Writings, Reviews, Cultural Criticism
I suspect it’s typical of most people that when they hear of an emerging conflict in the news, they pass over the headlines and move on to something else unless the conflict personally affects them. My suspicion comes from personal experience. For example, in 2011, when civil war broke out in Syria, I told myself…
He had the impression the three drivers were in communication, waving to one another through their frosted windows. Then followed a succession of clicks as each unlocked his door; a sound of rushing air…
Do I really think Canada is dying? I’m not sure. I do think a particular narrative of Canada is dead and gone, didn’t deserve to live in the first place. The better question is whether we can work up a more robust narrative…
At the corner of Yonge and Hayden, a woman was leaning against a utility pole, her back to me, head bowed as if she was texting or scrolling on her smart phone, purse tucked under her right arm. But the kicker was the leopard skin print dress.
Most often we speak of colonization as the incursion of a people onto a land that doesn’t belong to them, and the seizure of its resources, but before that comes the mastery of the subject people’s minds.
On the evening of June 6th, protesters toppled the statue of Egerton Ryerson which stood on Gould Street on the campus of Toronto’s Ryerson University. Since that date, I have passed the site almost every day and have noted incremental changes.
[T]he function of a statue is only marginally tied to history; its primary function is to serve as an object of reverence. Statuary (of historical figures) is an expression of idolatry that serves the universal religion of our age: the dominance of capital over everything.
When the quarry was first excavated, it exposed a local geological record going back 130,000 years, right down to a bedrock of shale that, itself, is probably half a billion years old. Near the bottom, at the 130,000 year mark, the geologist, Arthur Philemon Coleman, discovered the tooth of a giant beaver.
The very fact that we allow them to march down the main thoroughfare of our city gives the lie to their complaints. Admittedly, one of the marchers lost his freedom when he was arrested. But that was because he bit a police officer.
My wife and I live in antiseptic circumstances. High above the city streets, shuttered in our condo, it’s easy for us to self-isolate. Covid-19 is not the only thing we keep at bay. We’re high enough that we don’t get bugs either.
When we reached the Ontario/Québec border, we had to wait to pass through a blockade where soldiers stopped each car and questioned the driver. It was the first time I had ever seen soldiers walking around with guns. I had no idea what to make of it.
They are obnoxious. They remind me of city neighbours who go at one another across balconies. They honk louder than city cars. They’re filthy. They carpet the shoreline in green knots of shit.
Canada may end up adopting the province of Québec’s motto: je me souviens. In years to come, we will say to ourselves: I remember the day America betrayed us.
To take his mind off the pain and insomnia, he started decorating things, his mailbox and front porch to begin with, then expanding out into the yard to create a garden of glass beads, plastic bugs, pennies, action figures, rubber boots, bicycle tires, teapots, pool cues, ad infinitem.
I hear only the sloop of my paddle through the water; the fog has silenced everything else. I’m headed to an island. I don’t know if the island has an official name, but I’ve taken to calling it Bird Island because, when I went there one afternoon earlier in the week, I found it occupied by a flock of Canada geese. Or is that a gaggle?