Electioneering
by Radiohead
I will stop
I will stop at nothing
Say the right things
When electioneering
I trust I can rely on your vote
When I go forwards you go backwards and somewhere we will meet
Riot shields
Voodoo economics
It's just business
Cattle prods and the IMF
I trust I can rely on your vote
When I go forwards you go backwards and somewhere we will meet
Hm. This is interesting. And so is this here. Interesting in that sickening sort of way--you know what I'm talking about. It's that same sort of horrific interest that passers-by have in car accidents. Well, this ain't no car accident. But it may be a train wreck...
And I don't think I'm alone in my thinking. So don't lie to me and tell me my fears are unfounded.
Lose the fucking spin-doctoring!
Monday, March 31, 2003
A letter to America
By MARGARET ATWOOD
Friday, March 28, 2003 - Page A17 [The Globe and Mail]
Dear America: This is a difficult letter to write, because I'm no longer sure who you are.
Some of you may be having the same trouble. I thought I knew you: We'd become well acquainted over the past 55 years. You were the Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck comic books I read in the late 1940s. You were the radio shows -- Jack Benny, Our Miss Brooks. You were the music I sang and danced to: the Andrews Sisters, Ella Fitzgerald, the Platters, Elvis. You were a ton of fun.
You wrote some of my favourite books. You created Huckleberry Finn, and Hawkeye, and Beth and Jo in Little Women, courageous in their different ways. Later, you were my beloved Thoreau, father of environmentalism, witness to individual conscience; and Walt Whitman, singer of the great Republic; and Emily Dickinson, keeper of the private soul. You were Hammett and Chandler, heroic walkers of mean streets; even later, you were the amazing trio, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Faulkner, who traced the dark labyrinths of your hidden heart. You were Sinclair Lewis and Arthur Miller, who, with their own American idealism, went after the sham in you, because they thought you could do better.
You were Marlon Brando in On The Waterfront, you were Humphrey Bogart in Key Largo, you were Lillian Gish in Night of the Hunter. You stood up for freedom, honesty and justice; you protected the innocent. I believed most of that. I think you did, too. It seemed true at the time.
You put God on the money, though, even then. You had a way of thinking that the things of Caesar were the same as the things of God: that gave you self-confidence. You have always wanted to be a city upon a hill, a light to all nations, and for a while you were. Give me your tired, your poor, you sang, and for a while you meant it.
We've always been close, you and us. History, that old entangler, has twisted us together since the early 17th century. Some of us used to be you; some of us want to be you; some of you used to be us. You are not only our neighbours: In many cases -- mine, for instance -- you are also our blood relations, our colleagues, and our personal friends. But although we've had a ringside seat, we've never understood you completely, up here north of the 49th parallel.
We're like Romanized Gauls -- look like Romans, dress like Romans, but aren't Romans -- peering over the wall at the real Romans. What are they doing? Why? What are they doing now? Why is the haruspex eyeballing the sheep's liver? Why is the soothsayer wholesaling the Bewares?
Perhaps that's been my difficulty in writing you this letter: I'm not sure I know what's really going on. Anyway, you have a huge posse of experienced entrail-sifters who do nothing but analyze your every vein and lobe. What can I tell you about yourself that you don't already know?
This might be the reason for my hesitation: embarrassment, brought on by a becoming modesty. But it is more likely to be embarrassment of another sort. When my grandmother -- from a New England background -- was confronted with an unsavoury topic, she would change the subject and gaze out the window. And that is my own inclination: Mind your own business.
But I'll take the plunge, because your business is no longer merely your business. To paraphrase Marley's Ghost, who figured it out too late, mankind is your business. And vice versa: When the Jolly Green Giant goes on the rampage, many lesser plants and animals get trampled underfoot. As for us, you're our biggest trading partner: We know perfectly well that if you go down the plug-hole, we're going with you. We have every reason to wish you well.
I won't go into the reasons why I think your recent Iraqi adventures have been -- taking the long view -- an ill-advised tactical error. By the time you read this, Baghdad may or may not look like the craters of the Moon, and many more sheep entrails will have been examined. Let's talk, then, not about what you're doing to other people, but about what you're doing to yourselves.
You're gutting the Constitution. Already your home can be entered without your knowledge or permission, you can be snatched away and incarcerated without cause, your mail can be spied on, your private records searched. Why isn't this a recipe for widespread business theft, political intimidation, and fraud? I know you've been told all this is for your own safety and protection, but think about it for a minute. Anyway, when did you get so scared? You didn't used to be easily frightened.
You're running up a record level of debt. Keep spending at this rate and pretty soon you won't be able to afford any big military adventures. Either that or you'll go the way of the USSR: lots of tanks, but no air conditioning. That will make folks very cross. They'll be even crosser when they can't take a shower because your short-sighted bulldozing of environmental protections has dirtied most of the water and dried up the rest. Then things will get hot and dirty indeed.
You're torching the American economy. How soon before the answer to that will be, not to produce anything yourselves, but to grab stuff other people produce, at gunboat-diplomacy prices? Is the world going to consist of a few megarich King Midases, with the rest being serfs, both inside and outside your country? Will the biggest business sector in the United States be the prison system? Let's hope not.
If you proceed much further down the slippery slope, people around the world will stop admiring the good things about you. They'll decide that your city upon the hill is a slum and your democracy is a sham, and therefore you have no business trying to impose your sullied vision on them. They'll think you've abandoned the rule of law. They'll think you've fouled your own nest.
The British used to have a myth about King Arthur. He wasn't dead, but sleeping in a cave, it was said; in the country's hour of greatest peril, he would return. You, too, have great spirits of the past you may call upon: men and women of courage, of conscience, of prescience. Summon them now, to stand with you, to inspire you, to defend the best in you. You need them.
Margaret Atwood studied American literature -- among other things -- at Radcliffe and Harvard in the 1960s. She is the author of 10 novels. Her 11th, Oryx and Crake, will be published in May. This essay also appears in The Nation.
By MARGARET ATWOOD
Friday, March 28, 2003 - Page A17 [The Globe and Mail]
Dear America: This is a difficult letter to write, because I'm no longer sure who you are.
Some of you may be having the same trouble. I thought I knew you: We'd become well acquainted over the past 55 years. You were the Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck comic books I read in the late 1940s. You were the radio shows -- Jack Benny, Our Miss Brooks. You were the music I sang and danced to: the Andrews Sisters, Ella Fitzgerald, the Platters, Elvis. You were a ton of fun.
You wrote some of my favourite books. You created Huckleberry Finn, and Hawkeye, and Beth and Jo in Little Women, courageous in their different ways. Later, you were my beloved Thoreau, father of environmentalism, witness to individual conscience; and Walt Whitman, singer of the great Republic; and Emily Dickinson, keeper of the private soul. You were Hammett and Chandler, heroic walkers of mean streets; even later, you were the amazing trio, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Faulkner, who traced the dark labyrinths of your hidden heart. You were Sinclair Lewis and Arthur Miller, who, with their own American idealism, went after the sham in you, because they thought you could do better.
You were Marlon Brando in On The Waterfront, you were Humphrey Bogart in Key Largo, you were Lillian Gish in Night of the Hunter. You stood up for freedom, honesty and justice; you protected the innocent. I believed most of that. I think you did, too. It seemed true at the time.
You put God on the money, though, even then. You had a way of thinking that the things of Caesar were the same as the things of God: that gave you self-confidence. You have always wanted to be a city upon a hill, a light to all nations, and for a while you were. Give me your tired, your poor, you sang, and for a while you meant it.
We've always been close, you and us. History, that old entangler, has twisted us together since the early 17th century. Some of us used to be you; some of us want to be you; some of you used to be us. You are not only our neighbours: In many cases -- mine, for instance -- you are also our blood relations, our colleagues, and our personal friends. But although we've had a ringside seat, we've never understood you completely, up here north of the 49th parallel.
We're like Romanized Gauls -- look like Romans, dress like Romans, but aren't Romans -- peering over the wall at the real Romans. What are they doing? Why? What are they doing now? Why is the haruspex eyeballing the sheep's liver? Why is the soothsayer wholesaling the Bewares?
Perhaps that's been my difficulty in writing you this letter: I'm not sure I know what's really going on. Anyway, you have a huge posse of experienced entrail-sifters who do nothing but analyze your every vein and lobe. What can I tell you about yourself that you don't already know?
This might be the reason for my hesitation: embarrassment, brought on by a becoming modesty. But it is more likely to be embarrassment of another sort. When my grandmother -- from a New England background -- was confronted with an unsavoury topic, she would change the subject and gaze out the window. And that is my own inclination: Mind your own business.
But I'll take the plunge, because your business is no longer merely your business. To paraphrase Marley's Ghost, who figured it out too late, mankind is your business. And vice versa: When the Jolly Green Giant goes on the rampage, many lesser plants and animals get trampled underfoot. As for us, you're our biggest trading partner: We know perfectly well that if you go down the plug-hole, we're going with you. We have every reason to wish you well.
I won't go into the reasons why I think your recent Iraqi adventures have been -- taking the long view -- an ill-advised tactical error. By the time you read this, Baghdad may or may not look like the craters of the Moon, and many more sheep entrails will have been examined. Let's talk, then, not about what you're doing to other people, but about what you're doing to yourselves.
You're gutting the Constitution. Already your home can be entered without your knowledge or permission, you can be snatched away and incarcerated without cause, your mail can be spied on, your private records searched. Why isn't this a recipe for widespread business theft, political intimidation, and fraud? I know you've been told all this is for your own safety and protection, but think about it for a minute. Anyway, when did you get so scared? You didn't used to be easily frightened.
You're running up a record level of debt. Keep spending at this rate and pretty soon you won't be able to afford any big military adventures. Either that or you'll go the way of the USSR: lots of tanks, but no air conditioning. That will make folks very cross. They'll be even crosser when they can't take a shower because your short-sighted bulldozing of environmental protections has dirtied most of the water and dried up the rest. Then things will get hot and dirty indeed.
You're torching the American economy. How soon before the answer to that will be, not to produce anything yourselves, but to grab stuff other people produce, at gunboat-diplomacy prices? Is the world going to consist of a few megarich King Midases, with the rest being serfs, both inside and outside your country? Will the biggest business sector in the United States be the prison system? Let's hope not.
If you proceed much further down the slippery slope, people around the world will stop admiring the good things about you. They'll decide that your city upon the hill is a slum and your democracy is a sham, and therefore you have no business trying to impose your sullied vision on them. They'll think you've abandoned the rule of law. They'll think you've fouled your own nest.
The British used to have a myth about King Arthur. He wasn't dead, but sleeping in a cave, it was said; in the country's hour of greatest peril, he would return. You, too, have great spirits of the past you may call upon: men and women of courage, of conscience, of prescience. Summon them now, to stand with you, to inspire you, to defend the best in you. You need them.
Margaret Atwood studied American literature -- among other things -- at Radcliffe and Harvard in the 1960s. She is the author of 10 novels. Her 11th, Oryx and Crake, will be published in May. This essay also appears in The Nation.
Suicide in the Trenches
by Siegfried Sassoon
I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.
In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.
You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.
by Siegfried Sassoon
I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.
In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.
You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.
Hm. That's interesting. I've heard a cat meowing outside several times tonight (and a couple other nights since the weather's become nicer and I've had my bedroom window open.) Why is this particularly intriguing? I'm ten floors up.
This is making me miss my own cat even more. With luck, though, in a few months I'll be able to have my cat here instead of at my parents' house, as I'm pretty sure the new roommate's not allergic.
Listening to "Everything in Its Right Place" by Radiohead (and, of course, a cat meowing.)
This is making me miss my own cat even more. With luck, though, in a few months I'll be able to have my cat here instead of at my parents' house, as I'm pretty sure the new roommate's not allergic.
Sunday, March 30, 2003
So I finally bought Radiohead's Kid A yesterday. OHMIGOODNESS! Love-love-LOVE that album! PURE genuis (and I didn't think I could love it more than The Bends!)
Why did I wait so long to buy it? Hm. I seem to remember my refusing to buy it because of a couple of really whiny interviews Thom Yorke gave. Yes, I am now feeling more than a little sheepish.
Anyway, I'm off to shower, go grocery shopping and work on my papers. Yes. In that order.
P.S. Is the ShoutOut count not working (ie. the number of ShoutOuts not showing up) when you view my page or is it just my computer?
Listening to "Idioteque" by Radiohead.
Why did I wait so long to buy it? Hm. I seem to remember my refusing to buy it because of a couple of really whiny interviews Thom Yorke gave. Yes, I am now feeling more than a little sheepish.
Anyway, I'm off to shower, go grocery shopping and work on my papers. Yes. In that order.
P.S. Is the ShoutOut count not working (ie. the number of ShoutOuts not showing up) when you view my page or is it just my computer?
Us and Them
(Roger Waters, Richard Wright)
Performed by Pink Floyd
Us, and them
And after all we're only ordinary men.
Me, and you.
God only knows it's not what we would choose to do.
Forward he cried from the rear
and the front rank died.
And the general sat and the lines on the map
moved from side to side.
Black and blue
And who knows which is which and who is who
Up and down
But in the end it's only round and round
Haven't you heard it's a battle of words
The poster bearer cried
Listen son, said the man with the gun
There's room for you inside
"I mean, they're not gunna kill ya, so if you give 'em a quick short,
sharp, shock, they won't do it again. Dig it?
I mean he get off lightly, 'cos I would've given him a
Thrashing - I only hit him once!
It was only a difference of opinion,
But really...I mean good manners
don't cost nothing do they, eh?"
Down and out
It can't be helped but there's a lot of it about
With, without
And who'll deny it's what the fighting's all about?
Out of the way, it's a busy day
I've got things on my mind
For the want of the price of tea and a slice
The old man died
So very swamped at the moment. I have one paper due at three p.m. on Monday and a second due at seven p.m. on Tuesday. Have I started writing them yet? Nope. And so I want be able to discuss Nelofer Pazira's Return to Kandahar until they're finished.
But check this out while you wait. It's just like a doctor's office here, now isn't it? Except I don't get paid enough.
(Roger Waters, Richard Wright)
Performed by Pink Floyd
Us, and them
And after all we're only ordinary men.
Me, and you.
God only knows it's not what we would choose to do.
Forward he cried from the rear
and the front rank died.
And the general sat and the lines on the map
moved from side to side.
Black and blue
And who knows which is which and who is who
Up and down
But in the end it's only round and round
Haven't you heard it's a battle of words
The poster bearer cried
Listen son, said the man with the gun
There's room for you inside
"I mean, they're not gunna kill ya, so if you give 'em a quick short,
sharp, shock, they won't do it again. Dig it?
I mean he get off lightly, 'cos I would've given him a
Thrashing - I only hit him once!
It was only a difference of opinion,
But really...I mean good manners
don't cost nothing do they, eh?"
Down and out
It can't be helped but there's a lot of it about
With, without
And who'll deny it's what the fighting's all about?
Out of the way, it's a busy day
I've got things on my mind
For the want of the price of tea and a slice
The old man died
So very swamped at the moment. I have one paper due at three p.m. on Monday and a second due at seven p.m. on Tuesday. Have I started writing them yet? Nope. And so I want be able to discuss Nelofer Pazira's Return to Kandahar until they're finished.
But check this out while you wait. It's just like a doctor's office here, now isn't it? Except I don't get paid enough.
Friday, March 28, 2003
Gone, Gone Again
by Edward Thomas
Gone, gone again,
May, June, July,
And August gone,
Again gone by,
Not memorable
Save that I saw them go,
As past the empty quays
The rivers flow.
And now again,
In the harvest rain,
The Blenheim oranges
Fall grubby from the trees
As when I was young
And when the lost one was here
And when the war began
To turn young men to dung.
Look at the old house,
Outmoded, dignified,
Dark and untenanted,
With grass growing instead
Of the footsteps of life,
The friendliness, the strife;
In its beds have lain
Youth. love, age, and pain:
I am something like that;
Only I am not dead,
Still breathing and interested
In the house that is not dark:--
I am something like that:
Not one pane to reflect the sun,
For the schoolboys to throw at--
They have broken every one.
And wasn't it once (or twice!) said, "They'll be home by Christmas"? Today, "weeks" move into "months." Lets hope/pray/whatever you do that, for all those involved, "months" don't move into "years."
An aside to interested parties: I've updated Thursday, March 27th's post.
Listening to "No Return" by The Dears.
by Edward Thomas
Gone, gone again,
May, June, July,
And August gone,
Again gone by,
Not memorable
Save that I saw them go,
As past the empty quays
The rivers flow.
And now again,
In the harvest rain,
The Blenheim oranges
Fall grubby from the trees
As when I was young
And when the lost one was here
And when the war began
To turn young men to dung.
Look at the old house,
Outmoded, dignified,
Dark and untenanted,
With grass growing instead
Of the footsteps of life,
The friendliness, the strife;
In its beds have lain
Youth. love, age, and pain:
I am something like that;
Only I am not dead,
Still breathing and interested
In the house that is not dark:--
I am something like that:
Not one pane to reflect the sun,
For the schoolboys to throw at--
They have broken every one.
And wasn't it once (or twice!) said, "They'll be home by Christmas"? Today, "weeks" move into "months." Lets hope/pray/whatever you do that, for all those involved, "months" don't move into "years."
An aside to interested parties: I've updated Thursday, March 27th's post.
Thursday, March 27, 2003
Insensibility
by Wilfred Owen
I
Happy are men who yet before they are killed
Can let their veins run cold.
Whom no compassion fleers
Or makes their feet
Sore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers.
The front line withers,
But they are troops who fade, not flowers
For poets’ tearful fooling:
Men, gaps for filling:
Losses, who might have fought
Longer; but no one bothers.
II
And some cease feeling
Even themselves or for themselves.
Dullness best solves
The tease and doubt of shelling,
And Chance’s strange arithmetic
Comes simpler than the reckoning of their shilling.
They keep no check on armies’ decimation.
III
Happy are these who lose imagination:
They have enough to carry with ammunition.
Their spirit drags no pack.
Their old wounds, save with cold, can not more ache.
Having seen all things red,
Their eyes are rid
Of the hurt of the colour of blood forever.
And terror’s first constriction over,
Their hearts remain small-drawn.
Their senses in some scorching cautery of battle
Now long since ironed,
Can laugh among the dying, unconcerned.
IV
Happy the soldier home, with not a notion
How somewhere, every dawn, some men attack,
And many sighs are drained.
Happy the lad whose mind was never trained:
His days are worth forgetting more than not.
He sings along the march
Which we march taciturn, because of dusk,
The long, forlorn, relentless trend
From larger day to huger night.
V
We wise, who with a thought besmirch
Blood over all our soul,
How should we see our task
But through his blunt and lashless eyes?
Alive, he is not vital overmuch;
Dying, not mortal overmuch;
Nor sad, nor proud,
Nor curious at all.
He cannot tell
Old men’s placidity from his.
VI
But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns,
That they should be as stones;
Wretched are they, and mean
With paucity that never was simplicity.
By choice they made themselves immune
To pity and whatever moans in man
Before the last sea and the hapless stars;
Whatever mourns when many leave these shores;
Whatever shares
The eternal reciprocity of tears.
I had a good day today. In times like these, though, it makes me feel guilty to be content with the way things are going in my immediate circle of existance. I think I shall indulge myself in a little joy tonight; I've earned it. Today, I bought a few copies of Grubstreet, the university student-run literary journal that published three of my poems. It felt so good to see my work in print (even if the stanza form of one of the poems was seriously screwed up. Sorry, Luke, but it was.)
And yesterday? I know I haven't mentioned this yet... I finally heard back from that other student journal. And they, too, published "Robbed"! That's they poem I posted here.
So, yeah. Needless to say I'm feeling pretty excited/proud at the moment. It's so nice to have that kind of validation that comes only from seeing your work in print!
I know. Just because a couple of my fellow students like my work doesn't mean I'm any good. But at least their opinions are something to bolter my confidence, intensify my drive. I feel that spark that burns within me whenever I write flaming all the more intensely tonight.
UPDATE: Tonight, I watched the Nelofar Pazira/Paul Jay documentary Return to Kandahar. Very powerful stuff. Full report tomorrow. I need to go to bed.
And I know that I recently promised to discuss this crap involving Paul Cellucci, but I don't have the energy anymore. I am tired of this shit. Cellucci was just as wrong in making his statements (or, I should say, the White House was just as wrong) as were Caroline Parrish and Natural Resources Minister Herb Dhaliwal. Not one of you is behaving like a diplomat. So shut up and cut the crap! Behaving like twelve year olds won't win the hearts or minds of any North American!
But before I wonder off into the darkness for the night, one final comment on this: Canada is a sovereign nation. We have the right to determine our own foreign policy, as does the United States. I'm sorry some Americans are disappointed about this fact, but there were many Canadians who were just as disappointed upon the United States' refusal to ratify the Kyoto Protocol (well, of course, I'm sure it was no skin off Ralph Klein's back!) and the International Criminal Court (don't get me started on that one!)
Anyway, I'm shutting up myself now before I make myself too agitated to sleep. In my absence, click right here and then right here for some links about the aforementioned diplomatic mess.
Listening to "Autotomy" by The Dears.
by Wilfred Owen
I
Happy are men who yet before they are killed
Can let their veins run cold.
Whom no compassion fleers
Or makes their feet
Sore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers.
The front line withers,
But they are troops who fade, not flowers
For poets’ tearful fooling:
Men, gaps for filling:
Losses, who might have fought
Longer; but no one bothers.
II
And some cease feeling
Even themselves or for themselves.
Dullness best solves
The tease and doubt of shelling,
And Chance’s strange arithmetic
Comes simpler than the reckoning of their shilling.
They keep no check on armies’ decimation.
III
Happy are these who lose imagination:
They have enough to carry with ammunition.
Their spirit drags no pack.
Their old wounds, save with cold, can not more ache.
Having seen all things red,
Their eyes are rid
Of the hurt of the colour of blood forever.
And terror’s first constriction over,
Their hearts remain small-drawn.
Their senses in some scorching cautery of battle
Now long since ironed,
Can laugh among the dying, unconcerned.
IV
Happy the soldier home, with not a notion
How somewhere, every dawn, some men attack,
And many sighs are drained.
Happy the lad whose mind was never trained:
His days are worth forgetting more than not.
He sings along the march
Which we march taciturn, because of dusk,
The long, forlorn, relentless trend
From larger day to huger night.
V
We wise, who with a thought besmirch
Blood over all our soul,
How should we see our task
But through his blunt and lashless eyes?
Alive, he is not vital overmuch;
Dying, not mortal overmuch;
Nor sad, nor proud,
Nor curious at all.
He cannot tell
Old men’s placidity from his.
VI
But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns,
That they should be as stones;
Wretched are they, and mean
With paucity that never was simplicity.
By choice they made themselves immune
To pity and whatever moans in man
Before the last sea and the hapless stars;
Whatever mourns when many leave these shores;
Whatever shares
The eternal reciprocity of tears.
I had a good day today. In times like these, though, it makes me feel guilty to be content with the way things are going in my immediate circle of existance. I think I shall indulge myself in a little joy tonight; I've earned it. Today, I bought a few copies of Grubstreet, the university student-run literary journal that published three of my poems. It felt so good to see my work in print (even if the stanza form of one of the poems was seriously screwed up. Sorry, Luke, but it was.)
And yesterday? I know I haven't mentioned this yet... I finally heard back from that other student journal. And they, too, published "Robbed"! That's they poem I posted here.
So, yeah. Needless to say I'm feeling pretty excited/proud at the moment. It's so nice to have that kind of validation that comes only from seeing your work in print!
I know. Just because a couple of my fellow students like my work doesn't mean I'm any good. But at least their opinions are something to bolter my confidence, intensify my drive. I feel that spark that burns within me whenever I write flaming all the more intensely tonight.
UPDATE: Tonight, I watched the Nelofar Pazira/Paul Jay documentary Return to Kandahar. Very powerful stuff. Full report tomorrow. I need to go to bed.
And I know that I recently promised to discuss this crap involving Paul Cellucci, but I don't have the energy anymore. I am tired of this shit. Cellucci was just as wrong in making his statements (or, I should say, the White House was just as wrong) as were Caroline Parrish and Natural Resources Minister Herb Dhaliwal. Not one of you is behaving like a diplomat. So shut up and cut the crap! Behaving like twelve year olds won't win the hearts or minds of any North American!
But before I wonder off into the darkness for the night, one final comment on this: Canada is a sovereign nation. We have the right to determine our own foreign policy, as does the United States. I'm sorry some Americans are disappointed about this fact, but there were many Canadians who were just as disappointed upon the United States' refusal to ratify the Kyoto Protocol (well, of course, I'm sure it was no skin off Ralph Klein's back!) and the International Criminal Court (don't get me started on that one!)
Anyway, I'm shutting up myself now before I make myself too agitated to sleep. In my absence, click right here and then right here for some links about the aforementioned diplomatic mess.
Wednesday, March 26, 2003
An aquaintance of mine sent me the following. I couldn't resist posting it here.
From a transcript found at this site.
All right, let me see if I understand the logic of this correctly. We are going to ignore the United Nations in order to make clear to Saddam Hussein that the United Nations cannot be ignored. We're going to wage war to preserve the UN's ability to avert war. The paramount principle is that the UN's word must be taken seriously, and if we have to subvert its word to guarantee that it is, then by gum, we will. Peace is too important not to take up arms to defend. Am I getting this right?
Further, if the only way to bring democracy to Iraq is to vitiate the democracy of the Security Council, then we are honor-bound to do that too, because democracy, as we define it, is too important to be stopped by a little thing like democracy as they define it.
Also, in dealing with a man who brooks no dissension at home, we cannot afford dissension among ourselves. We must speak with one voice against Saddam Hussein's failure to allow opposing voices to be heard. We are sending our gathered might to the Persian Gulf to make the point that might does not make right, as Saddam Hussein seems to think it does. And we are twisting the arms of the opposition until it agrees to let us oust a regime that twists the arms of the opposition. We cannot leave in power a dictator who ignores his own people. And if our people, and people elsewhere in the world, fail to understand that, then we have no choice but to ignore them.
- PETER FREUNDLICH
From a transcript found at this site.
All right, let me see if I understand the logic of this correctly. We are going to ignore the United Nations in order to make clear to Saddam Hussein that the United Nations cannot be ignored. We're going to wage war to preserve the UN's ability to avert war. The paramount principle is that the UN's word must be taken seriously, and if we have to subvert its word to guarantee that it is, then by gum, we will. Peace is too important not to take up arms to defend. Am I getting this right?
Further, if the only way to bring democracy to Iraq is to vitiate the democracy of the Security Council, then we are honor-bound to do that too, because democracy, as we define it, is too important to be stopped by a little thing like democracy as they define it.
Also, in dealing with a man who brooks no dissension at home, we cannot afford dissension among ourselves. We must speak with one voice against Saddam Hussein's failure to allow opposing voices to be heard. We are sending our gathered might to the Persian Gulf to make the point that might does not make right, as Saddam Hussein seems to think it does. And we are twisting the arms of the opposition until it agrees to let us oust a regime that twists the arms of the opposition. We cannot leave in power a dictator who ignores his own people. And if our people, and people elsewhere in the world, fail to understand that, then we have no choice but to ignore them.
Anthem for Doomed Youth
by Wilfred Owen
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,--
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
What's Going On
Written by Al Cleveland/Marvin Gaye/Renaldo Benson
Performed by Marvin Gaye
Mother, mother
There's too many of you crying
Brother, brother, brother
There's far too many of you dying
You know we've got to find a way
To bring some lovin' here today - Ya
Father, father
We don't need to escalate
You see, war is not the answer
For only love can conquer hate
You know we've got to find a way
To bring some lovin' here today
Picket lines and picket signs
Don't punish me with brutality
Talk to me, so you can see
Oh, what's going on
What's going on
Ya, what's going on
Ah, what's going on
In the mean time
Right on, baby
Right on
Right on
Father, father, everybody thinks we're wrong
Oh, but who are they to judge us
Simply because our hair is long
Oh, you know we've got to find a way
To bring some understanding here today
Oh
Picket lines and picket signs
Don't punish me with brutality
Talk to me
So you can see
What's going on
Ya, what's going on
Tell me what's going on
I'll tell you what's going on - Uh
Right on baby
Right on baby
I feel I needn't say anything more tonight. The geniuses that are Wilfred Owen and Marvin Gaye have said all I felt in my heart tonight.
My comments on Paul Cellucci later. At the moment, I'm not alert enough to present a focused argument.
by Wilfred Owen
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,--
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
What's Going On
Written by Al Cleveland/Marvin Gaye/Renaldo Benson
Performed by Marvin Gaye
Mother, mother
There's too many of you crying
Brother, brother, brother
There's far too many of you dying
You know we've got to find a way
To bring some lovin' here today - Ya
Father, father
We don't need to escalate
You see, war is not the answer
For only love can conquer hate
You know we've got to find a way
To bring some lovin' here today
Picket lines and picket signs
Don't punish me with brutality
Talk to me, so you can see
Oh, what's going on
What's going on
Ya, what's going on
Ah, what's going on
In the mean time
Right on, baby
Right on
Right on
Father, father, everybody thinks we're wrong
Oh, but who are they to judge us
Simply because our hair is long
Oh, you know we've got to find a way
To bring some understanding here today
Oh
Picket lines and picket signs
Don't punish me with brutality
Talk to me
So you can see
What's going on
Ya, what's going on
Tell me what's going on
I'll tell you what's going on - Uh
Right on baby
Right on baby
I feel I needn't say anything more tonight. The geniuses that are Wilfred Owen and Marvin Gaye have said all I felt in my heart tonight.
My comments on Paul Cellucci later. At the moment, I'm not alert enough to present a focused argument.
Tuesday, March 25, 2003
Aftermath
by Siegfried Sassoon
Have you forgotten yet?...
For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days,
Like traffic checked while at the crossing of city-ways:
And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow
Like clouds in the lit heaven of life; and you're a man reprieved to go,
Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.
But the past is just the same--and War's a bloody game...
Have you forgotten yet?...
Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget.
Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz--
The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets?
Do you remember the rats; and the stench
Of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench--
And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain?
Do you ever stop and ask, 'Is it all going to happen again?'
Do you remember that hour of din before the attack--
And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then
As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men?
Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back
With dying eyes and lolling heads--those ashen-grey
Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay?
Have you forgotten yet?...
Look up, and swear by the green of the spring that you'll never forget.
Listening to "Rifles" by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.
by Siegfried Sassoon
Have you forgotten yet?...
For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days,
Like traffic checked while at the crossing of city-ways:
And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow
Like clouds in the lit heaven of life; and you're a man reprieved to go,
Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.
But the past is just the same--and War's a bloody game...
Have you forgotten yet?...
Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget.
Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz--
The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets?
Do you remember the rats; and the stench
Of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench--
And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain?
Do you ever stop and ask, 'Is it all going to happen again?'
Do you remember that hour of din before the attack--
And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then
As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men?
Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back
With dying eyes and lolling heads--those ashen-grey
Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay?
Have you forgotten yet?...
Look up, and swear by the green of the spring that you'll never forget.
Monday, March 24, 2003
I'm so glad that it's raining at the moment. We're in need of a good rainfall. Or, at least, we are near my building. They're doing construction across the road; they're putting up another building, I think. The road is just a mess. They started last week when the snow was melting and the road became muddy over the course of the bulldozers' and dump trucks' comings and goings. Now that everything has dried up, you can't imagine the dust! It was a little on the windy side and vehicles seemed to make a point NOT to do the speed limit. Waiting for the bus was not a good time (and, to top it all off, it was late! Stupid LTC!)
The dust will do wonders for my sinuses. Allergy season is coming early. Look out fellow allergy sufferers--I'm already starting to suffer. And that sinusitis just cleared up! Oh, I know. Whine, whine, whine. But gimme a break. I'm so sick of feeling sick. When you have as many problems with your sinuses as I do, then you may criticize.
On the upside of things, the weather was so gorgeous today that I walked home from campus. Yup, I did. And it only took me about forty-five minutes. Not bad if I do say so myself!
What made today even better, though, is that I saw two friends I hadn't seen in a while. The first was my ex-roommate Melanie (she's not living with Paulina and I anymore because she decided she wanted to work as a don in residence.) I met up with her for an hour and proofread one of her papers. I generally enjoy editing people's papers (there was one of my frosh whose papers I couldn't stand editing, they were so bad! Really, the way this person wrote made me wonder how s/he got out of high school!) I really enjoy editing Mel's papers, though. They're always interesting and well-argued. It makes my job so much easier. I just correct a bit of grammar/punctuation here, an MLA citation there... It was so nice to see Mel. I'll be calling her shortly to plan another visit. This time, though, it'll be a real one; we'll have more time to catch up.
After my class, I bumped into Peter, an aquaintance. It was quite the coincidence, as I was just thinking about him the other day, wondering if he was still going to school here or if he had gone back home to the Sudan (until today, I hadn't seen him at all this year.) It was great to see him. He's such a sweetheart; he picked me up and gave me a big hug when he saw me. I asked where he had been hiding (it would be truly a feat for him to conceal himself--he's over seven feet tall!) He's just been really busy with his course load and his job. He's not sure where he'll be next year (he's trying to finish up his degree this semester), so we exchanged e-mails to keep in touch. And I plan on it. Peter's always such a ray of sunshine. Effervescent. Everyone one should kow someone like him.
Anyway, back to the grindstone (ie. Italian.) C'e vediamo.
Listening to "I Know It's Over" by The Smiths
The dust will do wonders for my sinuses. Allergy season is coming early. Look out fellow allergy sufferers--I'm already starting to suffer. And that sinusitis just cleared up! Oh, I know. Whine, whine, whine. But gimme a break. I'm so sick of feeling sick. When you have as many problems with your sinuses as I do, then you may criticize.
On the upside of things, the weather was so gorgeous today that I walked home from campus. Yup, I did. And it only took me about forty-five minutes. Not bad if I do say so myself!
What made today even better, though, is that I saw two friends I hadn't seen in a while. The first was my ex-roommate Melanie (she's not living with Paulina and I anymore because she decided she wanted to work as a don in residence.) I met up with her for an hour and proofread one of her papers. I generally enjoy editing people's papers (there was one of my frosh whose papers I couldn't stand editing, they were so bad! Really, the way this person wrote made me wonder how s/he got out of high school!) I really enjoy editing Mel's papers, though. They're always interesting and well-argued. It makes my job so much easier. I just correct a bit of grammar/punctuation here, an MLA citation there... It was so nice to see Mel. I'll be calling her shortly to plan another visit. This time, though, it'll be a real one; we'll have more time to catch up.
After my class, I bumped into Peter, an aquaintance. It was quite the coincidence, as I was just thinking about him the other day, wondering if he was still going to school here or if he had gone back home to the Sudan (until today, I hadn't seen him at all this year.) It was great to see him. He's such a sweetheart; he picked me up and gave me a big hug when he saw me. I asked where he had been hiding (it would be truly a feat for him to conceal himself--he's over seven feet tall!) He's just been really busy with his course load and his job. He's not sure where he'll be next year (he's trying to finish up his degree this semester), so we exchanged e-mails to keep in touch. And I plan on it. Peter's always such a ray of sunshine. Effervescent. Everyone one should kow someone like him.
Anyway, back to the grindstone (ie. Italian.) C'e vediamo.
They
by Siegfried Sassoon
The Bishop tells us: 'When the boys come back
'They will not be the same; for they'll have fought
'In a just cause: they lead the last attack
'On Anti-Christ; their comrades' blood has bought
'New right to breed an honourable race,
'They have challenged Death and dared him face to face.'
'We're none of us the same!' the boys reply.
'For George lost both his legs; and Bill's stone blind;
'Poor Jim's shot through the lungs and like to die;
'And Bert's gone syphilitic: you'll not find
'A chap who's served that hasn't found some change.
' And the Bishop said: 'The ways of God are strange!'
And now for something completely frivolous...
My friend Jess and I watched the Oscars over rye and gingers, Jess' amazing dip and Tostitos (I know, I know: we are two classy dames!) I am SO happy Nicole Kidman won! YAY! I could do cartwheels! And though I thought Daniel Day-Lewis (or Jack Nicholson--but wait! Haven't we seen him do that character before???) was a near lock, but I am very pleasantly surprised that Adrien Brody got it! Another yay! And, here's my prediction, that boy's got many Academy Awards in his future; he's only just begun. And what a doll he is to boot! If they gave out awards for acceptance speeches, his would've taken the cake. Truly heart-felt. And the plea for peace was tactful, not tacky.
You know, the Academy surprised me a couple of times tonight. They actually rose above the judgemental neo-conservatism they're famous for (and you thought they were famous because they throw a big party and give awards to their favourite guests!) Roman Polanski's Oscar and Eminem's are the examples here. I'm surprised Academy voters were able to separate the public from the personal (in Polanski's case) and present what I am sure is a most deserved accolade (I have yet to see The Pianist; I don't think it has come to theatres here yet.) As for Eminem, well, I'm just surprised. Not that "Lose Yourself" isn't a great song, but that's just not the sort of thing Academy voters usually go for.
Oscar, you've grown up. Happy 75th!
On a somewhat related note, there's one more favourite movie of mine that was neglected (yes, in addition to The Nasty Girl) when I made that list a couple weeks ago: Wonder Boys. LOVE that flick!
by Siegfried Sassoon
The Bishop tells us: 'When the boys come back
'They will not be the same; for they'll have fought
'In a just cause: they lead the last attack
'On Anti-Christ; their comrades' blood has bought
'New right to breed an honourable race,
'They have challenged Death and dared him face to face.'
'We're none of us the same!' the boys reply.
'For George lost both his legs; and Bill's stone blind;
'Poor Jim's shot through the lungs and like to die;
'And Bert's gone syphilitic: you'll not find
'A chap who's served that hasn't found some change.
' And the Bishop said: 'The ways of God are strange!'
And now for something completely frivolous...
My friend Jess and I watched the Oscars over rye and gingers, Jess' amazing dip and Tostitos (I know, I know: we are two classy dames!) I am SO happy Nicole Kidman won! YAY! I could do cartwheels! And though I thought Daniel Day-Lewis (or Jack Nicholson--but wait! Haven't we seen him do that character before???) was a near lock, but I am very pleasantly surprised that Adrien Brody got it! Another yay! And, here's my prediction, that boy's got many Academy Awards in his future; he's only just begun. And what a doll he is to boot! If they gave out awards for acceptance speeches, his would've taken the cake. Truly heart-felt. And the plea for peace was tactful, not tacky.
You know, the Academy surprised me a couple of times tonight. They actually rose above the judgemental neo-conservatism they're famous for (and you thought they were famous because they throw a big party and give awards to their favourite guests!) Roman Polanski's Oscar and Eminem's are the examples here. I'm surprised Academy voters were able to separate the public from the personal (in Polanski's case) and present what I am sure is a most deserved accolade (I have yet to see The Pianist; I don't think it has come to theatres here yet.) As for Eminem, well, I'm just surprised. Not that "Lose Yourself" isn't a great song, but that's just not the sort of thing Academy voters usually go for.
Oscar, you've grown up. Happy 75th!
On a somewhat related note, there's one more favourite movie of mine that was neglected (yes, in addition to The Nasty Girl) when I made that list a couple weeks ago: Wonder Boys. LOVE that flick!
Sunday, March 23, 2003
Well, I am sufficiently puzzled. There have a lot of passenger trains whizzing by my building this past week. Before this week, I hadn't seen any passenger trains use those tracks in all the time I've lived here. I was under the impression that the North tracks were for freight traffic only (since the South tracks are the ones that go by the train station)... Curious indeed...
It's funny, too. I can now tell the difference between freight trains and passengers trains by their sound alone. Without having to figure in the duration of the sound (the freight trains have more cars.) The passenger trains travel faster, so the sound's a bit different.
I've been asked by so many people, my younger sister most recently, if the sound of the trains bothers me. To be honest, it doesn't really. And I don't think that's just because I've gotten use to it (and no, I've never been woken up by a train, but that's not a big deal since I'm such a sound sleeper. Ask any of my roommates past or present about how I react if a fire alarm goes off while I'm asleep!)
I've always liked train travel and I find the sound of a train strangely comforting. The only times I'm bothered by the noise are when I'm listening to music on a low volume because of the time of night (gotta respect the roommate and the neighbours!) The sound of the trains tend to drown it out.
Listening to "The Chain" by Fleetwood Mac and the music of a freight train.
It's funny, too. I can now tell the difference between freight trains and passengers trains by their sound alone. Without having to figure in the duration of the sound (the freight trains have more cars.) The passenger trains travel faster, so the sound's a bit different.
I've been asked by so many people, my younger sister most recently, if the sound of the trains bothers me. To be honest, it doesn't really. And I don't think that's just because I've gotten use to it (and no, I've never been woken up by a train, but that's not a big deal since I'm such a sound sleeper. Ask any of my roommates past or present about how I react if a fire alarm goes off while I'm asleep!)
I've always liked train travel and I find the sound of a train strangely comforting. The only times I'm bothered by the noise are when I'm listening to music on a low volume because of the time of night (gotta respect the roommate and the neighbours!) The sound of the trains tend to drown it out.
Futility
by Wilfred Owen
Move him into the sun--
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it awoke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.
Think how it wakes the seeds--
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sides
Full-nerved,--still warm,--too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
--O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?
Inscription for a War
by A.D. Hope*
Stranger, go tell the Spartans
we died here obedient to their commands.
- Inscription at Thermopylae
Linger not, stranger; shed no teear;
Go back to those who sent us here.
We are the young they drafted out
To wars their folly brought about.
Go tell those old men, safe in bed,
We took their orders and are dead.
*Not a Trench Poet.
by Wilfred Owen
Move him into the sun--
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it awoke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.
Think how it wakes the seeds--
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sides
Full-nerved,--still warm,--too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
--O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?
Inscription for a War
by A.D. Hope*
Stranger, go tell the Spartans
we died here obedient to their commands.
- Inscription at Thermopylae
Linger not, stranger; shed no teear;
Go back to those who sent us here.
We are the young they drafted out
To wars their folly brought about.
Go tell those old men, safe in bed,
We took their orders and are dead.
*Not a Trench Poet.
Saturday, March 22, 2003
I haven't done this in a little while, so here ya go:
#41
What Dave Matthews Song Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
Water Goddess. You like peace and serenity and are
usually content with life.
What element would you rein over? (For Girls)
brought to you by Quizilla
Listening to "Have a Good Sleep" by Hot Hot Heat.
#41
What Dave Matthews Song Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
Water Goddess. You like peace and serenity and are
usually content with life.
What element would you rein over? (For Girls)
brought to you by Quizilla
Oh, my gosh! And everyone's always worried about the Canadian military's use of Sea King helicopters! Two fatal helicopter crashes in three days!
Grass
by Carl Sandburg
Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work--
I am the grass; I cover all.
And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
What place is this?
Where are we now?
I am the grass.
Let me work.
Carl Sandburg. Like John McCrae, he's not a Trench Poet. So why have I included him here? Well, similar to how my mood was captured by McCrae's "The Anxious Dead," my sentiments at the moment are best exemplified by Sandburg's "Grass."
I am emotionally exhausted. I fear that though there may be an end to this war, there won't be an end to the hate.
I'm afraid it will plod along, across time and continent.
I'm too upset, really, to talk about this right now. Oddly. I'm use to talking or writing things out. It helps me deal with my feelings. That's why so many of my posts as of late have been preoccupied with the war in Iraq. I'm sorry, readers, if this blog has become a tedious read for you, but this is my blog and I do need to get some things off my chest. Please bear with me, though. I'm going to try to scale back my ranting (not just for your sake, but for mine, as well--I have papers to write) a bit. The poetry will keep appearing, though, as long as I can find it for however long the current conflict lasts.
But I'm afraid there may not be enough to last out the hate.
Listening to "The Call Up" by The Clash.
by Carl Sandburg
Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work--
I am the grass; I cover all.
And pile them high at Gettysburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:
What place is this?
Where are we now?
I am the grass.
Let me work.
Carl Sandburg. Like John McCrae, he's not a Trench Poet. So why have I included him here? Well, similar to how my mood was captured by McCrae's "The Anxious Dead," my sentiments at the moment are best exemplified by Sandburg's "Grass."
I am emotionally exhausted. I fear that though there may be an end to this war, there won't be an end to the hate.
I'm afraid it will plod along, across time and continent.
I'm too upset, really, to talk about this right now. Oddly. I'm use to talking or writing things out. It helps me deal with my feelings. That's why so many of my posts as of late have been preoccupied with the war in Iraq. I'm sorry, readers, if this blog has become a tedious read for you, but this is my blog and I do need to get some things off my chest. Please bear with me, though. I'm going to try to scale back my ranting (not just for your sake, but for mine, as well--I have papers to write) a bit. The poetry will keep appearing, though, as long as I can find it for however long the current conflict lasts.
But I'm afraid there may not be enough to last out the hate.
Friday, March 21, 2003
I've been meaning to start doing this for a while, but for one reason or another, I kept putting it off. Well, I guess there's no time to take action like the present. Without further ado, then, let me present to you my very first Friday Five:
1. If you had the chance to meet someone you've never met, from the past or present, who would it be?
I'd love to have met Sylvia Plath. I really do feel as though we would've been kindred spirits. Ultimately, I think it would be really cool to test that hypothesis even if I am proven wrong.
2. If you had to live in a different century, past or future, which would it be?
This is a tough one. There are so many countries in which I'd love to live. Now or in the future. The U.K. (I'm including Northern Ireland here, of course) and Italy are especially attractive to me. But in the past? Actually, I think I would've liked to be my present age (21) during Trudeau-era Canada. Not being old enough to remember any Trudeau government, I really feel as though I've missed out on something.
3. If you had to move anywhere else on Earth, where would it be?
I've always dreamed about living in a house in the woods near the Hudson and Georgian Bays. A house right near the water so I could look out my window to see the sun setting on the water after having spent the afternoon wandering through the woods, pausing every now and then to write an idea for a short story or a line of verse in the notebook I carry. Sigh...
4. If you had to be a fictional character, who would it be?
I'd be Mary from Jane Urquhart's Away. Sure, she abandoned her husband and two young children (I wouldn't be her for this reason!), but I have this romanticized idea of the freedom that comes from eschewing responsibilities to commune with nature...
5. If you had to live with having someone else's face as your own for the rest of your life, whose would it be?
Hm. Well, I was trying to consider all the faces I've seen in my life, but the face that kept popping into my head was Liv Tyler's. So yeah, I guess I'd have to say I could live with having Liv's face. She always looks so fresh-faced and feminine. Needless to say, I could also live with having her long legs.
Listening to "This Night Has Opened My Eyes" by The Smiths.
1. If you had the chance to meet someone you've never met, from the past or present, who would it be?
I'd love to have met Sylvia Plath. I really do feel as though we would've been kindred spirits. Ultimately, I think it would be really cool to test that hypothesis even if I am proven wrong.
2. If you had to live in a different century, past or future, which would it be?
This is a tough one. There are so many countries in which I'd love to live. Now or in the future. The U.K. (I'm including Northern Ireland here, of course) and Italy are especially attractive to me. But in the past? Actually, I think I would've liked to be my present age (21) during Trudeau-era Canada. Not being old enough to remember any Trudeau government, I really feel as though I've missed out on something.
3. If you had to move anywhere else on Earth, where would it be?
I've always dreamed about living in a house in the woods near the Hudson and Georgian Bays. A house right near the water so I could look out my window to see the sun setting on the water after having spent the afternoon wandering through the woods, pausing every now and then to write an idea for a short story or a line of verse in the notebook I carry. Sigh...
4. If you had to be a fictional character, who would it be?
I'd be Mary from Jane Urquhart's Away. Sure, she abandoned her husband and two young children (I wouldn't be her for this reason!), but I have this romanticized idea of the freedom that comes from eschewing responsibilities to commune with nature...
5. If you had to live with having someone else's face as your own for the rest of your life, whose would it be?
Hm. Well, I was trying to consider all the faces I've seen in my life, but the face that kept popping into my head was Liv Tyler's. So yeah, I guess I'd have to say I could live with having Liv's face. She always looks so fresh-faced and feminine. Needless to say, I could also live with having her long legs.
So, are there any lingering questions out there as to why war is being waged on Iraq? Check out this link. It's from a site called Orwell Today. That should give you an idea of how this article swings.
At any rate, it provides an excellent expose of the circuitous logic and, to use an Orwellian term, double-speak people use to try to justify the war.
EDITED TO ADD: WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!?! Apparently, there's the threat of the U.S. government cutting veterans' benefits! I. Am. Speechless. The fucking ignorance never ceases, does it?
Listening to "This Is A Broadcast" by The Dears.
At any rate, it provides an excellent expose of the circuitous logic and, to use an Orwellian term, double-speak people use to try to justify the war.
EDITED TO ADD: WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!?! Apparently, there's the threat of the U.S. government cutting veterans' benefits! I. Am. Speechless. The fucking ignorance never ceases, does it?
From Salam Pax, the Iraqi citizen behind the blog Where is Raed?:
No one inside Iraq is for war (note I said war not a change of regime), no human being in his right mind will ask you to give him the beating of his life, unless you are a member of fight club that is, and if you do hear Iraqi (in Iraq, not expat) saying “come on bomb us” it is the exasperation and 10 years of sanctions and hardship talking. There is no person inside Iraq (and this is a bold, blinking and underlined inside) who will be jumping up and down asking for the bombs to drop. We are not suicidal you know, not all of us in any case.
I think that the coming war is not justified (and it is very near now, we hear the war drums loud and clear if you don’t then take those earplugs off!). The excuses for it have been stretched to their limits they will almost snap. A decision has been made sometime ago that “regime change” in Baghdad is needed and excuses for the forceful change have to be made. I do think war could have been avoided, not by running back and forth the last two months, that’s silly. But the whole issue of Iraq should have been dealt with differently since the first day after GW I.
The entities that call themselves “the international community” should have assumed their responsibilities a long time ago, should have thought about what the sanctions they have imposed really meant, should have looked at reports about weapons and human rights abuses a long time before having them thrown in their faces as excuses for war five minutes before midnight.
What is bringing on this rant is the question that has been bugging for days now: how could “support democracy in Iraq” become to mean “bomb the hell out of Iraq”? why did it end up that democracy won’t happen unless we go thru war? Nobody minded an un-democratic Iraq for a very long time, now people have decided to bomb us to democracy? Well, thank you! how thoughtful.
The situation in Iraq could have been solved in other ways than what the world will be going thru the next couple of weeks. It can’t have been that impossible. Look at the northern parts of Iraq, that is a model that has worked quite well, why wasn’t anybody interested in doing that in the south. Just like the US/UK UN created a protected area there why couldn’t the model be tried in the south. It would have cut off the regimes arms and legs. And once the people see what they have been deprived off they will not be willing to go back, just ask any Iraqi from the Kurdish areas. Instead the world watched while after the war the Shias were crushed by Saddam’s army in a manner that really didn’t happen before the Gulf War. Does anyone else see the words (Iran/not in the US interest) floating or is it me hallucinating?
And there is the matter of Sanctions. Now that Iraq has been thru a decade of these sanctions I can only hope that their effects are clear enough for them not to be tried upon another nation. Sanctions which allegedly should have kept a potentially dangerous situation in Iraq in check brought a whole nation to its knees instead. And who ultimately benefited from the sanctions? Neither the international community nor the Iraqi people, he who was in power and control still is. These sanctions made the Iraqi people hostages in the hands of this regime, tightened an already tight noose around our necks. A whole nation, a proud and learned nation, was devastated not by the war but by sanctions. Our brightest and most creative minds fled the country not because of oppression alone but because no one inside Iraq could make a living, survive. And can anyone tell me what the sanctions really did about weapons? Get real, there are always willing nations who will help, there are always organizations which will find his money sweet. Oil-for-Food? Smart Sanctions? Get a clue. Who do you think is getting all those contracts to supply the people with “food”? who do you think is heaping money in bank accounts abroad? It is his people, his family and the people who play his game. Abroad and in Iraq, Iraqis and non-Iraqis.
What I mean to say is that things could have been different; I can’t help look at the Northern parts of Iraq with envy and wonder why.
Do support democracy in Iraq. But don’t equate it with war. What will happen is something that could/should have been avoided. Don’t expect me to wear a [I heart bush] t-shirt. Support democracy in Iraq not by bombing us to hell and then trying to build it up again (well that is going to happen any way) not by sending human shields (let’s be real the war is going to happen and Saddam will use you as hostages), but by keeping an eye on what will happen after the war.
EDITED TO ADD: I have added another blog to my links sidebar: check out Me Against Myself.
No one inside Iraq is for war (note I said war not a change of regime), no human being in his right mind will ask you to give him the beating of his life, unless you are a member of fight club that is, and if you do hear Iraqi (in Iraq, not expat) saying “come on bomb us” it is the exasperation and 10 years of sanctions and hardship talking. There is no person inside Iraq (and this is a bold, blinking and underlined inside) who will be jumping up and down asking for the bombs to drop. We are not suicidal you know, not all of us in any case.
I think that the coming war is not justified (and it is very near now, we hear the war drums loud and clear if you don’t then take those earplugs off!). The excuses for it have been stretched to their limits they will almost snap. A decision has been made sometime ago that “regime change” in Baghdad is needed and excuses for the forceful change have to be made. I do think war could have been avoided, not by running back and forth the last two months, that’s silly. But the whole issue of Iraq should have been dealt with differently since the first day after GW I.
The entities that call themselves “the international community” should have assumed their responsibilities a long time ago, should have thought about what the sanctions they have imposed really meant, should have looked at reports about weapons and human rights abuses a long time before having them thrown in their faces as excuses for war five minutes before midnight.
What is bringing on this rant is the question that has been bugging for days now: how could “support democracy in Iraq” become to mean “bomb the hell out of Iraq”? why did it end up that democracy won’t happen unless we go thru war? Nobody minded an un-democratic Iraq for a very long time, now people have decided to bomb us to democracy? Well, thank you! how thoughtful.
The situation in Iraq could have been solved in other ways than what the world will be going thru the next couple of weeks. It can’t have been that impossible. Look at the northern parts of Iraq, that is a model that has worked quite well, why wasn’t anybody interested in doing that in the south. Just like the US/UK UN created a protected area there why couldn’t the model be tried in the south. It would have cut off the regimes arms and legs. And once the people see what they have been deprived off they will not be willing to go back, just ask any Iraqi from the Kurdish areas. Instead the world watched while after the war the Shias were crushed by Saddam’s army in a manner that really didn’t happen before the Gulf War. Does anyone else see the words (Iran/not in the US interest) floating or is it me hallucinating?
And there is the matter of Sanctions. Now that Iraq has been thru a decade of these sanctions I can only hope that their effects are clear enough for them not to be tried upon another nation. Sanctions which allegedly should have kept a potentially dangerous situation in Iraq in check brought a whole nation to its knees instead. And who ultimately benefited from the sanctions? Neither the international community nor the Iraqi people, he who was in power and control still is. These sanctions made the Iraqi people hostages in the hands of this regime, tightened an already tight noose around our necks. A whole nation, a proud and learned nation, was devastated not by the war but by sanctions. Our brightest and most creative minds fled the country not because of oppression alone but because no one inside Iraq could make a living, survive. And can anyone tell me what the sanctions really did about weapons? Get real, there are always willing nations who will help, there are always organizations which will find his money sweet. Oil-for-Food? Smart Sanctions? Get a clue. Who do you think is getting all those contracts to supply the people with “food”? who do you think is heaping money in bank accounts abroad? It is his people, his family and the people who play his game. Abroad and in Iraq, Iraqis and non-Iraqis.
What I mean to say is that things could have been different; I can’t help look at the Northern parts of Iraq with envy and wonder why.
Do support democracy in Iraq. But don’t equate it with war. What will happen is something that could/should have been avoided. Don’t expect me to wear a [I heart bush] t-shirt. Support democracy in Iraq not by bombing us to hell and then trying to build it up again (well that is going to happen any way) not by sending human shields (let’s be real the war is going to happen and Saddam will use you as hostages), but by keeping an eye on what will happen after the war.
EDITED TO ADD: I have added another blog to my links sidebar: check out Me Against Myself.
The Effect
by Siegfried Sassoon
'The effect of our bombardment was terrific.
One man told me he had never seen so many dead before.'
- War Correspondent.
'He'd never seen so many dead before.'
They sprawled in yellow daylight while he swore
And gasped and lugged his everlasting load
Of bombs along what once had been a road.
'How peaceful are the dead.'
Who put that silly gag in some one's head?
'He'd never seen so many dead before.'
The lilting words danced up and down his brain,
While corpses jumped and capered in the rain.
No, no; he wouldn't count them any more...
The dead have done with pain:
They've choked; they can't come back to life again.
When Dick was killed last week he looked like that,
Flapping along the fire-step like a fish,
After the blazing crump had knocked him flat...
'How many dead? As many as ever you wish.
Don't count 'em; they're too many.
Who'll buy my nice fresh corpses, two a penny?'
Any passing is a sad one. I cannot think of many things more insensitive than, "The effect of our bombardment was terrific.
One man told me he had never seen so many dead before," except, perhaps, for the phrase, "It was a success: there were few casualties." One casualty is too many.
The vigil tonight was bittersweet. Bitter because each of us knew that while we gathered together, people could be dying. Sweet because the collective of candles seemed to lend an air of hope. Bitter because the tears came. Sweet because of the chorus of voices in song. Bitter because we heard the Charter of the United Nations read aloud and were reminded that sometimes it is as easy to be deaf to many voices as it is to one. Sweet because one child sat in front of the makeshift memorial and ensured that every candle stayed lit.
Bittersweet that such an outpouring of love and solidarity for fellow human beings was bought at this price.
by Siegfried Sassoon
'The effect of our bombardment was terrific.
One man told me he had never seen so many dead before.'
- War Correspondent.
'He'd never seen so many dead before.'
They sprawled in yellow daylight while he swore
And gasped and lugged his everlasting load
Of bombs along what once had been a road.
'How peaceful are the dead.'
Who put that silly gag in some one's head?
'He'd never seen so many dead before.'
The lilting words danced up and down his brain,
While corpses jumped and capered in the rain.
No, no; he wouldn't count them any more...
The dead have done with pain:
They've choked; they can't come back to life again.
When Dick was killed last week he looked like that,
Flapping along the fire-step like a fish,
After the blazing crump had knocked him flat...
'How many dead? As many as ever you wish.
Don't count 'em; they're too many.
Who'll buy my nice fresh corpses, two a penny?'
Any passing is a sad one. I cannot think of many things more insensitive than, "The effect of our bombardment was terrific.
One man told me he had never seen so many dead before," except, perhaps, for the phrase, "It was a success: there were few casualties." One casualty is too many.
The vigil tonight was bittersweet. Bitter because each of us knew that while we gathered together, people could be dying. Sweet because the collective of candles seemed to lend an air of hope. Bitter because the tears came. Sweet because of the chorus of voices in song. Bitter because we heard the Charter of the United Nations read aloud and were reminded that sometimes it is as easy to be deaf to many voices as it is to one. Sweet because one child sat in front of the makeshift memorial and ensured that every candle stayed lit.
Bittersweet that such an outpouring of love and solidarity for fellow human beings was bought at this price.
Thursday, March 20, 2003
Kerri and I are going to a candlelight peace vigil tonight. Full report later.
In the meantime, here's an interesting article about the city of Baghdad.
EDITED TO ADD: The Guardian has compiled a comprehensive guide to the pro-peace web. Included are sites connected to the U.K., North America and others.
Listening to "The Magnificent Seven" by The Clash.
In the meantime, here's an interesting article about the city of Baghdad.
EDITED TO ADD: The Guardian has compiled a comprehensive guide to the pro-peace web. Included are sites connected to the U.K., North America and others.
The Anxious Dead
by John McCrae
O guns, fall silent till the dead men hear
Above their heads the legions pressing on:
(These fought their fight in time of bitter fear,
And died not knowing how the day had gone.)
O flashing muzzles, pause, and let them see
The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar;
Then let your mighty chorus witness be
To them, and Caesar, that we still make war.
Tell them, O guns, that we have heard their call,
That we have sworn, and will not turn aside,
That we will onward till we win or fall,
That we will keep the faith for which they died.
Bid them be patient, and some day, anon,
They shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep;
Shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn,
And in content may turn them to their sleep.
He's technically not a Trench Poet, but I think John McCrae encapsulates my feelings as to why we need to honour sacrifices of the men and women who have died in any war at any time by not making war, by giving diplomacy another chance...
by John McCrae
O guns, fall silent till the dead men hear
Above their heads the legions pressing on:
(These fought their fight in time of bitter fear,
And died not knowing how the day had gone.)
O flashing muzzles, pause, and let them see
The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar;
Then let your mighty chorus witness be
To them, and Caesar, that we still make war.
Tell them, O guns, that we have heard their call,
That we have sworn, and will not turn aside,
That we will onward till we win or fall,
That we will keep the faith for which they died.
Bid them be patient, and some day, anon,
They shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep;
Shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn,
And in content may turn them to their sleep.
He's technically not a Trench Poet, but I think John McCrae encapsulates my feelings as to why we need to honour sacrifices of the men and women who have died in any war at any time by not making war, by giving diplomacy another chance...
Wednesday, March 19, 2003
Dulce et Decorum Est
by Wilfrid Owen
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
I think that poem says volumes. The body of work by each of the Trench Poets does. So every few days for the next little while, I shall endeavour to post a war poem, for my thoughts are with not only the Iraqi people, but with all service men and women, as well.
An aquaintance of mine from high school ships out to Bosnia on March 30th. I fear that these next few months will be as dangerous a time to be in the Balkans as 1998-2000 was. Chris, my thoughts are with you.
I was talking to my friend Derek the other day. Derek had joined the reserves at the same time as Chris did. It had been a dream of Derek's since the ninth grade--to join the Canadian armed forces. He had been going through a time when he felt invisible at school. And then one day, while he was wandering the halls, a voice from behind him stopped him, "Excuse me. Could you tell me where the office is?"
Derek turned to face a member of the Canadian Armed Forces. Derek directed him to the office. The military had set up a table during the lunch periods (to accommodate the volume of students, there were three at our school) to provide information about the service and the reserves. Derek watched them. He marvelled at how that green uniform commanded respect. And he vowed that, upon turning eighteen, he would command that kind of respect, too.
Well, years later, when Derek turned eighteen, he and Chris joined the reserves. Training proved, however, that this was not going to be what Derek had expected. He was shocked at the rhetoric his commanding officers used during weapons training sessions.
"Imagine you're face to face with the enemy," they'd yell, imploring their recruits to shoot to kill.
Derek couldn't do it. He withdrew from the reserves the following training weekend. Chris remained.
Indeed, not everyone can do the jobs of our service men and women. Their tasks are difficult and unenviable. And it is, in part, out of respect for the sacrifices of service men and women of the past and of the present that I am opposed to war.
Far too many lives have already been lost. To death. And to the shadows that remain etched in the mind--pouncing, preying in moments of silence upon those who remain.
My grandfather is a veteran of the Canadian Navy and of World War II. Tonight more than ever I feel the need to talk to him, for I am finding it very difficult to carry on as though everything were normal.
The other night, Derek lamented how worrying over a history essay seemed so trivial at a time like this. I agreed.
But you try to behave normally. Not avoid thinking about what's happening--how can one keep from thinking about it? But you try to uphold a routine, hoping to find some solace in the every day.
It is this I tried to do today.
I attended my one class and then I attended a reading by one of the giants of the Canadian literary world. I heard Pierre Berton--renowned journalist, writer and historian of whom it has been said there is no one who knows more about Canadian history--read from his new book, The Joy of Writing: A guide for writers disguised as a literary memoir... It was wonderful! He read so well, really bringing his words to life. Mind you, I don't imagine that would be a difficult thing to do with prose as vivid as his. At any rate, I bought the book and was even able to get him to sign it.
And as silly and as trivial as this is in the grand scheme of things, going to my class and hearing Pierre Berton read has brought me some comfort.
I hope everyone else finds their comfort tonight, too.
by Wilfrid Owen
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
I think that poem says volumes. The body of work by each of the Trench Poets does. So every few days for the next little while, I shall endeavour to post a war poem, for my thoughts are with not only the Iraqi people, but with all service men and women, as well.
An aquaintance of mine from high school ships out to Bosnia on March 30th. I fear that these next few months will be as dangerous a time to be in the Balkans as 1998-2000 was. Chris, my thoughts are with you.
I was talking to my friend Derek the other day. Derek had joined the reserves at the same time as Chris did. It had been a dream of Derek's since the ninth grade--to join the Canadian armed forces. He had been going through a time when he felt invisible at school. And then one day, while he was wandering the halls, a voice from behind him stopped him, "Excuse me. Could you tell me where the office is?"
Derek turned to face a member of the Canadian Armed Forces. Derek directed him to the office. The military had set up a table during the lunch periods (to accommodate the volume of students, there were three at our school) to provide information about the service and the reserves. Derek watched them. He marvelled at how that green uniform commanded respect. And he vowed that, upon turning eighteen, he would command that kind of respect, too.
Well, years later, when Derek turned eighteen, he and Chris joined the reserves. Training proved, however, that this was not going to be what Derek had expected. He was shocked at the rhetoric his commanding officers used during weapons training sessions.
"Imagine you're face to face with the enemy," they'd yell, imploring their recruits to shoot to kill.
Derek couldn't do it. He withdrew from the reserves the following training weekend. Chris remained.
Indeed, not everyone can do the jobs of our service men and women. Their tasks are difficult and unenviable. And it is, in part, out of respect for the sacrifices of service men and women of the past and of the present that I am opposed to war.
Far too many lives have already been lost. To death. And to the shadows that remain etched in the mind--pouncing, preying in moments of silence upon those who remain.
My grandfather is a veteran of the Canadian Navy and of World War II. Tonight more than ever I feel the need to talk to him, for I am finding it very difficult to carry on as though everything were normal.
The other night, Derek lamented how worrying over a history essay seemed so trivial at a time like this. I agreed.
But you try to behave normally. Not avoid thinking about what's happening--how can one keep from thinking about it? But you try to uphold a routine, hoping to find some solace in the every day.
It is this I tried to do today.
I attended my one class and then I attended a reading by one of the giants of the Canadian literary world. I heard Pierre Berton--renowned journalist, writer and historian of whom it has been said there is no one who knows more about Canadian history--read from his new book, The Joy of Writing: A guide for writers disguised as a literary memoir... It was wonderful! He read so well, really bringing his words to life. Mind you, I don't imagine that would be a difficult thing to do with prose as vivid as his. At any rate, I bought the book and was even able to get him to sign it.
And as silly and as trivial as this is in the grand scheme of things, going to my class and hearing Pierre Berton read has brought me some comfort.
I hope everyone else finds their comfort tonight, too.
I just want to express my disgust with Richard Johnson, Paula Froelich and Chris Wilson--the writers of the PageSix.com gossip column--for referring to celebrity peace activists as "Saddam lovers."
So a line's been drawn in the sand: if we're not for the war, then we must be for Saddam, right?
Wrong! We're for peace and we're for giving diplomacy a real chance. We are NOT for Saddam!!!
Last time I checked, we had freedom of speech in North America. And all's fair in love and war, right? I suppose not. Not if anyone who is pro-peace is reduced to being in cahoots with "the enemy."
So a line's been drawn in the sand: if we're not for the war, then we must be for Saddam, right?
Wrong! We're for peace and we're for giving diplomacy a real chance. We are NOT for Saddam!!!
Last time I checked, we had freedom of speech in North America. And all's fair in love and war, right? I suppose not. Not if anyone who is pro-peace is reduced to being in cahoots with "the enemy."
Former UN head says Iraq war would be 'illegal'
Last Updated Wed, 19 Mar 2003 9:35:57
WINNIPEG - The man who ran the United Nations following the Gulf War isn't hopeful the next war will leave Iraq a better place.
Boutros Boutros-Ghali, the Secretary General of the United Nations from 1992 to the end of 1996, told an audience in Winnipeg on Tuesday a U.S.-led attack on Iraq without specific UN authorization would violate international law.
"This intervention is illegal," he said.
He believes it also sets a dangerous example. "Other countries may use this argument in the future to intervene on the basis of this precedent."
Boutros-Ghali fears the diplomatic struggle, and the failure to reach a consensus in the Security Council, will weaken the UN's ability to play a central role in such future crises.
"I still hope that the UN will be able to overcome this crisis and that the UN will continue to play a role, even if this role is very marginal," he said.
The future role for the UN inside Iraq, he believes, lies with the country's reconstruction, the return of refugees and establishing a more benign regime.
But he admits the international community has a poor record of paying the necessary attention to post-war issues.
Indeed, the international community has a very poor record of post-war assistance! Look at the mess that was left in Afghanistan! And I'm not just referring to governmental infrastructure (yes, Kabul has a sense of order, bu the rest of the country is run by war lords! It's almost a feudal structure that was left behind, not a democratic one!)
What concerns me more is the presence of all the unexploded cluster bombs. The very cluster bombs that resemble in colour and markings the food packages dropped by the United States. The very cluster bombs which have been attributed to the death of a least one youth and the injury of another (because, yes, they mistook the bomb for a food package.) The very cluster bombs that groups of Afghani men a left to clean up--alone. Where is the international community now?
True, there are still peacekeeping forces, like Canada's, working in Afghanistan. But I ask, "Of what assistance are they?!" Where is everyone? Didn't your mothers and fathers teach you to clean up your messes?!?! We have all failed the people of Afghanistan.
And I fear that once this imminent and illegal war is through, we will--once again--fail the citizens of Iraq. We failed them after the first Gulf war (sanctions never hurt anyone, but those who are already suffering!) and we will fail them once again.
I am not optimistic today.
Listening to "Sorrow" by Pink Floyd.
Last Updated Wed, 19 Mar 2003 9:35:57
WINNIPEG - The man who ran the United Nations following the Gulf War isn't hopeful the next war will leave Iraq a better place.
Boutros Boutros-Ghali, the Secretary General of the United Nations from 1992 to the end of 1996, told an audience in Winnipeg on Tuesday a U.S.-led attack on Iraq without specific UN authorization would violate international law.
"This intervention is illegal," he said.
He believes it also sets a dangerous example. "Other countries may use this argument in the future to intervene on the basis of this precedent."
Boutros-Ghali fears the diplomatic struggle, and the failure to reach a consensus in the Security Council, will weaken the UN's ability to play a central role in such future crises.
"I still hope that the UN will be able to overcome this crisis and that the UN will continue to play a role, even if this role is very marginal," he said.
The future role for the UN inside Iraq, he believes, lies with the country's reconstruction, the return of refugees and establishing a more benign regime.
But he admits the international community has a poor record of paying the necessary attention to post-war issues.
Indeed, the international community has a very poor record of post-war assistance! Look at the mess that was left in Afghanistan! And I'm not just referring to governmental infrastructure (yes, Kabul has a sense of order, bu the rest of the country is run by war lords! It's almost a feudal structure that was left behind, not a democratic one!)
What concerns me more is the presence of all the unexploded cluster bombs. The very cluster bombs that resemble in colour and markings the food packages dropped by the United States. The very cluster bombs which have been attributed to the death of a least one youth and the injury of another (because, yes, they mistook the bomb for a food package.) The very cluster bombs that groups of Afghani men a left to clean up--alone. Where is the international community now?
True, there are still peacekeeping forces, like Canada's, working in Afghanistan. But I ask, "Of what assistance are they?!" Where is everyone? Didn't your mothers and fathers teach you to clean up your messes?!?! We have all failed the people of Afghanistan.
And I fear that once this imminent and illegal war is through, we will--once again--fail the citizens of Iraq. We failed them after the first Gulf war (sanctions never hurt anyone, but those who are already suffering!) and we will fail them once again.
I am not optimistic today.
Monday, March 17, 2003
Ari Fleischer suggested that if the U.N. remained recalcitrant, we would replace it with 'another international body' to disarm Saddam Hussein. What other international body? Salma Hayek? The World Bank? The Hollywood Foreign Press Association?
- Maureen Dowd
Happy St.Patrick's Day, everyone!
- Natalie St.Pierre
- Maureen Dowd
Happy St.Patrick's Day, everyone!
- Natalie St.Pierre
Sunday, March 16, 2003
Crap. They've turned off the water in the kitchens throughout our building. Apparently, there's a leaky pipe and no one can come in to fix it until tomorrow. That means at least another twelve hours of drinking bathroom tap water. Which is slightly more appetising than hose water.
Yay. Jasey-Jay Anderson won the overall title in Men's World Cup Snowboarding!
Listening to Edward Elgar's "Cello Concerto in E-minor, Opus 85" as performed by Jacqueline du Pre under the direction of Daniel Barenboim.
Yay. Jasey-Jay Anderson won the overall title in Men's World Cup Snowboarding!
Oh, it was another gorgeous early Spring day today and I would have liked nothing better to go for a nice long hike.
But I don't have the time.
I've pretty much wasted my entire day. I'm having such a difficult time motivating myself. It's part of the depression. You know, lack of motivation is problematic for anyone who experiences it, but for someone who's naturally anxious like I am, it spells double the trouble. It gives me something else to worry about. I worry that I'm not getting my work done and what kind of consequences that will have on my marks and so on. And it becomes a vicious cycle: depression, lack of motivation, anxiety, more depression, less motivation, more anxiety, deeper depression, et cetera.
At least, on the whole, I'm hiding it well. It's not something that everyone needs to know. Nor is it something that I want everyone to know. Clinical depression, despite it being common, is still so stigmatized! So why am I writing about it here? Well, not too many people who know me personally (ie. in the offline world) actually read this, so I figure I'm safe...
At any rate, I need to get out of this funk and soon. I have my last midterm tomorrow and my finals start in less than a month (the first one is on April 11th.)
Must focus on the present. Deep cleansing breaths... Relax and let go of the negativity.
It's not working. I'm going to have to do some extra yoga tonight...
On the up-side of things, though, I finally ordered myself Orchestral Pop Noir Romantique, Nor the Dahlias: The Dears 1995-1998 and End of a Hollywood Bedtime Story by The Dears. No more being chained to my computer whenever I want to listen to them (online at New Music Canada.) In a matter of days, The Dears will be going everywhere with me! I still have to get my hands on their Protest EP, but I don't know if that'll ever happen because it was a limited release. Their new full-length CD, No Cities Left, comes out in April and there's no doubt who's buying that then, now is there?
Listening to "The Death of Ferdinand de Saussure" by The Magnetic Fields.
But I don't have the time.
I've pretty much wasted my entire day. I'm having such a difficult time motivating myself. It's part of the depression. You know, lack of motivation is problematic for anyone who experiences it, but for someone who's naturally anxious like I am, it spells double the trouble. It gives me something else to worry about. I worry that I'm not getting my work done and what kind of consequences that will have on my marks and so on. And it becomes a vicious cycle: depression, lack of motivation, anxiety, more depression, less motivation, more anxiety, deeper depression, et cetera.
At least, on the whole, I'm hiding it well. It's not something that everyone needs to know. Nor is it something that I want everyone to know. Clinical depression, despite it being common, is still so stigmatized! So why am I writing about it here? Well, not too many people who know me personally (ie. in the offline world) actually read this, so I figure I'm safe...
At any rate, I need to get out of this funk and soon. I have my last midterm tomorrow and my finals start in less than a month (the first one is on April 11th.)
Must focus on the present. Deep cleansing breaths... Relax and let go of the negativity.
It's not working. I'm going to have to do some extra yoga tonight...
On the up-side of things, though, I finally ordered myself Orchestral Pop Noir Romantique, Nor the Dahlias: The Dears 1995-1998 and End of a Hollywood Bedtime Story by The Dears. No more being chained to my computer whenever I want to listen to them (online at New Music Canada.) In a matter of days, The Dears will be going everywhere with me! I still have to get my hands on their Protest EP, but I don't know if that'll ever happen because it was a limited release. Their new full-length CD, No Cities Left, comes out in April and there's no doubt who's buying that then, now is there?
Okay. I'm on my way to bed, but I just had to post this link. Check it out. Especially if you're a fellow Canadian. Heh.
Saturday, March 15, 2003
I feel like such a bad activist. There was another anti-war protest going on here today. And, once again, I had to miss it. The last time, I missed it because I went home for the weekend. The time before that--homework. This time? Prepping for Monday's midterm (what an inopportune time to write a midterm! And less than a month before the final, too!)
I haven't been to an anti-war protest since November.
And I feel guilty for that.
I know I shouldn't. Not really. I mean, I know in my heart what a believe and it's not like I keep my opinions to myself. By word of mouth, I've tried to promote the protests I couldn't attend. And I've pontificated here.
So why do I still feel guilty?
Because I think I should be doing more. Because I know I need to do more. Because I hold the impossibly arrogant/idealistic opinion that I can change the world, that one person can make a difference. Because I feel that if I don't do something, no one will.
Because I'm fortunate enough to be born in Canada. Because I'm fortunate enough to have a roof over my head and food in my belly. Because I have family and friends who love me. Because I have an education. Because I have the freedom to think and, what's more, to share what's on my mind.
Because I live in a country that is at peace.
And I'm grateful for all of that. I truly am. But I will always feel regret, knowing that not everyone is so lucky. And I will always feel that, due to my charmed upbringing (yes, I had a wonderful childhood, too!), I am in debt to the world. I've always had so much. Of not necessarily the material things, but the things that really matter.
I need to get out there. I need to do something. But still I know. Protests aren't enough.
Though awareness is certainly a start.
Listening to "Sing" by Travis:
"For the love you bring won't mean a thing unless you sing, sing, sing."
I haven't been to an anti-war protest since November.
And I feel guilty for that.
I know I shouldn't. Not really. I mean, I know in my heart what a believe and it's not like I keep my opinions to myself. By word of mouth, I've tried to promote the protests I couldn't attend. And I've pontificated here.
So why do I still feel guilty?
Because I think I should be doing more. Because I know I need to do more. Because I hold the impossibly arrogant/idealistic opinion that I can change the world, that one person can make a difference. Because I feel that if I don't do something, no one will.
Because I'm fortunate enough to be born in Canada. Because I'm fortunate enough to have a roof over my head and food in my belly. Because I have family and friends who love me. Because I have an education. Because I have the freedom to think and, what's more, to share what's on my mind.
Because I live in a country that is at peace.
And I'm grateful for all of that. I truly am. But I will always feel regret, knowing that not everyone is so lucky. And I will always feel that, due to my charmed upbringing (yes, I had a wonderful childhood, too!), I am in debt to the world. I've always had so much. Of not necessarily the material things, but the things that really matter.
I need to get out there. I need to do something. But still I know. Protests aren't enough.
Though awareness is certainly a start.
"For the love you bring won't mean a thing unless you sing, sing, sing."
Some of you may have read the following, but I just had to post it. I haven't had this good of a laugh in a while.
Other Axis of Evil Wannabes
by John Cleese
Bitter after being snubbed for membership in the Axis of Evil, Libya, China, and Syria today announced they had formed the "Axis of Just as Evil," which they said would be more evil than that stupid Iran-Iraq-North Korea axis President Bush warned of in his State of the Union address. Axis of Evil members, however, immediately dismissed the new axis as having, for starters, a really dumb name. "Right. They are Just as Evil... in their dreams!" declared North Korean leader Kim Jong-il. "Everybody knows we're the best evils... best at being evil...we're the best."
Diplomats from Syria denied they were jealous over being excluded, although they conceded they did ask if they could join the Axis of Evil. "They told us it was full," said Syrian President Bashar al-Assad. "An Axis can't have more than three countries," explained Iraqi President Saddam Hussein. "This is not my rule, it's tradition. In World War II you had Germany, Italy, and Japan in the evil Axis. So you can only have three, and a secret handshake. Ours is wicked cool."
International reaction to Bush's Axis of Evil declaration was swift, as within minutes, France surrendered. Elsewhere, peer-conscious nations rushed to gain triumvirate status in what became a game of geopolitical chairs. Cuba, Sudan, and Serbia said they had formed the Axis of Somewhat Evil, forcing Somalia to join with Uganda and Myanmar in the Axis of Occasionally Evil, while Bulgaria, Indonesia and Russia established the Axis of Not So Much Evil Really As Just Generally Disagreeable.
With the criteria suddenly expanded and all the desirable clubs filling up, Sierra Leone, El Salvador, and Rwanda applied to be called the Axis of Countries That Aren't the Worst But Certainly Won't Be Asked to Host the Olympics; Canada, Mexico, and Australia formed the Axis of Nations That Are Actually Quite Nice But Secretly Have Some Nasty Thoughts About America, while Scotland, New Zealand and Spain established the Axis of Countries That Be Allowed to Ask Sheep to Wear Lipstick.
"That's not a threat, really, just something we like to do," said Scottish Executive First Minister Jack McConnell. While wondering if the other nations of the world weren't perhaps making fun of him, a cautious Bush granted approval for most axes, although he rejected the establishment of the Axis of Countries Whose Names End in "Guay," accusing one of its members of filing a false application. Officials from Paraguay, Uruguay, and Chadguay denied the charges.
Israel, meanwhile, insisted it didn't want to join any Axis, but privately, world leaders said that's only because no one asked them.
And that is how we do satire, folks! How do I love John Cleese? Let me count the ways...
Other Axis of Evil Wannabes
by John Cleese
Bitter after being snubbed for membership in the Axis of Evil, Libya, China, and Syria today announced they had formed the "Axis of Just as Evil," which they said would be more evil than that stupid Iran-Iraq-North Korea axis President Bush warned of in his State of the Union address. Axis of Evil members, however, immediately dismissed the new axis as having, for starters, a really dumb name. "Right. They are Just as Evil... in their dreams!" declared North Korean leader Kim Jong-il. "Everybody knows we're the best evils... best at being evil...we're the best."
Diplomats from Syria denied they were jealous over being excluded, although they conceded they did ask if they could join the Axis of Evil. "They told us it was full," said Syrian President Bashar al-Assad. "An Axis can't have more than three countries," explained Iraqi President Saddam Hussein. "This is not my rule, it's tradition. In World War II you had Germany, Italy, and Japan in the evil Axis. So you can only have three, and a secret handshake. Ours is wicked cool."
International reaction to Bush's Axis of Evil declaration was swift, as within minutes, France surrendered. Elsewhere, peer-conscious nations rushed to gain triumvirate status in what became a game of geopolitical chairs. Cuba, Sudan, and Serbia said they had formed the Axis of Somewhat Evil, forcing Somalia to join with Uganda and Myanmar in the Axis of Occasionally Evil, while Bulgaria, Indonesia and Russia established the Axis of Not So Much Evil Really As Just Generally Disagreeable.
With the criteria suddenly expanded and all the desirable clubs filling up, Sierra Leone, El Salvador, and Rwanda applied to be called the Axis of Countries That Aren't the Worst But Certainly Won't Be Asked to Host the Olympics; Canada, Mexico, and Australia formed the Axis of Nations That Are Actually Quite Nice But Secretly Have Some Nasty Thoughts About America, while Scotland, New Zealand and Spain established the Axis of Countries That Be Allowed to Ask Sheep to Wear Lipstick.
"That's not a threat, really, just something we like to do," said Scottish Executive First Minister Jack McConnell. While wondering if the other nations of the world weren't perhaps making fun of him, a cautious Bush granted approval for most axes, although he rejected the establishment of the Axis of Countries Whose Names End in "Guay," accusing one of its members of filing a false application. Officials from Paraguay, Uruguay, and Chadguay denied the charges.
Israel, meanwhile, insisted it didn't want to join any Axis, but privately, world leaders said that's only because no one asked them.
And that is how we do satire, folks! How do I love John Cleese? Let me count the ways...
Friday, March 14, 2003
Anyone feel like entering another nuclear arms race? No? Me neither. So maybe you'll find this article as scary as I do.
Thursday, March 13, 2003
Tomorrow is the first of the two nights of student filmaking excitement that is the ninth annual UWO Film Festival. Aimee, my favourite student direktor and dramatic co-conspirator (you may remember her for her direction in such stage play's as Memoria by The Incomparable Natalie St.Pierre [seriously, that's what the birth certificate says!]), has a film in the festival again this year. And again this year my voice underscores her vision.
Last year, my voice was one of many that Aimee layered and used as a chaotic and cacophonic accompaniment to her first film, an agitation film which took the third prize in the festival. Not bad for a first endeavour! That only gives you an inkling of how brilliant she is!
This year, it's another treat for the audience: an aesthetic answer to the question, "Where is the city?" Her images are set to a Beat/Ginsberg-inspired poem written by our mutual friend Luke and read by yours truly. Yup. That's right. My sexy voice makes another guest starring appearance. Well, rather, it appears in the Best Supporting category. The real stars of the film are, of course, Aimee's images. Sorry, Luke, but your poem plays second fiddle to Aimee's vision.
It really is a beautiful little film. All about London, too. I am so there to support her tomorrow night! And not to hear my own voice. I hear my own voice all the time (trust me, I'm talkative.) And I've seen the film already. But, as with any film I love, I'm only too happy to watch it again!
I'd love to write her something to direct. She doesn't do narrative films, though. Hers are more concept-driven. I think I'm up to the challenge. But even if I wasn't, she'd make anything I turned out look good. The girl's got vision in spades.
Aimee Mitchell really is brilliant. Watch for her. She's going to be big one of these days.
Listening to "Elsewhere" by Sarah McLachlan.
Reading Pornography and the Sex Crisis by Susan G. Cole and the Spring 2003 issue of Bust.
Last year, my voice was one of many that Aimee layered and used as a chaotic and cacophonic accompaniment to her first film, an agitation film which took the third prize in the festival. Not bad for a first endeavour! That only gives you an inkling of how brilliant she is!
This year, it's another treat for the audience: an aesthetic answer to the question, "Where is the city?" Her images are set to a Beat/Ginsberg-inspired poem written by our mutual friend Luke and read by yours truly. Yup. That's right. My sexy voice makes another guest starring appearance. Well, rather, it appears in the Best Supporting category. The real stars of the film are, of course, Aimee's images. Sorry, Luke, but your poem plays second fiddle to Aimee's vision.
It really is a beautiful little film. All about London, too. I am so there to support her tomorrow night! And not to hear my own voice. I hear my own voice all the time (trust me, I'm talkative.) And I've seen the film already. But, as with any film I love, I'm only too happy to watch it again!
I'd love to write her something to direct. She doesn't do narrative films, though. Hers are more concept-driven. I think I'm up to the challenge. But even if I wasn't, she'd make anything I turned out look good. The girl's got vision in spades.
Aimee Mitchell really is brilliant. Watch for her. She's going to be big one of these days.
Reading Pornography and the Sex Crisis by Susan G. Cole and the Spring 2003 issue of Bust.
You know what movie I forgot to add to my list of favourite flicks? Das Schreckliche Mädchen (The Nasty Girl) directed by Michael Verhoeven. It illustrates what lengths people will go to in order to hide the truth.
Tuesday, March 11, 2003
I would like to state for the record that Frances McDormand is so freaking cool, it's scary. She's the covergirl for the Spring 2003 issue of Bust (photographed by Michael Lavine). Doesn't she look gorgeous? Her interview with Wednesday Martin is featured inside.
So what makes Frances so freaking cool? Here's a sample:
On her new film, Laurel Canyon:
I wanted to do nudity. I felt like, all right, I'm 45, I've got cellulite, I've got stretch marks. I'm feeling really good about myself. Let's stick it out there.
On body image:
And I'm really glad that I eat red meat and drink alcohol and do other things. So there you have it. And genetically, you got dealt a certain hand and regardless of what you do, you've got it, and it's not gonna change that much. And you can manipulate it through exercise and diet, but at the end of the day, if you don't celebrate it in some way, you just become invisible.
On wrinkles and aging gracefully:
The idea of erasing the emblems of what we've achieved is blasphemy. It's self-mutilation to an extraordinary degree, because I know where all these things came from. [...] Why would I ever want that to go away? Why would I take it away? It's mine! It's my medal. It's a roadmap of where you've been; it's great.
And Frances is simply great. And so is Bust. So what are you waiting for? Go pick up a copy already!
So what makes Frances so freaking cool? Here's a sample:
On her new film, Laurel Canyon:
I wanted to do nudity. I felt like, all right, I'm 45, I've got cellulite, I've got stretch marks. I'm feeling really good about myself. Let's stick it out there.
On body image:
And I'm really glad that I eat red meat and drink alcohol and do other things. So there you have it. And genetically, you got dealt a certain hand and regardless of what you do, you've got it, and it's not gonna change that much. And you can manipulate it through exercise and diet, but at the end of the day, if you don't celebrate it in some way, you just become invisible.
On wrinkles and aging gracefully:
The idea of erasing the emblems of what we've achieved is blasphemy. It's self-mutilation to an extraordinary degree, because I know where all these things came from. [...] Why would I ever want that to go away? Why would I take it away? It's mine! It's my medal. It's a roadmap of where you've been; it's great.
And Frances is simply great. And so is Bust. So what are you waiting for? Go pick up a copy already!
Saturday, March 08, 2003
Friday, March 07, 2003
From PageSix.com comes further proof that Alfred Kinsey was on to something with his sliding scale of sexuality:
"I REFUSED to be boxed into the idea that, ‘Oh, no, I can't have kids 'cause I'm gay.' I can have kids if I'm gay. And I can also get married and have a fantastic life. To all questions with my marriage, the answer to everything is yes. Do I have sex with my wife? Yes. Is it a real marriage? Yes. Am I gay? Yes" - director Stephen "The Hours" Daldry in the Advocate
Bottomline? Labels are manufactured, not innate. You can't compartmentalize a human being.
"I REFUSED to be boxed into the idea that, ‘Oh, no, I can't have kids 'cause I'm gay.' I can have kids if I'm gay. And I can also get married and have a fantastic life. To all questions with my marriage, the answer to everything is yes. Do I have sex with my wife? Yes. Is it a real marriage? Yes. Am I gay? Yes" - director Stephen "The Hours" Daldry in the Advocate
Bottomline? Labels are manufactured, not innate. You can't compartmentalize a human being.
Natalie's Favourite Albums
1.) London Calling by The Clash
2.) ( ) by Sigur Ros
3.) "Strangeways, Here I Come", Hatful of Hollow and The Queen is Dead by The Smiths
4.) Revolver and Rubber Soul by The Beatles
5.) Parachutes and A Rush of Blood to the Head by Coldplay
6.) Underdogs by The Matthew Good Band
7.) Pulse by Pink Floyd (the only live album worth owning!)
8.) Rumours by Fleetwood Mac
9.) Splendor Solis and The Edges of Twilight by The Tea Party
10.) Love in the Time of Science by Emiliana Torrini
11.) You Were Here by Sarah Harmer
Natalie's Favourite Books
1.) The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien
2.) The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
3.) Changing Heaven by Jane Urquhart
4.) Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte
5.) Barometer Rising by Hugh Maclennan
6.) Demian by Hermann Hesse
7.) 1984 and Animal Farm by George Orwell
8.) The Wars by Timothy Findley
9.) The Magic Toyshop by Angela Carter
10.) Swann by Carol Shields
11.) Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town by Stephen Leacock
12.) Green Grass, Running Water by Thomas King
13.) Cassandra by Christa Wolf
Natalie's Favourite Flicks
1.) The Lord of the Rings - yes, I'm including all three here even though I won't see Return of the King until this December.
2.) The Last Unicorn - a childhood favourite. I haven't seen it in years, but it's still a favourite. Christopher Lee and Mia Farrow have voice credits.
3.) Elizabeth - only recently saw this flick after years of longing to see it! And it didn't disappoint!
4.) Annie Hall and Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid to Ask - two words: Woody Allen. Now, three more words: hysterical and intelligent.
5.) Quadrophenia - based on The Who's concept album of the same name.
6.) The Godfather - yes, all three here, too. Do I have a preference? Even thought the first two are MUCh better films, the much maligned third installment has the Andy Garcia factor...
7.) Fast Times at Ridgemont High - #7-9: what can I say? I'm an '80s junkie!
8.) Pretty in Pink and The Breakfast Club
9.) St. Elmo's Fire
10.) Grand Hotel - set in Berlin in 1937, it's a beautiful that defines ensemble acting (Greta Garbo, Joan Crawford, Lionel Barrymore, John Barrymore top the list here.) Truly a treat.
11.) The Three Faces of Eve - Joanne Woodward's acting tour de force.
12.) The Stepford Wives - edited to add. How could I forget this flick?! No matter how many times I watch this movie, it never fails to agitate and spark my critical faculties.
I know these lists typically only have ten movies in them, but in many cases, I just couldn't narrow it down! The good news is that I'll spare you the lists of my favourite poems and plays...
1.) London Calling by The Clash
2.) ( ) by Sigur Ros
3.) "Strangeways, Here I Come", Hatful of Hollow and The Queen is Dead by The Smiths
4.) Revolver and Rubber Soul by The Beatles
5.) Parachutes and A Rush of Blood to the Head by Coldplay
6.) Underdogs by The Matthew Good Band
7.) Pulse by Pink Floyd (the only live album worth owning!)
8.) Rumours by Fleetwood Mac
9.) Splendor Solis and The Edges of Twilight by The Tea Party
10.) Love in the Time of Science by Emiliana Torrini
11.) You Were Here by Sarah Harmer
Natalie's Favourite Books
1.) The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien
2.) The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
3.) Changing Heaven by Jane Urquhart
4.) Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte
5.) Barometer Rising by Hugh Maclennan
6.) Demian by Hermann Hesse
7.) 1984 and Animal Farm by George Orwell
8.) The Wars by Timothy Findley
9.) The Magic Toyshop by Angela Carter
10.) Swann by Carol Shields
11.) Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town by Stephen Leacock
12.) Green Grass, Running Water by Thomas King
13.) Cassandra by Christa Wolf
Natalie's Favourite Flicks
1.) The Lord of the Rings - yes, I'm including all three here even though I won't see Return of the King until this December.
2.) The Last Unicorn - a childhood favourite. I haven't seen it in years, but it's still a favourite. Christopher Lee and Mia Farrow have voice credits.
3.) Elizabeth - only recently saw this flick after years of longing to see it! And it didn't disappoint!
4.) Annie Hall and Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid to Ask - two words: Woody Allen. Now, three more words: hysterical and intelligent.
5.) Quadrophenia - based on The Who's concept album of the same name.
6.) The Godfather - yes, all three here, too. Do I have a preference? Even thought the first two are MUCh better films, the much maligned third installment has the Andy Garcia factor...
7.) Fast Times at Ridgemont High - #7-9: what can I say? I'm an '80s junkie!
8.) Pretty in Pink and The Breakfast Club
9.) St. Elmo's Fire
10.) Grand Hotel - set in Berlin in 1937, it's a beautiful that defines ensemble acting (Greta Garbo, Joan Crawford, Lionel Barrymore, John Barrymore top the list here.) Truly a treat.
11.) The Three Faces of Eve - Joanne Woodward's acting tour de force.
12.) The Stepford Wives - edited to add. How could I forget this flick?! No matter how many times I watch this movie, it never fails to agitate and spark my critical faculties.
I know these lists typically only have ten movies in them, but in many cases, I just couldn't narrow it down! The good news is that I'll spare you the lists of my favourite poems and plays...
Thursday, March 06, 2003
Candice just posted a great satirical letter penned by Monty Python's Terry Jones to the editor of the London newspaper The Observer. Hop on over to her page and check it out.
When it came to discussing the recent Grammy Awards tribute to The Clash, I've held my keyboard. No more. I have to get this off of my chest.
WHY? Why did they not just let Elvis Costello do the vocal line? Why? I mean, I like Bruce Springsteen and Dave Grohl's voices. But NOT for The Clash's music. Yeah, yeah. I know it's a tribute, that it was done out of admiration and respect, but still. I would've liked to have heard more of Elvis Costello paying tribute to Joe Strummer's vocals and a little less of the rest of them. And Steve Van Zandt?!?! Who gave him permission to sing along? Argh!
As for Van Zandt's guitar solo, I will admit I enjoyed it. In fact, I really liked it. It's a good solo in and of itself. It's just not The Clash. Sigh.
So okay. My expectations were a little unrealistic and nothing short of the complete line up of The Clash would have satisfied me. But can you blame me? It's The Clash!
WHY? Why did they not just let Elvis Costello do the vocal line? Why? I mean, I like Bruce Springsteen and Dave Grohl's voices. But NOT for The Clash's music. Yeah, yeah. I know it's a tribute, that it was done out of admiration and respect, but still. I would've liked to have heard more of Elvis Costello paying tribute to Joe Strummer's vocals and a little less of the rest of them. And Steve Van Zandt?!?! Who gave him permission to sing along? Argh!
As for Van Zandt's guitar solo, I will admit I enjoyed it. In fact, I really liked it. It's a good solo in and of itself. It's just not The Clash. Sigh.
So okay. My expectations were a little unrealistic and nothing short of the complete line up of The Clash would have satisfied me. But can you blame me? It's The Clash!
Wednesday, March 05, 2003
WHAT?!?! Will reality television PLEASE go away???
Yes, yet another reality television shows will be thrust on an already-exhausted, already-irritating market. This time around it's ABC's All American Girl. Apparently, the Miss America/Miss USA pageants are no longer adequate. They have to introduce a far more dangerous show--one whose short-sightedness not only narrowly defines female beauty, but pigeon-holes what it is to be American as well!
Lovely.
But to attack the All American Girl program alone isn't right. All reality television needs to go. It has long overstayed it's welcome. Are You Hot?: The Search for America's Sexiest People, Married By America... Come on.
At first, reality television was at least interesting. Well, not in the sense that it was intellectually engaging, but it at least satisfied curiosity at the upstart genre pioneered by MTV (The Real World; Road Rules) and--later--Mark Burnett of Survivor fame. But now? Cheap. Cheaper than cheap. It was always cheap, pandering to everyone's baser, inner voyeur (don't think people have inner voyeurs? why else do we care about what Michael Jackson does/doesn't do to his face? why else is Robert Downey Jr's struggles with substance abuse newsworthy?) But now?
Now it's valueless. Insulting.
So, PLEASE! Make it go away! Tune out reality television. Change the channel. Watch the news (providing it's not CNN, let that be your reality television!) Or turn the t.v. off entirely and, gasp!, read a newspaper or, better still!, a book!!! Please.
Make the reality television stop! Curls up in fetal position, and rocks back and forth while humming to self...
Yes, yet another reality television shows will be thrust on an already-exhausted, already-irritating market. This time around it's ABC's All American Girl. Apparently, the Miss America/Miss USA pageants are no longer adequate. They have to introduce a far more dangerous show--one whose short-sightedness not only narrowly defines female beauty, but pigeon-holes what it is to be American as well!
Lovely.
But to attack the All American Girl program alone isn't right. All reality television needs to go. It has long overstayed it's welcome. Are You Hot?: The Search for America's Sexiest People, Married By America... Come on.
At first, reality television was at least interesting. Well, not in the sense that it was intellectually engaging, but it at least satisfied curiosity at the upstart genre pioneered by MTV (The Real World; Road Rules) and--later--Mark Burnett of Survivor fame. But now? Cheap. Cheaper than cheap. It was always cheap, pandering to everyone's baser, inner voyeur (don't think people have inner voyeurs? why else do we care about what Michael Jackson does/doesn't do to his face? why else is Robert Downey Jr's struggles with substance abuse newsworthy?) But now?
Now it's valueless. Insulting.
So, PLEASE! Make it go away! Tune out reality television. Change the channel. Watch the news (providing it's not CNN, let that be your reality television!) Or turn the t.v. off entirely and, gasp!, read a newspaper or, better still!, a book!!! Please.
Make the reality television stop! Curls up in fetal position, and rocks back and forth while humming to self...
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