Up-and-Coming

Three blocks from the venue, down an industrial street in Denver like that in any North American city that boomed in the 1950s, was a small store inside of repurposed shipping containers that sold US-made backpacks, outerwear, and slacks. The store was clean and simple and catered to the young outdoorsy types who live inside but are able to sleep in tents in exotic locations outside.

“We were one of the first businesses in this part of town,” said the shopkeeper sitting bored behind a handmade counter, hair messily gathered in a bun on the top of her head like she had just crawled out of a tent in the Rockies that surrounded her city. “Since then all sorts of businesses have opened here, which is too bad, it used to be a cheap part of town. Now there’s a luxury hotel going up just up Larimer.” The woman expresses her displeasure just as I would. I agreed as I tried on a pair of outerwear pants behind the changing curtain. Their shop and brand are participating in making the neighbourhood more expensive by selling $150USD pants, but they are at least trying to create a manufacturing industry by making their products in the USA. I left without buying pants, wondering where the nearest goodwill was.

The next day, the venue was plopped in the same part of town, only in a city that was 500 miles away, a state and a half to the east. After load-in and soundcheck, the soundman asked “Where’d you go for food? The burrito place? How was it? I heard it wasn’t that good. Yeah, this was the part of town no one would come, until my boss opened this bar and the other one, we started booking shows here, and then other businesses started coming too. It was kinda the bad part of town, now it’s the up-and-coming part of town.” At the expensive coffee joint across from the bar arcade, next to the burrito place, they were giving out a free, one-page newspaper/zine/leaflet. In it read,

“Most American cities are run by real estate interests… In Omaha, the tactic for encouraging gentrification is Tax Increment Financing or TIF. TIF is a way for cities to return tax money to developers as an incentive to put up projects that the city wants (and the public makes up the difference). Unfortunately, no provision is made for the people who used to live in the cheap housing turned into gentrified apartments. The former residents are simply scattered to the four winds. Surprised by ‘shots fired’ near 108th and Maple? This is your City gentrification policy in action.”

A similar but more developed street newspaper in Seattle uses the G-word, gentrification, describing places like Africatown in Seattle being dismembered, breaking up the “home and haven for Seattle’s Black families and businesses”, and highlighting stories of people failing to maintain housing in a rapid-rehousing program because of the recent inflation in costs of rent. Large newspapers will only use the G-word when describing vandals in Montreal or Vancouver who are terrorizing business owners, as business is the uncriticizable holy grail of progress.

I am fortunate to be able to tour with world-class musicians, but each time I’m on the road I wonder how long such jobs will exist. How long will I be paid to burn fuel and watch music in ‘up-and-coming’ parts of American cities, while around the block, that neighbourhood’s previous inhabitants are clamouring to find shelter under a bridge or in a condemned building. I do it because there’s something in music and creation that is able to be unpolluted by corporate greed, though most times it has already been bought and sold.

When people ask what I got to see this trip, Linh Dinh answers for me in his book, Postcards from the End of America, in which he visits communities across the United States left with little or no economy:

You can’t really see a city or town from a motorized anything, so if you claim to have driven through Los Angeles, for example, you haven’t seen it. The speed and protection of a car prevents you from being anywhere except inside your car, with what’s outside rushing by so fast that each face, tree, and building is rudely dismissed by the next, next and next…Like television, the private automobile was invented to wean us off our own humanity. From each, we’ve learned how to amp up our impatience and indifference towards everything, and with life itself.

 


 

After tour ends I fly home to an ailing Saskatchewan. I’d heard of the government cuts while in San Francisco, when a friend texted saying WHAT. THE. FUCK. with a link to an article about the shutting down of the province-owned small town transportation and parcel shipping company. Now home, walking through the downtown, worried citizens are passing colourful clipboards around, asking passers-by to sign one of the multitudes of petitions that are circulating to Save Our Libraries, Save our Bus System, Save our Schools. I sign them all, knowing full well that no petition will be worth the millions of dollars that the government squandered on stadiums and tax cuts on resource extraction companies. The angry protests and province-wide campaigns might get them to preserve something, but the effectiveness of these actions will only go so far if we continue to work within the system that props up corporate interest over that of the public. Though it plays into the hands of the fearmongering government and high income class, one can see why smashing windows in Montreal seems more effective.

Government MLAs show their responsibility, boasting their 3.5% paycuts, which to them means 3.5% less income to spend on boats and cottages and home renos and filet mignon. The paycuts they make to those on social assistance, the paycuts they make to those once employed by the rural transportation system, the cuts they make to the libraries, all mean that thousands of low income individuals won’t have food, shelter, a way to travel for medical treatment, books, and significantly more.

Several years ago, after seeing Chris Hedges speak at the University, I worried that Saskatchewan was the next sacrifice zone—the places that are abandoned by industry, left in disrepair and a humiliating culture of dependency after being used and left behind because of their lack of monetary worth. This could be the beginning of that reality.

It starts with the desperate government selling its struggling assets to the highest bidder, then selling its most profitable assets. They begin begging oil companies to relocate to the province to help the crumbling economy, start giving public land to large corporate bidders. At this point, entire cities and provinces will be bloated with corporate-controlled land and buildings, and towns end up, in a way, like the middle-class urban centres of post-manufacturing North American cities, where no one can afford to pay rent. Eventually, when the government isn’t coddling big business enough, they’ll pack up and move to find a different government who will subsidize their existence. Thirty years later, when our industries have died and all that’s left is cheap bars and empty buildings, businesses that pander to middle class tastes will further move into parts of town with abandoned buildings and cheap rent and begin the process of displacement of those marginalized by the loss of industry, struggling to survive in the older neighbourhoods. We are no better than the economic destruction seen in the United States, we are just a generation behind.

All that will help in the midst of a breakdown of free, communal places of existence and of the breakdown of social programs, is the creation and maintaining of communities that support one another and support the other, the different communities who are similarly affected. I am the middle class that is being pandered to, and while being in these places, eating their burritos, buying their pants, is not inherently bad, it makes it all the more imperative to support and participate in the communities that are contrary to austerity. These communities—social groups, churches, activist collectives, sports teams, artist groups, musicians—must band together to build movements that support the racialized, marginalized, the poor, Indigenous, immigrant communities, who are most harshly affected by public cuts and an economy sucked dry.

Linh Dinh, states the obvious:

For any community to be healthy, local initiatives must be encouraged, nurtured and protected, so let’s reclaim our home turf, reestablish the common, and, in the process, regain our collective sanity and dignity.

That’s My Team

The following was first released online by Briarpatch Magazine, selected as Best of Regina entry in the 2017 Writing in the Margins contest.

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“Hey, come over Saturday and we’ll watch the Canadiens play the Leafs. That’s my team! The Leafs,” Ivan tells me.

“Do they play each other this week?” I ask.

“They play every Saturday.”

I arrive at Ivan’s the following Saturday, ready to microwave each of us a bag of popcorn.

I turn on his tube television which sits at the foot of his single bed in the living room. Ivan lives on the main floor of an aging building across from the casino – one of those apartments where the landlord slaps on cheap laminate floors like bandaids to justify a 30 per cent rent increase. Next to the bed and in front of the TV is a recliner that I always encourage him to relax in instead of slouching on the sagging edge of his bare mattress. I’ve never once seen him sit in it. Next to the recliner is Ivan’s walker. One of the brakes doesn’t work.

Maybe when Ivan was younger Toronto played Montreal every Saturday, when there were only six teams. But it turns out they don’t play this Saturday. Instead, country music videos prattle on in the background while Ivan drinks from a bottle of port wine and I wheel back and forth on the seat of his walker.

“Oh yeah I used to play. In White Bear. We’d play in Carlyle sometimes. Home of the Cougars. White Bear versus them white kids in Carlyle, haha. You know, we weren’t half bad.” He winces at some painful on-ice memory tied to growing up in a province that is unforgivingly racist. He jokes about being a bit fat in those days, now he weighs half.

“I’ll pick you up on December 31st for Hockey Day at Carmichael,” I tell him as I leave.

“Sounds good, bro,” Ivan says. “See you then.”

“Sounds good.”

“Love you brother. Lock up behind you.”

Sheldon stands at centre ice, eyes closed, visualizing his upcoming slapshot. Noel, the goalie, affectionately known as Ken Dryden, waits with knees bent as much as his battered femur allows. The crowd heckles from the side boards.

Hockey Day at Carmichael is a pick-up street hockey game played on the uneven, certainly dangerous parking lot of Carmichael Outreach, a crumbling drop-in centre in downtown Regina. On Hockey Day, members of the Carmichael family of hundreds, many of whom happen to be without homes, come to play shinny and eat a hamburger.

“Hey, Lenny! Keep your stick down, and stop saying ‘fuck.’ There’s kids around!”

Hockey Day is the only sporting event I’ve heard of where the inebriated and unskilled are encouraged to play. Where new renters can come and settle scores on-ice with their cousins who won’t stop trashing their apartment. Where those still healing from the abuses suffered in the residential school system can come and grind through their aggression. Where people who get ticketed in the mall under the city’s “unwanted guest” initiative come to forget the mall exists. Everyone is welcome to play.

Deano chases the puck into the corner, hits a patch of ice and lands on his face. He is escorted to the spectators’ bench for having one too many and is given a coffee, a smoke and a cheer from his teammates. Thirty people show up to play, another thirty to watch. The Lemieuxs and Leaches chase the ball with donated jerseys pulled tight over the five layers of jackets that are obligatory when one lives outside and sleeps at Sally Ann or Detox.

Ivan doesn’t make it as a spectator this time. He just got out of the hospital and being a spectator means sitting outside in the winter on a hard chair for three hours until burgers are ready.

“I knooow, I know. I still can’t figure out how I got pneumonia.” The week before while Ivan slept, some guests unhooked the smoke detector at his apartment and left the window open all night so they could smoke. “I never even left my bed!” Home care from the health region was supposed to start coming a month before but when he didn’t answer the door once, they permanently discharged him. When so many pieces of the health care, social assistance, and justice systems function in the same defective way, it points to the fact that these are purposeful features, rather than flaws, in the process of colonialism, designed to betray urban Indigenous people.

“I’m making breakfast. Come over!” Ivan says over the phone on New Year’s morning.

Ivan wheels himself into the kitchen, fries a pound of bacon, butters two slices of white toast and brings back our feast spread on two decorative plates on the stool of his walker.

“That’s my team!” Ivan says as the Canadiens walk from the dressing room at the NHL’s outdoor Winter Classic. We’d made a plan to watch the game, this time one that we knew was actually happening.

Ivan squints hard at the TV, at times mistaking the white and blue vintage sweaters of the Habs for the black and yellow of the Bruins. He needs glasses, he’s asked for them several times himself, but whenever he has an appointment to see any medical professional he refuses to go.

Montreal dominates Boston in a game of shinny not unlike Hockey Day at Carmichael, except the 80,000 spectators are drunk in some apparently socially acceptable way. He remarks on Carey Price, the world’s greatest goalie, who sits on the bench with a bum knee. Ivan knew the feeling. He recently had a broken upper tibia and a full-leg cast for eleven weeks, half of which he slept at Party Tree, an empty lot furnished with a plank of wood and two broken office chairs.

“You should see my grandpa’s rink in North Weyburn. Best ice in Saskatchewan,” I tell him. “Sometimes I go there to skate just to get rid of stress.”

“Oh, for sure. Weyburn, hey? The Red Wings!” he says, referencing the junior hockey club. “They’re a good team. But the Bruins, now that’s my team! Estevan. I lived there eight years. You’re my Estevan Man. I bet I know your family down there.”

He lists distinctly white surnames. I don’t have any family left in Estevan but since he found out I was born there we never stop talking about the place.

“I’d walk around with a wagon picking up empties. Ho boy, I’d make a lot, haha. No one down there doing it then. I wasn’t drinking then, could make $60 a day. Could see Boundary Dam from my place.” Ivan sits on his bed, arms crossed, blinking at the TV, wearing an Estevan 1985 Heritage hat I found him for Christmas. The coffee table next to him is littered with insulin pens, empties hiding under his bed. He’s lived in this apartment for three months. Before that he lived nowhere.

“No guests at all,” Ivan responds in agreement to my suggestion of having no guests after 11 p.m. Too many guests means noise complaints and an empty fridge. He just got out of Medical ICU.

“Whatever you want,” I say. “And the other part of the agreement is our part. We, as your support workers and friends, agree to respect your privacy, help you get groceries, do laundry, y’know, the stuff we already try to do. And we agree to take you out for coffee once a week. Get you outta your place.”

“Oh right on. That’s great, man.”

“I was thinking of getting us tickets to a Pats game. Maybe against Brandon,” I suggest. Ivan spoke of Brandon, Manitoba, another former home, on a daily basis. It was where he and his mind went when he tired of Regina.

“Ohhh hey, yeah. Alright! Maybe in that agreement put, ‘Take Ivan to a skin show.’ Haha. Jeez, I’m joking!”

It takes us a week to print the agreement — an attempt to keep his place safe and quiet and keep him housed. It takes another week to laminate it. By then he’d had guests and was in and out of the hospital again. He never did sign it.

There’s an ambulance outside his apartment as I drive past, so I stop and let myself in with my keys. A paramedic is holding an intravenous bag that runs into Ivan’s arm while Ivan sits eating his first meal in three days, microwaved by the paramedic himself.

“Heyyyy brother!” Ivan shakes my hand.

“And who’s this now?” asks the paramedic.

“That’s my counsellor.”

“Oh good,” he says to me. “He needs to make sure that he takes his insulin for sure the next day and a half, or he won’t make it. But he can’t take his insulin without eating.”

He speaks as if Ivan can’t hear. “I’m surprised he’s still kicking. Last time we saw him we were taking bets as to how long he’d last. Glad he’s got some help. If not, these kinds of guys would plug up the system.”

The health professionals place bets on his existence and call him one of ‘these guys’. Six months later the health region that employs them releases a job posting with blatantly racist language, then rescinds it and claims that racism is not an inherent issue within their institution. I begin to understand why Ivan skips every possible interaction with medical professionals.

The paramedics get him to sign a release stating that he is not willing to come with them to the hospital to get checked out.

“Ivan, do you have any other health concerns we should know about?” they ask.

“Yeah. I’ve got rabies.” Ivan says with a pause, his face earnest. The paramedics look at one another, unsure of what to say. Ivan laughs at them and they leave. Ivan finishes up his microwaved fettuccini alfredo.

“Hey bro, should we have some tea?” I say yes and go to the kitchen to find the coffeemaker topped up with teabags and the coffeepot already filled with warm tea. I grab the last mandarin orange from the counter, and he and I sit and watch the news and hockey highlights. We drink day-old tea, eat a few orange segments, and as I leave, we exchange our pleasantries one last time.

“Lock up behind you.”

I go home and grab my skates and head to the outdoor rink. I skate until my lungs burn, my legs noodle. My head still feels like there’s a bench brawl going on inside, so I skate laps until my head feels nothing. And then I skate more.

Ukraine 3: Fur Coats

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Ukraine 2: Last Christmas


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Also read Linh Dinh’s Ukrainian observations, with photos.

Books of the Year: 2016

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Between the World and Me – Ta-Nehisi Coates

It does not matter that the “intentions” of individual educators were noble. Forget about intentions. What any institution, or its agents, “intend” for you is secondary. Our world is physical. Learn to play defense—ignore the head and keep your eyes on the body. Very few Americans will directly proclaim that they are in favor of black people being left to the streets. But a very large number of Americans will do all they can to preserve the Dream. No one directly proclaimed that schools were designed to sanctify failure and destruction. But a great number of educators spoke of “personal responsibility” in a country authored and sustained by a criminal irresponsibility. The point of this language of “intention” and “personal responsibility” is broad exoneration. Mistakes were made. Bodies were broken. People were enslaved. We meant well. We tried our best. “Good intention” is a hall pass through history, a sleeping pill that ensures the Dream.

-Ta-Nehisi Coates, Between the World and Me, p33

Racialized Policing – Elizabeth Comack

Cities of the Plain – Cormac McCarthy

Antarctica – Kim Stanley Robinson

Waiting for the Barbarians – JM Coetzee

Bullet Park – John Cheever

Last Supper – Aaron Cometbus

Cathedral – Raymond Carver

A Propaganda System – Yves Engler

Albums of the Year: 2016

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Nick Cave – Let Love In

Nick Cave – Skeleton Tree (2016)

Andy Shauf – The Party (2016)

Neko Case – The Worse Things Get, The Harder I Fight, The Harder I Fight, The More I Love You

Temples – Sun Structures

John K Samson – Winter Wheat (2016)

John Moreland – High on Tulsa Heat

Basic Nature – Circles and Lines

Varioius Artists – Native North America, Vol I (2016)

Kacy and Clayton – Strange Country (2016)

Big Thief – Masterpiece (2016)

Margaret Glaspy – Emotions and Math (2016)

Chris Cohen – As If Apart (2016)

Chixdiggit! – 2012 (2016)

Descendents – Hypercaffium Spazzinate (2016)

Ancient Shapes – Ancient Shapes (2016)

Bully – Feels Like

Mo Kenney – In My Dreams

It’s hard to skip Christmas when you’re in Ukraine.

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Lyrics of the Month: November 2016 – Nick Cave

They’re gonna lay me low (Lay me low)
They’re gonna sink me in the snow
They’re gonna throw back
their heads and crow
When I go

They’re gonna jump and shout (Lay me low)
They’re gonna wave their arms about
All the stories will come out
When I go

All the stars will glow bright (Lay me low)
My friends will give up the fight
They’ll see my work in a different light
When I go

They’ll try telephoning my
mother (Lay me low)
They’ll end up getting my brother
Who’ll spill the story on some
long-gone lover
That I hardly know

Hats off to the man
On top of the world
Come crawl up here, baby
And I’ll show you how it works
If you wanna be my friend
And you wanna repent
And you want it all to end
And you wanna know when
Then take a bow
Do it now Do it any old how
Make a stand Take my hand
And blow it all to hell

They’ll inform the police chief (Lay me low)
Who will breathe a sigh of relief
He’ll say I was a malanderer,
a badlander, and a thief
When I go

They will interview my teachers (Lay me low)
Who’ll say I was one of God’s
sorrier creatures
There’ll be informative six-page features
When I go

They’ll bang a big old gong (Lay me low)
The motorcade will be ten miles long
The world will join together for a
farewell song
When they put me down below

They’ll sound a flugelhorn (Lay me low)
The sea will rage, the sky will storm
All man and beast will mourn
When I go

Hats off to the man
On top of the world
Crawl over here, baby
And we can watch this damn thing turn
If you wanna be my friend
And you wanna repent
And you want it all to end
And you wanna know when
Well do it now
Don’t care how Do it any old how
Take my hand Make a stand
And blow it all to hell

Nick Cave, Let Love In, Lay Me Low

Oppression is Reality

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There’s this man that sits in the front left seat at the movie theatre and he’s always there. He has with him a copy of the free newspaper or a novel and is only ever there by himself. When something he deems comical happens in the film, he lets out a laugh like you’d hear in a country western movie, a croak of a chuckle. He sits through the credits and probably doesn’t drive home because he wears a scarf to keep him warm when he walks. I leave the theatre and I expect to see him there again when I return, waiting in the front left seat.

My stomach flipped and my feet went numb and I couldn’t stop myself from desperately screaming “Shut up!” at the MC on stage. He wore a pretend cowboy hat and hoodie with an anarchist circle-A on the front. I’m not usually the heckler.

“Did anyone watch the news the last two days?” he asked the audience earlier, just before I shouted him off-stage. “I hear they’ve got a new president down there. It may seem bad, but I guarantee you, because of it, we are going to have four years of the best punk music that you’ve ever heard in your lives!” he said excitedly. Punk music is an industry, apparently, like the weapons industry, agri-business, pharmaceuticals, private prisons–it profits off the misery of others. So I booed him. I fucking booed him and he got off stage to let the band play. Protest works. The opening band got on stage and sang ten songs exclusively about baseball, a man dancing around in a jockstrap, his exposed ass jiggling on-stage.

I gave up. Halfway through the baseball band’s set, I walked to the coat rack next to the arcade game to hang up my jacket. The man from the movies sat at the bar of the music venue reading a book, sipping on a non-alcoholic beverage. He lifted his head once or twice during a song to see what was going on onstage. I don’t see him leave and I don’t see him stay.

He isn’t real. I’m convinced. He appears and disappears like a phantom or a projection or a conscience or a prophecy. A wake-up call that I haven’t yet woke up. Maybe the man on stage wasn’t real either. His hat was far too ridiculous and his hoodie far too ironic and his speech far too annoying to be a real person. Maybe he was a construct of my disillusionment in the so-called progressive, socially-minded left, a culmination of that and the realization that aggressive music rooted in anti-establishment values is long dead. I feel as though I’m dreaming all of the time.

The farm had five kittens. They wrestled, kneaded the dog’s fur, climbed trees, licked hands, did somersaults. Any spare chance between chores or before coming in for lunch, I played with them. I picked one up and held it and pet it until it purred or until it jumped out of my hands onto the gravel driveway. The cats registered in me no joy. I expected to have this feeling where my chest flitted and my body felt light, but that never came, even when they gently chewed on my finger or mewed on my shoulder. Like they were an emotionless dream, a non-reality.

After the week on the farm when I end up in the same, unchanged, cell-like apartment after playing with kittens at sunset on a cattle-ranch in the hills, after travelling the world with a successful musical act, after camping alone in the woods for a week–when I end up lonely with a sore throat in my empty apartment, I can’t help but wonder how those things could possibly have actually happened.

I want to ask friends if we actually went camping in the woods, if we actually kissed, if those kittens were actually purring, but their responses would be unimportant. If you ask someone in a dream if you’re dreaming, they have no existential obligation to say yes.

I woke up in the basement of the farmhouse, maplebugs crawling on the sheets, American flags attached to a latch-hook rug of a First Nations man in a headdress on the wall. This can’t be real either, I figured. I didn’t know what happened the night before. I didn’t know because I went to sleep before Trump’s acceptance speech. That it happened when I was dreaming dystopian post-election dreams didn’t help me when I woke up wondering if it was reality that a man endorsed by the KKK was the ruler of the ‘free world’. It’s not that I couldn’t believe that there were enough people in one country that held his same values, I’ve met enough people in my life to know that it is more than possible. I went upstairs and Fox News confirmed what had happened. I’m still asleep, I figured.

Intellectuals such as Chomsky and Hedges and Nader predicted it five and ten years ago. They saw a population of working class whites abandoned by liberal governments selling their privacy, their healthcare, their jobs to corporations, leaving a political climate ripe for fascist rulers. Prophesy doesn’t help ground me in reality, it simply makes it more dream-like.

As I struggle in my own crisis of absolute reality, women, the LGBTQ community, First Nations, Muslims, Blacks, Hispanics shout to me to affirm that it is indeed reality. Dakota Access Pipeline water protectors shout at the world for support. It is their reality. Reality hits; just because it doesn’t affect a person of privilege doesn’t make it not real. The ‘it doesn’t really affect me’ mentality is rooted in privilege and denies humanity to those who it does affect. If this election doesn’t affect you, if this pipeline doesn’t affect you, meet someone that racism does affect in your own community, and then instantly, it does.

The ‘unaffected’ non-American struggling with the facts of our new-found political situation, struggling with the idea of a race war between our next-door-neighbours, need to show support in ways more than just internet solidarity. In ways more than writing blogs, stories, songs, tweets. We can learn if our bank supports and funds oil pipelines and change to a new bank. We can boo Trudeau, the neo-liberal asshole in the ridiculous hat, off the fucking stage. If we sit and let him talk, he’ll be up there for hours, masturbating to the sound of his own voice, until we all realize that we are subject to more than just an unfortunate exchange rate when we want to holiday south, but to the inconceivable reality of facist rule.

The man in the movie theatre isn’t real. He is a delusion caused by stress and anxiety and depression and terrifying elections and the feeling of being completely helpless. Or he is real and he is now sitting at home with purring cats watching the latest election news. I won’t know either way until I go up to him and ask him what he thought of the movie. The MC on the stage isn’t real until he beats the shit out of me for heckling him. The kittens aren’t real until one of them lives in my apartment and scratches my leg. The only way these things become reality is if we allow them into our lives. Oppression isn’t our reality until someone we love has been oppressed. When this happens we can begin to relate with people we have never met who are calling for help to be saved from the hands of those in power.

This becomes our reality when we share in the oppression of our neighbour, and when it becomes our reality, when someone we love is oppressed, we will have no option but to act.

 

Lyrics of the Month: September 2016

Stumbling drunk off a bus downtown
You’ve got it bad for the system
‘Cause you know it let you down
You see the marks on the whores
And the dimes they lent you
And your paranoia soars
On the wings of your dementia

Without a system that compels
The growth of human compassion
Its a face that will never change
Nobody’s well when even one soul suffers
We’re bound by circumstances
We can’t dissarrange
Does shame prevent you
From engaging in the indigents struggle

Just filling up a vacancy
With nothing new to live for
When I was young and naive
I believed I could be so much more
Out of touch with a world
That never cared or knew me
More dead than alive
when you stare right through me

Its a face that will never, never change
never change
You could be the one
With your hand held out

Good Riddance, Bound By Ties of Blood and Affection, Shame, Rights & Privilege