Un jour se lévera, sur trois branches de lilacs
Qu'un enfant regardera comme un livre di'mages.
Le monde autour de lui, c'est rapide et c'est ainsi
Qu'il inventera sa vie à sa première page.

En dessinant la forme d'une orange il donnera au ciel son premièr soleil.
En dessinant l'oiseau il inventera la fleur en cherchant le bruit de l'eau
Il entendra le cri du coeur.

En dessinant les branches d'une étoile il trouvera, l'enfant, le chemin des grands
Des grands qui ont guardés un regard émerveillé
Pour les fruits de chaque jour et pour les roses de l'amour.

Frida Boccara «Un jour, un enfant»

Bon fin-de-semaine tout le monde!

• 22:54 From my iPod shuttle #

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Bosnia & Herzegovina's first 3 Eurovision entries came under the shadow of war. Like "All the pain in the world tonight is in Bosnia" (1993)," "In your eyes, there's a blue river through which hatred will never flow" (1994), and "the 21st century is coming my dear, and you're nowhere to be found." And while 1994's "Ostani kraj mene (Stay beside me)" received a thunderous welcome simply because the artists barely made it out of Bosnia alive, none of these songs did especially well, finishing in the mid teens consistently.

it wasn't until 1999 that BiH (B & H in English) did well at the Contest. While the main artists--Dino Merlin--was (and is) the most popular musician in the country, he's known primarily as a rock and roller. No one would have predicted he'd pitch a rappish bilingual Bosnian/French uptempo song. Though even here Merlin doesn't let those who sought to destroy his homeland off the hook...

Bosnia & Herzegovina 1999 Putnici (Travellers) Dino Merlin and Béatrice



Travellers
I believe in Go and God's decree, and I believe that nothing's an illusion
Everything's so true, so real. I believe in it, I believe in it.

No, nothing occurred that didn't have to, there isn't a face that wasn't wrinkled
There isn't a rock that won't become ashes, no shoulder that won't feel fear

(In French) What do you want? You are the traveller.

(in French) We are, you are, they are, they are
We are, you are the travellers
We have, you have, they have, they have
We have, you have, a home (end French)

Arrival is a dream, the cover of a book, but parting is a dream's evil twin
Yet what are we if not travellers without a place? We will never know where the road leads us.

What are we
(in French) What are we, you and me, If not travellers without a place?

Tell me--are you sorry? Do you feel remorse?
If you say "yes", you'll have gieven yourself up
Tell me--are you sorry? Do you feel remorse?
If you say "yes", it proves you had a choice.

(In French) What do you want? You are the traveller.

(in French) We are, you are, they are, they are
We are, you are the travellers
We have, you have, they have, they have
We have, you have, a home (end French)

Checking if this works

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anyone know of one? I've found there's one called Livejournal 0.20 but cannot find it for downloading

1975

Not a good night's sleep, never is when it's in the 90s until the sun sets. Today, maybe tomorrow there'll be a thunderstorm to blast the humidity out to sea--until tomorrow, at least. But at 10am, it's already in the 80s and humid and even lying right under the fan is little relief from the heat.

So it's up, rub the sleep out of the eyes, pull on a bathing suit grab my beach towel off the porch railing and a chair from under the porch, then down to the boardwalk. Already there are groups hanging out on a bench, cooler underneath, roasting in the sun. I'll take my place with them next summer, but this one I'm still one of the kids. I do the hot foot hop across the back beach (dry, hot sand), planting in the shade of various umbrellas and chairs until I reach ours. It's just us kids at this hour: the adults are busy tidying up, or working in the City, or sleeping one off. I fling my chair in the semi-circle of us, drop my towel, and head to the water.

Father, son, holy spirit. A few swift steps into the water, then a bracing dive under the first decent sized wave. Today the tide is low, so the wave are small and rolling. I swim out pretty easily about 100 yards off-shore. No jellyfish for a few weeks, and sharks here are the size of cats, so it's all good so long as the tide is already out. Even so, no waves is boring, so I end my "Rockaway Bath", lumber out, and sprawl at the water's edge. The older (girl) cousins are watching their younger siblings until the proper mothers arrive. Des is already who he is: an easygoing, nice fella amusing himself and hanging around to see what the gang gets up to. The boy boys--wrestling, fighting, soldier-playing ones, as opposed to the bookish effeminate one--are running up and down the sand. Or playing frisbee. Or digging a tunnel in the back beach sand; in a couple of summers 2 of them will very nearly suffocate when their tunnel collapses. But when it's 95F and cloudless, no one's keen to exert very much.

I scoop out the sand and watch the sand crabs scurry deeper into the moist cool. I shift myself down closer to the water until the waves slowly lift me up and gently push me around the water's edge. I flip onto my belly and propel myself backwards with my hands, feet crashing into the waves as I get deeper and deeper. When I can no longer keep my face above water I twist and flip. I catch the odd wave, but they've not much power at low tide. Instead I'm back at my chair and some of the mothers have arrived.

As have the Greeks, who always sit as far away from the water as possible. And always bring folding tables, a gazillion umbrellas, and men who where dress shorts, no shirts, black dress shoes and black dress socks. They smoke and drink and play backgammon. There's probably 20 of them in total: parents, grandparents, kids. All loudly yapping at one another. So different, so exotic, from our people. With our dads' bermuda shorts, no shirts, white socks and sneakers, and moms' modest 1 piece bathing suits, kerchiefs, and magazines. All loudly yapping at one another.

I didn't have ice cream last night, because I'm gonna walk up to 116th Street for a knish and maybe an egg cream. There's a lot of skels up there, but I already know how to avoid eye contact, stay out of trouble. But I didn't save money for a Coke, so the buttered knish is a lump in my throat. I'll beg a slurp of iced tea from Aunt B.I take my towel, lay it on the sand and plop down face first on it. The brine on my skin and food in my belly make me sleepy. I'm already brown, so it's not like I'm gonna burn or anything. But the oppressive heat wrenches me awake and I leap again into the surf.

Instead of looking out to sea to spot waves, I turn around and face the shore. I'm out--way out--and realize I can't touch bottom. No one is near and it's a blindingly bright day--no one can see my blond head bouncing in the sea. Our house is now on my left and I'm being pulled down and out---away from our block and away from shore. But I know not to fight it, and instead I flip onto my back and kick across the rip. I make it in in a bout 10 minutes, a good 4 blocks from home and completely drained.

Few are aware that Josh Groban's "You raise me up" was originally performed by the Irish-Norwegian duo Secret Garden. Brian Kennedy was on lead vocals. But most are unaware of the 3-way Eurovision connection to the track:

Secret Garden won the 1995 Eurovision with Nocturne. Rolf Lovland and Fionnula Sweeney met the year before in Dublin at the Eurovision. Previously Lovland wrote another Eurovision winner (La det swinge; 1985). Brian Kennedy represented Ireland at the 2006 Eurovision and finished 10th with "Every Song is a Cry for Love."

But the song was written by two men who between them have won the Eurovision 4 times: Lovland and Brendan Grahama, whose "Rock and Roll Kids (1994) and "The Voice" (1996) earned Ireland wins 6 and 7.

Here's the definitive, original version.

Industriousness and ambition aren't the same.

In other news, apparently being a long-term customer to one's mobile provider is a barrier to getting an iPhone from the fookers.

"I want everybody to meet to meet Burger and Fries..."

On Canada Day morning, something unusual happened in the Canuck media: there was speculation about someone being named a member of the Order of Canada. And no doubt making Dr. Henry Morgentaler a Member of the Order will stand as one of the most controversial.

Because Dr. Morgentaler's lifework has been about providing women access to abortion. Over 20 years, this Auschwitz survivor set out to end a bloodbath of women's mysery at the hands of the back alley abortionist. He performed the procedures, went to jail, and kept agitating socially and legally until the Supreme Court of Canada struck down the existing abortion statute in 1988. He is a brave man. I am pleased he has been honoured before he died (he's in his 80s).

I want to make something clear here: I think abortion is terrible. I know and love women who have faced the decision to end a pregnancy. None did it cavalierly or callously; in fact, those who've shared in detail with me their stories found the experience heartbreaking. Abortion isn't fun.

But so is being tossed into the streets by your fundamentalist family for being a slut. As is bringing a child into your abusive partnership as you are trying to muster the means (spiritual and economic) to get yourself free. Or finding out that trick who raped you also knocked you up.

Or realizing a stoopid, careless decision to leave it in the drawer, or missing a few pills, or getting a little too drunk, makes it clear you cannot bring a child into this world and care for it. And there's no one to help, either.

I don't believe in abortion "on demand". There are dangers in aborting viable fetuses babies. There is a no turning back point. Sometimes things are what they are. But in Canada, rather than having a series of convoluted, mindlessly detailed laws made up by zealots, we trust our physicians to develop policies that use science and data to determine when and how best to terminate an unwanted pregnancy. Ditto access to a medically safe abortion: if someone is biologically capable of becoming pregnant, I think they alone get to decide if they terminate that pregnancy. Everyone else simply gets to have an opinion.It is unacceptable to me that women be put in those positions because they have the Easy Bake Oven™, only to have others endeavour to tell them what they must do.

For me, Henry Morgentaler isn't an abortionist so much a feminist--or a true humanist. He believes that when women die trying to get abortions, fetuses still die. How does that help anyone? I would be heartbroken if my mother or sister or sister-in-law or cousines or aunts or nieces or friends died during such a desperate act.

In a perfect world, birth control would be infallible and rape would cease to exist. We're not there yet. Abortion is terrible. The experience of taking the decision. Women who do aren't.

And don't get me started on those right-to-life demonstrators who shriek "give us your baby" but never seem make any effort to pick up the disabled or non-white ones languishing in care. When you clear up that backlog (and no returns; if you bore it you'd have to keep it too), dust off those signs again....

Can-gratulations to LJ's own aa_bronson, who has been made an Officer of the Order of Canada!

Happy Canada to everyone! It's the first time I've been home for Canada Day in about a decade.

*squee*

Just rang the 'rents: yesterday was Birthday Madness (Da, Uncle Kevin, brother Mike, and one of the nephews) all born on 27 June. Cuh-raz-ee!

Ma sounds much stronger than last week. At her doctor's this week they agreed she could lower her oxygen from 6l to 3l. A really good thing. I'm very happy for her.

Da "celebrated" his birthday by mowing the lawn. What a party boy!

Your result for The Commonly Confused Words Test...

English Genius

Take The Commonly Confused Words Test at HelloQuizzy

Teen crushes:


Robin Williams


Sam Elliott



Tom Selleck


Animal

No matter where I am, I'm always thinking of you...


It may be hard, but I need you to understand
That I don't often say what I feel.
But now, this is straight from my heart.

My love grows Stronger Every Minute
And it won't ever die.
I want you stay with me
Not just this day
But for all my life.

Happy birthday, beloved one...ik hou van jou

*ring*
*ring*
*ring*
"Hello?"
"Hi Dad"
"Hey Jawn, you got my email. Hang on a sec, here she is..."
"Hi Jawn, ya nevva guess who heah"
"Hi Ma, ya home! You must be so happy!"
"Yeah, I am. So guess."
"Nanny?"
"Nanny. It's a lawng story, but I'll tell ya layta..."
"Yeah, OK. How ya doin?"
"Alright."

So the world's toughest woman does it again. A week ago Monday Ma was transferred to a new rehab, one that focusses on intensive therapy. They estimated 2.5 weeks to get her out; it took 10 days. She got home Wednesday night.

I told her I would honour my promise (to come home and cook her a BBQ as soon as she gets out), but she nixed that "nah, too much stuff right now". Nanny is with them because my aunt Eileen (her primary caregiver) is again in hospital, this time more serious stuff. With her gone, they loaded Nanny and her things into Dad's car, and he brought her to his brother Kevin's place (20 miles from Da & Ma). No time to even warn them.

She's with my parents for this weekend, but she needs someone to bathe her and there's no one who can really do that. So they're looking for some sort of care for her. Living to 100 is awesome; 101 (this coming week), not so much.

But I'm so happy for Ma. And Da.

Today's been an historic one in Canada. The Prime Minister, on behalf of his government, has offered an apology to persons wronged by government policy. This apology was offered to all Aboriginal persons in Canada who were stolen from their families and forced to attend Indian Residential schools. The apology was also extended to all family members--including parents, siblings, children and grandchildren--who lives were devastated by this racist and inhuman policy. You can read Prime Minister Stephen Harper's apology--his excellent, comprehensive, and (to me) heartfelt apology--here.

For over 120 years--well into the 1980s, in many cases--these schools became de facto correctional institutions for Aboriginal youth. Parents who did not "agree" to send their children lost them--forever. "Agreeing" meant they might possibly see them, though rarely more than a couple of times a year. Once "enrolled" the "students" were punished for speaking their indigenous languages, practicing their indigenous faith, or grieving their families too earnestly. Most often these schools employed religious persons as "teachers", many of whom had no more than a primary school education themselves. In some parts of Western Canada, "students" left Indian Residential schools with a grade 3 education--after 12 years of "study". And many of these schools enslaved these children in industrial laundries, on farms, and as domestics, to "pay" for their "education".

Physical abuse--torture by international standards today--was common. And too often sexual abuse. The net result of all of this was often a total disruption of the normal family cycle in hundreds of Aboriginal communities. Many children never returned home. Others returned to communities with their souls ripped out. And if these "graduates" had children of their own, they had to watch as these horrors were perpetrated on their children. Many found solace in a bottle, or pipe, or rig. Much of today's stereotype of the drunken/junkie Indian is the legacy of several generations' nightmare. These were not schools....these were factories of hate.

I have a personal investment in today's apology. I have Aboriginal friends and colleagues. I have worked with and known men and women for whom the legacies of Indian Residential schools is theirs. Some attended schools, others' parents and grandparents did. And most of my friends have chosen to make healing their communities their lifework. Some do health outreach. Others agitate for policy change. And others tell.

The stories of those subjected to Indian Residential schools must be told--and heard. A decade ago I began teaching a course in social justice at a local university. Back then when students saw "Aboriginal education" listed the initial response was usually disinterest or hostility. None had read anything about Indian Residential schools during their undergraduate educations. I had them read the stories. And then their reaction was shame. And paralysis: understanding the history their disdain and rancour became a panicked fear of perpetuating the problem. And when they were able to begin talking about these issues--engaging with them, wrestling with them--most finally understood why many Aboriginal persons in Canada don't consider themselves Canadians. Why would they, when they were never treated like Canadians.

I taught that course for perhaps the last time in Fall '07. By then about half had already learnt about these schools during their undergrads. Still many were gutted after reading about what we did. But I also gave them readings about people working for solutions--Aboriginal educators and allies who have accepted the challenge of healing. We watched a video about Aboriginal youth in Edmonton accessing education and support through an alternative high school. And from these more recent accounts, they saw possibility.

Of perhaps 600-700 students at the university, none has held onto the belief that today's challenges faced by Aboriginal communities are indigenous. And that's why the stories are so important. One of the best resources is Celia Haig-Brown's Resistance and Renewal: Surviving the Indian Residential School (1988). It contains first-person accounts of the Kamloops Indian Residential school. I encourage you to read it as well.