Thank you for your dignified, unflinching response to the assault on our status as an indpendent nation by the president of the United States. Your measured but unwavering pushback to Donald Trump’s crass bullying has exemplified the true nature of Canadianism—modest pride. You have shown by your example the difference between ‘strength’ and ‘power.’
A strong leader doesn’t bluster and blunder. He doesn’t resort to threatening insinuations and unwarranted punishments. He acts on principle and treats others who hold different views respectfully as he works toward resolution. He doesn’t back down when confronted by taunts and threats. A strong leader respects the rights and boundaries of others because he knows when mutual respect collapses irreparable damage ensues.
A ‘leader’ who relies on power to get his way is the antithesis of ‘strong.’ The word that sums up that brand of ‘leadership’ best is ‘fascism.’ The hallmarks of fascism are: a cult mentality demanding hero worship; the selective targeting of enemies, who become the focus of militant, xenophobic reaction; denigration and vilification of political opponents—who can never be seen as colleagues; the usurpation and abuse of power that is rightly vested in the state and its offices; the unprincipled use of that power.
You, Prime Minister Trudeau, have demonstrated strength in the face of unmitigated power. You have done so on behalf of Canadians and the international community of nations. You have truly represented the majority of Canadians, and we are proud of your resolve.
I say this as a citizen whose vote has not gone to the Liberal Party of Canada but has admired your restraint and focus during a turbulent epoch. Donald Trump isn’t the first politician or activist to use the divisive tactics of the extreme right to undermine your stature as the elected leader of Canada. The vituperative practitioners of right-wing character assassination have sown the seeds of hatred and virulent abuse from within, and you have been a target of their rage.
You continued to lead the nation with dignity and focus.
Under your leadership, the negative intent of Donald Trump’s assaults has resulted in a positive outcome. They have galvanized Canadians to ‘stand on guard’ for their nation and its true values. We have reclaimed our flag and will fly it with resilience and modest pride.
Donald Trump and Elon Musk aren’t stupid in the normal sense of the word. They share what might be called ‘lizard smarts.’ They have perfected the ‘art of the deal’, know how to zero in with lazer-focus exclusively on self-interest, and have egos that can’t adapt to any sense of common good or even decency. Which is to say, they’re smart enough to be stupid on a monumental scale. They conflate the meanings of ‘strength’ and ‘power,’ and, as a result, are taking the world down a disastrous road with their grand project: the United States of America Inc.
What’s the difference between a government and a corporation? Two phrases sum up that distinction quite nicely: governments, to quote Abraham Lincoln, are ‘of the people, by the people, for the people’; the corporate mentality is ‘survival of the fittest’ in a dog-eat-dog world where corporate loyalty is to shareholders, not citizens.
Trump, Musk, and Company are not just blurring those lines; they’re going as far as they can as fast as they can to erase them entirely, imposing corporate ethics and strategies on institutions intended to serve a totally different purpose.
One of the first tenets sworn to by members of the business elite is to shun all ‘externalities’—that is, don’t factor environmental, social, or political costs into anything you have to do to sustain and grow profitability. Global warming is a negative byproduct of our operations? Not my problem. People are forced to work in unsafe, unhealthy environments to keep costs down? Let ’em find a job somewhere else. Our operations can only continue with the support of a brutal, fascist regime? Just make sure that doesn’t make it into our annual report to shareholders, especially if that fascist regime is taking root in the Oval Office.
So what will the United States of America Inc. look like once it’s fully fledged? Well, let’s just say no self-respecting eagle would deign to be the avian embodiment of a nation governed by such crass, shortsighted ideals.
Let’s look at a couple of emergent examples. Ukraine’s President Volodymyr Zelenskyy was asked to leave the White House recently after a public row with Trump. One of Trump’s comments was “you’ve got no cards to play,” when Zelinskyy refused to knuckle under to the CEO of USA Inc.’s demands that he sign an agreement granting USA Inc. access to Ukraine’s rare metals without having negotiated any adequate provisions for future security for Ukraine from attacks by USA Inc.’s friend and partner, Russia.
Trump sees the weaponry and money provided to Ukraine in the war with Russia as a drain on USA Inc.’s balance sheet that requires payback; Zelenskyy, who has seen more than 400,000 Ukrainians soldiers and 12,500 civilians killed or wouded since Russia invaded in 2022, sees Ukraine as the bulwark against Russia’s military ambitions in Europe. That this Oval Office disagreement was vented in public, with the TV cameras rolling, is yet another instance of Trump’s gameshow politics, which got very high ratings in Putin’s Russia.
‘You’re Fired!’ has become the clarion call of the Trump-Musk administration and United States of America Inc. Ukraine’s President Volodymyr Zelenskyy was fired at a staged event, while the cameras rolled and the world watched with shock and disgusted awe. Canada’s ‘governor’ Prime Minister Justin Trudeau was fired with what some took to be a dismissive troll, but are now realizing is a gangster’s tactic to persuade citizens of the 51st State to knuckle under and make the threat of unjustified trade tariffs ‘go away.’ A ‘Fork in the Road’ buyout was thrust into the inboxes of 2.3 million American federal employees Jan. 28 giving them until Feb. 6 to accept or else…
There’s a common thread to all these examples—and plenty more in the works. Federal employees, allies, anyone who doesn’t fit into the corporate gameplan of United States of America Inc. is treated like an enemy and tossed into the street like human garbage.
What does this business model mean for the future of United States of America Inc.’s citizens, and citizens of the world?
People will be excluded from the government’s calculations and society’s benefits unless they contribute to ‘profitability.’
Other nations are not the concern of USA Inc. unless they contribute to profitability.
Global stability and sustainability are of no concern to USA Inc. because they represent a net loss and don’t contribute to short-term profitability.
Morality, decency, and compassion in any form become unsupported and insupportable burdens because they do not contribute to USA Inc.’s profitability.
Question: Who will benefit most from all the newfound profits that are going to be wrung out of the domestic market and the world by United States of America Inc.?
Clue: It’s not likely to be the ordinary guys MAGA man pretends are his buddies.
Follow-up question: What’s are the biggest cards Trump thinks gives him an unbeatable hand—the ace-king combo he just knows will make him winner in this corporate takeover?
To anticipate the decisions and actions of Donald Trump you have to set aside many things you value most and likely take for granted. Do you respect treaties and friendships? Forget it. Do you value straightforward, honest answers to questions instead of slippery deceptions and outright lies? How naive! Do you think the ultimate purpose of a nation is to benefit all its citizens? You rube!
Only when we blinker ourselves with lizard-like focus on self-interest, insatiable greed, billionaire cronyism, and bloated egoism will we begin to gain an approximate understanding of the unprecedented national vandalism that is being perpetrated in the USA from the Oval Office. I say ‘approximate’ because, for most of us a perspective from the bawling scowling vantage of what has become America’s lowest office is unimaginable—we simply cannot become depraved and psychopathic enough to appreciate how bad the worst of humanity can be.
Let’s consider a couple of examples: Trump’s bluster and bullying about Ukraine; And his success in getting Canadians to boo the American National Anthem at sporting events.
Trump said he would end the war in Ukraine within days of coming into office. He never said how, and his virulent supporters didn’t care to ask. Even his opponents didn’t press him very hard on that one, but I don’t think everyone is surprised that his first step is a tête-à-tête with his good friend Vladimir Putin that excludes everyone else, representatives from Ukraine not excepted.
We have to ask ourselves: What is Trump really hoping to achieve with this stratagem, which has the leaders of Europe in a flap? What is the ultimate gameplan from a lizard’s-eye point of view—a prospect so unsettling that no one is daring to articulate it pubically lest it come true?
Could he be signalling his pal Putin with an under-the-table offer to divide North America and Europe into separate spheres of influence? Does he know from the outset that the terms of any possible agreement negotiated between the US and Russia will almost certainly be unacceptable to Ukraine, and will be rejected by President Volodymyr Zelenskyy, which in turn would allow the US to end its support for Ukraine?
Or better yet, that a deal could be forced on Ukraine, which would allow Trump to crow and the US to stand down, get out, and leave it up to Putin to decide when the time might be right to break the truce and invade again?
Not saying that’s a fact, but I think it should be on the whiteboard as a strong possibility as world leaders consider their responses to MAGA Round 2—as in Make America Gangsterland Again—especially the part about divvying the world up into spheres of influence. Just wondering when China might be invited to take over its Asian sphere of influence.
Then there’s the chorus of booing whenever the American National Anthem is played at any arena on Canadian soil. That’s music to Trump’s ears. It means he’s got us just where he wants us—drowning out a song every red-blooded American has been taught to reverence since kindergarten, a desecration committed on network TV, no less. What better way to inflame the patriotic fervour of his most loyal supporters, and give them a cudgel to pummel any traitor who would dare defend such sacrilege or the nation that committed it?
Never mind that Trump has repeatedly denigrated our own nation and its Prime Minister, or that he has welcomed Canada to become the 51st state with jests worthy of a clown and threats revealing his true nature as a gangster. Forget the fact that some of his more virulent thugs are calling for the immediate ‘violent’ invasion of Canada and its takeover as a ‘territory,’ not a state. All that pales in significance compared to the booing of ‘the land of the free’ and ‘the home of the brave’ at a hockey game.
Again, the wizard of sleaze has us in a lose-lose bind: Express our anger and disgust, and give him more ammunition to pummel us with, preparing the ground for some type of final aggression; or keep our yaps shut and be characterized as a nation of wimps, easily overrun and not worthy of statehood at any level.
Trump’s version of ‘freedom’ means the right of the powerful to dictatorial control over the rest of us. It’s the oligarchs’ and fascists’ destiny—the right of the fittest—to take over the earth, and they’re not going to wait around to inherit it. They are banking on the pervasive surveillance, propagandizing, and control mechanisms of the digital era to keep them from the fate of their fascist predecessors.
Will history prove them right? Or will the rest of the world—including at least half the citizens of the US—prove them wrong?
Our American friends are too shell-shocked with the wrecking ball makeover of their own homeland under the rule of Trump and Elon Musk to protest loudly against a wholly unjustified assault on a neighbour and former ally. That’s part of Trump’s master plan—hurricane politics. The civilized world should be preparing for the worst and, at the same time, reaching out to those in America who want to restore decency and integrity to the White House.
The Good Book says: Know thine enemy. For most of us, it’s impossible to plumb the depths of Trump’s truly psychopathic mind or the extent of his unrestrained power. But we have to imagine the unimaginable to prepare ourselves for what’s to come.
I have never been called upon until now to defend my country and the democratic values our flag stands for. But I won’t shirk, now that there is a need for Canadians of every generation to stand on guard.
Before I get into that, though, I want to reach out to our friends south of the world’s longest undefended border and say: I am not your enemy, but the actions of your president and his ardent supporters are forcing me to think like one.
Whether you label it ‘trolling’ or ‘hard bargaining,’ when the leader of the world’s most powerful nation mocks my prime minister and refers to my 40 million fellow citizens as residents of ‘the 51st state’ alarm bells go off. It’s all hands on deck.
I’m too old to lace up my boots, shoulder a rifle, and march off to war, but I won’t sit idly by and watch an aggressive, crude, tyrant threaten my country and seemingly position himself to wage war against us.
President Trump’s political sleights of hand are as insidious and odious as they are obvious. Create an enemy, focus your supporters’ attention on your strength and determination to defeat the target of your concocted rhetoric, and get on with the business of dismantling your own nation amidst the mayhem.
If you can’t stop this madness from your side of the border, I can assure you, we will martial every resource and take whatever steps we must to stop him from this side. I don’t mean this as an insult, but I will never be an American; I am and always will be Canadian.
My father, along with thousands of Canadians, enlisted in the fight against fascism in the Second World War. Never in my bleakest imaginings did I foresee the need for similar commitments and vows against our closest friend and ally nine decades later.
But our determination must be voiced now so our neighbours to the south will know what they are getting into if they allow their president to continue down the road he’s taking. There will be no winners if our friendship is damaged, only losers – except for the few who believe that ‘survival of the fittest’ is the only tenet of sound policy, and that warfare in any manifestation, doesn’t need any sort of justification other than the dictates of sheer greed, power, and unbridled egotism.
Went for a walk the other day discovering this and that along the way glimpses into Chemainus town this sacred precinct, unceded ground.
Met the man, wears a leather hat shares cheerful bytes. Eclectic chat. A joke, a tale, a fervent proclamation ‘bout living in the heart of this greatest nation.
Peered into dug foundations in Waterwheel Park where gleaming inspirations will support a brand new arch is this a pathway to reconciliation— footings to rebuild a truly greater nation.
Next came a woman and her Afghan hound dog loping grandly, eastward bound, I remembered the ghost of a lost best friend whose graceful gallop met a sudden end.
Poked around in a book box, wanting a read, when a voice from behind jokingly agreed not every concoction of facts into fiction lays claim the title of best-selling diction.
Then a youthful voice haled from a yard, a teen holding up an old rusted shard, thinking a geezer from ancient times, might house recollections it vaguely mimed.
Scanned from on high our inland sea, its surface calmed, not a notion of breeze, ships aglitter in a bright setting sun, pointing to oceans from whence they had come.
Returned to my doorstep the other day. Just where I’d been? I couldn't say because every step we take is taken into a world that’s newly awakened.
I took this photo from our upstairs bedroom window. The single line of footsteps evoked questions for me about who might have made them. It occurred to me that even if I knew that person’s name and destination most of my questions would remain unanswered!
I didn’t say it out loud, of course—not right away—and can’t determine to this day if the thought was true. I mean sincere in all its dimensions, down to the place where sole smacks concrete reality. But it was the best I could come up with on the spot, and even though I didn’t voice the sentiment, she heard me. That’s the trick I believe: Think things before speaking. Sometimes keep them as thoughts forever because you’re bashful, perhaps. Or maybe because the person you’re interested in is perfect and you could only detract from that by wheedle-wording your way into her affections.
I had instinctively done an up and down of the sandals’ occupant—that checkout scan we males of the species do when attracted by something potentially sexual in our peripheral vision. But it was her footwear—and I must confess, her feet—my roving eye locked onto. Her toes were painted pink!
Not gaudily, in that slapdash way you sometimes see and feel embarrassed about—usually for bubblegum teens. The polish had been applied with artistry. Details like that say something, don’t they? She had a conception of self that was bold and subtle, I figured.
So maybe I was indulging just a little. But it’s okay to try and fathom why someone’s special, isn’t it? And at first, we have to draw assumptions from observations as seemingly insignificant as pedicure, don’t we? You’re a liar if you say no. The forensics of love are based upon minute chips of evidence, hinting at theories made up as we go.
To me, the convex surfaces of her nails were intriguing as conch shells turned inside out. Can you imagine such a thing? My eyes stuck on the tops of her toes for a breath or two, then—without my thinking, without conscious intent—zoomed in on her sandals, recording every facet of those elegant slippers.
Even as my eyes went about their rogue’s work, though, part of me realized there was nothing so very remarkable about Gloria’s sandals… aside from the fact that she was in them. I can think of a thousand movie stars and a thousand more princesses who would have turned up their noses if asked to wriggle their dainty nether digits into such a pair of Walmart flip-flops. But on Gloria’s feet! Oh my!
“Oh my!” as grandmother would cry when occasion warranted. Of course, her delight was usually over events as homey as cherry pie coming out of the oven or particularly brilliant works of crayon art, not over anything so exotic as the footgear of a complete stranger. For grandmother, agape wasn’t so much about miracles as discovering the miraculous in everyday things—about seeing through the veil of ordinary and triggering suspirations as emphatic as a last gasp.
By the way, mentioning Gloria’s name right now makes everything from here on in non-sequitur. I didn’t know her name at this point in our story. True, I was cultivating an intimate relationship with the bone structure and musculature of her feet, the same way Toto might have got to know Dorothy before they ventured into Oz. But that’s not the same as knowing a body’s name, is it? Love works backwards. We fall into it, then double back, tracking down the meanings and consequences of ’til death do us part.
I’ve broken sequence because I can’t bear talking about Gloria as ‘her’ or ‘she’ without giving name to those theoretical references. I have christened her even though a name at that point would have been as naively symbolic as graffiti sprayed anonymously on whitewashed stucco, or rote declarations carved into the trunks of trees or the planks of park benches. At that point in our relationship, her name would have been a catch-all of fantasies. A concatenation of dark eyes, long black hair… an aura you could best see through eyes half-closed.
In truth, if Gloria had dematerialized before I got a chance to talk to her—whisked out of her sandals by powers unknown into some sci-fi Nirvana beyond the frequencies of daytime TV—nothing would have seemed remarkable about her footwear left on the corner of Quadra and Hillside. Other than the fact that the sandals were there, placed carefully on the cracked concrete as if the intersection were a portico into some alternative dimension and she had been called away suddenly. Barefoot.
The thing about Gloria is she even stands with her shoes neatly placed, and she never just kicks her footgear off. She’s neat that way. Fastidious. It makes me laugh. And because of her, I place my work boots carefully on the mat inside the vestibule door too—toes pointing toward the wall, heels knocked together. She’s aware of details like that so it pains me to bring disorder into our lives, especially when it’s so easy to do things right.
There’s meaning to the precise placement of feet on a sidewalk. Someone needs to see that. Imagine yourself in the presence of a goddess. You’ve been schlepping your way through life down at the pit, a latter-day Sisyphus crunching stones into various grades of gravel, then suddenly she’s there, and you know sheis a goddess, that she already knows everything she needs to. What do you say to her? What’s your conversation starter?
In a way, Gloria was aware of every rhinestone glued to those bargain basement sandals of hers. Not individually, of course, but as elements of a sensory field, if you will. I wondered which tiny mirror I might have been reflected in, standing beside her, my bike held between us like a barrier. What did she think of this guy? Of his long hair and never-quite-matured beard, his knobby tired bike? She hadn’t even glanced my way—a sensible rebuke. But I did want her to appreciate the nobility of my feelings… that if the sun could be positioned just so behind me, I too would glow with my own halo effect.
I glimpsed her profile, then surveyed the intersection for clues. Perhaps there were points of convergence, shards of data that proved we dwelt in overlapping dimensions. Which of the drab architectural features could I point to and say, There, that’s us. The San Remo Market Deli & Café? The Salvation Army Community & Family Centre, across Hillside? The Money Mart (real people fast cash) diagonally opposite? The Sally Ann thrift store on the west side of Quadra? The garbage receptacles and bike racks at every corner to dispose of stuff we no longer valued and lock up the things we did?
We were none of that, and perhaps—without knowing it—denial was the point of convergence I had in mind, the notion that we were something other… or could be.
No kidding! I said it out loud. Breathlessly. Disguised as a brash joke, because any second now the light on Quadra would wink green and the little silhouette that says walk would let her get away, and I couldn’t let that happen without at least a memory of me—strange and deformed as it might seem—hankering after her. Things had spiralled into a place where an inkling of madness is the only reasonable state of mind, not stark raving lunacy, but a sort of emotional Pi, never quite defined, always panicked by another increment of yearning.
If only we had it in us to feel that way about every living thing, we would truly be incarnations of our imagined gods.
The light changed. Gloria stepped off the sidewalk into the intersection. I walked beside her, thinking: This is it. It’s finished. She still hadn’t glanced at me. I studied her profile for signs. She wasn’t ready to offer any, and how could I blame her? But I took comfort in the fact that we were walking in the same direction, that the inaudible pat of her sandals on the pavement didn’t seem hurried or doubtful. She was willing to abide my company at least.
Gloria strode on like the dancer she is, back straight, black pantaloons fluttering in the breeze, pleated jacket conforming precisely to her slight, angular build. Did I imagine it, the faintest hint of a smile turning up her lips? I’m not sure, but the words rushed out of me anyway, when I saw what I took to be a cue, as if I’d been waiting to blurt my intentions for just-about-ever. “Maybe you won’t take it wrong if I walk with you a-ways?”
Creep! Is that what she was thinking? She stopped, looked straight at me, her head swivelling round like a security camera on a pole, eyes locking on. This is it, I thought for the umpteenth time. It’s finished.
Then she smiled and laughed out loud, and… Oh my God! Oh my!
We plan on having kids someday but there’s still lots of time to think about how I might answer if one of the little rascals ever asks, when they’ve attained the age of reason or at least a mature state of curiosity: “Hey, Dad, how did you and Mom first meet and fall in love?”
Perhaps, if I framed it as a joke, I could admit to my temporary state of foot-fetishism at the corner of Hillside and Quadra while I was on my way to the pit and Gloria off to her studio. Or maybe I could fast-forward to our first date, on the evening of that first day, at Café Fantastico, just a couple of blocks away from our point of departure. I paid; Gloria objected; we laughed at the clumsiness of it all—our perfectly memorable ineptitudes.
To be honest, I was amazed she showed up at all or that I’d asked her to when we parted ways that morning, me pedalling down Bay Street, heading for the pit; her, carrying on up Quadra. Gloria walks without making a sound. It’s like she rolls the soles of her feet through each step, feeling the ground beneath her, sensing its contours, its tilt, its flaws and fractures. Silence is what she leaves behind when she walks away from you or out of a room. Don’t get me wrong, she’s not an angel or anything, and I’m not a worshiper. But that silence she leaves in her wake? Your instinct is to fill it with thoughts of her.
The circular patio table we chose on the sidewalk outside Café Fantastico had a rippled glass top, so I could still make out Gloria’s feet after we sat down. They became a point of reference—their muscular arch, perfectly articulated toes andmeticulously painted nails a sort of permissible zone of psychic gravity, which assured me the rest of her was still there, that she was real in an incomprehensible way. There’s a difference between comprehending someone and figuring them out, I think. Comprehending is like hugging your partner, knowing you’ll always be wondering how amazing she is; figuring her out is like taking her apart so you can adjust the mechanics of her soul – like tuning a bicycle.
A lot of my friends have got round to asking me in one way or another why I majored in philosophy at UVic. They don’t come right out and say: “Hey, you could be doing a hell of a lot better than crunching gravel down at the pit if only you’d go into law or something, or maybe take a few more PSYCH courses, get a master’s? Get into counselling? Or teaching? Heck, why not try for a PhD in something or other; you’ve got the smarts.” And maybe they’re right; maybe I will someday. But all that misses the point – the vanishing point of our existence, you might say. I can’t map this out in a straight line, like if I was a crow flying from here to there, and landing on a lamppost in the very epicentre of Nirvana. Life doesn’t move in straight lines or elegant curves that can be described by some sort of derived calculus.
I didn’t know it at the time but took philosophy so I could understand the meaning of Gloria’s feet, seen through the rippled glass of a patio table. Intimacy is the sudden awareness that your partner is too beautiful to take in at a glance, that you have to look away, take time to grow yourself into it, expand your ability to appreciate every facet of her being… now there’s a word that takes me back to the Big Bang of prenatal existence.
There’s a theory I’ve been trying to work out since I wore the funny cap and gown at my UVic graduation: I call it bracketed infinity. Essentially, it means you can choose any two points, or moments, or encapsulated surfaces, and the space-time-continuum between your arbitrary beginning and end will be infinite. We divide up our experiences as if they were exponentially duplicating editions of ourselves evolving through some process of mitosis, taking place beneath the painted exterior of a Russian doll. But every manifestation of me or you is complete, whole, infinite.
Get it?
Can’t say as I’ve figured it out yet myself, so you’re smarter than me if you have… All I know is, when I wake up beside Gloria, and we smile, my future, past and present areright now, in the moment.
Manny, a youth who has been abused and betrayed, ends his life by overdosing in a squalid back alley. This reading is excerpted from his mother, Lucinda’s, journal. She did everything in her power to sheild him from the undermining, demeaning influences of their world. In this reading she recollects her own earliest memory of a man she would learn to fear, then hate, and utterly distrust—her father.
The bird of paradise does not live in lush green tropic forests, doesn't stroke with flashing wings a Caribbean sky.
But she might.
This species does not trill her heartfelt, joyous anthems from a leafy, palm-treed hillside under a dazzling, foreign sun.
But she could.
This mystic creature you will find in the shimmering, shushing fabric in the irridescent patterns, in the brilliant woven mists of an imaginative mind...
