Liberal Homebase?

Canada might be on the verge of conservative reign for years to come: of course only time will tell if that's true. For what it's worth, I'm starting to feel like the Progressive Conservatives after the 1993 election that returned only two Tories to Parliament Hill: gearing up for a long stay in Opposition territory.

In the face of yesterday's by-elections in British Columbia, Quebec and Nova Scotia, I am concerned for the fderal Liberals. In each of these by-elections, the Liberal candidate was not in the top two, rather, third. It's not only the finishing position that is cause for concern but that in each case, Liberals were severly trailing their competition in the number of votes. Using these numbers to project any type of outcome in a possible spring election, the results are less than desired.

One of the things I find uncanny about the Liberal party is how its own players (Parliamentarians and staffers) talk about their voters. When talking about the general public, they all seem to say the same thing: "We need to reach out to our base!"

I find this declaration interesting, and a little confusing because, there is no Grit base. For much of its ruling history, the Liberal Party of Canada has been a successful brokerage party, nothing else. It has been able to find success by pulling socially progressive voters away from the Tories, and has managed to make the argument that of the opposition parties, they'll be the ones to win power.

Not sure if that's true. If the recent elections in Canada have taught us anything, they have reminded us of the importance and necessity of a homebase. In this department, the Liberals seem out-gunned by the religous right and family values based voters of the CPC; the environmental activitist base of the Green Party; the Quebec Nationalist base of the Bloc Quebecois; and the socially progressive, workers-rights voters of the NDP.

So, when federal Liberals say, "we need to reach out to our base," who are they talking about? To be sure, the Liberal Party needs a real identity, not a stolen one, or a borrowed one. If the identity remains securely attached to being the middle of the road, then that's where they'll stay.

Thoughts on Concrete

Masquerading in the mirror by the candlelight,

reveals the darker side of you.



Walking on the water instantly reveals,

the crippling weight of your concrete shoes.



Did you choose to wear that bruise?

Why would you wage a losing war?


Meet me outside the grocery store,

I always leave wanting more.

2009 Nobel Prize in Literature

Yes, it's that time of year: the time when the secretive Swedes burst out and unmask the winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature. To be honest, I'm getting very tired of the European writers. When you consider that nine of the past ten winners have been from European countries, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, it's time for a change.

People have been talking about the American writer, Philip Roth, but what about Thomas Pynchon? Albiet a recluse (I don't even think his publishers know his face!) Pynchon churns out a novel on an average of 9 nine years, but they are nonetheless worth the wait. If the Nobel Prize is a recognition of a lifetime's contribution to the cause of literature - and it is a cause - don't his books Gravity's Rainbow, The Crying of Lot 49, Vineland, and most recently, Against the Day, put him at the top?

I ask you to consider Canada, who hasn't seen a winner (and 1976 winner Saul Bellow doesn't count. For one thing, he spent his entire writing life forcing his work on hapless undergrads at the University of Chicago; and for another, he renounced his Canadian citizenship!).

Hasn't Margaret Atwood produced a lifetime of amazing work? But don't stop there, consider Alice Munro. Sure her forte remains the short story, but the Nobel Lit prize doesn't have to be about novels. The mathematian Bertran Russell won it in 1950, and a Churchill named Winston in 1953. So it isn't just about books. Munro's stories portray characters with an array of intensions, desires, horrors, passions, and curiousities, and they are worthy. Sure she took herself out of the running for this year's Gillar Prize, but I think she'd make the trip to Sweden for a date with King Gustav!

Fine, don't consider fiction alone! Consider American historian Howard Zinn. A man of remarkable depth, vision, and clarity, a man who has seen war but advocates for peace and prosperity gives him credit. (What was that pioneering book he wrote, A People's History of the United States?)

The last North American writer to win the Nobel Prize for Literature was Toni Morrison, for her novel, Beloved, but that was 1993!

Who's it going to be? Take a look at North America!!

List of soldiers' names grows longer

A couple of weeks ago, I had the privilege to attend a memorial service - for the 24 Canadian victims of the 9-11 terrorist attacks - at Beechwood Cemetery, in Ottawa, Ontario. Earlier this year, an Act of Parliament made these grounds the National Military Cemetery of the Canadian Forces. (For those of you elsewhere in the world, these grounds represent the Canadian equivalent to the United States' Arlington National Cemetery.)

As my taxi turned into the east entrance and began meandering down the small asphalt street, eventually dropping me off near the Prime Minister's security detail, I began to notice many of Ottawa's great names carved on the tombstones.

The Prime Minister greeted all those in attendance - which included politicians, family members of the victims, and those of the soldiers fighting insurgencies in Afghanistan - with a speech, a moving tribute to the legacy of Canadian soldiers fighting for our freedom. (I stood behind the rows of chairs, and every once and a while, glanced over my shoulder to the rows and rows of military tombstones behind me, and I wondered about the last thing each of them saw before they died.)

After the Prime Minister's address, two family members of the victims of 9-11 - a boy and girl - came and read aloud the names of the 24 Canadians who died in New York that day. The audience was moved to tears when the little boy came to his uncle's name, choaked back tears, and read his name aloud through the stutters of broken English. The list took 5 minutes to read, but it felt like forever.

Following this, four people were invited up to read the names of every Canadian soldier killed in Canada's mission in Afghanistan - all 129 of them (at that point, the list is now 131 names long).

As each presenter stood and somberly made their way through their list of names, the world around us seemed to become snarled up in the canopy of trees, letting no evidence of life outside the cemetery encroach on the moment. The third presenter - a blond woman - began reading the names, but was overcome with grief when she presented her husband's name. At the same time a moving and miraculously human moment, for in that brief moment, we all wore her pain.

When the ceremony concluded, I found myself wondering through the rows of military tombstones, being careful of course, not to step too close. As I walked I began to think about the close to 15 minutes it took to read all 129 names aloud.

How long before that list takes 30 minutes to read? How long before it takes 45 minutes, and then one hour after that?

How many more rows of tombstones will I see next year?

NDP turns back on underemployed

"What we've done is to accomplish something for people," NDP Leader Jack Layton told reporters following the critical confidence vote, on a ways and means motion, earlier today.

Acutally, Mr. Layton, what you've done is accomplish something for some people. However, what of the workers who have not enjoyed the benefits of long-tenure?

Let the blank page tell the story

Father sits at the desk,

wondering what to say to son.

The computer mimics

the blank expression on his face.

White screen.

Cursor blinks

like a light-house signaling

the fog of images

trapped in the night of his mind to safety.

Should he write in Ariel?

Would Times New Roman be too official?

Could he pull off an LOL in Bookman Old Style?

What the hell is Wing-Dings?

Shift, home-key, safe and sound.

And start again?

Or,

Alt-Control-Delete,

and let the blank page tell the story?

Neighbours & Fences

If it's me, I'd like one more round
with the lights turned down,
and not a sound,
escaping our lips while we try to escape,
lying quietly
contemplating eternity
and what it means to be an open sore
weeping on the streets
of concrete jungles with nothing
but a paper cup, or an over-turned hat
collecting pity from the passers by.
They'd ask themselves why
doesn't he just move,
without stopping to ask him
why he's stopped.
If it's me, I'd call it like it is,
just another tragic game of
neighbours and fences.