Repent!

It's Friday the thirteenth again.
Can't go on like this: it can't and I can't neither.

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Laerte: Este é o strip mais estranho que já fiz. / This is the strangest strip I've ever done.         The other book she read and reread, repeatedly, was John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress. She felt in her bones the crippling burden born by the Man mired in the Slough of Despond, she followed his travels through wilderness and the Valley of the Shadow, his encounters with Giant Despair and the fiend Apollyon. Bunyan’s tale had a clear message and meaning. Not so, Asgard and the Gods. That book was an account of a mystery, of how a world came together, was filled with magical and powerful beings, and then came to an end. A real End. The end. A.S. Byatt 'Ragnarök', excerpt from chapter 2.   This is exactly where (at the third reading) I finally see exactly how I've gone wrong. As is usual with epiphanies (if our Northrop is any example) it will be longer in the telling. I didn't see it when Paul told me in the 70s, and I went along and went along with ol' Foxy Loxy as long as I could possibly do so. Even when the horrendous (and probably inevitable) truth of it became too clear to deny I tried to just walk away - into rejection (some of it imagined) solitude and lonliness as it turns out, enervation, despair, beyond despair, desperation ... using up most of the good capital (stamina & humour) my father left to me. To here: where I (finally) see that I might have done differently - and without compromising either vision or integrity. Oh my! Oh well. Matthew: From that time Jesus began to preach, and to say, Repent: for the kingdom of heaven is at hand. Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. And whosoever shall not receive you, nor hear your words, when ye depart out of that house or city, shake off the dust of your feet. Please don't be fooled or misled ('mɪsled' - with a long 'i' and the stress on the first syll-able - as Anita used to say it) by these bits of scripture. It's just counterpoint. Like Lennie's "I wonder what they meant?" I won't play your 'what if?' game. Ah, but I'm playing for keeps.   "Faith of our fathers holy faith, we shall be true to thee till death." To which saccharine sentiment I respond, "And will you have Crise de foi with your Crise de foie (gras)?" They say the universe is expanding. This little part of it, not. They say the sun will explode in some billions of years anyway - so what difference? Nothing to lose though, or nothing more; light & easy, easy breezy. "There will be nothing to lose till you lose your heart," as it goes in the old tune (which I will try to find later, if I remember). I get up onto a streetcar behind an old man who has pissed himself. It's a moment I can't forget. Peer Gynt outwits the button-moulder ... alas, I am not so clever. I think of 'Perennial Philosophy' as the Golden Rule. Turns out there is a marginal connection between them but the main 'thrust' of the Perennial seems to be any old kind of woo-woo mysticism. OK then, (maybe) I stand corrected on that (and maybe not). It's the Golden Rule that appears again and again and after all and essentially unchanged regardless of formulation, while each iteration of the woo-woo is 'so' unique. Why don't you put    Why don't you put     Why don't you put    Why don't you put   Who are you your memories         your metaphors         your jaws                your molecules        really? on paper?                on the clothesline?     in the barrel?           in a credit rating?    I'm not shouting! At first it seemed like a good idea to include these two stories in their entirety within the post - but the links are probably dependable enough for now:             Entropy by Thomas Pynchon, 1960 (5,400 words); and,             Sea Story by A.S. Byatt, 2013 (2,200 words). Both authors are now in their late 70s - Byatt born in 1936 and Pynchon in 1937 - and this is about all there is in the way of similarity beyond arrogant intellectual pretentiousness. Both have sufficiently displayed their ample feet of clay over the years. Neither is fit for a following of devotees even if it is true that Pynchon's strangeness has attracted a bit of a cult. The Pynchon link includes the author's opinion of the story - he doesn't like it (and this could be a strong recommendation). The publication dates alone should be enough to show that the stories come out of very different times and spaces. In many ways these writers are no more than somewhat senior versions of Malcolm Gladwell augmented with luck and competence. So then, suppose you just read the two stories in stand-alone mode? As far as that's possible what with the scientific, literary & musical references in 'Entropy'; and supposing you know already that Perrier bottles are no longer made of glass; and then meditate, consider, wonder ... how their bones (as it were) might shed any light (or even seem to shed any light) for a fat, stupid, soon to be homeless old man who has just realized he took the wrong turnings. And I write sincerely hoping that such wondering may be useful to someone. In the spring of 2010 I am still talking with one of my sisters and she asks me what I'm thinking. So I point at the latest blog post (March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb) and she actually goes away and reads it, all of it including the stories. Imagine! Then comes an email asking what it's about. I answer (something like this - all the emails have been subsequently lost): "It's Easter time, seems right to be thinking about rebirth, regeneration; about the Phoenix, Simorgh, Simurgh, Samandar ...; about Bamyan, Bamiyan, Bamian ... and the destroyed Buddhas there; and about 'Lady Chatterley's Lover' (the covers of some editions include Lawrence's drawing of a Phoenix). And that's where the conversation stops. I don't get around to really thinking about Quetzalcoatl for several more years (despite Bob Weston's gift of his Quetzalcoatl belt buckle four decades previous) - nor to the serious doubts about Lawrence's motivations springing from a reading of 'The Plumed Serpent'. I'm sure there's no connection between the stoppage and the ... stoppage.         There before him, a glittering toy no Star-Child could resist, floated the planet Earth with all its peoples.         He had returned in time. Down there on that crowded globe, the alarms would be flashing across the radar screens, the great tracking telescopes would be searching the skies - and history as men knew it would be drawing to a close.         A thousand miles below, he became aware that a slumbering cargo of death had awoken, and was stirring sluggishly in its orbit. The feeble energies it contained were no possible menace to him; but he preferred a cleaner sky. He put forth his will, and the circling megatons flowered in a silent detonation that brought a brief, false dawn to half the sleeping globe. Then he waited, marshaling his thoughts and brooding over his still untested powers. For though he was master of the world, he was not quite sure what to do next. But he would think of something. Stanley Kubrick: 2001-A Space Odyssey, 1968, concluding chapter 47 - Star-Child.   [The obvious symmetries are not always best. The character in the book & film is Dave f'rinstance, and my name is David. Easy to imagine a certain ... putting on of airs. And you, gentle reader, can have it any way you like.   ;-)   I do think that Arthur Clarke had very very little to do with it.] Do lemmings put their head up their ass on the way to the cliff edge I wonder? Obediently following the official instructions on what to do in the event of an air crash or nuclear explosion? Don't mind me. I'm probably one of those poor sods with Dunning–Kruger syndrome. (Though if you read their paper you may suspect - as I do - that it don't wash.) Be that as it may, John Cleese's rant is worth the minute it takes to watch ('cept he don't include American Senators among the heavy abusers); and Garrison Keillor's somewhat subtler Prairie Home Companion skit is a good'un too. This year's Canadian Year of the Ram stamps make me think of the 2003 sphinx, Canadian version, made of snow, and none of them are anything like a ram at all. You may think it strange that the Green Party logo is there on that sign with the others. OK, do this: read The Green Party of Canada's platform, in brief or in (100 page .pdf) detail and then show me how it is sufficient to avert the unfolding environmental catastrophe. I get a different message from Elizabeth May herself - see here. I have been following up in my riding (Beaches-East York) and will report again soon. (Several days of effort so far and no clues yet.) Adão Iturrusgarai: How to turn a junkie into an ecologist: Trash talk that we're         Without water you can't            Coca plants and             Defend the Planet! running out of water.         make beer and whisky ...          poppies die ...                Save Water! I'm surrounded by idiots.   Outside of them there's     Next there's a great         I provide light and heat                                         a circle of imbeciles.         wheel of cretins.            for the whole system. [This last one's included just to show that even Laerte can be the victim of her own psychology (not all of which she is necessarily the cause of though responsible for) combined with inappropriate rhetorical follow-through. She's a tennis player perhaps.] Sometimes the uncertainty descends so heavily, all personality, identity dissolves. Black terror one would do anything to escape except one has no idea what the 'anything' might be ... ... and then ... it passes.   Just listen (even if it chokes you) to Chris Hedges talking with Abby Martin and then show me how to realistically walk around what they're saying. Addenda: A 2009 interview with A.S. Byatt in which she says of herself: I think of writing simply in terms of pleasure. It's the most important thing in my life, making things. Much as I love my husband and my children, I love them only because I am the person who makes these things. I, who I am, is the person that has the project of making a thing. Well, that's putting it pompously - but constructing. I do see it in sort of three-dimensional structures. And because that person does that all the time, that person is able to love all these people.   Two poems from 'Parasites of Heaven', Leonard Cohen, 1966. I buy the book in one of the bookstores on the south side of Sherbrooke Street opposite McGill and read it in the Mansfield Tavern that used to be on the Sherbrooke corner. It's sunny and cold that day I think. 1966. In the very next pidgeon-hole over is the title poem from 'Bring Forth the Cowards', Pierre Coupey, 1964. I always want to say "Call forth the cowards". I went to some trouble a few years ago and got the book from the stacks in the Toronto Public Reference Library and photocopied the poem and then transcribed it incorrectly (the scanner software choked I think and I didn't check it well enough) into a blog post somewhere ... here it is. Some silly thing. I had decided to get copies of all of Dudek's McGill Poetry Series or something like that. I might have bought several of them that day. My library then was kept in a lovely oak bookshelf with glass doors that my mother got for me when we moved to Montreal from Toronto - in 1960 or so. I remember her buying it for me. It was expensive, even second hand, but she didn't hesitate. All gone now: bookcase, books, mother, even memories; and yet these few poems remain, grains of sand in the flesh of an oyster that have never become pearls. Haveta laff.

So you're the kind of vegetarian    that only eats roses Is that what you mean with your Beautiful Losers                                     1965

The nightmares do not suddenly develop happy endings             I merely step out of them as a five year old scientist leaves the room where he has dissected an alarm clock Love wears out like overused mirrors unsilvering             and parts of your faces make room for the wall behind If terror needs my round green eyes for a masterpiece             let it lure them with nude key-holes mounted on an egg And should Love decide I am not the one             to stand scratching his head wondering what wall to lean on             send King Farouk to argue or come to me dressed as a fast

 
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And more, and more, and more!

And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more!      

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They changed the time again yesterday. They changed the time yesterday, the bastards! They changed the time yesterday, the bureaucrat bastards! They changed the time yesterday, the fuckin' bastards! They changed the time yesterday, the goddam fat fuckin' bureaucrat bastards!

The Walrus and the Carpenter Lewis Carroll, 1871.   The sun was shining on the sea, Shining with all his might: He did his very best to make The billows smooth and bright— And this was odd, because it was The middle of the night. The moon was shining sulkily, Because she thought the sun Had got no business to be there After the day was done— “It’s very rude of him,” she said, “To come and spoil the fun!” The sea was wet as wet could be, The sands were dry as dry. You could not see a cloud, because No cloud was in the sky: No birds were flying overhead— There were no birds to fly. The Walrus and the Carpenter Were walking close at hand; They wept like anything to see Such quantities of sand: “If this were only cleared away,” They said, “It would be grand!” “If seven maids with seven mops Swept for half a year, Do you suppose,” the walrus said, “That they could get it clear?” “I doubt it,” said the Carpenter, And shed a bitter tear. “O, Oysters, come and walk with us!” The Walrus did beseech. “A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, Along the briny beach: We cannot do with more than four, To give a hand to each.” The eldest Oyster looked at him, But never a word he said: The eldest Oyster winked his eye, And shook his heavy head— Meaning to say he did not choose To leave the oyster-bed. But four young Oysters hurried up, All eager for the treat: Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, Their shoes were clean and neat- And this was odd, because, you know, They hadn’t any feet. Four other Oysters followed them, And yet another four; And thick and fast they came at last, And more, and more, and more- All hopping through the frothy waves, And scrambling to the shore. The Walrus and the Carpenter Walked on a mile or so, And then they rested on a rock Conveniently low: And all the little Oysters stood And waited in a row. “The time has come,” the Walrus said, “To talk of many things: Of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax— Of cabbages—and kings— And why the sea is boiling hot— And whether pigs have wings.” “But wait a bit,” the Oysters cried, “Before we have our chat; For some of us are out of breath, And all of us are fat!” “No hurry!” said the Carpenter. They thanked him much for that. “A loaf of bread,” the Walrus said, “Is what we chiefly need: Pepper and vinegar besides Are very good indeed— Now if you’re ready, Oysters dear, We can begin to feed.” “But not on us!” the Oysters cried, Turning a little blue, “After such kindness, that would be A dismal thing to do!” “The night is fine,” the Walrus said. “Do you admire the view?” “It was so kind of you to come! And you are very nice!” The Carpenter said nothing but “Cut us another slice: I wish you were not quite so deaf— I’ve had to ask you twice!” “It seems a shame,” the Walrus said, “To play them such a trick, After we’ve brought them out so far, And made them trot so quick!” The Carpenter said nothing but “The butter’s spread too thick!” “I weep for you,” the Walrus said: “I deeply sympathize.” With sobs and tears he sorted out Those of the largest size, Holding his pocket-handkerchief Before his streaming eyes. “O Oysters,” said the Carpenter, “You had a pleasant run! Shall we be trotting home again?” But answer came there none— And this was scarcely odd, because They’d eaten every one.

A monument to our pattern of failure says Christopher Robin. Peter Dickinson, Regent Park.   Peter Dickinson smoked cigarettes by the look of it. Chris Hume probably doesn't. Hume understands the social & political but some of his phrases ('integrated urban element' f'rinstance) are troubling. The first photographs I saw of the museum in Bilbao in 1998 took me by surprise (and filled me with such envy and regret): "That's what I wanted to do (but 'they' wouldn't let me, snif)." Old age & arrogance will undo youth and skill. What set him off (apparently) was a question about spectacle. Whatever you might ask about the plan for King Street West might just possibly include a question about self-indulgent spectacle - he probably wouldn't like that either. I assume he does not think of himself as creating any of the 98% shit and views his work as part of the 2% which is not shit. Fair enough, but can I wonder if the greed barons need? deserve? such theatres for their productions and such housing for their minions? Would not having the colliseum affect events in ancient Rome? Probably not. A big question which I can't answer. Dildoes have heads but some of these erections don't look like a comfortable fit (don't even think about The Shard). The Brit seems to get it, maybe it's a boarding school thing - but it looks to me like all of 'em could be having some conversations between their upstairs and their downstairs.

Presentation of the New Times: Message for the young: Sex is not         It's the second most                 Congratulations!     the most important thing in life.         important thing in life!             You already know about oral sex. Is there still any solidarity in the world?         Sure. Lots of it.                 But it's private property. Just listen (even if it chokes you) to Chris Hedges talking with Abby Martin and then show me how to realistically walk around what they're saying. Postscript: The village idiots who claim that landscape aesthetics, a few dead birds, and hypothetical illnesses caused by low frequency vibrations trump any renewable aspects and so oppose deployment of wind turbines. The deniers who simply do not believe scientists on any matter (97% of 'em or not) - say, electrical transmission lines that cause cancer, or nuclear energy that causes cancer, or, or ... Thalidomide ... (Uh oh. How'd that get in there?) Those who think every politician is fundamentally & primarily self-interested and crooked and view every government policy as diabolical. ... Say, daylight 'saving' time? Or pundits. Here, consider these two views of the 'Greek Solution':         Greece loses, European Union wins by Gwynne Dyer, and a few days later,         What Greece Won from Paul Krugman. Who do you believe? Who can you trust? Well ... it gets to be a deep subject eh gentle reader? And not quite so hard to understand the 97% of humanity who will do nothing in the face of climate change and the multiple related environmental catastrophes now unfolding.

 
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Two men in Rwanda.

And: Two recent books by two admirable women.
And: A modest proposal.   And: Applause for Elizabeth May.

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I watch a (pirated) video of PBS/Frontline's 'Ghosts of Rwanda' for the second and third times last week. In the film both Phillipe Gaillard and Romeo Dallaire speak openly about themselves, and Phillipe Gaillard also speaks openly about Romeo Dallaire, and there are a few symmetries in what they say that stand out for me. In the event something here appears to be critical of them let me make it explicitly clear up front that both of these guys are heroes to me and I praise 'em. One would like to list all the heroes (particularly Captain Mbaye Diagne who simply disobeys his official UN orders God bless 'im) who appear in the film - I strongly recommend watching it. Two hours well spent. The official website is here. There are torrent copies abounding and on such providers as YouTube.

Ten years later Phillipe Gaillard and his wife have changed their minds about children and have a son. Romeo Dallaire has (apparently - he's a competent man and if he'd meant to he would've) attempted suicide. Gaillard says, "He is still deeply wounded while my scars are ... OK." That's it.

Gaillard is head of the Red Cross in Rwanda during the genocide. He breaks protocol and speaks out but the Red Cross supports him both morally & practically. He does not feel guilty. Dallaire obeys orders. The UN does not support him either morally or practically. He feels (profoundly) guilty.

I have been over-indulging my Madame Defarge side lately. This is not good. Nonetheless, since guilt and shame are part of this story I think it bears repeating that the guilt and shame of it belong with Kofi Annan & Bill Clinton as well as with the actual killers. And with Belgium which did much of the early social engineering, laying the groundwork that led to the genocide, and who then left the room at the first opportunity after the shit hit the fan. After the Holocaust people in high positions began to say (and they continue to repeat it), "Never again!" It is clear that what they mean by this is, "Every time! Always!" It's good to post a picture of Bill & Hillary Clinton holding hands. She may be the next American president. Birds of a feather flock together. Two recent books by two admirable women (and a modest proposal): 'Nature's Trust - Environmental Law for a new Ecological Age' by Mary Christina Wood, 2013, and, 'This Changes Everything: Capitalism vs. The Climate' by Naomi Klein, 2014. There are two videos too: Bill Moyers, The Children’s Climate Crusade; and Naomi Klein & Owen Jones, This Changes Everything; which serve as good introductions. (Thanks again to Angela Bischoff for recommending these videos in her Greenspiration newsletter - you can sign up for it here.) The notion of sudden positive shifts in direction has appeared here before: The Climate Swerve by Jay Lifton. I followed up on this by reading two of Lifton's books: 'The Nazi doctors - medical killing and the psychology of genocide' 1986, and 'Witness to an extreme century - a memoir' 2011. I'm sorry to say that I now have difficulty believing anything he says. Now a similar notion shows up in the penultimate section of 'Nature's Trust' with a reference to Malcolm Gladwell's 'The Tipping Point - how little things can make a big difference'. I follow this up too and read the book. Again I'm sorry to say that he not only fails to convince but by the time I've finished I've turned entirely skeptical, not only of him but of anyone who mentions him. [Selected criticism in The Guardian and The New Republic.] The other reference in 'Nature's Trust' which I chase is 'The Bridge at the Edge of the World - capitalism, the environment, and crossing from crisis to sustainability' by Gus Speth, 2008. He refers to Jay Lifton but more than compensates by quoting Wallace Stevens. He does fail to identify & footnote (he quotes the first line) so here: The Well Dressed Man With a Beard After the final no there comes a yes And on that yes the future world depends. No was the night. Yes is this present sun. If the rejected things, the things denied, Slid over the western cataract, yet one, One only, one thing that was firm, even No greater than a cricket's horn, no more Than a thought to be rehearsed all day, a speech Of the self that must sustain itself on speech, One thing remaining, infallible, would be Enough. Ah! douce campagna of that thing! Ah! douce campagna, honey in the heart, Green in the body, out of a petty phrase, Out of a thing believed, a thing affirmed: The form on the pillow humming while one sleeps, The aureole above the humming house ... It can never be satisfied, the mind, never. Wallace Stevens, from 'Parts of a World', 1942. BUT     [You knew there was a bold & capitalized 'but' coming didn't you?] Read Gus Speth's book for yourself - it is one I wish I could still afford to have on my shelf and definitely worth the investment of time to read and savour - and then try imagining discussing it in a longshoreman's bar somewhere in New Jersey or the east end of Montreal. (Oh sure, I couldn't probably discuss Wallace Stevens there either.) 'Nature's Trust' is a book by a lawyer, carrying forward a program to reform the entire system (from Gus Speth, also a lawyer) which looks like decades to bearing fruit, addressing a catastrophe which has to be dealt with right away. 'This Changes Everything' is a book by an earnest and (truly) lovely person who stammers as she tries to get to the point and balks, shies away from bare-knuckles hard ball. These books and their authors (and so many more that line my shelves) now seem closer to vaccines & prophylactics than incentives. Allowing that if I resemble (in quality not degree) any one of them it's Malcolm Gladwell; especially as I look closely at the photograph from the Guardian interview - he's skinny and athletic and I'm fat and terminally sedentary, but a sour air-head loose cannon (loose bb-gun in my case). [The apparent lawyer bigotry could be a ploy gentle reader - Wallace Stevens was also a lawyer.] There are two or three people I know who are doing good work. I offer myself to assist but am not taken up. Enough air-heads already I guess. Even so I'll put out this proposal. (I shoot an arrow in the air ... It comes to earth I know not where.) The proposal I am thinking of is one I was going to put to Peter Sale because I know he can think and write and spell (and then didn't), viz., that what might be useful in the way of books just now is a short anonymous pamphlet, stapled and folded to make ten pages max with some thoughtful graphics and images, which says (with no exaggeration): Here is where we are. This is how we got here. These are some things we can do to save ourselves                 (and by implication our children and grandchildren). This is the time frame to be effective. A diagnosis and a clear prescription: 'Environmental Catastrophe for Dummies' (but not a 400 page effort such as the one produced by Elizabeth May). I wish I were clever enough to write it myself. Top of the list of "things we can do" is massive civil disobedience mobilization. Call it CD+ or CDn. They might lock me up for saying such a thing (it might trigger the terrorism jackpot in the government's pachinko-machine mind) and provide a warm place to sleep, might even feed me between beatings and that would be ... something ... OK. An alternative is to organize the upcoming Paris climate summit along the lines suggested by tOad (right) - and every national parliament, commons, every congress and senate, every board meeting of such institutions as the NEB, and every meeting in every corporate board room too. A completely un-subtle and unequivocal replacement of the profit motive with the personal survival motive - immediate corporal dissolution upon failure to achieve results. I bet that would do it. We would see solutions coming forward very quickly from all sides - even, perhaps, quickly enough. It's either get serious or wait while more and more of the world's peoples are forced into ISIS look-alikes. Sure, that sounds pretty crazy eh? It's way worse than crazy because revolt will have to overcome generations, centuries, of 'God is Love' which will slow things down and by the time it fully arrives it will be too late to do any good whatsoever. Just listen (even if it chokes you) to Chris Hedges talking with Abby Martin and then show me how to realistically walk around what they're saying.  Correction, a qualification:   (I make mistakes and correct them as I am able.) I don't like going out to these events anymore. I inevitably see a few activists who recognize me and then turn away, don't say hello, and it hurts my feelings. But this week I went over to UofT for a 'Federal Pre-Election Town Hall on Climate Change' featuring Green Party Leader Elizabeth May, NDP MP (in my riding) Matthew Kellway, and Liberal Party Environment Critic John McKay, another Toronto MP. Kellway (in common with Toronto Mayor John Tory) doesn't even know that the oil in the pipelines he supports is primarily for export - Doh! - and Justin Sinclair's rep is simply and predictably lame ... but ... Elizabeth May ... shines (if not in the only photographs I could find of the event). One: She tells the truth - there is only one issue and this is the drop-dead year for it and our election (locally, nationally) and the COP in Paris (globally) are the last kicks at the can. (What a blessed relief to hear her say it!) She tells the truth while keeping the tiny window of hope which remains firmly open. This is no mean feat. Two: She is polite, even cheerfully and sincerely compassionate, towards her two colleagues even as she flat-out refutes their stupid incompetence with facts. Three: She connects. An apparently off-the-cuff quip which ranks right up there with Dylan's "Abe said: Man, you must be puttin' me on." She was talking too quickly for me to quote accurately (if and when the video comes along it may be clear) but it was "Arise Lazarus and walk!" referring either to the government formulating a serious plan, or the environmental 'movement' finally getting its thumb out - or both. Not a tall woman, but taller by far than anyone else in sight. There is obviously (apparently? something like that?) a huge disconnect between herself and her party. She actually recommends reading the 'Green Vision' platform document - which is nothing at all like what she is saying. Maybe it's just that she hasn't read it, hasn't had time; or maybe she accepts it somehow as the inevitable inertia of party politics. Here, read for yourself: in brief or in (100 page .pdf) detail. The twenty-odd organizations behind the event manage to bring out fewer than two hundred people. The technology and event-planning is ... pathetic - one imagines it has been provided by the (absent) Conservatives. There are two videos: I have not watched the official & complete version yet (there seems to be a - predictable - technical glitch); but I have seen this shorter one and recommend it. And yes, I will find and visit the Green Party candidate in this riding if there is one and report.

 
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