Thursday, December 17, 2009

Cops and Kings

You say I am attracted to that statement since redacted
Why a protest once enacted is not so easily retracted
You say I am addicted to those things that you restricted
Why the poorest are convicted from a process you predicted

That corporate feeds the biting hand to plant all holy seeds
Cops and Kings understand that even infants have their needs
Corporate feeds the lightening stand that streaks unholy speed
Cops and Kings understand that adults have their greed

You say it is outrageous that some people are contagious
Why it is you feel courageous while you lay around in cages
You say that once togethe the people superscede the weather
No matter whether dressed in lamb or robed in cheeky leather

Corporate feeds the government the hearts and minds of men
Cops and Kings understand the politricks of some distant then
Corporate feeds the government the sickness is found chilling
Cops and Kings understand their emptyness, God willing

You say market must accomodate the process of the candidate
Those who lost may hesitate but those who win won’t regulate
You say people have the power to go up against the tower
Why the people are so dour about their government gone sour

Government rarely contemplates on what effects it legislates
The cost of freedom escalates while everybody maturbates
The terrorists are in error if undressing her to bare’er
 With an emphasis on terror they will do their best to scare her

The girl will not quiver nor will she give up a single sliver
She will shake she will shiver but in the end she will deliver

© 2009 Leigh Richard Wolf

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

A Cause for Celebration

Everything is Fine
Regular readers of this column, both of you, will know that I use this space as a forum to explore self-discovery and dissect any results. You will know that it is in my nature to examine the minutiae of my existance, perhaps in an effort to slow down the pace of modern life.

I feel, most often, a throwback to a different time and era when daily life was less stressful and the people of then had the time to learn, intimately and in detail, the life lessons dealt for their specific hand. I see the “life lessons” fly past me, unappreciated, unrecorded, at an unprecedented rate, but then I take a deep, grounding, breath and the moment passes, another flirtation with the pessimism of capitalism, and I am ready to re-examine and re-define myself yet again.

This version is, perhaps, the best version ever re-invented, if I say so, which I can and so do. Without a doubt, I am in the best health of this lifetime. Regular readers (rr) would know that I have struggled in engaging a series of health factors that have, lately, all fallen into place. As well, my living situation has settled into a comfortable one-bedroom, with the grand view of the city, at a reasonable cost. My transportation is now affordable, secure, and almost completely electric. These factors are all ongoing and the freedom represented is engaging.

This version of myself feels like I am coming off a five-minute (major) penalty but just out of the box I catch a lead pass from an alert defenseman and find myself in a breakaway staring down the goalie and past him, nothing but net. My goal is to use the web medium, to explore/exploit the potential of an interactive hypertext crossed with a MM-rpg/sns that I call Urban Gods. Only time, and my faithful readers, (are there three of you out there now?), will tell me if my project has that certain flair and flow.

In the meantime these are my words of celebration and liberation calling out to the oppressed everywhere that there is hope where hard work and diligence reward instinct with security and relative stability. This does not mean money only when there is enough money which, thank the Goddess, there is right now. But where security does not mean money or love or even time but rather knowing enough about life to accept death as nature’s knock of opportunity and to know that I am the door. In that knowledge there is strength in owning the result of living equal to your original promise and being your greatest expression.

© 2009 Leigh Richard Wolf

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Who Killed Kenny?

On November 22nd, 1963, in Dallas, Texas, JFK, the President of the USA, was assassinated. As he died, so too an idea about the Presidency itself died with him. The idea was that a person of integrity could, as President, effect change in a pro-active way, and through collective means enact the will of the people.

After the untimely death of John F. Kennedy the Legislative-Military-Industrial complex was largely in-charge. After JFK, the line of Presidential succession is problematic in being spotty regards the leadership of the President-as-Commander. Each subsequent President after Kennedy was, by comparison, lacking in either charisma or integrity until the1980 election of Ronald Reagan.

Reagan had the charm of a seasoned, professional, communicator but his integrity was that of a cold, corporate, Christian conservative and his agenda was directly against women, children, people-of-colour, the poor, most minorities, the left, the center, and even parts of their own right-wing.

After Reagan comes the Bush-Clinton era, a total of twenty years where the promise was always more and better than any result. The population, acclimated over two decades of mediocrity and disappointment from Reagan to Clinton were certainly not ready for the following eight, Son-of-Bush, years.

Dub’ya loved Ronald Reagan, his father’s boss, in a way not entirely natural nor wholesome. Reagan became, in Little Bush’s mind, the paragon of leadership and command. From his swaggering cowboy poses to his disdain for work and duty, from their ferocious times as Governor to their choices of political wives the lives and paths of these two psychopaths is remarkably similar. Other than Clinton, who is actually the Anti-Reagan, Bush Junior and Ronnie were the only two-term Presidents since Eisenhower!

Interestingly the same men that killed Kennedy, who ran Nixon, and invented Reagan as Presidential-material were the same men that started the war in Iraq (Rumsfeld, Cheney, et al). It all links back to the Nazi-supporter Prescott Bush, Dubya’s Grandfather and perhaps the single most responsible person in the conspiracy to kill JFK. Prescott Bush, who along with other power-brokers, originally sought to overthrow President Franklin Delano Rooseveldt (FDR).

From a 2007 report by BBC4 Investigations:
"In 1933, Marine Corps Maj.-Gen. Smedley Butler was approached by a wealthy and secretive group of industrialists and bankers, including Prescott Bush the former President's father and grandfather, who asked him to command a 500,000 strong rogue army of veterans that would help stage a coup to topple then President Franklin Delano Roosevelt. According to the BBC, the plotters intended to impose a fascist takeover and "Adopt the policies of Hitler and Mussolini to beat the great depression.”

I propose that in 1963, thirty years later, these conspirators got their act together and having eliminated the young, idealistic, President they convinced his replacement (Johnson) to do exactly as they told him, start-up Vietnam, and then resign as soon as possible which ushered in the era of Nixon. As Willy Shakespear said so eloquently, “Oh, what a wicked web we weave when we practice to deceive.”

The cabal is by now so completely-in-charge, so confident of their ability and in control that it is of little importance what person or party is thought to “be in power” as they and everyone else that matters knows who and what is truly in power and it’s name is not Obama. Bastards.

For the actual, factual, evidence goto:
www.prisonplanet.comarticlesjuly2007/240707fascistcoup.htm

© 2009 Leigh Richard Wolf

Differences

(Betwixt and Between)
The mettle of her mixture is found in brass below
Just how hard will she push it? How far will she go?

The presence of Woman, the final factor of existence
Is the telling of her truth about the power of resistance

The essence of Woman, as breath escapes our lips
Is the swell of her breasts and the curve of her hips

The power of Woman is life lived to it’s fullness
The luxury of living is a fuel feeding her furnace

The blessing of Woman is the way that she relates
In loving compassion for the things that she creates

The curse of a Woman is terror from men’s hands
Misogyny in many colours comes from many lands

The birth of a Woman is cause for celebration
For thinking, caring, people found in every nation

The life of a Woman has never had better potential
Honouring both the source and her force is essential

The strength of a Woman is that which sets her free
Her earning and then owning that freedom is the key

The mettle of her mixture is found in brass below
Just how hard she will push is exactly how far she will go!

© 2009 Leigh Richard Wolf

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Anti-Remembrance Day

Every year I am plagued by the celebrations of November 11th. What should be hailed as No More War Day is instead a victory festival for the honored military dead. To honor these dead is to honor the concept of warfare and I refuse to do so.

In a complete mash-up of how things should be, the forces of hate and death are ruling supreme this year with the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq revving along quite fiercely. The governments of the West are complicit in the deaths of hundreds of thousands, of mostly Moslems, and show little signs of stopping any time soon.

The economies of the West depend on warfare, and weapons manufacturing, to keep their countries running. In the U.S.A., it is said that fifty percent of their GDP is war-related. Without a war to fight, or at least a war on the horizon, the USA goes broke. Broke is unacceptable to the vast majority of Americans who would rather kill brown, or yellow, or red people than starve and suffer.

We need a day dedicated to peace, not this intermidible day of tired comments about veterans and their kills. What about a day to celebrate all the non-soldiers killed in war? A day for the collateral damage? How about a United Nations Army that keeps both sides from open hostilities? Ideas like these are critical if we ever want to eliminate global hostilities.

The point is that remembering only the fallen soldiers is fruitless. A soldier, by definition, has given up their choice. In other words, they choose to be around bullets and bombs. The little child dying from a schrapnel wound has no choice but to suffer. Until the Eleventh of November is turned around from a day of celebrating dead soldiers and becomes an international day of protest against all warfare and violence... I will spend the day in private protest, in my room, eating treats, watching sports.

© 2009 Leigh Richard Wolf

Monday, November 2, 2009

Christ and the Chaosium

The great writer, now dead, Robert Anton Wilson rarely used the word Christianity without substituting the letter X for the name of Christ. His revulsion of such “abuse of the divine” led him to castigate the unholy, political, creation of Constantine the Great at every opportunity. In the spirit of R.A.W. I offer The Xtian Song which, at this point of my life, says it all for me.

THE XTIAN SONG
The Christian Slayer made Christian Bail
Before being released from Christmas jail
Christianity as placebo, a religion in a pill
A poultice for the ego, with capacity to kill

The murder of any human is not cause for celebration
The burden of that man makes us all pause to ask why
Lessons leaned from Christ hold collective devastation
Redemption’s ever earned, never gifted from on high

Combining their logos from earlier times
With a white laundry list of industrial crimes
Justified suspicions makes one pause and think
The christian-corporate-coalition still in sync

This coalition rules from top floor in a high black ivory tower
Where Pope, President, and Jehovah are meeting to conspire
Banker-bandits rip off the poor while the lawyer-liars turn sour
Plans to destroy the middle-classes demand the poor rewire

It matters not where we go, tri-domination of dominion
Christianity as performance art, at a point now lost in time
Declaring Lassi and Benji had no soul was simply their opinion
Constantine betrayed his heart by welding grace to his crime

Baking crispy critters out of flour, salt, and water
Making sacred shapes for the holy father’s daughter
Such dogma is destructive as the environment will tell
Remember, heaven on earth means you’re manifesting hell

© 2009 Leigh Richard Wolf

Monday, October 12, 2009

Charging Towards 2020

Two women in love and so will to be married
Defining love in ritual can never be a crime
They will stay together until the one is buried
Exponential love was just a measure of their time

Two men whose love demands they be wed
Inside their struggle is a lesson for our time
They'll be in tandem until one of them is dead
Exactly as it always was before it was a crime

Watch the cry and hew around fetus interrupt
With every child needing a loving, decent parent
The Christian method of re-population is corrupt
With any ancient fairy-tale corruption is inherent

Abuse of power must come as no surprise
From capitalist markets comes economic crime
Look into their eyes and see what they despise
Living in a darker tower, doing harder time

The nuclear family as a myth has exploded
Your four-colour reality is a multicultural fact
The secrets of society must quickly be decoded
The substance of sobriety encodes a daily tract

Adult-child of America, your vigilance recorded
The system as it crashes, victims on their knees
A unified perspective means diligence rewarded
Collectivise on continent, consensus in the trees

Using wide-area communication tools provided
The new emergence works to stream the flow
The people once united will never be divided
Dare, perchance, to wake from dream to know

© 2009 Leigh Richard Wolf

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Federal Follies

Hidden Agenda’s in America? No Way!
Crypto-fascism is a term that suggests hidden, creeping fascist tendencies from any otherwise democratic entity. Recently in the United States, George W. Bush’s Patriot Act was a classic piece of crypto-fascist logic that neatly did away with some classic Constitutional rights, including Habeas Corpus. The Patriot Act was so thorough in it’s design that, given the right circumstances, the U.S. government now can effectively make any person disappear, forever, legally.

Made In Canada
Canada’s current federal government, lead by those jolly ranchers, The Controlatives, longing to implement legislation similar to Bush’s, now are asking for mandatory minimum prison sentences so they can justify private “for-profit” prisons, These blackguards are waiting for the moment when Canadians finally get truly fooled and reward them with a majority. This nightmare scenario looks possible right now with extremely weak leadership stemming from the two (English) opposition leaders Michael Ignatz and Jack Latent.

Hate The Players - Hate The Game
The Blabberalls and The Not Dumb Party (NDP) are the current whipping boys of the english-speaking electorate. But it is the left-of-center Screw-Canada Party of Quebec (SCP- je mes souviens) that simply makes a mockery, a parody, of the federal condition. (The (Light) Green Party, not really a factor having never won a seat, are really only green on top with the internal being more brown in colour and nature).

Canada Status Quo? Non, Merci!
The Screw-Canada Party of Quebec are a federal party committed to the destruction of the country and thus the actual federal system itself. This grieves the Blabberalls as they, like les ‘Habs, once had Quebec as their private hunting grounds. Since the Nineties, Quebecois having been unable to vote for independence have instead chosen to send a comedy act to Ottawa that celebrates the ridiculous even more by usually offering the most reasoned, thoughtful, and tempered analysis.

Pumping Irony
Canada’s greatest irony, in our current scenario, is that the party most fit to serve as the light to guide us from the darkness is organically committed to an overall deconstruction of the country. Currently the Government, the Controlative Party, aka Harper’s puppets, also want to deconstruct the country only to remake it out of the same cloth as George W. Bush used on his country. A crypto-fabric, btw, still widely available that is generally repudiated and condemned.

ReConfederation
So with at least two forces trying to deconstruct the country from within, it stands to reason that Canada is in for some changes in the near, and distant, future. Knowing this makes it critical that we meet the challenge and enter into a form of ReConfederation with Canada, Quebec, the Provinces, and First Nations, meeting at the table as equal partners.

© 2009 Leigh Richard Wolf

Monday, September 28, 2009

Seeking American Justice

Don’t apologise, it’s a sign of weakness.”
attributed to John Wayne.

American justice seems a basic contradiction in terms this morning, an oxymoronic statement around a concept that seems more abstract than realized when, at 9 a.m. (pst), Marc Emery, Canada’s “Darling of Dope,” handed himself over to U.S. authorities to fulfill a 5-yr sentence for selling Cannabis seeds to U.S. citizens.

Apparently selling said seeds is not a crime in Canada, as Emery still sells his seeds, by the seashore in Vancouver, worldwide, to this day. His crime was selling them into the U.S. market via the post. This is a federal crime that demands federal time. And according to Emery’s lawyer, he may be allowed to serve his time in a Canadian prison, closer to his wife and friends. This is a compassionate move deemed appropriate for the type of polirical prisoner that Mr. Emery clearly is.

On the eve of medical marijuana’s taxation, it seems cruel to put a man, for what is not a crime in his own country, into the maws of the justice system of a neighbour whose private prisons and percentage of population in prison, are staggering facts. To offer up a Canadian citizen, when technically no Canadian law has been broken is unusual.When Russell Means was extridited to the U.S., in the matter of the murder pf Anna Mae Aquash, he made the case that as a native citizen of both countries he was exempt from being made to leave Canadian soil. This defense was much like a glass hammer in an anvil factory and Means is currently doing his time in a South Dakota prison. The singular difference between the two cases being the charge of murder is recognized in both countries as being a real and extriditable, offense.

Marc Emery sets a new standard for International law where a citizen of any country can now be arrested, under American law, anywhere U.S. authorities have their reach for crimes not considered criminal in their own homeland which they may have never left. Over-shadowing Emery on the morning of his journey into American Justice is the story of one Roman Polanski who, after thirty years in the wilderness of the world, has been arrested in Switzerland on behalf of the United States for extradition to the U.S. on statatory rape charges involving a young girl.

Very slacious stuff, knocking Emery’s extradition off of the news hour lead and thus defeating the entire purpose of the initial exercise. Marc Emery who was arrested and will be convicted only for his obvious publicity value (the Prince of Pot, etc.) has suddenly been made into a side-bar by a thirty year-old sex crime. It must really piss-off certain lawyers in the Justice Department, and agents at the DEA, who have planned their Emery media strategy to coincide with the biggest celebrity bust since OJ drove L.A.

As it is today. Mr. Emery will do his 36-odd months, hopefully in a Canadian prison, with time off for his very compliant behavior. During his stretch, Mr. Emery will write a book destined to create as much, or more, anxiety at Justice than his seed business ever did. College campuses will welcome him as a hero when he makes his, virtual, appearences to discuss the end of prohibition. It’s a funny old world,isn't ’it? Seeking American justice is never easy, at the best of times. But thanks to an aging film director, accepting a prize at a foreign film festival, who has been plunged into the cold-water wash of the system, the seller of seeds may well be remembered more for his leaving prison that for arriving to do his stand-up time.

In the Canadian system Marc Emery will be recognixed as the political prisoner that he is, which is a higher level of prisoner who does easier time. By the time he is released, the landscape will look much different with California tax revenues on medical marijuana expeceted to reach $500 million by 2012. If Mr. Emery can hang on, he will eventually be hailed as a folk hero among the middle-class. But please be clear on the following, if Mr. Emery slips in the shower or has an accident standing in line for chow, or if anything untoward happens while he is visiting the U.S., let it be said that this man is protected from on high with dozens of folks willing to do the time for him if they could. Sound familiar?

© 2009 Leigh R. Wolf

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Evolution in High Resolution

Mixed messages the daily diet of the down and the depressed
Who wonder why working women are defiant and distressed
That itchy, irritating feeling just as obvious to the oppressed

Women see a see-through ceiling as the cause of their condition
No matter her authenticity, no matter a respectable position
Foolish females figure they're defined by his detailed derision

This post a tactical toast to reminds us of the butchery and burning
Her story of unknown mystery born out of liberated learning
As we turn a critical corner we'll be tactical in our turning

The calendar calls us forwards towards legendary liberation
No extremes of existential laws or any lock-step legislation
Will escape the essence of novelty in IT's evolving escalation

© 2009 Leigh Richard Wolf

Thursday, September 10, 2009

Life Lessons Learned

I Con(vince) My Parents
I was away on my first trip on my own and, after several months spent pleading, arguing, in relentless debate, I had managed to wrangle a parent-sponsored Spring break trip to California at the tender age of fourteen. Our local travel agent booked four nights near Disneyland, in Anaheim, and two nights in San Diego, to explore and enjoy all the friendly delights found along the most western part of the USA.

Greyhound Tour to Tijuana
Disneyland was something of a disappointment but the iconography was simulating and stimulating and I had a decent time in L.A. When I arrived in San Diego the first thing I did after I checked into my room was visit the world-famous Seaworld. Once there, I was inundated with advertising telling me that while USA is the best (#1) - Tijuana is different, and exotic, and right next door. The next morning I was second-inline when the Greyhound “Tour Tijuana “ Bus came to a complete stop in front of my hotel.

"How much?" I asked the bus operator. The driver was a big man, about forty years old, with a huge gut and sweaty jowls all packed tightly into a uniform that fit better years ago, or never. I was big for my age, having been able to pass for the age of majority at liquor stores since I was fourteen, and now at sixteen years old I could easily pass for twenty or twenty-one years old. The driver sized me up and threw the information right back at me.

"The tour is twenty bucks with lunch or fourteen bucks without." he repeated like a mantra to the person in line ahead of me who paid their fourteen bucks and then climbed aboard. I thought quicker in those days and having heard mysterious rumblings about "dirty water and bad food" and various forms of revenge based on the local cuisine I was more than willing to fall back on the good graces of the Greyhound Bus company and shell out for their lunch hour offering.

My Eyes Are First Opened
When I first saw the city of Tijuana I was truly shocked. Most of my mental images about this town had come directly from Disney and Disney'esque mythology about a sleepy border city. The city where I live, Vancouver, is 100Km from the United States border and I had visited Blaine, Wa. and Bellingham one hundred times and what I was seeing now was not a sleepy little border town.

Tijuana was, in 1974, a massive city of some six million souls and most of them lived in shanty town conditions. Being a sweet Canadian kid I was unprepared for third world reality as it stretched over miles of wood and metal, barely held together, and poorly disguised as people’s homes. Mile after mile of destitution presented itself and suddenly we were cruising down Revolutionary Blvd., Tijuana's main drag.

The street itself was dominated by massive signs pitching Burger King, KFC, and McDonalds. "Cripes," I thought, " I could have saved six bucks and fed myself without a worry." As I cursed my cautious nature, the bus came to a halt as the operator's voice made an announcement.

"Well folks, this is the first time I have ever said this..." his voice trailed off. "Could all those people staying for lunch remain in their seats. Everyone else, this is the last stop. I'll be back, right here, to take you home in five hours." I could have had five hours in this Disneyland-for-grown ups but instead I had somehow volunteered to go for lunch. Suddenly I realized that everyone else had left the bus and that I was the only one left aboard.

With a pitying look in his eyes, the driver tried to be accommodating, "Hey kid, come on up front." I got up from the back and walked forward in a petulant shuffle accompanying so many adolescent attitudes. He explained to me that this was the first day Greyhound was offering a luncheon service and that I seemed to be the only taker on day number one. I learned something about myself at this point. As a traveller, I was always up for some form of adventure and so, accepting my fate, we chatted pleasantly as we drove to our destination.

An Unexpected Destination
For another five minutes we revisited the massive poverty of the city proper but eventually began climbing a very steep hill, that back home might qualify as a little mountain, and at the top like some obscene maraschino was a beautiful little building that can best be described as a Mexican Pagoda with delicate carvings set against amazing tapestries, topiary designs in huge flowerpots, and a polished marble entry and staircase.

As impressive as the outside had been, inside the main dining room I was struck by the surreal nature of this environment as compared to the one I had just been in seconds before. This was hand-carved, hard won, beauty expressed in every detail. The driver gave me a loopy, almost sad, look and sensing my anxiety said, "Well kid, good luck..uhhh, have a good lunch..." He reached for a thermos and put his legs up over the passenger handrail. As I left the bus he looked up and winked. "You'll have great time, kid. You paid for it... so go for it dude..."
"You're not coming with me?" I asked quietly hoping he'd change his mind.

I felt like I had swallowed a bug. I had chosen the safe route and had rolled into the swankiest eatery in all of the city, perhaps in the entire Province. In retrospect, the architecture and design were amazing and some of the tastiest to be found along the North American west coast. As the driver opened the door to let me out, the sounds of music stirred the air. As I actually got out of the bus a Mariachi band started playing and three men dressed in tuxedos followed by the band dressed in formal Mexican garb appeared The men came forward and introduced themselves as they greeted me and shook my hand.

They were, in order - the owner of the restaurant, his brother-in-law who was the assistant to the third man who was the Mayor of Tijuana. I stood there as the band finished their first number and as I looked over these people I realized that I represented something very important and that this was probably not the right time to either break wind, walk away or ask for take-out.

A Very Spatial Moment
As the music stopped he Mayor began to make a speech in Spanish but quickly began speaking English with very thick accent. "Thees ees thee Inauguration of blah, blahh. Aligning my episodic orientation towards other things, I tuned out the Mayor and waited, somewhat patiently, for him to finish. The bus driver, seduced by the band and dignitaries, had joined me as the audience and, after we were formally introduced to all three men, we then entered the actual restaurant which was obviously the pride and joy of the trio.

The sheer power of the opulence was somewhat overwhelming. Fine crystal, glasses and goblets. Three spoons, two forks, of fine formal silver service. The plates were a hand-thrown pottery of the finest kind and the walls covered in Aztec treasures that could have played stand-in for all the loot that Cortez ever expropriated. This was some kind of over-elegance, not so much designed as bank-rolled.

Each implement seemed to weigh at least a pound and the glasses, now being filled with Sangria, were heavy to lift. Even a snot-nosed, middle-class, kid from Canada had to admit that this was a mighty attempt at creating a classy operation that would, pathetically, satisfy the needs of their well imagined, high-toned, rich American customers - whom I was now representing. It was almost a parody of what wealth could provide except that the owner and his compatriots, never far away, were very earnest and quite serious in their service.

The meal was delivered quickly to the table. The driver had taken refuge near the entrance, as if to be able to make a quick get-away if needed. I barely picked at my choice of chicken ala Tijuana and instead finished my Sangria as another goblet was placed before. They either had an all-you-can-drink policy or they were happy to get me high... it did not matter to me as the cold, sweet juice mixed with the usual red plonk was cold and, apparently, flowing.

As I finished my meal, I thanked my hosts without betraying any discomfort, thereby pleasing my absent parents and no doubt the local Chamber of Commerce. It was, without doubt, one of the most beautiful rooms I had ever been in and I had just visited the home of the simulacrum, Disneyland days earlier. Previous to my California trip, I had, at fourteen years old, visited Neu Schwaunstein, the fairy-tale castle of King Ludwig of Bavaria and therefore was not easily or quickly impressed. But the overwhelming opulence, especially in contrast to the massive poverty of the surrounding neighbourhood was devastating.

I Make My Escape (and review my lessons...)
The tour bus operator, having being somewhat amused by my situation now took pity on me and did not hinder our departure and in minutes we had left the heady climes of the hilltop and had begun our ascent into the dirty, smoggy, poverty, and chaos that is downtown Tijuana.

My relief was palpable and soon I was stumbling around the main drag eating a hamburger and contemplating my situation complete with beginnings of a mid-day hangover. The sound of the traffic, the waves of people, the dogs loose and barking, the smells of tobacco, whisky, exhaust, combined with all the shit and shinola was dynamic.

I now understood that my home continent had a third-world enclave just a ways down the I-5, along the coast. I learned that I liked to adventure and that a good story can come out of anyhwere. I learned that basic manners can get one through pretty much any situation and, ultimately, I learned an age-inappropriate lesson about independence, inter-dependence, and the critical balance between the two that we all need to survive.

© 2009 Leigh R. Wolf

Friday, August 28, 2009

Christian Supremacist

Recently Erik Prince, the millionaire with his own private army, Blackwater, who it has been charged murdered or arranged for the murder of two individuals who were, apparently, turning against Prince and company by talking with Federal forces.

If this little ditty helps keep the name in the glare of the publicity spotlight, way, in any case feel free to enjoy and forward it to your friends. (Note: according to Wikipedia, Erik Prince, himself an inheritor to a fortune, is married to an inheritor of the Amway fortune.)

Erik, Prince of Amway
Young Erik, Prince of Amway, was an unsettled man
Who believed his Saviour had settled on a holy plan
As he began killing Moslems he began to understand
The Lord’s work is dirty because the enemy is damned

Young Erik, Prince of Amway, was an assassin trained
Whose domestic covert actions cannot be contained
Whose pained instinct long ago integrated the ingrained
Who frightened Congress so they eventually complained

Young Erik, Prince of Amway, was born a wealthy man
Who liked to dress a certain way and sport a healthy tan
“I am Michaels’ flaming sword,” he began to understand
Whose warrior lifestyle became messier than was planned

Young Erik, Prince of Amway, was overwhelmed by strife
From his Great Dismal Swamp he leads a great, dismal life
He cheats upon himself when he offers up his beautiful wife
He's enjoys ideas of cruising a missile that falls like a knife

Young Erik, Prince of the American Way, is not quite done
An ugly stye in the public eye he couldn’t have much fun
Blackwater sent him backwaters where he was still the one
He was
fighting every war over again as if behind a gun

© 2009 Leigh Richard Wolf

Monday, August 17, 2009

The Ignoratti

Marching jackboots proclaim they’re free
They figured killing Kennedy just ought to be
They de-story the left and leave bereft extended family
There are none quite as insane as far-right Ignoratti

Some’ll argue Al Quida or The Taliban are worse
Some lash out, in tongues, citing chapter’n verse
Truth is, all patriots are so by a curse
They will know this from deep inside the hearse

The Christian-right must crush their opposition
In clusters they cultivate hate in cold seduction
Such insanity is due to pharmecutical medication
They can't tell reduction
from base acceleration

Toys are what the boys in the Pentagon need
It’s a matter of security and never about greed
Rarely do the officers rape and share their seed
There are none so sad as men who never bleed

Forget the talking heads coughing up fickle facts
A matter of propaganda, some simple-simon hacks
Media ignoratti control the agenda in three acts
Think of what they’ll shell before it breaks their backs

Like a package act where you gotta take the dross
American accounting tries to hide the secret loss
Is the boss of my enemy the enemy of my boss?
In anger and confusion he climbs up on his cross

As American as ignorance is what Europeans state
We will take their money and we will not hesitate
A few bad leaders later and no one can calculate
Pay for all the damage done and then pay the freight

Ignoratti attempt to infiltrate every aspect of your life
From the kind of car you can drive to the type of wife
Over the event horizon that rocket falls just like a knife
It’s not so much an American Dream as American strife

Yet ignoratti get another chance with Judgement Day
They say redemption is the way of the good old U.S.A.
First Nations have a take on the events of that “final day”
Crack a book, take a trip, and learn about the Hopi Way

But hopeless cause wore ruby shoes and loved giant trees
Hopeless lifted loads and did not earn advanced degrees
Gay folks marry with more old-growth in park land freeze
The key is government not doing just as it may please

Ignoratti will someday like marriage or a lifetime end
The difference known only if you’ve been truly zenned
Mistakes can redeem and relationships can mend
Healing fear through feeling is not a new century trend


© 2009 Leigh R. Wolf

Saturday, August 15, 2009

Vancouver Grows: Big City Woes

Native Vancouverites Forced to Move!
Vancouver, B.C., the city of my birth is a city of deep contradictions between surface life and underground existence. Back in the Sixties, the city was relatively small with a metro population at about 500,000 and now, some fifty years on, the population is around 2,2 million. Social scientists suggest that when a city crests Two million souls that all bets are off and everything is now permitted. The chaos of gangsters, homelessness, heroin versus homegrown, guns, kidnapping, and all else that comprises any great metropolis you will find it here. More’s the pity...

Now, with the Winter Olympics of 2009, Vancouver is set for an explosion of publicity that will attract more tourism, investors from around the world, and prices will continue to rise in Canada’s most expensive city. Natives like my dear wife and I are hanging on by our fingernails and we both the the Games as the point from which we depart. It’s sad and sort of a societal sickness when older folk are forced to leave their virth place and be re-accomodated in cheaper digs. Perhaps the Island or the Sunshine Coast but where ever we roam it will never, truly, be our home.

Note: One of Vancouver’s original nicknames was the “Terminal City,” due to the City’s reputation as being the end-of-the-line for Prairie grain shipments arriving by rail.


Terminal City Blues
Two-point-too many people living for the city
Mountain tops meeting ocean side natural and pretty
But the tragedy of urban densification is far too real
The problem of isolation is that people forget to feel

They forget just who their neighbours are and what that means
The lose a sense of present tense when mashing up their scenes
Target those who dare oppose whilst then transcending genes
Their buy it from Premier Robot who drinks and then self-cleans

Two-point-too many people ;living here today
Poolside cappuccino why some classism won’t go away
The beauty alive upon the beaches can make a sunny day
Just make sure to avoid the leeches as you make your way

Making bread from living in their heads what does that say?
Staking threats against best heads even if it could never sway
A punk with her junk dreads forsake the message in one’s play
They ignore such a chore, call it a bore while they wail away

Two-point-too many people living in another’s dreams
Where nothing is simply what it says or what it seems
Where people come at you with a pocketful of memes
Booth-people reading dirty books splitting at the seams

Twenty-four hours in the automatic culture locates using GPS
Not enough brains to blow their nose or minds but I do digress
Subject to fines for losing and bruising coming from excess
The ocean kind are satisfied to sit back and just suck-cess

Two-point-too many young ones seeking
only their eternity
No way for any other faith with nowhere fit for them to flee
At this point in our progress can’t we just sit back and let it be?
As if a point is made, that war is over, with every voice set free

The city of dreams screams from inside a perfected box
Where any thing is open, 24 hours, everything except the locks
Where downtown is less architecture than boring building blocks
But trees in parks, the vegetation, astounds and crowd the docks

Two-point-too many people now in a fine and finite space
Where the water’s free except for members of the human race
Where the white man’s ways are neither wise nor but a trace
Of First Nations, who for over ten-thousand years lived in grace

© 2009 Leigh Richard Wolf

Thursday, August 13, 2009

The Drug War Understood

It’s about fascism, private prisons, and political prisoners...
Those people to the right of the political spectrum drink their relaxation and rarely will you find a pot smoker among the ardent far right. This is due to the fact that as soon as a right-wing type starts medicating with Cannabis they begin to change. Slowly but surely, and inevitably, they become left-wingers. Perhaps it is something contained within the drug itself, or possibly a result of our dualistic society, but that transformation alone is a good reason for Republicans to declare benign Cannabis the legal equivalent of killers like black tar Heroin and bathtub Speed.

Nixon the Nasty
Richard Milhouse Nixon was the Constantine of our modern age but hopefully the effects of his vision will not be with us for two-thousand years. In creating the Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA) in 1972, Nixon had little interest in drug abuse, or controlling usage, but rather he was interested in jailing the left-wingers that smoked their relaxation. By 1972, pretty much everyone under thirty had smoked one or more joints and general consensus was that Cannabis was mostly benign. But Nixon had a different vision of the future where possessing Cannabis would be the criminal equivalent of possessing Speed, Cocaine, Heroin or any other “Schedule One Narcotic,” according to the U.S. Federal government. In Nixon’s warped and twisted mind Cannabis smokers were forever against Nixon and that their true crime was hating Nixon and his Presidency (1968-1974).

Down By Law
Originally, Cannabis was outlawed as a tool of racial domination where Blacks and Spanish speakers, both of whom used Cannabis, could be made criminal and thus more easily controlled. During the Sixties it become clear that millions of young people, young white people, smoked pot and most of these enjoyed "race" music, carried liberal values, and wanted peace. Nixon enjoyed none of this and, as with the Blacks and Spanish-speakers, he could now control, i.e., jail, his opponents by making a medicine used for 10,000 years the most unlawful of substances. It was brilliant in its simple effectiveness. By criminalizing these children of the middle classes, Nixon was able to mask political prisoners as “drug addicts” and “pushers” both of which had become buzz words in “the systematic demonizing of narcotics." (see W.S. Burroughs).

Birth of a Demon
Nixon’s vision was of an ever expanding DEA budget serving a nation filled with cops, snitches and millions of newly made criminals. He further saw a private prison system born corrupt and ready made for modern slavery in the form of for-hire prisoners. These prisons are owned and operated by private industry and Wall St. trades stock based on how many prisoners are languishing in their cells. In the U.S. there are 750,000 arrests for Cannabis every year. If only ten percent are really involved in “the protest movement” then that means 75,000 potential activists are being jailed and effectively silenced every year. That this happens year after year, in case after case, is both tragic and insane.

The U.S. (Drug) Empire Expands
After quieting down their domestic opposition, the American Republican Guard (ARG) graduated their philosophy into foreign policy and began to send the DEA overseas as “outreach” intelligence workers quietly communicating policy and power in more than 150 countries. The empire of the drug lords has never been greater nor has the use of drugs ever been more global. In Central and South America, U.S. power and aggression have resulted in decades of dictators haunting the recent past. Only now are more leaders like Castro beginning the emerge ready to confront the U.S. as needed and necessary.

Nixon Inspires W.
Nixon was a blight on not just his society where his most profound legacy, taking the U.S. off the Gold Standard, has meant a rapidly ballooning deficit and crushing debt that can never be paid, but also a lasting detrimental doctrine greatly effecting the world in general. Since Nixon’s “War on Drugs”, other ARG Presidents like Reagan and Bush have served loyally and without innovation but it wasn’t until George W. Bush arrived that the ARG understaood their Presidential lapdog was actually a pitbull. Bush revitalized the DEA creating Homeland Security under the Patriot Act which also effectively wiped out more Constitutional rights, some rights going back to Magna Carta. Bush then suspended U.S. obligations due the Geneva Convention and attached all federal social welfare funding through government-approved, right-wing, Christian charitable agencies thereby inegrating Church and State. Bush escalated the buedgets of the DEA, CIA, and the military in a way that would make Nixon proud but would make Eisenhower shudder.

"because it's not illegal if the President does it.."
Now, through real world lessons like Iran-Contra and CIA cocaine sold in Los Angeles we know that the federal government is involved in domestic distribution of unlawful drugs to fund various nihilistic scemes. Could this be mitigated by the fact that the very same government created laws making these drugs illegal? Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt! The “rule-of-law says “No.” and that governments especially must obey it's own laws, but thanks for playing.The threat to freedom of speech and the right to protest is very real now and these hard-fought rights must be protected by the courts. But in the U.S. the conservative core of the Supreme Court suggests two or three more decades of right-wing analysis and policy.

The "Beast of Revelation" is a Process Not a Person
So the institutional beast we are battling against is a multi=headed monster seemingly capable of growing new heads when crisis so invokes. Our weapons may be mightier than a sword but how do they stack up against the entire U.S. security infrastructure. The metaphor that comes to hand is of the bit of fluff hitting a car's windshield at sixty kmh but given the odds seem insurmountably we are cheered by such “potriots” as Ben Franklin and T. Jefferson, both of whom were growers of hemp, who in their spare time changed the world. Much of what is discussed in this article can be found, presented much better, in a documentary entitled, “The Union: The Business of Getting High” which is certainly the best informed film on the subject of Cannabis in British Columbia, my home province.

© 2009 Leigh Richard Wolf

Monday, August 3, 2009

Reflections on Golden Pondering

If we don’t show anyone, we’re free to write anything.: a ginsberg
The quote above, words of a Ginsberg, is a philosophy central to my current writing. Having been on television for a couple of years, mid-Nineties, I have had my share of so called fame and fortune. All fame really ever meant was an annoyance, like being interrupted as I was buying fish in a public market. Perhaps, like the Greta Garbo of old movie legend I simply want to be left alone.

Computers A, Finance F
As for fortune, my fortunes have been rocky at best. The longest sustained income I have ever had is my current government disability cheque. Money and I have never had a decent relationship, with money taking on the angry part of the jilted lover. In my heart I blame capitalism for my overall lack of interest in consumer objectification. Even though I have managed my Macintosh computer for more than twenty-five years, at a high cost, I have also managed to earn less than the poverty line for eighteen out of those twenty-five years.

Born Toulouse to Trek?
Is it my poetic nature or something more damaged. more sinister, in my story that illustrates a life of a capitalist failure? I have no savings, no debt, no credit cards, nor a single line of credit. I file for taxes to receive the government supplements for the poor but I do not currently pay any taxes nor have I for years. I have managed to secure a lifestyle for myself that suits my meagre needs and desires. My most expensive vice, other than my Cannabinoid medicines, is my high-speed Internet connection which costs me sixty dollars a month.

Fame Can Be Fatal
So I create under the magnificent delusion that I can write, and say, anything I want, or desire, or need to write and procure through keywords, my poetic meanderings to an audience of a select few. This is my great pleasure and comforting for any number of reasons including my complete lack of interest in public commentary, (I do not stop said input - I just do not read comments.) Also, as noted above, I have had more than my fifteen minutes and, given conditions on planet Earth, I think it’s time for everyone else to have their chance at the spotlight - although why one would want to I cannot imagine.

Limited Benefits (apply within)
Yes fame does grant you greater income potential and get you free things and better seats in restaurants but the cost in lost friendships and unavailable opportunities is really quite unacceptable. People often assume that fame and fortune go hand in hand but, in this capitalistic society, unless you are ready to swim with and get bit by sharks - don’t go in the ocean. The tragedy of our youngest generations is an attitude that both fame and fortune are entitlements of being born into the MTV universe.

Too Few Teachable Moments
I blame the narcissism of the 70’s Disco era, everyone can be a star, a proto-blotto philosophy of indulgence laced with crap cocaine. These are the parents of todays drones combining poor parenting with poor education. TV perpetuates this theme in an effort to dumb-down a society where one third of the population is politically and functionally illiterate. Yet Hollywood Boulevard beckons and in the Giant spotlights of the mind you are on the red carpet getting ready for your close-up. Cecil B. DeMille would have been shocked to see his concept of the star be so degraded and deflated by poseurs and other psycho killers.

Home of the Sarcastic Diatribe
So why do I publish these heat-seeking missives into the gaping maw of the Internet universe? It feeds me to believe that there is an intelligent audience for my words. It may be tiny, even tragic, right now but the hope is that the top ten percent of readers online might enjoy my sarcastic and sometime illuminating diatribes on sex, drugs, and everything hip-hop. In the meantime I can think and then write anything I want without benefit of annoyance or hindrance that comes with popularity. As long as I remain somewhat missing in action I can continue to send out a solid signal with less noise.

Pawnbroker Coupons Redeemed
In that spirit I make a dedication to improving my craft, to making my prose tighter and the ideas be better expressed. I pledge to rein in my poems so that only the most succinct and superlative are only ever offered. Finally, writing is an art in itself where thinking leads to therapy and serious self-analysis is customary. At fifty years I believe that the life observed deserves careful examination and in observing and examining my own life I try to recognize gem stones and I pass them along. If I have succeeded in delighting, igniting, or otherwise inciting your mind at any time then I have done what was intended and, after all, that is what it’s all about.

© 2009 Leigh Richard Wolf

Some Deadly Advice

might save your life...

If the war in Iraq is your final destination my advice is treason
If just to get the fuckers off your back there is no better reason
Depending on the climate, which is depending on the season
In Canada, in the winter time, be sure to keep your skis on

Avoid the Government at every cost for they will suck your bone
Your safety is in friends and numbers so be sure you’re not alone
The railway means a steady stream of rocking rebels on the phone
The best and worst of them are cursed to live in a Twilight Zone

Even minimal access to health care is too much drawing heat
You are not safe from a stranger’s eye walking down the street
The locals and the horsemen have your image on a sheet
It’s just another fuck-up factor of odds that you must beat

Do not trust for trust alone can send you home to jail
Be cold and bright, always polite, and you can never fail
Canadians assume that you’re a man just hunting tail
Keep it brief, play the fool, make it art and you will sail

The key to obfuscation is in hiding in plain sight
No matter what you do change it every day and night
City house or country house either is quite right
Better best of both worlds keep self out of the light

My old teachers, at Total-Ed, were mostly from Stanford and Yale
Draft dodgers healing young felons, boys and girls fresh from jail
Salaries pooled, children schooled, under a Golden Rule we set sail
The hearts and minds of teachers meant the children would not fail

The best thing that happened to Canada is 50,000 better men
They brought courage, they brought fight, and a homemade Zen
Carter’s amnesty was a free ride home, not if so much as when
Less than 400 took the bait and the rest stayed northern frozen

So come on up and stay a while until an amnesty’s in place
You cannot be legitimate but you can live without a trace
You may have run out of options with Commanders on your base
Remember there is an underground army ready to hear your case


© 2009 Leigh Richard Wolf

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

that early morning ritual

A scowling hiss escapes the coffee machine
with satisfaction marking the earcon of empty

Farts and burps inside the working fridge
further satisfying anthropomorphic need

Drapes holding on remembering
deriving its fresh from nature’s news

Digital appliances hum softly glow
piercing diodes of red blue green

The box spring groans sweet goodnight
as I cool my leg along her exposed thigh

Together a never ending jazz concerto
Heisenberg’s eternal law of space and time

At the peak of night just before dawn
the furniture rises in ritual cacophony

Only to subside unconcerned
with the bird songs of first morning

©2009 Leigh R. Wolf

Monday, July 20, 2009

The First Church of the Bomb

(In Excelcias Blammo)
Evolving from the latest flesh Extropians emerge
With faction’s fear calling monads must converge
State terrorism ready to deal with your urge
Killing all you love in the coming surge

Lessons earned go unlearned in the Middle East
Those who get the lessons the ones that need it least
You cannot get it from a rabbi, Imam, politico, or priest
In lands of unleavened bread you learn to add some yeast

We worship The Church of the Bomb
That’s Capital B - OMB!
We worship the action all night long!

Watch the water rise and carry us in tow
How long will be our journey is how high we have to go
At the end of time is what we do not know
The lessons lost are cost when expecting the mortal blow

Evolving from the latest tech, Extropians invert
Minutes before there’s still time left to convert
Imagine a landing where no one gets hurt
Instant evolution is better than dirt

Doktor T says to get to know the source of God
There’s a mystery surrounds us and it is quite odd
That history confounds us with a legacy of fraud
That which will astounds us at one trillion baud

As it is, as it was, as it always shall be!
As it is, as it was, as it always shall be!

©2009 Leigh Richard Wolf

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

The Alice In Wonderland Festival

a renaissance of neighbourhood celebration
The trail leading into Vancouver’s Trout Lake Park was rich with streamers and banners floating past me as I walked towards a band of musicians standing together, tuning up, dressed in brightly coloured medieval frippery. Listening to their banter I sensed their easy excitement. It was all part of the 15th Annual Alice In Wonderland Festival as conceived by the Community Arts Workshop Society (CAWS), a non-profit founded to serve community by providing enlightened entertainment for families. Over fifty performers and an equal number of volunteers came together last Sunday (July 12th) to make a few thousand kids and their parents feel very, very happy.

Amazing Entertainments (plus great food!)
Alice is about adults serving children and having a great time while doing so. A mid-Summer celebration, the Alice in Wonderland Festival offers the audience Alice-themed inter-activities like rabbit holes to climb into, caucus races to dispute, croquet games with beautifully costumed pink flamingos, and a host of other activities including face painting, music from four unique bands, and tables of fabulous donated foods all at no cost. The food line up went on for hours serving hundreds of sandwiches, muffins, cakes, cookies, juice, water, and of course, pots and pots of tea. Feeding the east end, both culturally and spiritually, using banners, parades, amazing costumes, interesting music, in a lovely, natural setting and then serving a fine luncheon as well, is totally worthy and Dan Vie and his Community Arts Workshop Society have our respect.

Many “teachable moments”

Although everyone was delighted with the variety of entertainment it was those kids at an age where it is still easy to enter into a state of enchantment that appreciated the days activities the most. And on this day, every child in attendance shared an intense and fantastic experience. From the cool ten-year old boy with the ultimate Mohawk haircut who, thanks to Mom, learned the value of donating his two bucks and paying it forward. Or the pixelated little five-year old red-haired girl wandering, her Mom nearby, asking grown-ups if they wanted her autograph. Politely, many were compliant and said yes delighting her further. The Alice Festival has been designed to aim straight at our softest spots and re-awaken that bliss center found in everyone.

Interactive, Immersive, and Inclusive
In the week previous, in a promotional event at English Bay, CAWS tried to set a new Guinness Book World Record by gathering 52 Alice’s in one place, but a week later at the event easily more than 100 girls arrived dressed in the required blue pinafore dress. There were Alices of every variety - the usual little, girls as Alice, but older women and infants as Alice, punk Alices, teen Alices, Japanese Alices (at least six), and too many Cheshire Cats, Mad Hatters, and perhaps a hundred different playing cards were represented in every suit. This is homegrown entertainment at its most interactive, immersive, and inclusive. The children had obviously laboured on their costume creations for hours and the the gleam of pride in their eyes verified the effort.

Neighbours Seeding Neighbours
Feeding between 2500-3000 people, on a very limited budget, is supplemented by asking the community to contribute. So people brought along food to share with their neighbours. Like the Mom with two girls who brought pan squares made at home, or the young woman who dropped off a Safeway apple pie or the man who, having stumbled upon the event, was so pleased he ran to his truck and brought back a watermelon. Neighbours sharing with neighbours amidst celebration in a lovely park is a splendid idea indeed.

How Canadian...
This was also a truly multicultural event with everyone in attendance feeling every welcome. Two Moslem moms, with limited funds, asked if they could eat without donating. It was explained that everything was free and not based on whether they could contribute. They were pleased and grateful and later their kids came back and gorged on the melon. Understaffed by half, with limited facilities that stressed Trout Lake Park’s resources the Festival has, for the past 15 years, faithfully served this east side neighbourhood. Where else, at no cost, is your belly filled, your eyes and mind delighted, and your imagination inspired?

The Alice In Wonderland Festival is an annual celebration held at the same location for fifteen years. Images and video are available from the Community Arts Workshop Society's web site at:

http://www.communityartsworkshop.com/

© 2009 Leigh R. Wolf

Saturday, July 11, 2009

Canada at a Crossroads: Re:Confederation

Is Quebec A Sovereign Nation?

What if Quebec Separates?
Suffice to say the question of independence is rarely entertained seriously these days inside “la belle Provance.” Traditional economic and political agendas are driving Quebec’s future with the separatist party out of power and even the whiff of a vote a decade away. But the day will finally come and the people will, in the spirit of René Levesque, finally achieve the needed majority to succeed from Canada. What happens the day after? Below I offer my speculation on a few of the abundant possibilities found under such a scenario.

Do Not Doubt the Quebecois
Funny how things like splitting a nation into parts creates an internal animosity in Canada. Almost as much animosity as not separating has caused within Quebec itself. It is about this sense of Quebecois’ existential despair that I write. That Quebec is already emotionally separate is a fact, the question is about political independence and, ultimately, cross-cultural inter-dependence.

Go Ahead, I Dare You
In English, try and actually criticize Quebec in front of a Quebecois and watch what happens. You are rebutted in two official languages by three levels of convincing argument in a coordinated strategy that will quickly come to a resolution by you or you will suffer. Pretty much anyone born speaking french inside Quebec can be convinced and the next referendum will be grassroots (Internet-based) and no doubt effective. No doubt about it, the independence movement in Quebec will eventually win.

As A Canadian Citizen
I beleieve that before Quebec votes to separate we must, as a nation, come together seeking spiritual renewal in a process of Reconfederation. I suggest this as a British Columbian and a Canadian citizen, knowing in effect that through some suggestions I am downgrading the value of my own citizenship, but I do so with critical provisos. The first one being about the actual process of negotiation.

Three Sides Lined Up
I believe that Quebec has done to Canada exactly what Canada did in it’s negotiations with Britain - that is they have patiently waited hundreds of years for the real talks to begin. That kind of legendary patience is where true wisdom accrues and in this country is usually the domain of First Nations who have suffered patiently for more than five hundred years. It is this suffering that gives them the wisdom to lead at the table and is why First Nations are intrinsic to the negotiations. Each entity, The Nation of Canada, The Provinces, and First Nations must all be invited and welcomed at the Re:Confederation Table.

The Players
The negotiation process will be long, perhaps ten to fifteen years, and must be negotiated between English Canada, as represented by the current Federal Government representing the national status quo, infrastructure and system, Quebec, the Provinces, and the Territories, would have the same collective negotiating power and would represent mid-level interests. Ultimately, the Assembly of First Nations would approach the table, as equal partners, representing the land, the environment, and the people’s interests, thought's, and feelings, and other such intangible investments.

PLaying the Democracy Card
The lines are clearly drawn with Federal forces supporting the status que, French and Provincial forces eager for independent change - each on their terms, First Nations are quite literally desperate for any change at all and neatly bookends the process. Each vision of Canada is unique and if every is actually at the table, and so respected, then a historic moment will have truly happened and major leaps can be accomplished. The feds want continuity, pre-conditioned, over a longer period time. This suits neither Quebec nor First Nations as both are environmentally onside and will outrage the First Nations who have been shedding their tears for the environment long before Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring. This unique opportunity would allow all the players to be recognised and treated fairly without Quebec attempting to leave in a huff.

One Possible Scenario (out of thousands)
The actual breaking up the real estate is where Feds and First Nations connect by relegating Quebec to a relatively thin strip of territory running from Gaspé in the east all the way to Aylmer in the west on the Ontario border. This area will encompass Quebec City, Montreal, Chibougamou and the U.S. border. This new perspective, about half the previous size, would make a large sized state, a wee bit larger than even New York state, and the offer would no doubt kick off a new internal shit storm inside the land of the french language in North America. Any possible solution is going to take much compromise and the possibilities are multifold.

The U.S. Umbrella Theory
But negotiation and compromise will be needed when Quebec has it’s internal majority and thus democratically deciding to abandon Canada. Speculation about what would happen after that is always fun. One scenario suggests B.C. and Alberta then break away to create a mini-super state, under the protection of the U.S.A. to who they would owe great thanks and undoubtably much more in cash dollars. The same could be said of any independent state that emerges from the break-up of Canada. They will be a much smaller mouse sleeping beside the elephant and thereby easier to ignore when the stifled screams begin. The truth is that only by surviving as a complete entity can Canada avoid being eaten up by a starving United States.

The "friendly" C.I.A.
Such a break-up would be the saving grace for the United States who, fearing economic ruin, sees the natural resources to the north and contemplates the unimaginable. If the CIA could get Quebec to leave Canada, the U.S. would suddenly be in a great position to pick up a few valuable possessions, cheap. Of course the C.I.A. would never operate in a friendly foreign nation secretly or would they? My own paranoia goes so far as to wonder why Canada, unlike every other Parliamentary democracy (Australia, Britain, New Zealand, France) has never elected a “Labour” government. In Canada, the NDP, Canada’s socialist party has never been in power. When you consider the odds of Labour in power in every Parlimentary democracy except in Canada - you naturally begin thinking of the C.I.A.

Can Quebec Go It Alone? (can anyone?)
The question remains? Is Quebec a separate nation? The answer was culturally - yes. Quebec has managed to sustain their langauge and define their culture in a way that, partially, helps define every Canadian who takes lessons of patience, negotiation, and tolerence from our history. On the ground, politically, it seems that Quebec’s chances of landing outside the net of the U.S. is highly unlikely, even if Quebec loses the James Bay Hydro power in the deal. Even with EU support, the reality of ecnomic independence, espcially without James Bay, would be mitigated by lumber prices, tourism, and running deficits for the first ten years, only if the population want to keep all essential services including health care.

Support From Dad
Quebec has a pretty good deal. In Canada the central (Federal) government makes payments, wrought from income tax, to the Provinces. The Feds determine the bottom line and then divide the Provinces into the catagories of either have or have not. The haves pay into a fund, which the Feds top up, then the have-nots take from the fund and in this way no province gets left too far behind and are unable to pay for health care and other essential services. It is a socialist concept enacted by the centrist-right Liberal Party in more tolerant times. (These days the Liberal Party seems more conservative than the Conservative Party of Canada.)

re:Confederation or lose Quebec and more.
As I said previously, Quebec has a decent deal considering that last year it qualified as a Have-Not Province. That as such they received payments from the Government is not progress. Such an act does not bode well for the Seperatist Movement and the long-term economic outlook will not be kind to the manufacturing and resource extraction-based industries in Quebec. But having lived inside, for three years in my mid-late-twenties, it is not speculation when I write about the inevitability of the split. As a British Columbian I have as much right as a Newfie does to complain, about being ignored by central Canada, but Quebec’s argument with Ontario is a cage match that has lasted some three-hundred years. Ultimately, the only hope for Canada, unless it wants to split apart and be gobbled up, is some form of Reconfederation where everyone comes to the table and everyone has their chance to speak, be heard, and able to vote. If Quebec ever does decide to leave, I want my say in how it happens ideally before it happens.

© 2009 Leigh Richard Wolf

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

We Had Him (and he was good)

Michael Jackson 1958-2009

Thirteen Days Older

I was born on the same day as Madonna and thirteen days before Michael Jackson and I have always had an affinity with both of these pop stars. With MJ it was love at first viewing on the Ed Sullivan show when the Jackson Five performed their classic hit ABC. What was not to love? He sang and he danced unbelievably well and had all the best lines. I had always felt an affinity to MJ but I did not know about the closeness in our ages until later when she of the same birthday arrived on scene.

The Memorial
The memorial for Michael Jackson actually was one of the black cultural events in an era of such events, including his trial. Although he truly was a multicultural artist, this was a black moment of public solidarity and consolidation. Like the BET Awards on super-steroids. it was a decent celebration of a man and his achievements. In some ways the event was a sustained plea of innocence, as if the trial never ended and a jury could still return a surprise verdict of guilty.

Just Too Much...
This has always been about an excess of talent, lifestyle, addictions, and tragedies. In a way, credit the Great Spirit that MJ has left us. Obviously such a great spirit living in as an empty shell was simply unacceptable to the creator. As an entertainer MJ was unsurpassable and as a human he was surely paradoxical. As tender as a six-wek old faun, as sensitive as a verteran of the psychic fairs, as nimble as a jackrabbit, and as judged as in the story of Christ. This was a man who suffered too much, who revelled too much, who played too much, and finally jumped off the train.

Stories Not Told
There was so much about the man we did not know and over time we will be force fed more of the story but there are, thank goodness, countless stories that won’t be told. Stories about charity works in hospitals’ cancer wards or visiting with Heads of State make headlines alongside tales of his hyperbaric chambers and the pursuing the bones of Charlie Chaplin. What is the most interesting are the stories of MJ the human who was a son, brother, friend, father, and fool.

The Turning Point (for many)
The man was complex to say the least. It is impossible to discuss the subject without referring to the child abuse allegations. Al Sharpton and others protested his innocence during the memorial to an audience of faithful fans who never believed the allegations to begin with. Was he really a pedophile or was this all just a misunderstanding? The $22 Million Dollar settlement paid by Jackson to a 12 year-old boy was the public moment when the truth was revealed and from then on MJ began to go weirdly underground. Without the benefit of a trial this payment served as a guilty plea from a man who could, the world knew, afford to buy his own justice.

He Chose (not) To Believe
His skin colour and tone got lighter and whiter until it made no difference if he was black or white. Whether this was medical condition or a personal choice matters not. He had almost completely transformed himself from his Off The Wall-era look and feel. Now we begin to hear about the master manipulator who regaled his audience with tales of his goodness and kindness and who never wanted the warts to show. Perhaps, like George W. Bush, MJ had sociopathic or even psychopathic tendencies and was able to believe certain truths while ignoring other truths depending on his mental state.

History (begging a pardon but never convicted)
Paraphrasing Bill Clinton, “there is nothing wrong with Michael Jackson that could not be overshadowed by what was right about Michael Jackson.” Thus the final verdict has been turned in and now shall be read into the record. We the jury find MJ guilty of certain crimes that have extenuating circumstances that mitigate his sentence to time served on Earth (fifty years) and now he has been released. His story will be debated for generations by those interested in his lasting impact on western and global culture.

This Is Far From Over
We live in extremely interesting times and we must acknowledge those moments when certain global cultural icons (Elvis, John Lennon, Mao) leave the planet they leave a huge content gap they once filled. The ensuing vacuum is filled with recycled and repurposed materials and so begins the scramble to cash-in on the resurgence which, given the hype, should exceed the turnstyle returns on Elvis, a tidy $100 million dollars per year. Then comes the memorial CD of greatest hits, a Jackson Family Reumion Tour CD and DVD, and right about then it should be little Blanket’s turn to take over the spotlight. This is a story of paradox, illusion, and other forms of misdirection that will never be told completely to the satisfaction of his millions of followers and fans. As Maya Angelou put it succinctly, “we had him and we are the world.”

© 2009 Leigh R. Wolf

Friday, June 26, 2009

Childhood Zen

Santa, the Bunny, and Baby Jesus

The Big Three
Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Baby Jesus were the original "holy trinity" of my early childhood. The parents did their job and the big three icons figured prominently in an active fantasy life. The day I found out that Santa Claus was not flesh and blood, from Harold the neighbourhood bully, was the day that I began doubting the authenticity of the Easter Bunny, Baby Jesus and the elaborate icon structure built up in my fertile mind. Inside my mind, everything was in very specific order based on how long I had held the concept and the impact of the icon ongoing.

A Mother's wisdom
My belief system was such that after clearing up the myth of Santa Claus with my parents, I naturally became suspicious of any other lies I had been told. At the age of almost seven I was about to enter into a zone of reason and logic and I would never again be the same. When I broached the subject of the Easter Bunny with my mother several weeks after the Xmas revelation took hold I was due another shock to the system.
"Mom, is the Easter Bunny pretend like Santa was?"
My mother sat me down and patiently, sympathetically, explained,
"Yes dear, the Easter Bunny is a story told to young children and now that you are growing up, stories like Santa and the Easter Bunny can now be put away and taken out later when you have your own children."

Reality Realigned
I was royally pissed off and I remember thinking that I would never want to deceive any child no matter how adult the reasoning. After Easter celebrations had come and gone another idea popped into my mini-mind. I realized that the baby Jesus, whom I loved, was exactly the same person as the crucified Jesus, an act of horror that I despised. Both Xmas and Easter were now vulnerable as the entire mythology began to unravel. I began to examine the trappings surrounding these weird cultural gifting events, now less perceived as religious moments but rather more as strange cultural events with benefits (gifts, candy, bon homie).

Murder my Messiah? (no thanks...)
Xmas is a wonderful celebration with lots of tasty foods and gifts for loved ones but even with decent food treats Easter was kind of a drag. No one actually celebrated the death of the sad man murdered on the cross. I understood that the basic idea was to celebrate the resurrection of this man but at the time I had a great difficulty appreciating the joy of resurrection and the horror inherent had a significant impact. It seemed to me that too many people resounded too deeply to this man's torture and death instead of appreciating his actual life. And the idea that he died and came back to life days later was, to me, either lazy thinking or crazy mind or both.

The Improbability Meter
In order to clarify my confusion, and surely any readers confusion, I will recap, dead Jesus was really alive, who was also the baby Jesus, who was a God, who was murdered by humans like myself. In my heart and mind I gave up my own innocence as my personal protest against any fantasy story where purity and love (Baby Jesus) is snuffed out, proving that I was a human being at a very early age and perhaps a decent story editor. Somehow, internally, I had translated the death of the conceptual Easter Bunny with the the idea of a man being murdered on a crucifix. I understood that Baby Jesus of the manger and the Jesus dead on the cross were the same person and, as with the Bunny and Santa, my personality is such that i rejected the entire mythos.

Innocence Reclaimed (symbolically)
Over time, I kept this truth to myself and still managed to snag presents "from Santa" for a few more years but my unyielding innocence was now past tense. I turned away from theology, foward to sports, the next logical step in my social progress, with lessons in team building, good "sportsmanship", and fair play. Being a jock was problematic and I never really recovered my innocence lost until, as a man, I stared deeply into a baby's eyes. Like all effective therapy, the result was swift and intense leaving me more a healer than before. If you consider this practice be careful, advance baby eye can lead to countless hours of fun and drooling. Remember to ignore your sense of time, wipe your chin, and all will be fine.

My TransHuman Truth
On a personal note, my transhumanism - born of this Earth, came to me reading, as an adult, the children's book "The Wind in the Willows." It was the chapter entitled, "Piper at the Gates of Dawn" where I first really got to know Pan and his posse. Later, Pan introduced me to the Goddess and I fell in love all over again, deeper. Suffice to say, that fateful day I dropped acid and listened to Pink Floyd for the first time, I had an experience where I realized what had transpired was part of the artist’s vision. A euphoric knowing came to me as I realized the enormous reach of transhuman culture from art history to modern popular culture to philosophies of the ancient mind and into our anarcho-tech future. If I have substituted old icons for new ones or this for that be sure that what I realize is mine alone. As it is, as it was, as it always will be!

© Leigh Richard Wolf 2009

Thursday, June 25, 2009

in form evolves life on planet Earth

(internet song #32)
If you want to preserve your Constitution
First thank your stars for the distribution
To preserve our way of life and Constitution
We built our bulletproof network revolution

An extra-large medium has now taken hold
Bandwidth bonanza can cure the common cold
Harken back in memory from ancient days of old
What else would we call such a factor to the fold

So anti-static it's laundramatic!
So extra-lean it’s a heartmachine!
So autodidact it’s an automatrick
So what if it’s a weapon built for war

If you want to understand the current revolution
You need to understand the cold war resolution
Why the worst get a crack at planetary dissolution
Why Internet in every home is the critical solution

To survive nuke launch and then throw it back
Conceived in an era where there was no slack
Just a lot of crazy white men dressed in black
Meta-plans from alien on exponential track

So monkeys ate the mushroom to get meteor smart
They saw as longterm ambition the act of making art
They used as inspiration the beating of their heart
The monkeys were well stoned right from the start

Not so obelisk or spore radical as may seem
You remember going home in an ancient dream
Try balancing out your soul in a pacific stream
It seems return to sender is our central theme

Sirius A and Sirius B binary twins light years away
Seeding the soul rhythm blue signal holding sway
Original role of rocking star was lead us unto day
Curious cats now digital dogs are ever ready to play (arf)

No one sought to shift the axis of culture and time
Not one thought of lifting tracks outside riff and rhyme
No people ever planned to correct the source of crime
Not about how collectively we are landing on a dime

In the ealiest moments of the digital debate
Whence the cybergestalt has began to getstate
The question of democracy will lead us to probate
And consensus of the network will become our solid state


© 2009 Leigh Richard Wolf

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

The Early Daze

The Fanboy Era

In the pre-punk days of the early-mid Seventies, my interests were varied and somewhat traditional. I loved music and back then the song list featured Led Zepplin, the Who, Beatles, and somewhat further down the list was Alice Cooper. My buddy Claire, with her little sister Lisa, and your reporter made plans, late in the school year, to stay out really, really, late which had to include a rock concert by our man...ahhh, Alice. (This was not the concert, years later, where a Alice couldn't get his massive boa constrictor to clear Canada Customs and his manager found my friend Bob's snake Smiley. I have been told it was during the song, "Welcome to my Nightmare," Alice ran offstage and Bob handed Smiley to the rock star. Poor Smiley was instantly freaked out by the lights and the excited screams of the fans and began to do the thing that was most natural and comforting to him. As he constricted, Alice, losing breath quickly stumbles off the lip of the stage where he breaks his arm and collarbone. The tour was cancelled but Smiley blithely uncoiled and slithered into Bob's arms. Bob got his snake, some cash, and I got a great single-serving story.)

The Original Set-Up
That night Claire and I were both Seventeen years old, both musicians, and this being after my athletic era we were both happily experimenting with serious psychedelic drugs. It was abeautiful night, late Spring, 1974, and we had decided to drop MDA, the earliest version of Ecstasy, but not mention it to little Lisa who at age twelve might feel uncomfortable if she knew her sister and I were extremely high.

Good Rocking, That Night
Alice put on a decent show (welcome to my nightmare tour) and Claire and I laughed at the side-show theatrics and rocked out to the hits. It was fairly blissful, though too quickly it was over. I looked at my watch and informed my crew that it was only 10:30 p.m. and Claire confessed their Mom didn’t expect them home till 1:30-2:00 am, so what did we want to do. I told them about an advert for a midnight screening of new movie release. The girls asked what the movie was about but I drew a blank and suggested we leave Pacific Coliseum and make our way to the Granville Mall’s classic Vogue theater.

Liberties of the Sizties / Realities of the Seventies
We arrived in front of the Vogue at about 11:20 p.m. and already twenty or thirty hearty souls had begun to gather by a street lamp in some semblance of a line. Once ensconced in that line we enquired of our new mates what movie we were about to see was about but no one in line had any idea. No doubt many were equally as stoned and Claire and I. Most people in line had never heard of this, apparently, science-fiction film and were all very new to the idea of Midnight Movies (late-night previews were extremely rare in 1974) and were truly excited to be going anywhere near a movie theater at midnight.

Have You Met George's Wookie?
We were higher than ever as we piled into the theater and made our way to the balcony claiming prime front row seats in the second balcony tier. The Vogue had a big screen and an impressive stereo sound system The film began with an amazing symphonic punch echoed by a screen filled with stars. The screen then filled with golden scrolling text unfolding the narrative of Chapter Four in a story entitled, A New Hope. That night, at that moment, in a handful of theaters up and down the west coast, Lucas and Fox were showing the first Star Wars movie to thousands of stoned teenagers,who were all about to have their minds scorched at the moment Han Solos’ ship, the Millennium Falcon, finally kicked into light-speed. Whoosh!

A Hodgepodge That Connects
As the Sixties simmered in the background, the best culture of the Seventies spoke to political and religious themes. The story of Star Wars was of an empire (evil) and a band of scruffy rebels (good) daring to challenge said Imperial force. Like other good pseudo-spiritual stories, Star Wars’ did it’s homework and brought together Zen riffs, Orgone Energy, and Joseph Campbell’s’ Hero mythos into a new age stew that satisfied millions of moviegoers for over three decades.

Cooling Our Jets
After the movie we were all pumped. The girls had to be peeled away from their seats as the effect of movie was immediate and brutal. Little Lisa and Cool Claire poured themselves into a taxi and a swift ride home to M&D. I took a bus home and watched in amusement as various drunks debated their life choices. Although it took me a long time to fall asleep, dreams of star fighters and crystalline entities stalked my sleep that night.

Seminal Days of the Transhuman
This was the beginning of my heavy fanboy phase where descriptors like geek, nerd, or dweeb were synonyms. This phase included my Apply II computer with 48kilobytes of random access memory, mastering Dungeons and Dragons, followed by discovering alternative comics, Science-Fiction conventions, Hawkwind, Moorecock, subsequent employment at a Comic Shop and my role as BC’s first professional Dungeon Master. By age 22 I had passed these on, but my affection for them remained. At age 22 I began my seven-year journey in and about North America, Europe, and the MIddle East which really is another story.

© 2009 Leigh R. Wolf