A Weekend Day, Downtown, Last Day of Summer

I travelled by bus, alongside all the zombie-like passengers looking out at the downpour on a Saturday (that morning the weatherwoman proclaimed gleefully that we were in for a grand day). After having phoned ahead and speaking to the proprietor and making a verbal deal I got skunked anyway at the store on Main by 14th for $10.
On the way out nature called and as soon as I went into a Starbucks to relieve myself my bus had come and gone. A fellow rushed from behind me and managed to catch the bus while I was running after him and missed it. I walked toward Kingsway to give myself the option of more busses at that stop and just before I got to the junction there, the Kingsway bus passed and I was getting soaked while starting to fume. I was tempted to walk the rest of way in the rain but my nice suit jacket was becoming a bit weepy.

The bus finally came and I trudged on and joined the melancholy lot. I got off at Chinatown and wound my way through the milling crowd of Asians oblivious to my presence, so I had to duck and dodge their pointy umbrellas.

When I got to Cordova I observed a blind woman I had seen before walking alone and looking quite disoriented. She finally cried: "Can anyone help me?" I felt compelled to assist her and we walked and chatted three blocks out of my way through crowds of addicts and idiots who made the going rough; worse than Chinatown. But Brenda was a delight. I escorted her to the Carnegie Library where she wanted me to lead her to an outside post where I suppose she was going to meet someone. I felt for her situation. She was in the thick of the downtown eastside with desperate crackheads swarming about and entirely vulnerable. I left her there.

As I crossed Hastings Street I recognized my young friend Sean whose countenance betrayed being crestfallen about something. He informed me that he discovered his half brother yesterday hanging. Sean called the coroner and the police. He was then apprehended by the police and insensitively interrogated for three hours. He said he was all cried out. I gave him a small hug and told him to call me later.

My dearest and most troubled friend called when I got home and I said I could see him in three hours. He showed up an hour later at the door downstairs and while he's not allowed in the building and I could get evicted if I let him in, in his intoxicated state he couldn't give a rat's ass as he was quite insistent about coming up. I resisted him and just left him standing there by the door and I walked away alone. I was getting rather despondent and just walked it off in Gastown where all the moronic tourists gather around that silly steam clock and each snap their little cameras when the thing blows off a teensy puff of vapour. To me this fascination is plainly infantile.

Eventually I returned home and received three calls from my troubled friend who sounded delusional and again insistent about sneaking in. I just turned off the intercom for a while and when I clicked it back on Sean buzzed and I shared dinner with him.

In retrospect, the most pleasant aspect of that Saturday was the stroll through the hordes of maniacs with the brave and delightful Brenda. God keep her safe and may Sean's step-brother rest now in peace.

Almost forgot: I got a rare visit from a neighbour in this building who wanted to pick up a splitter for his TV. He was unusually talkative and he shared his background: from Winnipeg, raised as a polite, well mannered child; was born from an alcoholic so suffered attention deficit; abused at home by a relative; and after arriving in Vancouver as an adult became addicted to heroin which he now declares as his means of getting anything accomplished. Occasionally he spray-paints arenas for employment. With his straggly blonde hair and jerky manner he reminds me of the scarecrow from Oz. This two-time manslaughterer was pleased to inform me that to this day he stands for the elders on busses relinquishing his seat and opens doors for women. Gotcha.

President Hockey Mom?

The first decision of the next Captain of the World...

"Duh?"

Hey Vlad, you ready for her?

Clinton Supporters Going To McCain
What happened to those Hilary Clinton supporters' Democratic Party principles? Their bloody sour grapes can cost the whole globe's welfare. Crippling Obama's election campaign will only deliver another four years of Bush-style creepiness. What cretins.

China Gushing

The Globe and Mail,
The Vancouver Sun

Dear Editors,

All this gushing in the general media about how niftily the powers-that-be in China handled the Olympics and the assorted sentimental ceremonies serves to eliminate or diminish the memory of their brutal management of the students at Tiananmen Square.

How about some real investigative reporting and find out what happened to the lone rebel student who faced down the line of tanks that day (like yesterday) on June 5th, 1989.

His name remains obscured and his fate unknown.

Why not let us all see what became of him and then give the Chinese government their due?

The Rational Act?

Some time more than 10 years ago, I asked in the original editorial of The Nelson Village Voice after fulminating somewhat, "Is suicide a rational act..?" in this day, era. And then after, within this context we describe as time, a friend committed suicide. He was to others a healer. A homeopath. With a Phd in biochemistry.

He left behind a wife and son. Somewhere in that mix was his problem I suspect. He used a gun. And he left a few people bewildered and shaken.

He was my intellectual partner for decades and the man whom I modelled the character of Eric Summerman after in my book. The depth of his anguish is beyond me and I'm sure his son too. But all our prayers now will help him escape the misty grey zone (which he visited while human) and his sense, every wave, of being so lost.

Rest in peace, brother. Your laughter and joyous moments will be remembered and will continue to increase the body of God.

The (unwitnessed) Magnificence of Man

For the first few years after I returned to Vancouver from the Kootenays, I walked and shopped alone. Having been on my own since I was 16 arriving from Toronto at English Bay in 1968 to join the sand mites, I was accustomed to my aloneness and park benches. What I didn’t expect this time in this new millenium was the indifference of everyone I encountered. Perfected indifference. Zip for progress in the spiritual zone.

From my perspective as I strolled by these people who thought they were tuned in, they were just i-puddled, completely under the human climate, almost subterranean in their awareness of their fellow human beings. And they think that’s cool. To me it’s cold. Very. The only time I heard a human voice aside from someone taking my money at a counter was when I heard, “Sawhee,” or something similarly spoken by another disinterested neighbourhood shopper who manages to bump into me with their human lights turned off.

And the house I’ve lived in for years is populated by isolated individuals whose show of politeness borders on seething contempt. And they’re all depressed from what I can gather. So I’m escaping. The property janitor acts like a Lord while he mumbles about the property unintelligibly and the security guards who live here spy at my quiet-as-doormouse visitors imagining that we’re all cooking up crack every night. And they report this slander to the arrogant bully of a property manager who took over control of the house from an 82 year old female owner who sells her long-dead husband's clothes on the sidewalk and keeps the lights indoors turned off to save ten cents. Sometimes, the tenants here have gone without shower services for three days because of this unabashed greed and fear of paying plumbers. Yawn.

It's all in keeping with this 'new age' of unadulterated greed and self-indulgence. People in this mass media age are throwing off words like the sensationalist newscasters they listen to every day. Meaningless, and resulting word by word in the unravelling of any sense of civilization.

Sneermeisters in their super-cars pumping and braking at every little light in the west end (raging?) and urban pet owners with their stretcho-leashes pompously hogging the sidewalks are all wasting their humanity as they overlook that vastness of the individual who walks by, head up, and looks them in the eye, to absolutely no avail. The doggie-freaks preoccupied with being bent over as they are scooping the excrement of their little precious.

In the case of that individual where his charitableness is automatic, he is the one of true wealth, who upon each encounter with another human being will detect beauty, the depth of God’s love and mercy and the magnificence of man. Upon every encounter joy and the full wind of freedom will reach him.

And who would know if the one passing you by was the Righteous Teacher? What do we do? We sweep past them grandly gazing at the sidewalk, pondering, ever pondering. How would you know? Keep staring at the sidewalk listening to your bizarre, self-chilling tunes. Another animated corpse, "...less than a scratch on the surface of the earth."

Considered Master

I ask you not to speak of our father's will. While I continually falter in my own will to serve the deserved, I aspire and believe without doubt even in this wicked, chaotic world honour will be served true. Considered master, your emanicpation merits service... even here in the long, radiant shadow of that unspeakably sublime will.
-Stephen (the swimmer)

Duck Ponds and Dog Days of Summer

Ducks, little to my foreknowledge, quite enjoy sticking their asses up for a special tan and while paddling their orange tootsies, manage to feed themselves unabashedly. All quite hilarious as Stephen and I watched nature in all her bounty at the edge of Lost Lagoon. We can sit for hours.

We have found special benches where we can sit again in quietness and enjoy peace while observing the loveliness of Stanley Park from what seems like unlimited perspectives. Once, when we found what we thought was an unpopular trail, one man came struggling through the underbrush furtively and managed to examine us without a word; and then another from the other direction and then I realized we were in a gay zone of anonymous sex fiends. Oh well. They were surely not predisposed to conversation… panting and exhibiting animal propensities. Perhaps they succeeded in finding each other but they didn’t succeed in communicating the vastness of their humanity. Stephen and I were equally repulsed.

But for some comic relief we always watch the urban dog-owners with their stretcho- leashes which command the sidewalks until they have to bend over and heel as they 'scoop' their dog's remainings. Ah, and who's the master.


I am gratified that Stephen can make tuna salad sandwiches and his sense of generosity is so plain he reminds me of the hospitable maritimers I am so thankful to have as my ancestors. He continues every day to come to life, swimming sometimes as though baptised again and it is a mercy to witness. Hope.

Colours in the Sky

When the hordes of people were flowing towards English Bay for the first night of the fireworks, Stephen and I were going in the opposite direction. We were strolling (or loping as Steve does in his rather mystical way) towards Lost Lagoon and hoping to find some quiet spot away from the mob where we might catch some of the celestial display.

On a path before the Lost Lagoon area, we found a spot, hesitated there and watched when the boomings of the fireworks began and looked up and discovered that we had actually found a perfect little place right on that path which afforded us the best possible and private view of the spectacular fireworks. Tucked in between the canopy of the trees. Every colourful explosion in the sky we could see. And somehow we knew it was for our private pleasure. A tremendous gift from the personality of the infinite and it went on for long enough for Stephen and I to know we were being given something.

Thus Man

The divine breath is an explosion. It takes form, gives rise to voice and then to words. And words, their insistent meanings compel the existence of other souls. All by perfect necessity.

The voice sets the original harmony which establishes the form for all pleasantness of hearing. The severe words enjoin curiosity with adventure and creativity. This song is daring the void, impelling a response.

Thus creation. Thus continuity.

Thus Man.

The Elders

(the unedited version of letter published today in Globe and Mail)

Dear Editor:

Re: the Elders

Your article was particularly fascinating to me. Ten years ago I hustled Pierre Trudeau in Nelson, B.C. for an interview. He declined at first but then he read my letter and back issues of The Nelson Village Voice which I was publishing at the time. He wanted to respond to the third and last question in my letter: Is there a necessity to put in place (in writing) a moral imperative as in a global creed by which all countries, corporations and religious fiefdoms must abide?

He replied that indeed, “Yes. A Charter of Obligations. We have a Charter of Rights. We need a Charter of Obligations.”

He informed me as I escorted him around town that he had indeed been working with former heads of state (including Jimmy Carter) known as the Interaction Council on a document entitled The Universal Declaration of Human Responsibilities.

After subsequent correspondence with Mr Trudeau, he graciously permitted me to become its publisher (even before its “ratification” by the Council). Unfortunately, this important document, though on the internet and published by me, received little acclaim. That edition which featured it was even trashed by the Nelson librarian for “lack of space.”

It is most gratifying now, however, to see a similar moral creed being advanced today by such luminaries. Mr Trudeau would be thrilled to see these saints marching in.

Friends and Sprites

The day before yesterday I was sitting out front with my dear friend, Stephen, and while we were enjoying each other's company - quietly as he is disposed to be rather untalkative - we saw what appeared like a little sprite dancing about the lawn right in front of us. It seemed like its personality was playful and mischievous. I was quite excited having seen my first faerie, the whole while Stephen seemed to be taking it all in his usual stride, which is a kind of lope and sweep. Finally, my upstairs neighbour, Jim arrived and saw the origin of this little light emanation - it was a reflection from his upstairs neighbour, John's yellowish, glittering fabric studded with rhinestones all being windblown.

Oh well. Maybe I'll find a leprachaun sometime before I expire and tell you all about it.

Meanwhile, I have been hosting guys living 'rough' and one at a time they sleep on my floor, snoring in peace at last and help themselves rather aggressively to the fridge. I think they eat out of fear of starvation. But they are each great company for a man like me. They're adventurers and just need some TLC. And a bigger fridge.

B.C. Surplus?

Dear Globe and Mail Editor,

So Carole Taylor and her criminal partner, Premier something Campbell (see Hawaii driving record and his hesitation to admit to his identity at the cop-shop) are now boasting about a $4.1 billion provincial "surplus."

Ask anybody who considers themselves a Vancouverite and then tourists: Why is this city suffering such growing numbers of helplessly depressed and then deliberately addicted numbers of young and old alike? These sons and daughters and otherwise (when not desperate) decent human beings have been tossed off welfare (that extremely inadequate monthly pittance) so this creepy government and lovely Carole and her 'budget' shoes can brag and dance about reducing the bean-count of welfare recipients.

Would somebody please rescue this province from this ethical evacuation we call leadership here? Corky (former NDP leadership candidate): Are you out there? Mr Evans, please?

Published, July 9, Vancouver Sun

Dear Editor,

Re Disabled Veterans

Despite the Ontario Appeal Court's technical ruling against the disabled veterans and their families which supports the vile act of the Brian Mulroney parliament to disown veterans and their families of their estates, the moral outrage is alive and visceral.

(My own father was a war hero who was wounded at Rimini, Italy.)

Even the judges in the original case made it plain they were holding their noses in favour of the technical right of parliament to block interest on veterans' pensions before 1990. Throughout this ugly process over the years, judges have characterized that parliamentary move as outright theft. Ottawa has always admitted mismanaging the veterans’ funds as far back as the First World War, by failing to invest the money or to credit them with any interest.

Only Prime Minister Stephen Harper can set this moral compass right. That sole responsibility during these trying times among our soldiers and their families belongs now to him alone. Now that all the fed lawyers have been paid (at enormous taxpayers' expense), make a decent offer, Mr Prime Minister.

Visages of the Slaughtered

THE POLITICS OF COURAGE

Pale and distressed, the man had the look of a poet or doctor. He might have been 32. His face was sensitive, intelligent. From the black and white video it seemed clear that his hands must have been tied behind his back. The source of his distress was clear; his head was under a boot and a heavy knife was being drawn against his neck, like a violin. A thin line of blood and an inarticulate utterance followed it. The excellence of the audio became all too clear when the knife was re-applied with cutting force, and the head wiggled strangely and screamed. The Nova Scotia professor in our group was unable to sleep for two nights.

We had gathered in the bar of the Caviar Hotel in Bogota, Colombia, to hear a presentation by Jose Fernando Ramirez. He is an executive committee member of USO, Colombia’s national oil union. His bodyguards could be seen waiting outside in the sunlight. Jose had survived seven assassination attempts, the last one the previous Tuesday. The dark-tinted SUV we all crammed in to go to supper, like the bodyguards, was provided by the government, except the official “risk assessment” for Jose did not qualify the vehicle for bullet proof windows. I thought about that as I sat in Jose’s seat speeding through the city. I kept an eye out for high cylinder motorbikes.

The snuff film was a Chechnyan import. It was used by Jose’s employer at the refinery to send a message to the union. Also on the laptop we saw “mug shots” of the union leaders. The employer posted these to the paramilitaries, complete with full names, addresses; telephone, social insurance, and employee numbers; alleged links to the insurgents; and even colourful nicknames like Pinky, The Boss, and so on.

I was in Colombia to help the Federation of Agricultural Workers’ Unions, FENSUAGRO, celebrate 30 years of survival. OSSTF was an ally. With me from Canada, the U.K., Australia, Spain, and Ecuador were other unionists, organic farmers, academics, and “international accompanists” like the Christian Brigade. At lunch by the hotel pool, we were watched by soldiers with machine guns. Jose observed that the presence of internationals like us was an even stronger protection than bodyguards.

The previous month in November, the International Trade Union Confederation, based in Geneva, had released its Report for the WTO General Council Review of the Trade Policies of Colombia. It wasn’t pretty. Colombia remains the undisputed king of anti-unionism, accounting for nine out of every ten trade unionists killed globally. “In 2005,” the ITUC adds, “44 of the 70 trade unionists killed were working in the education sector.” The report stresses that the “involvement of state authorities needs to be underlined.”

Of particular concern for Canadians is the alleged involvement of CIDA and Canadian corporations in the repression of Colombian unions. According to the NGO, Mining Watch, CIDA has had a hand in re-writing Colombian mining law to allow for the diminishment of energy sector unions and the setting of fabulous royalty rates for Canadian and other resource extraction multinationals. These companies, in turn, sign “corporate security contracts” with the Colombian army/paramilitaries, which then take video, helicopter, and chainsaws out to measure community and union dissent.

As we pulled up to Jose Fernando’s home, we were met by yet another bodyguard, the last chill in our evening. Inside everything was warm. There were books, art on the wall, food and drink. The hospitality made us jovial. We played a game. The prize was a book of poetry by Jose’s old friend, a metallurgical worker assassinated two years previously. The room swelled momentarily with feeling.

Although assassinations take place in the city, most of the carnage is rural. Over three million Colombian peasants have been forced off their land, making Colombia second only to the Sudan for numbers of internally displaced persons. Most are women and children. Many are Afro-Colombian or Indigenous. As we found out, a trip to the country takes you through mountain towns scrabbled over by soldiers. When the bus blew out the first of two tires along the way, police watched our driver put on the spare. We struck tourist poses.

At our eventual destination, FENSUAGRO’s experimental organic farm, La Esmeralda, a military helicopter flew overhead as we walked among the sugar cane and the coffee plants. Every member of FENSUAGRO’s executive is on the paramilitary list for execution. Not so long ago, two workers on the farm were butchered by the army, their heads placed in their stomachs. The farm was temporarily closed.

As we were about to leave, Liz, the solitary Australian in our group, finally made it. Jose had had to help her extend her stay, visiting a government office that morning. She had made the mistake of mentioning FENSUAGRO when she got off the plane and was immediately whisked away for interrogation. Jose did not risk the trip to La Esmeralda with her.

Jose is a handsome, cultured man, a lawyer. His wife and three daughters are beautiful; the eldest, a singer, was heading to university. I had taken photos. Their faces were intelligent and sensitive, also faintly distressed. Thinking of his employer’s rogues’ gallery of photos, I asked Jose what his union actually bargained for. He replied, “Our lives.”- Roger Langen