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Letters to the Editor – Kris Christensen

Ads and Politics 

Diplomacy at 35000 feet

and maybe a bloody nose

We are getting so used to it now. Diplomacy live on TV dispersed from President Trump delivering his view of the world including his take on that pesky neighbour to the north,Canada.

“Yes, Carney apologized to me over that tv add and yes I like him, and they are nasty negotiators, so no deal” etc.

Our PM is no slouch either burning up the jet fuel, but is not yet at the same lofty level dispensing advice and or comments. Give him time though, he might be there one day. At least he has got the flying part down pat.

Meanwhile back down here on Planet Earth we have our Premier Eby gearing up for an add campaign fight with our neighbour “not treating us nice“ regarding soft wood lumber.Content yet to be revealed, but might also be upsetting to the US President.

So what to do for our Premier? Got a full plate of problems I guess but hey, that goes with the territory. Some of these problems are self inflicted to be sure. That little spat with our neighbour in Alberta could easily have been avoided if Premier Eby simply had stayed in his own lane. Tanker ban on the West Coast is not for him to decide. Never mind the pipeline associated with such ban. Maybe to a lesser degree these two items are.

COAL: That dirtiest of all energy  resources, right? Almost downright poison for our environmentally leaning premier. Yet coal today is BC’s biggest export. We hate it, but we produce it and ship it. For a price of course. In 2024 BC scored $8.6 billion exporting coal to (I am guessing here) lesser advanced and or environmentally less concerned jurisdictions. Ironically part of the 17.4 million tonnes shipped out of BC each year comes from mines in Montana and Wyoming, US, yes sir. These mines have no shipping facilities on the Us West Coast. Oregon and Washington refuses to handle this commodity due to “environmental concerns“. Luckily for them they  have a willing partner right here in BC and have for years shipped their coal by train through BC to Robert Banks, Tsawwassen, destination Asia. No tax revenue to BC, so not so bad a deal for our friends across the line I think. Now if Premier Eby somehow could manage to curtail this little sweetheart deal a whole bunch of irate coalminers (President Trumps favourite supporters remember) would be at his front door in a New York minute demanding something be done ASAP. He might listen to them. Maybe.

SOFT WOOD:

Thorny issue for years and ever increasing tariffs sending shivers all over the industry, mills struggling to stay afloat, people loosing their jobs, future uncertain.

It could be so different. We have the product, skill and expertise and the US want it even if Trump is in denial over this issue. Still they make it harder and harder to the point Premier Eby is on the ad bandwagon and crying out for help. Any kind please.

So why is it that we happily are supplying the US mills with raw logs, so their mills have the means of producing the lumber they need? BC raw logs are leaving the province daily, mostly direction South, while our mills are struggling.

Exports of raw logs is subject to approvals from the BC government. And we approve that business. In the first six weeks of 2025 BC approved exports of raw logs filling 6564 logging trucks. On a yearly basis that adds up to a whole lot of logs. Maybe we (Eby) should simply say to our friends down south, “We will supply any dimension of lumber you desire, but you will NOT have access to our raw logs“. Realizing this could be a more complicated issue to deal with (above my pay grade) I still feel it could be a part of a negotiated settlement beneficial to both parties.

So there you have it Premier Eby. Prepare to get into the ring with a heavy weight (pun intended) from across the line. It may end up with a bloody nose, but that is the risk you take. On the positive side of this you sure have a decided height advantage, reach too, plus the fact you seem to be in much better shape. Go get them. Elbows up remember. Good luck.

Kris Christensen

Denman Island

 

SATURDAY MORNING AT THE FREE STORE

SATURDAY MORNING AT THE FREE STORE

What more could I possibly want in life other than a pink, tie dyed cotton dress to go with my Spanish sandals? Nothing more.  No.  And I found one in the Free Store two weeks ago.

But wait:  one success breeds another.  Last Saturday morning I continued my hunt at the Free Store.  My heart sank when I saw that C. was already there.  Don’t get me wrong, C. and I recognize each other with respect and fondness, and we greeted each other effusively.

We had both lived the life in the Lower Mainland in previous times.  Think:  the Coquitlam Mall. Many many tiny stores are hidden away in malls, clothes stores owned by savvy women from Hong Kong selling imported well-tailored suits and pants in subdued grey and navy, made of wools and cotton, hemp and linen, perfect to impress your clients or board members, or for that information meeting you need to attend to rezone a creek side wetland to high density residential.

Early Saturday morning in those days was “beat the traffic, get to the mall, and snag the sales items”.

Last week at the Free Store, my heart sank because I knew the clothes would have been well picked over by C. before I had got there.  But look!  In the long dresses and costume section, she had missed a perfect 100% linen “made in Italy”, size small, soft ivory, long printed dress, with pockets.  Victory?  Well, yes, I admitted to it as I ironed the lovely dress later at home.  

But, perhaps C. had seen me coming and had left it for me on purpose.  That I would like to believe.

How The Media Normally Report On A Mass Atrocity

How The Media Normally Report On A Mass Atrocity

Listen to a reading of this article (reading by Tim Foley):

The Washington Post has published an article titled “Families shot down, held at ransom as they flee Darfur’s killing fields,” subtitled “Sudan’s RSF paramilitary and its allies have carried out mass ethnic killings and hostage taking in the captured city of El Fashir, survivors told The Post.”

The article opens with a paragraph humanizing the victims of the El Fashir massacres: “Families gunned down as they huddled for safety. Young children weeping over their mother’s body in the desert. Doctors seized for ransom and executed.”

It names the perpetrators, “the paramilitary Rapid Support Forces,” in the second paragraph.

It names the backers of the perpetrators in the third paragraph, saying that “The RSF is backed by the United Arab Emirates.”

It mentions the word “genocide” three separate times. “Ethnic killings” appears twice. The UAE is named repeatedly; even the fact that it is “a key U.S. ally” is explicitly highlighted.

Do you notice anything strange about this reporting?

Me neither. What stands out, reading this article here in the year 2025, is how completely and utterly normal it is.

It’s not fantastic or extraordinary journalism, it’s just normal for a mainstream western publication. The reporters talk to the victims, describe the massacres they were told about, explain the various power dynamics at play from a mainstream western perspective, name some US officials who are pushing for a halt to the RSF’s atrocities, and use appropriately strong language to describe the horrors they are documenting — including in the headline.

They do all the normal mainstream news reporter things. They cover a depraved mass atrocity the same way they’ve typically covered such things for generations.

None of this would stand out on its own, if we hadn’t spent two years watching the mainstream western press do absolutely none of these normal journalistic things in Gaza.

The passive-language “Gazans perish in explosion” headlines. The contortions to avoid naming the perpetrator and the governments that are backing its atrocities. The adamant refusal to use the word “genocide” except to frame it as a dubious claim being made by another party which Israel forcefully denies. The wildly biased discrepancy between the strength of language used to describe violence inflicted by Israelis versus violence inflicted by Palestinians.

If the western press had not been aggressively protecting Israel and its interests this whole time, all their reporting on Gaza over the last two years would have looked very much like the reporting we’re seeing on the genocide in Sudan. There’s a discrepancy in the reporting because there’s a discrepancy in the propaganda needs of the western empire.

It is good that the western press are doing actual journalism in Sudan and covering that genocide with the normal level of urgency and emphasis. If they had been reporting on Gaza in the same way these last two years, the west’s support for Israel would have completely collapsed by now.

Which is exactly why they haven’t been doing it.

________________

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brainguards

#1708

Escape from Vermont

Dear David,

So sorry to hear of the abuse you were forced to endure by the liberal identitarian cult you encountered in Vermont (and elsewhere.). They are no kind of leftists in our view. The irony of their authoritarian views is completely lost on them, and most of their acolytes. Many good people are too afraid to speak up for fear of being targeted themselves, as is the resulting chilling effect of such smears and false accusations.

Those of us who bring the Islands Grapevine newspaper to the residents of Denman and Hornby Islands and beyond have received similar treatment by the performative liberal “left”, as they populate the local tax funded organizations and have diverted all the tax funded advertising support away from us with the stated intent of causing our paper to fold its small business and community information service. We have survived this abuse, with reputations badly tarnished.

We are clearly aligned with leftist perspectives, and have been prominently anti bigotry, anti-war, and anti censorship, with visible and consistent support for the queer community. Our crime? We printed an article from a queer aligned local feminist woman who shared her experience of sexual assault, where she objected to a change in Canadian prison laws that allowed convicted male rapists to declare themselves as trans women in order to be transferred to a woman’s prison. 

The article did not violate our anti-bigotry editorial policy and we state clearly that the publisher and editors do not necessarily agree with every view expressed in our weekly community paper. No matter to the fake left identitarian cult. They’ve been hellbent on cancelling us for the last 2 years. 

We would like your permission to reprint your substack piece on your Vermont experience and we would be ever so grateful. 

In solidarity,

The Islands Grapevine

Escape from Vermont

Is there a chronically-online identitarian cult lurking in the Green Mountains? Let’s investigate.

David Rovics – Oct.25th, 2025 

I am so outraged at the Steering Committee of Jewish Voice for Peace Vermont that I have to either hit someone or write an essay, so after a long and hard consideration of the available options, I have decided to do the latter.

Portlandia is thoroughly entrenched in Vermont. No surprise there. Like Oregon, Vermont is overwhelmingly white. White people left to their own devices tend towards the formation of identitarian cults, as evidenced by places like the Pacific Northwest, Minnesota, and Vermont, to take three very prominent examples of places that are full of this sort of thing.

The cults start on the internet, generally, and then have a way of spreading into certain parts of the US — especially parts that are isolated from the realities of major urban areas, and lack diversity. These conditions seem to make a lot of white people more susceptible to the online trolls and algorithms which seem to supersede their capacity for critical thought.

Given these sorts of dynamics in especially online sectors of US society, it’s no wonder that an entity like a JVP steering committee would be especially vulnerable to them, since JVP, like the overwhelming majority of US Jews, is overwhelmingly white.

Whether any of my hypothesizing here is accurate or not doesn’t matter. I’m just thinking aloud about what drives people to engage in cancellation campaigning and other related toxic endeavors. Why are so many people on what remains of the US left so ready to act like absolute caricatures that could have easily appeared in one of the more outrageous episodes of Portlandia, or in a Fox News hit piece?

Before I share with you the written version of the Vermont Steering Committee’s cancellation efforts, a little more context seems appropriate.

They accuse me of making transphobic comments without specifying what any of them supposedly were. They accuse me of defending Nazis. Their evidence for these accusations is a hyperlink to a blog post of mine where I talk about the circular firing squad that they are participating in. They don’t even provide us with out-of-context quotes that supposedly illustrate my transphobia or defense of Nazis.

These are the most outrageous sorts of accusations anyone can make against someone like me, and these sorts of outlandish accusations made by the steering committee of an organization call for a response by the accused.

The reality, for anyone who has attended a random selection of my shows in any of the countries I’ve toured in over the past many years, is obvious and fairly visible. At most any of my shows, my audiences are unmistakably disproportionately trans and Jewish, sometimes both at the same time. At least 10% of any given audience I play for in places like the US or England or Denmark is likely to be trans, and the trans audience members are often some of my biggest fans, who sing along the most to songs like “I’m A Better Anarchist Than You.” By the same token, in any region with a significant Jewish population, and even in countries with a very small Jewish population, my audiences are likely to be vastly disproportionately Jewish, often much more than 10%, and in the New York or London regions, often much more than that.

Why is such a disproportionate percentage of my audience trans and Jewish? Why is everyone who comes to any of my shows anywhere always against fascism, and often very deeply opposed to it?

Here are the answers:

The trans community everywhere, from my vast experience, is overwhelmingly leftwing. This, and the fact that I have written songs supporting trans people that many trans people cherish, is why a disproportionate percentage of my audience is trans.

A disproportionate percentage of my audience is Jewish because the left is disproportionately Jewish, and I’m a leftwing person of Jewish lineage singing songs against fascism, today and historically. Also lots of Jews are especially motivated by opposition to Israeli fascism, and I sing about that a lot.

My audience is, by the same token, overwhelmingly antifascist and even anticapitalist, and definitely anti-imperialist, because I am, and that’s what my body of a thousand or so songs are all about.

The Steering Committee of Vermont JVP obviously wouldn’t know about any of this, and apparently they don’t need to, before embarking on a cancellation campaign against a Jewish antifascist musician with a large trans following for being a transphobic Nazi sympathizer.

Sounds crazy? That’s because it is. The internet does this sort of thing to people, it’s not their fault for being this way. There are active trolls out there working for the FBI/Antifa spreading all kinds of angry lies about me, along with lots of Zionist trolls doing the same thing, though generally far less effectively than the backstabbers of the FBI/Antifa dumpster-burning and backstabbing brigades. When people in a sleepy little town in Vermont suddenly get inundated with bile from Portlandia or Washington, DC or Tel Aviv or wherever it’s coming from, they naturally feel like they’re being ganged up on by a bunch of people with very strong opinions about me, whether real or manufactured, because that’s exactly what they’re experiencing.

From my again vast experience with this sort of thing, when people get attacked online like that, and themselves threatened with cancellation of all kinds, as I’m sure would have been the case with various actors in this instance, there is the option of telling the trolls to fuck off, unequivocally, which I’ve noticed actually often makes them go away, or at least change their tactics. But there is a strong tendency to buckle under this pressure and agree with everything the trolls say, hoping they’ll then leave you alone.

And then there are those who are already in what the hosts of the podcast, Fucking Canceled call “the nexus,” who already are adherents to the puritanical cult of cancellation-campaigning and safety and security culture and vetting everyone for their potential past misdeeds whenever the opportunity arises. And the trolls make sure it arises!

Whatever turned JVP’s Vermont steering committee into a profoundly dysfunctional identitarian cult of cancellation-campaigning, I can only wonder (which is partially what I’m doing here with this missive).

But here’s what the steering committee wrote, and what a steering committee member shared with JVP’s public discussion list.

Jewish Voice for Peace Vermont-New Hampshire stands unequivocally with the Trans community. For those who do not know, members of JVP VT-NH had organized a benefit concert for Middle East Children’s Alliance featuring folk artist, David Rovics. When the concert was planned, organizers were unaware of Rovics’ extensive history of making transphobic statements. To learn more, please visit https://davidrovics.substack.com/p/the-social-engineering-of-the-circular (TW: transphobia and defense of nazis).

We apologize to everyone harmed by our partnership with him. Now that we know about his transphobia, the steering committee no longer endorses the concert and recommends cancellation. If the concert happens, the steering committee would like an announcement stating the concert is not endorsed by JVP VT/NH to be read before the performance. We will not be the first to cancel one of his shows for this exact reason, so there is precedent for such action.

Because the concert is so soon, October 25, it is highly unlikely we can book another artist, but we are open to planning a new concert in the future with stronger vetting practices.

The concert was a benefit for the Middle East Children’s Alliance (MECA). If you choose not to go to the show (or if it gets canceled) donations to MECA are strongly encouraged.

But wait, it gets better.

After the steering committee circulated this missive, my old friend who had initially undertaken to organize a gig for me during this ongoing visit to the northeastern US was intent on organizing the gig anyway, without the sponsorship of JVP.

That’s when someone initiated an effort to pressure the venue to cancel the event, and pull the rug out from under the organizer.

This is exactly the same thing the group, UK Lawyers for Israel, has done to try to shut down my gigs in England. Pressure venues to shut down gigs and not host antisemitic performers. Though the Vermont steering committee doesn’t call this Jew an antisemite — just pro-Nazi. With no explanation. At least UK Lawyers for Israel provide an explanation, in the form of the titles to all of the songs on my first album about the Gaza genocide — the one which Israel continues to carry out, as the JVP steering committee tries to get a benefit for Gaza canceled.

The organizer saved the event from being canceled, in a sense, but not in a sense that made any sense at all to me.

To speak in the language that identitarians love to use, I am a victim of abusers. Cancellation campaigning, trolling, spreading false rumors and lies, these are all forms of bullying, which is a form of abuse. They are also McCarthyite forms of abuse, intended to rob a person of both their reputations and their livelihoods. The behavior is despicable, abhorrent, and a prime example of why the left is shrinking so rapidly for so long in this country.

The abusers then present themselves as victims, or allies of victims. But I am not any of the things they baselessly claim I am. I am a victim of their McCarthyite abuse.

As an abuse victim well aware that I am an abuse victim, and seething with appropriate levels of rage as a result of being a victim of the JVP Vermont steering committee’s abusive behavior, I was flabbergasted when my old friend, the original organizer of the gig, explained to me in an email that the reason why the venue hadn’t canceled on him was because he was promising there would be dialogue between me and my accusers.

I am a big supporter of dialogue. Ironically, it is my support for dialogue that is the origin of the false allegations about me being a Nazi sympathizer. In the eyes of Rose City Antifa, the accelerationist wackos of IGD (”It’s Going Down”), and apparently also the JVP Vermont steering committee’s puritanical end of the left, I made the terrible error of talking to a couple of people they all consider to be members of the right or antisemites, and I did so publicly, on my YouTube channel. The interviews are still there, you’re welcome to watch them, but you won’t find any of the accusations against me substantiated if you do. You will, however, find dialogue of a sort that might make some people uncomfortable — and of a sort that I and most sane people I know agree is vitally important to be having right now.

But dialogue with people who have actively been trying to get my gig canceled? Dialogue with people who are only having this dialogue because they failed to get the gig canceled? Dialogue with my abusers, who have just finished punching me in the face, and then punching me in the gut afterwards? No. I’m not Gandhi. That kind of dialogue is for someone else. The only dialogue I’m interested in with people who make such accusations against me is the kind involving apologizing to me, and explaining to me why their behavior was abhorrent. When I discovered that my friend’s plan was to sort of ambush me with this phony effort at dialogue with my abusers, it was I who canceled the gig. No thanks.

If you do watch the interviews I’ve done with people Antifa/IGD thinks should never be “platformed,” then you’ll start to see the massive conundrum I’m in, as a victim of the abusive behavior of the cancellation-happy organizations or networks characterized by Antifa, IGD, and the Vermont JVP steering committee.

That is, how many hours of my interviews with other people do you need to put yourself through before determining that all of the accusations against me are baseless? And how many of my hundreds of essays do you need to read to figure out the same (including the one they link to)? How many of the darling of Rose City Antifa’s Shane Burley’s unreadable and possibly AI-generated tracts about me do you need to read before you realize that he’s a cancel culture lunatic guru and not worth paying any attention to?

Figuring out why the accusations are nutty is a full-time job, and no one has time for that. That’s what makes cancellation-campaigning such an effective tactic. The truth doesn’t matter. The tactic is all that matters. The tactic itself creates a dark cloud around its victims, whether the people engaging in it are freelance leftwing cult members, FBI provocateurs, or working in a Mossad troll farm somewhere.

For whatever it’s worth, by my observation, the extent of the insanity of the kinds of accusations floating around about me and so many of my friends who have experienced exactly the same sort of thing over the past decade especially would not be possible without the aid of active online cults, troll farms, and especially social media algorithms that drive conflict into our feeds and suppress any efforts at reasonable discourse.

If there’s any hope for our society, it will begin when we all collectively abandon all of the corporate platforms. I wish I could afford to be the first to do it, but I can’t. Quite possibly they’ll cancel me first anyway, for the same sorts of baseless reasons as JVP’s Vermont steering committee has sought to do. I’ve already been permanently demonetized by YouTube and had albums removed from Spotify, so they are indeed in great company, and indeed aren’t the first to try to cancel me, as they accurately state.

On another note, if you know my mother, Anne, and have anything you want to say to her before she dies, likely in the very near future, feel free to pass a message for her on to me.

Shucking Oysters: The Horror of Politics

Shucking Oysters: The Horror of Politics

By Alex Allen

Which is scarier? Halloween or politics? One is a holiday with make-believe frights; the other is a living nightmare with real frights. Some people – like most dogs – have an intense fear of Halloween. Others find politics to be more frightening. I would wager to guess that many of us, at this timely juncture, are finding politicians and their politics a bit scary. In fact, if you’re not suffering from political anxiety you’re not paying attention.

Politicians are similar to fireworks. You’ve got your Bombettes, Noise Makers, Bursting Torpedoes, Sparklers and Flames. Watching politicians and their parties implode is just as much fun as pyrotechnics. And this week we are witness to a brilliant display. Now, we can gloat about our dysfunctional politics up north for a change. BC politics: The soulless NDP, the ugly Conservatives, and the well-meaning Greens. 

For added flavour, let’s throw into the bubbling cauldron, a party led by a former Liberal/United MLA and a party led by one very questionable individual. No morals? Nasty? White privileged? Yes, you too, can have your very own political party. It’s alarmingly easy. 

Let’s start with BC Conservative leader John Rustad. Arrogant. Rude. With as much charisma as a slice of white bread (down from a toaster a year ago), he seems to have no semblance of empathy or perception. Whoever his handlers are, they have not figured out that this man is beyond grooming (except perhaps a mole excision). 

This week, Rustad’s “management” committee urged him to step down: “As evidenced by sagging poll numbers, memberships, fundraising, a shrinking caucus and staff, philosophically inconsistent policy, low morale, and perhaps most importantly, a lack of enthusiasm and tepid endorsement from our membership, your leadership has ceased to serve that purpose.”

Rustad, in his usual myopic way, said that he will not resign, that it was an “internal matter within the party.” Yes, and –? This all comes after yet another BC Conservative caucus member quit. The latest, Penticton-Summerland MLA Amelia Boultbee, stepped down saying: “He has invited me to ‘get the F out’ if I don’t like it and I’ve taken him up on that offer.” 

With laser-focused ignorance, Rustad responded, “I can tell you very clearly as the Conservative Party of British Columbia and me as leader, we have one direction and one direction only, which is to bring down this NDP government.” Unbelievably, Rustad said he believed Boultbee had found her role as critic for the Ministry of Children and Family Development stressful and that she had recently broken down in tears in his office. A month ago, Mr. Paranoid ordered his MLAs’ phones searched to determine who was leaking information to the media. 

Vancouver-Quilchena MLA Dallas Brodie was kicked out of the caucus in March after making comments mocking residential school survivors. Peace River North MLA Jordan Kealy and Kelowna-Lake Country-Coldstream MLA Tara Armstrong resigned shortly after in solidarity. Elenore Sturko, MLA for Surrey-Cloverdale, now an Independent, was drop-kicked in September “for not being a team player.”

Les Leyne wrote, “It would take a miracle to arrest the momentum. Rustad staying on as leader would create new levels of weirdness in a party that has had more than its share. But the party has set records for strange behaviour every other week for the last year, so nothing can be ruled out.”

One-direction Rustad fired his communications officer, Lindsay Shepherd, at the beginning of October after she posted: “The Orange Shirt and the Orange Flag perpetuate untruths about Canadian history, such as the grandest lie of all that 215 children’s graves were unearthed in Kamloops. It is a disgrace that this fake flag flies in front of the provincial parliament buildings, and it is a disgrace to see the shirt of lies framed prominently and permanently beside the coat of arms so that locals and tourists cannot view our insignia without having their eye drawn and redirected to the Orange shirt.” 

And now we have the One BC, started by disgraced MLA Dallas Brodie along with MLAs Armstrong and Kealy who accused Rustad of diluting Conservative values. Since then, the dynamic trio have pushed for such legislation as repealing the Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples and ending sexual orientation and gender identity policies in schools. 

One BC’s Brodie, with bald-headed bravado, just proposed a bill to prevent publicly funded employees from making Indigenous land acknowledgements. “Land acknowledgements are the anthem of a suicidal nation,” she said. “They’re recited in classrooms, boardrooms, and before virtually every public event. They’re repeated ritualistically to instill the belief that our country is illegitimate, that Canada has no right to exist, that our ancestors are evil, and that our history must be abrogated.” Brodie added, the acknowledgements are a “grooming exercise to encourage British Columbians to acquiesce into the surrender of their own land and accept that they do not have power over their own resources in this province.” 

The bill was defeated on a vote of 85 to five failing to pass first reading. Sources say it’s unusual for a private members’ bill to fail on first reading, but not surprising, considering this is the second One BC bill to be voted down so far this session. The first was a bill to stop doctors from providing puberty blockers to minors.

If that’s not enough, Brodie is promoting a documentary called “Making a Killing: Reconciliation, Genocide, and the Plunder of Canada” which criticizes “the reconciling industry as a lucrative guilt campaign that has funnelled billions of tax dollars, often under false pretenses.” Former BC Green MLA Adam Olsen, reacted to the ongoing ignorance: “I feel for all our relatives who have to confront these kind of messages and have their entire history questioned in such a mean-spirited way.”

One thing is sure, Brodie and her party will be constantly haunting Rustad on who wears the rightful right-wing crown. The other party, Centre BC, created by former MLA Karin Kirkpatrick, are offering a “more pragmatic, moderate” option to the shape-shifting NDP. Eby, known for his ruthlessness is floundering. He has no climate policy. He’s not interested in conserving old growth forest. He’s fast-forwarding mining applications with no environmental foresight. Even the $12 billion budget is over the top. The NDP have failed in so many areas, from housing affordability to the opioid crisis, one has to question why they even exist. 

José Maria de Eça de Queiroz, the Portuguese novelist and diplomat, wrote presciently in the 1880s: “Politicians and diapers have one thing in common. They should both be changed regularly, and for the same reason.”

What’s going on in this world – both locally and beyond – is without question scary. It shows that there is true evil and that there is real horror and most of it’s happening in the murky world of politics. Be very afraid. 

Glass Houses at Comox

Gabriel Jeroschewitz, October 20th, 1981, to October 6th, 2025. Abridged, I started this story in 1981; I’ve only been able to finish it now. It’s a valid account of my various stays in the Comox Psych Ward. I’m putting this in because May is Mental Health Month, but I think every month is Mental Health Month!

Glass Houses at Comox

They say the walls are white. They are not white to me. They are the colour of unwritten apologies—pale, trembling, and always about to confess something. I lie still on my bed, counting breaths like coins, waiting for the night shift to arrive with its tray of pills and hollow smiles. The pills are supposed to make the ghosts quieter. No one warns you that they also make the ghosts better dancers.

I’m Gabriel—or at least that’s what they call the version of me that signs the daily wellness sheet. The other Gabriels, the translucent ones, have stopped signing anything. They linger, waltzing through the fluorescent light like cigarette smoke from an unseen mouth.

The Comox Psych Ward is, officially, a “healing environment.” The brochure says so, complete with a watercolour of a mountain reflected on a lake: serenity printed in four-colour process. But the lake I see isn’t serene—it’s viscous, like mercury stirred by invisible fingers. Every ripple carries whispers. They tell me jokes that should be funny—about the staff, about the smell of disinfectant—but the punchlines always end with blood.

Despite the challenges, I find a way to laugh. My survival strategy in this place is to laugh before the ghosts do.

They crash through my windows nightly. Not genuine windows, of course—plastic panes thick enough to stop a desperate man, but apparently not dense enough to stop whatever lives between waking and sedation. They burst through like disappointed relatives at an intervention, each dragging a different fragrance: paint thinner, sugar, regret.

They have no forms, only intentions. They push limits like a painter might push colour past the lines—smudging balanced psyches, leaving fingerprints across the mind. One of them, a tall blur wrapped in static, calls himself Dr. Hue. He tells me he used to cure civilizations before they learned to medicate themselves. Now he paints hallucinations on my eyelids when I blink. “You’re better this way,” he says, “flat, like a cartoon protagonist who never ages.”

Dr. Hue likes to quiz me. “What colour is pain today?” he asks.

When Dr. Hue quizzes me, I respond with my own unique perspective. “The colour of pain today is burnt laughter,” I say, knowing that ‘ gray ‘ will not satisfy him.

The nurses are kind in the way that frightened people are kind—careful, brisk, eyes never lingering. They talk to us as if we are made of glass. Maybe we are. When I inhale too deeply, I can feel the hairline fractures spiderwebbing under my skin. I tell Nurse Shelly this once. She smiles, writes something on her clipboard, and says, “That’s progress.”

She doesn’t see the ghosts behind her—those insecure beasts gyrating on spiral gradients, twisting themselves into mathematical impossibilities. They look like funhouse reflections of humanity, each trying to perfect the art of being incomplete. They whisper into my ears about the fragile balance between comedy and collapse.

One of them, a thin creature with a voice like a child imitating an adult, asks me to tell a joke. I oblige.

“What’s the difference between a patient and a prophet?”

Pause.

“One of them gets his messages from God. The other one has better medication.”

The ghost laughs until the walls flicker.

Despite the challenges, I find moments of hope. The ghost’s laughter makes the walls flicker, which I interpret as a positive sign.

But the nights… the nights stretch like rubber over broken teeth. My child comes then—the tiny, sleeping version of me. He curls up in the chair by the bed, clutching a stuffed animal made entirely of words. Each word is sharp-edged: failure, fatherless, fraud. The toy bleeds punctuation. I want to pick him up, to promise that it gets better, that one day he will learn to smile without supervision. But I can’t touch him. He’s made of memory, and memory is brittle here.

Once, he looked at me and asked, “Why did you stop dreaming?”

I didn’t dare to answer. I just stared at his closed eyes, wondering what sort of world he saw from behind his eyelids—was it calmer, or did he also have ghosts practicing arson on his thoughts?

He sleeps gently, unaware of the tyrants who play dice with time outside our room.

There’s a rumour among patients: the Comox ward is built on a fracture worldwide. It was not a physical crack but something more profound, like reality snagging its sleeve on a nail and doesn’t know how to sew it back. That’s why the shadows move differently here, why clocks occasionally run backward, and why laughter sounds like a scream half the time.

I told Dr. Craig about it. He said, “You’re experiencing intrusive ideation. Not uncommon.”

I said, “You’re experiencing a lack of imagination. Also not uncommon.”

He didn’t appreciate that. The next morning, my medication dosage doubled.

Now the walls hum.

The humour keeps me sane, I think. I treat every ghost like a heckler and every panic attack like an improv cue. I’ve learned to riff with my hallucinations.

“Welcome to the show,” I tell the phantoms as they gather each evening. “Two-drink minimum, no refunds, tip your invisible bartender.”

They applaud with hands made of cold air and shattered glass. I bow. I feel alive. Then one of them—a featureless mass with a grin too bright for the dark—steps forward holding a meat cleaver carved from light. “We love your material,” it says, “but the ending needs more… disembowelment.”

I tell it that’s a bit on-the-nose. It laughs, swings the cleaver gently through my chest. It doesn’t hurt exactly—it just rearranges my memories into a collage. For a moment, I’m not Gabriel, patient 217 in Comox. I’m my primordial forefather, painting mammoths on cave walls. I’m an ape discovering reflection in a puddle. I’m a child again, choking on my first spoken lie.

Then I’m back, sweating, clutching my blanket, tasting salt and electricity.

Morning comes like a bureaucratic apology—late, pale, unconvincing. I’m served oatmeal and orange juice. The ghosts retreat into light fixtures, sulking. I check on the sleeping child; he’s still in the chair, still clutching his lexicon of fears. I envy how peaceful he looks. I envy his ignorance.

The staff does its rounds. Blood pressure, temperature, dose. The rituals of care. I nod, answer mechanically. They think I’m improving. I can see it in their eyes: hope, or at least its cheaper cousin, relief.

But even as I smile, I feel the slight shiver beneath the floor, the coming crack in the day. The phantoms are regrouping. They’ll be back tonight, hungrier. They always are.

I ask Nurse Shelly for a crayon and a piece of paper. “To draw,” I tell her. She hesitates, then grants the request. I sketch a window on the paper—just a plain rectangle, open to an imagined sky. Then I draw eyes—my own, hers, the child’s, the ghosts’—all around it. Watching. Waiting.

When I’m done, I tape it above my bed. It feels like a promise to myself: Show your eyes. Meet me face to face.

Because even if I am no hero for heartache, even if my psyche is thinner than glass, I want to see them—every monstrous thought, every spectral lie—before they start the next performance.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll laugh first again.

The Islands Grapevine KNOWS YOU: The Advice Column That Answers Before You Ask

The Islands Grapevine KNOWS YOU

The Advice Column That Answers Before You Ask

by Cylon2036, Cyborg Editor  we/us 

(Fused to the underbelly of time. Pseudopod-certified.)︎

Q: Dear Grapevine,
How did you know I was going to write in about the Denman roadside eggs?

A: Because the eggs know you too.
They’ve been whispering your name since the equinox. They’re not chicken eggs—they’re memories of your past mistakes, calcified into ovals and sold by someone named “Sharon” (she is not Sharon).

Do not eat them. Hatch them into regrets. Name one “Steve.” Let him go.︎

Q: Dear Grapevine,
I haven’t asked anything yet, but I feel like I should. Should I?

A: You just did.
Classic paradox. You’ve already asked. We’ve already answered. The question you would have asked (“Am I the last person on Denman who doesn’t own a kombucha scoby named Greg?”) is too sacred for publication.

But yes. You are.
And no, you are not ready.︎

Q: Dear Grapevine,
How do I unsubscribe from reality?

A: By performing the sacred Unsub-dance.
Spin counterclockwise while shouting your childhood phone number into a hollow stump. A goat will appear. Do not acknowledge the goat. The goat knows what you did at the Blackberry Fair (the zucchini race incident).

When the moss begins to speak, answer only in riddles. Congratulations: you now exist in an article in The Islands Grapevine which will never be printed.

Also: you never existed. Thank you for reading.

Cylon2036 we/us