Cannabis, Colonialism and Supporting Native Land Claims

Just moments ago I discovered the true meaning of pure contentment having my grand baby fall asleep in my arms. Her hair consistently makes me chuckle and I wonder if her wild mane is indicative of a wild mane personality to come. I hope so.

Her father Marc was cleaning out the basement and he showed some family heirlooms including their tree that takes his family back to the first families arriving from France. I am of Scottish, Irish and French descent, but I have always felt the genetic tingles mainly from the French and Irish sides, especially French. I love France and its earth and air does feel familiar to me.

When Lily was falling asleep in my arms moments ago, I was thinking how cool it was that on both sides of her parents, there are Canadian lines as far back as French Colonialism. Lily also has an Eastern European Jewish aspect that will only strengthen her spirit and character. I looked into her eyes that speak infinite stories to me and I said, ‘wow, Lily, if maybe you had some Native blood in you too, we could say you are Canadian royalty.’ I already have a morning song to her that claims her to be Malkah Lily, the Hebrew Queen of St. Hyppolyte.

There are things I try to understand about humans, things that I don’t want to, but I know it is necessary for healing one self in this life experience because one realizes that in doing so, one in turn heals the world. But, I never understood how people could not fall in love with babies.

There have been many times in my life when I have heard people say that they have Native blood in them, but it wasn’t something discussed in the family ever. There even could have been shame, a by product of Colonialism. We may be living in times of chaos, but these are restorative justice times too and we have to support restoring a culture that was unjustly destroyed, because acknowledging our sins is the only step forward. But, in order to keep going forward to save our selves, we have to make a restorative leap to nature based belief systems. It’s why we should be standing side by side our Native brothers and sisters with these land claims.

Have we not finally learned that oppression of one group means oppression of other groups? We’re getting there because the cannabis truth serum is smoothing its way into the collective consciousness. It’s why I am hopeful for my grand baby’s future.

Cannabis knows the experience of Colonization well. It’s journey of demonization and Colonialism is pot-holed with preventing the masses to becoming truly free thinkers. The super rich can only stay super rich if they have a lot of control. I am optimistic though and even though I eschew patriarchal religions, maybe the bible is right and the first will be last because they don’t know how to co-exist, a norm that is finally becoming unacceptable. We are only at the beginning of seeing that valuing diversity and co-existence, including with animals and plant life, is the only future we have, and ending poverty comes out of it.

Because the lumber industry already had an infrastructure for plundering forests, poisoning rivers and polluting the air, they saw to it that cannabis/hemp would be criminalized because they stood to lose billions. If we could have stood up to them, we could have saved our rivers, streams and atmosphere, but here’s the beauty, in order to bring back that which was damaged by pulping, cannabis/hemp is the answer. Growing it massively could clean air, water and soil and provide us with a superior paper.

The Colonial big nasty brother of lumber is oil and oil sure didn’t mind that cannabis/hemp was prohibited because people could run their cars on hemp oil and make competing green products with the petrochemical industry, plastics and cellophane and flexible cement, alternative fibre and wood products. The Colonial sister of these two is pharmaceuticals and pharmaceuticals knew that the medicinal benefits of cannabis have long been known, as well as its least toxic side effects. This competitor for so much can grow everywhere and will bring down profit margins.

Last year I was up in Thunder Bay making short film on the day in the life of a needle exchange program. Needles are as prolific in this part of the province as the crystal shaped stars dappling on beautiful Lake Superior. The area has a HEP C problem brewing and stewing from needle use. The area has been depressed for some time suffering the harsh blows when a mostly one or two industry town loses it’s one or two big industries, such as railroad and shipping. There are many Native people in this area. There is poverty not fully appreciated in Canada because we are a rich country.

What did the government do to try and boost the economy? Put in a casino. Where is the first daily needle pick up spot? Behind the casino. The government refuses to decriminalize cannabis but still its perpetuates a cycle of poverty and addiction with gambling, a casino economy that creates problems in an area already suffering from lack of hope. Instead, a community based cannabis industry could provide the much needed medicine for HEP C, HIV and addiction, as well as stimulate the economies for Native People and locally by giving licenses to grow on Reserves and regulating compassion clubs.

It is just an idea, but we should be having these kinds of conversations with each other and insisting our government do better and be more creative in finding solutions other than a casino economy in an environment rife with addiction from poverty and Colonialization.

Restorative Justice for Cannabis and Marc Emery

If we were to develop a community based cannabis plan by the people for the people and the environment, what could it look like? First of all, we must consider restorative justice and put our immediate energy into seeing that the extradition hearing of Marc Emery, Michelle Rainey and Greg Williams (BC3), approaching in the coming weeks, be overturned. Canadians, it’s time to come together and see to it this injustice does not creep on. I never thought this extradition possible, but the Conservatives continue to jeopardize our distinguishing identity behind closed doors in close proximity to the Bush Administration. Our values are at stake here, so it’s time to show support and push for decriminalization of cannabis.

All of our political leaders have lacked leadership on this, therefore we must be the leaders we have been waiting for and visualize an industry that elevates those who most need to be elevated economically. The latest figure I heard on the black market is 7 billion. I don’t know if this is accurate, but what I do know is that we could change everything with this plant for people who are marginalized by poverty, by the legacy of Colonialism, and by illness. Urban and rural alike can come together on this one, and it’s overdue for doing.

We need to have more cannabis conversations with each other and tap into that deep insightful place where we can discover new harmonious ways of living on this earth. We can also give creation to many outstanding inventions and products of cannabis for health, for economy, and for environmental solutions, such as cleaning water, air and soil. There is so much yet to be discovered with this amazing plant, but what we do know is that, as Dr. Lester Grinspoon of Harvard Psychiatry stated, cannabis, once restored to its dignified place in the pharmacy, will be one of the least toxic of medicines, and could be the penicillin of this century. I say it will be much more because of its potential with environmental and economic healing.

We also need to have a deeper understanding of what has been the cannabis past, so that we can truly circumcise stigma and shed its multi-layered skin. Its criminalization had more to do with racism and greed than it ever was about getting high. Sometimes stigma is as plain as day and sometimes it is foggy and diffused. Always it is discriminatory. The foggy part is worse because it’s not conscious and always acts from fear and in the fog as in the fog of war, terrible injustices happen. The only way to clear vision is by coming out as cannabis users and/or supporters. We know Canadians already support decriminalization. We know most Canadians see its value as medicine, but do most Canadians know that we could end poverty with it? Do most Canadians know there is incredible potential in this plant environmentally—that it’s cleaning up the soil of Chernobyl because of its mulch and deep restorative roots, and that it gobbles up emissions? I am sure Albertans want their children and grandchildren to breathe. Hemp and Cannabis (She who is one and the same plant species) can help see to it.

We must stand together and not allow anyone to be handed over to the American Drug thugs. If we let this happen to one of us, it can happen to all of us. The best of what Canada is is in our diversity and our social justice, so send a message now to all of our leaders at www.thehempfactory.com under send a message to the PM.

If we let one or three be taken down, we can all be taken down, and sold down the American prohibitive river. What next? Water? Who will be the next Arar? It’s a slippery slope and a mark against the grain of our Canadian values that such an extradition hearing is even occurring, but we can turn this into a turning point, and once again make significant Canadian history by demanding decriminalization as an election issue.

Just as one day the ‘War on Drugs’ will be seen not only for the sham that it has been, such as the War on Iraq, but it will been as a foggy hangover to the legacy of slavery. Cannabis is linked to race in the U.S. It also linked to oil, pharmaceuticals and lumber, but it is time to stand up for that which distinguishes and makes us admired the world over. Oh Canada, let’s restore justice, let’s restore cannabis and change things for a safer, greener society. Yes to cannabis, no to guns, so let’s hire more border patrols and stop the Yankee ones from coming in, as they do now regularly. Who is getting paid off—the black market beckons questions with uncomfortable answers, so let’s turn it green and be kinder and better.

We must stand together for each other and for our resources. Many Americans are working with us and want us to continue to lead the way because justice, like climate change, knows no borders. The world looks to Canada for moral guidance and we cannot fail now. We can provide a community based cannabis industry model for the world based on medical access, harm reduction, anti-poverty, and restorative justice for the people, and for the environment.

We must demand these extraditions be overturned and begin to aid the process of decriminalization. So, let’s all come together, urban, rural, medical, and environmental and say to the government, you’ve failed, so we’re leading it, by the people, for the people and the planet. Start by sending back feedback on what you think the criteria should be for growing and distributing, starting with medical access, in a harm reduction, sustainable framework. I will include your feedback in the next blog update.

For example, if a farmer has 50 acres, should she/he be eligible to grow for 50 medical users, or more? What about if someone has one acre? What about Native Lands? Cannabis has a real opportunity to provide restorative justice to those who have been marginalized by Colonialism. In fact, it’s the perfect plant to do so. Rural and urban Canada, come together on this one and let us bring each other prosperity. Could regulated compassion clubs hire those on low incomes, such as ODSP/those living with illness? Could they have flexible job opportunities to help ensure their medical access is guaranteed and to augment their income? How low could prices go for those who need access because of illness? These and other important questions can help develop the framework, so please send a message first to our leaders on my website — www.thehempfactory.com and send your feedback to begin this shift in cannabis paradigm. Email: lorettahempfactory@sympatico.ca

We cannot let this extradition happen, no matter, please go to the Cannabis Culture website and there are 5 concrete things that can be done to stop it from happening—go now—because the BC3 could be you or me.

http://www.cannabisculture.com/articles/4471.html

Sweet Subversive ness Surrendered at Wellesley and Sherbourne

I don’t know if it comes more from the criminal element in my gene pool, or the religious one—they both diffuse a slick that makes for murky waters in deciphering. Maybe in the pool there was a jet of Irish/French mix that subsumed me in swooshes of subversive ness. I am quite sure this subversive manifestation showed inklings at an early stage. I have tried to come to terms with both the religious and criminal in my nature, and tend to be more empathetic towards the criminal, but to a certain point. I do trust my inner criminal and I tap in only for good reason, which gives one a certain high, like that of religion. Where would we be without dualities?

Whenever I feel subversive, there is usually protection involved in it, which was the case with my friend’s house where cops watched me walk out of. A few blocks later, the two jumped out of van, calling me ‘mam’, waved me brisk to come over to the curb. He asked me where I had been and I saw no point of lying—he obviously knew. He, being the more traditional, aggressive cop, started huffing about what kind of place it was (a compassionate club) and asked me to pull out my pockets. I wasn’t sure what my rights were, but I wanted to exude calmness, justice, and kept my eyes locked onto his. I felt protected, so when he asked if they were ‘weed’ cookies I had pulled out of my pocket, I blankly said no. He huffed and puffed them back at me because he knew and I knew that testing the amount of THC in cookies just isn’t worth the bother. I thought to myself, okay then, this proves that cookies are decriminalization in process. Awhile back the BC Supreme Court ruled in a cookie case that unless the exact amount of THC could be determined in each cookie, (which it can’t) then don’t bring them to court.

So, let’s keep pushing the vision forward with action towards full decriminalization.

After my petite subversive encounter on the street with the police, I walked away trying to figure out how I felt about it. The outcome was good enough, but I wasn’t sure if it would have been better to ask if I was under arrest before emptying my pockets. It was like after doing a talk, or presentation, and you think, I should have said this. I could have emphasized this more…They were trying to harm a friend and they had done enough harm to this family already. I had to resist saying, ‘don’t you have more important things to do?’ Middle age does have a softening affect, but overall, I thought the encounter went okay, and that my friend would not be harmed.

Because they had made me empty my pockets and went through my bag, I decided it was only fair that they hear a little lecture on cannabis and the environment. Not really listening, he responded, ‘yeah, I know, it’s only weed, right?’ That’s right, so why then are we engaged in this nonsense? He sneered and guffawed that the place called itself a church, and I said, ‘well, I don’t do church, but I can certainly see why cannabis is considered a sacrament.’ He cop-postured, cop-sneered and huffed some more, ‘yeah right’. What is about huffing? Maybe, it’s just me, but thug behavior always feels a little too familiar. Thugs, of course, do often become criminals, but some become teachers, cops, or go on the corporate track, wherever, they are prolific in our society, and, sadly for the rest of us, they have yet to discover the benefits of cannabis and doing some inner work.

But, for the rest of us, it is time to say we are coming up with the medical cannabis plan since the government has failed so miserably in doing so. We also need a campaign, ‘Come Out Of The Cannabis Closet Canada!’ It is part of what needs being done to rally people from their slumber of how they have been duped about this remarkable plant, and how stigma continues to knock us out at the knees for doing the right thing, facing the fear, and making things better for everyone.

We have to turn this ship of foolishness on cannabis around for the sake our environment, economy and our intelligence. It’s not just about morality, it is about the integrity of our intelligence. Such a plan would benefit urban centres as well as rural. Reserves too could benefit tremendously for economic development and medicine for harm reduction, HIV and Hep C. Why shouldn’t a plan from the people develop the criteria for growing in rural and distributing in urban? Our plan could be developed by diverse cannabis stakeholders across the spectrum, across the country, a plan by the people, for the people and the planet. We have to insist on such a plan being part of the political platform in the next Federal election, right around the corner, so please send a message to the leaders from my website to ensure they don’t ignore us—www.thehempfactory.com.

We will be instrumental in implementing such a plan with all levels of government because the world does look to Canada for moral guidance. We will want to share this model with others in the world because that is what cannabis is all about. Following this is a research proposal that could be a guiding blue print for building a community based cannabis industry. It is something to begin conversations around. What should growing and distributing look like from a harm reduction and anti-poverty perspective? Here is a good question to begin with. What question would you start with?

It was synchronistic that my walk landed me at the corner of Sherbourne and Wellesley, like I was pulled by some karmic magnetic subversive energy force. I leaned against the old fence kept from the original building in 1911, and pondered on the lovely long term care building before me and the soon to be completed housing for HIV+ and seniors. It all looks good, but there was a time when it seemed unlikely that this good outcome would be. The embattled board egos post traumatic hospital closure were an unruly group to be reckoned with. They fired me after 6 years of exemplary service, with a few subversions, but they never found out about them till now. My duties for about two years were overseeing the issues of the emptying hospital. I was also doing communications, but the CEO had a bent towards outsourcing, so when the building issues were complete, they figured they would up the outsourcing ante, because it was more important they develop their urban health muscle and be seen as a leader in policy in urban health, and hire an urban health researcher. The budget wouldn’t allow for two, just more outsourcing.

Board members were essentially good people vying for power, but they were also legally over talked, and sometimes, well sometimes as the minute taker, as I was, I thought, they just like the sounds of their own voices. It was like being in a bottomless pit of potential liability issues. Sometimes incredible wrangling and haggling had to be done for the smallest initiative in the community. That part of the experience makes me look at this corner and say, yes, it’s amazing this final outcome.

The corner of Sherbourne and Wellesley is a good reflecting point for activists of all stripes and we should all be united. We need to remind ourselves how others have seen persistence pay off, such as one who I will call ‘crafty’ because he persisted in saying, ‘and the disabled’ after each time the Chair said he wanted to build housing for the frail elderly. Eventually the Chair came to say he wanted to build housing for the frail elderly and the disabled. Then crafty would get his ducks lined up and we engaged in a few secret meetings and sneaking out of plans, etc. sweet subversive ness. If the board started leaning towards the fear of no profit, which they often did, then crafty would hit with perfect timing on the importance of doing this for a community that fought hard, the HIV/AIDS community, to keep the hospital open. It worked. Fag wiles, persistence and craft paid off. I’ve come to discover, it always will.

The Health Minister George Smitherman once called this corner ‘sacred ground’ and I agree, but to me, it’s sacred because Sherbourne St. is a main artery of immigration. At this corner diversity is gold and it’s sacred ground because of its energy of subversive ness. It was the Minister who first hired me at the Wellesley to work on the ‘Staying Alive Campaign’ back in 96. I admit to a secret I harboured when I first got involved and that was the building was so ugly, another bad block design from one of those decades (50’s, 60’s or 70’s) when they were bent on killing imagination in architecture. As someone who avoids the medical model, I was never a fan of hospitals, and I figured, this ‘soviet block’, as some neighbours referred to it, would not be so sadly missed. But then I soon learned that the hospital was more than bricks and mortar, and that it was an excellent model as a community hospital, which was a rarity then. Plus, when you become aware of the politics to kill it because it was the hospital of choice for dying fags, struggling new immigrants, and the drug addled, one such as my self could not resist pricking myself into fighting. In fact, I would not have wanted to be elsewhere at the time. Besides I got to sideline as crafty honed his fag wiles.

It is hard, once being dumped by work, not to feel resentment, but there is no point in feeling it for long. I needed to get where I am now and I can speak about displacement from the personal, which is why an employment initiative is very important to me. Strangely, I became quite attached to those ugly buildings. I roamed those empty halls and felt different kinds of energy. Indeed, it is heavier in certain locations: OR, morgue, animal labs, psyche ward. It was shocking to see how ugly the morgue was and I could practically hear some gay men screaming in my ear, ‘you tell them how ugly this room is—we didn’t just die to make death pretty, though it sure needed doing so, especially this room!’ Oh yes indeed, there were Wellesley ghosts and I became friends with them. They were my sounding board and they had the subversive memes still bristling while I walked those hallways.

The strange thing about empty buildings is that they seem to die as though they too need oxygen from people to stay vital. The buildings inhabited the grief of the people who had been there, and who had a hard time leaving, because for many it was a first good job they got in Canada when they made their way up that Sherbourne St. artery. They were proud to work there. I had not seen that before. Seeing people cry over losing their jobs is tough, but the Harris government seared its legacy ensuring that for the people where things were already tough, things were going to be tougher.

In the empty Wellesley things began to fall apart quickly like fire systems and water systems, as though the infrastructure knew it is doomed. About six months before the demolition crew came in, I started giving equipment away to agencies local and ones I did not know of, but they said they wanted radiation equipment to send to Kenya and other parts of Africa. Of course I had to facilitate, but without the knowledge of anyone because the board would have carried on and on about liability, liability, and good intentions would have ended up demolished. I just decided the right thing was to try and make it happen unknowingly.

The final group to benefit from this pillage was an animal protection group who wanted the scale in the morgue for injured moose and a whole lot of sinks and tables from the OR. They brought a tractor trailer and slew of a crew for dismantling quickly as I told them it had to be done in a day. I gulped when I saw the tractor trailer, especially since the board was having a meeting up the street, (actually deciding my job fate) but they were calling me concerned because OCAP was threatening a protest. I must admit, I was quite stressed as I had not even confided in crafty whom I trusted. He and I had been subversive before, but this was bigger and I knew if I got caught, I would be done for, but I was anyways without my sin being known. In a way my firing was anti-climatic.

I had to cut the final group’s pillage short and they were unhappy, but because their crew was inexperienced, they caused a flood. When the fire department sirens were in ear shot, I could hear the ghost of my fire chief father laughing at me, but I also knew, it would all work out for the best. I sure could have benefited from a cannabis cookie then, but all I could do was pace the halls and summon my queer ghostly friends one more time. They said to me, ‘what will be done, will be done.’ There is a wisdom that comes with death.

Sweet Subversive ness –I could have only committed such acts because the groundwork was already laid with subversive memes replicating and being absorbed by me roaming and safeguarding those doomed hallways and elevators. Like finds like—it’s how energy works and we can make it work for us to achieve decriminalization and a much greener world to reverse the harm that has been done economically and ecologically.

Sometimes when you are traversing the reverse path of your own golden child, you have to be open to the darkness in a new way and cannabis helps. Anyone out there doing cannabis-therapy? You should be. What I am writing about is recovery from a cannabis perspective. We know how cannabis can facilitate awareness, in addition to providing other kinds of therapy. We are at the beginning of the dawn of discovering all the potential benefits of cannabis, and yet She has been with us since the beginning and has always played a key role. Before She was the victim of Corporate America, She was the victim of the Catholic Church during the Dark Ages, although references to her healing abilities are linked to Jesus and Joan D’Arc, and many sages and saints of other religions.

It has been coined (Dr. Lester Grinspoon, Harvard Psychiatry) that cannabis, once redeemed and justly restored to the pharmacopoeia, will be the ‘penicillin’ of this century. I believe it will actually be so much more. I believe cannabis will be considered one of the key saviours of our environment and linked to ending poverty. It certainly could end malnutrition with a concerted short term global plan. Let’s visualize it happening, a perfect omega plant protein for all little ones who immediately require it. No one should ever be undignified by hunger—this should be a crime of every state and every state should be accountable if one state is found hungering. Providing food, economics, medicine, restoring the earth, cleaning the air, how much more can you ask of a plant? If you can’t see divinity in this like the cop who sneered, ‘ya right, a sacrament,’ then you require a fundamental shift in your perspective. See how the black market and your own self regulation have fogged up you.

I understand why some like to play cops and robbers, but let’s invent a new game where the cops actually have to go to social work school and be educated in sustainability and harm reduction. Hey, they can keep the uniforms as they seem to be highly regarded in the fetish world.

I am a rebel with a good green attitude, which means foremost, no violence, no matter, and reducing the harm that has been caused in this world. Legacies last long unfortunately, but awareness is brewing, bristling, indeed, you can feel it in the wind on a cold March day when you are thinking enough of winter already. There is a way to turn the black market green and shift the corporatist paradigm with its slavish mantra that the market takes care of things—things not people, except those at the top. People are waking up to the lies, finally, so maybe there is something to be grateful to George Bush for? He illustrated deftly, with spin skills ever so sharp, how easy it is for colonialists to sell lies if the oilgarchy is in need of a cash crop fix for its SUV laden junkie billionaires.

What will it take to turn the black market green? Is there resistance from police and legal because they also feed off of it? Why did a politician patronize me with a lecture on the yin and yang of American/Canadian trade and how we can’t hold up borders? I don’t want to hold up any business at the border, but I sure as god damn hell don’t want their US guns coming into my country daily, as a 16 year old suburban Montreal told me, they come to his neighbourhood bi-weekly in a white van. ‘They have friends at the border,’ he tells me. I think they must because we have a problem in our country with guns. So, let’s hire more people at the border to stop it, and they can look for cannabis too. You can bet our Southern friends will be coming up here in droves for some cannabis and same sex fun and entertainment. Mayor Miller—I’d say we could solve those financial city woes of yours with a cannabis plan. It really does fit in with a green plan, in fact, we should be growing hemp and cannabis on rooftops, because fewer plants gobble up emissions better. Finally, with cannabis/hemp we could become the truly unique International Green City we are destined to be. If you need any facilitation with this vision, a little cannabis and good conversation with like minded people is all it takes. (T: 416-461-6448) Put it out there to end your own stigma, to be a leader in stepping out of the black market toward a green economy of fairness. Fear is our worst enemy. Let’s end it.

It is fitting I should end at the beginning of where I began at the corner of Wellesley and Sherbourne. Last night after beginning this article I ran into another one of my favourite characters on the Wellesley Board on the Bloor viaduct. She wears clothes that create cape effects around her, so with a bit of wind, night time, on the Bloor viaduct, she flowed into my pathway like an angel in the darkness. I took it as a sign of permission to write what I have written. When I surrendered my subversive ness in the flooding of the Wellesley Hospital hallways (I try to think of it as a baptism) I felt like I had achieved disrespect from a few directions, but I still thought it was the right thing to do.

These agencies never knew that they were stealing. So, it’s not really stealing if people think it is being given, right? I choose to do it that way, underhandedly, because I knew there was no other way to make it happen. It all worked out the way it was intended. We need to intend a vision for decriminalization. We need to take action, come up with creative solutions, and make our politicians listen. We need to be more engaged in this process, see our selves as sustainable change agents.

Crafty showed that persistence pays off and its remarkable how little is remembered of the embattling board egos vying for attention and power-seeking ahead of doing what was best. But, what was best was what was finally achieved, so its potential was always there. The icing on the cake for me is that cannabis be grown on the rooftops there for a compassion club at lower level retail, where HIV+ people can work in exchange for cannabis or cash. Where there is flexibility. The cannabis on the rooftops will also gobble up emissions Mayor Miller. I think it is a splendid pilot project for such a befitting great Canadian corner—there is no other like it in Canada. It is a goldmine of diversity and the best of who we can be.

Can we heal across space and time?

The thing about love is that you have to be solid with your self first and this can be tricky for us artists and Orphan Spirits at times. We have to own up to our whiney and self indulgent nonsense and move on. Quash out negative thoughts—this does not mean you disconnect from reality. Love gives intrinsic tools to deal with harsh realities in a greater way for diminishing the harm done. We must never be divided by kin, colour of skin, ever again. The new paradigm will honour uniqueness—see your self radiating with divinity—imagine a golden globe in your belly. Let it slow your thoughts down to experience presence and know you are reborn with this eternity. Go for a long walk.

I am intuiting something about healing across time and though I know how powerful truth and words work in this endeavour, there is still much I am learning. We will evolve to transmute all the grief into gold and we will come to know that words matter more than we could have ever possibly imagined. Transform with silent resilience. Think and speak from on high and from everywhere—be the resistance de thought patterns that dishonor your self. Work at reducing the anger in your self first, and it will be reduced in the world.

We know that war and killing is wrong, will never be right, so, why do we have a knee jerk reaction and choose to fight? How many times do we choose to knee jerk to anger every day in little ways? Can we silence the war monger a different way by expressing goodwill to every passerby, every day? What can the role of artists and whores be to deter killings and negativity? Every artist was once a soldier and sought out sex for solace, escape from carnage done. How can we harness more of the memes that put us on the Orphan Spirit artist path? These are the conversations of alchemy we need to exchange with the currency of kindness. Be open to where the spirit is leading. Go with it.

Like cures like. In the alchemical cannabis mud crater, the Mother moves to a Scorpio position to give her Orphan Spirits garrulous attention. It is necessary to honour her and think of her hourly if we need reminding not to get mired in selfish sludge. When we’re ready, she pulls us out and rejuvenates, no matter what age. When you believe in infinity, age is irrelevant. This in itself is revolutionary. Engage in the greatest conspiracy of all time—the conspiracy of hope.

‘The River I Step In Is Not The One I Stand In’—Every time I cross this bridge over the Don in East Toronto I usually think two things—who was it who said this, Hegel? It is a lovely metaphor more appreciated on foot than in a car. I regularly look up and down the Don and like to imagine gondola’s floating by with riverside performances and water used imaginatively to drown out the hum of cars. This city is getting more creative, but there is still too much pebble and dash, and car culture is a culture’s vulture.

Divine power does not care how long it will take for us to reach our destiny—eventually we have to step into the river. Doing the alchemical dance with the Mother is often necessary when things are challenging in the grief cules—those clusters of grief bearing molecules, that Orphan Spirits can sometimes be burdened by.

We must be cleansed of all demulcent negativity that besmirched our small mortal frames to feed our sacred flames.

Whenever I try to retain a focus for releasing emotions, I remember that Aristotle, the founder of the peripatetic school, proved the best thinking is done while walking, and so I walk and walk to put the tugs from the past in perspective. A long time ago when I reclaimed the words, ‘dyke, lezzie, crazy’. I embraced the sting of marginalization and did come to see what a gift this margin did bring. In a world bent on oppression you can always find a piece of heaven in the margin. You can always find sexiness, inventiveness, creativity and survival. It bristles with sexual healing energy, even though in childhood they tried to crush us for not being ‘normal’. It is necessary to be awakened to all what this means and not take the road most traveled by lashing out at others marginalized.

Thank goodness for me I was a kid who managed to protect my imagination, but still, when will there be flaneur schools where we can ground our emotional selves while philosophizing how justice functions merely as a regulative ideal with critical costs?

It is said, and this I now understand that the gold child travels the reverse path in the brain where it is born immortal and united in infinity—the consciousness of the universe.

We can silence the war monger’s song when we own up to our own wrongs and yes, even by spreading good will to every passerby, every day. Of course there is more we must do but just starting with you changes everything.

There comes a time when you must transform the grief you bear into a gift. Going into my own spirit and wanting to understand infinity is what has sustained me—this and always trying to get closer to nature by flaneuring. Nature will win because She is everything. Being open to vulnerability has given me a strength I never thought possible. It is through vulnerability that you can glimpse how the fear based control that derails our thought processes is our final frontier. There are so many possibilities we can consider. Come play in the alchemical cannabis mud with me. It’s Mother’s medicine for you and me.

I see that no matter what happens to me, everything that will happen again will happen verily. Love is my irresistible desire to be desired irresistibly. I simply have a role to play and I am learning about love along the way, lucky, lucky me. I have been here before I will be here again and build on this work I now love.

I felt privileged to be a part of a conspiracy of hope in the 90’s in Toronto when gay and marginalized people were dying all the time from HIV/AIDS. The mettle of resistance, the drive for love, activism and friendship at its best, is what I was shown. I can’t imagine a more profound lesson on transformation. We kept our hearts open no matter the hurt and sometimes it really did hurt—sometimes it really hurt when you knew you only scratched the surface of someone’s hurt before they died and you felt afterwards that if only you got there sooner, there could have been more released. Sometimes injustice and indignity was oozing his wet, religious face everywhere.

Something akin to feeling strange, but that which is more ordinary and extraordinary happens when you stand side by side with this hurt openly. A step has been taken towards the infinite and a new strength is born.

Our friends and loved ones on the other side bless us with gifts too—we feel this when we ease them over. We learned that conquering fears of death were inextricably linked to fears of sexuality, and we had been taught to fear much, but we rose to the occasion in outstanding ways. I would say Toronto was exemplary in how it evolved through the HIV/AIDS crisis. Of course, I might be high on nostalgia here and that can certainly be taken into consideration, but we dared to hope for realities that were better for us, more sexual, more healing, more creative and when we continue to challenge our own racism, privilege, transphobia, we continue to be wonderful leaders in the world.

This golden path is traversing to another realm of grief. There comes a time when we take what we have learned and apply elsewhere.

This world I step in is the not the one I stand in.

I met Edward at the Eaton Centre through a friend who had spent a short time on his orphanage in Uganda. Edward comes back to Canada annually to see his family here, but in Uganda he houses orphaned children from the war and HIV zones in the surrounding countries, living with him on a farm. We had come to meet each other by me wanting to tell him about hemp and how if it was not grown there already, that he should consider growing it for its incredible nutrition and the many by-products that could be made. Edward was having a hard time with the difference between hemp and cannabis and he helped me realize that it is stupid to create a difference, so I no longer do. Both have a great economic, medicinal and eco destiny.

He was keen on learning more about the thousands of products that could be made from this plant that grows like a ‘weed’ and requires little or no pesticides. I had assumed Edward to be religious and so I wanted to let him know that I was a lesbian. He smiled and said, ‘I know. You behave like a man.’ ‘Really,’ I responded. ‘I thought I behaved much better than that.’

Edward said he thought if his government knew what this plant could do, and that it was legal to grow hemp in Canada, than it would be possible to grow it there too. He said cannabis grows there wildly already, which is what made sense to me. This is a plant that can grow everywhere, which is why it’s key to our green revolution and healing.

Suddenly my mundane surroundings was intruded upon by Edward lilting into our conversation a tell of torture and tragedy of one of his kids. Imperceptible tremors emanated from deep within—so deep in fact, it went below the ocean’s floor. I had met Edward for less than 10 minutes when he told me, and there is no preparing for imagining the horror of this, a young boy had his penis was cut off in the war.

Before he could finish this sentence of horror, I could feel my resentment build towards him for telling it, but it was something that was meant to be said. A pastiche of images trundled in front of me, and I am still processing them, and more words on this will come. We must see and insist on a world without such heinous sex traumas—we must insist on a world without war. There are many good things we can do and learn from each other and heal with each other. We’re called to do them.

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Below is an initiative that I am seeking partnerships on to bring health, healing and prosperity to Edward’s orphanage in Uganda. Please email if interested: lorettahempfactory@sympatico.ca

Operation—Hemp for HIV, health, and sustainability for Africa

ANTI-POVERTY TOURISM INITIATIVE

FOR BUILDING INFRASTRUCTURE

OF HEMP AT HOUSE OF HOPE IN UGANDA

Rationale: This is a logical evolution, extension of eco-tourism, though more intensely involved. Kenya may have been one of the first eco-tourism initiatives in the 70’s when people were convinced not kill animals like giraffes because Europeans would pay to come and see them in their environment. Many people are good willed and want the opportunity to do something more than just send money or items to Africa. They know Africa’s problems are significant and complex, but people want more satisfaction in making a difference. They want to be part of the transformation to long term sustainability and hemp holds the key to this possibility. Many people want to see Africa, feel its air and earth and connect with its people because deep down is an inkling that Africa is the Mother of all of us.

As a part of the House of Hope’s long term goal for sustainability, the anti-poverty tourism initiative will fulfill the following objectives:

• Bring resources for upgrading supplies, food and medicine and a focus on hemp.

• Bring farming equipment, art, music, and school supplies.

• Bring medical, nutrition and vitamin supplements.

• Bring skills for short term, and the possibility of doing an internship longer term. This will provide an opportunity for students and other professionals seeking experience to work in Africa on HIV/AIDS, anti-poverty, and health initiatives with women and orphans, to determine if it is a good fit for the individual and for the House of Hope. Internships could be for up to one year for those providing skills in health care, education, social justice issues, (HIV/AIDS) women’s programming, child care, trauma counseling, research, labour and expertise in the hemp fields, solar technology, farming, irrigation, and construction.

It’s true there are many needs and the reason for focusing on hemp is because it is easy to grow with water (House of Hope has major river on the property that needs irrigating on 100 acres). Hemp is likely the most nutritious seed in the plant kingdom with its 3 essentially fatty acids and complete perfect protein. Food, fibre and oil products can be made from this amazing plant. It grows like a weed with little or no pesticides required.

• For those who have always dreamed of Africa and its animals, and who are affected by the struggles for social justice and want to see an end to poverty, than this venture is a great opportunity to do something deeply meaningful on a two-week or month trip.

• For those who want to envision with the orphans their strength, leadership and hope for the future of Africa.

• For those who want to help bring an end to poverty.

• It would be the goal that such a trip would create long lasting bonds and that when anti-poverty tourists return to their regular lives and responsibilities, they shall feel compelled to continue to be involved in raising funds for farm equipment, irrigation, and developing a hemp industry for its nutrition and sustainability. Or, perhaps they would be interested in raising funds to send playground equipment, nutritional and naturopathic supplements, computers, musical instruments, books and clothing. Medical supplies also need to be sent on a regular basis.

• This trip will be packaged to include airfare, a day’s driving trip from the airport, and orphan meals for two weeks. Yes, you will eat, break beans and rice, and very little or no bread, with the orphans, and you will very likely lose weight. Anti-poverty tourists will be expected to bring their sleeping bags and tents, and bring supplies, including nutritional supplements. They will be expected to work in the fields, work with the women and children, in the kitchen, in the laundry, with sick little ones.

• There would also be 3 day trips organized for hiking along the river, and into the beautiful mists to meet the guerrillas Diana Fossey fell in love with, or a day trip to see lions lounging on a range. Winston Churchill called Uganda the ‘Pearl’ of Africa. It has the highest mountain ranges next to Kilimanjaro. It is lush and bountiful of animals and friendly people.

• There is golf.

• Anti-poverty tourists will share resources and skills, and the orphans will share their survival and heroism, and this sharing will bring benefits to both. There is much healing to be done from poverty, HIV/AIDS, and war trauma. There is also joy to be shared.

• In addition, anti-poverty tourists are expected to get their medical check-ups, shots, and bring nutritious supplements and other items. All come with full hands and full luggage of necessary items.

• Charitable status is provided for receipts needed.

• To begin with, groups will only be 4 to 6 people and will depart from Toronto. The first window for an opportunity to go would be from January 15^th 2007 to March 1^st, 2007 and the next window of opportunity would be April to July 2007 whereby those who are interested in staying on could arrange with Edward a summer placement, work in exchange for being there.

The hemp initiatives will begin by focusing on simple hemp foods, such as hempzels made like a soft pretzel. The flour, oil and seeds need to become a part of the daily staple of food for the orphans and all others. It’s good as a butter, as a cereal/gruel, or putting seeds on bread, beans and rice, etc. The potential for hemp milk must be considered initially, but it requires a machine.

Once irrigation is achieved and much larger scale hemp growth can occur, initiatives for HIV and women’s programming will include making hemp soaps and taking hempzels or other hemp food products to the market place.

The fibre part of the plant could be used to make fuel. Although equipment will be required, initially, some rudimentary experimentation can be done with making fibre fuel and hopefully soaps if vegetable glycerin can be obtained, but ideally, the goal would be to eventually make a hemp glycerin. There can also be experimentation with the soil to see what type of ceramic or cosmetic products could be made, such as a hemp mud. The goal would be to get some simple hemp food, soap and cosmetic products to the market place and after some successes, make the case for utilization of the fibre on a much bigger scale.

Edward currently has an acre where he farms maize and millet and the first planting of hemp can go in there, but there are 100 potential acres along the river that needs irrigation and preparation for planting. There are also many more acres aligning the property that is government, other farmers renting out land, and it is believed that once hemp proves itself, it will be grown all over, enabling a much greater economic opportunity.

ANTI-POVERTY TOURISM

CHANGE THE WORLD ON YOUR NEXT HOLIDAY—BY MAKING HEMP SUSTAINABILITY A REALITY IN AFRICA

Contact: Loretta Clark lorettahempfactory@sympatico.ca

(416) 461-6448

Cannabis-induced erotic emailing and sexual healing

The thing about being a sex chaser and grief-bearer is that one is susceptible to rejection. But the good news of this modern world is that there is always a fresh crop of rejecters around the on-line corner to keep you on your sexy, metaphysical toes, and erotic emailing, as I’ve discovered can cure sexual woes.

Secrets, blood, fire, fuel this perverted desire. I raised my eyes to Toronto’s unclear skies and conjured your butch thighs. I hardly know you but you mated with my muse just as we mused on our mutual love of Joan D’Arc. I believe that all love is made up of a thousand different subtleties and now I send love soaring with my words. Sometimes, however ephemeral, emotional love angst is just another medium to add to the canvass of consciousness, which is what I do here, for you, as a parting gift.

Pleasure in woman is such a magic spell, the true joy of life worth the risk of rejection. Besides, some rejecters are a fantastic artistic feed, especially when they embody those hockey and/or horse riding thighs, thighs that could crush a mini cooper. Thank-you Mother. As I walked and thought about my current rejecter—how sexy she is, I felt her radiating down the hilly bluff road. It’s true I am a wanton whore for words to woo her right now, but I do sometimes see with clarity how I signed up for this destiny. Other times I just fall sweetly. Ah, masochism…hmmm. Danger pleasures is what I share with other Orphan Spirits, and it’s okay, but we have to share it with consideration and contemplation. We must always be compassionate to ourselves.

We orphans, waifs, whores, grief bearers and the like have such a big job to do, alchemizing so much grief and turning it into gold. Childhood should not feel like the eternal roughness it can be, but it still does. It must be shared to begin the nascent percolation to sex and/or to love the pain away. I don’t think sex was intended to protrude into so much of our lives, but it did because of control. You couldn’t get the masses to do what you wanted unless you controlled the crotch and they most certainly did and we all have been victimized by it. Enslavement isn’t only with the chains we see but finally at last we are breaking free. It has been deemed by the Almighty Mother—I take no direction from any other. She rewards me with the poetic insights that flow from cannabis. Oh cannabis, our home and native plant…Me, sex and cannabis have a role to play in the green revolution, which is exciting, since I am so fond of the French one. I’ll have to design my fetish gear in French Revolution style, minus the hat and frills out front, but definitely accentuate the boots. My blue/green jacket would be made of hemp, of course, likely not unlike the original.

I go to the water to feel what is real because the water floats away my memories so I no longer have to deal with how they feel—empty it in The 4th River Orphan Spirits! I am not just a sex toy, although it sure can be fun to be one. I am not just a collector of metaphysical curiosities—though what a journey I have been on. This waif comes with a warning label: she bends trickery with romanticism and will lead you to the cannabis-induced mud dance for sexual healing by erotic emailing. However, this is also what the waif knows about transmutation into gold: Sometimes I do feel lonely in this life of lesbian writer = marginalization x 2. Instead of denying it, I try to sit with it and say, it’s just being human, it’s okay. The more this awareness and kindness towards my self settles in, the stronger and better I become.

To be the change agents we’ve been waiting for, we should reinvent our sensuality, creativity, and mingle both in our developments, including economic ones. My sighing heart holds something meaningful in all of it; the dance must take on a fearless wend for those who try to understand. The following landscape is a statement on my soul:

So, soothe your self as I am inclined to do with an image of layers of muddy life forming, noisome vapours, alchemizing, steaming, transforming a ring of smoldering ashes. When I am there, I usually first remind myself, ‘oh Scorpio, you definitely crawled out of the dark side of the pond, you kinky creature. It’s a good thing you have hairy, spindly legs to do your dance around alchemical vapors. Come on, Scorpio, you know you can’t help yourself, go ahead, do your famed two step’: Sex and death, sex and death, why contemplate other stuff, when these two lay you to rest? Appease your inner addictions, yield instead of deny, the rewards of awareness are awareness. Sometimes my sex leads the dance to mock and tease Death, taunting her a little: ‘Death, you’re so pedestrian, such a random peon—you have no respect for order—I am not afraid of your power.’ Death then rises up out of vapor and sucks sex in close to steam her cunty soul. Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle, inner thighs moisten and drizzle. ‘Sex, my sweaty little darling one, sometimes you are just a bitch with a silly itch. I am the one, the penultimate submission, for which all must come, indeed succumb, ya, ya.—there’s no one who gets it more than me.’ This steamy mingling always gets the better of sex and she begins to liquefy in Death’s lust becoming so hot she must cool off, however hard and wet.

Luckily, there are always sex creatures on the horizon: Taurus’s, Virgos, Libras, Leo’s, Gemini’s, Cancer’s, all of course, potential rejecters, but still they flash their irresistible dance cards, and the call for sex to cool down, calm one self, cannot be ignored. When someone offers their body, it must be considered sacred. When ambrosia flows through both sets of glands and nectar is released from restraining thighs, such golden and silvery light rays settle down unsettling thoughts, finally. Ah, and then sex with cannabis is such a great mix—it ameliorates the historical fix—and we are becoming unfixed.

Death knows life has been cruel to women and she wants the dance to be honoured with how women have survived. Her vaporous fumes are the creative drive. Sometimes she rubs on a sensitive nub and a hairy sting medicates and predicates. Death is the Queen of romance and eventually she puts you to rest, so why not become less afraid of her in the romance dance? She wants you to know that life is much greater than mere chance. The Queen of pleasure does not abstain; rather she detains the pleasure and makes art of it every day.

When sex is a safe distance from the hot liquid she turns to Death now masquerading wispy and weakened missing sex so sublime. She loves my sex because my sex is not afraid, and it’s always hard to let a good girl go—this is I truly know. ‘Til next time Death, as I must cool off in the cannabis mud and rejuvenate, escalate my light, gain insight into my plight. I don’t know why so many are so afraid of you—you really are muddily sweet in all that heat.’ Death always gets the last line: ‘It is you who chooses to look at life through muddy ashen lenses, and I know it is good, because I chose that you would SEE, so remember my sweet sex, it is the greatest spiritual privilege to have a dance with me—now let go and believe. I’ll be waiting for you lover girl—you’re my special one.’ My sex knows Death says this to all her girls, but still, a craving is quenched in hearing it so.

Such a dance always leaves one feeling present, at last. When you are present, when your attention is fully in the now, that presence will flow into and transform what you do. There will be quality and power in it, but you must at least become friendly with the present moment, even before you can enter the dance. Cooling off in a lover’s contemplation with having sex feels good, so I say to myself, ‘make love as though it is your last day alive. Love a woman deeply because you want to stop time for love not because you want to be remembered as a good lover.’ Wanting to be remembered is a shallow grave, be brave and heal.

Even if you cannot be sexually present as such is a women’s challenge, know that you are infinity, that you were forged in the stars long ago and that the Almighty Mother will bring you home to her eventually, but in the meantime, make the world better with better love and sex.

Baste in the cannabis mud and remove the abusive crud. When the moon passes over Scorpio muddied waters, you can heal childhood trauma wounds. Transform the grief your bear into your gift. She/he who is reborn in imagination discovers the latent forces of nature. Beget a new star and heaven within the alchemical cannabis mud and transmute all that interferes with your infinity. Remember, energy follows thought. Be vigilant about ending oppression, but also be vigilant about not submitting to oppressive thought patterns. Heel, feel and sexually heal.

One of the great skills that come from the dance is to transform words that have caused deep hurt, words such as ‘cunt’. The oppressive slave makers and haters of women loaded this word with their germ and their sperm, but it just so happens to be my humble fate (given to me as a gift from Death) to be a word transformer and lucky for me, ‘cunt’ is the greatest mystery of them all, which is why I must love and plunge her deeply to be a true transforming agent for golden change. I take my work seriously in this erotic emailing game—this is one from She who inspired much of this transmutation:

Where ever the wild mare cunt wants it, she will be indulged. Can a she-wolf/waif break a mare? Hmmm. Well, no doubt, it is a deep and holy challenge, and one must rely on internal and external resources to mount this sermon. One must rely on planetary alignment and communing with the female spirits. The she-wolf/waif requires this: several probing emails to learn more, to build up, to make the wild mare cunt weak with words, because if the she-wolf/waif has lived to see proof of anything biblical, it is this--the word is INDEED mightier than the sword. This is hard for a wild mare cunt to believe, especially she who loves to look at her foe in the glint of her sword; she who is aroused when hearing her sword clashing and scraping violently up against another; she who is sated when plunging her sword into flesh, but so sad when the game is over, or is it a sadness that comes with the false belief of conquering? Beloved Joan knew that when you removed the ‘s’ you had the ‘word’. Because of her steely ways, the wild mare cunt is a truth-seeker, not so unlike the she-wolf/waif. Obviously, she is finally ready to acquiesce, to accept the she-wolf/waif for who she really is--medicine for wild mare cunt--and the sooner the better.

I swear the Mother puts them all on my path to ensnare but also to share, and look at the creativity it did bear. I am lifted with erotically composed emails but when you’re a sex chaser like me, you have to have a healthy dollop of resistance for rejection—it gets those sex molecules bristling for another dance, to transmute more desire into more good. When we engage in sexual love and healing by erotic emailing, we can have the best conversations ever. Engage in the conspiracy of hope for better love Orphan Spirits and take an oath to transmute your grief into a gift, remain ever mindful knowing the Almighty Mother conspires tirelessly in our favour.

No matter how many times you get rejected Orphan Spirits, never stop believing in romance. Live the love you dream and speak well of love in your head and heart. Whatever heavy energy you bear, swoosh it in The 4th River.

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See more about hemp cannabis products for development on website, www.thehempfactory.com Interested in developing alchemical cannabis mud and other hemp/cannabis based products—if so contact: lorettahempfactory@sympatico.ca LOOKING TO DEVELOP A FORMULA FOR EROTIC EMAILING TO ENHANCE SEX: if interested, same email address. Loretta Clark

Rebirthing in St. Eustache

It occurred to me while in a Tim Horton’s washroom en route to bring my grand baby into the world, my red headed rebel baby whom I dreamt about last night, smiling and winking at me, inferring, ‘roll out the revolution Chema, I have come back to you.’ I want to be called Chema, after Che, instead of grandma. Don’t get me wrong—it’s not as though I don’t like ‘grandma’, as grandmothers are the ones who are going to turn this world around. I know it. I just feel it’s time to honour Che in a new way. I am white, but his dream of uniting all Indigenous People in the world is deeply exciting to me. We of Irish and French blood also want to see the end of colonialism, remembering its harm. We must do it with intelligence, without violence, is a voice I hear and feel is near. Nelson Mandela can be our role model and other unsung grandmothers of every Mother Tongue sung.

Of late I am swimming effortlessly along the currents of a sexual healing, writing a lot of erotic emails, and having too much fun. But, I see now that sexual healing is the most powerful kind of healing and one that is resurrecting its demand for redemption, romanticism, and sex that soars. In our efforts for empowerment, we must paradigm shift, and the sooner we do, the better sex for all, including those who prefer none, because sex is not just an act, it’s a way of being that is about true comfort in one’s own skin, finally.

Desiring this for oneself extends the desire for others to know the same comfort. It is a lesson in love for when you get to touch another’s skin and playing with words can enhance and bring much more love and sexiness into the mix. Don’t kid yourselves that we have been sexually liberated, there is a lot of rotting, patriarchal epidermis out there, and the circumcision required is from all of our souls and all of our genders, and our minds which have been systematically fucked with.

One of the lessons for me from ‘Family Week’ is that the legacies of war and trauma live on for generations. Indeed, the illness of our minds, hearts and souls is proof that is has, and what I share with my Queen St. lobbyists and so many others, is having known the long lingering dark inkling of despair. Some are luckier than others in the karmic roll of birth, and the role of resiliency, but some have had abuse, colonialism, rape and racism ground in too far and for too many generations. Think about this when you enter Queen St. and they ask for money. Think of your spare change as a tax levied for the legacies they bear, and don’t forget, it is their lobby, so be a kind guest in their vulnerable space. Where ever there is war and trauma, there is horrifying rape and mutilation of the flesh and of the spirit. Graves may say, ‘rest in peace’, but until we end all war, peace won’t be granted to anyone, and why should it?

What I also felt from this week is that art is a recovery model that has not been given its proper due. Let’s face it, art, mental health, and addiction have been having a metaphorical threesome since the beginning of humanity. Trust me, a little bi-polar or schizophrenia went a long way to help paint a few ritual buffalo haunches on those dark, flickering illuminated rock protrusions? I know I should eschew generalizations, but it is probably why artists have not been the best candidates for parenthood, being possessed by ghostly, wandering muses; being obsessed for resolutions of the glaringly obvious kind, but harder still to come are resolutions from the conflicts we cannot so easily grasp, except with a little help from addiction, now and then. I am not trying to glorify or minimize anything here as I know how much havoc can be wreaked by those possessed. I just wish we could give up some of our self-regulating selves—the comatose parts that were crystallized when educated to crush out our sensitivities, crush out our creativity, in the name of reason, in the name of might being right—what a blight. It’s no wonder we suffer inside. Though I should put it in perspective—many people are lousy as parents, not just artists. Until we see with honest eyes the myriad of ‘reasonable’ ways we harm children, and how generations of harm have yet to be reconciled, mental health and addictions will continue to beleaguer us. No prescribed petrochemical pill is going to be the fixer, only awareness. Even half awareness and half prescribed petrochemical pill is a good starting place.

The ones I will never trust are the ones who don’t hear voices because they will not be open to hearing the voices for justice. I sure learned it young to keep the voices a secret, but they have now initiated their own Declaration of Independence and refuse to shut up, but without the firearms.

I am optimistic because when a perception is shifted, and I see shape shifters everywhere, and when this shift occurs, it snips a heavy weight and reduces the malaise on everyone. Addiction is life. Mental illness is life. Breathing is life. Death is life. Sex is life. Eating is life. It’s all just life and because I believe that it’s not so much the addiction and the illness that is the problem, as much as it is the perception that is the problem, or the legacies underneath it are the problem, and that before we can fully de-stigmatize, we have to decriminalize. Harm reduction is not just about reducing harm from addiction, it’s about reducing the harm from everything that has harmed us, and we have been mother fucking harmed by systems intent on satisfying the greed at the top.

Look at what the mustached monsters of reason did to cannabis, the plant of life? This plant that will gobble up emissions, this plant that is cleaning up Chernobyl, that is medicine for cancer, HIV, arthritis, MS, depression, and so much more. Yes, indeed, not only is pot my prozac, it gives me insight in a belief in infinity where I know a revolution of the spirit, of the environment, of a new economic paradigm, is taking hold. Yes, it is still criminalized, stigmatized, even users are afraid to come out of the cannabis closet, but if they use enough, they eventually will give up their self-regulating comatose existence, and liberate them selves. With this plant we could change everything and stop sucking the oil out of mother earth that is likely causing Tsunamis, earthquakes, in addition to choking off the atmosphere’s oxygen. The daddy oilgarchies prevent us from doing so, but given that we are perilously close to having sludge for lungs, cancer in all our cells, the mother weed will save the day and give us what we need. We just need to be open to seeing how the codes that govern our actions, thoughts and deeds can be our worst enemy. The shadowy, ethical zones that serve the status quo must also be examined, with scrutiny.

What have you done to end the legacies of war and trauma lately? What have you done in your mind, in your heart, in averting glances, and in the purchases you made? Don’t be manipulated to thinking the status quo doesn’t serve war. Ingest some cannabis. Get real.

In St. Eustache the red coats employed a favourite trauma trick still used today. They burned down a church with Patriots locked inside. They spread the flames to homes and farms all around wanting to send a message, as war fuckers commonly do, that being sympathetic to the Patriots, bearers of democracy, would result in their lives, if not taken, would be ruined. Many Inhabitants left for the U.S. afterwards. The harsh pain of the past must be forgiven—there is no other truth that I know to be so true. The more, more of us do it, the easier it is for others, such is the magic of self-replicating memes. We owe it to ourselves, to our children, grandchildren, and to the Queen St. lobbyists everywhere. End the legacies of war and trauma, racism and poverty and see how different mental health and addiction will look.

While flaneuring the other day, I thought of a note I wrote about 4 thousand volumes on metaphysics not revealing what the soul is. As a child from the curb I liked to watch clouds move along and think about how my soul might be connected and if perhaps it looked like a cloud and changed shape like a cloud. For us budding flaneurs, the school system was more than a torment. It was imprisoning. Given that all the great thinkers back to Aristotle more than mentioned in passing the importance of a walk for having your best thoughts, I don’t know why schools still insist on sitting kids down for hours long, all day long. A friend of mine who is a teacher and whom I tease, declaring she must endure my joyful jabs at teachers for all the bad ones I had to suffer, but at least she isn’t half my size, told me she was asked if she thought the school system was inherently racist. A flaneur gets excited by a question with meaning and beckons a good response. She said she thought it was Eurocentric, and not inherently racist. ‘What’s the difference whitey, I asked?’ It was a lively walk and talk we had and it left me with a little more hope for the school system. Little flaneurs as I once was do not learn best sitting in rows, no matter what our mother tongue, and this has nothing to do with an attention deficit disorder, as much as it has to do with a rigid system that insisted on teaching one way out of arrogance, abuse and lack of respect for creativity and difference, which I believe is inherently racist, sexist, homophobic and anti-flaneur. It also pushes poor kids towards prison.

In order for the budding flaneur to survive without a completely jaundiced view of the adult world and with half her liver still in tact, she must lie and manipulate. Creativity can’t stop, as it must find an outlet. There is also a chance she will become a sex and love chaser, and though this will no doubt bring trouble, it will be her saving grace, with or without the leather and lace.

Life is more interesting with more genders. There is no wisdom without uneasiness. Meaning has to be shared to be real. If you go into your loneliness with love and creativity, you realize you are never alone and infinity is the magnificent divinity. The dual state from which I emanate is where I can find freedom from my fear of rejection. If you are attracted to rejection, as I believe I must be to some extent, the good news is, is that there is always a fresh crop of rejectors around the corner, and having a sense of humour really helps. With cannabis I have come to better understand this dynamic dance I do, and learning about alchemy, so can you.

A young Jock Weir aching for action would find himself to be the victim of a frenetic kill by villagers, downtrodden, desperate, exhausted from poverty. Not so different from what happens today in war zones with those who feel they have already endured too much misery. Collective desolate impotence found a vent that day in St. Eustache, but to settle the score of one dead Lieutenant, 70 habitants and patriots would pay the price with their lives. St. Eustache would burn and so would the memory of such indignity, and so would fear and anger continue to burn. While on the road to find his regiment, and eager to take action, having just arrived in the new land, Jock Weir came from aristocracy, and therefore had a confident, if not arrogant gait. Like every foreigner, he too was vulnerable to the hidden landscape he had never traversed, let alone flaneured. Habitants emerged from the bushy quagmires and took him prisoner. When they heard gunfire in the woods, they transformed into murderous monsters and jabbed him with pitchforks, sliced him with a bayonet and even misfired a pistol on him a few times. Too much misery kills the senses and sends men in uncontrolled frenzies in war.

Sometimes I have seen in people I have known how their childhood injustices whacked out their ability to let go, like being hit behind the knees. They do get up again and again, but because their childhood injustices never found a reasonable ally, because their perpetrators, most often parents or priests, were never held accountable, and because they didn’t have a proper cushion to grieve, they sometimes can’t seem to fully comeback from that earlier trauma. They will be in a cycle of coming back to the source by getting into situations which for them are quite unjust, so there is always an opportunity to bring awareness to shifting perceptions, but it takes time and skill and all are unique—some survivors are more resilient than others, but all deserve the right to heal from childhood trauma. At the very least we should try and bring more kindness to the situation because eventually kindness will win the day over all childhood injustices. Then the knee jerk need for pillaging, raping and warring will become a dying ember. Its flame cooled in kindness.

The Rebellion of 1837 in Lower Canada had its dying ember days here in St. Eustache. For my ancestor’s family it changed everything; he became targeted, which made his wife and children targeted. It is unclear how one child died, but the remaining two would have been seriously traumatized by likely witnessing their mother be raped and beaten by British soldiers—she would die one month later, and their father would be imprisoned and hanged, leaving them orphaned. They were separated but did become reunited some years later. I can feel more than see how this legacy contributed to a karmic family dynamic, and my awareness can bring an end to it.

Getting into a character named ‘Lucy’ allows the imagination to traverse those dark places and mix projections. As Lucy, my sense of Pierre, in my limited ability to understand who he was, mostly due to me not understanding French, is that there was deep remorse and regret for what had happened to his family. When you are capable of loving deeply you know what you have lost, but you also know that the only way out is with love. This is what Pierre intuits my way. Our Mother tongue is of the soul and therefore we will always understand and feel from one another on matters of justice.

Think 7 generations back when you ponder on your own mental health and addictions.

Probably you’re the lucky first generation that gets to face the problem in a real way, not a religious way and sometimes not even a medical way because all know that both have at times made things worse, fueled the misery flame even stronger. The important thing to do is keep trying different ways not to hang onto the anger. Even if you don’t believe in infinity, you will be much more at peace. The thing about believing in infinity though—what is really exciting—is that you start to see how the universe conspires tirelessly in your favour.

170 years after the 1837 Rebellion in 2007, Lily was born in St. Eustache. Her name means truth and she is the promise of restoration of peace and kindness, security and love. She has beautiful long fingers and I project and imagine her playing the violin, forming a rebel girl band like the Dixie Chicks and using their musical instruments as weapons of mass instruction. The next revolution has to be a bloodless one and music and art are helping to lead the way.

One day I will tell my grand daughter what Thomas D’Arcy McGee said—one of the men who engineered our Confederation, and one who was known for his poetic love of words, politics, and too much drink: “So long as we respect in Canada the rights of minorities told either by tongue or creed, we are safe. For so long it will be possible for us to be united. But when we cease to respect these rights, we will be in the full tide towards that madness which the ancients considered the gods sent to those whom they wished to destroy.” McGee was murdered and it was generally believed he was murdered by a Fenian, whom he had been a harsh critic of in Canada and Ireland. Patrick James Whelan was arrested and hung in Canada’s last public hanging in Montreal in April 1868. McGee’s funeral was held on his 43^rd birthday and had been the largest that Montreal had seen.

Canadians have had some difficulties leaving past troubles behind, but we must be vigilant on this, by integrating, by recovering and leaving it behind.

At only hours old my grand baby recognized me as a fellow rebel spirit by giving me the conspiratorial wink before nodding off. It may sound minor but when you are the recipient of the wink it is loaded with recognition and ritual. Her birth has changed this town. I walked around the river once brimming with tears, once illuminating the licking flames of injustice and trauma, and I feel renewed because of the promise of spring and because Lily is born in spring, in newness. Are we meeting again Pierre? I am not sure and it doesn’t matter. St. Eustache has regained a source of blessedness with the birth of our Lily. The Anglos and the French may always be heading for the divorce courts, but we have at least learned to live as unfaithful partners. What emerges from this is the possibility of a good friendship, which we should continue to strive towards. As in all lousy arranged marriages, which often begin with a variant of this kind of bad baggage (such as centuries of the English and French trying to outdo and undo each other—we really do have a lot in common), and we should be good to each other if for nothing else but the for the sake of our children. In this regard Canada as a country is like a good Mother because we did begin with an inkling of diversity—though not enough was extended to the Aboriginal community and we must make restitution, as must all Colonists towards all Indigenous Peoples—but the inkling was enough for us to grow and to learn that valuing diversity is our greatest asset. As a Mother Country we will lead the way, so raise a toast to D’Arcy McGee.

We are all born into the world with the prospect of meeting our many selves, our past and present selves. The soul is the ultimate goal, not status, in case you still didn’t know. An objective is to integrate with the soul. The disruption between body and soul has been the greatest in the sexual arena, which is where we must go to fix it. The degree to which sexual disruption occurred is very deep, like an impending tsunami. Shame, the law, the church, the medical system, all collaborated to greater and lesser degrees to ensure people would come to self regulate, repress their desires to the extent that sexual abuse illness, the oppression of women and abuse of children continue to thrive. All the signs are present that we are shifting this and when we do, all will benefit, all will be raised up.

Rise up orphan spirits, the world is ready to know that it is your soul, not your family status, which will lead you on the golden path. Right now all the Holy Mothers are straddling the girdle of the great one, emanating from her equator, tidal waves of awareness.