It's certainly been a while and a half since the last edition of Cannery Row Mag popped onto the web - at the time threatening to go out with a bang (or maybe more of a whimper as I reflect back to 2024). Juggling a Cassandra Complex in these 'trying' times has had its definite drawbacks, as I had to find out the hard way when my mental health took a dive last summer. And I must admit to still feeling a touch of anxiety staring at the empty page in front of me but, thankfully, it is now laced with the slight tingle of anticipation.

Now, I don't have to draw anyone's attention to the fact that the world around us has descended at a terrifying speed into the politically engineered chaos many of us have been anticipating with dread over the past few years - or decades for that matter. Keeping track of the endless stream of despotic lunacies disgorging from the orange-turd-riddled sewer that used to be the White House has been a major distraction on a daily basis, threatening to turn what's left of our communal common sense completely on its head; all contrived as a smokescreen for an oligarchic putsch that would make any totalitarian dictator proud.

Right is now officially Wrong, Black is White, Up is Down and 2+2=5 in true Orwellian fashion. Repeat something often enough and the brain will eventually accept it as truth by way of familiarity. It's a quirk of the mind and maybe does help explain, if maybe not exonerate, how large parts of a population can be rendered more or less complicit in the formation of an oppressive regime. One that turns citizens against each other - with fear infusing every social interaction, with each word, spoken or typed, carefully weighed against punitive, possibly life-threatening consequences and with mistrust of the 'malevolent other' ingrained to the point of tolerating, and even supporting, violent persecution of scapegoated parts of a citizenry.

As a German-born Canadian, Never Again! has been a pledge drilled into my psyche from a young age onwards (and it's a pledge that, to me at least, extends well beyond any one specific group of racialized victims). Consequently, witnessing the current surge of global, far-right extremism triggers emotions so frustrating and maddening that I frequently have to make a run for the escape hatch; be it via dissociating from the digital information highway, watching the chaos mentally detached as from an out-of-body perspective, to hiding behind a wall of disillusioned sarcasm or simply drowning my mind in the tube.

At times, however, the only way to cope with that mental turmoil is by giving yourself permission - or the freedom for that matter - to dive right into what ails you; akin to immersing oneself in sad music to release the emotions and tears that heal a grieving mind.

Since something in me has persistently refused to grieve for a world on the edge of extinction just yet, I've felt myself drawn to more explicit and energetic expressions of musical revolt over the last while, rewinding back to my younger years which were spent dipping my toes into the punk scene. Armed with a multitude of playlists at my disposal - and so much to catch up on after years of drifting away from the defiant genre - I'd finally rediscovered a musical reflection of my own, inner rebellion.

To me, punk rock is the freedom to create, freedom to be successful, freedom to not be successful, freedom to be who you are. It’s freedom. - Patti Smith

Basically, as Alexander Wolke, a writer for The Nonconformist, put it so aptly, it means that allowing someone [or oneself] to be the most authentic version of themselves is the most punk thing anyone can do. To which I might add that, to me at least, punk is all in the mind (to borrow from a Madness song). If you're a racist, sexist or classist bigot, it doesn't matter what you listen to, how you dress up or how much you play the scene, you're nothing but a poser.

True punk is something rooted in your soul that refuses to sell out to greed and exploitation. A mentality that hurts for the vulnerable, defends human rights with a vengeance, is highly allergic to socially imposed conformity and rages against injustice in all its nefarious forms. Clothing, music and rebellious attitude are but an outward expression of punk's dissent with and rejection of an inequitable status quo and a conformist herd mentality; a mentality - easily manipulated and incited - that is at the base of the fascist takeover currently driving our southern neighbours towards civil war; with much of that sentiment sparking division here in Canada as well.

Despite its deceiving appearance of 'slackerdom', mischief making and rudeness, Punk, at its core, is rooted in a philosophy of love, mental strength, sacrifice, (self)-determination, hard work in the spirit of DIY and, despite aggressive demeanors expressed through music and attitude, a sincere striving for a peaceful, equitable world. So, taken from that angle, Cannery Row Magazine has been instinctively leaning into the punk tradition of creating grassroots zines that literally exploded onto the scene during the initial heyday of the movement in the 70s and early 80s - if maybe not by reflecting their music and scene-related content then, at the very least, by following in punk's philosophical and political footsteps. This quote by Ian MacKaye, frontman of punk bands Minor Threat and Fugazi, in particular speaks to the essence of our little mag in that he defines punk and the DIY ethic in terms of their freedom of expression:

My definition of punk is the free space. It’s an area in which new ideas can be presented without having to go through the filtration or perversion of profiteering. So, if we’re not worried about selling things, then we can actually think.

If anything, these are clearly the times for a resurgence of that rebellious, creative spirit against an increasingly alt-right, propaganda-charged and oppressive political manifesto sweeping the globe. A manifesto that has hijacked the very idea of 'Freedom' for its own sinister purposes, manipulating and coercing the general citizenry towards an end that is 'Anti-Freedom' in the absolute for the vast majority struggling under the end stages of capitalism. And the fascist take-over we're witnessing south of our border is but a glaringly overt example of the extreme-right infiltration plaguing 'democratic' governments all across the globe.

As we've witnessed during the latest federal election here in Canada, no country is immune to the dogma of white supremacy with its distinct markers of embedded racism, sexism, classism and other repressive -isms. How many of us who usually vote in support of socialist principles and environmental sustainability sacrificed our ideals at the ballot box and tossed in with the center-right (aka the Liberal Party) in an effort to prevent the head of 'Maple MAGA', Mr. PeePee, from selling off our country to Trump as his coveted '51st State' for a shiny nickel and a chance at governorship? Too many, as the crushing descent of the NDP into the political never-regions has, sadly, revealed.

And, yes, I admit to having crossed the floor as well, relinquishing a part of my integrity for 'the greater good of the nation', the bitter taste of bile rising in my throat as I marked my X beside a candidate whose name here in Kingston stands for so many things that I despise and rail against in my editorials.

Like many others out there, I initially felt a certain affinity to Canada's new Prime Minister since Mr. Carney appeared to possess a well-above-average degree of intelligence and common sense, displayed an attractive touch of that wry GenX humour, not to mention seemed passionate about the environment, our economic well-being and Canada's sovereignty. Obviously, wishful thinking in politics tends to be just that and I should have been more on my guard, knowing full well who truly runs our government, no matter what figurehead resides at its helm.

All good intentions aside, any Canadian prime minister - no matter their leanings - will have to contend with the fact that the global oligarchy has been ruling over the political sphere in most countries across the northern hemisphere for the past few decades; if not as far back as memory allows. This also includes all mainstream media - private or publicly funded, it matters not. Any news outlet striving to be at least partially unbiased that considers investigating the misdeeds of a corporate, global empire, will quickly see their ad revenues dry up and, thus, face collapse or hostile takeover. Public broadcasters are threatened with funding cuts if they don't tow the current political line within acceptable parameters. So, we might feel like we actually have a say on election day and think ourselves well-enough informed to make an educated decision but we often ignore the fact that the democratic game has been rigged in so many ways, it's hard to see what's going on behind the wizard's curtain.

Now, if there's one thing Trump has undeniably achieved alongside his putsch-in-action - aided by an endless stream of daunting, inane and fictitious distractions - it is a solidification of right-winged agendas in countries beyond the one he is on the very verge of leading into another civil war. How, you might ask, when his white supremacy, KKK-infused megalomania has incited massive protest movements and whipped up rebellion all across the US (and the globe) in response, seemingly uniting large parts of the population against the fascist takeover?

Well, as stated above, the Orange Menace is little but a convenient figurehead in international politics, even if he has likely proven himself to be more of a loose cannon than his handlers might have anticipated (or not!) but as long as he's getting the job done, who's judging the means when the desired end result is so close at hand.

This particularly vile specimen of a notorious confidence trickster and demented misogynist did not simply appear out of nowhere and, all on his petulant own, scam his way skillfully and treacherously into the highest, political position on the planet. Into a place of power that can, and will, pressure other countries to follow suit ideologically; be it by way of economic blackmail, lobby groups pushing the agendas of international conglomerates, the ever-expanding propaganda circuit, military coercion or just because the more centrist parties have to increasingly make concessions to a populace radicalized by right-wing dogma to stay in business. Having a madman with his finger on the Red Button is merely another terrifying aspect that appears to have finally come to pass in our lifetime.

But let's return to home soil . . . good, ol' Canada, a steadfast beacon of socialist democracy and peaceful neutrality in an increasingly inhumane world. I'm obviously being sarcastic here. As the latest federal election has shown without a doubt, we are anything but immune to the divisiveness, bigotry and scapegoating stoked to a fever pitch amongst our southern neighbours.

Before I continue, however, let me quickly remind those Canadians - often of an advanced age - who persistently cross their X beside CPC candidates nowadays, mostly out of habit and traditional nostalgia more so than actual, well-informed political persuasion: our present-day Canadian 'GOP' is NOT the party you so fondly remember under Prime Minister John Diefenbaker, the much lauded 'Father of the Canadian Bill of Rights'.

No, the current CPC under Conservative leaders such as Stephen Harper and Trump's whiny Canadian sidekick, Pierre Poilievre, is but a twisted version of the original PCP. The Progressive Conservatives were usurped in 2003 by the prairie-based Reform Party founded under Preston Manning, an alt-right politician back then spouting from a political playbook closely mirrored now by Alberta's divisive (and, also, Trump-aligned) Premier Danielle Smith and her Ontario counterpart Doug Ford, who employs slightly less vocal but more deceptive and subversive tactics than Smith or Trump in dismantling our social safety net to profit his buddies in the private sector.

Which brings me to the wizards pulling the strings behind the curtain.

Let me introduce to you: The International Democracy Union (IDU), an alt-right, global organisation/think tank that has its headquarters in, of all places, Munich, Germany. This particular location happens to be of symbolic import as the location of the infamous Beer Hall Putsch - Hitler's first, unsuccessful coup d'état in 1923 - a violent uprising that took advantage of populist dissent fuelled by the severe hardships imposed on the German population under the Versaille Treaty after WWI.

You've likely heard little to nothing about the International 'Democracy' Union in the media - online or on your news channel of choice - and that's not an accidental oversight but as intended. The IDU is arguably one of the most influential, yet least-known, political organizations operating in the shadows of global politics. Founded in 1983 during the conservative rule of Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher and Helmut Kohl (the last two were founding members), this organisation has been connecting and sponsoring conservative, extreme right and Christian nationalist parties worldwide since its inception.

Today, it boasts a formidable coalition of more than 80 parties spanning over 60 countries, including major political players such as the US Republican Party, Britain’s Conservative Party, Germany’s Christian Democratic Union & the extreme-right Alternative for Germany (AFD), Australia’s Liberal Party (in name only), and Hungary's Civic Alliance (lead by notorious despot Viktor Orbán). This organisation of decidedly undemocratic intent is currently chaired by none other than Canada's former Conservative Prime Minister Stephen Harper whose tenure has solidified the IDU as a strategic platform for the promotion of economic austerity, reduced government oversight, and conservative 'social' policies across multiple continents.

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In practice, it has heavily increased its political dominance through the means of weaponized nationalism, discriminating identity politics and by spreading a swath of disinformation to undermine democratic institutions across the globe.

The dangers inherent in the IDU's powerful reach have become rather obvious as we witness the current state of totalitarian affairs under the presidency of Agent Orange and - in effort only so far - Canada's Pierre Poilievre. Trump’s 'governance' - characterized by authoritarianism, persistent and ludicrous falsehoods, anti-democratic rhetoric, the plundering of the US treasury for nepotistic purposes, Gestapo-style persecution of scapegoated parts of the population and outright attacks on any oppositional criticism - has significantly reshaped the US Republican Party, one of the organization's most influential members, much for the worse. The IDU's global movement has embraced, normalized and actively supported Trump's agenda of white supremacy within a Christian-nationalist dictatorship and their political intents for Canada are certainly identical; with Trump's 51st State rhetoric but a sign of what's planned to rise on our own political, socio-economic horizon.

Now, I don't have to remind anyone of the obscene wealth accumulated by the top one percent - syphoned from an ever-more-impoverished populace, especially since the pandemic - or the massive influence global monopolies increasingly have on pretty much any country's politics; issues that Free Market Capitalism was to, supposedly, guard against yet did anything but encourage. And, taken from that angle, the IDU is clearly an instrumental tool of said monopolies (i.e. the global oligarchy with Big Oil at the forefront) to insure nothing and no one will stand in the way of how they choose to conduct their business worldwide - with Trump but a revolting example of the exploitative practices in question here.

As such a tool, the IDU also supports - if not actively puts in place - right-winged, non-profit agencies in their respective countries which, in turn, fund fringe groups such as the Alliance Defending Freedom (ADF) in the US. These groups then go after women’s rights (abortion, age of consent, DEI initiatives etc.), the rights of LGBTQ+ and racialized minorities, the gutting of social safety nets to increase the flow of tax dollars towards global conglomerates and the banning of books deemed 'dangerous' and 'subversive' to their authoritarian, anti-human-rights agenda - just to name a few malevolent themes that have sparked outrage amongst anyone with half a heart and brain.

There's a high level of suspicion, as well, that the ADF has been quietly working under the radar in Canada for years, aiming to roll back abortion, LGBTQ+ and other minority rights. Not really surprising when one recalls how the Canadian 'Freedom Convoy' was at least partially infiltrated and financially propped up by US alt-right groups, hijacking a populist movement (originally founded on shared grievances related to the economic fallout from Covid measures) and, consequently, trying to hold the Canadian government hostage on its own soil.

The German Far Right (another member of the IDU) has also been attempting to influence populist movements in Canada with German AfD politician Christine Anderson taking part in the cross-country Strong and Free Tour of Canada during the trucker convoy in 2023 and given a hero’s welcome by Canada’s extreme-right.

Not surprising, then, that the government of Israeli Prime Minister Netanyahu - currently accused of genocidal war crimes with Israel serving as a military support base for aggressive US expansion plans into resource-rich, sovereign countries in the region - has itself strong ties to the IDU. Another major player worth mentioning is Viktor Orbán, the Hungarian prime minister who has effectively dismantled press freedom, academic freedom, and judicial independence in his country, all while championing a 'Christian nationalist' model.

Next, let's take a closer peek at the strategies executed on the ground that serve to manipulate election outcomes towards a conservative majority around the globe. I present to you:

The Finkelstein Method. Arthur Finkelstein (not to be confused with the political activist Norman Finkelstein) was an American pollster who revitalized the Republican party in the United States by perfecting a toxic approach to politics we've increasingly witnessed oozing from conservative quarters: namely, negative campaigning. Finkelstein taught that you didn’t need a vision to win in politics, just good polling that revealed what people were against. Once a list of popular grievances was established, the goal was to blow these issues - such as immigration, taxes, inflation, crime etc. - completely out of proportion (and context), then tie them to a political 'enemy'. This method of mudslinging would then lead to, what Finkelstein called, rejectionist voting. The idea was to avoid revealing your own, generally unpopular, positions and policies and, instead, focus on demonizing and destroying your opponent's credibility and agenda.

Arthur Finkelstein, himself, admitted at the end of his life: I wanted to change the world. I did that. I made it worse.

By the way, Mr. Finkelstein also taught his style of commando politics in Canada and helped Stephen Harper get elected as a Reform MP in 1993. Since then, several leaders of IDU member parties have gained political power with his support and the help of his method, such as Viktor Orbán, Benjamin Netanyahu and Donald Trump. (PeePee must have skipped the 'Subversive = Subtle' section of the Finkelstein playbook, taking mudslinging to such loathsome lows that a large number of CPC voters ended up crossing the floor in disgust)

Which brings me to a topic I've delved into quite a bit in a previous editorial. It certainly warrants regurgitation since the propaganda machine employed by the Trump administration has been spinning manically 24/7 to push its supremacist agenda, creating economic and humanitarian chaos - even going so far as to establishing artificial war zones in cities that voted primarily Democrat. A 101 course on how to start a civil war to choke off opposition on a national scale.

As I just found confirmed in an independent media article, a major weapon of mass silencing on either side of our border has been the smearing of any semi-intelligent investigation into the political 'Deep State' as ludicrous conspiracy theories. The swath of hoax beliefs (Flat Earthers & Co.) flooding the web for years, if not decades, has been no coincidence but rather intentionally engineered and spread via internet bot-farms and their leagues of malicious trolls to discredit any and all serious inquiry into and exposure of the actual puppet masters pulling the strings of politicians here at home and on a global scale. Pushing lie after lie down people's throats until the truth, itself, has lost all credibility.

Let's just say, for the sake of 'brevity', that it's the usual suspects profiting from the current death cult we know as end-stage capitalism who also own all mainstream media outlets and control web-based agencies of communication. As those of the 1% denomination lower the final straws that'll break the poor masses' backs, totalitarian power structures are, simultaneously and rapidly, being established worldwide in order to obliterate anticipated, despair-driven rebellions against our corporate overlords. (And our 'dear friend' AI has conveniently come of age just at the right time to serve as a universal tool of mass surveillance and crowd control.)

Another related issue is the matter of twisted, nonsensical Hate Speech, endlessly disgorging from the MAGA government and its brainwashed cult followers - magnified by troll bots that swarm social media and shut down oppositional conversations attempting to disseminate and expose the socially destructive dealings of the current White House administration (or what's left of it). There are those on the fence who keep insisting that Free Speech in ALL its forms is fundamental and should be defended at any cost to insure a free, democratic society. And I readily concede that Freedom of Speech is an essential component in any semi-functional democracy. Unless, that is, your right to this freedom infringes on another person's basic human rights.

Even though the term 'hate speech' does not have a legal definition in the United States, its Supreme Court has, itself, identified narrow exceptions to the US Constitution's First Amendment; in particular the use of speech that constitutes unlawful incitement, true threats, intimidation or discriminatory harassment.

Addressing hate speech does not mean limiting or prohibiting freedom of speech. It means keeping hate speech from escalating into something more dangerous, particularly incitement to discrimination, hostility and violence, which is prohibited under international law. - UN Secretary-General António Guterres

Point in fact: The two main provisions addressing hate in Canada, sections 318 and 319 of the Criminal Code, impose criminal sanctions against anyone who wilfully promotes genocide or incites hatred in public. Nevertheless, our own Liberal government has been steadfast in its support of the Israeli regime, even as PM Carney felt pressured to finally recognize the State of Palestine, if not the continuing extermination of of its citizens.

By supplying military weaponry and funds in aid of, supposedly, subjugating 'Hamas' and, here at home, cracking down on advocacy for Palestinian rights with legal prosecution, censorship and systematic punishment, our government's actions raise serious concerns about the future of free speech here in Canada. It is rather telling how Canadian political leaders, almost to a one, sympathize with the Israeli regime over a few hostages (IDF soldiers at this point), all while ignoring Israeli torture/death jails that have been overflowing with thousands of Palestinian 'hostages' for decades; let alone the incredible death toll amongst the Palestinian citizenry, which they ruefully label as a 'humanitarian' disaster, taken out of its context of imposed starvation and systemic eradication of an indigenous population.

If anyone demands yet more proof that special interest groups (self-professed Zionists) paired with US imperialism are holding our own 'democratically elected' government(s) hostage, then there's no amount of facts to the contrary that will change their mind on these issues. All I can say is, as usual: Do your due diligence, remain wary of misinformation and, ALWAYS, follow the money! Ask yourself at every step who stands to gain the most from genocidal politics.

It is no coincidence that all areas under imperialist attack across the globe - be it the Middle East, South America, Africa and, yes, even Western democracies like Canada and Greenland - have one thing in common: resources. As in oil, rare metals and minerals, even fertile agricultural land which is of high value when holding 'unruly' populations hostage via imposed food scarcity. From that perspective, it shouldn't surprise anyone that hatemongering towards Muslims (Islamophobia) has reached unprecedented levels as the US - with its strategic stronghold Israel set up as a massive military base - aims to expand control of, if not outright rule, the entire Middle East in order to appropriate its immense wealth of resources.

How controversial, and even toxic, the debate of Free Speech vs. Hate Speech has become was poignantly exemplified by the recent, fatal shooting of Charlie Kirk, the head of the right-winged organization Turning Point USA and one of the most prominent voices of the MAGA movement. And, despite the MAGA machine instantly blaming the political 'Left' for his death, they ultimately couldn't conceal the fact that the assassination had been carried out by one of their own - even more radicalized - members.

Kirk was well-known for propagating hateful speech - disguised by subversive rhetoric and religious dogma - amongst students on university campuses and social media followers. (He also had a direct hand in inciting the insurrection against the US Capitol on January 6, 2021, aimed at keeping Trump in the White House.)

What astounded me at the time was how even many of those amongst us who clearly found Kirk's manipulative hatemongering repulsive - and were fully aware of its discriminating and potentially life-threatening effects on large parts of the US citizenry - suddenly fell in line, painting him a martyr while offering their thoughts and prayers. "He built his platform on words, not physical violence, so it's wrong to resort to the latter to fight his dissemination of lies and hatred."

Which, to me at least, begs the following question: how many times have leaders and scholars been wishing publicly that we could go back in time and eliminate Hitler before he took over Germany? Hitler rose through the power of the WORD, through hateful, and deadly, propaganda, uttering words on par with what Kirk - and Trump - have been spewing. Kirk was a large cog in the neo-fascist machinery, just like Goebbels, the Third Reich's Propaganda Minister, whose WORDS facilitated and instigated the murder of millions.

Of course, in this upside down world, calling out hate speech online will quickly release MAGA's army of trolls who will accuse you, in turn, of promoting hate speech against their 'patriots' and agenda, claiming their supposedly inherent constitutional right to any manner of free speech (while persecuting those with opposing views), even as they're ripping up their country's Constitution to wipe their behinds with its pages.

Another question, then, remains: How exactly do you fight the deadly violence of fascism? With wishful thinking and peaceful sit-ins? With a 'Let's Wait And See' attitude? With more analyses, examinations and reports? Once Trump's concentration camps are operational country-wide, once his Gestapo State has been firmly established with a mentally volatile dictator usurping the role of judge, jury and executioner, once women, visible minorities and the vulnerable have been subjugated, disappeared or exterminated, once all democratic checks and balances designed to prevent a hostile government takeover have been eliminated . . . At that point, even counter violence and open resistance will be utterly futile.

Just as during the decade-long reign of the Third Reich, which took global intervention and millions of deaths to bring to its bloody end (an end that is, in itself, highly questionable), the majority of the US citizenry will be frozen in abject terror of persecution, with the few pockets of rebels chased down and silenced. We may criticise the German population, as a whole, for not doing what was necessary to prevent a fascist dictatorship yet, here we are, condemning those who call for more aggressive resistance; the kind of resistance we expected of THEM in the past.

We're at the point now where Trump has officially declared outright war on Antifa, which simply stands for Anti-fascism. Used as a convenient blanket term - and reminiscent of the commie smears employed under Hoover and McCarthy to suppress any socialist sentiment arising within the US population - Trump has declared a blood feud on anyone caught under its ambiguous umbrella.

This means, basically, any one person, group or even country that, in the slightest, opposes and speaks out against his dictatorial ambitions. It goes well beyond his attack on DEI, his dismantling of the US Constitution, his imperialistic warmongering and full complicity in genocide, his funneling of the US Treasury into his pockets and into the bottomless maws of his oligarch sponsors . . .

The list of his crimes against humanity is endless, feeding on and galvanizing the worst traits inherent in our species to achieve his depraved agenda. And this time the threat isn't a local phenomenon (it likely never was), set and emanating from within one country, but an international - dare I say - Conspiracy of the tallest and widest order. I used to consider the term 'death cult' as somewhat of an exaggeration, yet all the evidence out there has left me with no other option but to concede that it's the most appropriate designation when addressing the genocidal wheelings and dealings of the global corporate cabal running all life on our precious planet into the ground for their own ambitions, addictions and pleasure.

The task of trying to stem this tide of death and destruction certainly appears overwhelming, especially from an individual's perspective, but going quietly into THIS cold night is doing our next generations a grievous disservice, condemning them to a life of hardships and desolation with little to look forward to but the release of death (so passionately endorsed by Christian Nationalists to give systematically imposed suffering its justification of divine purpose)

I, sure as hell, don't have a definitive answer on how to solve the devastating, end-of-world scenario we're faced with at this point in our lives but I can certainly get behind the following word of advice from the aforequoted Alexander Wolke of The Nonconformist:

Just allow yourself and others to be who they are, put your nose to the grindstone, your own grindstone, and get to work. Whether that means creating art, being the best person you can be (as a sibling, parent, spouse, or friend), taking care of your own mental health, or just surviving the day. Be you, be Punk, be kind, and fuck anyone who tries to put you or your thoughts in a box.

And to the question, ISN'T PUNK DEAD? the answer is a resounding NO! Whether it’s political corruption, economic inequality, or systemic racism, punk artists have never been afraid to speak truth to power and challenge the status quo.

In an era of political polarization, social unrest, and environmental crisis, its countercultural mentality has never been more relevant. From climate activism to anti-capitalist protests, punk has inspired grassroots movements worldwide and its message of resistance and solidarity resonates with a new generation of activists fighting for a better future. From anti-fascist protests to environmental demonstrations, the punk movement - its artists and followers - are on the front lines of the fight for a better world. It’s a reminder that, even in the face of adversity, the spirit of rebellion and resistance will always endure.

The spirit of punk will only die if we allow it to, and we cannot EVER let that happen.

Postscript: Next, one of my favourite punk tunes, a song that's given me strength and focus on days when I lacked both. And, I'm proud to add, it hails from a Canadian band, Mississauga's own Billy Talent.

As ever, my heartfelt appreciation to all our creative contributors who didn't lose faith in our little magazine's resurgence. You're absolutely PUNK and you ROCK!

Stay safe, everyone, keep up the good fight and enjoy the Journal!

Viking Death March

by Billy Talent

Down, let's take it down
Raise up the heads on a stake
We will show no mercy
On evolution's mistake

Change, will have to wait
If we can't decide on a fate
Self-appointed prophets
And a doomsday charade

You preach about love
And teach about fate
But all your beliefs

are still rooted in hate

Crosses to burn
Axes to fall
And down on your knees

you just don't look so tall

Stop, punch in the clock
Punch it with all of your rage
Put the men in office
For a minimum wage

Rats, fighting for scraps
Siphon the gas from your tank
Left your pockets empty
As they laughed at the bank

They speak about draws
But make no mistake
They're shaking your hand

while they spit in your face

Now, the time is now
We can still turn it around
Raise your voice like a weapon
Til they fall to the ground

Light, let there be light
Without a shadow of doubt
We will fight tooth and nail until
Salvation is found

So how can you look
The world in the eyes
When all you can see

is corruption and lies

Crackin' the whip on

the backs of the poor
We asked you to stop

but you still wanted more

The blood on your hands

left a trail as you crawl
Down on your knees

you just don't look so tall

Open your eyes and the empire falls

Homefront

On the Homefront

by Mat Del Papa

Canada is experiencing a housing crisis.

The asking price, even for a modest home, has long been out of reach for most aspiring homeowners. Many young people are resigning themselves to being life-long renters but that, too, is getting expensive. Homelessness is becoming an epidemic and yet our politicians do nothing . . . except blame each other. Excuses for how we got here are plentiful. Unfortunately, governmental solutions appear thin on the ground. Affordable housing is currently harder to find than Bigfoot and erecting more high-end subdivisions on Greenbelt land isn’t the answer.

Urban sprawl is a growing concern in Canada. Much of our nation’s most fertile farmland is being ploughed under to make room for monstrously overpriced, single-family 'McMansions'. Worse still, it falls on the already overburdened taxpayer to fund the building and maintenance of the vast infrastructure needed to connect these inefficient, ego-inflating edifices.

Lately, some are pushing builders to think small. 'Tiny homes' are gaining traction as a low cost alternative to traditional housing. This so-called a r c h i t e c t u r a l revolution is, sadly, just another trend. Don’t let the hype fool you. Today’s ‘radically smaller living spaces’ are just trailer parks with better marketing. Far from some high-minded social movement advocating for simpler residences and a Zen-like focus on life’s essentials, these allegedly ground-breaking designs are nothing but feel-good propaganda distracting us from real, substantive housing solutions.

Our best options aren’t sleek and shiny but rather the tried-and-true methods of the past. To that end, the federal government has dusted off construction plans first put into successful practice following the Second World War. Although they should've probably gone back even further - to the early part of the 20th century - and taken a look at Capreol’s storied history. Back then, our little railroad town used what was near to hand and turned surplus boxcars into homes. Driving around Capreol you can still spot a few of these distinctively rectangular shapes. (The NORMHC has a boxcar house on display at their Bloor Street grounds.)

Today, architects are repurposing shipping containers. There are plenty of DIY examples on the internet, put together using standard-sized cargo containers and arranging these like over-sized Lego blocks. Quick and cost-effective.

Looking for inspiration south of our border, however, could provide another blueprint.

A hundred years ago, the City of Boston, desperate for housing thanks to a wave of European immigrants (Irish and Italian mostly), developed an iconic multi-family home - their now-famous ‘triple-deckers’. These three-storey houses, with each level designated as an individual residence, have been beloved by local residents for many reasons, not least of all the sense of community they engendered. In concentrating their population by building up rather than out, they slowed urban sprawl, helped local businesses thrive, and saved money . . . both personally and municipally. And, facing another shortage these past years, some Bostonians have renamed the design ‘future-deckers’ since they’re hoping to bring the tradition back in vogue.

Canada could certainly benefit from building more multi-family residences and Northern Ontario in particular could consider triple-deckers a boon. It wouldn’t take much for politicians to offer tax breaks or other incentives for their construction. Times have certainly changed and so should expectations. A man’s home might well be his castle but - over the last one hundred years - we’ve corrupted that aphorism and many now expect their homes to resemble aristocratic mansions.

That mindset is both wasteful and self-defeating. Houses now are bigger than ever before even as the size of the average family continues to shrink. Perhaps would-be homeowners' aspirations need to adjust as well. Rather than pine for that spacious bungalow or football field-sized yard, we’d be better off figuring out how to do more with less. There’s no need to make a box-car your starter home - this isn’t 1918 - but being practical and downsizing our dreams just a bit wouldn’t hurt either.

(The Capreol Express, March, 2024)

Fox

A Fox

by Roger Nash

A fox watches
as we make love
beneath a birch tree.
He runs off
along the ridge, going
as we come, faster than
a premature climax.

Luggage For the Paddle-Wheeler

by Roger Nash

Suitcases ripple
in their alligator hides.
Ready to swim
if the cruise-ship sinks.
Backpacks snarl
zippers like incisors.
Ready to chew rivals
for a place at the bar.
And the travel agent
talks on, nonstop,
to enhance the improbable.

Doris Lessing

Is Doris Lessing Married?

by John Jantunen

Beside me, Ted whispers something inaudible.

It sounds like I love you, but it is too faint to tell for sure. A moment later he cups his hand over my breast and I know that I am mistaken; after sex, when Ted cups his hand over my breast, he believes I should understand what it means without having to hear him say it. He thinks it speaks louder than words, which of course it does not, but just to be sure I ask, “What did you say?” His only reply is to breathe harder on my neck. I lie motionless for a few minutes, then slide out from underneath his grasp and walk to the hook on the wall where my bathrobe hangs.

Beneath my feet, the floor does not creak nor does it feel cold on my bare toes and I am spared feeling the way I always did as a child when slipping out of bed in the middle of the night.

So many nights I lay in the dark in my parents' house, desperate to use the bathroom, but was kept under the covers by thoughts of that cold, creaking floor, willing myself to fall asleep before the discomfort became cramps that would soon force me to get up. And when they finally did, each step was like walking on nails; the chill on my feet waking me up thoroughly, making sure I would not be able to fall asleep for a long while after I was through with my business.

It was really the noise that I hated most of all though. My father was a light sleeper and I knew that, before I reached my bedroom door (in the summer months it stuck with the humidity and required a bump with my shoulder to free it), he would be awake.

The next morning, at breakfast, he would ask, “You shit your bed last night?” and I would reply, "No!", with all of the pre-teen spite I could muster.

“Heard you get up last night . . . thought you must've shit your bed.”

It was always the same. My mother would chastise him and he would smile like it was the first time he'd said it and I would sit, stewing. Each time he said it I made the promise, sitting there in front of my cereal, that next time I would most certainly not tiptoe to the bathroom; I would run screaming and wailing, “I shit my bed! I shit my bed!”. I had no idea what this would accomplish but the thought was enough to make me chuckle and it was that chuckle which allowed me to finish my breakfast without storming off in a huff.

At the bedroom door, the one belonging equally to Ted and myself, I give a bump with my shoulder. Despite it being August, it opens without so much as a “harrumph” (our apartment is, after all, climate controlled) but, nonetheless, I check to make sure Ted's still asleep. He is.

I shut the door behind me, hoping that the wine I tasted on Ted’s breath as he drew close to me was not the last of the Merlot I had secreted in the cupboard. His bottle, a Cabernet, corked but empty, is still on the counter and I find my Merlot, undisturbed, beside my notebook. Taking both to the table, I pour myself a glass.

Not yet quite ready to face the paragraph that awaits me beneath the cover of what is to become a journal, I walk to the bookshelf in the living room.

There is a story in there somewhere that I have been thinking about. I have not read it since college but know that I kept the collection it is in. I do not recall what it is called and the author`s name . . . it has slipped my mind. I will likely remember in the morning but now, scanning the spines of the books, I am at a loss.

The story, it is about a woman, a woman who is very much like myself but I do not know why; I am unable to bring back the details. Only that she is a woman like myself and that if I could find the collection I would know the story when I flipped through it - but it is not on the shelf.

I return to the table. I sip at my wine, open my notebook.

I hardly need to look at the paragraph; I know the lines so well. If called upon, I could repeat them backwards. Not that I ever would; each word is rooted to the page, inexorably linked to the words that come after or before. They have meaning only as a linear whole. I had intended it to be the beginning of something; instead it has become a succour. Through recitations of the paragraph I am able to find a moment of relief from whatever is bothering me. If I am interrupted halfway through, all the better; I just start again. Like playing cat’s cradle, it is a pleasant way to pass the time when there is nothing outside but the rain and the cold.

So I sip at my wine and read:

Over the course of our marriage, I have noticed that the differences between myself and my husband have dwindled to the point that now, when I have occasion to notice a glaring dissimilarity, I savour it like I imagine a wine connoisseur would savour the last glass of an especially good year. I sit alone, for why spoil the vintage with those who haven’t the palate to appreciate it, and simply enjoy the taste. When I am at home, I always do this at the kitchen table; when at the office there is a coffee shop around the corner that serves me just as well. Rarely do differences strike me in other locations, say, on the drive to work (the radios in both cars are set to the same station, our coffee brewed from the same machine, the drive itself the same distance, though in opposite directions) or at the gym (we have a dual membership and each of us, always apart, spends five hours a week conditioning). It is only at home and at the office that I feel myself to be a whole person. That is, I am a woman named June. Elsewhere, regardless of how forceful I am in asserting my woman-named-Juneness, the essence of the thing is lacking, and I have given up the desire to wage war with those around me for the distinction of being a complete individual [. . .] every waking hour of the day.

Often, I will read it over again; tonight, once is enough.

Sometimes, long ago, I would pick up a pen and try to add to it. A series of dots, bound like the moons of Jupiter in eclipse, sit superimposed over one another at the beginning of what should be the next paragraph, but these are old and I know that I will never write another word. In my mind it is locked in the imperfect state in which I first wrote it. Imperfect because it asks a question that I have not been able to answer. Imperfect even in its length, for it takes up one full page of my notebook - the kind with a black cover and red fringes that every stationary store has in endless supply - and trails the last six words onto the next: [. . .] every waking hour of the day.

I remember writing these words as an afterthought.

I contemplated squeezing them in at the bottom but decided against it. Then, I still held the belief that my paragraph would amount to something more. Was I writing a book or a short story? When I try to think my way back into it, I am unsure. Perhaps it was a letter to myself (that might grow into a short story or a book), though I can’t confirm this suspicion. Likely, it came as a result of a specific event. Searching the paragraph for clues I come up with . . . nothing. Pursuing the most likely avenue, as when I have noticed a glaring dissimilarity, yields only the doubt that Ted and I have any glaring dissimilarities and that the whole exercise was wishful thinking. This, I am certain, is untrue yet the certainty of its untruth does little to shed light on what these dissimilarities might be.

I drink the last of the wine in my glass and chase away thoughts of pouring another.

Sitting here, staring at the words, has not brought me any closer to an answer but has, at least, made me drowsy. I close the book and return it to the cupboard along with the bottle of Merlot. I creep quietly back to the bedroom. Not a sound - no squeak, peep or creak - rises from the floor and I remind myself that there is a foot of concrete under the hardwood in the hallway. I try to walk normally, as if I had been using the bathroom during a commercial break, but it feels strange, forced. At one-thirty in the morning, creeping is more natural so I return to walking on the pads of my feet.

At the bedroom door, I pause.

I think of how the red wine that tasted sweet on Ted’s breath an hour ago will have soured. And of how my scent and his sweat, tangible aphrodisiacs in the heat of love-making, will have settled on him, fermenting under the covers like milk spilled under the fridge. Curdling. Putrefying. I consider sleeping on the couch. I could say he was snoring, that he was keeping me up but then I remember, that is what he always says.

I lie down beside him, take my share of his heat.

Lessing, I think. That’s her name. Doris.

And I wonder: Is she married?

Mountainscape

Mountainscape

by Rebecca Kramer

Mountainscape late afternoon

My feet are cold I must go soon

But here I stand in dizzy awe

Think of the day and all I saw

The moment blizzards set the stage

For deep respect of element rage

And cotton clouds like snails have trailed

A string of shadows with their tails

Across the peaks and rocks blown bare

And trees that stand without a care

Oh I will miss your evening dance

As you unveil magnificence

Of warmest warm on coldest cold

With trance-like powers you take hold

Of me and all who love to ski

Around profound immensity

Oh mountainscape late afternoon

My body’s cold . . . my heart has room

For paradox of warmth and cold

This must be felt . . . this must be told

Hildegard

The Sense of Colourful Souls

Lessons Lived Through

Hildegard von Bingen

by Randy Eady

Glance at the sun. See the moon and the stars. Gaze at the beauty of earth’s greenings. Now, think. What delight God gives to humankind with all these things. All nature is at the disposal of humankind. We are to work with it. For without, we cannot survive. - Hildegard von Bingen (1098-1179 A.D.)

Born almost a millennium ago in Germany to parents of lower nobility and - for most of her life - living within cloistered walls as a Benedictine nun, Hildegard von Bingen was one of the most awe-inspiring women of her time; if not in all of recorded history.

This multitalented and exceedingly prolific abbess of the Benedictine Order proved herself to be not just an influential preacher, theologian, healer and scientist but also an accomplished composer, artist and poet. In addition to running the monastery of Disibodenberg and, later, founding the abbeys at Rupertsberg and Eibingen, Hildegard devoted her time to writing musical compositions, poems and plays as well as theological texts, medical books and scientific essays.

Heretical? No doubt, and it is astonishing that she wasn't violently persecuted for her radical, proto-feminist assertions, bringing readily to mind the horrors of the infamous 'witch' hunts practised with fanatical fervour several hundred years later.

Not only did Hildegard delve deeply into fields of study which, during the entirety of the Middle Ages, were exclusively restricted to the male clergy, but she openly rebelled against the patriarchy by asserting Divinity as male and female; a notion that, even in these modern times, is still considered - if not outrightly condemned - as highly sacrilegious by a majority of Western religions. And, to add more blasphemy to her ledger, she insisted that Source Divine (a.k.a. the Great Spirit, Soul of Life, Numinous etc.) existed well beyond the spiritual sphere of religion, infusing everything throughout the cosmos.

Being of sickly disposition from a young age onwards, Hildegard experienced mystical visions as a child and during her life - one of the reasons her parents might have offered her as an oblate to the Benedictine monastery at Disibodenberg. She describes her events of second sight in a letter to Guibert of Gembloux, a contemporary monk:

From my early childhood, before my bones, nerves, and veins were fully strengthened, I have always seen this vision in my soul, even to the present time when I am more than seventy years old. In this vision, my soul, as God would have it, rises up high into the vault of heaven and into the changing sky and spreads itself out among different peoples, although they are far away from me in distant lands and places. And because I see them this way in my soul, I observe them in accord with the shifting of clouds and other created things. I do not hear them with my outward ears, nor do I perceive them by the thoughts of my own heart or by any combination of my five senses, but in my soul alone, while my outward eyes are open.

So I have never fallen prey to ecstasy in the visions, but I see them wide awake, day and night. And I am constantly fettered by sickness, and often in the grip of pain so intense that it threatens to kill me, but God has sustained me until now. The light which I see thus is not spatial, but it is far, far brighter than a cloud which carries the sun. I can measure neither height, nor length, nor breadth in it; and I call it "the reflection of the living Light." And as the sun, the moon, and the stars appear in water, so writings, sermons, virtues, and certain human actions take form for me and gleam.

Convinced these visions emanated entirely from her fervent faith in the Divine and creatively tying them in with her inquisitive explorations and findings granted her a certain measure of indulgence, if not outright accolades, from within the circle of the patriarchal clergy under whose ultimate authority she stood; no minor feat considering the controversial nature of her scientific assertions was so often dangerously at odds with the prevalent mindset of her time.

Hildegard von Bingen documented her allegorical visions and revelatory prophecies in text and illuminations. Her most famous work, written over the course of ten years (1141-1151) is Scivias, short for Scito vias Domini ('Know the ways of the Lord').

At once deeply spiritual and intensely practical - a rare combination in any era - the abbess rightfully believed that inner harmony provided the wellspring for outer strength. By prayer and ritual, she found soulful expression in a steady outpouring of creative works which she pondered thusly:

The soul is the greening life force of the flesh, for the body grows and prospers through her, just as the earth becomes fruitful when it is moistened. The soul humidifies the body so it does not dry out, just like the rain which soaks into the earth.

Nurturing her soul through extensive musical, imagery and poetic projects, she has left us with a treasure trove of highly acclaimed works; an amazing achievement considering she lacked all formal training in the arts and was primarily self-taught. To this day, 69 of her musical compositions, each with its own, original poetic text, have been passed down through the ages, earning her the affectionate moniker 'Sybil of the Rhine'.

Her contributions represent the largest surviving repertoire from the entire medieval era, making her one of the best-known, and most recorded, creators of sacred monophony.

Your greatest weakness can become your greatest strength.

Hildegard suffered from poor health her entire life but this didn’t deter her from passionately pursuing her inquisitions into the nature of the world around her. In fact, her own frailties arguably sparked a fervent interest in the healing arts; if not the natural sciences in general. She also knew how to use her physical afflictions for leverage with her superiors, taking to bed feigning illness until the Church authorities granted her requests.

Hildegard's medicinal and scientific writings consisted of Physica, an encyclopedic collection of nine books that describe the scientific and medicinal properties of various plants, stones and animals, and Causae et Curae, an exploration of the human body, its connections to the rest of the natural world, and the causes and cures of various diseases.

Neither claim to be rooted in her visionary experience and its divine authority but rather appear to spring from her experience helping in and, later on, leading the monastery's herbal garden and infirmary, as well as the theoretical information she gathered through the monastery's library. As she gained practical skills in diagnosis, prognosis and treatment, she combined physical attention to the body's diseases with holistic methods centered on spiritual well being. She became widely known for her healing powers involving the practical application of tinctures, herbs and precious stones, combining these elements with a theological notion ultimately derived from Genesis:

All things put on earth are for the use of humans.

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Hildegard’s cures for complex illnesses often called for herbs and practices with apparently opposite attributes, such as hot and cold, moist and dry or silence and stimulation - applications we've come to rely on in modern medicine as well.

Joy should be the foundation of your life.

Her curative practices were frequently ensconced in a precept of Viriditas (translated from Latin as 'greenness' or 'greening power'), interpreted by her as meaning 'Growth of Life'.

Hildegard wrote in her medical works that the Divine transmits life into plants, animals, and germs and we gain Viriditas as we eat plants and animals and acquire germs of all kinds. We, in turn, pass that living essence on by practicing habits of life-sustaining virtue, thus becoming an important link in the chain of being. She nurtured the wisdom of Viriditas wherever she found it, giving one of the best pieces of advice I’ve ever heard: Be not lax in celebrating.

This joyful recommendation ties in nicely with the fact that Hildegard von Bingen holds a unique distinction in the annals of beer history. The German abbess is responsible for one of the earliest surviving notes on the use of hops in beer:

As a result of its own bitterness, [hops] stops putrification when put in [beer] and it may be added so that it lasts so much longer.

It should come as little surprise then that she is still venerated as the patron saint of this popular brew. Cheers & Prosit!

Why you should love a leech.

Blood purification, as per Hildegard von Bingen, was intimately linked to the waning moon period as described in her manuscript Causae et Curae. A 'house cleaning' of this type was recommended once or even twice a year as a suitable, precautionary measure to invigorate the liver and maintain robust health.

This 'blood cleansing' is a comparatively mild form of bloodletting (aderlass) aimed at encouraging the body's fundamental healing process and has proved itself to be quite useful as a supplementary measure in treating circulatory disorders, high blood pressure, recuperation after a stroke or heart attack, as well as managing dyslipidemia, sclerosis, rheumatism, hormonal challenges and severe headaches (migraines) occurring in women during the the onset of menopause.

The therapeutic application of bloodletting dates back to Ancient Egypt and India. One of its main uses lies in the removal of venous congestion (stale blood/infectious puss) in wounds to reinvigorate fresh blood flow and encourage healing since the saliva of leeches has anticoagulant, analgesic, and anti-inflammatory properties.

In recent years, The Royal College of Surgeons of England has officially endorsed hirudotherapy (the scientific term for blood-letting) as an effective treatment with few, harmful side effects.

During an age where the Church judged sexual acts as inherently sinful, Hildegard seemed to hold a more 'enlightened' attitude. She offers the first written description of the female orgasm and the essential role it plays in conception:

When a woman is making love with a man, a sense of heat in her brain, which brings with it sensual delight, communicates the taste of that delight during the act and summons forth the emission of the man’s seed. And when the seed has fallen into its place, that vehement heat descending from her brain draws the seed to itself and holds it, and soon the woman’s sexual organs contract, and all the parts that are ready to open up during the time of menstruation now close, in the same way as a strong man can hold something enclosed in his fist.

Hildegard's spirituality was deeply embedded in her philosophy of human nature and its fundamental connectedness to Mother Earth.

Hence she was an early herald exploring the feminine Divine and also the relationship between ecology and spirituality. Her teachings remind us of our intrinsic connection with the Life Force (Viriditas) which sustains the cosmos and every living being therein:

The earth is at the same time Mother, she is Mother of all that is natural, Mother of all that is human. She is Mother of all, for contained in her are the seeds of all. The earth of humankind contains all moistness, all verdancy, all germinating power. It is in so many ways fruitful. All creation comes from it. Yet it forms not only the basic raw material for humankind, but also the substance of the incarnation of God’s son.

Her holistic worldview was laid out in six golden rules aimed at mitigating the effects that the stressors of life have on body and mind; insights which have gained in relevance and recognition over the past decades:

1. Your food is the first medicine for a healthy life. There are curative properties found in the right food and drink.

2. To preserve and restore your health use the potency of natural medicines. The cosmic power contained within the four elements fire, air, water and earth can heal your body and your soul.

3. Make sure you have a natural sleep in proper balance with enough movement and exercise.

4. Ora et Labora: You should meditate and rest as much as you work.

5. Cleanse your body from its poisons through fasting, cupping, bloodletting, moxibustion, baths and sauna.

6. Transform your psychological weaknesses into generous and loving deeds of spiritual joy, vitality and love for your fellow man by using the 35 subconscious virtues.

The soul is symphonic; there is the music of heaven in all things, but we have forgotten to hear it until we sing.

Hildegard also perceived a direct relationship between [...] that which the ear hears and the metabolism of the liver, underscoring the importance of restful, contemplative music to the health of the circulatory and digestive systems and one's psychological well being. In particular, she observed that [...] whenever the blood vessels come into contact with body fluids which have been shocked [by loud sounds], then they also reach the vessels of the ears and now and then affect the hearing capability, because often a person earns health or sickness with hearing.

The use of sound and music for healing is ancient and can be found in many spiritual and sacred traditions - although healing via 'targeted vibration acoustics' on a level that Hildegard endorsed is a relatively new modality in the contemporary healing arts. The current field of 'Sound Healing' is enormous in its scope, encompassing virtually all aspects of the auditory phenomenon - from music and nature expressions to electronic, industrial and vocal sounds.

While the sphere of 'a living light' ( Lux Vivens) permeated her visions and served as her occasional curative, at the heart of Hildegard von Bingen's extraordinary creativity was her appreciation of the voice to the accompaniment of music as expressed in her monophonic works. To Hildegard, this combination of breath and sound manifested the Divine as a feather moves on the breath of God.

Speak the truth as you know it.

While she had a deep respect for authority and the traditions of the Church, she wasn’t afraid to bend the rules when necessary or speak up for what she thought was right and true. Nearly 400 of her letters survive to this day - addressed to correspondents ranging from popes, emperors and the upper nobility, to abbots and abbesses - with many of them so sharply worded that one could almost feel sorry for their recipients.

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Hildegard's participation in the medieval rhetorical arts speaks to her significance as a female rhetorician, transcending bans on women's social participation and interpretation of scripture. The acceptance of public preaching by a woman, even a well-connected abbess and acknowledged prophet, certainly defied the highly restrictive stereotype of its time. She was allowed to conduct four preaching tours throughout Germany, predominantly lecturing both clergy and laity on the issue of clerical corruption and calling for reform. These tours, which took place in the 1150s and 1160s, saw her preaching in marketplaces as women were prohibited from oration in churches.

Despite her fragile health, Hildegard managed to live well into her eighties and pretty much never stopped working - a testament to the successful self-application of her extensive research.

Considering that many first-hand, historical sources from this period were destroyed or lost to time, it is near miraculous that we can still access her substantial body of work. 40 years after Hildegard's death, Gebeno of Eberbach, a monk from a nearby abbey, started compiling Hildegard's writings. The most complete compilation of Hildegard's works is known as the Riesencodex, which contains her visionary writings, letters and the largest known collection of her music.

The subsequent 800 years after Hildegard's death saw wars, plagues and rapidly changing borders but her legacy was loyally protected by her nuns, their successors as well as devoted allies. During the Thirty Years' War - a violent, religious conflict which swept through Germany in the 17th century - the nuns saved Hildegard's manuscripts and relics from the ruins of Rupertsberg.

In the course of the Second World War, when some of Hildegard's manuscripts were moved to Dresden for safekeeping and ended up in occupied territory far from its home, two women pulled off a risky heist to save the Riesencodex. They delivered the 15 kg manuscript to the abbey in Eibingen before it found its permanent home in the Wiesbaden Library.

Even though Hildegard von Bingen was amongst the first notable Christians for whom the Roman canonization process was officially applied, Sainthood would elude her for many centuries.

During the 13th century, four attempts made at proclaiming her an official saint never reached confirmation* and she remained at the level of her beatification. Her name was nonetheless included in the Roman Martyrology at the end of the 16th century up to the current 2004 edition, listing her as 'Saint Hildegard', with her feast day designated for September 17.

In 2012, Pope Benedict XVI finally extended the veneration of Saint Hildegard to the entire Catholic Church in a process known as 'equivalent canonization'. On the feast of the Holy Rosary, he named her a 'Doctor of the Church', proclaiming Hildegard "an authentic teacher of theology and a profound scholar of natural science and music".

Today she is, once again, widely recognized for her contributions across many disciplines including Philosophy, the Arts and Sciences. You can visit Hildegard's pilgrimage church in Eibingen, a modern abbey erected in her honour which also houses her relics.

* Her application for Sainthood literally got 'lost in the mail' on the arduous journey from Germany across the Alps to the Vatican in Rome.

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Skeletal Remains (Tanja Rabe)

John

Reclaiming My Freedom

by John Jantunen

Free in mind must be he who desires to have understanding.- Arthur Koestler, The Sleepwalkers

This past June I began my ninth novel, my first after taking a break from writing any new fiction for almost three years.
In an email I sent to my publisher in May of 2023 to notify him of my decision to take - what I called - an indefinite hiatus, I wrote that “I've reached the inescapable conclusion that the amount of energy it takes for me to write my books far outweighs any possible returns I might conceivably expect in the foreseeable future and that if I continue as I have these past twelve or so years, the only future I can reasonably expect at all is one mired in abject poverty sliding towards utter destitution.”

In his response, my publisher, ever the optimist, advised, “When things clarify you’ll likely to be driven to write more and we’ll still be around to do what we can to support the process.” At the time, I’ll readily admit, his promise wasn’t much of a consolation. Over the two decades prior to ECW Press accepting my second novel, Cipher, in 2012, I’d written over twenty unproduced screenplays along with a similar number of unpublished short stories and children’s books and, throughout all the hundreds of rejections I received for my efforts, I’d never once given up on the hope that I might still make a living as a writer. Yet after having had six books published which had been lauded in numerous literary journals, had been shortlisted for three awards, and garnered me multiple grants from both the Ontario Arts and Canada Council - a veritable smorgasbord of recognition for an author who’d once resigned himself to the likely prospect that he’d never get published at all - the very thought of starting a new book felt like the psychological equivalent of feeding myself, feet first, into a wood chipper.

For someone who’d begun writing novels as an act of liberation and who never felt freer than when he was hammering away at his latest, the idea that it had instead become a form of self-imposed oppression would have, only a short time ago, been inconceivable to me. As I also explained to my publisher, the main reason for the sudden, and seemingly irrevocable, shift stemmed from my “unwillingness to slave away at anymore crap jobs”, which were the primary source of income providing me with the means and time to write in the first place.

I was on Employment Insurance at that point, having recently quit as the bartender at the Army, Navy, Air Force Club here in Kingston, a job that left my mornings free to edit my latest book, Mason’s Jar, and, owing to the dollar tip I generally made on every drink served, provided full-time remuneration for part-time hours. And, at first, it seemed like the perfect job, especially for an author whose characters are so often police officers, soldiers and bikers - the very people, along with prison guards, who made up the bulk of my clientele. I’d quickly learn, though, that my primary role as bartender at the ANAF Club was to facilitate drunk driving.

I’d become increasingly frustrated that my concerns were not only being dismissed by the ANAF's Board of Directors but that its members themselves seemed to believe their position entitled them to get pissed drunk and drive whenever they so desired. My frequent reminders, and later pleas, that it could mean jail time for me if they hurt someone while operating a motor vehicle under the influence fell upon similarly deaf ears. Calls to police about my concerns were also dismissed. When I took matters into my own hands by refusing to serve more than one drink an hour to anyone who expected to drive home afterwards - as directed by Smart Serve - my tips declined at even pace with the rising hostility I felt from both my patrons and my bosses.

Drunk-Driving-Statistics_edited_edited_e

Frustrations reached a breaking point one evening when one of the club’s rare female patrons confided in me that the bar manager, drunk as always, had tried to sexually assault her the night before after she’d forgotten to clear her tab for the night and, returning to settle up, had found him alone at the bar. A few days later, another female patron came forward to disclose that said bar manager had shown up drunk at her house around midnight and tried to force himself inside. Luckily her boyfriend, another patron, had been with her and chased him off. While I urged both women to come forward with their accusations, I did understand their reluctance, given the way our 'justice' system, and society at large, continues to treat women who report such assaults.
A few days later, said bar manager threatened to fire me for cutting off a regular who was literally falling down drunk and I barked back at him, “You dare threaten me with what I know about you . . . and with your wife standing right there!?” It was moot point for I knew that my time at the ANAF Club had come to a close and I handed in my resignation the very next day.

Qualifying for Employment Insurance benefits required that I prove I had been “constructively dismissed” and, to bolster my claim, I documented my extensive concerns in complaints filed with the Labour Board, The Liquor License Board, the chair of the ANAF Club’s provincial board of directors and the Health Board - the last regarding the club’s failure to meet even the basic Health and Safety standards required, by law, of any establishment that served liquor and food. In every single case, I was told my concerns were valid and would be investigated. Yet when I happened, not long after, to run into the bartender who’d replaced me, she told me that the bar manager was still there and that she herself was beginning to have grave concerns regarding just how many of her patrons arrived in their vehicles already inebriated and, after binge drinking for another few hours, were then freely allowed to drive home again.

All of this to say, that throughout my experience there, I’d been forced to confront the harsh reality that the word of a lowly bartender, such as myself, meant nothing when measured against the lofty word of such an 'upstanding citizen' as was the bar manager, a retired high school principal. My own claims to any degree of credibility hinged solely on five of my books being published by an independent press, with a sixth forthcoming, and my experience at the ANAF would only further serve to prove, as if I needed any more proof, that I might as well have been pissing into the sea, for all the actual credibility those conferred on me.

It didn’t help my frame of mind, I’ll add, that all seven of my novels were written as a means of discovering the truth about why there were so many missing and murdered women and girls in a country that prides itself on being Canada The Good. Through my creative efforts over the preceding fifteen years, I’d recognized a clear pattern in which the proliferation of the horrific violence perpetrated against some of the most vulnerable Peoples in the country seemed to bear stark parallels to the cycles present in predator-prey relationships within our animal kingdom. Except, that is, in nature boom and bust cycles regulate populations of, say, deer and wolves. Between our government agencies, from its Child Protection services to its Justice and Healthcare systems, and our industries, particularly our resource extraction industries, we’ve created an environment which, by its very nature, churns out an endless supply of vulnerable Peoples and since the current climate of permissiveness not only allows predators like said bar manager at the ANAF to flourish, unchecked, but emboldens them, we’re never short of predators to prey on the vulnerable either. Is it in any wonder then that we’ve reached a point where the human variant of the predator-prey relationship is just boom-boom, all the time?

Our so-called Justice systems are particularly complicit in this regard as they disproportionately funnel poor people, and poor Indigenous Peoples in particular, into our correctional system where guards are given free rein, and are even encouraged, to openly prey on the most vulnerable among their charges while also using other prisoners as surrogate predators in their stead. With such entrenched practices of abuse residing at the heart of our 'Justice' system, it should come as no surprise then that - since moving to Kingston, the prison capital of Ontario - the most recurrent comment I’ve heard people make regarding correctional officers is that only difference between them and the criminal offenders they're in charge of is that they get to go home after their shift.
As I mentioned earlier, prison guards made up a fair contingent of my patrons at the ANAF Club and the braggadocio culture holding sway among them, especially when they were drunk, provided me with even more irrefutable evidence of just how depraved, and ubiquitous, such predations for the incarcerated have become. The following story, in particular, has become so indelibly imprinted on my brain that I know I’ll never be rid of it.

In it, a correctional officer related how he and his fellow guards used to 'initiate' newly incarcerated male prisoners, particularly if they were young, attractive and white, by putting them in a cell with, in his words, a “huge, hulking Black pedo” for their first night. He seemed to derive an inordinate amount of pleasure recounting how guards, including himself, would listen outside the cell as the young man was raped until dawn, laughing even when the guard imitated the hobbling two-step their target would be doing the next morning after such vile treatment. While he was still acting out his morning-after jig, I asked whether he thought whatever the prisoner had done warranted such a punishment. Given how his story was so closely aligned with the horror stories so often represented in American film and television, I was hardly surprised when he answered with that well-worn trope of Hollywood prison movies: “If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime.”

The dire state of a system in which its officials not only facilitate such depravities but revel in them, is further compounded by the equally dire reality that poor people have very little genuine recourse to the law themselves in this country. Whether it’s a woman accusing someone of sexual assault, a tenant trying to get a slumlord to abide by the Landlord-Tenancy Act, or an employee standing up for their lawful rights as enshrined in the Employment Standards Act, it matters not. If it’s your word against someone higher up on the social ladder, your chances that anyone in a position to ensure that your legal rights are being upheld will actually take any action are about as likely as a pregnant doe being able to defend herself against a pack of ravenous wolves.

This, naturally, has resulted in most poor people giving up on any hope of justice at all and nowhere is this more apparent than offences that occur in the workplace. Over my forty years of paid employments, I’ve raised dozens of health and safety concerns - often regarding the workplace harassment and violence I and fellow employees have experienced, for the most part, at the hands of other employees. And in every single one of those complaints, regardless that they have always proven true, my actions resulted in me being punished for my efforts; whether by an increase in hostility from the perpetrators themselves, most often accompanied by a matching level of hostility from management for being a 'troublemaker', lost opportunities for advancement or by being pressured to quit (as happened at the ANAF Club), or getting outright terminated, which ended my last job. (the NDA I signed, I’ll add, prohibits me from discussing that matter in detail)

It’s no wonder than that this has engendered a system in which its lowliest employees - i.e. the ones most likely to be victimized - have only two real choices open to them: Either you toe the line and keep your mouth shut, or you quit. Given that the exact same forms of backlash recounted above have been documented by social justice activists and reported in the news, ad nauseum, while almost nothing has been done to actually counter the omnipresent toxicity springing from a work culture based on fear of reprisals only serves to further embolden the predators most of us have no choice but to work, and live, alongside. Perhaps it’s understandable, then, why I’ve grown weary of so many people on the political left complaining about Trump’s lies and malfeasances when, for the vast majority of lowly wage earners, we are trapped in a slightly milder version of Trump’s America every time we go to work, irrespective of whether our bosses are on the left or the right of the political spectrum.

Regardless, the way I was treated at the ANAF Club - and by the very government agencies which are meant to protect my rights as a worker - felt like a double sucker punch to the gut. While I did, ultimately, qualify for E.I. and used my time to begin what would be my ninth novel, I was feeling utterly defeated by then and gave up writing after a hundred or so pages.

It’s perhaps ironic then that, three years later, it would be another constructive dismissal from a similarly toxic workplace which would again provide me the time and, owing to the small settlement I received for signing an NDA, the means to at least consider writing another book. While I was even more despondent over the helplessness I felt regarding the way events unfolded there than I had after leaving the ANAF, I’d also witnessed firsthand just how positive an effect those radical acts of compassion within a trauma informed approach could have when providing services to the unhoused/ substance users who frequented our program. For a few glorious months myself, my staff and our over twenty volunteers demonstrated, incontrovertibly, that a model founded on nurturing opportunities for joy rather than one inculcated by fear, not only provided a possible direction forward but was, in fact, the only way forward if we, as a society, are ever to really fulfill our promise of creating a true Canada The Good.
This was the exact hope which I’d once wanted to instil in the final novel of the three books containing The Tildon Chronicles I’d begun with No Quarter and In For A Dime. My inability to find a real-world corollary that might inspire in me the belief that such a variety of hope might actually find a way to germinate, much less thrive, within a world spiraling towards oblivion had long convinced me that writing it would just be another fool’s game. But seeing, in the flesh, how transformative such a model could be, I began at least to contemplate how I might go about manifesting that hope within Nickel Down.

Reading has always formed an integral part of my writing process and I’ve found that choosing the right books to read when preparing to start a new novel is essential to the task of focusing my mind, and bolstering my resolve, towards what often feels like the Promethean task of building up momentum in the early stages. Before writing In For A Dime, for example, I’d reread John Steinbeck’s East Of Eden. As providence would have it, in a passage I’ve since come to call Lee’s Lament, Steinbeck would provide me with the epigram I planned to use for Nickel Down:

There’s more beauty in the truth even if it is dreadful beauty.
The storytellers at the city gate twist life so that it looks sweet to
the lazy and the stupid and the weak, and this only strengthens
their infirmities and teaches nothing, and cures nothing,

nor does it let the heart soar.

Whether I might actually manage to realize the ideal distilled in these words, only time will tell. In the very least though, the above passage provided me with a place to start while also, perhaps more significantly, a lens through which I hoped my newest fiction would come into clear focus.

Much of the book is to take place at an eponymous, back-to-nature, restorative justice program for young offenders located on several thousand acres of wildlands north of Algonquin Park. I figured that if any book would be able to provide me with some much-needed inspiration while trying to imagine what this little piece of paradise might look like, it would have to be Thomas More’s Utopia. While I would indeed find much inspiration in More’s account of a sailor marooned on his eponymous island, it was the following passage which would provide me with the Eureka! moment so invaluable for any author embarking on his latest journey into the unknown.

They look on the desire of the bloodshed, even of beasts,
as a mark of a mind that is already corrupted with cruelty,
or that at least, by too frequent returns of so brutal a pleasure,

must degenerate into it.

While, of course, the understanding that violence begets violence has been around at least since Jesus told Peter to put away his sword in defense of him, “for all those who draw the sword will die by the sword”, this aphorism still serves as a potent reminder that Canada itself can’t expect to reap anything but what we have sown in regards to the violence that has come to define our society as much as it has our neighbours' in The States. In this respect, the upheavals currently threatening to spiral into civil war down south should serve as a dire warning to all Canadians that similar 'troubles' lay in store for us if we don’t engage in a dramatic, and immediate, reckoning with our own violence.

If I were a betting man, I’d place the odds of us accomplishing this monumental and revolutionary feat as being so astronomical that no sane person would even consider such a wager and my reasons have as much to do with how we view ourselves in false-opposition to the Americans as it does with the obvious similarities between our two countries. Whereby American politicians, as an example, tend to valorize violence as a means to an end, our Canadian counterparts are far more reticent to engage in any sort of rhetoric which might so elevate violence in any way, shape or form. This, we tell ourselves as a means of distancing ourselves from our cousins to the south, is because Canada is a much more 'civil' society in which we steadfastly believe that violence must only be used as a very last resort.

The reality, though, is that we, as Canadians, have not taken this stance as some form of moral high ground but out of a staunch unwillingness to admit to ourselves that violence is as intrinsic to our society as it is to theirs and, quite frankly, always has been. And whether we embrace the violence or ignore it, I’d argue, doesn’t matter one iota. Regardless of whether it’s a gaping wound for all the world to see, as it is in The States, or it’s an infection festering less-noticeably under the skin as in Canada, if left untreated the results will be much the same.

Yet we continue to treat the injuries that the escalating cycles of violence are inflicting on all of us by doubling down on the same old, worn-out strategies that are directly responsible for the increasing proliferation of that violence in the first place, simply because it’s more advantageous, and expedient, for our politicians to fan the flames of our fears than to take the concrete actions which might possibly mitigate them. So we consent, tacitly if we’re on the left or explicitly if we’re on the right, to their demands that we need more police and more correctional facilities, longer prison sentences and, for god’s sake already, stop giving violent offenders any sort of parole at all, even though it’s been well-documented that supervised parole is integral in re-assimilating the incarcerated into the greater society and, thus, reducing recidivism.

Our efforts towards these effects have merely proven that doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results is indeed the definition of insanity. That this inconvenient truth has been ignored by all but a slim minority of supposed 'left-wing radicals', who themselves are treated as naïve at best and lunatics at worst for even suggesting that the problem demands an entirely new approach, doesn’t bode well that any change is in the offing anytime soon.

In my hubris, perhaps, I still contend that it’s our artists, and specifically our writers, who must be in the vanguard of imagining possibilities which might finally break the cycles underpinning the escalating violence; whether it’s state sponsored, domestic or stemming from the myriad criminal organizations which, because we’ve again chosen the high moral ground rather than applying an evidence-based approach to the trafficking of illicit substances, we’ve allowed to infiltrate every single community in the country.

The first step, after all, in countering the stigma surrounding poverty, which feeds the cycles of despair fueling it, is to humanize the poor and who, I ask, is better suited to beginning this process than a country’s artists? Lamentably, I must concede that nearly all Canadian artists, and writers in particular, are about as unsuited to the task at hand as our politicians. Most conspicuous among the reasons why I’ve been forced to reach such a lamentable conclusion is that poverty itself is the number one barrier to participating in the arts in this country so that the vast majority of our artists simply have no lived experience with what it truly means to be poor, or even working class. They are thus in no position, whatever their good intentions might be, to understand the entire range of experiences arising from poverty and will always be limited in their ability to present the full picture requisite to the task of humanizing poor people.

A second, no less salient, reason relates to the false dichotomy surrounding our stance on violence which I discussed above and which our politicians and much of our citizenry, including our artists, continue to stalwartly hide behind, again, primarily as a means of differentiating ourselves from our neighbours to the south. In the very first issue of this magazine, I wrote at some length in "Is This Canadian Enough For Ya?" about how our unwillingness to confront the violence buttressing our own society has produced a chilling effect on our artistic culture and won’t belabor the point here except to add that all we’ve achieved by hobbling artistic freedom in this country is to whittle away at the possibilities inherent in the notion of freedom itself, with the inevitable result being that the only real freedom remaining for any of us will be a choice of whether we’ll make our final stand on the left or on the right of the political spectrum.

And when I say ‘freedom’ I’m not talking about the equally limiting 'debate' surrounding Freedom of Speech which has so entranced American artists, journalists and broadcasters, whereby freedom is merely equated with the right to espouse your own immutable 'truths'. I’m speaking of the freedom that Arthur Koestler refers to in The Sleepwalkers when he quotes 16th century astronomer Rheticus which I’ve used as an epigraph at the beginning of this piece: Free in mind must be he who desires to have understanding.

Rheticus was speaking specifically of the stultifying effects that the dogmatic belief of the sun moving around the earth had on those trying to chart the actual observed patterns of celestial movements but the distinction is as relevant to any 21st century artist as it was to a 16th century astronomer. Free in mind must we be, too, if artists are to have any hope of regaining even a modicum of the social relevance currently being denied us - and by that I mean free equally from the prejudices constraining both those of the political right and the left. That I found further confirmation of my aspirations with Nickel Down in The Sleepwalkers maybe shouldn’t have come as a surprise when I revisited it shortly after finishing Utopia. It was one of only a couple of books that accompanied me when I hitchhiked to Vancouver when I was nineteen; a journey propelled very much by my own desire, as a fledgling writer, to be free of the constrictions intrinsic to life in a small town such as Bracebridge, Ontario, so that I better might understand the country as a whole.

Again encountering a passage that no doubt spoke to me as dearly some thirty-five years ago as it did so recently, I couldn’t help but be reminded that when I sat down to finally write my first book, fallingoverstandingstill, I began it with the single word, Freedom, written by an ex-con on his bedroom wall shortly after being released from prison. While I already then suspected that my ex-con, Rene Descartes, would never be able to truly claim the freedom he so desperately desired, I chose to begin with that particular word because I knew that for me to accomplish what I intended as a writer would require a freedom that I had never been able to fully realize in my own life and wanted it to stand as an ever-present reminder of what I truly aspired to as an author.

I can confidently report that - owing to the mental safety net provided by my publisher and editor at ECW Press which has allowed me to take chances with my fiction that would have been unimaginable on my own - over the course of my six subsequent novels I believe to have achieved exactly what I’d set out to do. Even if my success on the page hasn’t translated to the kinds of material freedoms I’d hoped would result from my efforts, the resulting books themselves have at least come to serve as an ever-present reminder that if I managed something as seemingly impossible as that, then perhaps anything is possible.

And for any author who’s embarking on their next journey of discovery with the intention of imparting a similar sense in the reader, and who’s writing in an increasingly polarized age where our only choices are being reduced to Us vs Them, what could possibly be more liberating than that?

Country

Storm Clouds (Katerina Fretwell)

What Kind of Country

by Katerina Fretwell

creates war zones out of its common streets;
kills its children while they sing ABC;
picks off families out for ice cream treats?

ignores warnings in young pariahs' tweets;
hoists NRA over the right to be;
creates a bullseye out of its peopled streets?

labels BIPOC sub-human, incomplete;
brands LGBTQ a heresy;
targets immigrants braving winter sleet?

clings to savage Wild West mythical feats,
enshrines alt-right gun-carrying posses;
fosters battle zones out of ghettoized streets?

loves guns despite tags on gurney-borne feet;
upholds pistols brandished in piety;
picks you off like shooting a clay skeet?

What kind of country?

https://onalimbstudio.ca

Costco

Starvation Wages

by Matthew Del Papa

“People are pigs,” the nameless lady said to me. “Greedy pigs.” Shaking her head in disgust set her big hair to swaying and it took a long time for that mass of artificial colour to settle. Her complaints, though, knew no end. “And our free samples mean it’s always feeding time.”

The woman had a name, of course, I just hadn’t bothered to make a mental note of it when we were introduced far-too-early that morning. It normally took two large double-doubles to jumpstart my brain in the A.M. - twice that if I’d spent the previous night either partying or hitting the books - and I hadn’t got outside my first coffee yet before arriving at my new job. Now, with the hurried orientation almost over, I was too embarrassed to ask. Not that it mattered, the woman never stopped talking the entire time I spent under her 'tutelage'.

Working at Costco was far from my dream job but, as a broke university student, I needed money. I’d heard good things about the warehouse store; its reputation as an employer ranked high and there were rumoured to be some generous benefits included when joining the corporate team. Unfortunately for me, the sample booths were the only positions hiring. And they were contracted out. On the cheap.

My pay started at minimum wage and no one had even hinted at a raise during the interview. I did, however, get to work inside which, given Sudbury winters, counted for something. Plus, I had free access to the store; meaning I could buy those famous discount hot dogs during my few, all-too-brief breaks.
My housemates, all six of them, had loved that last perk. As theatre majors, we might not have been taught any practical skills - certainly nothing that would land us a ‘real’ job - but we knew how to make our meagre savings last. And sharing everything, from rent to deodorant, helped ensure we all scraped by. Living in each other’s back pocket, with the seven of us crammed into a two-bedroom-one-bath, shared house off campus, meant we got on one another’s nerves more often than not. But, when they'd begged me to load up on fresh-cooked Costco Franks at the end of my first shift, I had agreed. Turning them down wasn’t an option. Not with everyone on the verge of starvation. The desperation of a hungry stomach tended to spark some creative thought in our little group . . . or so we told ourselves, usually while splitting watered-down ramen noodles seven ways.
So, I'd made sure to stuff my pockets to bursting on my way out the warehouse store’s door. Taking the bus home, I attracted quite a few looks, no doubt drawn by the reek of wieners soon adding its own flavour to the already stale aroma permeating the air.

“Don’t get me wrong,” the nameless lady hurried to add as she led into her next rant - the fourth or fifth by now. That blame-deflecting phrase seemed to be one of her favourites. Sadly, she always followed it up with something even more offensive.

This time she concluded with, “It’s not all people, of course. But you’ll see. Oh, yes, you’ll see.” That set her to snickering. She sounded like a Disney movie villainess, cackling with wicked glee. I ignored her mean-spirited humour and focussed on what she was doing: preparing samples for display. My assigned station sat two aisles over and I was expected to replicate her work once she finished the demonstration. Despite wearing shapeless disposable gloves, her finger flew through the complicated procedure with practised ease.

“Clean cuts and even spreads, please, so everything looks appealing,” she explained, as if I needed every little step spelled out. Her being three times my age meant she found everything about me amusing and didn’t bother pretending otherwise. Even her half-hearted, “I like your shoes,” had a judgemental barb to it.
“Thanks,” I managed. “They’re limited edition.”
“Cost a pretty penny, I bet.” Not wanting to admit how much or that I’d waited sixteen hours in line to put down the money for them, I simply shrugged.
“You young people,” she smiled, dismissing every generation of lesser age than her own before offering the next piece of - unsolicited and unappreciated - advice. “Money isn’t for spending. It’s for saving. Got to be ready for that rainy day. Sooner or later, you’ll learn. Probably the hard way.” Adding in a light, dismissive tone, “No sense in your heads.”
Changing topics all-of-a-sudden, she announced sharply, “No one gets a third sample!” Looking up while still cutting, “That’s our one rule. Understand?” I nodded solemnly and she, having waited for that sign of confirmation, returned to her flashing knife. The flow of condescending words continued, “Seconds are fine. But no more! If they ask, you direct them to where the product is shelved and encourage them, politely but firmly, to make a purchase.”
“How am I supposed to keep track?” She replied with a short chuckle and, contradicting everything she’d just told me, shrugged, “We’re not the food police.”

Unfortunately for me, there was another rule. One considered so obvious, no one had bothered to explain it to me: Employees don’t get to enjoy free samples.
I'd learn the consequences of that infraction the hard way . . . by getting fired on my very first day. Worse, it happened when my mouth was full of incriminating evidence. Apricot pudding, of all things. Meaning, I couldn’t even argue. Not that the nameless lady would have listened. She had no use for me or my 'ilk' and told me so explicitly while she waited for me to pocket the 'unhealthy' stash of hot dogs I was allowed to purchase before being escorted out the door.

That night, unable to sleep, my thoughts kept going back to the woman’s relentless prattle. It had mostly washed over me, unheard and unappreciated, but one phrase continuously chased itself around my mind: “We’re not the food police.”

It took a week before my subconscious hatched a plan that could potentially spare our pocketbooks, fill our bellies and change our lives for the better. The scheme proved quite simple: The entire house pooled their limited funds and, together, purchased a Costco membership using the one ID in the household that carried the most unisex name amongst us - Casey Emmanuel, yours truly. Then, taking turns, we’d visit Costco and circle the store pretending to shop, purchasing the absolute bare minimum to avoid drawing unwanted attention. Of course, in reality, all we came in for were those free samples.
We’d take long and leisurely loops, stopping oh-so-casually at every station for a taste or two of whatever bite-sized portion was on offer before moving on, only to return to the scene of our crimes again and again and, hopefully, again. For as many multi-dips as we could . . . until they either asked us to leave or we'd finally have eaten our fill.
And it worked! At least until the costume silliness started, anyway.

Let me admit, to the uninitiated amongst you, that the competitiveness between theatre-types can grow surprisingly cutthroat. The acting community isn’t a kumbaya-style, communal paradise. I learned that hard truth early on in life.

Trying out for a school play at the tender age of ten, I was sabotaged by eleven-year-old Becky Donaldson - a blonde and blue-eyed, innocent-looking Aryan angel. She’d learned psychological warfare on the pageant circuit and, having mastered its ruthless techniques before her seventh birthday, was going on to wreak absolute havoc on the Middle School of St. Mary’s the Merciful. The others - good Catholic children like me before I smartened up - had no defence against her cunning tactics.

Becky’s mom, always ready to undermine the competition, had quickly identified me as a threat to her 'star' daughter’s pre-eminence when she overheard me rehearsing for a part she'd set her eyes on for her precious progeny and realized that I'd nailed every note. Hurrying off, determined, Mrs. Donaldson would return mere moments later and shove her daughter, armed with snacks, in my direction. Naïvely, I didn’t realize I’d been targeted.

At first, Becky and I shared some friendly small-talk and the stack of saltine crackers slathered in peanut butter she offered up with an angelic smile. Feeling nervous as I waited for my first audition, I ate too many - ten to each one of hers - and was still desperately looking for something to wash the lingering dryness from my mouth when my name got called.
My performance proved a complete disaster and, rather than land a starring role in the school’s PG version of "Cabaret", I ended up in the chorus. Becky Donaldson - who returned my drink afterwards with a smirk, “Look what I found!” only after I'd choked dismally in front of Sister Bontemps, our enthusiastic director - landed the lead.

That incident sparked a life-long rivalry which only grew as the productions got bigger. I never did learn to 'play the game' quite like Becky. She landed top billing until nature decided to take pity on me. Puberty changed us both. I grew up, ending at over six feet tall, with the square jaw of a leading man. Becky Donaldson, not to be outdone, grew too - busty and beautiful to behold. Luckily for me, a lot of plots featured a love story and so I would take my coveted place at centre stage after all . . . opposite my arch-nemesis.

When it came time to attend university and choose a major, I didn’t go into the Performing Arts blindly. I knew what was coming better than most. Except, of course, for Becky.

The sad fact was that the vast majority of theatres, where trodding the boards together became our shared dream, only had a limited number of lead roles on offer and everyone auditioning wanted one. What’s worse, everyone auditioning believed they deserved one. And aspiring performers will go to extreme lengths to land a plum part. Announcing a casting call is like chumming shark-infested waters - it stirs up killer instincts. And, sooner or later, the biting starts; not to mention hurt feelings, lifelong resentments and career-defining breaks.

In Sudbury’s crowded Costco that year, our performances mattered. The free food, no matter how miniscule the portions, motivated us more than any prospective billing ever had. Desperation drove us. And those ill-gotten samples grew in significance. Each meal marked a victory: Theatre Kids - 1; Giant Capitalist Conglomerate - 0. We were poking a middle finger into the eye of corporate America, one toothpick-skewered morsel at a time. Better still, thanks to the 'costume thing', we were having a blast.

It had started innocently enough: I figured my brief Costco employment might mean the workers would recognize me and so, rather than waiting for the incriminating fingers to start pointing, I decided to don a hat and sunglasses. The precaution just seemed, well, prudent. After three successful circuits of the store, I stuck the disguise in my jacket pocket - and yes, it still smelled of old hot dogs - before risking another couple of rounds. And, amazingly, no one seemed to grow suspicious. Five servings of free samples set a new record and it didn’t take my housemates long to start mimicking the ruse. As theatre geeks we loved playing dress-up. Costumes quickly became standard.

Jerome 'Jackie' Chan stuffed a piece of white cardboard under the collar of his only dress shirt and offered benevolent blessings to one and all while joyously sampling the proffered treats. Displaying a naturally kind demeanour, cherub-faced and rather portly, he fell into the role of Reverend with ease. Generosity begot generosity and his friendly faith earned him several additional, toothpick-skewered snacks. His frock allowed him seven heavenly circles around Costco.
His twin sister, Charlize 'Charly' Chan, knew a good thing when she saw it. Wearing second-hand scrubs and a palpable weariness, she played an overworked nurse - one running on fumes and barely managing even life’s most basic functions. Her exhausted aura elicited sympathetic smiles and kind gestures . . . including extra servings at the sample stations. The caregiver routine got her nine rounds.

Adding props just seemed a logical extension. Trust 'Bluey' to head in an entirely different direction. Andrea Blue marched through the aisles like she owned the place, beige pantsuit announcing she meant business. Keeping up a seemingly important, though one-sided, conversation, she held a massive cellphone glued to her ear. Knowing how annoying that can be, however, Bluey rolled her eyes at the sample servers and otherwise included them in the ridiculousness through her over-the-top expressions. Her intimidatingly busy but ironically self-aware persona earned her ten loops. Wigs, naturally, followed. And accents came soon after.

Leaf incorporated a bit he’d been doing - mostly when drunk - that he called 'Aussie Surfer Dude'. It involved the most god-awful Australian accent and, amazingly, got worse when performed sober. But he committed himself to it fully . . even abandoning his favourite de rigor Toronto Maple Leafs hockey sweaters for a long-haired wig, a headband, and a tie-dyed tee-shirt visible under an off-brand parka. That laid-back approach, mellow ‘tude and narcotically-induced forgetfulness allowed him a full dozen trips. Soon, that had us all developing characters - complete with detailed backstories.

The day Becky, now my fiancé, glued a full beard to her face, strapped down her 'attributes' and tied a fake beer belly around her normally trim midriff, I knew we’d gone too far. But there was no stopping it. She pulled on a pair of shit-kickers, five-sizes too big, then demanded we all call her 'Maniac' so she could “fully inhabit the part” - a down-on-his-luck former boxer turned leg-breaker and part-time drug dealer. Becky Donaldson could get scary intense - on stage and, lucky for me, in the sack - and 'Manny Martinez' gave her an Oscar-worthy role to dive into. It proved a little too much and the store’s security tailed her at a discrete distance until she admitted defeat and hit the showers after barely managing eight rounds.

We went bigger with every visit. Each trying to outshine whoever went before. Things got ridiculous. but not one of us realized that truth. In fact, our entire house took to applauding every new character’s debut and there’s simply no motivator more powerful than applause to the theatrical psyche.
One day Steve, easily six-foot-five and three-hundred pounds, emerged from the basement, where he crashed on a fifth-hand couch, dressed as the world’s least-believable drag queen. He’d shaved his 1970s-era moustache and done his own make-up. Despite this, people treated him with kid gloves even as he waddled around looking hugely pregnant; moving over so (s)he could get a seat on the bus and even opening doors for him/her. Sadly, the awkward walk spawned an ache in his back and he aborted the act prematurely. Five tries and he went home, laid-in.
Not to be outdone, I borrowed a wheelchair from a disabled classmate and arrived at the store via Handi-Transit. Waiting outside the house for over an hour to get picked up, I was granted a tour of the city’s less-scenic roads before, eventually, reaching my destination. I hadn’t even completed one lap of the store when the entire scheme came crashing down.

“A wheelchair, Carey? Really?!” the nameless woman scowled, suddenly looming over me. Looking up, I noticed her hands firmly planted on her hips.

“Don’t you think that’s a bit much?” she said, sounding affronted and giving me that disappointed look all seniors must be taught upon getting their first pension cheque. I just sat there, shocked. Then managed only to squeak, “You recognized me?”
“Of course! You’re not the master thespian you think you are. I clocked you that first day. The entire staff has been placing bets on what sort of craziness you and your little friends would come up with next.” She paused, “I, personally, thought we should have put a stop to it with that pregnant cross-dresser. Bad taste, that. Everyone else just laughed. But this . . . wheelchair business cannot stand.”
“Wait,” I implored, incredulous. “You knew what we were doing this whole time and didn’t stop us?”
“We’re not the food police, remember. Besides,” the nameless woman smirked, “it was amusing. For a while. It's a shame you young folks had to take things too far and ruin it. Now, let me help you leave.” With that she pushed me - and my unnecessary wheelchair - towards the entrance doors.

“And no hot dogs this time either,” she added as the beguiling smell beckoned, setting my mouth to
watering. The shove she imparted on the way out proved wholly unnecessary. As were her parting words:

“Membership revoked!”

Poem #13

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Poem # 13

by Robert Erich Rhodes

Painted clown
looks down
red wig, red nose
under yellowed lights
one flickers.

Laughter left the tent an hour ago

is quiet now
trips over shoes too big.
Uneaten popcorn
scattered about

discarded like dozens of tiny ticket stubs
stepped on and unwanted
once hot, buttered, and salty
and in a grease stained paper bag
held in the hands of a young girl
who ate until she had her fill
licked fingers
spilled it and did not care
someone else would pick it up.

She left
went home . . .
away from laughter
away from clown shoes
and roaring lions
and flowers that spurted water

in faces of unsuspecting onlookers
named Melanie or Teddy or Jan or Phil
away from elephants
and bearded women
and strong men
and un-popped kernels of corn
kicked beneath empty bleachers
that once embraced the asses of strangers.

Away from yellowed light bulbs
that flickered overhead

. . . to a mother and father
married since they were way too young

grown older
more serious
not much fun
her father, a mechanic

with dirty nails and who put on ten pounds

in the past year
from eating doughnuts
with jelly.

His wife, her mother
who bugs him about his weight
and bathroom trim she wants painted
for two weeks now
he has not.
But he took out the trash

once

last week.
Her mother calls to her

from the bedroom where she and her husband are lying

the television is on
“Come and say goodnight”

pause

the girl ignores her mother
pretends she doesn’t hear
again . . .

“Come in and say goodnight.”
She responds this time
unable to ignore her mother
and having enough respect
to protect the older woman
from the knowledge
that she is embarrassed by them.

Her father snores deeply
he is a fattened lump

beneath the busy pattern of a bedspread

covered in cat hair
rising and falling
with each snore.

“How was it?” her mother asks
“How was what?”
“The circus.”

“It was,” there is a momentary hesitation –
“like a circus always is. It doesn’t change, not much anyway.

“Goodnight,” she says quietly
turns and closes the door.
She hears through the door
“Goodnight dear”
walks down the hallway
faintly illuminated only by bathroom light

creeping out
at the end of the corridor
her father’s snores
sneaking out

from under her parents’ bedroom door
like curls of noisy smoke
they follow her.

Painted clown
looks down
red wig, red nose
under yellowed lights
one flickers.

Marriage

Leaving an Abusive Marriage

by Rebecca Kramer

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“This is your birthday present,” he sneered as he fastened a deadbolt onto the basement door.

He intended to lock Josh, our son, into the basement room. My eyes burned with tears for my husband was trying to isolate us so he could sabotage my relationship with my child.

Two weeks later, Laura, a worker with the Children's Aid Society, came to visit. During the conversation, she heard persistent knocks coming from downstairs. In disbelief, she asked, “Is that Joshua?” My husband answered, “Yes, that is where we keep him.” They started arguing heatedly. I quickly went down into the basement and found Joshua at the back of the room whimpering, tears running down his face,

“I hate my mommy and daddy, they lock me up in the basement.” he wailed.

“It’s not your mommy, Joshua, it’s your daddy and I’m going to do something about that.” I held his hand as I led him up the stairs. Seeing Laura, he ran over and gave her a big hug.
The next morning, I quietly crept out of bed, put on my boots, grabbed my purse and drove to the CAS building. Fortunately, Laura was in the office.

“Peter fastened the lock onto the basement door as a 'birthday gift' to me." I explained to her. "I didn’t agree to that but he won't listen to me. Can you please, PLEASE, remove my son?”

“Now that you've come in to report, we can confirm that it didn't happen with your consent. Either way, though, we are removing your son from your and your husband's custody,” she replied sternly. I was more relieved than I had ever been in my whole life, knowing my son would finally be safe from his father. So they came by the store that day and took Joshua away. With my son out of harm's way, my final escape from this horrible marriage was forefront on my mind.

I finally mustered the courage at the end of August that same year.

“You get nothing! And you deserve even less,” he snarled with derision at my announcement. My heart pounded in my ears and I felt like I couldn't breathe. Then my knees buckled and I fell to the floor. He turned his back without checking to see if I was alright and walked away towards the front of the store. I gave a great heave-ho and gathered myself off the floor, still feeling unsteady. Shaking like a leaf, I grabbed a yogurt and an apple from the fridge. Then I stormed out through the front door past Peter and told him with all the defiance I could muster “I’m leaving you right now!” “Yeah, right.” he replied with a sarcastic grin but, at least, he didn't try to stop me.

I'd been driving for fifteen minutes before realizing I was heading in the wrong direction. I stopped the car by the side of the road and was overcome with a sudden feeling of deep despair. As I pondered my situation, it occured to me that I had no money for my escape, not for gas I'd need nor for food, since Peter always cashed my government cheques and refused to give me access to my funds, keeping me wholly dependent on his 'generosity'.

It occured to me that his sister lived in the area. She was a Salvation Army officer and perhaps she would take pity and, at least, help me out with some food. So I drove to her house and pleaded my case. Yet, instead of showing sympathy for my situation, she responded coldly, ”Your husband has food, you need to go home.” Her rejection made me feel faint again and I collapsed onto her front lawn. She went inside to call Peter who immediately contacted the police, claiming that I, his wife, needed to be apprehended into custody because I was having a manic, bipolar episode and shouldn't be driving a car in that state. Of course that wasn't the case at all. I was just trying to escape my abusive marriage.

The cop arrived in due time and demanded I hand over my keys, all my keys, even the ones to my home. Now I really was homeless and without any means to get away. The officer kept me restrained on the ground, pushing down hard on my back so I could barely breathe as we waited for an ambulance to come and take me away. When the ambulance arrived, they put me on a stretcher and put a mask over my face which, again, made it hard to breathe. When I was delivered to the hospital, the doctor in charge soon realized that I wasn't having a manic episode and, despite being distraught, was of clear mind so, thankfully, he released me.

That night I was alright. A girlfriend let me sleep over and, the following morning, I went to the CAS building and left a message with Joshua's caseworker. I told her that I was leaving my abusive husband and that I would contact her when I got a new address and phone number.

Afterwards, I dropped in at Ontario Works and asked for a food card which I received without any problems. As I crossed the street to go into the grocery store, a car stopped and blocked my way. Turned out, the mental health worker assigned to me had been informed, by my husband I had to assume, that I was having a manic episode and was trying to commit suicide by starving myself; meaning I needed to be apprehended for my own 'safety'. She had always been a rather cruel and condescending woman and, as I looked down on my food card, I knew she wouldn't believe me, no matter what evidence I showed her.

At the hospital, they held me for six hours with two policemen standing guard at my door. Finally, my doctor admitted to me, “This is ridiculous. I'm hearing all these conflicting stories about your case. So tell me . . . all you really want is to leave your marriage?”

“Yes.” I replied firmly.

“Where do you want to go?”

“North Bay.”

“Let's see if I can find you a bed at their psychiatric unit for now,” he smiled encouragingly. When he'd left the room, I crossed all my fingers and toes and prayed, “Lord, if you get me to North Bay, I’ll serve you like I never have before.” Shortly thereafter, my doctor popped his head in the door and said, "I found a bed for you.” I shouted "Hallelujah" with relief. That night I was, again, handcuffed, then driven to North Bay in the back of a police cruiser, singing joyfully all the way. Finally, I had left my marriage behind.

Peter tried to file for custody later on but ended up passing away in 2016. That same year, I was allowed to get together with my son in North Bay where I've been living ever since. The visit went so well, it was determined that I would later have open adoption privileges with Josh.

During his teen years, we regularly emailed letters back and forth. When he turned 18, he was allowed to finally reconnect face to face with me, his biological mother. So we had our visit, with more to follow since then, and the last time I saw him we spoke for seven hours straight. I told him this story of how we both managed to get away from his father and he liked it very much. Our relationship has been restored and I love him more than anyone.

Monterey

Photography by Evan Lynch

Fishbone Gallery

Commemorative Marker: "Real people and places in the neighborhood of Monterey’s old Ocean View Avenue inspired fictional characters and establishments in the mind of John Steinbeck. Published in 1945, his novel Cannery Row vividly captured the essence of life during the cannery era of the 1930s and 1940s...."

Edward Ricketts (1897-1948)

Marine biologist, philosopher, writer, ecologist, and friend to many. Immortalized as “Doc” of John Steimbeck’s Cannery Row, the real man had a profound influence on the thinking of writers, artists, and scientists through his non-teleological approach to the study of life. Steinbeck described him as a man whose “mind had no horizons, he has an interest in everything.”

At his laboratory on Cannery Row, he built up the most comprehensive file of marine tidal animals ever attempted on the Pacific Coast. His marine science writings which included Between Pacific Tides, Sea of Cortez, and The Outer Shores are still among the most respected works in the field.

His life was cut short when the car he was driving was struck by the evening train at this site on May 8, 1948. However, his influence on the world community and the people of Cannery Row will live forever.

Bruce Ariss (1911-1994), artist in Monterey, California. Friend of John Steinbeck and Ed Ricketts and known for illustrating the fishing industry along Cannery Row. The following murals by contemporary muralist John Cerney honour the legacy of Ariss and John Steinbeck's novel Cannery Row.

"The nature of parties has been imperfectly studied. It is, however, generally understood that a party has a pathology, that it is a kind of an individual and that it is likely to be a very perverse individual. And it is also generally understood that a party hardly ever goes the way it is planned or intended."

John Steinbeck

Cannery Row

"The cannery whistles scream and all over the town men and women scramble into their clothes and come running down to the row to go to work. The canneries rumble and rattle and squeek until the last fish is cleaned and cut and cooked and canned and then the whistles scream again and the dripping, smelly, tired Wops and Chinamen and Polaks, men and women straggle out and droop their ways up the hill into the town and Cannery Row becomes itself again, quiet and magical."

John Steinbeck

Cannery Row

Beginning in 1874, the completion of the Monterey and Salinas Valley Railroad saw the introduction of viable rail transportation for the area's fresh produce and emerging fishing industry to regional markets. It also opened the door to the Monterey Peninsula's scenic beauty for tourism. The 1880 arrival of the Southern Pacific Railroad (SPTC) serviced the latter, through the creation of the landmark Hotel Del Monte. Subsequent expansion of the SPTC became the engine that drove the region's economic growth and expansion into the 20th century. Cannery Row's sardine industry was an early beneficiary through the railroad's ship-to-store capabilities. The railroad was still shipping commercial sand from the peninsula to market as late as the 1960s, before becoming the recreational trail you are enjoying today.

The area we now know as Cannery Row was an industrial area of canneries, rendering plants, and warehouses. In 1935, Grace Aiello photographed these six men waiting for the fishing boats to arrive at the start of their shifts.

Upper left to right - Manuel Muñoz, Unknown, and Vince Manetti Lower left to right - Joe King, Frank Bergara (married Grace Aiello in 1937), and Don King

Descendants of these men continue to live in the Monterey area.

" Mack was the elder, leader, mentor, and to a small extent the exploiter of a little group of men who had in common no families, no money, and no ambitions beyond food, drink and contentment. But whereas most men in their search for contentment destroy themselves and fall wearily short of their targets, Mack and his friends approached contentment casually, quietly, and absorbed it gently."

John Steinbeck

Cannery Row

Set by the ocean's edge on historic Cannery Row, the Monterey Bay Aquarium was established in 1984 at the former Hovden Cannery . The Aquarium - considered a leader in ocean conservation and education - offers a window into marine life, including rehabilitation, and is the first to exhibit a living kelp forest.

Built in 1916, the "Cannery Row Caboose" commemorates a former section of the Southern Pacific Railroad running from Castroville to Monterey.

Railway crossing signal next to Doc Ricketts' memorial, marking the spot where 'Doc' was killed by a Del Monte express train in 1948.

Old fish oil storage tank. The submarine-like shape buried in the ground to the right is a rail tanker car used for fuel oil storage.

Community marker: After the enforcement of the 1924 Immigration Act, Filipino workers replaced Japanese labourers in the local canneries and reduction plants.

Questions

by Andrew Jardine

The routine is monotonous but safe, the work stable and therapeutic. Here on the ninth, I'm no nearer to any goal, but somehow further from harm.

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As my clock ticks away, I have been reborn; as a man of fear and regret. So many regrets and such pointless fear. Old, bad habits have become new and trusted friends, most of my actual friends now discarded in acts of petulance or self-isolation. I can just about see the faces of my children but don't feel them, can’t recall their gentle scents. Nor do I hear their little voices or get to answer the vital questions they ask.
For no reason other than my own, I have become alone and, for the first time, lonely. Lost in this shell of flesh and bone, I see no way of escape. The past few years I crumbled into the person I am now, so full of self doubt and loathing, no more questions to ask, waiting only to die. I am empty, have nothing left to give.

I know I've let you all down, and I'm sorry. I just couldn't take any more . . .

Like a slow, deep-breathing chest, a single torn-out sheet of notebook paper rises and falls in the gentle breeze coming in from the open window. Soon someone would find it. And the man who wrote it.

---

Mornings felt like the worst time. Sitting beside the small bed in the dark, the waiting was almost a relief compared to what would come.

Around 7 a.m. the boy would stir, his little body slowly coming to terms with the light of a new day. Should he run his fingers through the boy's hair, could he? The time it took to decide stole the moment from him and the boy was up and running to his mommy’s room. Everyday, regular as clockwork, the boy would greet his mommy with long hugs and staccato kisses. Sometimes they would just lie there, the boy held tightly in her arms telling stories crafted from his gifted imagination, tales of robots or dinosaurs, or the latest animal he had read about. Other times the boy needed to play, desperately wanting her to join in. Usually, mommy listened or would get up to play, other times she seemed vague, in a way distant. But always, and every morning, she was there. The man looked on, heart broken, his voice now silenced. He could only watch the scene play out, no influence permitted. Morning routines then followed. Brushing his teeth, washing his face, getting dressed, having breakfast. The routines of his mommy ran in parallel, often coordinated but not always in step. Amid these routines many things were missing, removed as his punishment.

He was learning to accept this, but there was something else, a lost detail finely engineered out; even without its chain, you know how a bicycle works. Some days these omissions puzzled him, other days the irritation ate away at him until the boy returned.

Mommy, the boy would ask, when is daddy coming back? She’d had to construct a range of holding answers and often he would have her work through them all in one day. He tried to make deals with her: If I draw daddy a picture, will you send it to him so he knows we are here? Followed up swiftly by: Will you tell me where you send it?

These questions cut into the man. A succession of slowly drawn, inch-deep incisions as with a blunt instrument. But nothing hurt more than the question the boy was yet to ask. The man's anxiety - or what he now took to be anxiety - over how an answer might make the boy feel, disorientated him. It made him want to curl up into a ball and just disappear. But that was not possible; for as we all lack degrees of control in our lives, he lacked them all.

To give his new state some perspective, some sense, he coined it 'puppetry', forced day in and day out to be in one place, for one thing alone. He couldn’t yet bring himself to give it its real name: Purgatory. Daddy questions usually led to fits of raw emotions, tears, sometimes sanctions and then silence. And, during that silence, something unseen would be at work, hidden from his view. The man felt it but he never quite understood what it was. The boy was elsewhere and the man was not privy to the exchange. Shielded, or protected? The former would seem to be more obvious as clearly the heads of purgatory favoured exposure over tact, and pain over compassion.

And so the boy grew up and the man watched. Questions about daddy stopped, replaced by bigger questions of life and purpose. There were many answers the man wished to provide but was not able to, not allowed to. Passive, powerless and yet present; left only with what he assumed to be a feeling of frustration. Growing daily within him, subsiding, to then grow again. Deeper cuts from the dull-edged knife.
Such an active little boy! Summer days spent running in the park, dodging water fountains, his ever-so-confident interactions with other children. The first few critical paces pushing off on a scooter, before speeding away on his bike, to tricks on a skateboard. Winter nights of school plays, jigsaw puzzles, artistic and Lego masterpieces. The man had now created a sorrowful bucketlist of many things he wished he'd done, or done more of, with the boy. Things his cold heart and misplaced attention had once prevented. And there at the very top: to just be there and hold him when the boy was hurt or feeling sad. He got to marvel at how resourceful the boy became in solving problems but that sensation of joy, along with the marvelling itself was quickly replaced with nothingness. Sometimes it would be the empty anxiety of knowing one day the question was coming. More often than not it was just the sadness of the situation. And sadness, it seemed, remained with him; crushing, dense sadness. And always there, but never actually there, was that missing element. Getting ever stronger, more frequent, leading to longer periods without the boy in his watchful focus.

---

Time went by and the man began to wonder, what happens when the boy leaves home? Where will I go? What will happen to me? His worries were of little consequence in the grand scheme of things. He had given up any right to them and would go wherever the boy went. Only as a bystander, an inert, slowly fading memory.

The family had moved several times, it was easier that way, and the man went with them. Often money was a big source of worry but they always had food, and each other. From time to time mommy would have a friend in her life. Some the boy would warm to, would draw comfort, knowledge and skills from. Others caused him pain and every pain the boy endured was magnified within the man. Not in a physical sense, for the man was beyond such things. It came as something indescribable, so much more corrosive than pain. The elusive presence that was missing from his focus seemed to somehow help ease the pain of the boy. He would be removed from the man for a while, then return consoled, recharged even.

Not so the man. He carried everything inside, the whole range of bad experiences compounded in him over the years. There were no tears left for him to cry; madness and rage, over time, were all he knew. And anxious dread of knowing that one day the boy would learn why daddy went away, and how. The man saw a few friends of mommy's trying to use this knowledge in heated moments, always to ill advantage. He loved her for the way she protected the boy and admired how she had coped but, clearly, the day of discovery was drawing near. The ghastly answer would soon be unavoidable and, for years, he'd thought through how the painful revelation might best be delivered, the ways in which such an awful act might be so rationalised to the boy as to shield him from its full impact. In those years he wrestled with the self hatred it conjured in him and with that came aching futility; it was not for him to decide anymore. Whatever the circumstances, or vehicle, it was not to be of his choosing. Choice was another right he had relinquished long ago.

---

And so the boy became a man - shaving cuts, fashion and girls. So much wisdom the man knew he could offer, but would never get a chance. And so much conflict building up inside him, remorse washing over him in much the same way the boy splashed water upon his face during his morning routine. And what use was remorse? What relief might there be in having such a crippling sensation cleaned away when relief had also ceased to be a right, many years ago.

The day the boy found out the truth was followed by so many days of darkness. As if the light in his young soul had been snuffed out. And, besides having all the boy's pain to contend with, his mommy had to relive it all over again, her mind tormented anew. The man, who in recent years had found some form of tenuous balance in his position, was destroyed. The destruction was such as to challenge any notion of justice, or compassion; two more of the many things he had no right to. The boy learned how his daddy had taken his own life. Lowering himself naked from a ninth floor window, hanging from bed sheets wrapped around his neck, tied to an interior door. People rarely look up these days and his lifeless body had hung there for several hours.

In many cases the human spirit possesses great resilience, as it was with the boy. Over time and talk, some acting out and repercussions, he struggled onwards to come to terms with the wretched event of his youth. Of why his daddy hadn't come back, the dark, fatal choice he'd made. He’d read the suicide note left behind, over and over, absorbed it in a way many readers seldom do. In some way with a little context supplied - a marriage breakdown, heavy drinking, the constant work and money troubles that followed - perhaps he even understood. For, by now, he was a man too and felt he might share some of those feelings as well. But he was stronger and his life a very different experience.

Seeing this, the man was allowed a brief moment of joy. It seemed as though his act of surrender had served some purpose, albeit an unintentional one. And then the moment was gone, the feeling of nothing being the only right he had left. And with one discovery came another. The missing element, erased from his mind, guarded from his view, was finally, brutally, revealed to him.

He also had a daughter, a beautiful thing, now fully grown with a young family of her own. What little heart he had both collapsed at her existence being taken from him all these years and rejoiced in her now before him. Ghostly tears welled up in his eyes as her life played out in a brief, fleeting time lapse; moments she'd spent consoling the boy, cheering him up, her tears and troubled emotions, bad boyfriends, abuse from one of mommy’s friends. Then all was gone before he could capture a single detail. Just like a reel of film exposed to sunlight, every hurried frame faded out. And, in that one stomach-turning instant, he found himself shifted to her home.

The girl had a son, no more than three-years-old. The mornings felt like the worst time . . .