Oh Canada...

...our home and faithful land!

Let's reclaim what is ours.

photo: M. Hébert

Freedom to Read

In Canada, during the week of February 24 to March 2, we celebrate our intellectual freedom, guaranteed us under the Charter of Rights and Freedoms. It sounds silly that we should still have to fight for this right, but schools and libraries are still regularly asked to remove books and magazines from their shelves, and books are stopped at the U.S. border.

The librarian at my neighbourhood branch and I were going through the selection of banned books just last week, and trying to understand why Dr. Seuss's "Green Eggs and Ham" was in the stack. It took a while to decipher what became more absurd by the minute. It would seem that ham could have children thinking of penises, which is just a short toss away from homosexual behaviour... 

Well, I still haven't decided which book to read from during the 24 hour Freedom to Read marathon on March 2nd at The Millennium Library - so I'm welcoming suggestions! Last time around, I read the whole of a banned French children's book. I'd like to read from an English one this time.

Educate yourself about the men and women around the world who still die, vanish, or are imprisoned for daring to write - visit PEN Canada. 

- verted

To my fellow artists (part ii):

Tanya Davis' slam called , 'How to be alone', ironically made it viral on You Tube, and then came her Bravo appearance, and this year Tanya came to town. I saw her perform her poetry and songs several weeks ago. Quietly, sincerely, standing alone on stage she said:

"...  why do I choose to be standing here being vulnerable for a living..."

I smiled. I was reminded of a moment I shared with my mother as we sat outside the theatre where I'd studied my first three years of acting nearly four decades into life. She broke the silence and said, I just don't know how they do it, getting up on stage in front of all those people... I know, I said.

This was the year after I'd had my first magic moment on stage, the one when you know you've moved the audience and they applaud you for sharing it with them. It was two years after my mother had watched me head an eight piece jazz band in a prominent city venue. So she turned to me looking confused and said, Well not you. You're not like me; you're not shy or afraid of crowds. Yes I am, I said. She didn't understand and I didn't have the words then to explain. Maybe I couldn't explain it to myself. I had yet to leave my green cubicle...

Being solitary is so vital to our creativity, making most artists introverts. And where others look, we see.  We pay attention to the world around us and report back with the images, sounds, and words we carry within us, breaking through our fear of sharing because we must. And I know the world is a better place for it.

To you who think being introverted is a bad word, think again. Be proud of your rich inner life. And to you who are afraid of sharing your unique creativity (For me, still a work in progress!)? Find a way to feel safe and share your magic with the world! It's important.

This is a Ted talk on introverts i found well worth watching. I hope you enJoy! And should you have the urge to share your thoughts, I hope you'll feel safe to do it here. ♪ღ ♪

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Intro -

To my fellow artists (part i):

As a young girl, when my mother or father introduced me to a big person, s/he would say, Don't be shy. Speak. Or, Say thank you. Come on, Marjolaine, say something! This repeated experience left me wanting to remain silent, but also feeling that something must clearly be wrong with me. It musn't be normal to be me, I thought, or I would want to speak to strangers, maybe engage them in a conversation about my favourite food this week, or how many cartwheels I can do without falling?

It was made clear to me from an early age that 1) being introverted equalled being shy, and 2) being introverted was something in need of fixing. Some of us were broken is all, and if I were to make my way through this dog-eat-dog world, I'd better stop it. IT was showing weakness to my peers by my choice not to lead, and IT apparently gave the self-proclaimed little leaders about me permission to do and say as they wanted.

As a young adult, I rehearsed a script to spew out at interviews so I would come across as a well groomed leader and team player. These were the buzz words of the '80s and one had to presume that every employer out there was looking for one idyllic person times three dozen or three thousand. The whole system was centred around how extroverts worked. Seemingly, nothing had changed since I was three that allowed me to 'fit' into normal, in a world that might value what I really had to offer. And it would take me a while longer to realize my own assets, to accept them as gifts that extroverts just had to do without.

I knew a very long time ago that I didn't belong in this world of corporate finance. That is not to say I wasn't good at what I did, but it meant I was unhappy with what I did. For 18 years leading up to my departure from the corporate world, I joined several organizations who, without judgment, told me who I was and what I had to offer. Slowly it worked its magic, until one day I left my cubicle behind.

When I took the Keirsey Temperament test (which showed me to be wholeheartedly INFJ), I suddenly found myself in a group of people that included the likes of Ghandi, Carl Jung, and Jane Goodall. And it described me with such accuracy that I felt understood, and for the first time in my 42 years, I was genuinely pleased and proud to be an introvert.

That was several years ago now. Extroverts were ruling the world with an iron fist and making bad choices, fighting unnecessary wars and lining their pockets with other people's money. I say this because I suspect that this past decade had a large influence on what came next. Six months ago, introverts made the cover of MACLEAN'S magazine (equivalent to U.S.A.'s TIME)! I was shocked and so very pleased. I sort of felt outed, really, and recognized as a valuable and needed part of my community by an entity bigger than me. Studies were being done, and people were writing books (extroverts were publishing them!) about us.

T.B.C.

I Love to Read!

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I LOVE TO READ month continues!

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                                      ...my dream staircase ;-)

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I Love to Read!

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In Manitoba, February is 'I LOVE TO READ' month  ღ  

hosted by our very own readingmanitoba organization, but 

many individuals and sponsors play a very important role in 

making it happen - why not consider taking part too?

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For facts on Literacy in Manitoba, check out this previous post. 

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Being literate is not just about knowing how to read - it's about knowing what to read, how to talk about it, having choices in what to read (to view, or to listen to), and to pursue personal interests in the materials we read.

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Street Art Utopia

FAMILY LITERACY DAY

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to someone you love ღ

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Creation vs Desecration

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The Christian bible says that the Creator has created us in his/her own image. This would make a creator of us all then, wouldn’t it? And great men and women throughout history have not faltered in their belief that ImagInatIon is mankind’s greatest gift, certainly beyond that of any knowledge.

Genesis also has God setting down a law (which I deem to be a reasonable one - but then, I've always found respect to be quite reasonable), that the human form he provides our souls is not to be desecrated.

I quote the Christian bible only because it is the one I was raised with, but I have to admit that I like the God who said these things!

We celebrate the wonder of our human form through dance and gymnastics and sports, through laughter and tears as we reach out to touch a baby’s cheek or offer a hug to a friend. Through sight and sound and smell, we celebrate! And, of course, we celebrate by being creators ourselves. When our soul has outlived its human form, those who love and respect us put it to rest, with no expectation of seeing it again.

Gunther von Hagens would not agree with my views on art or creation or on what it means to bring forth something positive into the world, (which I believe to be the cornerstone of art, a belief for which I realize I cannot maintain much objectivity about). For €350, von Hagens will sell you one 2mm slice of your beloved’s stomach (cut up by a high-speed saw) to hang on your wall. If s/he was really fat though, the slicing is more intensive and his price will soar to €2,500. Whether you want it to be transparent or more robust will also greatly affect the price. Perhaps you would prefer another body part? No problem. He does heads, necks, torsos, and extremities.

That is Gunther von Hagens’ definition of art. Apparently, he is far from being alone. Over 20 million have paid to view his touring ‘Bodies...the Exhibition’ tour. And in just a few days, he will tour my community with his macabre exhibit, which is 'set to remain' until 2011. The German anatomist takes corpses, many whose origins still remain unknown (he has been accused of using Chinese prisoners, for example), and manipulates/deforms/skins and sometimes plastinates them into everyday poses.

Is this creation or is it desecration of the human body?

Admittedly, the scientist might fulfill some criteria in defining what he does as art, if for him this is (1) self-expression, and if (2) it encourages inflection or contemplation, and if some visitors find the exhibit to be (3) deeply satisfying.

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Common Ground

later exerpt from Amélie's story ...

. . . A most unpredictable moment: warbling, chirping, mewing, barking and wind, all disappear. The colour of the sky is one that Amélie has never set eyes on before. Ronald rises from his chair.

“You see dat?”

Is he talking to me? “Yes,” she dares.

“Geezheebasun.” The Ojibwe unexpectedly slides off his tongue. “ La Tornade.”

Amélie is mesmerized by the magic show before her eyes. “Vraiment? Is that really une tornade, papa?”

Papa…I haven’t heard that since… Ronald slowly looks over at his daughter, her beautiful dark eyes – her papa’s eyes – beaming with fervent curiosity. With some difficulty he swallows, and turns his head back to the south-western sky. “You ever hear of a place called Manajiwin?”

“No.”

“You’d like it there I think. It’s for…it’s a…it’s a camp…for people…well, for métis, eh? I think you’d like it there, Amélie.”

Amélie looks up at her père’s proud profile. Turning her head back to the skies she smiles, uncertain of what just took place but wishing this moment could last forever, as the two continue to watch the funnel cloud dance around in the distant prairie sky.

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Truth and Reconciliation

For the past three days, victims of the residential school system and their families, have been gathering at the forks of the Red and Assiniboine Rivers to shed light on what was kept in the dark for far too long. The Truth and Reconciliation Commission was created to provide a safe haven for the voices of all those whose lives were impacted by residential schools. The process of healing and forgiveness is always a long one. I hope that this step has been a healthy and fruitful one.



The following is one of two excerpts I would like to share with you, from a story I named, "Common Ground". It's about a young Métisse who finds herself on the banks of the Red one day, just across from these very forks where aboriginals and whites meet tonight ...


. . . Amélie deftly escapes the kitchen from the side entrance, careful not to let the door slam behind her, relieved to have avoided her father’s eyes. She hates seeing him this way, feeding himself drugs to quiet his demons. (When she was little she called them the “men in black”, but she recently promoted them.) She knows that it’s better to pretend she doesn’t see. It’s safer this way.

Amélie’s long black hair glistens in the bright, near summer sun. Sketch pad and charcoal under arm, she makes her way to the riverbank. Leaning against the old oak, she stares off at the river as the beams strike the water like a painter splashing colours onto her own personal canvas.

Ever since Pauline and her family moved to Saskatchewan, she finds herself spending more and more time alone. Amélie knows she doesn’t fit in, her eyes nearly as dark as her hair, her skin neither black nor white. When Pauline was around, she sometimes thought of herself as an apple, white on the inside and red on the outside, you know? But since her best friend left, she’s felt red all the way through. Is it my imagination or is my skin really getting darker?, she wonders as she scratches into her arm with her nails, looking for white…maybe maman forgot to tell me something when we had that talk..?

What is certain are the whispers that wander her way as she walks down the school corridors. She hears words like ‘half-breed’ and ‘indyun’ coming from the soon-to-be junior high students. She didn’t know those were bad things, but she has long ago learned that nothing good is ever whispered.

If Pauline were here, she’d know what to do…what to say. She always does. There is no one to talk to now, especially not about her redness. Lucie, her younger sister, has been blessed with blond hair and blue eyes. And her father, well… Oh no, look at the sun! I’m late for supper again. Mom’ll be so pissed!
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Thanksgiving

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According to an I.R.C. study, 5.4 million people have lost their lives in the Congo since 1998. Another 2 million Congolese remain internally displaced, and conflict continues. Unfortunately, it doesn't stop there. Rwandan rebel forces, Congolese army soldiers and their allies continue to commit mass rapes on Congolese women, who are then often victimized a second time when their husbands abandon them, wanting no further contact with victims of rape.

Women for women is one organization who is providing help and life skills to these too often neglected victims of war. To see their changed lives, new hope and smiling faces immediately put a smile on my face. And I felt compelled to share their challenges with you this Thanksgiving.

To have a reason to give thanks is a wonderful thing, but I also know that providing someone else with a reason to be grateful truly fills the heart! Of course, we all have to find our own way to contribute to the global village. Sometimes, we don't even have to leave our neighbourhood. What may seem insignificant to us can make a big difference to someone else's life..

Oh! And...thanks for listening :-)

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I awoke to a cloudy day in my loft hideaway in strawberry fields. The smell of livestock and of late summer lakes wafted through my open window, reminding me that I was not at home. I had escaped – from a new man in my life who was too soon introducing hurtful words and toward a good place to get some writing done. Today, I would go introduce myself to the First Nations Chief in the area to ask him his opinions about the Métis trespassing on what was exclusively the tribe’s legal right to do. The shots had been heard by everyone two days ago. It would seem that the Métis, openly hunting deer out of season, wanted their opinion heard loud and clear.

I had been sitting in my loft with pen and paper searching my gray cells for ideas, and so was naturally interested by the local war taking place around my strawberry fields hideaway. What I didn’t know yet were the words awaiting me at the breakfast table two floors below. I would soon be hearing nonsense stories about another war taking place beyond this nestled Victorian farm in the woods.

It was difficult to make much sense of the B & B owner’s words. What did he mean by saying that planes were crashing into buildings? An airline employee myself at the time, I thought it simply absurd to hear of such accidents occurring. Had I woken up in Bizzaro world?



My next recollection is of the respected voice on the radio. It was Schreyer’s, and the media was asking him what he felt the American President’s next move should be. Schreyer believed, and I agreed, that time for mourning was necessary.

And that’s when fear took precedence over my grief as I felt my stomach suddenly plummet. We were talking about the United States, after all. They weren’t a country known for their adaptation skills. We were talking about a nation whose citizens quite regularly sued one another when they got hurt. It's part of their social fiber. It’s not that grieving isn’t in their vocabulary; it’s that retaliation is more in their vocabulary, as George Orwell might put it. .


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I was immediately ‘excused’ from an online U.S. forum upon suggesting that Mr. Bush would soon put my livelihood in jeopardy. Beyond the simple sadness and surprise of this happening, it was a telling sign. There were Americans easily willing to separate themselves from global citizens who weren’t angry in quite the same way as they were, and, George Bush actually had an audience.

My bonds took a plunge, the rental control board lost all meaning during an inflated housing market brought on by panic, and the airline that employed me did indeed file for bankruptcy. Worse yet were the innocent people dying every day, paying the price for terrorists who were in no way affiliated to them or their homeland. And thus were Americans laying their mourning upon the graves of the Iraqi people.

I did speak with the First Nation Chief that fatal September day. And I wrote. My journey took me to Margaret Lawrence’s ‘Galloping Mountain’ in the hope of getting a stronger sense of native history and their plight in my province. But not until I heard some truly touching human stories that day, those stories that elevated emotions and a sense of connection with one another will allow.

I put off my return home for as long as I could. The guy (remember the guy?) didn’t survive the week, but those stories still survive in my heart and throughout my writings.

The 'Other' Big W . . .

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In 2003, a group of concerned Canadians successfully campaigned to get “The Corporation” into mainstream movie houses. We did this because it was our belief that everyone was in need of a better understanding of what it meant to be incorporated. Viewed as a person under the law, a corporation is a person with a dangerous amount of power and a lack of conscience, and the film aimed at spreading a bit of social consciousness into every consumer’s home.

Walmart is the world’s largest public corporation. Despite this, it still receives government subsidies and tax cuts at the expense of taxpayers, like those they employ. Its employees live well below the poverty line and the Big W is regularly criticized for its inadequate health insurance options and its sexist practices. And it clearly fails to house or feed its workers in China who make many of the products it sells. So how can it be that this employer organizes charities in its name with the clear expectation that their underpaid staff will do the fundraising for them? Isn’t it enough that they are subjected to singing the Walmart song? I digress, perhaps.

Since 2003, Walmart has made improvements towards its environmental responsibilities and they have made some attempt at sustainability as a corporate entity. It is also true that there has been some improvement in employee relations. But this would seem only to be a defensive reaction to the too many class-action lawsuits and to organizations like ‘Walmart Watch’. It scares me to wonder just how much stronger and more invasive a corporation they would be today if it wasn’t for the many concerned citizens keeping an eye on this super power.

Flourishing in its attempts to wipe out small business and townships across North America, there are those towns that have successfully kept this monster out of their streets, though not without a fight. It takes a great deal of energy to be socially responsible and there are still so many people who don’t get the big picture.

Imagine my reaction when I received a bridal shower invitation several weeks ago for a young woman who lives in Small Town, Manitoba (along with most of my extended family members) who had registered at Walmart(!). I was shocked. Yes, yes, I know that some people (100 million/day) do actually shop there, but I had never before been confronted with this predicament. It felt like I was being invited to celebrate at the McDonald's inside a neighbourhood Walmart. Surely, they know that Walmart is against my religion, non? Surely, everyone is aware that to expect a person to shop at Walmart is in the very least a social faux-pas?

Well, it was made pretty clear that my absence was deemed silly. The irony is that my refusal to walk into a Walmart is in large part out of respect for those I know and love, whose livelihood depends solely on the small towns they inhabit. In other words, I didn't attend this bride's shower because I care about her future. It would seem that having a social conscience can be a lonely business . . .
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Homage to an unwonted hero . . .

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Inside every cynical person, there is a disappointed idealist. . .

The man who uttered these words was clearly speaking about himself, but since hearing them, I came to realize that they were just as true of me. And I have since kept my cynicism in check, aware that it wouldn't exist if I didn't care so much about the world I inhabit, about truth, and about justice.


George Carlin did much more than just make people laugh. He cared so fervently about his country, his homeland America - that would surely make a cynic out of anyone - that he dared to speak about those things he believed needed to change. And this is why he has coined so many of the phrases that remain engraved on our minds, sometimes long after we remember who it was that first said it.


The phrase on the poster of my April 26th blog is a great example: Bombing for peace is like fucking for virginity. It's all that needed to be said in protest of the Vietnam war. And it is, quite simply, no less true today. The country he chose to call home his entire life did not learn from history. So many innocent lives are being lost every day with no sign of peace anywhere on the horizon.


When George passed away ten days ago, I dared to call him a hero. I received some befuddled looks, but that's okay. For the freedoms he defended via his comedy (a very effective method of communicating, I think), he did more on his country's behalf than most American politicians succeed in doing in their lifetimes. He became a voice for the masses.


The status quo sucks.

Think off-center.

I think people should be allowed to do anything they want.

We haven't tried that for a while.

Maybe this time it'll work.

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And in your honour, sweet George , I sign off today with:
Shit, Piss, Fuck, Cunt, CockSucker, MotherFucker, and Tits.

Bonjour Canada!

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"We peer so suspiciously at each other

that we cannot see that we

Canadians

are standing on the mountaintop."

PIERRE ELLIOTT TRUDEAU

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"When I'm in Canada, I feel this is what the world should be like."

JANE FONDA

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Feed your mind, feed the hungry!

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As an advocate for literacy and with the sincere belief that reading is the key that ensures continued knowledge and personal growth, I was twice pleased to discover through my friend's website, http://www.pozvibes.com/ ,that learning can serve yet another cause close to my heart. Feeding the hungry.

The link to http://www.freerice.com/ has been on my menu of sites worth visiting for a few days now, but I decided to bring special attention to it for those who don't bother with La Charpente's sidebar. Spending just 10 minutes a day has already improved my vocabulary, and with the added bonus of knowing that I am putting rice in someone's bowl, well . . . How great is that?

With so many North American funds going towards supplies of mass destruction, and the corporate world more concerned about the price of gas than they are the homeless person they may need to step over on their way from the office to their $40k pair of wheels, someone needs to keep their eyes and hearts open. Don't you think?

Here's to a proud & happy

Canada Day

to every citizen of this vast and beautiful land that is ours!

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Across the Universe

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It’s a Tuesday morning in Autumn 1990, and I’ve decided, on a whim, to fly to London. Standing with my shoulder bag in Hyde Park near the B & B I’ve chosen to make home for a few days, selling newspapers to passersby because the man needs to pee and he trusts Canadian girls, I have the sensation of having travelled across some universe into a world both old and new to me.

I’m in the library at the British Museum, my fingers on the glass that protect the words I know so well, every last one. There they are, John and Paul’s scribbles of lyrics that in some real way had defined my entrance into that vast, frightening, exciting, life-altering hole between childhood and – well, you know. And with my first pay-check two weeks after my sixteenth birthday, I had purchased my first guitar, the same Dégas I still have and love today. I sit myself cross legged before my brother, where he is playing his Yamaha on the old wooden floorboards of our attic hide-away and say simply, Teach me. He does.

When I can’t sleep at night –which is often-- I never resort to counting sheep. Instead, I sing. I go through every Beatles song I can remember. There are so many, I never get through them all before sleep.

I come late to “Across the Universe”, the anniversary Beatles celebration musical. That’s okay; I knew I would love it when I got around to it. Even so, it has left me a bit breathless, recalling as I listen, what wonderful words these two wrote. This is why we still pay homage to them, isn’t it? It isn’t the C – G -- D combinations, though simplicity gives room to creativity, in my opinion. I have sung Beatles songs in any number of ways, whether in the bathroom or on stage. Only simplicity of notes can allow for singing the same songs in such varying melodies by so many over the years. But it’s their words that make these songs live on. Considering the vast array of candy they/we were all tripping on back then, John and Paul managed to provide us with insightful, meaningful lyrics. Poems put to melody.

Come May 1st, I will be taking part in a month of poetry alongside truly talented poets, artists who will keep me humble. But I’m willing and wanting to take part in this gathering of words, and though songs & poetry are not one and the same (though I dare you to take it up with Cohen), I've decided to take The Beatles along for the ride. They're in my well...

To all you Beatles fans, lovers of music & motion, lovers of words & stories; to those of you who recall the American promise to learn from history, to those of you who find true meaning in this photo; and to you, who dared individualism in a time when it wasn’t fashionable to have an opinion, I send out two thumbs up for ‘Across the Universe’.

Jai Guru De Va Om .........Nothing's gonna change my world

app.

Freedom To Read

-Manitoba Writers Guild-

24 HOUR FREEDOM TO READ MARATHON

MILLENIUM LIBRARY

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I will joining many voices tomorrow, as I read aloud from one writer's work deemed unacceptable by a school, a community, a province or a country. One silenced voice will be freed. But in my heart, it will be those writers presently imprisonned or ill-treated for their words for which I will be lending out my voice. Namely:

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• Wang Dejia (pen name: Jing Chu), arrested December 13, 2007, released on January 12, 2007, “pending trial for one year” and under conditions that he not write anything “attacking the leadership of the Party and State,” “inciting subversion of state power,” or any “political commentary.” CHINA
• Hu Jia, arrested on 27 December 2007 on suspicion of ‘inciting subversion of state power’. CHINA
• Writer and activist Amin Ghazaei has been held incommunicado without charge since January 14, 2008. He is reported to be in solitary confinement in Section 209 of Evin Prison, and to have been tortured. IRAN
• 21 writers, journalists and librarians in CUBA.

The list goes on...To read about these and many other writers whose freedom has been unjustly taken from them, and to see how you can help, visit: http://www.pencanada.ca/programs/prison/index.php

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IN THE NAME OF RELIGION

President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad was interviewed this week by 60 minute reporter, Scott Pelly. To say that it introduced a deeper decline in objective journalism would be an understatement and it was dissapointing to me to witness this level of subjectivity on the part of 60 minutes, a source I still respected until tonight. Mr. Pelly told the Iranian president that he (Ahmadinejad) owed American president George W. Bush for having killed Saddam Hussein and accused Ahmadinejad of having American blood on his hands for recently helping in the supply of weapons to Iraq.

Mr. Pelly? Are we speaking about the same president? The one who went to war with Iraq over oil and in the process spilled the blood of his own people, young American boys and girls who naively and faithfully fought in the name of 9/11 victims, both countries armed with American weapons?

I do not mean by these words to proclaim Ahmadinejad's innocence, and certainly not Saddam's, but to imply Bush's hands are not bloodied by too many deaths is painfully absurd. My incensement is directed at those trusted at seeking the truth, to report facts and letting the people determine their significance. This reporter was so slanted by his own beliefs as to have the Iranian president ask him if he was an American politician, or a reporter?

"Tell me one thing you admire about president Bush," continued Scott Pelly.

Taken off guard, Ahmadinejad responded with a quizzical look, a pause...

"Don't you admire anything about president Bush?"

I truly felt for the man sitting across from this reporter. Can any intelligent American be so blind to the world's view of his country's crimes?

His hesitation dissipated, Ahmadinejad simply returned the question to the American, asking: "What trait do you admire about your president?"

Pelly: "Well...He's a religious man."

Interview archived at: http://www.cbsnews.com/sections/i_video/main500251.shtml?id=3290029n