dirty.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 04:46 AM | Permalink

Well thankfully moving a blog is not quite as difficult, but is still time consuming. That's why this message is here. As of now all my new posts will be appearing at http://blogs.epicindia.com/leapinthedark but I'll be maintainging the archive here. You can still leave comments for me on any of the articles you read in these pages, because the nice people at blogger will let me know it you have anything to say.

I've enjoyed my stay here at blogger, and the only reason I'm making the move has to do with my needing a change of view and for my desire to increase my relationship with the folk over at epicindia. They have been very good in providing exposure for my work and I want to reciprocate in kind. By taking my blog over to their portal I hope to attract what few people I have to come with me.

So come on by and check out the new view. I'm still the same old iconoclast, so that won't have changed. Hope to see you all there.

gypsyman

--------

Posted by Richard Marcus at 04:31 PM | Permalink

Once in a while, an author manages to captivate you so completely that you are drawn into the world they've created without even noticing. You open the pages of the book, and the next thing you know you're on page one hundred, two hours have passed, and you've no recollection of when you started reading.

What's truly amazing is that you don't even feel like you've been reading. It feels like there is an external voice whispering the story in your ear and the only effort required on your part is to listen. There's no fighting to understand what the author means, or feeling of being spoon fed information in order to lead you to some inevitable outcome. It's like having your own personal storyteller sitting on your shoulder.

This is the case with the work of Indian author Ashok Banker. The first four books of his adaptation of the Ramayana have all been like that, and book five, Bridge of Rama is no exception.

Bridge Of Rama picks up the story where we left off; Rama's wife Sita has been kidnapped by the King of the Ausras (bestial demon type creatures) Ravana, and taken back to his island home of Lanka. Rama and his allies, the vanar, an ape like people, are massing on the shores of the mainland hoping to find a way across the final hurdle of the ocean so they can rescue Sita.

Even when the devoted Hanuman, the vanar to first recognise Rama's inherit greatness, returns at the head of an army of countless number of his own kind, plus an additional army of rksa (bears) the seemingly insurmountable problem of crossing the ocean is before them. After dismissing the idea of building boats to transport them as impractical, they settle on building a bridge.

At first, this too seems an impossible task, until one of the vanar strikes upon a plan that utilizes their major strengths, their willingness, and their numbers. All of a sudden, their goal appears within reach. That is until Rama is visited by the shade of his father who informs him that if he is not able to rescue his darling within twenty-four hours it will be too late.

Aside from beings of great strength and courage, the bears also turn out to be repositories of all knowledge. They remember their incarnations, and thus all the events of not only this lifetime, but lifetimes dating back generations. They are therefore able to reveal a secret that the Gods have long kept hidden from Hanuman: that he is actually the illegitimate son of Marut, the god of Wind.

Once Hanuman is able to assimilate who he is, he utilizes his powers in an attempt to rescue Sita from the clutches of Ravana by leaping across the ocean to land on the island. Here he finds a surprise awaits him.

Instead of the island of Lanka being the picture of horror that he anticipated, it is fact a city of beauty and splendour. What devious plan is Ravana hiding beneath this veneer of gentility?

Sita knows, as she has been here to witness his subtlety in action. From the onset of her captivity, she is astounded to find that she is being treated with relative kindness and respect. Ravana seems to be at pains to present as opposite a picture of his true nature as possible. For a guy whose name means "he who makes the universe scream" he's being awfully polite and considerate.

But as events unfold, and her stay continues, Sita realizes what Ravana is up to. He is attempting to cast himself in the role of Rama, the virtuous adherent to dharma, and to paint Rama, as the conductor of genocide and perpetrator of evil. As all good spin-doctors will, he uses actual events, and twists them to his advantage as evidence of Rama's nefarious attitudes.

If he can, he will besmirch the name of Rama and those who come after will see Ravana in the role of defender of his people and their way of life, while Rama is the one intent on destruction. So it is, that when Hanuman show's up to rescue Sita, although she desperately wants to leave with him, she knows she cannot.

Rama must come to Lanka and expose Ravana to the world for what he is, and the only way he will do that is if Sita is still held captive. She is willing to sacrifice her own life to ensure that the necessary confrontation between the two beings occurs so that history will know Rama was a hero.

Reluctantly Hanuman acquiesces to her demands and changes his course of action from that of rescuer to that of emissary. Using his immense powers to defeat all challengers, he proceeds to rampage through the city demanding to be taken to Ravana. Finally, he allows himself to be captured and beaten by Ravana's eldest son so that his wish can be fulfilled.

Once again, Hanuman uses his powers to his best advantage and escapes the trap that Ravana sets for him, and manages to affect his return to Rama. Along with the message from Sita about the plans of Ravana, he brings with him a warning of how truly powerful Ravana and his armies still are, and they must be prepared for a fierce and protracted battle when they manage to obtain the island.

As you can tell by the length of that summary, this is a story that is jammed packed with action. But events are merely a means of expressing themes and travels take place on more than just the physical plane in Ashok Banker's Ramayana. This is a story of faith; faith in one's self and where we find it, and faith in the veracity of our chosen path.

Doubts plague us all weakening our resolve and literally bring us to a standstill. Doubt in your abilities to accomplish something and you will never accomplish it. Doubt in what you believe in and you will continually second guess all your actions and be rendered immobile.

Blind faith, faith, which has no justification or basis to rest on ends up being hollow and unable to sustain itself. Those who follow Ravana have given themselves over to him body and spirit and have little or nothing left for the nurturing of self. Without that, they are unable to grow beyond their bestial appetites and are continually at the mercy of their baser selves.

As Ravana desires complete control over his followers, this works to his advantage as it allows him to dominate through fear and intimidation. But this form of rule is not fertile ground for loyalty or individuality, and contributes to the stagnation of the inhabitants of Lanka.

Ravana sees his subjects as objects at his disposal, to make use of as his needs dictate, and thus cares not a whit for their aspirations and desires. Unless of course they happen to coincide with his own, or if, he can contrive to utilize them to achieve his own ends.

In the character of Hanuman Mr. Banker shows over the course of two books the process that is necessary for the development and utilization of faith. In Armies Of Hanuman the young vanar learns to recognise and appreciate the values that are expressed by Prince Rama.

As Rama expresses faith in his abilities, Hanuman begins to not only have faith in himself, but when the time comes is ready to accept his godly aspect with humility and awe. His only desire is to utilize these powers in repayment for the faith shown in him.

Rama leads by example, never threatening and always grateful. By reciprocating the faith of his followers, he elevates their sense of self worth, which precipitates growth and loyalty. Hanuman's devotion to Rama and his faith in the precepts he adheres to provide him with the strength to overcome all of his inner demons and insecurities.

What makes Bridge Of Rama work as both an entertaining story, which it is, and an exploration of faith and other ideals, is Banker's ability to integrate plot and thought seamlessly. Even at the books most philosophical moments, you only ever hear the voice of the character, never the author.

His characters are so well created and thought out, that every word out of their mouths is believable and fits into who they are. Rama, Sita, Ravana, and Hanuman are just the tip of the iceberg for this attention to detail. No matter how minor a role the character could have in the story, each has their own distinct voice, and stands out from the rest of the crowd.

Mr. Banker's eye for detail, and his descriptive turn of phrase allows the reader to feel like they are seeing their surroundings through the eyes of the person who's there. Sita's exploration of the tower floor that she is being held captive on, and her gradual realization that what she thought was a forest grove is actually something else is a fine example.

Little clues are offered up to make her suspicious, but what finally tips it over the edge is the fact that the moonlight covers every surface of everything. Instead of just illuminating the tops of leaves, their undersides are just as bright. As we haven't really understood where she is being held up until that point, the realization that she is in some sort of magical prison strikes us both as the same time.

With Bridge Of Rama Ashok Banker confirms himself to be one the best storytellers of our time. Not only does he create memorable characters, but has the ability to describe their circumstances and situations in a manner so vivid that you can almost feel the breeze he describes blowing on your face.

Within the context of the series Bridge Of Rama is somewhat akin to the drawing in of breath before the last battle. The forces are gathering in one place for their final confrontation and the leaders are marshalling their thoughts. With Sita remaining Ravana's captive, there is now no other choice for Rama but to invade and attempt to rescue his wife.

What will happen when Rama and Ravana finally confront each other? How much of themselves will they each see in the other? In my minds eye I can see the countless bears and vanar beginning to line the bridge from the main land to Lanka making their way across the treacherous ocean. I can't wait to join them for the last chapter of the Ramayana

Posted by Richard Marcus at 06:12 AM | Permalink

Sometimes I get so angry with people that it just makes me want to spit. This is one of those times that I'm mad as hell and I can't keep quiet. I know that I'm going to come across to some of you as some sort of bleeding heart, animal loving tree hugger, but that's cool cause you don't want to know what I think of you.

Than again you'll probably get a good idea, once you've read this post. So, here it is, the question of the day; what has got me so pissed off that I'm dumping any attempts at objectivity? The way people treat their pets.

Oh great, what the hell's this bleeding heart on about now? Well I'll tell you asshole, (if you can call me bleeding heart I'm going to call you asshole) it's all about responsibility; responsibility for another being's life for starters. If, right now, you're thinking it's only an animal for pity's sake, than you can stop reading and we can all pray to whatever we pray to that you never own a pet.

You have to wonder why, if people have that attitude, they even get pets? What are they going to do with it if they have no feelings for it? What expectations are they placing on this creature that they are bringing it into their home if they don't give a damn about its well-being?

Look at the word domestic for a second. Dose anything about that word look familiar? How about domicile, meaning home, sharing the same the root? So, a domestic animal is one that's related to your home. We've bred them to be part of our home lives.

The implications of that are that these animals have had the majority of their wild instincts bred out of them so they fit into our society. They respond to our orders, they live in our houses, and they live by our rules. Dogs, cats, and other companion animals are capable of being trained or conditioned to do things either on command or through habit.

I used to know people who kept wolves. These were animals that had been either damaged as cubs or illegally bred by other people. (In Canada, it is illegal to raise wild animals unless they are unable to survive in the wild for some reason or you have a special licence) These were animals that had been with them since they were infants.

But they could not be trained at all. They wouldn't respond to even the simplest of commands. At best, it was hoped they could be socialised to accept humans, and not be scared of them. Perhaps if many generations of them were raised in human society (captivity) they could have that bred into them, but currently they are not a domestic animal.

The dog or cat that lives in your house is as far removed from the wolf or any of their wild cousins as you are from a Neanderthal. They may still display instinctual habits like hunting and killing birds in the case of cats, but how many of them do it for the sake of a meal? True there are cases of cats and dogs going feral, but how often does that really happen and what are the circumstances that brought that about?
In most cases, domestic animals that have returned to a wild state have been in environments where they have been living a semi-wild existence already. Barn cats live fairly independent lives hunting rats and mice in the farmyard and milking barns. But that is what they've been bred to and lived like for generations.

Wild cats in the city are the result of animals surviving being abandoned and neglected. If one generation is partially wild and breeds, its offspring will become a step further along the road away from domesticity and so on.

But it is not natural for them. How many healthy strays have you ever seen? They are usually pathetic creatures that survive on garbage and the occasional small animal that they are able to catch. The average domestic cat or dog can not survive on their own no matter how many inspirational movies are made about them crossing the country to be reunited with their families

So, this means when you bring one of these beings into your house you are assuming responsibility for their well being on all fronts. Feeding them, providing them with shelter, and keeping them healthy. The question of an animal's health also brings up the bigger question of sentiment and anthropomorphising your pets.

Don't do the animals a disservice by imposing human characteristics on them. True they are sentient beings and have feelings and emotions like all creatures, but that does not make them human. If you start imposing your feelings on to them, you can end up causing them as much harm as if you neglected them.

I can't count the number of times I've heard someone say, usually a man, gee it hardly seems fair to fix them before they get a chance to have any fun. Hey, guess what, animals only have sex to procreate; they don't have sex for fun. Unlike us, the only time they have sex is if the female is fertile, in heat, as it's known.

They are not going to miss it like you or I would. Unless you're planning on breeding a pure bred strain of an animal, involving registering with a society and getting a breeding licence, there is no reason to even let your animal come into heat once. They don't need the aggravation and neither do you.

Anyway, there are so many unwanted dogs and cats in the world right now that inhumane societies are putting down increasingly higher numbers of animals on a regular basis. The last thing needed is to have cats and dogs breeding because people think their pets get horny.

"Oh they're so much happier outside than in" is the excuse so many people have for leaving their animals outside in all hours and weather. Perhaps if a it lives in the country where it doesn't run the risk of being run down every time it sets a paw out the door you could let it wander. But in the city that's insane.

There's also the matter of people leaving their animals out in all kinds of weather. What kind of person let's a cat stay out in the middle of February when it's below freezing outside. Their paws freeze up and they literally can no longer stand still because they can't put their feet down.

Just because they have fur does not mean they can survive when the temperature dips below freezing. Haven't you noticed that when it's cold out what your cats and dogs do? They climb onto radiators, curl up in front of fireplaces, or find somewhere as warm as possible to be. Doesn't that tell you something?

Then there're the people who think they're being kind to their pet by prolonging its life when they are ill. In the past five years, my wife and I have had to make the decision to have a pet put down because of illness three separate times. In one case it was pretty straight forward, but the other two were more difficult, because there might have been a chance at some sort of recovery.

For animals, just like us, and perhaps even more so, quality of life is of paramount importance. You have to be able to see past your own desire to keep the animal alive, because that's what you want, and let him or her go if it looks like they will not be able to live how they are accustomed too.

The first time this happened to us, we left it too long and the animal was suffering before we worked up the courage to put her down. It was still hard when it came to the second time, but we knew that it was in her best interest to let her go.

Of all the things that upset me the most about how so many people treat their pets, the worse by far are those people who move and dump the animal they were supposed to have cared for. What kind of person just leaves their pet behind to live or die (more often die) on the street? Why did they even get a pet if they didn't care whether it lived or died?

People don't seem to understand that when they buy a pet they are buying a creature that will be dependant on them for food and shelter. They are taking on the responsibility for the life and death of whatever creature they bring home with them. If you are not prepared to take that responsibility seriously, you shouldn't own a pet.

Pets are living, breathing creatures as much as you are and deserve to be treated with the same respect that you would treat anybody else. Abusing the trust of anybody is disgusting, abusing that trust so badly an animal ends up dead makes you the worst sort of pond scum in my book.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 05:51 AM | Permalink

Over the past twenty or so years that I've actually paid attention to pop music, and World Music in particular, I've noticed a depressing trend. A pattern has developed that serves, over time, to dilute an original music, until it has been distilled into something that bares only a passing resemblance to the distinct sound that made it unique in the first place.

There have always been things that have bothered me about North American and European attitudes to World Music. The conceit of claiming to "discover" music that has existed in some cases longer than our civilization makes me scratch my head for starters. It's like it didn't exist until somebody showed up with a tape recorder so they could make a project out of it.

I know there are a few contemporary musicians who are genuine in their interest, and original in their incorporation, of music from other cultures into their own sound and writing. Peter Gabriel, Bob Bronzmen, Harry Manx, and Ry Cooder have all done amazing work with musicians and music from different parts of the globe.

Even Paul Simon, for all that people like to criticize him, was respectful of the people and the music that he utilized in Graceland. He incorporated them and their music into his work without compromising them, or their sound's integrity.

But unfortunately, once the music gets past the initial introductory phase that these few individuals offer, and the novelty of the indigenous performers has worn off, things start to become compromised. A prime example of this is what happened to Native American music, specifically flutes.

In less time then it takes to say, New Age, people sporting names like Cindy Spotted Wolf and Ralph Running Rabbit swamped the market with recordings of pseudo spiritual, relaxation, and meditation recordings. Swirling keyboards were mixed down with the occasion flute sound, eagle cries and wolf howls to make it sound authentic, and enough sound of running water to make you have to pee every five minutes.

Now of course whole new frontiers have opened up so you can get variations on this theme based around music from Africa to Brazil and all points in between. The latest casualty appears to be the music of India.

In recent years, second generation immigrants from India to places like England and Canada have been experimenting with elements of Western pop music and incorporating them into traditional music from their homelands. Out of this amalgamation has emerged some pretty amazing music. Groups like Asian Dub Foundation have created a brand of Indian House music that combines all the best elements of Dub and the rhythms of traditional ragas.

Of course, there has been a long sporadic relationship with Indian music and the west dating back to the sixties when people like George Harrison began incorporating sitars into their songs on occasion. But it had never really caught the general public's imagination until recent years when Indian performers began the incorporation in reverse.

When I heard about the album Bombay Dub Orchestra I must admit that the word Dub led me to have preconceived notions of what I was going to hear when I put the disc in my player. My first indication that this was not going to be what I expected was upon hearing swirling synthesisers in the opening bars of the first track.

Bombay Dub Orchestra is the project of two composers and writers, Gary Hughes and Andrew T. Mackay. Recording in both London and Mumbai, they had access to some of the finest Indian musicians around, from sitar and tabla players to vocalists.

It is divided into two discs; original compositions on disc one, and then "Dub" versions on disc two. On opening the package I remember feeling quite excited by the photos of the array of musicians, it made me hopeful as to the content.

Unfortunately, I was to be sorely let down by the results. After listening to the first piece, I thought that perhaps they had developed a composition similar to orchestral music where themes are developed in an overture and then explored in subsequent movements. That would explain why the sounds of the sitar and tabla are buried under the wash of keyboards.

But that was not the case. The further I went into the disc the more obvious it became that this was the pattern followed by all the tracks. The elements of Indian music that were being incorporated into the songs were continually buried underneath washes of synthesiser, depriving the music of almost any legitimate claim to the inclusion of Bombay in the collection's title.

Yes, they've used Indian musicians and recorded elements of the discs in the city formally called Bombay, but aside from that, there is little reason to think of this as an example of the meeting of two cultures to form something new. Rather, it sounds like two separate pieces of music pasted one on top of the other, with one, the Indian, being subservient to the other, the electronic music.

The Dub versions of the songs really don't make any difference to the compositions, and only serve to point out how dissimilar it is to the genuine article as produced by groups like the Asian Dub Foundation. Adding some vocal tracks by Jamaican singers do not make a Dub song. There has to be an inherent rhythm to a song that predominates for Dub to work, and when the predominant sound is that of keyboards, there is nothing really to build from.

Bombay Dub Orchestra is an example of the trend towards homogenising a music and a culture to make it fit into a market niche. With its swirling keyboards and swirling strings, I expect it to become the latest "inspirational" hit among the new age crowd. But if you want to hear some Indian House or Dub music, pick up some Asian Dub Foundation and you'll see what's it like to dance in two worlds at once.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 05:03 PM | Permalink

So, two thirds of the American public approve of you, Mr. Bush giving yourself the authority to order wiretaps of anyone you feel like for national security reasons. What does that say about America today that they would trust someone whose administration has repeatedly lied to them about motivations for their most recent incursion in empire building?

That they are gullible idiots, blind fools, or brainwashed? During Hitler's reign in Nazi Germany I'm sure you would have found wide spread support for his programs of expansion and invasion, and loss of personal liberty in the name of the state security too. Did that make what he did right?

(Hey, what's that, did he just compare the United States; its people, its leader, and its government to Nazi Germany's? I don't know did I? I'll leave that for you to decide yourself)

Mr. Bush you have programmed your people to believe they are under constant threat of attack. How many attacks have taken place in the main land United States since Sept 11th 2001? What proof do is there except the words of your government spokespeople that there have even been any attempts? Periodically you issue announcements saying you are currently under code yellow alert.

Do you ever say why after the fact, Mr. Bush? Well no, of course not, it's all a matter of National Security so you can't tell us anything, except to take you at face value. Would you lie to your people?

Actually, come to think of it, yes you would. To start there were the non-existent weapons of mass destruction as an excuse to invade Iraq, and it's been down hill from there. Saddam Hussein was a horrible excuse for a human being, there's no doubt about that, but couldn't you have just said that right from the beginning and enlisted the aid of the rest of the world to depose him, instead of making up some bullshit story about terrorists and weaponry?

Why did you have to lie about stuff? Why were you in such a damned hurry to invade Iraq anyway? Did you need those oil fields that badly? Look at the mess you've created by invading so quickly and not having any plan for infrastructure after the fact. More of your soldiers have died trying to occupy that country then did in the initial invasion.

Every time you or one of your sycophants say that things have turned a corner for the better, the situation deteriorates. The elections in Iraq were a coup for you, no doubt about that Mr. Bush, they went off wonderfully, and the people of Iraq were excited. I admit I felt a twinge of hope that in spite of everything, maybe it would turn out all right for those poor people.

But you didn't plan for the divisions in that society being so deep. The country is steps away from a civil war that will make Lebanon seem like a walk in the park. Your armed forces are stuck in a situation where they are screwed no matter what. They are not trained as peacekeepers, and neither side trusts them anymore. One side sees you as the oppressor; the other side sees you as the incompetents who can't offer them any protection.

Mr. Bush, you've just asked Congress to approve a budget in the trillions of dollar range, with most of it being eaten up by your Homeland Security and your non-war in Iraq. It's not a war anymore because you said the war is over, so what you'd call it now I don't know. An occupation, a police action, I've heard those words before even if you don't remember them being spoken.

While you were drinking with your National Guard buddies during Viet Nam that's what they were calling America's last military defeat. Of course, this won't be a military defeat because you won the war, but oh Mr. Bush, you're losing the peace over there badly.

Why have you made the U.N. the enemy? You've convinced half the people in your country that the U.N. is against America because they wouldn't support your unilateral plan to invade Iraq. Why didn't they support your plan? Because they were afraid of what would happen if proper preparations weren’t taken. They didn't want the horror that's happening now to occur.

What force in the post World War Two period has had the most experience in actually sending people into situations and keeping peace? Well since they're the only ones who even try it, the U.N. They've won two Nobel Peace prizes for their efforts. The first being back during the very first implementation of peacekeepers, the Suez crises back in the fifties.

In the eighties, the peacekeeping forces started to come under fire for their ineffectualness. Since most of this was being directed at them by the Regan administration, which seriously undermined the U.N.'s effectiveness by defaulting on their dues and demanding that the U.N. support American action unquestioningly, it shouldn't have been taken seriously.

But that was the first administration that had learned the real lesson of Viet Nam and Watergate, how to manipulate the glamour of the office to influence the press and the public. Speak in simple, emotionally charged sound bites, which the press dutifully report verbatim, and it leaves no room for debate.

Rebuttals to the president never make the same splash as the original comment, and can't compete with lines like: " The Sandanistas could drive up the road into Texas tomorrow and invade our country" The fact that that argument was used to justify funding and arming the "contras" terrorists without being questioned by a majority of the American public says something right there about the power of the Oval Office as a propaganda tool.

It has always surprised me Mr. Bush, how a country that claims to be the birthplace of Free Speech and individuality can be so easily seduced by the power of a title. The reverence that your office is treated with rivals that of the divine right of Kings, which stated that they ruled through the will of God. Perhaps that's what you and your adherents believe about you and your office. I don't know.

For no other reason than you are the president Mr. Bush, if tomorrow you got up and said, black is white and white is black, your word would be taken as gospel by the majority of your country. No matter how many times it has been proven that you've lied in the past, or even just been wrong, it doesn't seem to matter.

Mr. Bush, you, and by extension your constituents, seem to take it as a personal affront whenever anyone seems to think that just because it's in America's best interests, doesn't mean it's in the best interests of the rest of the world. You refuse to participate in anything that might end up ruling against you, like the world court; by claiming it's controlled by anti-American sympathisers.

You've convinced the people of your country that everyone is out to get them. They really can't trust anyone except themselves to do the right thing for America, and what's right for America is the only thing that matters. Don't you understand how much that frightens and angers people in other parts of the world?

Mr. Bush, by saying things like that, and acting from that position, you make it come true. Why do you want that sort of world to exist? Why have you geared your whole propaganda machine to convincing your people that they are under continual attack by forces they can't see, and that only you can protect them from?

Please don't take this the wrong way Mr. Bush; I don't hate America or its people. Your country represents some of the finest ideals that have ever resonated through out human history. The only problem is that none of them seem to be on display anymore. In the name of freedom, democracy, and human rights, you have gradually eroded those very principles in the guise of protection.

Mr. Bush you have cynically used and abused your fellow Americans love of country to isolate them from the rest of the world. Anyone who is different, or has a different way of looking at things than you do, is suspect and dangerous. You have thrown up walls around your people and blinded them to the beauty of diversity all in the name of expediting your agenda.

What confuses me the most is what exactly your agenda is Mr. Bush. Was it to make the United States the most powerful nation in the world so it could make everybody do what it wanted? Was it to completely isolate your country from the rest of the world so you and yours could have the freedom to do what you wanted with it?

I can't see what it is you've been trying to do, what vision you have to carry what used to be the beacon that could illuminate the rest of the world with its values into the 21st century and beyond? Your country is probably the most polarized it has been since the civil war in terms of moral and philosophical divisions. Is that leadership? It makes me feel very sad to see what has happened to the promise and vitality that existed, be corrupted to such an extent that Americans are distrusted by so much of the world's populace. Doesn't that give you some indication that something, somewhere is not right in paradise?

There's the old story of the mother watching her son in the marching band commenting on how the whole band is out of step, but her son is keeping perfect time. Do you think it's at all possible, Mr. Bush that this story could be applied to your America? Give it some thought and get back to me if you have the time.

Yours truly,

gypsyman.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 03:33 PM | Permalink

In this world of ours where it's so easy to forget things when they are no longer front-page news, it's useful to be able to stumble across pictures or other memory stimulants that remind us of events that have been ongoing for years. Everyday the headlines scream out news about events in Iraq, but before Iraq was Afghanistan, and it too is still the scene of ongoing attacks and death.

I know this is an exaggeration, but at times, it feels like Afghanistan has been forgotten about. You very rarely hear or see about it on the news; press conferences are dominated by information sessions about Iraq; and all people care about is when do the troops come home from the Middle East, perhaps forgetting how many thousands of troops, including American and Canadian, are still stationed in Afghanistan.

Perhaps we in Canada are more sensitive to that situation because we have troops there, and our role is increasing in responsibility. On Tuesday, a Canadian, Brigadier-General David Fraser took command of the International force in Southern Afghanistan that is replacing an American security force that had been patrolling the area.

During the acrimony over Canada's refusal to participate in the Iraq coalition it was conveniently forgotten by many critics, that Canada had been one of the first to agree to participate in Afghanistan. Canada does not have a standing army of any real size, so at the time of the Iraq invasion, we couldn't have contributed in any significant manner anyway, without having to drastically reduce our commitments in other arenas.

Although recent polls are showing that more Canadians are against our involvement than in favour, there was initial support for our involvement. As Americans can understand, as casualties have mounted more people have started to question why we are still there.

The answer to that is unfortunately painfully obvious. Afghanistan is no more stable now than it was four years ago when the invasion took place. Unfortunately, the Taliban and their allies are highly experienced guerrilla fighters and know how to use the mountainous terrain of their homeland to full advantage.

They were never defeated, as far as they were concerned, the war has just moved into a phase that is familiar to them from when they fought the Russians back in the 1980's. Like the Viet Cong in the Viet Nam, they just fade back into the villages and towns of the hill countries when they are not fighting and are next to impossible to monitor.

Even after the liberation of Kabul, the capital city, the fighting has never really stopped. There have been lulls in the conflict, where attempts at rebuilding and solidifying the government are made, but this a country that has very little history of central governance.

Power has always rested in the hands of local warlords and tribal groups. Foreign powers from the British Empire, to the Soviet Union, and, now, the current international force, have found it to be a task of immense proportions to attempt the implementation of any long-term central authority.

Unlike Iraq where there are the oil fields that fuel an economy, Afghanistan is still primarily an agrarian society once one leaves the cities. Conditions have always been difficult for people who try and survive through farming in the formidable terrain of the countries rural districts and outlying provinces.

Since the Soviet invasion of 1979, Afghanistan has known little peace. Far too many times the press will use the expression war torn, and it's meaning has become diluted. But if there were a country that qualifies for that assessment, it would be this one. Everything from families to the means to eke out an existence has been torn apart.

People's lives have been destroyed beyond repair, their futures shattered and their hope destroyed. The human spirit may be hard to destroy, but it certainly can be damaged almost beyond repair.

The picture on the left above has to be one of the most famous to come out of the Afghan War. Steve McCurry took this photo of Sharbat Gula in 1985 for National Geographic Magazine when she was perhaps twelve, or thirteen. Seventeen years later, he was able to find her again to take the picture on the right.

For so many of us her picture in 1985 became a symbol representing all the misplaced children in the world. Hauntingly beautiful, her wide eyes stare at us in a silent challenge that we can't ignore. Looking at her we ask ourselves how can we let this have happened.

It wasn't until Steve tracked Sharbut down seventeen years latter that he learned her story, of how she ended up in that refugee camp in Pakistan. In 2002, when he met up with her again, she might have been thirty. She's not sure because both of her parents were killed in a bombing raid when she was around six during the Soviet invasion and the knowledge of her birth date died with them.

The child on the left has grown into the woman on the right. The face has changed, but the eyes are still haunting and tell us all we need to know about life in Afghanistan for the people who have been caught up in the wars that have been continuous for the past twenty-one years.

I'd like to think that the Canadian army is in Afghanistan so that her children will be able to get the education Sharbat dreams of them getting. In the nineties, she was able to return to her home village where she was married at age sixteen. (The only day in her life she can recall being happy was her wedding day) They have no running water, no school, roads, or medical clinics. They grow basic crops on some terraced fields and there is a stream that runs down the mountainside for fresh water.

The debt that is owed the people of her generation cannot be repaid except by providing a future for her children and ensuring that at least she can stay in her village for the rest of her life. This is the task that faces General Fraser and the troops under his command.

If there is a reason for our armies to be in Afghanistan, don't let it be for something as nebulous as the war on terror, or making the world safe for democracy. Let it be to give that face something to smile about again. Than, I think, they will have truly accomplished something magnificent.

Posted by Richard Marcus at 04:30 AM | Permalink