Throwing stones

For several months, I had only a vague idea of what happened at the U.S. Capitol on January 6th, 2021.  I'm a Canadian, for one thing.  For another, I found it unutterably depressing.  I do remember thinking at the time:  Holy Cow, my cousin was right.

Said cousin lives in California, and was sending me distressed texts in late 2020, saying that democracy in the US was in severe danger.  

I have awoken deeply concerned. None of Trump’s many minions who now fill the seats in the Senate and House have in any way acknowledged the validity of the results of our free and fair election. Their silence is ominous. Ignoring the votes of the American people is outrageous.  He is calling for Civil War. Many of his most ardent supporters are heavily armed.

Democracies around the world need to stand up for the sanctity of the democratic process. This slide towards authoritarianism  must be stopped. Globally, we cannot afford to lose American democracy. The American people have done our job and voted him out in a free and fair election. We urgently need our international partners to speak up.

Back in December 2020, I thought she was overreacting.

It was only when Home Box Office came out with a documentary entitled Four Hours at the Capitol, that I sat down to watch and listen.  It's still unutterably depressing, and I'm still a Canadian, although events in Ottawa earlier this year make trying to understand what went on in Washington DC more pertinent.  No country, after all, is immune to populism, and I'm getting worried about democracy in Canada, to tell you the truth.

Four Hours at the Capitol, which tells the story with no narration other than interviews, and follows events through phone footage (mostly by marchers and attackers), security cameras, and police vest-cams, has been criticised for giving screen time to insurrectionists, but I don't really see how a documentary on the subject can leave them out.  Besides, to someone like me, who has only a faint idea of the various factions involved, it was of some help, although I was quite confused at first.

Early on, I had to sort out just who the interviewees were.  They are identified, of course, as they speak, but the protesters are often described in rather vague terms. I was particularly interested in the testimonies of journalists, whom I ended up having to Google -- which also worried me, because it makes my search history look peculiar.

The three journalists that we hear the most from - mainly because they were in the thick of it - are Taylor Hansen (The Gateway Pundit), Brendan Gutenschwager (described as an "Independent Videographer"), and Ashley Gilbertson (an Australian photographer for the New York Times).  Hansen and Gutenschwager are youthful; Hansen looks as if he's only recently begun shaving.  Gilbertson has the air of a grizzled news veteran.  All of them give clear and articulate accounts - a relieving counterpoint to the mob's limited cache of simple slogans (ie. "1776!" "F*** Antifa!" "Stop the steal!", etc.) but it's only as the documentary progressed that I got a handle on Hansen's sympathies - I'd never heard of the Gateway Pundit.  He uses the words "patriot" and "patriotic" a lot, and he uses them as a synonym for "Trump supporter".  Gutenschwager is harder to nail down, he apparently has documented many demonstrations in the US, and sells footage to major news outlets.  Gilbertson just sounds incredulous, someone who followed the crowd into the Capitol, and couldn't believe what he was recording.

For me, the most unsettling witness is a guy called Nick Alvear, a young, pretty, bearded guy who looks like he could have stepped through a time portal from the late sixties and early seventies. 

He was filmed firing up a joint in the great hall of the Capitol, after members of the mob broke in. Apparently, it occurred to him that he had seven additional joints on him, so he passed them out. Months later, in his interview for this film, he beatifically contemplates this gesture, commenting on how he toned the energy down and perhaps stopped some serious s*** from happening. 

He looks like several of the young men I knew at the Unitarian church when I was a young woman (a hotbed of liberalism), so it's jarring to hear him earnestly declare that Trump is speaking out against the enslavement, rape and torture of children. 

He's referring to the truly bizarre "Pizzagate" myth, which has become part of the overarching "QAnon" conspiracy theory. Our soft-spoken alt-right quasi-hippy somehow misses the irony of thousands of children separated from their parents at the Mexican border under Trump's "zero-tolerance" policy towards illegal immigration (i.e. refugees) -- something that is actually documented, unlike Pizzagate. 

There's further irony: Alvear was born in Venezuela, under the name Eduardo Nicholas Alvear Gonzales.      

The violence is difficult to watch, and I'm not the first one to wonder how violent it would have been, had the crowd been anything but predominantly white.

Particularly gripping are the testimonies of those inside: the woefully outnumbered security personnel, the senators, and staff members.  A young woman on Speaker Nancy Pelosi's staff, who is clearly the same age as my daughters, describes the hours of hiding under a table in a locked room, not daring to text her parents for fear of weeping and telling them goodbye.

We see insurrectionist Ashli Babbitt shot, by a clearly terrified Capitol Police officer. (Taylor Hansen describes her as "so patriotic".) She died almost immediately. We see a policeman hauled out into the crowd, beaten and tasered repeatedly.  He survived, but was badly injured and traumatized. We hear of the four police officers who committed suicide in the weeks following the attack.

Mostly, I was left with an impression of lasting damage, both physical and emotional - and a frightening revelation of how much damage was there before this march got out of hand, and how deeply much of America is in the grip of delusion.

It's the long weekend of the Canadian Thanksgiving.  I could be grateful for being a Canadian - and I am - but, about the same time I first saw this documentary, the truck convoy invaded Hades.  I have a painful story about that, which will have to wait until I can bear to tell it.

Holy cow.  My cousin was right.

Not wanting to know

Oh, but last week was balmy, fading away into evenings of gentle shades of mustard and rust. We didn't know Leonard Cohen was already dead.

Down by the Rideau River, the pathway seemed to glow in a deep aquamarine. It all reminded me, a little uncomfortably, of an evening eight years ago, which also happened to coincide with the American election.
I slipped off to the Bytowne Cinema for a movie, but returned too soon, so tuned into one of the few television channels not covering the events south of the border, before scooting off to bed early.

The next morning, I awoke at 5:26 and thought:  I don't know who won.  Let's keep it that way for another hour.

So I guess my heart knew.

In the coffee shop, a young fella told us that his American girlfriend had voted Libertarian in the advance polls, being a Bernie Sanders fan.  They're planning to immigrate.

"The Canadian Immigration web site has crashed!" he said, the air of someone delivering astonishing news.  I knew; I'd been standing in horror by the radio speakers in my bedroom.

A man fixing his coffee at the creamer and sweetener station by the door, looked up.
"Trump got in?"

He must have been the last person in Ottawa to know.

A couple of days later, the young fella was seated with his girlfriend in the coffee shop.  He recognized me but thought he'd seen me the day before.  I reminded him it had been the morning after the election.  His girlfriend was a bit taken aback that he'd been discussing her vote with strangers.

"I didn't vote for Trump," she muttered.

I decided it would be unkind to point out that, if she hadn't voted for Hillary Clinton, she had essentially voted for Trump.

Every morning, for the past week, I've woken up with a feeling similar to that when I first learned that younger daughter was special needs.  I feel depressed, trapped, and rather terrified about the future.

At the very least, I don't know how I will be able to face seeing and hearing the likes of Newt Gingrich and Ann Coulter in the media again.

I don't care to discuss the very worst.

Without again

This is Elliott Brood.  It's the name of the group, not an individual.  This song doesn't describe my situation, but certain lines do.



The road divides ahead
Just wide awake in bed
Unaware of suspicious feelings happening again

His love went south, and he'll go west
A mountain of song couldn't fill that hole in his chest
That she left when she said that he was like the rest

So get up and get out
What're you down about?
Put it back on the shelf
Just have to go without again

Leave it to Kafka

There were hints in yesterday's horoscope about how today might turn out:  This is a poor day to ask bosses, parents, teachers and VIPs for permission or approval.  Trust me.  Save your breath.  The response will be rejections, criticism or at best skepticism.  Someone older might question your ability or technique.  Try to sidestep this if you can. 

While this was not precisely what happened, I should have known better than to attempt to renew our passports.

I had planned everything carefully.  We had filled out the documents, included new photos and old passports.  I had birth certificates for the three of us. All this carefully tucked in a ziplock bag with the bus itinerary I had printed up to get myself from our house in north-east Ottawa to the new (to us) passport office somewhere near the Hog's Back.  I checked and re-checked while standing at the bus stop, removing and replacing my mittens.  My fingers were pink as I took my seat.  I stuffed my mittens down the front of my parka to take the chill off and tucked my hands against the skin under my sleeves until my thumbs ached less and my cuticles burned only a little.

The Passport Office is a long, low greyish structure sticking out incongruously from an older small mall.  It looks like a bunker.  It's not much better inside.  Rows of plastic benches painted a metallic silver in the centre, numbered kiosks on two walls with desks for filling forms along another wall.  The queue is by the remaining wall, of course.

I joined the line-up to have my documents grouped and my number assigned, then took a place on a stretch of empty bench, listening to the howls and squeals of half a dozen infants and toddlers.  I would have listened to my iPod, but I was in the midst of a recording of the 2011 BBC radio dramatization of Life and Fate by Vasily Grossman, set in the Soviet Union of World War Two and rife with bleak institutions, heartless bureaucracy, and snow. Appropriate listening perhaps, but I was feeling alienated enough.  The only natural light came from the skylight, which was largely covered with - well - snow, of course.

I kept my eyes on the lighted panels waiting for my combination of letters and numbers to flash up.  After a bit more than half an hour, they did and I made my way to the indicated gate.  No one was there.  I peered around the partitions and double-checked the number at the station. My processor appeared suddenly from beneath the counter where she had been filing or rummaging.  She looked rather like Tina Fey on a grim day.

I carefully laid out my documents in front of her:  three filled-out applications with the newly expired passports.
"Do you have photo ID such as a driver's license?"
I stared at her momentarily.  I may have gaped a little.
"I don't drive.  That's why I use my passport for ID."
"Do you have something else with your address on it?  Maybe a bill?"
I rummaged in my bag, but knew it was no use.  I don't carry my bills around, and the Ontario Health card stopped including an address years ago, presumably for "privacy" reasons.
"Is there anything about this on the web site?" I asked in despair.
"Well, I'm not sure, but there should be.  Who are you submitting these applications for?"
"My husband and daughter."
"Do you have letters of authorization?"

My heart sank even further.  The last time we renewed, the Resident Fan Boy went in for all three of us and was done in a jiffy.  No one asked for authorization.

I had put my health card back in my bag, but she asked to see it again and typed figures into her machine, popping a small sheet with my new passport photo pasted to it for me to sign.  I suspected she was going to accept this as identification, but said nothing.  Years of dealing with school secretaries have taught me to shut up when something appears to be going through.

I made notes of the requirements for these letters of authorization which would need to be faxed, and finally tottered away, feeling squished and processed.  I quickly texted the RFB, and headed for the bus stop.  If I didn't hurry, I would miss the connection and be late picking up younger daughter from school.

My cell phone went off as I peered down the road through the snow blowing in my face.  It was the Resident Fan Boy in full  and disbelieving fuss.  I gave a few more details, then told him the bus was coming.  I don't do well with multi-tasking.

In my seat and rechecking where I would need to change buses, the phone went off again.  This never happens.  No one calls me; they always text.  It was elder daughter phoning from Halifax, so this had to be an emergency.

See, she learned last week that her internship for her fourth year journalism degree was going to be with with CBC in London.  The one in England.  The longed-for dream.  This is set for April and gives precious little time to fulfill the requirements for a British visa.

She had had an appointment with a Bank of Montreal manager that day to acquire an official letter (with letterhead, according to the stipulations) assuring the powers that be that she has sufficient funds -- especially since this is an unpaid position.  The reason  she needed an appointment is because when she went into her local bank last week and made the request, the lady at the counter thought a photo-copy with a business card stapled to it would do the trick.

However, this was not why she was phoning.  The visa application also requires "biometrics" (fingerprints) performed at an appropriate lab.  Good thing there is such a lab in Halifax -- except there are no slots available until April and the application has already been submitted.

"Well," the lady on the phone told my incredulous daughter, "we have offices in St John's, Montreal, Ottawa, and Vancouver."  (For those of you unfamiliar with Canadian geography, all of these cities are in different time zones from Halifax.)

I had to make that transfer, and hastily told despairing daughter that we'd work something out.

Trudging up the long avenue in the wake of a cortège of roaring snow-trucks and ploughs, I thought of the radio version of Life and Fate again, with its mournful bayan theme music, and a character applying for a residence permit, only to be told by the authorities that she must have a letter from her employer.  Her employer can't write the letter without permission from the office that supplies the permits and the authorities refuse to give permission, yet demand the letter.

"How's your day going?" inquired the vice-principal at younger daughter's school.
"Kafkaesque."
She looked blank.  She teaches social studies and P.E.
When I explained, she nodded.  Ministry of Education officials had just been in.

It was only when I got home that I realized one of younger daughter's given names was misspelled -- although spelled correctly on the application, the expired passport, and her birth certificate which I had provided. The Resident Fan Boy made a note of this in the letter of authorization.

Elder daughter flies in from Halifax tomorrow.  Her appointment at the Ottawa lab is on Friday.  She flies back Sunday.  I wonder if she's considered committing a crime in Halifax so that they'd take her fingerprints.  Of course, that would probably negate the visa....

Hades freezes over -- and over

Oh January. You're so new, yet get old so quickly.

We're up to our armpits in younger daughter's summatives. (For non-Ontarians, they're the projects due at the end of each semester in high school, in January and June.) The hot-water heater is not working and it turns out be the breakers, so after a visit from the hot-water-tank guys this afternoon, we're due to have the electrician in tomorrow morning. We've had a bit of freezing rain, followed by unseasonably warm days which have melted the piles and piles of snow from before and after Christmas so that rivulets stream across the driveways and sidewalks which freeze over night, while the dog poop that so many people have failed to pick up is being inexorably revealed.

No end in sight until April at the earliest and not even then.

Dammit. Here's some pictures I took before it got ugly. I'm going to bed.

Enervation

So many things I would have done -- the clouds got in my way.Stuff from left field again. I drugged myself with family research and funny videos on YouTube, and every time I stopped, the pain came seeping back like a burned finger. I won't burden you with it.

The Wall

. . .But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. . . . - Desiderata, Max Ehrmann, (Sept 1872 - Sept 1945). Copyright 1927.

Ten more posts to go on this NaBloPoMo thing. The last thing I want to do this morning is to post, but if I don't write something, this overloaded day will trample me and I won't get anything blogged. Do you know when you wake up one morning and you know you have the flu? This morning I woke up with a bad case of black despair. It will pass. Desperation is a luxury I can't afford. I'm taking double doses of evening primrose oil, grasping the lifelines of FlyLady and any positive thought I can catch without crushing. I'm having an interview with a private school for younger daughter today. I don't know how we'll afford it or even if it's not going to be a huge mistake. Then we have to meet elder daughter's teachers this evening. Prayers and warm thoughts welcome.

Railing against the tireless watcher

2005 was not a great year. In fact, I would join with Lucy Van Pelt of the comic strip Peanuts in declaring that I had been stuck with a "used year". That February, I saw a television special called From Time to Time. It was a suite of six dances, all set to Joni Mitchell songs. The fifth of these was called "Neighbourhood Suite" and was set to "Sire of Sorrow", a song that I had not heard until then, probably because at the time the album "Turbulent Indigo" came out, I had one small child and was expecting another. The song haunted me for days after the television show, particularly its chorus: O you tireless watcher, what have I done to you, that you make everything I dread and everything I fear come true? In fact, one winter morning, as I was accompanying younger daughter to school from a speech therapy appointment, I was so mesmerized by that song playing in my head that I missed our Transitway stop and ended up way out in Orleans, having to find our way back.

The song is meant to be Job, railing at God from his ash pit, where he has retreated, covered with sores, having lost everything including his children. His neighbours come down to the edge of the pit to offer advice and to suggest what he may have done to tick God off. (Not helpful.) Eventually God himself shows up, only to ask: Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth? (Actually not terribly helpful, either.) Job is eventually relieved of his suffering and gets to have more kids, but the scholars aren't kidding when they say Job is one of the more problematic stories of the Bible.

The first person voice in "Sire of Sorrow" is for me, however, unmistakeably that of a woman, which is why this song gets me where I live. Besides, 2008 is showing all the hallmarks of being a "used year". Here's a YouTube video that furnishes the lyrics:

....and He (She?) has a warped sense of humour....

...because I couldn't get Disc Number One or Five to play --- and those are the ones with the David Tennant video diaries. Furthermore, these are scant, compared to previous seasons because DT claims he hasn't "any more stories to tell". For gawd's sake, man, unbutton your shirt a little and read the phone book! These discs will play on the upstairs DVD player, but get this, we accidentally lost the remote in the waste bin one Garbage Day and we can't access "Special Features". Aaaaaargh!! I finally got both discs to play downstairs, but only saw a few minutes of the video diary before rushing out to retrieve younger daughter from school. Now I'm home, the Resident Fan Boy and elder daughter are watching "Voyage of the Damned" without any features and it isn't even one of the good ones....

What exactly did I do to tick you off, God? (No, no, put that list away...)

There is a God

Sorry, not meaning to upset my atheist friends, but the last 24 hours have stunk to high heaven, and it's taken every ounce of strength that I have not to sink into the slough of despond. Someone rapped on our front door:

See you later...