Cabbages and Kings.

The time has come, the Walrus said.
To talk of many things

Well, I'm not Lewis Caroll ...

Seriously though.

War
First on the agenda today is that war over there.
Canada's death toll is now 93. That's not counting other allied deaths. France lost ten in one day last week. Poland lost three, Canada lost three. This year, 181 foreign soldiers have died, mostly in combat with insurgents.
It's war ... I guess. It's the difference between peacekeeping and making peace. Peace has to be made.

Sometimes I find myself not thinking about it. Skipping over those head-and-shoulder shots of soldiers smiling under headlines about their own memorials. We've got to think about it. I know I sound depressing, but stay with me here. I've just written an article where I had to research some WWI and WWII history, and specifically read articles from a community paper.

The biggest difference between the two wars is evidenced in the final stories printed by the paper about the war.
At the end of the first world war, the entire front page was covered. A jubilant headline sprawled across the top, and the letters were carved specially for that issue. The stories talked of two parades immediately and efficiently organized. Of a perpetual noise in the streets from sun up to sun down, of closed businesses and schools, of victory.
At the end of the second world war, there was a single article tucked in the bottom centre of the front page saying that there were no parades, instead, the town solemnly crowded into the churches and prayed for peace. That's it - I don't mean it to belittle what they did, because if a generation can get through two world wars and a world depression - the only thing left in them must be a wish for peace and hope that it will stay.

Now we war again, it's different this time, but wars are always different and the same.
Canadians are dying, French are dying, Poles are dying, Americans are dying, Afghans are dying, and yes, the bad guys are dying too. I pray for peace again.

There are so many people arguing the war - for or against. We have our sticker wars, we say what we think. So here's what I think. People are dying, we must pray for resolve, support our country (so that we stay strong) and stop being so selfish.


Golds
And then there's the olympics. Overall, I think a good show. Then I remembered, this is just show. There was an uproar when the pretty little singer from the opening ceremonies turned out to be just another pretty face. (I know eh, way to go scoop... So I'm a little behind.... nobody reads this anyway.)

So I got to thinking. Why would China think that they had to pick the pretty kid. And who really thinks there are ugly kids. I mean, they're kids, everything's mini - that's always cute. For gosh sakes, you make an extra small pancake and everyone says awwwwe. There's an entire show on TLC dedicated to "Little People." Am I the only one who thinks that's twisted?

It comes right down to us, folks. China was trying to impress the general population, there's probably a lot of pressure on them to deliver. To overcome the "bad guy" label and host some world class sporting games. They figure, put the pretty girl up there, because the westerners will like her better. Come on, who of us can say they weren't impressed by the little cutie singing the anthem. Well, now it's the best of both worlds, both kids are famous for the same performance.

oh oh olympics.

Here is a link to a very informative Q&A about the Olympics. I have to say, I've always wondered about piss-is-iffy river.

whoa... babies.

These are the offspring of Giant Pandas. Four were born in captivity in Chinese zoos this weekend.

Top Photo from theglobeandmail.com, second photo from reuters.com

Bill's Brithday is my Birthday.

Today, I found out that my birthday is the same as William G. Davis' birthday.
He will be 79 on Wednesday, and I will be 23.

Famous first words.

The first line. It's always the hardest. Sometimes I don't write because I can't think of an opening line. Maybe because I'm always thinking about those amazing ones, you know trying to measure up, to not be embarrassed in the first five words. I don't always succeed.
Here's some good 'uns.

"As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect."
The Metamorphosis, Franz Kafka

This is one of those... what the hell do you say in the second sentence, if the first sentence is about a guy transforming into a gigantic insect. Hard act to follow, I'd say. Of course, Kafka's genius enough.

"All children, except one, grow up."

Peter Pan, J. M. Barrie

It's short, and I like it.

"I am a sick man ... I am a spiteful man. I am an unpleasant man. I think my liver is diseased."

Notes from Underground, Fyodor Dostoevsky

If you really want to stop reading, go ahead, but why would you. I mean, there are already a million questions, the sentences so far have been so easy to read, and it feels like you're really going to get into someone's head - who says no to that?

"It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents"

Paul Clifford, by Edward George Bulwer-Lytton

Never NEVER start with the weather, unless your name is Edward Lytton, and your opening line is the most famous weather-related opening line.

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife."

Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen

This, I might add, is the only opening line in a Jane Austen book that does not extend past the first page. I love Austen, and had to get her in somewhere.

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair ..."
A Tale of Two Cities, Charles Dickens

And it goes on from there. It's just so beautiful and ugly. Antonyms at their prettiest.


"Marley was dead to begin with."
A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens (again)

JOY TO THE WORLD goes emo.

"In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit."
The Hobbit, J.R.R. Tolkien

Sure, it sounds, like there once was an old woman, who lived in a shoe, except, if you read the book like you're supposed to, ie. when you're ten and have never seen the movies, then you kind of say... well what in the world is a hobbit, then you realize ... it's not in the world. It's in middle earth.

"It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen."
Nineteen Eighty-Four, George Orwell

Again with the weather... it's a rule breaker. It works when the clocks strike thirteen, because then the reader asks... well, what kind of rules does this book follow?

"Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean."
Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare

Blood goes in the lead. Blood and Conflict.

"There was a boy called Eustace Clarence Scrubb, and he almost deserved it."
Voyage of the Dawn Treader, C.S. Lewis

There was a boy, a very strange enchanted boy.... ahem... okay, well if you think of a name like that for your character, it goes in the lead. Then you say something to identify him, because it's the first impression. The reader is always going to think of this sentence when they read the name Eustace.

Good stuff.... good stuff.

The Dark Knight.

Well, it's been playing in theatres since midnight on Thursday, and I've seen it twice.

People keep asking me, "is it good?" and I can't answer that... not with words.
It will change your life. Leave a scar.

Ps. Alfred dies.

It's three kilometres from work to the bus stop.




I walked slowly today, and brought a camera.

glorious!

He's back! er... my columnist. And... his column's are changing to only Thursdays, but he's going to write a NEW one on Wednesdays now. I'm elated. However, I'm going to have to find another one to read every other day of the week. That's not so bad. Turns out he was away for a while. Got himself a dog - well, he rescued it.

He painted this great picture of dog owners waking early to walk their dogs. He said they were like decrepit ships being guided by strong tugboats. He continued with the metaphor. Great stuff.

I don't think I've e-plained about my office yet... (it's a new word, I'm trying it out... it's electronic complaining... which I think should be different than just complaining...)

well, it's horrible. There's an awful blue.. well the only way I could explain is to say, if agony was blue, it would be this blue. In fact, I've had several credible witnesses stop by to say... "gee, I think I would go insane in this office." Yes, a windowless cell.

cheater.

It's settled, my coffee and a column breaks are being rudely altered. My columnist is on vacation, and he didn't even tell me.
I tried to read another today. I feel like a cheater. Sure, I read plenty of columns, but I was reading this one in STEAD of the other. You'd never hear of a Golden Retriever doing that. It's disloyal.

Well, if it's any consolation, and I'm only trying to console myself, I didn't like the new column. The lady wrote about a date she went on, and how bad it was. I'm sure, if it was me she was dating, I would be completely mortified. It's selfish to write about your friends (and even first dates you'll never see again) like that.

I kind of made it a rule, that somehow I have to keep my friends out of my stories. They're for deep background in some cases, but I'm not just going to run off about them... I guess I'm kind of a hypocrite since I write about them in my blogs sometimes. Well, no one reads these. And I'm not mean about it. Sometimes they say funny things.

Speaking of friends, Z showed me a wicked site today. It's an online juke box, so I've been listening to music all day. It makes the office less dreary.
Still stuffed up today. I think I drove M nuts at the theatre, sniff sniff. Still, it was wicked, we saw two movies. Always wanted to do that. And the best part - they were free.

Words of wisdom... don't sit in an office all day. Listen to lyrics when you hum. Use re-fillable coffee cups when you go to Tim Hortons.

vacations are selfish

One of my favourite columnists is on vacation ... well allegedly. There hasn't been a column since Thursday and they're usually every second day. It's really put a damper on my Column and a Coffee break. Of course, there are others... but I don't want to be disloyal.

o dear... stuffy nose this morning, and it's returning to haunt my tired afternoon. If I sneeze one more time, I'm going to have to take some time off... Now that I've said that, it won't happen again. Please feel free to use the method as hiccup remedy too.

I bought a new cardigan yesterday. It's kind of retro. I'm wearing it now with a bright green tank and I feel so ... 90's. Gosh, I'm getting elderly.

I thought about writing my own column today, in lieu of the vacationing writer but sitting in this office all day with those blue walls... gives me no great subject for writing. No wonder I never saw him in the office except to finish his column. Ew... you know - If vomit was blue, it would be the same blue that's on these walls. This is toaster in a bathtub blue.

Columns... what am I on about. I should be writing the articles that have been assigned to me. The never ending pile of scratched notes and books full of post-its. Sure I love history, but I prefer the research part of it. I feel that I should now have a few months to spend at a secluded cottage somewhere writing for twelve hours, then spending fifteen more on a Muskoka chair with a scratchy wool blanket, a citronella candle, endless supply of wonderful coffee and marshmallows and a view of the lake being serenaded by loons and bull frogs. Also, I'd like a quaint little stack of books - an even mix of classical and contemporary - piled beside my chair next to the sleeping Labrador. That's how I'm going to write my book - the one I'm not going to write, but say I will because I'm fulfilling the stereotype. I like that stereotype. My new cardigan goes with that stereotype. I wish I had the matching spectacles.

Alas, I should avoid being a poser - back to my typing.

O Canada

He talks about Canada like he's a blind man who has just seen a rainbow.

"The colours," said Ali Al-Bayati. "The colours here are different."
There are greens and blues he's never seen before.

The Iraqi native stretches out his arms, palms toward the sky gesturing at the surrounding trees, the flowers, the sky -- as if to say "can't you see?"

Mr. Al-Bayati says the trees in Canada are more alive than those he's known all his life. He said he can stand beside them and feel them move as if they know he's there listening.

Mr. Al-Bayati’s journey to Canada began with intent reflection on a map that he kept in his tiny flat in Jordan. It was a map of the world and he would study the coasts of Canada, the jagged islands, the country’s rivers and lakes, nearly forgetting the “prison” that he was living in.

"Canada is somehow ... " his voice trails. He smiles, searching for a word to explain what he saw when he looked at his map. He cups his hands and pulls his elbows in close like he's holding palms full of diamonds.
"Cornered," he says. His eyes reflecting the diamonds he still pretends to hold. "It's a hidden paradise. It is safe."

Safe, at last, in Hamilton, Ontario.

Mr.. Al-Bayati, 48, was born in Iraq. He became a mechanical engineer, but, like many, worked for the government.

Mr. Al-Bayati wasn't allowed to leave Iraq, because his work at the presidential palaces was too sensitive. He knew too much.

He and his wife Nidhal, 38, lived in fear.

"I can't describe it," he said. "Everybody has agony. There is no electricity, no water ... You're not safe in your own home. When you go out, you might not come back."
He speaks of mass graves and brutal killings. He says this new government has one agenda -- to kill.

Mr. Al-Bayati opens his eyes a little wider and slows his speech to carefully pronounce each syllable flawlessly.

"You can't compare it to Canada," he said. "You think every day, death will be the next address of yours."

Mr. Al-Bayati decided he had to leave. He knew people in government, and paid them to get a passport for himself and his wife. The passports were legal, but it was impossible to get them without connections and money.

They were given the documents.

They had two days to leave.

They could never come back.

Mr. Al-Bayati left his family -- five brothers and one sister.

"They are suffering, now," he said. "Life there is decaying."

His mother died after he left, but he wasn't at the funeral. He could never go back.

In 1997, Ali and Nadhal left for Jordan but it was nothing more than a move from death row to a bigger cell.

"In Jordan, if you leave, you can't get in again," said Mr. Al-Bayati. "It was like a big open prison for us."

He explains that Iraqis are not allowed to work in Jordan unless they have permanent residency status. An Iraqi, he says, is never given permanent residence.

Ali and Nadhal tried to survive. Work was rare, and only one day in many.
The couple lived in a tiny apartment in Jordan's capital, Amman, for 10 years. The threat of death was not so obvious, but it lingered. They also knew the Jordanians could find them and throw them out of the country at any time. To where? Mr. Al-Bayati didn't know, but he knew it would be their end.

"It was hard to develop ourselves there," said Mr. Al-Bayati, speaking of the constant anxiety he and his wife dealt with.

The couple has no children. Mr. Al-Bayati said there was too much uncertainty and stress to bring a baby into the family.

"We feel we are settled down now," he said. "Children are the next project."

Soon things got worse in Amman. Iraqis were being hunted and thrown out. Mr. Al-Bayati applied to the United Nations for refugee status and a chance to leave Jordan.

On his application, he had to choose three countries that would be ideal for him and his wife to immigrate to. Canada, that corner of paradise on his map, was his first choice. Next was Australia, then the United States.

After more than a year of waiting, Ali and Nadhar made the 24-hour trip to Canada on a cramped Air Bus. They arrived in Hamilton less than three weeks ago.
"We feel we are Canadian," said Mr. Al-Bayati.

The Mr. Al-Bayati's are two of the thousands of refugees who have made Hamilton their new home, and Canada their new country. Currently, there are 22 million refugees across the globe.

The couple celebrated World Refugee Day on June 20 at a reception behind LIUNA station hosted by Settlement and Integration Services Organization (SISO).

SISO is a Hamilton based initiative to aid refugees and immigrants living and coming to Canada. They offer help in job searching and training, education, language instruction, translating services, and finding a home in the city.

Mr. Al-Bayati and his wife are closely connected to SISO, and say the organization has been a great help.

Five days after moving into their apartment on Upper James Street, Mr. Al-Bayati phoned his family in Iraq.

"I've arrived," he said into the receiver. "I've arrived in Heaven."

'terview...again

Job interview numero dos.
Crossing my fingers. I could be the summer intern for Hamilton Community News. Full Time!

My Story.

I had an interview for a job today.
My potential boss asked me ... What's an Erika story? What's the one you want to write?
I could give no answer. When she asked it, whatever maturity I felt went away. An hour earlier, I was thinking, this is a real job, like a career... I'm all grown up.
Ya.. right. I'm some kid - jumping into the deep end, promising all the grown ups "I can do it myself!"

Why should we hire you? I don't need water wings any more!
What do you bring to the deep end? I can hold my breath for a minute.
Why do you want to work here? I'm sick of the shallow end.

It's all about how hard you kick... well, so I'm told. Sink or swim.

Cyclone in Myanmar

The people she holds nearest to her heart have never felt so far away.
Kyin Khine, 56, is waiting in her Hamilton home to hear news of her sister in Yangon after a cyclone ravaged the coastline.
There’s no word from her brother who owned some rice fields near the water.
Cyclone Nargis has claimed more than 20,000 lives since it struck just a few days ago, according to the Myanmar military government. More than double that are still missing, and the number continues to grow. Entire communities, like the ones where Khine’s relatives lived, have been destroyed.
Her husband, Tint, 64, also waits for news of his brother.
“We are thinking, ‘he could be dead,’” said Khine.
Waiting and thinking is all they can do.
“We don’t know how long it will take to get news,” she said. “I feel very bad. You can’t do anything. You can just pray.”
Some relatives have turned up uninjured, but the rest remain part of the missing in Myanmar.
Khine watches the news, and hears the death toll rise. Pray.
She calls her niece in Singapore again- no word. Pray.
She lies on the couch. She can’t eat- just some coffee. Pray.
Khine and her husband are alone in Hamilton. Most of their relatives, including their three grown children live in Singapore. They came here as political refugees,and have lived in Hamilton since 2000.

In Theatres....

I love going to see a movie by myself. In fact, 90 per cent of the movies I see, I watch alone. I will never complain about it, because the movie is never ruined for me.
Previews are the only speed bump in this entertainment utopia.
Trailers are naturally followed by the typical "That looks so good," or "I want to see that," or "What the H-E-double hockey sticks?!?! That looks so lame."
Who am I to say that to, if the seat to my right is empty and to my left is the aisle?
Alas, it leaves a depressed taste, one that doesn't go away with blue icee, popcorn, glossettes, or coffee (which seems to be my latest favourite movie snack).
The only cure is a blockbusting smash hit. Thankfully, the movie almost always out shines the previews. Almost...
Like most females, I forget the valley of darkness, after a single James MacAvoy sighting, or a specifically chocolatey snack.
I guess if I can't skip the previews, I can make sure it's a MacAvoy flick, or I can sneak in some Lindors.

Second degree Murder

Yes. Two. In six days.

Nadine Parker was killed in a car crash with her husband, who, according to police, intentionally drove them into a cement bridge support. She died instantly. He died later. They leave behind three children, 10, six, and three.

Ashley Carmichael was intentionally hit by a car twice. She died. She was 15. Her brother (18) was also hit, but he survived with minor injuries.

I reported for three full days. Talking to several people about the victims, the suspects, the scene, the family, and everything else. Sure, it was hard, but I had a job to do.

When I got home on each of the three nights, I found it difficult to sleep. I thought of Nadine, her husband Norm, the three kids. Eve just had her third birthday. I wonder if she'll remember her mom.

I thought of Ashley, or Meagen as most called her, and of her mother and brother who must be hurting immensely. I saw him over and over again, limping down the hallway toward me.

I had to sit down when these stories were done, and talk to my editors about the experience. I told them it was hard, but I loved doing it. The fact is, there was an important story to tell, and I wanted to help tell it.

A while ago, I was interviewing someone for a story, his organization was doing something new, and he asked me what I thought about it. I said I had no opinion on the matter as I was waiting to hear more and remaining objective while I reported the story. He said, " I'm asking you as a human being." As if a reporter and a human being are two different species.

I'm sure many people think that a journalist is some sub-species of uncaring, stone hearted mammal.

A reporter has a hard job to do, and they must do it. They must go to the houses, the schools, the workplaces of the people who have been killed, and ask those families and friends to stop crying long enough to answer their questions.

Everyone I talk to says the same thing about reporting and journalists, that humanity is a great asset.
"These are their stories" said Jim Poling.
"It is only because of our humanity that we have any right to tell anyone's story" said Jody Sanderson.

It's hard to think about how many people are saddened - crushed, by
these tragedies. But some solace can be found in the truth- the stories we tell.

I asked a friend if compassion could ever be objective. We couldn't decide.

I'm being heavy, sure. Maybe one day I'll ruin dinner parties like Sally Armstrong.

Here's where I get mushy.

I'm so proud to be a journalist, and I'm surrounded by the same sentiment. Every story I write changes the way I see things. It should. That's the job. To know the world in which I live can only be accomplished by knowing the people that live here with me.

Cheers.
Errrka

Red and White and read all over

The conservatives are trying to change the rules about lowering the flag on the peace tower. Instead of lowering it every time a Canadian soldier dies in Afghanistan, they would like to save that tribute for November 11, Rememberance Day only. The Liberals want to pass non-mandatory legislation saying the flag should be raised every time a Canadian soldier dies in Afghanistan.

Conservatives say - Canada can’t look like a proud nation if they spend all the time in mourning. Liberals say - we should honour the dead now.

Naturally, people are outraged. Opinions fly like feathers in a pillow fight. No regard for where they land or who they poke in the eye. “Pull the troops out!” “Don’t break tradition!” Slander, outrage, irrationality. There’s no end to the reactions.

It’s a tough call. I understand not lowering and raising the flag everytime someone dies. I don’t argue that point. Instead, I think it should be kept at half mast. If not that one, then the rest of the flags at parliament. It’s not about Nation pride. We can be proud of our nation and the peacemaking efforts we are making in Afghanistan. However, we cannot forget that peacemaking is very much an active fighting effort. Canada is involved in a war. Why does it seem like people forget that?

On November 11, Canadians take a moment to remember the soldiers who have died representing our country. It’s to remember the wars, to remember the fatalities, and, most of all, to remember the people - the sons, husbands, fathers, friends.
I think that’s something that should be done everyday when we are at war. I’m sure the soldiers don’t forget it like we can.

Sure, there are pretty little ribbons, and car magnets saying “support our troops” and those are always closely followed by the “make love not war” t-shirts, and the more racey “bombing for peace is like fucking for virginity.” Ignorance is bliss.

Here it’s stickers vs buttons, and camo vs pink. There it’s bullets, bombs, automatic weapons, armoured vehicles, and unpredictable extremists.

You tell the women of Afghanistan, who weren’t allowed to wear white socks because they were seen as sexually permiscuous, that bombing for peace is like fucking for virginity.

They’ll tell you that, for the first time in years, they are allowed to go to the market without a male escort.

They’ll tell you that, for the first time in years, they can wear nail polish without getiing their fingers chopped off by machetes.

They will tell you they are not worried about getting kidnapped and shipped to a rape camp where they would be gang-raped many times a day next to children as young as eight.

They’ll tell you that the people who oppressed them, abused them, manipulated them would never have stopped unless they were forced by weapons and forces larger than their own.

They will tell you that peace is being made.

Make love not war, you say? Before this, they weren’t allowed to love, and nobody loved them.

The rape camps need to be demolished, blown to pieces, bombed for peace.

Making peace looks like ugly business, but there’s no keeping it until it is made. There’s no making it unless its enemies are destroyed.

Imagine a Canadian pilot in Afghanistan responsible for dropping a bomb or two in his fighting career. He is a soldier; that fact identifies him. He’s bombing for peace. Go tell him it’s the same as fucking for virginity. Watch the disappoinment settle in his tortured eyes. The months spent on cots or the ground, eating army rations, being far away from his family, missing the greatest moments in his young boy’s life, all of it, you would like to tell him, was ridiculous, useless, and even criminal. He did it for you, for local families, for his son, for his wife, for your family - go ahead, crush him. Prick him with your political button. Your propaganda. Surely that’s good for 10 points in the sticker battle game. His is no game.

It goes beyond a flag at half mast. It goes into every home in Canada. Every water cooler conversation.

Don’t forget that Canada is fighting in a war. No, don’t walk around without a smile, don’t cry while you send the day’s e-mails - tears are no good for the troops- only remember that Canada’s sons and daughters are there, risking their lives to give others a chance to live.

The least we can do is put away our silly stickers and realize how good we have it, how much they give, and that what we say means something to them.

Put away your hippy dogma and realize your support is important for the fighters. Save the protests for a rainy, war-free day in Canada. Or for the important things, like bloodied monks and genocides - those are things we should care about, things we should try to change, differences we should make.

The little patriot’s flag flying in the hearts of Canadians is never flown higher or with more pride, than when it is at half mast in honour of the courage of our countrymen/ women, and the bravery of Canadians.

Baby's first byline

My name, in print.

life in a box - taped and markered

Today was packing day. It took me the entire day- It's not completely finished, but I'll be moving tomorrow. It really made things feel final. I already knew things were going to change, now the inevitability is packed into neat little boxes closed with tape and labeled in black marker and sloppy letters. so dramatic. now so tired.
church tomorrow - red skirt.
Silly Erika...
weary Erika...
sleeping

In the beginning

Someone said to me today... "Don't ask anyone under thirty how to spell."
I was offended...then I had to google the word he was looking to spell.

I was going to write an introduction for this blog - who would I be introducing myself too?

Then why blog? That's depressing. Thanks Web 2.0, by bringing the world together, you have made it smaller. What do you suppose happens to the little people?

Chris told me he hates when people talk in second person...I don't remember the rest, but it's funny... something like "Can you give you a ride home since you live close to you." I always wreck jokes.