Wednesday, October 04, 2006

Sunday Succor

Displace setting

Where do I start is for today a reasonable question. I got bogged down before I could fully address the soft-wouldn’t of several weeks ago that only our floppiest political party is bothering to mention. In coming days my open letter to my current MP, Gilles Duceppe. The scales tip once again and now I worry that too broad an anger may be unhealthy.

We begin with an immigration judge so hard up and desperate as to threaten the status of a South Korean woman if she did not have an affair with him. Her iron-stomached boyfriend videotaped an encounter she had with this man and sent it along to the Canadian Immigration Board. More to come, but for now he will hear no more pleas (for the time being) and his status is under review. Did anyone check that molestache he’s sporting? She should have caught on that this guy was out of line when she noticed the man in charge of whether or not she becomes a citizen has a Tom Seleck fetish. What else can be expected really? An immigration judge should not truly have any need to feel any purpose for what they do besides get what they can and then get the hell out. It means nothing to add to our great nation those who seek to live here for betterment or self-actualization. Who are we to fail to educate newcomers to North America in the true ways and means of our being? The fact that it made the news was grist for the mill, surely, for those who oppose open borders and favour more stringent landing policies. Make these people want to be Canadians, and then see how far they will go.

And for our own citizens? Those who already here and thriving, subject to our laws and umbrellad under our inalienable rights and freedoms? What do we make of another Edmonton woman’s pleas for privacy while miscarrying in a crowded emergency waiting room? As an example to all other provinces, their wedding-cake health system melting like so many delicate layers left too long in the sun leave questions of basic comprehension as well as compassion. In a province that has shown surpluses since before the tar pits spat back their prehistoric charges into neckties and cufflinks, can a moderate budget for sympathy be etched out in the operational expenses? This request has been made before in the same city when 8 years ago another woman begged for a simple closed door and got 40 pairs of eyes instead.

Peter MacKay’s love life is again in the public eye for reasons passing all rational understanding. My only hope is that in light of Murphy’s Law, Condie will cross the floor of the U.N. in a spectacular political strike set at the yet-unannounced Prime Minister for Britain, set to take Tony Blair’s place at some future point. I would like to tell you I’m picturing spiked heels and a sultry walk, but I just don’t think Pete’s got the ankles for them.

Funding is being cut immediately for any women’s activity not directly involved with cooking and sewing at the national level. Trudeau-Era funding enjoyed by advocacy groups that lobby for children, the status of women, Muslim women, les Femmes du Belle Province etc. must now fail entirely to lobby, activate or speak publicly. It is hard to abide by my doctor’s insistence that I not harm myself in light of such announcements.

A bloody woman begs on her knees, a tiny immigrant is coerced into her newfound home, this still better than what she has left; a lonely, frightened man in robes steals a freedom with no sense of his purpose, reason or accountability. The newest chief of staff to the minister for the environment could drown any of us in his homophobic, bilious ramblings. We near the end of year two and no Native has been lifted from crushing squalor to which they have been relegated for centuries. No meetings have been taken; no mention at all has been made. A man walks into a college and opens fire; he has no affiliations or particular hatreds. In response the main item on our list is conveniently the same issue that unified all four rich, white, male electoral candidates around one tiny campfire in the last election. Women nationwide are muzzled at the vicious butt of a well-greased dollar coin. These are merely symptoms. When we see uncaring leadership, direction without consequence, such violence becomes commonplace rather than the naked fringe.

This is a land without a leader but instead a secretive, compulsive, power-hungry mongrel with intentions more diabolical than his strategies. This is a country without a father. A person in charge to be sure, but who cares nothing for its principles, ideals or basic nature. A man with no respect for a character. He sees this place as simply the surface: a resource, a land. In cynical deference to an intolerant crowd of fanatical ideologues with no sense of urgency or long-term commitment, since their conviction in their own immunity to judgment allows them to wryly anticipate the destruction of all those around them who disagree, he steers us towards the Temple Mount and disavows our history, values and basic personality.

Though tempestuous, we are a soulful people. We tend to trumpet our distinctions from one-another, but there are fundamental principles on which we mostly agree. We seek at the moment a new source of power, a clean and safe energy that at last can fuel our growing economy without compromise to our home. I have now found the only solution available in these troubling times: harness the breathtaking torque available from the grave of Pierre Trudeau, all the Mackensies and Mackensie Kings, Diefenbaker (who though Conservative would never have willingly sold his party to the Zionists) Pearson et al. The sheer centrifugal force of these affronted giants spinning like turbines in their graves can safely fuel us into the coming election cycle with no side-effects but the release of our history into the atmosphere instead of greenhouse gases. And isn’t that in the end the goal? It seems so these days. There is a difference between dangling loose and dangling on the end of a long line and I can’t help but struggle against the jerking motion that has now become more spastic since the line has been cut. There is a place between my shoulder blades that aches for that connection point; let us only hope for my well-being that in 2008 it will grow back.

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