Stuff That’s Happened (an incomplete list)

Been a long time. (Eight weeks?! In twitter-time that’s like… eons.) By now, this old-fashioned blog might as well be an ancient ruin… or an abandoned laboratory in some obscure secret location… full of dust… and zombies.
 
What can be said after so long? How could i communicate (in anything but the most crudely inadequate terms) even only those normal and inevitable upheavals that are bound to have taken place — let alone any radical changes in my life / circumstances? Faced with the impossibility of a smooth continuity, there is (always) a temptation to just flip the table over and start fresh…
 
But i’ve kept coming back to this same space, to catalogue my thoughts here, for so long (and through so many mutations) that it seems like it would be an unnecessary formalistic pretense to close this blog and begin a new one. Besides, doing so would simply present a host of similar challenges: rather than struggling with how to continue i would struggle with how to begin… What’s the difference, really?
 
I don’t know.
 
So here’s a slanted and heavily expurgated, roughly chronological recap:
 

 • I decided to take a more conscious and active interest in my physical well-being (eg: to consult medical professionals about my multifarious idiopathic afflictions).
 
 • Roy celebrated his first birthday (a million friends came to visit; of course i took no pictures).
 
 • Admirers of Voltairine de Cleyre celebrated her 144th birthday (my comment was published on her memorial site).
 
 • Roy got an ear infection and became even more adorable than usual, due to increased need for snuggles.
 
 • Apple (finally!) released iOS 4.2 (and iPad users heaved a sigh of relief).
 
 • I befriended a superhero.
 
 • Wayde Compton launched a new book, in which (among other things) he coins the brilliant term “pheneticizing.”
 
 • New life forms were discovered, here on Earth, whose (arsenic-based) DNA is unlike anything previously known to exist.
 
 • I began to experience an (agonizing / euphoric) emotional breakdown / (re)awakening.
 
 • Roy started walking, almost… (he’ll walk with me, if i hold both his hands).
 
 • Admirers of Super Mario Bros. celebrated the 25th anniversary of the original game.
 
 • I wrote one of the best essays of my career as a student, and it nearly killed me.
 
 • Roy got another ear infection and we spent three hours at the Children’s Hospital on Christmas Eve.
 

 • I started to realize i don’t know who i am (anymore).

Not to mention dozens of significant political events and occasions. But this ain’t a freaking newspaper. Geez.

Maybe i’ll fill in some of the gaps, later. Or maybe i’ll just stick to movie reviews… I’m gonna give myself until next year to figure everything out. (I’m up for a challenge.)

Peace, Love and Understanding

I'll keep this post short, without getting distracted.

I've just spent an hour or so learning about the Understanding Campaign. It's an interesting idea, based on an appealingly simple premise.

In their words, "The Understanding Campaign wants everyone in the world to read just one word of Arabic." (Of course they don't mean only one word and no more, but let's not get tangled up that kind of analysis.) If i understand them correctly, i think they're suggesting something not only unobjectionable, but, as a speaker of the university prestige dialect might say: "positively counter-hegemonic".

After reading their site, listening to interviews, watching videos, and otherwise attempting to see the campaign in context, i would put it this way: the implication (and i think they're right, BTW) is that, basically, if lots of people everywhere, but especially in the U.S. and English-speaking countries, learn the Arabic word for "understanding", then we would be one small, but concrete step closer to a world free from conflicts based on ignorance and fear.

Lovely, you might say. Ok, but the reason i'm staying up past my bedtime to share this pleasant little discovery is that the Understanding Campaign is actually at a crucial point. 

The founders are serious about making their nice idea a reality. Specifically, they want to facilitate a literary exchange with university students in Iraq, and so they have engaged with Kickstarter (which i hadn't heard of before but sounds awesome), a "funding platform for creative projects" — you can read about it for yourself, but it strikes me as similar in spirit to Proudhon's economic ideas.

In accordance with the Kickstarter process, a group proposes a project and sets a dollar amount that would allow it to go forward, then they set a date by which they think they can convince enough people to pledge that much money. But no money changes hands unless they are successful! (It's a sensible way to run things, because it allows people to pledge funding to anything that they think is cool, with no risk that their money will go to a project that never gets off the ground).

The Understanding Campaign has received 242 pledges that tally up to about 92% of its funding goal. However, as of right now the campaign has less than 63 hours left to reach its goal before the deadline (Thursday afternoon).

So i'm writing this to say: i think the Understanding Campaign is a cool idea and that their project should be given a chance to go ahead. They want to print some stickers and exchange books and ideas between North America and the Middle East; it won't cost a lot of money to get started, but it will take some (their goal is $10,000 USD).

People who pledge get stuff, too. I'm getting a T-shirt.

It shouldn't be too hard to get pledges for the last few hundred dollars in the next couple of days, but it would suck if after all they've done so far, they're left with just a good idea and some new friends. That's not nothing, of course — in a way, that's the point: good ideas and new friends are great things — but the people behind the campaign are very close to starting something far greater.

فهم

That's the word. Spread it around.

The Grateful Dad

Another festive occasion… another festering controversy? Thankfully, in Canada, we don’t officially commemorate a conquest every autumn...

“We” (though ‘we’ must never tire of reminding ourselves that ‘our’ deficient language, English, fails to distinguish {lexically} between the inclusive and exclusive senses of that pronoun — the ambiguity of which facilitates both insidious and simple confusion) just give thanks.

I won’t try to untangle the question (let alone assume an answer, or proceed to apologize for it) of just who this elusive, unstable thanks-giving “we” might be. I’ll try, rather, to speak only for myself:

Today, i give thanks.

I hope not to strike a moralistic pose: the world doesn’t need another lecture about the virtue of gratitude. But i am feeling very grateful today.

Sara’s mom paid us a visit this weekend, and babysat Roy last night. We therefore had our first real date (as in: an evening out, alone) since he was born, almost eleven months ago. 

Eleven months between dates (or longer, given the nature of ‘dating’ during pregnancy…) is a bloody long time. It was weird, because we were both a little worried about Roy (would he freak out?). Turns out he did pretty well. He cried a bit, and stayed up too late, but eventually took his bottle and fell asleep.

Meanwhile, we bought snacks and went to a movie. A late show. It was like being in our twenties again!  ;)

We saw Never Let Me Go. 

Let me just say this:  O.M.G.
And, furthermore:     Holy. Fucking. Shit. 

Someone at TIME magazine called it “a plea to live and love well” — the story is a whole lot more unsettling, and better, than that  (rather pedestrian and Hallmark-ish) sentence suggests, but it’s true enough. This movie is far better than whatever the best things written about it say. And since the worst things written about it all seem to say the same thing — that the movie's not quite as good as the book — i’ve decided i have no choice but to prioritize the consumption of the original novel (i might get the audiobook from iTunes, or download the e-book, for easy and immediate access).

The story haunted my sleep and stayed with me all day: on our walk with Roy through Jericho Park, on my bus ride to Granville Island to buy pumpkin beer (verdict: it sounded like a good idea), and throughout our Tofurkey feast this evening, i have continued to hear echoes (and see shadows) from Kazuo Ishiguro’s world…

It boils down to this: while the dystopian horrors of a fictional society are good metaphors for the injustices of our own, what we must confront, in the end, is the ‘injustice’ of all mortal existence.

Death itself is not (necessarily) unjust, at least not for each of us as we face the inevitable ourselves. It is most unjust while we live — with the loss and the absence of others whom we loved.

About two weeks ago, i learned of an old friend’s passing... The inarticulate numbness that came with the news has been slowing me down lately. Maybe that’s a good thing...? But when my brother told me that Solomon Burke died this morning, it seemed even more important to write a short acknowledgement of today's persistent feelings.

I am so grateful for all that i have in my life right now. For my family, our health, our happiness (despite the challenges), and our love. The relative freedom and security that makes these things possible is also not to be taken for granted (nor should it be romanticized, as greater and more perfect than it is); however, at the moment, i just want to express thanks.

In particular: Thank you Solomon Burke, for your voice and your songs — and especially for the 2-disc Soul Alive! concert album. Thank you to CFRO/Co-op Radio for introducing me to Burke so many years ago. And thank you Shane, for telling me about Burke’s passing.

And thank you David Phillips, for all the joy you brought to your friends and community over the years; all the feasts and dancing; all the great conversations and flowers and ‘trespassing’ adventures. I will miss you. Roy will hear the legends. 

Rage, Baby, Rage

An epic tale of bedtime.

“[I'd like] ...to remind the reader of... the defiant animal faith that each new baby brings back into the world with the very act of birth” — Lewis Mumford.

Well it’s October. Summer is history (all these sunny afternoons notwithstanding) and the autumnal transition period is also behind us. It’s been a bumpy ride.

There's a lot going on: between Roy’s teething (and switching to more solid foods) and growing, and catching a mild cold (which interfered with the poor guy’s already disrupted sleep patterns), plus his rapidly increasing mobility, and his increasingly complex and confident vocalizations — along with his recent discovery of a hitherto unsuspected aptitude for sudden fits of actual baby-like crying. Not to mention the beginning of my “final” semester (of coursework, while my thesis looms) and the daunting preparations for the end of Sara’s maternity leave, with all of the adjustments that will require…

You could say we’re feeling some pressure.

Still, every day has interludes of serenity and joy. Our brief visit with some dear friends and their newborn daughter was a highlight last week:

(Congratulations Matty & Lara — and welcome to the world, Hunter!) 

However, the moments of tranquility and levity have seemed further apart lately — savory nuggets of serendipity in a congealing temporal and emotional soup of stress and exhaustion. (*Sigh.*)

I'm settling into my new routine, including this part-time job with Computing & Media Services at UBC (why yes, i can look up the password you forgot; sure, i can help you set up that projector...  it’s actually pretty fun, especially when i get to help people learn stuff, or troubleshoot problems i don’t already know how to solve). Mostly i’m trying to get into the habit of writing consistently throughout the week.

That way i can methodically chip away at sections of my thesis while “sharpening the saw” (in Covey-speak) and making incremental progress on other writing projects. One part of my writing-action-plan will be to sustain a pace of production for this blog, and to strike a balance between the passions from which it springs...

Which reminds me: a friend recently published what, according to the reviews, sounds like a fantastic poetry book, inspired by Jack Spicer. I’ve yet to get a copy, but i should do so soon — now, if ever, i need to make time for poetry.

Anyway, today i was just going to post a quick update, along with two tidbits of parenting info, however Roy’s struggle this evening at bedtime prompted a more substantial reflection.

First the easy part.

I wanted to share some information that contributed to our decision (many months ago) to take Roy out of swimming class — even though it was lots of fun.

A study described here apparently indicated a significant correlation of infant exposure to chlorinated pools and bronchiolitis infection, which in turn increases the risk of chronic respiratory problems including asthma. I’ve been meaning to mention it here, since we decided it sounded persuasive enough to warrant a precautionary withdrawal.

The full peer-reviewed article is “available” (for $15 USD) here. Actually, even with free access to academic journals through UBC, the online version won't be unlocked until 18 months after its publication. (I promised myself i would not get sidetracked and launch into a rant about the despicable stupidity of the academic publishing industry's restrictions on public access... Because that's not what this post is about.)

On a happier, less anxious note: i’ve started attending a very cool weekly event for dads (or other male caregivers) and babies at the Vancouver Public Library called “Man in the Moon.” It’s lots of fun, with silly songs and interactive games, and best of all it’s a chance for babies to see other babies and dads to see other dads, all hanging out together.

Roy and i went for the first time two weeks ago, at the Kitsilano branch, and it was absolutely packed. We were officially on the wait list but Marcus, the facilitator, kindly allowed us to stay. Unfortunately Roy’s naptime pre-empted our plan to remain for the whole hour that day, but in a doubleplusgood turn of events, it turns out that the event also takes place two hours later at the Dunbar branch — which isn’t as crowded, so that’s where we will be going on Saturdays from now on. Busy but exciting times.

Anyway, about this evening.

Roy’s been crying a lot more lately. It's kind of surreal, because he hardly ever cried at all, until this week. Things are changing.

There are exciting changes, like when Sara phoned me today (while i was actually making some progress on my writing) to tell me that Roy has started crawling forward (he’s been going in reverse for months) and standing up unassisted!

It’s amazing to see how much he develops even in a single day. But all this change, all this learning and exploring, takes a toll — and our little guy is definitely expressing a greater range of emotions lately. The last few nights, in addition to waking up more frequently, he’s been waking up the whole neighborhood with operatic howls and sobs.

:(

It’s a terrible feeling, when the baby-soothing techniques we’ve used all these months (with such success that we felt a little like the Oilers with Gretzky), suddenly stop working and our adorable little buddy becomes inconsolable.

Since the beginning, our “secret weapon” has been a little melody that Sara composed days after Roy’s birth. We found early on that our duet's simple harmonies had an almost hypnotic power to calm him down... But our musical magic seems to be no match for the feelings brewing in Roy’s heart these days.

This evening, after all our usual bedtime routines, Roy raged against sleep like we had never seen him rage before.

He certainly has stamina. It took hours. Breastfed to the point of bursting, cuddled and cradled in Sara’s arms, he just kept a steady pace of relentless distress. She tried soothing him long enough for me to clean up the whole kitchen and get started on the bathroom; usually he’s passed out before i’m done washing the cutlery.

When Sara finally came out of the bedroom, it was not for a quiet victory dance, but for a shift change. However when i walked in and picked him up, i could tell this wasn’t a crying fit that could be extinguished with a bottle and a lullaby. Nevertheless we had to try something.

So we improvised. It had been a long time since we’d had any kind of difficulty like this, but during Roy’s initial adjustment to life at home, he had seemed to mellow out when i played my harp. So, as terribly clueless as i remain about any sort of proper technique, i started strumming and plucking the heavenly strings.

I wish i could say it worked.

But since nothing seemed to make any difference, i just kept playing anyway, sometimes singing a little, quietly — faintly hoping that, eventually, between his violent wailing cries, he’d catch a note or two and  become distracted. Or simply get tired enough to pass out. Which is what happened i guess. But even after he stopped crying and kicking, his breathing was still punctuated with squeaky little sobs, and it stayed that way for another hour or so.

He ultimately fell asleep in the most ridiculous position a human body of any size could hope to get into: lying horizontally across his crib, his feet dangling out over the side through the bars, his bum up in the air, arms straight, and his face turned to one side.

I couldn’t bring myself to move him though, for fear of awakening the creature from the swamps of sadness. Sara bravely entered his lair and tucked him in. As i write this, his sobbing has finally stopped and Sara and i are sitting on the couch looking slightly less frazzled than Tina Fey and Steve Carrell in the posters for Date Night.

Speaking of which, i’ll end by saying that it was a delightful surprise to hear, earlier this week, that our very friendly neighbors down the hall have generously and spontaneously offered to babysit for us sometime... I can only hope that either they possess very powerful magic, or that our little Roy’s rage phase soon follows summer into the past.

Oh: one more thing, back on the whole awesomeness of being a dad theme… By now everyone on the interwebs has seen it twice, but this scene from Glee is worth a third viewing. There’s no music, but it makes me want to sing.

EDIT: After all that, Roy slept through the night, and woke up (briefly at 6, finally at 8) happy as a clam.

A moving story (with pictures)

Well, it’s Wednesday.

The Rio Theatre’s biweekly “Movies for Mommies” event is today, and Apple’s gonna make some big announcement, too; but i’m skipping the former this time around (to catch up on some work), and i’ll hear all about the latter soon enough, no doubt. No, these things aren’t what makes today special.

For those of us so afflicted, Wednesday means: new Comic Book Day.

Today, for example, Marvel Comics will have a new batch of FREE digital comics ready to be downloaded through its iPad (and iPhone/iPod) app. Every week, Marvel gives away half a dozen issues, just like the proverbial dealer’s narcotics samples, to get us hooked. And it works quite well. Giving me the first issue of a good story arc for *free* makes a pretty compelling temptation to buy the next issue (and the next…).

But, as i shall explain, today is a very special day for comic books…

~~~~~

Last week, on my bus ride home from work, i was enjoying the first issue of an especially good free sample from Marvel: issue #1 of a Spider-Man and Wolverine team-up miniseries — pretty cool in itself, but even better when it starts halfway through some crazy time-travel adventure, with our heroes living amongst proto-human primates on the eve of some prehistoric mass-extinction event. Now that’s entertainment.

Anyway, i wasn’t the only one on the bus to be impressed. Over my shoulder, it turns out, was a member (or friend, at least) of the venerable team behind Vancouver’s own legendary Comic Shop! He seemed both intrigued and somewhat disturbed, however.

“Sales are down,” he told me, “and now i can see why.”

I have to admit, i felt a little guilty. But only a little. After all, i had just spent pretty much all of my remaining discretionary money at the Comicshop only a few days earlier…

Let’s rewind a bit.

~~~~~

About a month ago, again on the bus — that’s where life happens, after all — rolling east on West 4th Avenue, i noticed a huge banner in the Comicshop window declaring a moving sale. I took a photo:

On my way home that day, the crucial question was answered. Moving? Where? …Right into “my” little corner of Kits (i’d soon find out, as noted here, this area is actually where the Comicshop got started too… The old spiraling cycles again). I took another picture, but...

The new storefront was looking pretty rough. It used to be “Fun in the Sun” (a decent discount surf/skate/snow sportswear shop, now located at 4th and MacDonald), which had some kind of reflective film on the windows; i used to stop out front with Roy so we could wave at our reflections. That shiny film had left some funky scum on the window, and all in all, the place sure didn’t have an auspicious, well-cared-for appearance.

We might forgive some people, for example a commenter on this article, for having expressed doubts about the Comic Shop being able to get the new place up to spec in time. A member of the Comicshop team, however, asserted that they would indeed be open: today, September 1st, at 10 AM (and that anyone present for the opening would enjoy a 10% discount). True to their word, when i walked by yesterday evening, the place already looked as good as a Christmas tree. Judge for yourself: photo #3.

But i’m getting ahead of myself...

~~~~~

One quick aside: We have lived here, a short walk from Jericho beach (and the Premier’s office, yay!) ever since our discovery of cheaper rents on this side of town than in those more (covertly) prestigious neighborhoods of East Van. Proximity to UBC has proven a bonus too. Sara’s old place was near Rx Comics on Main Street, which is also a great shop.

So the Comic Shop has moved: from 10 minutes up the road, to less than a minute from my door. Well i sure can’t complain.

But nevertheless there is a feeling of loss. The Comic Shop, in its familiar location a few doors down from Sophie’s Cosmic Café, is where i bought comics on family trips to Vancouver as a kid. It contributed to the mythologization of this city in my mind.

I’ve fallen in love with Vancouver several times, but the courtship began at the Comicshop.

~~~~~

Returning to recent events: when i had some time after first seeing that banner in their window, i checked the Comicshop website, and not only was it a month-long moving sale, but the discounts would increase as the moving day approached!

Now, the fact is, ever since Roy was born, in order to make space for baby necessities, i’ve been trying to eliminate as much of my physical library as possible, including comics. It’s hard. I’ve collected books all my life, and the first items in my collection were comics.

But there are limits, so i have enthusiastically welcomed the advent of iPads (and the iBookstore, as well as other means of acquiring content) as an opportunity, not only to eliminate many physical books (especially academic and reference tomes), but to simultaneously upgrade them: to searchable and completely portable e-books. Exciting times, i say.

But of course these changes don’t look like improvements to everyone.

As i’ve been shifting my comic collection from boxes in the closet to files on my computer, whatever money i spend on comics has also shifted from “brick and mortar” comic shops, to online direct digital sales — and as we know, digital content can also be shared for free, so that’s a factor too.

Generally, i’m an advocate of file-sharing, but i’ll save detailed discussion of the pros and cons of “free” peer-to-peer proliferation vs. higher-quality commercial modes of comic distribution for another post.

Suffice for now to say that i have indeed been persuaded to give Marvel money for digital comics, enhanced with ComiXology’s “guided view” technology (individual panels isolated, each rendered full-screen) which makes reading digital comics effortless — and much more enjoyable than having to navigate through mere scanned images of entire pages. However, i have also acquired many comics through file-sharing networks, especially scans of older issues or less-popular titles that have not yet been made available for purchase (like The Silver Surfer, whom i adore).

No matter what your moral intuitions are about the meaning and future of either content restrictions or copyright itself, i think Cory Doctorow makes some really good points in his anti-iPad rant. And his criticisms of the Marvel app are fair, but he neglects to mention (and, i think, fails to appreciate) how just plain awesome it is. Mr. Doctorow is right, though: the problems are serious. As one commenter (on a Marvel discussion board) put it, describing my situation as well:

“I've bought comics via the Marvel iPad app and the ComiXology app.  I just found out that ComiXology has a website where one can view all the comics you've purchased from them...except the Marvel comics.”

Yup, that’s unfair and stupid. But this is not a day for ranting about DRM (that day will come soon enough). Today is a day to celebrate…

Long story short, constraints of shelf space and finances aside: i happily failed to resist temptation, and grabbed a stack of old back issues at The Comicshop's moving sale — they were going for 80% off! I scored some serious gold. But i’ll brag about  review  my purchases another time.

~~~~~

Questions about what will become of comics, and of comic shops (and the people who run them, and the people who love them), will remain open for quite some time yet. As indeed, i sincerely hope, will Vancouver’s flagship Comic Shop. I wish them luck — i hope they really do live long and prosper.

In particular, i look forward to walking around the new shop with Roy... though it’s hard for me to comprehend the idea that, before long, he’ll be walking in there on his own little feet! I imagine myself, eventually, watching him pick out his own favorite hero stories.

But that’s a few Wednesdays down the road.

The Ambiguity of Opposition

It is rare to find a use of language, a phrase or articulation, which has not already been released and lost in the echo chamber of text on the web.

When this phrase — the ambiguity of opposition — dawned on me, literally in the shower (eureka?), it gave a name to something i had first understood through a diagram i sketched on a post-it pad, nearly ten years ago. And it seems indeed not to have been discussed before, at least not in these terms. (Note: i assume there are terms and axioms of geometrical logic applicable here, but my ignorance of them has necessitated this probable re-invention / rearticulation.)

My phrase aims to indicate the importance of distinguishing between the best (aka: strongest) argument against an idea, and an argument that is simply its (direct) opposite. It is a gesture towards more thoroughly / rigorously critical engagement with the complexities of particular problems, ideas and arguments.

Here is the diagram:

The question it asks is: Which arrow “opposes” the red arrow? The answer of course is they all do; determining which opposition is most useful will depend on both one’s frame of reference and one’s purpose.

In this highly abstracted form, it may seem perfectly insignificant; but its conceptual inevitability underlines its importance. In any process of decision-making in which a change is desired, and especially in developing a political strategy, whenever we are considering which direction is best, we have more, often better options than a mere about-face.

I'll leave unstated (for now) my judgment of the implications for anarchist activism; no big news there. However i will add, since i think it's generally worth noting, that over time — as with sailing — several tacks may be required to reach a desirable destination.

The point is simple enough: to generate good ideas we have to work harder than simply inverting bad (or flawed) ones. Such “opposition” merely reproduces the original idea’s defects, in a mirrored fashion. The problem of the pendulum swing, so to speak. It’s a familiar problem, and i’m not presenting anything new as a solution; but i may have achieved some useful novelty by re-casting the issue in (abstractly) clear terms and representing it visually.

I’m writing a more detailed explanation of the implications of this ambiguity, in (what passes for) academic language (i may find a place for it in my thesis), but i think the diagram largely speaks for itself; once the intention is made explicit, the meaning is apparent.

We need better ideas, not merely opposite ones.

Ultimately, awareness of this “ambiguity of opposition” may also be useful for illustrating when the impulse to compromise will yield no improvement. But first we have to recognize our position.

—

It’s going to be a busy week. I have some half-baked thoughts (about food and shopping, among other things) that are almost ready. I’ll be sharing them here very soon.

Golden Hours

First, i have to say, though i may be the only person in Vancouver to feel this way: i really missed the rain. That was a long sunny spell. Nothing wrong with a little sunshine, but come on, this city is supposed to be lush and green… It needs to be watered.

Anyway, this will be the first of a few posts focusing on some of the themes and thoughts emerging from various movies, shows, games, sites, books and other media we (Sara and i, mostly) have been turning to lately for entertainment.

Not that there’s a whole lot of time for such indulgences, really. But throughout the summer, and especially in the weeks since we got back from our epic travels (which maybe i’ll recap in another post), after we’ve finally put Roy to bed for the evening — which is a feat in itself sometimes, even though he’s not a fussy baby in general — once we’re on our own with two or three hours to act like grown ups… well, that’s what we do i guess: we usually have a snack and/or a cup of tea and watch something on TV. Although in our case “TV” means a 24-inch iMac, and “something” means Buffy the Vampire Slayer (and Angel).

Yeah, Buffy. Right now, that’s our jam.

And, just in case we aren’t the very last people on Earth (or the internet) to discover Buffy, let me just say, for the record: it’s actually even better than the best things you’ve heard anyone say about it. Probably ten times better. I’ve become a huge Joss Whedon fan in recent years — “backwards” in a way, because the first Whedon creation i ever saw was the life-changing masterpiece Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog. After that, on the recommendation of a very enlightened friend (who generously lent us the DVDs) we watched Firefly and Serenity. And we even managed to catch a few episodes of Dollhouse before it got cancelled (yup, i plan to buy it when the full series becomes available this fall). But we hadn’t watched Buffy.

Well, that’s not strictly true. Of course i remember when the original movie came out (the one with Luke Perry — hence my never watching it, to this day). But because i had heard, from so many reliable sources, that the show was exceptionally good, i downloaded it, put season one on my iPod and started watching it at the gym. And started going to the gym more often. But, though i was enjoying it, season one didn’t kidnap me and hold me for ransom. That happened later… Since i am resolutely opposed to even the slightest spoilers, i’ll say no more (for now), because i actually want to write about something else. A bunch of things, really, but i’ll pick one or two.

Last night we decided to interrupt our ongoing Buffy marathon — we’re on season five (season two of Angel) — and put on a movie for a change. Hey, we like to mix it up sometimes. When we’re feeling a little more energetic, we might play LEGO Harry Potter on the Wii (which is wicked, btw), but more often, we’re in a pretty passive mode in those stolen hours before our bedtime. So we let the actors (and directors, etc.) do the playing; we just watch.

Sara wanted to see The Golden Compass because she just finished reading the (audio)books. I’d overheard bits of the story and thought it sounded cool, so i was into it, but i enjoyed it even more thoroughly than i could have expected. I was literally cheering — especially for the Ian McKellen-voiced armored bear: holy shit, that bear fight was insane!

I had no idea, until after the usual post-movie IMDB and Wikipedia browsing, that the movie, and the books, had been so controversial. It seems awfully silly of course, but this is an “American” movie — based on a book by an English author, but… sometimes i forget how lucky we are to live in such a thoroughly secular country.

After enjoying the film, but subsequently learning of its embattled creation and existence, and having Sara explain several weaknesses arising from the film’s deviation from the source material — especially its compromises on the book’s criticism of authoritarian religious dogma (in general, and the Catholic church in particular) — and after reading about how the watering-down of those critical elements in the movie still wasn’t enough to prevent all kinds of wacky religious fanatics from attacking it (which certainly contributed to the disappointing box office performance in the U.S. that seems to have killed all hope for the sequels), i arrived at a conclusion.

The Golden Compass could have been an awesome achievement of profound cultural significance; instead it is “merely” a great adventure movie.

After sleeping (briefly, it seems), i felt that the sordid real-world tale of compromise in the face of censorship and intolerance ultimately overshadowed the joys of the fictional tale of a young heroine riding a noble polar bear. And that just makes the censorship even more upsetting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s always been plainly amazing to me that anyone actually believes in “the sky bully” but i’m slowly gaining an understanding of how religious institutions gain power, and of their parasitic relationship with people’s faith. That is, i’m learning some of the historical explanations (not justifications) of how the church could become (and, in some places, remain) so powerful for so long.

In my own immediate experience also, i’m gaining some insights into this.

Since we humans are (some say uniquely) animals that can modify our actions based not only on learning from things that have actually happened, but also by imagining things that could happen in the future, we can imagine our best possible future: success, integrity, happiness — this is often like taking a pleasant nap, and though such little dreams may not be folly (apologies, Voltairine) they are easy to forget — or, we can imagine our worst nightmares: failure, guilt, tragedy. And we (can) act accordingly: based on either the hopes or fears that our imagined futures inspire.

It’s an easy (not so “secret”) trap to fall into, to claim that we should focus only on the positive futures, and not dwell on the negative ones; but uncritical optimism isn’t just quaintly silly, it can be outrageously irresponsible. We may not individually be risking colossal oil spills, but anyone’s actions can have serious consequences. What’s on my mind, of course (no, it’s not "diversity of tactics" this time) is our baby.

Recently, we’ve had some of our first experiences of (moments of) genuine terror as parents.

In addition to the unspeakable fear that comes with Roy’s new ability to move around, and therefore hurt himself, comes new dimensions of potential guilt — which, perverse though it may be, is one example of where visions of hell (and heaven, of course) can be a comfort. A guilty conscience, wrapped in anger at oneself, can take comfort in knowing that eternal damnation awaits the souls of those who deserve to be punished. It can make things seem right, on a cosmic scale, when things here in the world seem wrong (and “it’s all my fault”). Don’t worry nothing horrible has actually happened. But i’m terribly aware of how easily something serious could.

Of course, i don’t believe in an angry, fearful, jealous, vengeful god. Or even, as Nick Cave put it, an “interventionist” one. I basically agree with Bakunin that, if such a god existed, it would be our job to destroy him. However, i also agree with Einstein, when he said: “I believe in Spinoza's God who reveals himself in the orderly harmony of what exists, not in a God who concerns himself with fates and actions of human beings.”

Thinking about this stuff set off an intricate chain of associations:

First, it reminded me of Michael J. Fox’s most recent book, and his gestures toward belief in a heaven without a hell (because there’s plenty of hell here on Earth), which in turn called to mind that chapter on hell in Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, which brought up Ulysses being banned, which made me think of an episode of censorship from my childhood: the Calgary comic shop (Comic Legends), where i bought hundreds of X-Men, Spiderman and Daredevil comics, got sued for selling obscene materials to minors, and there was a whole culture war that ensued… Ultimately this train of thought brought me back to the present, reflecting on the recent Pride parade (my first, and also Roy’s) and this great article from Xtra West.

So maybe being a happy dad isn’t as simple as i might’ve hoped when i announced that i was going to focus my writing less on the details of political debates, and more on the joys of culture and relationships, because of course those are all riddled with difficulties (including political schisms) and subject to debate as well, and even mundane moments of daily life contain hints of both bliss and torment.

Speaking of heaven, i was near there on Thursday, when Joanna Newsom and her band played at the Vogue — not as nice a venue as St. Andrew's-Wesley (where i saw her last time), but it wouldn’t matter where she played: her songs always take me closer to that celestial realm. But Sara (and Roy) couldn’t join me, so (despite the presence of many beautiful friends, for whom i’m deeply grateful), there was an extra layer of emotional potency in the music: the empty seat beside me seemed to echo with both enormous gratitude for my family, and the longing to share more of life with them than is possible.

The experience deserves a fuller description, but Roy’s awake now and i want to play with him. I’ve been showing him my musical instruments, and playing some songs. Today seems like a good day to sing Here Comes the Sun.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

PS: We'll be bringing Roy to Under the Volcano tomorrow; i'm looking forward to it, but i also can't believe it'll be the last one. So many memories...

Good-bye Mr. Blowhard

It seems to me, based, for example, on the comments i’ve seen posted (why-oh-why do i read comments sections?) in response to critical activist bloggers (like this one) who have the courage and integrity to publicly condemn highly public personal attacks being made against other activists — that:

most “radical” (and especially “anarchist”) activist discourse has, by now, devolved into something with less sophistication than the recipe for microwave popcorn.

So, because the emergent “radical” gangland language scares the shit out of me — in some ways even more so than angry cops — i’m making a point of shifting this blog in a new direction.

A few words to mark the transition…

Because, in theory, i write this for my own amusement, and for communication with my friends and family (though it’s open to the wide world of the web, and you!) and because following, let alone participating in, the constant status competitions (and insults and pathetically juvenile territorial pissings) that dominate online activist “debates” does not in any way amuse me or constitute communication of any value or significance in my view, i’m filing for a divorce from “the” activist “community” (and from anyone who is comfortable with that dubious phrase).

I plan to continue my passionate, sinful common-law relationship with activism; but i am *so* done paying any attention whatsoever to the prattle of sectarian fanatics.

The one-dimensionality of contemporary activist culture(s) may someday be overturned by a new (and improved?) Herbert Marcuse — but in my case i intend to simply, albeit emphatically, shrug. The coin was flipped and in response to the spirit of Emma Goldman’s (apocryphal?) quip about dancing, it has been decided that no, there shall be no dancing among “revolutionaries.” This has not been recognized because the “official” reply is that of course there will be, there must be dancing, dancing galore!

But it is always the same dance, forever. The same song. It isn’t even music anymore.

So i give up.

Not on justice (of course); not on people (for heaven’s sake!); not on anarchism (by god!). But i’m quite ready to give up on the charade of anarchist identity, and the bitter contest for cool radical street cred that it has become. I never wanted the prize, i only ever wanted to call bullshit on the game and end it — to help restore what i imagine(d) were the golden days of good faith pluralistic movement and community-building in a spirit of joie-de-vivre. Now i’ll just call bullshit and and exit. Not with a smash, but a whimper (and a groan).

Justice — which i understand in anarchist terms — is always worth fighting for. The prestigious label of “anarchist-therefore-most-authentic-revolutionary” is not.

If angry people seduced by a romanticized, violent gang-like mentality are determined to harass, insult and intimidate anyone who publicly questions or deviates from their paradoxically orthodox understanding of “anarchism” (which, in particular, valorizes property destruction, aka “diverse” tactics), then fine: let them claim victory. The kinds of verbal (and actually physical) abuse that self-appointed “revolutionary” missionaries of social justice are willing to inflict on “traitors” has disgusted me right into a state of withdrawal.

However, i should mention one happy aspect of this disturbing and painfully alienating period has been a renewal of my experiential appreciation of the importance of feminism to my politics and ethics.

I’ve been reminded of how central feminism has always been to (the development of) my political awareness. The vitality of contemporary feminism, and its many critical, proto-anarchistic tendencies, is a huge source of inspiration and consolation in the face of an ascendant yet moribund macho (pseudo-)anarcho-hooliganism. In fact, the power and momentum of feminism can help sustain exiled anarchists, and keep us connected to our actualities. It can help us to live in the world, in as broad a sense as possible — rather than in a ghetto.

My hands will hammer out letters, my feet will gladly pound the ground in picket lines — and in civil disobedience, when appropriate; my ass will stiffly sit in meetings, and it will shake grotesquely during celebrations, and my mind will luxuriate in reading. And my heart, a little brokenly (or not broken but walking with a limp, a little droopingly) will indeed go on (props: Celine Dion). And i will conspicuously count and share my blessings: my family and friends.

Over time, i expect that, through my (and “our”, since i am not alone) efforts, some small amount of good will eventually and cumulatively come... and very little harm. Though this is perhaps recklessly optimistic.

I will always carry with me, as i have for many years, some sadness for anarchism — for its having been barbarously sawed off of the classical liberal tree from which it sprang. It has been turned into a club, and will no longer put forth new leaves (but will recruit new members, if they pass inspection). A new branch may grow in its place, or from another tree, or an entirely new, more beautiful tree may grow.

…And maybe someday giant cockroaches, perhaps with some residual human DNA, will frolic among rainbows in an era of perfect justice — or, at least, will struggle for justice in a context of hope and meaningful solidarity.

Maybe. But i won’t hold my breath.

Starting now, i’m going to put my productive blogging energies into a more balanced effort to honor the wide variety of sources of joy in my life:



I'm going to write about the beautiful people (Roy, Sara, and y'all-know-who-you-are), and the wonderful things — by which, in addition to objects of the natural world, as well as ideas, experiences, achievements (including political victories), and other intangibles, i absolutely do also, specifically, mean commodities: the many amazing products, by-products and cultural artifacts that emerge from (and sometimes despite) the existing, abominable industrial economic system — as well as the heavenly places (that’s you, Vancouver) that i love.

I may occasionally mention or describe especially timely or generally interesting aspects of my ongoing academic inquiries into anarchist political philosophy (i’ll still share my favorite quotes, etc.), but such things shall no longer be either the only or even the primary subject of this blog. There are far too many other interesting (whether frivolous or important) things to think about. I’ve been neglecting them.

We do not live for struggle, we struggle for life. And life should be joyful.

Therefore another name change is in order... This blog began personally, as “ryanarchy.” It went through an awkward stage as “Rye/Anarchy,” and then suddenly became these “Anarcho-Dad Rants” when Roy was born. The subtitle has grown up too, from an overly wordy effort to encapsulate broad, heterodoxical and heterogeneous interests, to an overly succinct distillation of essential elements.

The title(s) may change again soon, but to represent my humble aspiration (rather than my achievement) of greater happiness (for myself and all of humanity), i've settled on “Happy Dad Rants” for now.

I hereby declare this blog free from the tyrannically self-censorious, hyper-political meta-anarchistic narrowness of focus that once infected it. I’ll write again soon — and more frequently, i imagine, now that the curse has been lifted.

But until then... game on!

"This" is why i’m an anarchist.

Toronto police terrorized a young family (not unlike my own) in their reckless, irresponsible pursuit of an allegedly reckless, irresponsible “anarchist” protester.

John Booth was amazingly charitable in his assessment of the cops’ actions: “The problem with the whole thing was that it was a very poorly researched and very poorly executed plan… A little due diligence on their part could’ve avoided the whole situation.” Apparently, in addition to veterinary science, Mr. Booth is also an expert in the field of diplomatic understatements. Hey, that’s a valuable skill too.

The tale is laced with bitter irony for me: This is why i’m an anarchist.

I’d like to extend the sentiments of a protester quoted by Globe writer Lisan Jutras, with whom she was mass arrested and stuck on a bus for hours; Jutras tweeted:

“They don't even know what they're protesting,” said a cop.
“Yes I do,” said one.
“What?”
“This,” she said.

The best concise characterization of anarchism i’ve ever read may have been the slogan on a fantastic patch i saw for sale at the NYC Anarchist Bookfair in 2009; it said: “Anarchists have to be as patient as slugs.” In hindsight, i really wish i’d bought the patch (if you know who made it, please tell me!). But, of course, i had already spent all my money on books.

Patience, respect for others and profound concern for all consequences of one’s actions (taking care not to make decisions without consulting those who will be affected by them); these are among the virtues, values and commitments at the core of my understanding of anarchism. So, as an anarchist, i’ve been increasingly frustrated, for years, with certain interpretations or appropriations of anarchism — though my frustration has begun to bloom into real anger during some recent debates about "diversity of tactics."

Therefore i’m quite sympathetic to the very many people (other activists, bystanders, shopkeepers, reporters, academics, and others — maybe even some fellow anarchists?) who also feel frustrated; as Andrew Potter tweeted: “I can't figure out who I hate more in all this, the anarchists or the cops.”

I submit this as further evidence that we must, in struggle, vigilantly distinguish ourselves from those we oppose. It doesn’t matter whether there are agents provocateurs among those who are destroying property. What matters is that we can’t be sure. This situation should be easy to avoid.

But, in the words of one commenter on a post at wagnignonviolence.org (where i first learned of the Booths’ treatment by the police), “Violent anarchy is an amazingly myopic philosophy, since effective anarchy–if we truly want freedom–requires so much more self-discipline and critical thinking than anarchists of this ilk seem to give.”

It saddens me to see how many anarchists have completely rejected the “radical admissions” that George Woodcock urged us to make, in the final pages of (the 1986 revised edition of) his famous history of anarchism. The opportunity to update and re-articulate his admissions in my current academic writing (my thesis project) is cold comfort.

At a time of outrageous abuses of state power, an anarchist critique ought to be taken more seriously than ever. Instead, those who espouse anarchism today often successfully live up to the very worst stereotypes of destructive stupidity that enemies of anarchism have been promoting for almost two centuries.

Windows are smashed by marauding anarchists. Hundreds of people are herded into custody (and many are hurt) by marauding police. Giant fences are erected between the powerful and the public. Fear proliferates...

I think i might have nightmares tonight.

Describing the 4 a.m. police invasion of their home, Hanna Booth said: “…they’re in my room. I’m in my panties and a tank top, my kid’s screaming his head off, he’s so scared, the tension in the house — it was just the most horrible and absurd thing.”

Horrible and absurd. I imagine that about captures the experience of many Torontonians during this G20 summit.

Between idiotic smashing and burning (and media fixation on images of it) and even scarier “security” measures (and the inevitable, brutal fiascoes they lead to), what are reasonable people (let alone those who profess a radical commitment to liberty and justice) supposed to do?

I don’t know. But tonight i’m going to kiss Sara and Roy and try to keep these words, which i read for the first time yesterday, in my mind as i drift off to sleep.

“I don’t know if you’ve known anybody that far back; if you’ve loved anybody that long, first as an infant, then as a child, then as a man, you gain a strange perspective on time and human pain and effort.” — James Baldwin, The fire next time (p. 4).

Happy Canada Day,
r.a.m.

PS: i share the suspicions of many who have wondered how exactly it came to be that two squad cars just happened to be sitting in the street with no officers there to protect them… Seems like maybe a new twist on the familiar (anti-theft) tactic — in any case it gives new meaning to the phrase — “Bait Cars.”

My little giant.

It’s almost midnight. I need to have a shower and go to bed. I’m tired, but too distracted to focus on anything — let alone something as concrete and mundane as hygiene or sleep.

Six months! How can my little Roy be six months old already? It makes no sense… Just the other night he was a tiny handful, blinking at me as he sat bundled into his swing. I remember so clearly this winter, how terrified i was when i felt his little fingers and they were cool to the touch — how i dashed to find his little mittens. My little baby.

Little. He still is. But he’s also a giant.

I remember reading him my old book about Finn McCool and Cúchulainn and the giants’ causeway — which is really a hilarious story about Finn's wife saving Finn from a beating (by convincing Cúchulainn that Finn himself is actually just their infant son). No wonder stories of giants have persisted for countless centuries: we are all born into a world of giants, but that world fades gradually into memory and then myth. Until we become parents and the illusion is restored but also reversed. When i hold Roy up in the air and look at him smiling down at me i somehow tap into that awareness of having once been so small. And i also become aware of his experience of time — or rather his experience of futurity. Damn it: children really are the future.

~~~

I had the honor of being asked to play guitar at a friend’s memorial service this month. His sudden passing was an enormous emotional shock, and even more so because he had suddenly been in my thoughts only a day before. Having been confronted so bluntly by mortality, in the same breath as my son’s first half-birthday, i’ve never felt so awake — or so grateful — in all my life.

I’ve started my Master’s thesis project — an “immanent critique” of contemporary anarchist activism. I’m actually worried that it may alienate some of my dearest friends; but i feel compelled to let my doubts to run their course. How else can i believe my own convictions?

So, as i feel closer now, closer to my partner and our child than i have ever felt to anyone, i’m also feeling somewhat alone… Re-reading Ursula Le Guin’s The Dispossessed, thinking of Shevek, an ambiguously epic subtext seems to emerge from every quiet (or loud) moment.

Reading, and listening to the birds, at UBC. Changing Roy’s diapers at night (he’s teething! He has two sharp, little teeth! And, i have learned, teething means more frequent diaper-changes). Making dinner. Staying up with Sara, watching old tv shows we’ve downloaded, after Roy’s gone to bed. Staying up alone, after Sara’s gone to bed, to write this. Waking up before both of them, sneaking into the living room to do some early stretches with the Wii Fit. Reading Ulysses to Roy before his morning nap. Riding my bike home from campus. Washing dishes. Staring at pictures from Roy’s first six months.

This is one hell of a life i’m living. Happy half-birthday little guy. I love you so much…

in (fear, anxiety, ambivalence and) ...solidarity?

The ongoing controversies and debates over "diversity of tactics" have been very much on my mind this week (of course). Fortunately, in a few hours, some good folks will be hosting a serious conversation about it.

If, like me, you've been somewhat ambivalent in the aftermath of (some of) the recent anti-olympic protests, you might enjoy this piece — i did. It summarizes several major concerns that i share, and manages to articulate some complex thoughts with admirable delicacy…

At least two friends have already posted it on FB, but i'm passing it on again, because i think this is important (and useful) stuff.

However i’m afraid it ultimately begs the question(s) of what solidarity and “respect for ‘diversity of tactics’” might actually mean… And i think it falls prey, at times, to some of the (covertly) authoritarian tendencies that plague what ‘we’ call the left…

I’m left with questions, such as: What underlies the fears of "going soft" etc.?

And: Are the venomous (“nothing i hate more…”) dismissals directed at "conservative" leftists — and those (like me?) who would “demand order and regulation and discipline in the movement” — completely genuine?

Or are such statements mere formalities: required for ‘legitimate’ participation in a ‘radical’ discourse that is governed by a dogmatic (and mercilessly enforced) vanguardist (neo/pseudo-) anarchism?

(note: of course, i don't entirely endorse the criticisms in the links [eg: "reform vs. revolution" = bor-ing!], but there are some interesting parallels to be found, for example, between this and what i've been enjoying, lately, in the works of Nancy Fraser — concerning "the general political problem of how to construct cultures of solidarity that are not homogenizing and repressive").

What i mean is: i feel that this author, in daring to critique the prevailing (…with us or against us) reactions on both sides of the debate within the left, is couching his critique in violent pieties to establish credibility — why is this (and the frequently apologetic tone) necessary? Perhaps because the author knows how vicious and unforgiving our “comrades” can be…

I (Still) Want a Torture Inquiry

Dear Prime Minister Harper,

this response (below) from your office is wholly inadequate and, frankly, disturbingly dismissive of extremely serious accusations that have yet to be satisfactorily investigated. The fact that I have received such a perfunctory response at a time when you have prorogued parliament — and thus disrupted the inquiry that was underway — would be shocking, if it did not fit so neatly into the pattern of contempt that your administration has established.

I wish to reassert my support for a thorough inquiry into the allegations of Canadian complicity in torture. I also call on you to publicly acknowledge that your administration's failure to prioritize this inquiry is totally unacceptable.

I look forward to a more serious reply.

Sincerely,
ryan andrew murphy

-----
On 01-12-2010, at 7:08 AM, Prime Minister/Premier ministre wrote:

On behalf of the Prime Minister, thank you for your recent correspondence regarding the handling of Afghan detainees. Our office has noted your concerns. Please rest assured that your comments have been carefully reviewed.

On the occasions when our military and officials have been presented with credible, substantiated evidence of mistreatment, they have taken appropriate action. In May 2007, in response to concerns regarding prisoner treatment, we signed a new Afghan detainee transfer agreement enhancing the previous Liberal arrangement and ensuring a more robust monitoring mechanism.

Our soldiers serving in Afghanistan have done an excellent job in extremely adverse circumstances. Accusations that our troops are complicit in war crimes are wholly inappropriate and constitute nothing more than second-guessing the Canadian Forces almost four years after the fact and 12,000 kilometres away.

Thank you for taking the time to write.

Sincerely,
Susan I. Ross
Assistant to the Prime Minister