Highbraü 4 - This Land by Highbrau Magazine

Volume I, Issue IV

AUTUMN 011

HIGHBRAÜ

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THIS LAND

Volume I - Issue IV - AUTUMN 011

IMAGES

Words

City Center

MICHAEL CHARPENTIER

13,18

6-9 BRONWYN FREY

BRONWYN FREY

16,17

16-17 JANE MCGUINNESS

ERIC MOULDS

6-9

3-5 FRANKE JAMES

JON PELLETIER

3,4

18-20 IAN WILLMS

JACOB PRIES

18-20

10-12 R. SCHULTZ 14-15 ALI REZA SULTANI 13

Copy EditOR: ARIEL KROON ADVERTISING: RYAN GILLIES

Mark Ciesluk

Cover: Danielle McCrorey Back cover: CITY CENTER (TOP) IAN WILLmS (BOTTOM)

EDITORS

Graham Engel

HIGHBRAUMAGAZINE.COM

Our Pledge to You, The Reader/Future Anthropologist Highbraü Magazine is funded first and foremost by the editor-initiators, our friends and our family. Thank you. We are open and receptive to the support of advertisers whose continued success we consider to be in the community’s interest. We intend and pledge to bring together local and international selections which celebrate excellence in word and form, art and argument. Highbraü is predicated on the hope that through communal collaboration an enrichment of all of our perspectives and talents is possible. This new forum hereby solicits any and all submissions offered in the spirit of inquiry and exposition; obviously, we are not in the business of providing a platform for discriminatory or inflammatory expression. Our first principle: No Haters. Whatever else Highbraü may come to be said to be, we sincerely hope that it will always be recognised as being offered to our community in the spirit of Peace. Highbraü Magazine seeks submissions on any topic related to the theme of a particular issue. We do not wish to represent any particular bias or slant save the ones given by the contributors of individual works. All original perspectives are welcomed. Highbraü needs contributors! If you would like to be part of our Bullpen, a staff mailing list which will be the first informed of themes and to which we turn with specific requests for illustrations, photos, etc, please contact us at

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A-MUSEMENT Under one definition, amusement is what we do in order to avoid thinking. What do you find amusing? What are we trying to avoid thinking about?

Submissions Due: Feburary 5th (Just in time for a new year of distraction)

DOIN’ IT So what are you up to these days, anyways? Highbrau wants to know how you’re expressing and expanding yourself. What are you doing with your time on our Earth? Submissions Due: May (Just in time to get excited about doin’ it all summer)

SPEAKING FRANKLY: FREE SPEECH IN CANADA BY ERIC MOULDS

aving been born and raised in this country, I grew up understanding that when we are compared to many, many other places in the world, Canada is a safe-haven of freedom and opportunity for many of the world’s downtrodden. This land shelters those who seek asylum from brutal regimes and inhospitable living conditions, and it has treated me very well. I am truly grateful for this, but have grown uneasy recently, having heard about government interventions preventing artistic and scientific expression, preventing freedom of speech. For example, the story of Franke James, a Croation not-for-profit appropriately named Nektarina Non Profit, and the Harper Government. Have you heard of Franke James? (If not, you should take a minute to explore her work at frankejames.com) Franke James is a visual artist; she uses a combination of technical data, photography, and visual symbols in 16 different “visual essays” arguing various pro-environmental points. (Mostly: Some are not explicitly environmentalist, like “Dinner with a Stranger”, which is still a good read, or “12,000 Sitting Ducks” about the 2008 propane-tank explosion in Toronto). For example, “Who Cares about the Forest” is about the Forest Stewardship Council of Canada (FSC), a visual essay promoting ecologically conscious consumption of paper products, as well as the three R’s of ‘Reduce, Reuse, and Recycle’, in order to be a better envi-

ronmentalist. It is an informative and entertaining explanation of why FSC certification matters. “What can one person do when 6.8 billion are frying the planet?” is a visual essay from the perspective of a resident of Toronto, and how they can help themselves and

their city mitigate CO2 emissions, and ready themselves for the impending “droughts, storms, invasive insects, food shortages” that will come with climate change. “Ending the Climate War” is James’ response to Eric Pooley’s “The Climate War”. This visual essay explores the exasperating inaction of (American) politicians when it comes to making choices that put the environ-

ment, and all those people whose lives and well-being depend on the land, water, and life-giving bio-systems that depend on said environment, on par with the needs of our gas, oil, and coal economies. James ends this essay by saying “It’s the environment, stupid”, a phrase that could be as important for all future political campaigns as its economic analogue was for Bill Clinton’s 1992 run against George Bush Sr. (Regardless, my favorite might be “Fat Cat Canada’s Litter Box”; you should check that one out…).

erhaps you may have seen her work in the news, if not on her website, frankejames.com, or exhibited in a gallery. Recently she was featured in publications like the Toronto Star (28/07/11), the Vancouver Sun (8/8/11), and the Ottawa Metro (15/8/11). James made the news not because of her artistic endeavors per se, but because her upcoming, NGO organized European exhibition tour was nixed by the political leadership in Ottawa. James was set to do a twenty-stop Eastern European and Asian tour, exhibiting her artwork and doing workshops to promote youth environmentalism and public outreach, organized by the Croatian not-for-profit, Nektarina Non Profit (nektarinanonprofit.com). Nektarina is an “international non-profit organization dedicated to educating, connecting and inspiring people to care about their communities and their environment”, and saw itself making an excellent fit with the work of Franke James: “Nektarina Non Profit believes that it is the right of every person – artists and intellectuals in particular – to freely express their opinion and to be able to pose the question about their government’s accountability on spe3

cific decisions. This is all the more important when such governmental decisions potentially impact the welfare of a large demographic, natural resources or both.” (Nektarinanonprofit.com; “Bully in the Playground”)

n an effort to garner more support from recognized institutions as partners (which is useful for grant applications, often being what is essential to fund a project in any non-profit endeavor), Nektarina reached out to the government of Canada, and their embassies abroad, for an endorsement and sponsorship. Initially, the response was warm and supportive from Canada’s embassy in Croatia; “Nektarina’s San-

dra Antonovic, in charge of international projects, told the Star in an interview that Canadian embassy officials were initially enthusiastic, and said Canada would back the tour and Nektarina’s promotion of a Canadian artist,” even going so far as to say that up to $5000 might be made available to support the exhibition. This supportive attitude was quickly reversed, with Antonovic reporting that “a senior Canadian official” had said:

Who was the idiot who approved an art show by that woman, Franke James?... Don’t you know this lady speaks against the Canadian government?

Nektarina Non Profit’s online statement regarding this matter does not feature this quote, but shares the same tone: “In the past few months we have encountered many difficulties in organizing the exhibitions, usually connected to interventions of the Canadian Government or institutions under Canadian governmental control. We continued to look for ways to collaborate with the home land of the artist, although at times we felt patronized and even intimidated, as a small NGO trying to reach an understanding with a powerful state.”

or a government that seeks the exploitation of available natural re-

Images courtesy of Franke James

sources, regardless of its cost to environmental and human well-being, this response makes sense. Why would you support an artist that contributes to criticism of a government’s shitty environmental record? Why would you want to sponsor someone who openly criticizes your policies? If we can get past the jobs-and-GDP-first mentality that comes with these economically darktimes, we can realize the chilling fact that the active “blacklisting” (James’ term) of those voices that are presenting legitimate and necessary information that runs against the government’s ambitions is censorship! Further, it is not limited to artists and not-for-profit organizations. For example, look at the stifling of scientific information. Margaret Munro, in an article for the Montreal Gazette (“Ottawa tightens muzzle on climate change, tar sands”; 13/09/10), writes of the increased governmental control over scientists freedom to speak to the media about the results of their research. According to Munro, the scientists’ “‘media-lines’...need ministerial approval” before hitting the presses, which stifles the flow of information, much of which is often “of significant public interest.” When it comes to scientific censorship, the government is not limited to silencing researchers who (in this case) were discussing the environmental impacts of the tar-sands, or of climate change. Recently, a similar case came to light in which the government silenced Department of Fisheries researcher Kristi Miller, preventing her from speaking to the media about her recent paper on possible (yes, not actual, but only possible) causes of the 2009 sockeye salmon collapse in B.C. (CBC, “DFO scientist says Privy Council silenced her”, 29/08/11). Another example of stifled speech would be Canada’s former diplomat Richard Colvin. Colvin was the diplomat who, in 2006, claimed that prisoners captured by coalition forces in Afghanistan, were then transferred to Afghani prisons, were tortured as part of their interrogation and detain-

ment. Under the Geneva conventions, if Canada knew about this treatment, they were legally responsible for the treatment of detainees. Colvin testified that he had warned the Canadian government of this, during a 2009 military commission. Yet Colvin’s testimony was crippled by the heavy government censoring of his email communications which he swore would clearly show he had been warning the government. The truth of the matter is hidden behind layers of black marker, behind rows of red tape. (This is popularly known as the Afghan Detainee Torture Scandal, and it affects not just the Harper Conservatives, but the Martin Liberals; look it up.)

he string of issues presented here may seem to be a slate of attacks against Harper’s Conservative government; after all, they are examples that come from the time of his reign, and they are issues that do not cast his rule in a positive light. (For good reason; a more detailed analysis of Harper communication policy than the one found here would probably give solid grounds for the claim that ‘the Harper government’ is one which is tight-fisted, controlling and, I dare say, manipulative of information; but that’s a different essay altogether…) Yet the issue of censorship in Canada is not exclusive to the current government. For example, there is a long history of censoring queer culture, evidence of which can be found in provincial and municipal bodies, as well as other government agencies, all of which eventually trickle down into Canadian culture at large. For example, the Canadian Border Services Agency has a long history of censoring or denying the shipment of materials it has deemed “obscene”, for example in the case of Vancouver’s Little Sister’s book store, materials about gay and lesbian relationships and lifestyles. These same materials are not denied shipment to larger-chain bookstores, but have regularly been denied to smaller enterprises. Materials deemed “obscene” to particular sets of “community values”

(i.e. anyone who objects to homosexual and/or queer sexuality) are regularly shrouded (literally, in the 29/11/10 case of artist R Bruce Flowers and the Tilsonburg public library). “Obscene” identities and the world-views that accompany them are regularly denied the same tax-credits and supports offered to other artists and film producers whose work, though not promoting a queer lifestyle, may still be artistically challenging in its own right. This intentional closing of community spaces for lifestyles and viewpoints that are not mirror-images of a narrow range of “community values” is a subtle form of censorship at work in Canadian society. It leads inhabitants of this land to silence and doubt their own voices for not speaking in sync with the attitudes found in this “community”.

hen we compare this land to other countries around the world, we can easily note greater freedom of speech than many countries. While it does happen, Canada does not throw all its dissident voices in jails like Syria, Libya, or Iran might. Canada does not execute those who do not toe the party line in the way the Soviet Union or other dictatorships have. Standing this country up and comparing it to even more brutal lands might make us grateful we live here, but comparing this land to other lands is a shallow measure of how good things actually are. Measuring this land against itself is the only way to push and improve the quality of life, and the freedom of speech, available to those who inhabit it. We should not be in the business of measuring ourselves against others; we should be in the business of measuring ourselves against ourselves. Special thanks to J. Lee for introducing me to the work of Franke James, and to Evan Coole for introducing me to the long history of Canadian antagonism to queer expression. A huge special thanks to Franke James for contributing artistic work to this piece! 5

ALADDIN’S CAVE WRITTEN BY MICHAEL CHARPENTIER ILLUSTRATED BY JANE MCGUINNESS St. Francis of Assisi was excavated and delivered from three objects pulled from his ears and mouth - a single alpha brainwave, a spinal knot, and a locket containing seven white hairs and ten silver coins tied together with four hemp strands. - Samwell Higgins, ‘Afterlives of the Saints’

“Was this made in Haiti?”

aint Jacob’s Market. It is 7:30am, and I have been working for one hour and thirty minutes. Before: no customers. The woman asking is in her forties. She looks healthy, mom-ish, possibly intellectual. “No,” I tell her. “It was made in Mexico. Most of what we sell comes handmade from Mexico.” She touches the tablecloth with a caress like memory. She massages the fabric between her index and middle fingers and her thumb. The tablecloth

is muy colorido, the eye finds first the exciting yellow, pink and lime patterns, before reconciling with the reasonable dark greens and navy blues throughout. “I thought it was from Haiti. Many years ago, I had a friend doing some relief work in Haiti. A local woman made her a tablecloth almost identical to this one, and when she returned from her work she gave me the tablecloth as a gift.” “There’s remarkable textile arts practiced quite commonly throughout much of the world,” I tell her. “It’s impressive.” “Yes, it is.” She says, and something of a look of reservation sweeps her face. “My father-in-law spilled coffee on it, once. I was very angry with him about it at the time. I even managed to get most of the stain out of it.” “Was it hard to get out?” “Most of it, no. There’s still a small stain. Don’t really notice it if you don’t know it’s there,” she shrugs. “Still,” I say. “That sucks.” “He’s passed now.” She says to me, and gives me a warm, closed-lipped smile. “Whenever I see it, it reminds me of him.”

he double-cross was complete. All around, darkness. Just darkness. The rumble of the cave entrance collapsing echoed through his mind. Aladdin had never contemplated the nature of betrayal before. It was like his uncle hired him as a mason to scale a tall new building, promising to hold the lad-

der, only to leave once he was up at the most dangerous point, alone. Aladdin did not think these thoughts; too absorbed by the permeating chill of helplessness flowing through his body, the heaviness in his limbs, the sound of blood rushing to his head, the stress, his poor mother, oh! She will die of bereavement, my uncle, the wizard, the wizard, the wizard, I am such a fool, good-for-nothing, will they remember me at all? My poor mother, oh! She will die of bereavement, dead in a cave in Maghreb, such a damned fool... What was China like? China, home of my youth, my only world until recently, what do I know of you? In this dark cave, you are alive with colours. I can’t remember you! I know nothing of you! If only I could return home, just once, so that I may soak in its sights, to hear its sounds, to float with its smells... China, my home; Despair, my grave.

n Arab from China. The idea is not preposterous. After all, human rights activists tell us that there are many Chinese Muslims, and the internet says formal diplomatic relations between the two cultures date back further than a millennium. This, however,

is not a Chinese story about a ChineseArab, it is an Arab story about a boy who is Chinese for no other reason than that China was the furthest East one could fathom at the time, and thus the edge of the world. That Aladdin travels from China to the Maghreb of North Africa is comparable in our modern understanding of the globe to me starting in the Eastern-most point of Japan and travelling West until I arrive at the Western-most point of British Columbia. Thus, the adventure of Aladdin’s search for the magic lamp is a story that encompasses the globe. And yet, Aladdin’s is not a global story. Aladdin’s China is populated by Jews and Dervishes. Everybody possesses an Arabic name. “ ‫نيدلا ءالع‬ Ala’ Ad-Din: nobility of the faith.” Aladdin’s China is an invention, a convenient rhetoric to give a name to “far away.” So, do we feel cheated? No, Aladdin’s author made an accepted move in story-telling: to distort a truth in order to bring us closer to another truth. Naming China as Aladdin’s origin must have given the character a suitable reality for the story, in that he is from a place, one that the listener knows exists but has no first-hand knowledge of. This is so much the better, because people have difficulty accepting the wondrous in the world that’s close by. We identify with the adventures of an exotic Other, acting in a land that exists solely in the imagination.

4. …Aladdin from China to Maghreb in search of a magic lamp, Aeneas charging into the flames of Troy to save the cherished idols of the Trojan household gods, thousands circle al-Ka’bha, alleged possessions and remains of the Saints scattered across Medieval Europe provoke ecstasy from pilgrims, Virgin Mary toast sells at $28,000 …

5. The back of it says Italy, above the head

of the saviour INRI; He might be pewter, I don’t know what wood the cross is made from.

n Moonbeam the growing season is extremely short, permafrost persisting at least until July. A funeral date was set for August 2004 - to be sure despite his passing in December 2003. You cannot put into the ground what the ground will not take, so cremation was considered necessary. My uncles and godfather brought my father’s ashes on a pub crawl to celebrate his life and mourn his passing. Très Canadien. Six pubs into the night my godfather realized that my father’s soul was still in the state of purification, or Purgatory. “Oh God, no! Rheal, ‘e is still waiting for dere to be judgment on ‘is eternal soul! We ‘ave doomed ‘im wit’ arr zinful ways.” What dawned on him was how the soul, in this state, is particularly susceptible to temporal influence: what if, instead of the burning fire of purification, my father, in sudden awareness of his kinsmen’s sinful night, became attached to the world, and chose the dingy bar at two am instead of the infinite, loving warmth of the Almighty, condemning him to a certain eternity in Hell? What if his soul leaped from the urn into bottle of Export? Can that happen? Is there a theologian available for calls at this hour? The possible worlds of torment reeled about the room like ten shots of rye. The team downed their glasses, and held hands in prayer around the table, dipping low their somber heads. “Ourr Fader, ‘ave mercy on arr Rheal. ‘e may not ‘ave been a good Cat’olic, but ‘e probably was - certainly! - ‘e certainly was a good man. If you can give ‘im whatever courage ‘e may need to stay strong in ‘is trials, we would like dat. Look after ‘im, God. Rheal, if you can ‘ear us, we love you, you arr arr brodder, and arr friend. Keep God in yourr ‘eart, press on toward ‘eaven and enter de ring of eternity.” Snot and

tears pooled before them on the table, as they crossed themselves and each passed their Amens onto the reflective silence. Then the bartender thought they’d had enough.

7. …Brother André’s heart is stolen from St. Joseph’s Oratory, Roy Orbison’s blind soul resides entirely in his glasses, Ibn Saud demolishes the tombs of the Prophet Muhammad’s family members, the whereabouts of the angel’s pilfered penis from Oscar Wilde’s gravestone are unknown...

e never know much of Aladdin’s mother. Men’s inventories of women’s details too frequently stop at “beautiful”. How easily her trust is won by this man of the Maghreb, claiming to be the brother of her late husband, and his generous plot to turn her delinquent son into a wealthy merchant. It seems like the promise of riches is quite enough for her to betray those intuitive pangs of heart, warning her: “Be careful! Think first of the safety of your son!” In the crevices of her routines she meditates daily on the final untold argument she had with her son before he set off for his uncle’s Maghreb. Her voice chased her teenage son down the busy Chinese streets: “Even across the world you cannot hide from yourself!” All mothers speak with the voice of Cassandra; teenagers, with the hubris of Odysseus. I imagine her in the evening amongst Aladdin’s things. Memories sting her like electric shock as if her son somehow inhabited all these objects. She’s shed her tears, said her prayers for his safety. It’s a cruel thing that sons do to their mothers. Between her thumb and her two forefingers she rubs Aladdin’s blanket, one she herself had woven him. Ex7

amining the simple pattern, she finds a small, dark stain. It looks almost as if it’s been faded from being washed. She doesn’t know what it is or what could have caused it. And suddenly, cold emotion pours downward and pools into her abdomen: she fears the worst for her son.

to the surface. Flowers poke out of our dead. They go to seed, and then they wilt, fall, return to the ground that bore them. I’ve never seen them—Moonbeam is too far for me to go—but I hope they are there. Any beginning has its frustration, and even sadness has its sweetness. Countless times I’ve walked past the Catholic church in Owen Sound. The steeple is modest; the parish hall always seemed very long. A service for your father is something you should have, my mother believes. My only time inside the building was a short, informal meeting with the priest. His words were very kind, the sort you’d expect, God grant you strength to carry through this difficult time; he said a prayer for the dead. He gave me a small cross. My memory of it is short, still a haze, bewildering. Amen.

10.

I 9.

“

I think he was embarrassed. He left his family farm in Moonbeam against his family’s wishes. You know, they’re fairly conservative. ‘Why waste your money on a college? Get a man’s job at the mill’ was his father’s mentality. That was very hard for your father. So when he left to go to join the army so he could get an education, it created a very deep rift between him and the rest of his family. He stayed close with a couple of his brothers, and his cousin Roger - that’s your godfather --” “Yes, Mom, I know who my godfather is.” “-but I think he always felt a deep sense of shame. I think when he was travelling everywhere, it was the same as his drinking, he was trying to get as far as he could from the sense of disappointment he thought his family had in him.” Any ending is debatable, yet not without its own sadness. The ground thaws and yawns for what’s been lost

n Moonbeam, Ontario, population 1200, there is a plot of land that is a testament to my lineage.

Though I have never been there, the land’s historical vestiges caress me with their ghostly chill. What is owed to an imaginary homeland? Somewhere up North, there is a cold, barren settlement where survival against the winter is still a challenge, not just emotionally. There are farm houses, I think. My family owns a farm up there; what they grow beats me. My father was the seventh son of a seventh son (“My pappy was a pistol; I’m a son-ofa-gun”), matched by seven sisters; his hand was deformed from a childhood accident because there wasn’t a doctor in town. My aunt Therese - who I have never met - sends me religious tracts on behalf of the Jehovah’s Witnesses, with nice little handwritten letters in half-French. The oldest, she is almost 90. I believe her memory to be slipping away; last year she ended a letter asking how my father has been doing. Sometimes I’ve served part-sober French-Canadian men at one of my jobs, always wearing plaid, and wondered: “Is he my uncle? Cousin?” His father upset when he took off for a city to get an electrician’s education instead of working a mill near the town; what

would my grandfather feel about my affinity for English words and mystical nonsense? So many loose ends tied together in my identity by the faint, hardly coherent image of a village, 49°21′00″N 82°09′00″W, or somewhere far away. What’s buried there is buried in me, so part of me is, in effect, buried there as well; what’s buried in me lives on in ideas, those ideas live on in objects that bring me close to what is buried, and so, part of me lives on in the made-up memory of that cold, Northern village.

11. …Crusaders toward Jerusalem to deliver the Holy Sepulchre, the thousands of letters interrupted by war, Psyche journeys into Hades to get a pinch of Persephone’s beauty, an iPod’s 451 parts travel all around the world to bring you listening pleasure …

12.

laddin’s despair is knowing against hope that death is imminent, and the prospect of dying without peace is enormous. Lying on the bottom of a cavern, nearing the altitude of Hell, spilling tears for the life he has not lived. What is China like? Why China? After all, isn’t this an old Arabian story? Must we always travel so far to appreciate our home? Those objects brimming with the vitality of the people we know, of where they have been, at whatever gives the warmth and hope of life at the bottom of the cavern, we are grasping at the threads of home. He’s shivering. Aladdin is cold. His legs are restless; his hands are numb and bitter. He begins to caress his fingers with each other, massaging the tops of his hands, knuckles, his pinkie finger, and then his ring finger, his ring - the stupid ring his stupid fake uncle, the stupid wizard, gave him! - when a tremor rocks his body like a small earthquake: thick, fluffy curls of light blue smoke unravel off of the in-

scription on the ring, coalescing into a thick billowing cloud, from which rises a blue man of raging, smokeless flame, sitting cross legged on the cloud. “Tabernac!” he cries out, “You ‘ave roused my spirit from dat stupid ring! I ‘ave been stuck inside derr since my brodders dey bring me to some bar. It was like I was floating toward de ‘eavenly gates, and St. Peter, ‘e looked at me with a warm, close-lipped smile, and den I ‘eard my cousin’s voice and was stuck inside dis stupid ring. I need a little drink. Where arr you going? I can give you a lift.” Perplexed, still uncertain, yet

humbled by this questionable turn of events, Aladdin says, slowly, just above a whisper: “China. Can you bring me to China? Can you bring me to my mother’s house?” Jane McGuinness is an illustrator from Scotland who enjoys making art with an emotional and mysterious direction. She likes sad, happy and funny things and is fond of pictures that tell stories. More of her work can be found at www.janemcguinness.co.uk 9

TOO BIG TO SUCCEED [MEGA QUARRY EXEMPLARY OF A BROKEN ECONOMIC SYSTEM]

BY JACOB J. PRIES

he Highland Companies, backed by a Boston hedge fund (part of the Wall Street cabal that is wreaking the global economic catastrophe), have applied to excavate a 2,300+ acre limestone quarry, 100 km northwest of Toronto, in Melancthon Township. A land protection movement has developed to challenge the Mega Quarry and they have focused their messaging on the impacts on peoples’ abilities to access to clean water, clean air, and access local food. These impacts of their claims are buttressed by pointing out that that this quarry would be the largest quarry in Canadian history, and the second largest in North America. The quarry would “irreversibly eradicate” some of southern Ontario’s most fertile farm land. The potatoes from this area supply 90% of Toronto’s demand, which according to the demonstrators represents “sustainable, local agriculture at its best.” The land for the Mega Quarry is located at the highest point of elevation in Southern Ontario and is home to the headwaters and sensitive recharge area of numerous important river systems that provide water resources for approximately 1 million Ontarians. Excavation would reach 1.5 times as deep as Niagara Falls and 200 feet below the water table and would use 600,000,000 litres of water every day. In addition, thousands of 40-tonne trucks would travel on local roads every day, 24 hours a day, driving the aggregate around Southern Ontario, creating huge amounts of emissions and dust.

he response to this monstrosity has been relatively large and sustained. The sheer size, the depth and breadth of the (w)hole project, has made it easy for so many people to be opposed to

the Mega Quarry. 28,000+ people attended Foodstock, a major event dedicated to raising awareness about the issue (that’s a lot of people at a protest in Ontario). Chefs from across Canada came together to showcase rural Ontario’s bounty and remind people that it is under attack. Thousands of letters have been written and the media coverage has been decent. This quarry has struck such a nerve with the public that the government has been forced to bow to pressure and require environmental assessment, which is a relatively rare occurrence in the aggregate industry. Environmental assessments are not required for many extractive industries, as the corporatocracy has convinced the state that the best regulation is self-regulation, and when they are required, they are often nothing more than a rubber stamp. One recent example is Strateco Resources Inc.’s proposed Matoush Uranium Exploration Project. The assessment found that a mine “does not have a social licence to proceed and identified a long list of inadequacies in the environmental assessment”, yet the project was approved. Even though this mega quarry has stirred up a lot of grit, it is not unique. The impacts of the Mega Quarry are only noticeable because of the unambiguous size and scope, and its proximity to wealthy individuals. Other quarries that aren’t so mega have similar impacts; they are just being done in bite sized morsels and in poorer communities. This is largely because of lax laws at both federal and provincial levels. Overall, Canada’s mining laws are some of the weakest globally, one of the main reasons that a huge proportion of mining companies that exist have a ‘headquarters’ in Canada. These ‘Ca-

nadian’ companies have a long history of destroying land and lives around the world with little fear of repercussions.

ining in Ontario has been especially problematic and the issues that have been brought to the surface by the Mega Quarry are nothing new. In the Ontario Environmental Commissioner’s Annual Report for 2006-2007, Gordon Miller slammed Ontario for its failure to protect the environment from the cumulative impacts of mineral exploration and development, and for its failure to respect the Constitutionally protected rights of First Nations in the Ontario Mining Act. In his report he decries that “this century-old system continues to rely on principles that do not reflect modern land use planning nor does it adequately safeguard environmental values.” One of the principles he is referring to is actually a ‘right’, The Right of Free Entry, which “allocates rights to… explore and potentially extract minerals on a tract of land through claims staked on a first-come, first-served basis. It guarantees the claim-holder the exclusive right to develop a mine on the land, if economically viable minerals are found. Free Entry applies to all Crown lands, most of which are First Nations traditional territory. It also applies to private properties, because mineral rights belong to the Crown, not to the surface-rights holder.” As a result of these issues, across Canada, communities and Aboriginal governments are saying they have had enough when it comes to the privileged access mining has to land under the existing system, which grants “free entry” to prospectors and mining companies under the assumption that mining is the “highest and best” use of land. Globally, communities are demanding a say in their own futures, and Indigenous peoples in particular are increasingly demanding free, prior, informed consent for development projects that will affect them.

The above image was adapted from an infographic by the folks at Hypenotic. View the larger (easier to read!) original image: hypenotic.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/08/quarry_big.gif

hile the government does little to regulate extractive industries, they continually show an affinity for criminalizing anti-mining dissent. There are several recent high profile cases that show just how far the government will go to ensure the primacy of corporate mining ‘rights’ over community interest. When several prominent community members of the remote Ontario reservations of Kitchenuhmaykoosib Inninuwug and Ardoch Algonquin First Nation spoke out against unregulated mineral exploration of their lands, the government attempted to criminalize their dissent by arresting and jailing those community leaders. Their crime had been opposition to mining projects that would inevitably poison the land and water their communities rely on. Mines are sold to the public on the pretence that communities want them and that they will bring jobs. Short term monetary gain can certainly be achieved with mines and the long term costs that end up being paid by the public purse can be disregarded. However, time and time again, once a company is done exploiting an area, it will move on, without effective clean up, having been allowed to make a major mess in the first place. Some groups in the land protection movement are forwarding policy recommendations to tackle this problem. The Green Party of Ontario

is the only party committed to stopping the proposed mega-quarry and promising specific revisions to the Aggregate Resources Act. They are calling for a revising of the Aggregate Resources Act to create incentives for more efficient use of aggregates, aggregate recycling, sustainable mining practices and stronger site rehabilitation efforts. They believe a full Environmental Assessment should be required for aggregate applications that meet the Ministry of Natural Resource’s definition of a mega quarry (currently 150,000,000 tonnes). They also advocate for strengthening efforts to sustain farmland and farmers, including consulting with farmers, municipalities and other stakeholders on ways to expand the Greenbelt and to prevent competing land uses such as quarries and gas plants from locating on prime farmland. Their position is making preservation and protection of our farmland, water resources and natural heritage a top priority in Ontario. One of the major challenges to any attempts to impose regulations on the industry is the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA). In 2008, an American company was denied its application to expand its basalt quartz quarry near Digby, N.S. and is suing the federal government for breaching the rules under NAFTA’s Chapter 11, claiming more than $100 million in damages.

et, even if this quarry was stopped tomorrow, and the mining laws get changed, that limestone will come out of the ground, those fields will be dug up. Just one at a time, on a more palatable scale. The Highland Companies’ top executive Joseph Izhakoff understands that there is a fundamental issue that needs to be addressed. In a recent CBC interview, he said that the one thing he would change about the project is that “we could always be better communicators, we can always be better at letting people know how much we care, that we are trying to be thoughtful about this, we are trying to do this the right way.” He is undoubtedly learning something from the Tar Sands propaganda machine, which has recently begun to run a major campaign and spend millions to convince Canadians and global investors that the Tar Sands, the dirtiest oil, is actually the cleanest. These mines, whether big or small, are useful in helping us understand the values of the currently crumbling economic system. It is a system that not only allows a giant hole to be dug, our water diverted and poisoned, polluted, our quality of life sacrificed, prime agricultural land turned into a pile of rubble… The system turns the land that feeds us into another disconjointed commodity. The economic system requires mass extraction. Our whole 11

economy in Canada is based on this type of extractive resource, whether it was skins/fur, trees, mines, oil, or industrial farms, in fact this ‘old’ economy requires that we quarry this much land. The limestone is demanded because we have decided that it is our building material of choice. We could grow renewable building materials on the land in a way that would allow this to be done in perpetuity. But the system is steered by a corporatocracy, which has its value set squarely in externalizing all possible costs and is reflected in all of the possible impacts of the quarry. The Mega Quarry shows how the current economic system is one that relegates little importance to clean water. These projects show how the old system is based on a stark hierarchy that exists that gives precedence to increases in stock prices, returns on investment, mutual funds, and corporate profit over the needs of communities to have access to healthy land now and in the future. Power holders trade long term livelihood and health of families for bulldozers full of rocks that end up costing much more over the long term. What it comes down to is that the only way to protect the farm land, the air, and the water is systemic change. Most of the anti-quarry demonstrators believe that the potato farms that would otherwise exist are much better, or as they say “sustainable, local agriculture at its best.” If you pass the proposed Mega Quarry site you will see a giant billboard that paints a dismal picture, if we don’t stop the Mega Quarry, we will lose our awesome farms. It is a stark dichotomy, however, it is a false dichotomy. When the Mega Quarry is stopped, the land is not all of a sudden protected from pollution and exploitation. Industrial agriculture, based on unsustainable mono-cropping, will continue to pour pesticides, fertilizers and a host of other poorly regulated chemicals into the very same water, on to the very same land that the Mega Quarry threatens.

he threat to the headwaters is ominous, and yet, those same rivers are already incredibly polluted. According to the Grand River Conservation Authority, one of the main reasons the watershed is in such dire shape is because of industrial agriculture. Potatoes are one of the most heavily chemically doused agriculture products. We cannot swim safely in these same rivers or their streaming tributaries. If you do brave the waters, rashes are common. If the water is ingested, sickness often follows. In late summer, the water is choked with algae blooms from the unnatural amounts of fertilizer in the water, which in turn chokes the fish out of the water. Hundreds of other quarries exist in these watersheds, their impacts may seem small individually, and they are invisible to most except for neighbours, who have advocated strongly (and sometimes successfully) against their presence. Yet they still exist. More are approved each year. Another major issue with the quarry is that it will involve moving millions of tonnes of very productive top soil. It is some of the best soil in Ontario specifically because of the limestone underneath. Soil is extremely important for growing food. For most of our history the soil was one of the most integral parts of growing food. Soil did a lot of work; this is where nutrients were broken down to be absorbed, where water was held, where beneficial organisms, in a symbiotic relationship, protected the food from critters. With the advent of industrial agriculture, soil has a shifted to be primarily a place holder, keeping the food product from being blown away. The chemicals provide the vitamins and minerals, the chemicals keep bugs away. The dirt is just cheaper than growing the food in anything else and is mostly irrelevant. There are many farmers, conventional farmers, who grow potatoes in very similar fields to the ones that blanket the proposed quarry site. They won’t eat what they grow. Let me repeat that. They choose not to eat the potatoes they grow for sale. In fact,

many have their own gardens out back where they grow organic potatoes. They won’t eat the industrial potatoes because they are full of chemicals and aren’t as good as their organic potatoes. We are offered the choice of poisoning our water, food and bodies one way, or the other.

f the Mega Quarry represents the old, unsustainable economy, (an extractive economy where corporate wealth was regarded as the foundation of economic health, where mining our earth’s resources and exploiting our international neighbours was accepted as simply the cost of doing business), then organic farms certainly represent the new, life-serving economy. (David Korten says a life serving economy is “to generate a living for all rather than a killing for few, where our resources are sustained, our waters are kept clean, our air pure, and our families can lead meaningful and joyful lives.”) Organic farming is low impact farming and has long term economic value. While the Mega Quarry promises jobs for rural Ontario, the fact is that organic farms would provide more secure, just jobs. Organic farms would ensure that pesticides and fertilizers are kept out of the waterways. They would ensure strong local, vibrant economies and also continue to work toward food security. We would have healthy food that actually aids in reducing heath care spending. Small scale farms are diverse and encourage people to deepen their connection with the land, their food and their communities. There is a revolution happening right now, and it is a food revolution and it is part of the leading edge of change that is birthing a culture of peace. The best way to stop the Mega Quarry once and for all is to support your local small scale organic farmer and maybe even try farming yourself!

HOME SWEET HOME BY ALI REZA SULTANI

ome sweet home. But where is home? That is a tough question. And for people like myself, it is really challenging to think about. I was born in a country that I have no memory of. Then, I grew up in a different country where I faced many challenges as a result of being an immigrant. Now I am here in a third country; Canada. Canada has a lot of newcomers and many people have the same story as mine. These people have nightmares about choosing their home. But it is not an easy choice. We have grown up in different societies with different cultures. Most of the time it is not about what is right and wrong. It is about cultures and traditions and how you grow up. Everyone has their own culture and living in a society where our culture is not being followed creates this idea that we do not belong to such a society. So it’s understandable if people don’t feel as if Canada is their own home. But if Canada is not our home, then why are we here? Why are we not living in our home country among people who follow our culture and practice our traditions? The answers might vary for different people. But everyone knows that Canada has something to attract people from around the world. Economically, there are lots of opportunities that might bring people here but that doesn’t change people’s feelings about home. So there should be something stronger than economics. What might that be?

ome might say it is not a matter of choice to choose your home. Where you were born is your home. I disagree. During history many people’s societies’ tribes moved from place to place and changed their home. For them, the new home was as sweet as the old one. Even the stone age men would move

when a natural disaster destroyed their habitat. They would move to another place and worship their own gods to give them a new home. This fact would be significant when we realise that changes would happen very rarely and their home is so important to them. So when they can change their home, why not us? We are more flexible than them and more logical than them so we have the right to choose our own home without being disloyal to our former home. An obvious example is Canada: Separated from England but still loyal to the Monarchy. So we can change our home and still be loyal to our roots. Now when we decided to change our home, how should we deal with our feelings? You cannot change your feelings with mere reason. Home is where your heart is.

But I realised that my values and those of Canadians have a lot in common. To clarify, let me review the source of my beliefs. The day I was born, or a couple of days later, my dad went to a government office to get my birth certificate. In the office, there were other people too. The man in charge was bullying another man because of his Hazeri ethnicity. Dad didn’t like this. When it was my Father’s turn, the officer asked him questions in order to complete the application for my birth certificate. When he asked about our race, Dad responded Hazara. The officer was shocked and asked for the correct answer, but my Dad insisted in order to show him race doesn’t matter. My birth certificate, wrongly marked Hazara, is my first lesson in this world that race does not matter. We all belong to one race; we are all human beings. Some of our relatives did not approve of my Dad’s actions but I am so proud of him. Later when I grew up, I went to school. The main subject was religion. We were taught that no one is better than another unless he or she does good or bad. The third thing that taught me the equality of human beings was my own life experience. In my second country, me and my family were minorities. We shared hard times with other immigrants in that country too. I don’t forget that my sister told us several times that she had a very best friend and the day that her best friend realized she’s an immigrant she stopped talking to my sister. So growing up as a minority made the biggest part of my belief, that there is no difference in races and everyone should be treated equally.

eople ask me, how do I feel adjusting to a new culture in Canada. My response is, it’s not a new culture to me. Different races’ livCity Center - findthecitycenter.blogspot.com ing together has been my dream and et me share my own story. As a this comes true for me in Canada. newcomer to this country I had challenges to making up my mind, to decide if Canada is my home or not, So how can I not call Canada my home? because it affects everything in my life.

EATING DIRT BY R. SCHULTZ

e moved in during late winter, excited that we could now walk to Central Meat Market for cheap groceries. On my way home from shopping one spring day, I noticed a gathering of people on a neighbour’s lawn. There were tables set out with vegetables of all colours and shades of green. Everything looked delicious. People were chatting on the sidewalk with veggies at their side. I looked in the cart I had with me and knew that the packaged junk would never compare with the meals my neighbours would be eating that night. Though her shares were all sold for the season, Angie Koch thought she might be able to swing something for me since I was less than a block away from her Fertile Ground Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) group pick up.

Angie grows her veggies outside of St. Agatha and sells from her home and Kitchener Market (She is now certified organic! Congratulations!). As a CSA member, I eagerly awaited the Tuesday pickups so I could fill my basket with goodies. I had to learn how to prepare various vegetables I had never tried before. Even though I am a frequent farmer’s market patron and gardener myself, I had never had tatsoi, ground cherries, or tomatillos before. I loved processing my weekly veggie grab bag - laying the veggies out on the kitchen table; washing off the soil; deciding out the best way to cut, slice, and store; determining how much of each veg I could eat (leaves? roots? peel?); and researching recipes. After some experimentation, I found some flavour combinations that worked.

MELON ICE Melons are quite prolific if you’re lucky enough to have the space to grow. They can often ripen more quickly than you thought, so this is an easy way of processing them.

Materials: melon shallow casserole dish blender/masher sugar/honey water small saucepan

Optional add-ins: other fruit mint leaves citrus juice

Peel and seed any combination of melons as you chop into squares (cantaloupe works well). Puree in blender or mash by hand. You should have enough to fill the bottom of whatever sized casserole dish you are using. Prepare a simply syrup: in a small saucepan, bring ¼ cup white sugar/honey plus 1 cup water just to a boil until dissolved. Stir syrup and melon, fill your casserole dish. Freeze, stirring with fork every 15-30 minutes until it doesn’t freeze anymore. At this point, you can serve it or store in a freezer-proof container for a few months.

t the same time, my parents and I were tending a very large garden at my grandmother’s just outside of Milverton. The garden produced so much last year, that it was more than enough to feed our three generations for a good part of the year. We had trunkfuls of corn and were giving it away in feed bags! I had to turn down some food from our family garden because I was paying for it from Angie. This didn’t seem to make sense to me, so this year I decided to opt out of the Fertile Ground CSA. Drought, heat, wind and hail, however, have left us with a minimal crop this year (mostly beans, beans, and more beans). This is the chance we take when we rely on sustainable food.

he last two seasons have taught me to explore my veggie options and to work with what I have. When growing my own food and eating locally, I have to be flexible enough to process either pints or bushels of whatever is cheaply available. This sometimes means staying up until one am pitting the cherries from my backyard tree. I keep notebooks about the garden, recipes that work, and acquired kitchen knowledge. This has proved to be incredibly useful and emotionally cathartic – helping through the loss of my ninth out of ten cucumber plants. I hope that you can use these resources, enjoy the recipes, and have many long growing seasons.

SALSA Bushels of tomatoes and peppers ready at the same time and quickly ripening on your counter? Fill a large stockpot: 2/3-3/4 full of quartered tomatoes and/or tomatillos

Simmer until half reduced, stirring occasionally.

1/3-1-4 full of quartered sweet peppers

Cool slightly and blend until desired chunkiness. (If you don’t have a blender, you can pre-dice everything, but I opt for the timesaver and fun of the blender.)

1-3 chopped onions 1 cup white vinegar 2 cups water

Return to stockpot and stove. Simmer on med heat stirring frequently until desired thickness (1-2 hours).

Optional: salt to taste hot peppers corn.

You will have about a quarter or less of what you started with in the stockpot. Cans well – hot pack and process for 15 minutes.

I like my salsa with about a TBSP of salt and one habenaros or three jalapenos or 10 banana peppers 15

DAD’S HOUSE OF DREAMS, DECONSTRUCTED BY BRONWYN FREY

wonder why my dad, despite his vertigo, feels the need to design and build a three-storey house almost entirely by himself on the shore of Lake Superior. He’s helped build an addition and renovated a room or two, but has never before made anything of this scale. Maybe he’s channelling his barnraising Mennonite ancestry. Maybe his Protestant worth ethic dictates that only from the sweat of his brow can he earn a retirement in peaceful solitude. The secluded construction site can be found down a long gravel road he’s packed into the dense bush along the lakeshore. A nine-hour drive from his home and job as a public school teacher in the Region of Waterloo, Ontario, the property is both a physical and metaphorical departure from his regular life.

A place that is deliberately set apart from ordinary space is a clue that it is somehow important. Since nineteenth century father of sociology Emile Durkheim first defined the sacred as the polar opposite of the profane, Western scholars including Mircea Eliade, Jonathan Z. Smith and Thomas Tweed have teased out the physical, metaphorical and social possibilities of “sacred space.” These ideas, though they tend gloss over physical, metaphorical and social distinctions, suggest that transcendent ideals are often acted out in special, separate places. Regardless of attempts to link theories about space and sacredness with real life events, scholarly speculations on sacred space have never been universally applicable. Rather, they are best viewed as a lens

for understanding how Western culture dreams about and creates meaning. What ideals, then, are sifted from the dross of everyday Ontario and enshrined in this special, separate house? Undoubtedly they are related to the rugged, unforgiving beauty of the Canadian Shield. I wasn’t even ten years old before my dad organised days-long family hikes along the shore of Lake Superior in Pukaskwa National Park. Plagued by flesh-eating flies, unimpressed with the freeze-dried cuisine and never a fan of gym class, I found these so-called vacations exhausting and dreary. But for my dad, such Spartan conditions were redeemed by the uncompromising awesomeness of the Canadian wilderness – towering walls of black stones softened by bright green moss; a black bear spotted across White River rapids; the endless lake suddenly sweeping across the horizon as we emerged from the forest onto a swelling plateau of bleached rock that could have been the earth’s exposed skull. He’s never forgotten my sister’s comment when we ar-

rived, crusty and heavily laden, on the tarmac of a Pukaskwa parking lot: “It feels wrong to be back in the city.”

y dad is not alone in his idolisation of Canada’s severe natural beauty or in his allowance of this beauty to gloss over more mundane aspects of the landscape. The Group of Seven, formally established in 1920, helped to create a vision of this land as a pristine, northern wilderness. The Group’s paintings are definitively Canadian but, as artistic interpretations are wont to do, present an idealised version of the subject. Social awareness generally lay outside of the Group’s frame. A.Y. Jackson, in his iconic Terre Sauvage (1913), chose to not to paint the summer cottages along the eastern shore of Georgian Bay and focussed instead on the purely natural elements of the landscape. Mines, lumber camps, and indigenous populations, as well as the Algoma Central Railway that carried Group members to Lake Superior, were ignored or painted over. The Group’s popularity and subject matter

owe as much to their artistic sensibilities as they do to the nation’s political and cultural climate at the time, whose growing economy and independence from Great Britain behoved a similarly impressive display of WASPy artistic individualism. Canada’s emerging postcolonial identity found psychic fuel in a wholly Canadian landscape of virgin beauty unchecked by human design. This highly charged wilderness mythos still resonates with Canadians today – notably, my father. My parents pay tribute to the Group of Seven in themed calendars and Christmas cards. There are photos of them hiking on the Pukaskwa trail on their honeymoon and of me and my sister on the same trail a decade later – picking blueberries, reading in the sun, glaring from underneath oversized rain ponchos. Next to the computer where my dad draws up his house plans hangs a framed photograph of Superior’s rocky shore captured through a professional wide-angle lens and covered in snow. In my childhood home, it seems that artistic nationalism and famil-

ial love are delicately bound together. The lake house is a testament to these ideals. Its isolation from the everyday underscores its utopian ambitions.

his summer I took an eleven-hour Greyhound express to the Sault to help build the house. For three days I worked with my dad and my cousin Joseph on the second of three storeys. We worked from house plans that were drawn up in Geometer’s Sketchpad, printed on letter-sized paper and laminated. We sawed, nailed and screwed 2x4s, 2x6s and strand board together to make walls, which were then hoisted vertically with a precarious, complicated system of deck screws, sawhorses, and manpower while I held a kind of leash to prevent the walls from tipping over the floor’s edge and smashing to the ground below. The ordinariness of haphazard physical work in the dirt, sun and sawdust belied any sense of visionary purpose, except when I glanced westward through the trees to a hard blue lake without a visible end – oh, there it is. That’s why I’m here.

Images courtesy of Bronwyn Frey

THIS LAND BY JON PELLETIER

lbert, Walter and I come from similar places but are gravely different. Each of us, while young, sat idly in a boat traveling safely over Grandma’s blue carpet. The waves were cresting the bow and matched the salt wind in our hair. Across the ocean we did go, with only our favorite wand as our paddle. There was a safety in this, and we knew no other world. As children we knew that if we told the older folks how to play, then they might share the secrets of the universe. It was quickly revealed to us that once one finds the answer to one question, the universe had enclosed more secrets beyond it. Eventually we got to a question that is unanswerable. This happened to me at 18 years of age. It happened to Albert and Walter at 12. The exact nature of the question was intangible. We each found philosophy in drink and such nonsense. Needlessly we would wait until two in the morning to raise our voices in an argument based solely on drunken vigor. I had always thought that I would discover the nature of the beast. Walter was often quick to make sure I stopped asking. He said it was like opening a wound in the psychosocial. I questioned his reasoning. I’m not sure if it was because the mystic qualities of my questions

deemed I worried about the ethereal or whether those responsible two heard my half-crazed suggestions and found my breathless gasps to be wholly unanswerable. The silence could have been a response to my actions. I was notorious for shrouding my concerns in such a belligerent and cold atmosphere that it was difficult to hear the words, let alone have a polite conversation regarding absurd political or spiritual theories. Either way, I was certain the small community that I was residing in was going to keep me blind to the realities of any persuasive mistress. That is why we would drink.

was concerned that Summerland, British Columbia was not what it was said to be. We were bored here, as she was a drafty and sweltering hot land, brought forth by wonder, haunted by mystique, which led us to mindless wandering very much like the future days that my mind was heralding. I knew that life was something special. With the intoxication, I also grew concerned that I was past death. Summerland was a mistress. She could come in any form. She could be an intangible idea, the comfort of home, cold cement masking the winter,

apathetic babysitters or Soviet reservations on settlements within the grounds of music festivals. Those people were not I and to be sure, they upheld their own codes of conduct and shared the ethics that I expected to bring to my land, wherever it may be. These were aimless wandering around the quiet street of my hometown. They wanted me to leave and see the world. Summerland begged her children to take up heavy drinking. This was first because of the boredom, but also a reaction to the advertisements, music, commercialization and popularity of parties and drunkenness. Albert and Walter changed and developed with the land they were surrounded by. This is why whiskey acted differently for each of us. Albert thought whiskey was his muse. To him she was a lady that allowed him to make love to the sky and forests. It freed his soul for the turmoil that sunk his spirit, a kind of frightened letter written with big, curved symbols that looked very pretty but amounted to much nonsense. Walter still believes that she is a cold, menacing and dire wind. He considers whiskey a mistress. He would take her out to dine but felt that he had to hide this relationship for those most dear to him. He knew they expected him to be drunk, as it is the common action of a man from our land. He could not reserve a seat in advance. The liquor just took him, beat him and left him alone, asleep in the alley. The third man is myself, and I had long ago given up hard drink. It didn’t settle my mind like the television had told me it would and I didn’t care for being asleep in the dirt, somewhere out in the forest. It didn’t look good on my social resume.

alter, quite contrary

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even the strongest person. It has been a life for him, and he knows little else but the endless cycles of alcohol and broken dreams. Yet he remains strong. He is the kind that finds the strength to break this cycle. He dreams of a life filled with everything they wished they had. For some reason he does it for his Father.

t is an alien feeling to Albert and I. We have often paused for a moment in retribution, but we try not to notice those who are crying in alleys and hard up for even the smallest cup of coffee. Although we didn’t like to admit it, we were the majority. Because our sheltered town was as it was, we wondered why people let themselves return to the same stoop, with a new bottle of whiskey and jaundiced skin. They had little concern for greater theories regarding life and the universe. Their perspective blurs and sees what is needed, the food and shelter that they were not provided, the vacations and day spas, satellites and waterfalls they dreamed were some place but could not possibly fathom to be near or have. We can be assured that with the proper amount of clarity such luxuries become available for those that are

born to even the sickest people. And in the same way, those that live in the lap of luxury from birth at some point find themselves hungry, unable to sleep, or in need of a greater cause. I find reason to believe in this is a balanced and fatalistic universe. I hope that we all share the same experience in our own time. My old friends cannot. It is these paradoxes, which perhaps serve only to balance the universe, that allow us to find some sense of spiritual awakening in our travels. I hope that our dripping words, melted like the twice worn show that wrapped us in nonsense can become a silence, not to stop us from acting in the proper or expected way, (what a horrid world that would be), but to reflect upon as a people who are sure that we cannot know what we are, believe or do.

s a concerned citizen, I would like to add to the communal paranoia by suggesting some silly political concerns, methodically told by the major media interests in Canada. It seems that the people involved were both intoxicated and angry, and in such an article one must think that this country is something other than an intoxicant, setting citizens minds upright in Ian Willms - IanWillms.com

to me, didn’t have the sense to tell his children (whether they were born or not) that if one nurses the bottle as many times a day as he, water will lose its luster. By the time he had a chance to have a child, it seemed that all other liquids had lost their meaning. He laughed once when we were surprised that he didn’t drink water. He was sure that the water base of coffee was enough to sustain his health. This is a dire perversion of concern. Although both of us had seen Albert stumbling down the street held afloat by a friend, Walter was certain that he was doing his best. I thought that the chill in the air was a scared persuasion. He was creating his child’s view of the world, whether the child exists yet or not. It is a cycle wrapped in something as dear to me as the winter, a natural procession of our humanity, or steps away from the door. In any case, the child will be quick to tell me that whiskey is wonderful, because that is what Albert or Walter tells him. I would rather they leave him out of it. The cold shelter that Walter finds himself in when the light of morning comes and he remains awake because of his Father’s drunken cries for festive spirits. This can break the spirit of

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some procedure said to save our souls. I have posed the worrisome words as abstract questions, as to not be fingered for trying to point them out. While we are concerned with the alcohol drifting over the horizon, with clarity that can only come from sobriety, we can notice that we miss some important factors in the news. We should also note the alcoholic sponsorship that preceded the events. Why did the well-predicted Vancouver riots occur soon after the announcement that Canada would be bombing Libya indefinitely? Should we be concerned that the riots were said to be either about a hockey game or caused by anarchists? It was soon after an election which was won on a tough on crime platform, as well as voter disinterest. It serves as an example for the governing party to use when they build more prisons. It also explains the lack of voter interest. Perhaps the drunker a population remains the easier it is to govern them. It is said that God invented alcohol to keep the Irish from ruling the world, but history shows the blame should be laid directly on ancient Britain. Notwithstanding is the change of word in that common phrase. It is eerie in its sentiment.

lbert and Walter are two men simply not concerned with paranoia towards the news. There is a rhythm and measure to their minds. There is neither panic nor tremble in their hands. That is the subtle difference between those who want to believe what we are taught and those who do not believe what they are told. There is another type in this story, and surely many more in the world. All our characters touch this, as we all wish for the carefree mind that is not listening to the news. At some point in the last ten years we lost touch. It is a sort of apathy that feels grand. It also seems to be why it is okay. The best way to hear the news it to make it, by proving something interesting or changing the world for the better. But here I remain, closed minded, paranoid and sober, now. And now these concerns belong to a man who is unsure of where he comes from. These are the worries of a man who does not know who he is or what he does. They are lost along the sands that bring a haunted look to his eyes. His eyes peer into the meaningful and meaningless in a roped, tired promise. They are lost because they begin to look for answers. The dream is that everyone is really looking out for our best interests. These

are the dreams of someone who watches silent television looking for hidden messages or mind control meant to keep us trapped in alcoholic jests. They are meaninglessly meant to drop our mind to the lowest detail, hopefully to brighten our spirits. These hidden messages never show up, but surely I can create one out of nothing. By any means, drugging a population must be a crime. It is also a crime to take away our choice. Might the charade come from someone important? Or is it our own fault that we donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t listen or care? Or is intoxication a natural part of our animalistic reality? If that is the case, then the absurd fun that comes from a night out of town may be healthy, and it cannot be blamed for the apathy and ignorance to the true nature of the beast. I must add, that I am not sure what the beast even looks like, let alone how it acts. I remain sure that every person is able to avoid the wrath of the ill natured and power mad, because bureaucracy keeps nearly one million people between myself and the man who made the law. One can be thankful for that.

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HIGHBRAÜ RADIO IS ON THE AIR!

3 LOCAL SHOWS EVERY WEEK! 3 EASY WAYS TO LISTEN! Nightmare Radio 10-Midnight Tues Broadcasting the soundtrack to your nightmares! More metal than a foundry.

1) Tune in live in the KW area at 100.3 FM

HighbraüFM 10-11PM Sat A weekly review of the latest and greatest new local music from around Southwestern Ontario.

3) Visit our archives anytime at hbradio.ca

Dr. Mark’s Psychedelic Solution

11-Midnight Sat

Just one dose guaranteed to dispel your cares, and cure your asthma too. The first one’s always free.

2) Stream live from anywhere at soundfm.ca