My Thoughts at Day 2, Ghomeshi Trial

I'd like to preface this by clarifying that I have nothing at stake in the outcome of the Jian Ghomeshi trial.  Neither verdict will offend me, I have no hopes or expectations.  I am not threatened by Mr. Ghomeshi, or those like him, and my sense of ethics is entirely dependent on whether the actions I take today allow me to look in the mirror tomorrow morning - and little else.  I'm not anti-social-justice, but I tend more toward the anti-hysteria, anti-hypocrisy camp.
When the news about Mr. Ghomeshi broke, it meant nothing for my weekend.  I wasn't a disappointed fan, and felt that too much of the case had to do with private exchanges, was plainly aware that we weren't being told the whole story by anyone, and frankly a complete stranger's *hm* preferences are none of my business.  I had no opinion, and continue to have no opinion on the facts of the case.  It's not my place to have an opinion. Quite honestly, who am I to judge?
But I spend a lot of time waiting in line in court offices all over southern Ontario, a lot of time on the road listening to the news (traffic on the ones!), and Twitter makes a good time-killer, so I looked up the trial and started following.

It's much more colourful than I thought it would be.
My impressions so far:

1.  I serve legal documents for a living, and later wait around for hours at a time to file them at the courts.  I've read hundreds of Statements of Claim, Defences, Motion Records, Facta, Divorce documents, small claims documents, etc.  I've seen how nasty people can be to each other, and I hear, on a daily basis, how upset and frustrated litigants can get when the procedure gets confusing or when the consequences of missing a step or failing to comply creates hardship or inconvenience.  I've stood next to vengeful people, telling anyone within earshot about the punishment they intend to exact.  I've knocked on strangers' doors in the poorest and richest neighbourhoods, had people physically run from me, squared off in case the angry guy behind the door should start swinging, served in hospitals, detention centres, psych wards, and staked out fraudsters.  I've seen people pursued by so many creditors they're afraid of their shadows, and I've seen people completely blindsided by being sued.  I've seen families brutally biting into each other over pennies, had people cry on my shoulder on their doorstep in the dark, been invited into homes to hear about their most recent ventures.  I've seen people I've served in other cities parked outside of my Mississauga mailbox.
When you see a lot of antagonism, you learn pretty quickly to reserve your judgment and not take anything personally or get too involved.  A versus B, the truth is almost always somewhere in between, and more often than not, neither party is completely innocent.  It's not victim-blaming, it's humanity.
So here I am watching this trial play out, and I'm aware - very aware - that there's plenty within the facts of the case I don't know.  I don't count on the media to tell an objective truth, and for all the circus, it won't be over until the judge releases his decision.  I'm okay with that.  Knowing that nothing I think is going to impact the situation is refreshing.  It gives me the leisure of sitting back and watching.

2.  The tacks the Crown and Defense are taking are interesting to me because I haven't dealt with much criminal law.  This is a learning experience. It's like watching a tennis or chess match.  I find the commentary online by other lawyers useful.  The more insight, the better.  I wonder about what each side is concerned about at any given time, what everyone in the courtroom might be thinking, what the intended outcomes of their strategies might be.

3.  I specify that I appreciate the online commentary of lawyers, because almost all of the other commentary is coming from third wave feminists.  Yes, I know, it's Twitter and we can pretty much say anything we want (I repeat: pretty much!).  But seeing the rabble rousing out there is dizzying, particularly when it's so entirely out of touch.  See, when I think of the art of persuasion, I'm thinking of things like ameliorating oneself to the target, appearing agreeable and respectful, allowing everyone involved to save face, knowing when to cede, remaining non-hysterical, and offering space for positive, solution-oriented brainstorming, with a desired outcome mutually beneficial to all parties.  Like an effective sales pitch.  It's nothing new.  (As a side-note, how is Dale Carnegie not mandatory reading in elementary schools?).  But the popular trend I'm seeing is rather the opposite, which is also nothing new.  There is significant outrage out there over the thought that accusers may need to answer painful questions.  That's what happens when you effectively are the evidence.  The hatred being spouted for defense lawyer, Marie Henein, and also for defense lawyers in general, is impressive, but misplaced.  The general call is to lower the barriers for conviction in sexual assault cases, and never question the verity of victim statements.  It's like the masses have all decided to turn off their intellect and let their mouths (and fingers) keep going.  That's sad, because the procedure really isn't that complicated.
Complicated, however, is not the point for these warriors.  They're not interested in justice - they're out for blood, and are bitter that anyone should need to sing for that supper.  They're watching for any and every questionable turn of phrase, any comments that strike them as "other" than their own point of view, they're complaining about being triggered (which is ironic, because they are actually seeking out their triggers.  Like masochists), and they're crying.  What do they want?  They want a man to spend the foreseeable future in jail, on claims that should be believed by virtue of the gender of the claimants alone.  (Can you imagine the witch hunts that would follow if we gave anyone that much power?  Yeesh!)
Don't get me wrong.  I have no genuine hatred.  What I'm seeing here is a lot of people hurting. It's easy to feel insignificant when the powers that be appear utterly uninterested in you.  It's easy to lose touch when there's a cozy community not too far out of reach telling you there's a purpose to this fight and you're invited.  Some of us spend a long time finding our place in the world.  Others are happy to belong anywhere at all.

4.  A note on language:  words like "victim" and "survivor" seem prejudiced against the defendant in a situation where the accuser, again is the evidence.  The spirit in which they have been used suggests (a) innocence (on which I have already opined), and (b) having risked or faced death in the ordeal (which remains to be demonstrated, to my mind).  Using these words insinuates a situation in the same sense as when I say I was violently attacked by my kitchen to describe being scalded by spilled boiling water or getting in the way of a falling blade.
Correct me if I'm wrong.  This is a learning experience for me.

5.  Marie Henein is absolutely fascinating.  I wonder how many community leaders are secretly jealous of her.  Under different circumstances, she is exactly the woman we'd be celebrating.  She's climbed to the top of a difficult and unsavoury profession that requires a hell of a backbone. Her intellect and skill are the cornerstone of her reputation.  She has enough charisma to control a room by her mere presence (that charisma may have everything to do with being able to inspire fear, but truth be told, I don't think too many would actually be offended by the way that kind of power plays out).  She is notably the "lawyer that lawyers call."  Mother. Wife. Ambitious.  Accomplished.  Rich. Unaffected. And I'm just going to say it - smoking hot.  Isn't this sort of the feminist dream?
I had never heard of Ms. Henein before yesterday, when a specific demographic of online gawkers suddenly got triggered and mass hysteria set in. I'm glad I looked up what the fuss was about.  Marie Henein is absolutely fascinating.  I'm fascinated.

Death by Cabbage

I kind of feel like making a giant barrel of sauerkraut - the recipe calls for 1lb salt:40 lbs cabbage - and storing it in my Mom's basement to ferment for 4 weeks, just to see how she'd react.
If I wagered a guess, she'd kill me, but not right away. You see, I wouldn't ask - I'd just sneak it in while she's at yoga one day. She wouldn't know a thing until the smell kicks in. At that point, she'd panic, but not enough to change the locks on the doors. She'd check up on it every few days, as if it were orphaned and about to grow legs and crawl across the room. Whenever she'd ask about it (and she would. Frequently.), I'd make her a cocktail and tell her not to worry. At the 3-week point she'd get antsy, and I'd make a big show of being too busy to come by anytime soon. I'd show up on the last day of week 4, and tell her my kitchen isn't big enough to deal with 40 lbs of cabbage. That's when the real anxiety would start kicking in. I'd ask to use her kitchen (and she'd let me out of guilt - I'm the only daughter), which historically triggers this instinct in her that makes her follow me around the room, hover and micromanage, sometimes while holding sharp utensils. When I finished processing and packaging the sauerkraut, I'd give her the entire batch and tell her I don't like cabbage.
That's when she'd kill me.

A Thought on Fear

I lie,  and tell you I'm not scared, you lie and tell me you're not either, and we lock ourselves into the lines we've drawn in the sand and pull the covers over our heads, and the world moves on without us and our secret fears pound on the door, and we lose our grip on reality, lose touch, and grow to silently resent each other for not being the people we pretended to be.

I tell you I'm afraid, you tell me not to be, and I don't feel much better but I trust you to protect me and you try, but you grow anxious wondering if you're good enough, strong enough, brave enough for a job no one can possibly do, and when you disappoint me I grow angry and make you feel small, a fleeting attempt to make myself feel bigger, better, stronger than I am.

I tell you I'm afraid, you tell me you're afraid as well.  You understand.  We share our thoughts, our spectres, our demons, and though what scares us doesn't go away, life seems easier to swallow, in this moment our world is just a slight less lonely, and with nothing to prove we can carry on, a light for each other in the darkness.

A Haunting Story

This is someone else's story.  I met Ron, a middle aged veteran, in a barroom in 2006.  I was 23 years old, in my fourth year of university, talking to strangers and listening to their stories. Not all of them caught my attention, but some of them really made me think.  Ron's was one of them, so much so that I wrote it down in a journal.
Ron got pretty emotional as he told me his story, and who could blame him?  I knew we were going into the darkness when he started calling me by my name - almost nobody does - and by the end of the night he was crying on my shoulder.  All he knew about me was that I wanted to write a war novel.  I never saw him again.  His story still haunts me.  So, from my old journal:

____________________________________________________________________________


"You'll never learn the truth about war from a textbook.  You listen to me, little girl.  There is nothing glorious about war.  You wanna know what goes through a soldier's head?  It's 'Get me the fuck out of here.'  And if it's a higher ranking officer, it's 'Get my men the fuck out of here.'  Glory?  It's fucking propaganda.  That's the truth.

"And you know something?  There is no worse feeling than bombing the shit out of a town, and then going into that town and seeing for yourself what you did.  I once had to see the damage I did to a town.  Our orders were to blow the town to smithereens, and we did.  Then they told us to go into the town and finish the job.  I followed my orders.  I went into the town, and saw all the buildings destroyed, bodies lying in the street with their skin burned off, blood everywhere.  And do you know what it was that made me cry?  A dog.  A dog, who had lost one of its legs.  In the army, they teach you only how to kill.  They train you not to care.  But here was a crippled dog in a destroyed city, and it was all my fault.  You know what I did?  I followed my orders and finished my job.

"Now, sweetheart, I never said I killed anyone.

"You want the truth, Natalie, I'll tell you the truth.  And you can spread the word.  I don't like talking about these things.  That war was thirty years ago, and I still get nightmares when I think about it.  You try to move on with your life, but how can you?

"You know something?  I was in a POW camp in Vietnam. I was in a POW camp, and I escaped.  I escaped on foot, with a razorblade.  How do you think I escaped with just a razorblade?  What do you think I had to do?  Natalie, not a day goes by when I don't think about it.  I remember each one of their faces.  It was one thing to shoot weapons from far away, but how do you kill a man face to face?  And I had to!  It was all I could do!  I watched as my friends had the shit shot out of them!  I saw what happened to the people in the POW camp, and all I could think was 'It's not happening to me,' and I got my hands on a razorblade and did what I had to do.

"They sent us out there to kill, and we killed.  I think about it everyday.  And when we got back, they didn't want us.  The only job I could get when I came back was as a cook!  They wouldn't let us into the Legions because we'd lost the war.  We didn't lose the war!  We shouldn't have been there!  They never wanted us there!  I don't want pity.  I was a soldier doing what I had to do to survive.  But you know, the circumstances don't matter.  The war doesn't matter, and the danger doesn't matter.  There's only one word for what happened, and it's Murder.

"At the Legion, we never talk about what we've been through.  We go there for a drink, for a laugh.  We ignore the rest of it.  Nobody wants to think about fighting in a war.  They know the truth.

"I look at what's going on these days in the Middle East.  All these kids they're sending out, sending home in coffins.  It's such a waste.  A buddy of mine asked me how long it would take me to take down a town out there, and I told him twenty minutes - and I'd flatten everything in the way.  They're sending kids out there who don't know what they're doing.  They should send us old guys.  I mean, I know I can't fit into a tank like I used to, but damnit, we've done it before!  We'd get the job done quicker!

"This world's a mess, and us old guys should clean up the mess for you young people.  You shouldn't be out there, learning how to kill from scratch.  People your age should be studying and partying and making love -"

"...And writing books," I interrupted.  For the first time in awhile, Ron smiled.  He cupped my face with his hands and then hugged me.

"God Bless you," he said.  "You put this in your book."


(2006)

"Fragile" (painting by Rick Hicks, Toronto, ON)

"The name of the painting is inspired by the Yes album of the same name. The colours I used are similar to those of the artist who did that cover, Roger Dean. My style is loosely based on Jackson Pollock and the French Canadian painter, Jean Paul Riopelle. Back in 2013, I did over 120 paintings on paper boards, which were inspired by them."
Rick Hicks
Toronto, ON

The Radio Says There's a Storm Coming

The radio says there’s a storm coming.  Catherine can’t believe it.  “The day after tomorrow,” they say, but the skies are big and blue and the ocean ebbs and flows.  Another wave, another breath, another minute, another day.  “Run away,” they say, but Catherine can’t run.  How do you run from home?  Where do you go?  Catherine doesn’t know.  She doesn’t believe it.

She sits on the beach all day, the sun kissing her skin, a warm breeze cooing in her ear and flirting with the hair on her arms.  She lies on the beach, her toes pushing sand around here and back, digging in, digging up.  She smiles at the sun.  The sun smiles back.  You wouldn’t let me down, would you?

Everybody’s gone.  They ran away.  Fled.  The beach is quieter than usual, littered here and there by other solitary souls with nowhere to go, sitting, lying in the sand, ruminating, meditating,  Ommmm...  The radio says a storm is coming.  These souls don’t believe it.  She strolls along the seashore.  She sells sea shells...  Alone but not alone among the solitary souls, and it could all be over the day after tomorrow, but Catherine doesn’t believe it.  Her mind is empty.  Blank.  Ebb, flow, ebb, flow, life affords plenty of time for self-talk, and we complain of not having enough.  This is not a moment for self-talk.  This is a moment of silence, a moment of peace.  When we shut up, we give the planet a chance to speak.

What does the world say to Catherine, mind blank, alone but not alone, solitary soul in a moment not afforded to self-talk?  The sea gulls protest.  They fly not far too high and scream and scream.  The surf washes in, washes out.  Always moving to a rhythm all its own, in a quiet, subtle, unimposing, inoffensive melody and timbre.  (Have you listened to the water sing?  Oh, please tell me you have listened to the water sing!)  A soft ripple chimes with each step Catherine wades into the sea.  She looks down and watches the fish in the ocean, thrown about by the waves in the shallow water.  If the storm comes, will they all be washed ashore?  Catherine doesn’t believe it.  The wind flies through her hair as she stands in the shallow water, watching the fish.  This is the way we wash our feet, wash our feet, wash our feet...

Who will tell the story, after all is said and done?  Is there anything to tell? This story doesn’t start with Once upon a time because it didn’t happen Once upon a time. It’s rather the ending of many other Once upon a times. Each solitary soul here carries a story, carries a reason.  There are reasons all these solitary souls won’t run away, run away.  Do any of them matter, Catherine wonders, knowing the ultimate answer.  People come.  They live, they love, they suffer, they redeem, and each one goes away when the time comes.  Everybody wants to think their story matters.  Everybody wants to think that there’s a reason, an important reason.  Everybody wants to matter.  So tragic to think of how many people will live and die without ever telling their Once upon a times.  Everybody’s special.  Of course they are, thinks Catherine.  Of course they are.

Once upon a time a child looked for signs everywhere she could.  She gazed at stars and into fires and rivers and knew there had to be a point.  Twinkle, twinkle little star...  To the dismay of the imagination of a five-year-old girl, Nature never returned her calls.  All children need to grow up sometime.

Afraid?  Of course she’s afraid.  Who can tell what tomorrow will bring?  The storm is coming the day after tomorrow.  She can run.  She can flee north, like so many others.  She can make a life for herself, start over, and who wouldn’t love a fresh start, the tabula rasa, a chance to try again.  She can be who she wants to be, live how she wants to live, if only she would flee.  And yet, there is no running.  She is who she is.  She could try to be different, but what point is there in denying herself?  It would all come back to this.  She can never erase that Once upon a time she stood on a beach, listening to the surf and the gulls, playing in the sand, feeling the water ebb and flow over her feet, waiting for this storm to come.  Her past will always be her past.  There’s no running from that.

The locals board up their windows and lock their doors.  They cover their treasures with plastic, hoping for the best.  They fill their homes with candles and canned beans, flashlights and batteries, towels and blankets, lighters and propane tanks, raincoats and umbrellas.  They make plans, seek places of refuge up the road.  They write to their loved ones and take photographs and collect drinkable water.  They fuel up their engines and gas cans.  They make plans, arrange exit strategies.  They don’t hear the gulls scream, or the surf wash up onto the shore.

Once upon a time a little girl sat on a rocky ledge by the water, watching the sun go down.  Overwhelmed by the majesty of the sunset and all alone, she daydreamed of the life she wanted to have, a life by the water, a certain someone to sit with in the evenings and watch the sun go down.  A certain someone to hold her hand -  her knight in shining armour.  Didn’t every girl want a hero?  When she grew up, she would travel.  She would run through jungles, climb the highest peaks, jump from cliffs and swim in mountain lakes, and she’d be brave and strong, and just in case it wasn’t enough for her to be brave and strong... she would need a hero, a guardian angel, a big, strong man to catch her if she fell.  He never came.  There must be more, Catherine thinks, and it can’t end like this.  Run for your lives, the radio said, but Catherine isn’t running.

We used to get it, she tells herself.  Silence, but for the sound of the breeze, the screaming gulls.  The Universe speaks in subtle voices.  The messages are simple.  We hear them when we all stop talking, when we all turn off our televisions and our radios, when we stop seeking creative ways to fill silent voids.  We used to get it.  Hundreds, thousands of years ago, we understood.  We knew we could stand atop mountains without being kings of the castle.  We knew we weren’t the final word.  We were aware of something bigger.  We could strive to understand without needing to dominate and control.  Wonder without weakness.  Power without omnipotence.  Reason with humility.  We knew to stand, our knowledge on our shoulders but our hearts in awe.  

And then the magic died.

Good enough was no longer good enough.  We needed to be better, faster, stronger, louder.  We needed to understand things, to manipulate things, to control things, and then to master things.  We became afraid of the things we couldn’t master.  Humans continue to get sick, to ail, to suffer.  The heavenly bodies still revolve around not us, but the sun.  The earth still cracks open every now and then, cyclones still wipe away buildings and tidal waves wash us into the sea, because we couldn’t quite master the weather.  And the radio says there’s a storm coming the day after tomorrow, and Catherine doesn’t believe it.

It’s coming tomorrow, the radio says, and Catherine starts to believe.  She knows why she’s started to believe, but she can’t bring herself to say it.  It’s silly, she thinks.  Nobody would believe it.  Just say it, Catherine.  I can’t. You can.  I can’t find the words.  Just try.  I won’t.  The writer’s block that haunts us all. Some questions can’t be asked, some stories can’t be told, opportunities wasted, souls silenced, all because we can’t find the words.  Is there a meaning?  No.  Will it change anything?  No.  Then Catherine, what is on your mind?

Well, Once upon a time...

Once upon a time I had a dream that felt so real.  Then I had it again.  And again.  I dreamed that I was on a boat, not large, not small, sailing friendly waters.  Suddenly, very suddenly, the winds picked up, clouds rolled in, it started to rain, the waves grew, and the boat began to sway.  I was afraid.  The waves kept growing, first by feet, then by yards, then by storeys.  The boat just rode the waves, up, down, up, down.  It never made sense to me.  The boat wasn’t made to ride waves this high.  It should tip and capsize.  I should fall in, should drown. There was never anywhere to swim to.  And for all my anxiety, I steered the boat.  It would rise and rise, and tumble down the wave, sometimes it would downright fall, but it never tipped.  The water was always not warm, not cold, but comfortable, and I always woke up, alive.  Shaken, but alive.  As I grew older, the storms of my dreams grew stronger, more violent, more uncertain.  Each time, I simply steered the boat.  Over the years, the anxiety left me, and I was no longer afraid of the waves, afraid of the storms.  I started to enjoy them, the adventure, uncertainty, thrill.  The world became engulfed in water, ritual flooding, and I rode out the storm, arriving awake and alive on the other side every time.  I carried the motion of the waves into my waking life, not on purpose.  I couldn’t always shake the edge, but carried on and on and on.  My steps weren’t always steady, my head not always straight.  What worried me most was that one night, I’d lose control.  One night, the boat will capsize.  When it does, will I still wake up, alive, on the other side?  And now there’s a storm coming.  Run for our lives, we’re all going to die, and No, I can’t just leave, and I can’t quite explain why I need to stay, need to be here, need to see it.  And no, I may not make it out awake, alive on the other side, but I just can’t turn away.  I wish I could tell you everything.  I wish I could make you understand.  I just don’t have the words.

The storm comes tomorrow, the radio says.  Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream...

This is a Love Song

It might have been so much easier.

In another life we’d buy what we’re sold, do as we’re told and complacently grow old but never a day wiser, sensitive to changes and arrangements that estrange us from some ill-begotten dearly held conceptions of good and bad and right and wrong and truth and deception, the first to yell “Not Fair,” but never dare to dwell in the supposed hell on which we blame subliminal despair.  Our days would fade on our own pedestal, never to hear the winds of change as they call out to us, and if the tree in the forest were to fall, it wouldn’t make a sound to us if we’re not there to hear it.

It might have been so much easier.

The distant past isn’t always so distant, its shadow ever just a step or two behind me when I wandered, always wondering if the willows I passed would wisp away my worries.  I hope they have.  I fear they haven’t.  And so I went about my days with dark and silent reservations, locked within my contemplation, praying that the end is truly the end.

 I looked up to you and asked for help, for some direction.  I didn’t notice just how much you speak, all words, words, words, so many words I didn’t notice how they kept me weak.  I was distracted by all the pretty words.

I didn’t see there was no soul behind those eyes, the leeches sucked me dry before I woke, and I had not yet learned to fear the Siren’s Song.  There I was, face down in the mud, couldn’t break free from the weeds and that ooze would take forever to wash out, and yet, for the moment, it felt so warm there in the mud.

I had only asked you for directions, but for all the pretty words I began to sing a love song.  Would you like to hear a love song?

This is a love song.

Philosophers philosophize, ideas studied and memorized, ages after their authors die.  When have you last seen the world through truly open eyes?  Some people need to bleed to know that they’re alive.

I wanted to see what you saw, be where you are, breathe that air, so clear and unobstructed.  Instead I traveled day to day, sheltered and protected, wishing I could fly. 

You told me I wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t fast enough, couldn’t do it, shouldn’t want it, that I just needed sleep.  Then you turned and cried in a corner where you thought I couldn’t see you weep.

I couldn’t bear to watch you bare, weak and whimpering, couldn’t muster up the sentiment to pity.  This is a love song in a different key.

I pulled out of the mud and tore at the weeds.  Some people need to march in chains before they wander free.  You’d pointed right instead of left and falsely called it “Truth,” told me there was nothing without proof, and wouldn’t let me speak. 

I wrested free, not easily, stood on the riverbank, one foot on the shore, and I wanted to step, I really wanted to step.  Why couldn’t I step?  Just how many hits and bruises, cuts and lacerations and just how much degradation would it take to be heard?  Some people need to live mute to put thoughts into words.

And I tried to leave it all behind, but was it too soon?  This is a love song set to a different tune, and I Hate you!  Dear God, you scare me and I Hate you!  Why are you still here?  Why do I still hear your Devil’s whisper in my ear, telling me to slow the fuck down?

When did you get so strange?  This is a love song in a different fucking range!  Some people must be torn to shreds and cleansed before they’re born again.

Philosophers philosophize, but all your words, my friend, were lies, and I want to see something else, be somewhere else, breathe cleaner air, water running cold over my feet.

I do not pretend that after hearing hours of my desperate explanations you’ll begin to understand.

That’s quite alright.