Bush's Middle East, part I

While watching a documentary this evening, I saw a clip of George W. Bush addressing the nation in the days before he authorized the invasion of Iraq. His comments included an ultimatum to Saddam: surrender in the next 48 hours, or the result will be military conflict. That statement underscores so much of what I find distrustful about Bush, and it also reminds me of how much of a weasel he is. First, he places the onus on Saddam to surrender (I won't get in to the absence of weapons of mass destruction). Second, the phrase 'military conflict' is a politically correct, or gentle, way of saying war. He did not plan a conflict; he planned an all out invasion and war. It says a lot about a man who has repeatedly referred to himself as a 'straight shooter' that, on the eve of wielding the ultimate power bestowed upon him by the American people, he would defer to the very language that he accuses to be the hallmark of his political opponents.

This is but one example of many that I could cite that has left me extremely skeptical about Bush’s underlying intentions in the Middle East. From a Bush perspective, events seem to be unfolding a little to neatly to be prescribed solely to the will of the people that actually reside in the region. An excellent column by David Fromkin in the March 24 edition of The New York Times compared political uprisings in Central Asia and elsewhere (all started from within) to the political upheaval in the Middle East (started from outsiders). As an example of democracy, Iraq has been an utter failure; hundreds of thousands of Iraqis have left the country out of fear, while those who remain had to risk their lives if they wanted to vote. But no worries for Bush: a democratic election was held. It certainly makes a good headline.

More tomorrow . . .

Dylan, part II

. . .

So my father has been on anti-depressants for decades. In some respects I wish that he never told me; it’s a rather tedious piece of information that lies, dormant most of the time, somewhere in the attic of my brain. But it’s always there. It’s awakened whenever someone at work asks why I’m not doing more with my abilities. Or when I think about why I struggle with relationships. Or when I am conscious of the fact that I prefer, most of the time, to be alone rather than with others (though my partner is the exception to that). Or when I think about opportunities in my life that I have let go by the wayside without having a legitimate explanation for doing so.

Anyways, the long and the short of it is, I have no doubt that if I were to go see a psychiatrist (I’ve never been to therapy, nor will I ever go) that I would be prescribed some sort of anti-depressant medication. But the thought of taking medication that would alter the way that my brain functions scares me infinitely many more times than having to deal with the genetic hand that I was dealt.

As a post-script, I must add that I believe anti-depressants to be necessary for some people. I certainly do not mean to diminish any positive effects that are derived from them. And I certainly can’t imagine how much different my father’s (and my own) life would have been if not for medication.

nothing left to do but SMILE, SMILE, SMILE . . .

Dylan, part I

Some of my favourite Bob Dylan lyrics (there is a point to this):

‘The rain man gave me two cures, and he said “Jump right in”
The first was Texas medicine, the second just railroad gin
But like a fool I mixed them, and it strangled up my mind
Now people just get uglier, and I have no sense of time”

About a year and a half ago, while vacillating over whether or not to remain in graduate school, a friend of mine told me that my supervisor had been telling people (many as it turns out, including some I don’t know) that I was depressed. Well, suffice to say, I am no longer a graduate student, and I never again spoke face-to-face with my now former supervisor. Internally, my decision to leave school had already been made when I found out about what he had said; I suppose it just made the act of actually leaving that much easier. The interesting thing is this: upon reflection, it wasn’t that he thought that I was depressed that so infuriated me; it was that he decided to announce his diagnosis of me to so many people without discussing the situation with me first. A gigantic absence of tact.

When I was in my late teens, my father told me out of the blue that he had been (and still does to this day) taking anti-depressants for many years. And what I remember most about the conversation was that he was so non-chalant about the fact that he was on medication. Apparently, he visits a therapist monthly for a very short session, ostensibly for the sole purpose of continuing his prescription. He told me that taking the drug ‘allows’ or ‘helps’ him to be the person that he wants to be. Something along those lines anyways; and I have heard other people who take anti-depressants refer to their effects in a similar manner.

More to come . . .

no use for money

"We were fine people. We had a horse, three cows and eight or nine sheep, and an orchard on the hillside with pear trees, mulberries and apples. Life was good. We had everything but pomegranates in our village. We had no use for money."

A Tajik man who was forcibly relocated in the 1950's by the Soviet government from the highland Pamir region of Tajikstan to the Vakhsh valley below. The Communists needed thousands of workers for its expansion of cotton plantations throughout Central Asia.

- From the book "Land Beyond the River: The Untold Story of Central Asia", by Monica Whitlock

Some thoughts after a break

So I haven't posted anything for over a month. One of the reasons that I started this blog was because I wanted to encourage myself to write more often. But then I started thinking: why do I need to publish my writing to the web?

I read so many blogs over the last couple of months that I started to get turned off by the whole blogging thing. I am questioning the motivation behind blogging. Do people do it for personal satisfaction, and/or to help them work out thoughts in their head? I think many do; in this respect a blog is very similar to a diary (an open-book one at that). But it seems like most people are doing anything and everything to get themselves read by others. All the advertising and other junk on people's blogs is really just an extension of society: sell and buy; buy and sell. The ideas seem to get lost in the shuffle.

What I would find most satisfying is if a healthy discussion ensued on topics of interest: politics, music and other forms of art, or really anything else that one would like to discuss.

rex

Low-light of the weekend: a fever that went from non-existent to 102 in the span of about 6 hours. Fortunately, 24 hours later, I'm winning the battle.
High-light of the weekend: going to one of favourite used-book stores. Despite the fever, I decided to go out for a couple of hours and get some fresh air. That the temperature outside was north of -10C for the first time in over a week didn't hurt either. After browsing for about 20 minutes, I notice a copy of Alexander Pushkin's "Eugene Onegin". Given my interest in most things Russian (hence the name of this blog), it was an easy decision.

So I get home, and I tell my S.O. what I picked up. She mentions that the famous Canadian dancer Rex Harrington made his name playing Onegin in an adaptation of the story that was made into a ballet. My response to her was "Who is Rex Harrington?" As usual, she was disappointed, though not entirely surprised, at my lack of cultural knowledge. Anyways, no big deal. I decided to turn on the TV, and what did I see? A program on the CBC called "Life and Times" that was profiling Rex Harrington. Go figure. I watched the one-hour bio, and I have to say that he is a fascinating and extremely talented individual. It's strange how things turn out sometimes. I'm glad that I didn't let the fever get the better of me this weekend!!

curmudgeon alert

Why do people still forward stupid email messages/attachments? They were almost tolerable maybe 7 or 8 years ago when the internet was still somewhat of a novelty. Now, they are nothing more than a nuisance. I haven't forwarded or replied to one in years, and I tell people I know to stop sending them to me. Yet still the odd one gets through. Today, it was message with a list of 20 things we all should do (such as only say 'I love you' when you truly mean it, etc.). But the catch was, if the message was not forwarded within the next 6 minutes, something bad would happen. And they seemed quite serious too-and they were right! The message was a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Anyways, the only forward that I remember being any good was a link to a short video called "The Meatrix". Given that I'm a veggie, that one hit a soft spot.