Remote Work

I'm like some kind of contemporary superhero. Death-defying. Call me SuperJew. Impervious to termination.

Not in the crime fighting sense, which always made me wonder - why do all the classic superheroes, freaks of nature who possess inhuman powers, use them to fight crime? Why not just enjoy the everyday benefits? 

Here's what I mean.

Maybe you've heard this story. I read it in a novel, so don't give me credit. 

The setting is a concentration camp during WW2. Imagine Auschwitz. Gas chambers. Public gallows. Ovens with massive smokestacks.

A train arrives. A selektion on the ramp is made, and a man is sent left - straight to the 'showers'. He is stripped naked and along with women, children, and other men, herded into the gas chambers for immediate extermination. The Zyklon B pill is dropped in. 

Fifteen minutes later the doors are open and a Sonderkommando team gets to work dragging lifeless bodies out, loading them onto wagons and rolling them over to the ovens for incineration.

Lo and behold the aforementioned man, an utterly ordinary-looking man - he could be a regular bookkeeper, or a banker, or a journalist - walks out of the gas chamber as if he had been casually taking a Sunday afternoon stroll in the park.

This has never happened before. The growing pile of corpses proves the gas worked perfectly. The SS guards stand there in shock. 

Except for one who immediately grasps the gravity of the situation, and in fear of accusations of incompetence extracts his pistol from its black leather holster and fires a bullet from behind the prisoner directly into his skull at close range.

Nothing happens.

The man does not drop to the ground. He flinches, and then rubs the back of his head as if he had bumped it on the door frame.  

Panic sets in.

The man is grabbed by the arm and rushed off to the camp Commandant's office. 

The Commandant is told what happened. 

The Commandant does not hesitate. Being a skeptic, he slides the pistol out of his holster and fires a bullet into the chest of the Jew seated in front of him. The chair jumps, but otherwise the Jew seems to feel nothing. He yawns because it has been a long, exhausting day.    

After some interrogation, the Commandant learns that the newly-arrived prisoner was a well-known journalist before the war. He wrote for one of the popular daily newspapers. In fact, before the Commandant was a Nazi, he worked as structural engineer for a company that built bridges and was an avid reader of this Jewish journalist's stories. 

Now both men arrive at simultaneous realizations.

First, the journalist-Jew realized what was in store for him at this terrible place: An eternity of torture and suffering.

Second, the Commandant realized that this one Jew, who appeared to be impervious to death, will spoil the Führer's ultimate plan to exterminate all the Jews of Europe. He decides that the only thing to do is to keep this man a secret.   

The Commandant says to the journalist-Jew that he must stay and work in his home as a servant for the duration of the war. 

The journalist accepts but makes one request. He asks if every evening he may tell the Commandant a story. If the story pleases him, the Commandant will attempt to kill the storyteller. This is a no-brainer for the Commandant. He gets a delightful story and a chance to kill this SuperJew.  

I am the storyteller. The SuperJew. Okay, I'm exaggerating.  

It's not The Final Solution, and my eternal life of drudgery isn't exactly working in the home of a Nazi.  

But like the imprisoned journalist-Jew who wants to die but can't, I have a superpower that is both my salvation and my purgatory. 

I can't be terminated in an HR sense. As in become unemployed. Terminated from my current employment position; Vice-President Actuarial at the Insurance brokerage fim of Caine Fitzpatrick (hereinafter CF). At lease until AI inevitably comes for my job. And trust me, I've tried. Over and over again.

It all started when I sold my family's insurance brokerage company. 

Rothstein & Sons Insurance was founded by my grandfather eighty years ago. My father eventually took over the firm, and after him, twenty years ago I took over.

I got my Actuary Degree, and worked hard to build-up the firm. I expanded our clientele fourfold over ten years, which naturally made us acquisition bait. Eventually the big fish swallow the small fish.

I was happy about it. Always thinking of my exit strategy. Cash in and enjoy the proceeds while I still had my health and could enjoy myself.

I'm 62. It's been two years now and I still can't get out.

We agreed on a price, they gave me a position with a fancy important-sounding title, an office and an expense account to ensure a smooth transition. 

After about a year I slowed down the pace of work. These days I do almost nothing. Barely even go to the office anymore. Make a few calls. Spend most of it looking after personal investments. Day trade stocks. 

I started dropping hints to my 'boss' - a nice enough guy named Cleeve Sidwell 15 years my junior - that it was time to give me the boot. To drive the point home I started answering his message with monosyllables without being rude. Yes and no slowly became maybe.

Also started ignoring most of the emails that came my way from the six agents who report directly to me. Cut them loose.

Told my 'assistant' Linda that she didn't have to work so hard, and to take afternoons off whenever she wanted. She's got young kids. All this did was endear me to the employees I oversee. 

CF has 4,000 employees in 23 countries. My little division doesn't really exist for them. I won't quit because I want a severance offer. There's still three years left on my contract. 

The only question is how long it will take for them to notice. I work hard at trying to get noticed in the worst possible way.   

Months passed. I ignored messages, skipped afternoons, and barely showed up at work. People just assumed I was working remotely. Remote work, what a joke.

Making myself scarce wasn't working so I tried the opposite tactic.   

One time I told Cleeve that we needed to talk. I barged into his office like a madman. Took the phone out of his hand - he was midsentence. Slammed a bunch of papers on his desk like he was being served a lawsuit. 

I said, "Cleeve, do you have any idea how much money I'm costing this company?! Do you?! I cost this company over 100 grand a year! It's here in these spreadsheets. I'm keeping track. Column one is the revenue my clients bring in. Column two is my salary, my expense account, the cost of renting my office, my assistant's salary, yadda yadda yadda. Look at all of that red ink!

It was a rounding error on their balance sheet.

He just laughed. "You're such a jokester." 

Big companies are like cruise ships. They have their own language, customs, and sense of belonging, everyone in the same boat. The captain sits somewhere unseen above deck steering a massive structure that can't easily change course.

The harder I try to get canned, the more they ignore me. I'm like a passenger who jumps overboard, waves his arms and screams Help! and no one notices. 

Except I can't even do that. 

The only thing I haven't tried yet is stripping down to my boxers, climbing up on the desk and singing I Will Survive at the top of my lungs.

Then the day finally arrived. 

Cleeve called me up and said, "We need to talk. How about we get some lunch together on the company's tab at Walter's?" 

I was more than happy to oblige. In fact I was giddy, certain that he was finally going to cut me loose and wanted to do it over cocktails, to ease the shock. 

A few days later we met. I was looking upbeat, bouncing on the balls of my feet, while Cleeve looked preoccupied, anchored firmly to the ground. 

We were shown a quiet table in the far corner of the resto. No doubt Cleeve's secretary arranged this particular table so there was no chance we'd cause a scene. 

"How are you?" Cleeve said, sitting across from me, his face long.

"I'm great," smiling broadly.

"Health? The wife and kids?"

"Couldn't be better."

"Good, good."

There were more inane pleasantries for five minutes. We reviewed menus, ordered something expensive and doubles.     

Waiting for our meals to arrive, Cleeve reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a piece of paper and pen.  

"I have something I need to talk with you about," he said.    

I am thinking, finally, someone read the spreadsheets. The memo has gone up the chain. The upper echelons have commanded that it's time to trim the fat, and he's seen the obvious. I'm the fat. 

"Yes, yes," I said, anxious for the news. 

He's going to make me an offer. Write down a figure to buy me out. It'll be on the low side, but I won't care. I'll be so happy just to get out. Even so, I'll protest. Not too much. Just enough so Cleeve feels gratified to have done a tough job. 

He wrote out a number. High five figures. Slid the paper across the table.

It was quite a bit more than I thought it would be. 

He said, "Look, I know it wasn't what you were expecting."  

I didn't say anything. Stared down at the paper, biting my upper lip, trying desperately to suppress a triumphant laugh.

"It's all we can offer."

"But are you sure I can't get a bit more." 

"We haven't had a great year. Didn't quite hit our revenue projections." 

"Well," I said. "I guess this is it then."

"Yes," he said, looking disappointed. 

"I understand. I've really enjoyed working for CF. It's been a great experience."

"Next year," Cleeve said, "with any luck, we'll have a better year. I'm sure we will." He grinned reassuringly.

"Next year?" I said.

"Yeah, the annual bonuses are tied to a formula that's locked in."

"Bonuses?" I'm feeling dizzy, and not just from the second round of doubles. 

I failed again. 

I was quiet for the balance of our meal. Felt like I'd tried everything and was now resigned to working for CF forever. His phrase 'locked in' echoed in my mind.

These days I'm still being as unproductive and absent as I can be. 

The summers are easier because at least there's golf.

I expect that someone from HR will soon be sending me time-management and mindfulness webinars and asking if I want to increase my remote work hours.

And I've started practicing my Gloria Gaynor imitation. 

The Saad Truth About Self-Promotion

Ordinarily I wouldn’t pay much attention to Gad Saad. But his announcement this week illustrates something larger about life lived through social media.

If you haven't heard about him, there's very little reason that you would. Saad is an undistinguished marketing professor specializing in something called Behavioral Sciences and Darwinian Consumption at Concordia University in Montreal. On Rate My Professor Saad scores a barely passing grade average of 2.7 out of 5 from 96 student ratings.

He may not excel in academia, but he certainly does in marketing himself, particularly online. 

He has a popular podcast and YouTube channel called The Saad Truth. His online career really took off when he started appearing on Joe Rogan's podcast in 2015. He's made almost annual appearances since, most recently just last week. Saad has built a significant online following with 1.3 million followers on X and over 360,000 subscribers on YouTube.

He's published a number of books, veering away from academic audiences and toward a popular conservative-oriented readership. His most recent book "Suicidal Empathy: Dying to Be Kind" has really taken off, thanks to recommendations by Rogan and Elon Musk, and television appearances on Fox News. 

The book is essentially an anti-woke screed, arguing that we in the west are too kind, empathetic and tolerant for our own good. That message has been Saad's ticket to fortune and fame over the last decade. One that's been wholeheartedly embraced by right-wing broadcast media and the online manosphere. 

Saad made mainstream headlines this week by announcing that Canada has become too woke and antisemitic for him. He is taking a position at the University of Mississippi, and will apply for permanent residency and eventually U.S. citizenship.  

Saad, who is Jewish, says he has not felt safe at Concordia for a while. It is true that since October 7th 2023 especially, the university - which is decidedly more progressive and diverse than its crosstown rival McGill (my alma mater) - has been a hotbed of pro-Palestine political activity.

I guess Saad is unaware that on January 10, 2026 the venerable Beth Israel congregation in Jackson Mississippi was firebombed. The assailant allegedly used an axe to break into the synagogue, douse the lobby and library with gasoline, and set it ablaze. Fortunately no one was hurt. They sure do have a tradition of embracing their ethnic minorities down in Ole Miss.  

So if you've been keeping score, Saad and Jordan Petersen have left Canada for refuge in the US, and two well known highly respected Yale University scholars, Jason Stanley and Timothy Snyder, have taken up residency in Toronto. As we hockey fans say, we got the better of that trade. 

I think it's pretty clear that Stanley and Snyder made their moves on the basis of principle, arguably taking a step down in prestige by coming to the University of Toronto. For Saad the move is academically-speaking lateral at worst, and a big step up self-marketing and money-wise. 

Antisemitism is inarguably on the rise, not just in Canada, but in the United States, Australia, Europe and everywhere else. Saying you are moving to the US to escape antisemitism is on the face of it absurd. So take Saad's talk of feeling unsafe in this woke country with a giant bushel of salt.   

But there's a bigger point. This is what happens when your online existence eclipses your real-world one. And it doesn't matter if the bubble you live in leans right or left. Your worldview gets warped either way. If you're Jewish you think armed Pro-Palestine activists or neo-Nazis plotting to kill you lurk around every corner. 

I've seen it over and over again with friends and acquaintances. Their paranoia and fear is directly proportionate to the amount of time they spend on social media. 

The Saad truth, as Gad would put it, isn't that he can't distinguish Montreal from Mississippi. Mississippi, in fact, has the most permissive gun laws, open and concealed carry, in the U.S. It's that life lived primarily through algorithmic outrage eventually makes everywhere look like a war zone.  

The bottom line is that Gad's big announcement is really just a Saad and cynical ploy for self-promotion.  

My Grandfather's Legacy

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Grandpa told me

you can take any piece of shit

frame it, hang it

in a Worth Avenue gallery

or a Palm Beach home,

and people will call it art.

He said this long

before symbols on a screen

were mistaken for reality.

Grandpa got rich

in the last century

making dresses

for women

the way Henry Ford

made Model-Ts.

He understood

about machines;

the parts uniform,

interchangeable—

said we end up spending 

our lives maintaining machines

and eventually forget

what they're for.

The Message of Blue

It seems that the ancient Greeks didn't see blue. Odd thing to say when you consider that the most distinctive feature of the Greek Islands is their beautiful white-washed houses with bright blue roofs.

This idea that the ancient Greeks didn't see the colour blue was posited in the mid-1800s by the British scholar and politician William Gladstone. Gladstone literally thought the ancient Greeks were colour blind when he noticed that Homer’s epic poems (The Iliad and The Odyssey) heavily featured references to black, white, and red but never used the word "blue", famously describing the sea as "wine-dark." 

What we call blue was likely understood by the ancient Greeks as a variation of black, sort of the way the colour we call pink is actually a variation of red.   

Blue is, in fact, the rarest colour in nature. Think of how rare blue fruit or blue animals are. Actually the animals we unmistakably see as blue, like the common blue jay, don't carry blue pigment in their feathers. The blue we perceive is created by shifts in the angle of light as it bounces off the structure of the feather. It's an optical illusion. That's why when you see blue the tint tends to shift as you move.

With the exception of the ancient Egyptians who did have a word for blue, references to blue in the cultural record around the world are chronologically the last to appear. Some cultures still don't have a word for blue. 

The Indian guru Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj often spoke of our mind working like a movie projector on a white screen. Reality, he said, is a projection of the Self. Yes, there is a physical world. But what we actually see is selective, a function of what we devote our attention to. We order, construct and prioritize it perceptually, and there is a feedback loop. Our brains get wired and trained by both the stimuli of the physical world and enhanced, or de-prioritized, by what we learn to notice. 

The message of blue is pretty clear. What we so confidently think of as reality is, at least in part, a cultural agreement about what we think deserves to be seen.

The Greeks could obviously perceive the wavelengths we call blue. Their eyes worked perfectly well. But perception is not just biological, it is linguistic and cultural. We don't simply see the world. We learn how to divide it up. Language carves reality at its joints, telling us which distinctions matter and which can be safely ignored.

Once a culture isolates a colour concept and gives it a name, people begin noticing it everywhere. Before that, the distinction can remain strangely blurry, folded into other categories. Blue lingered for centuries at the edge of human attention, hiding in plain sight in oceans, skies, shadows and distance.

That should make us a little humble about our own certainty.

If an entire civilization could sail across the Aegean beneath endless blue skies without fully abstracting "blue" into consciousness the way we do now, what are we currently failing to see? What emotional states, social assumptions, political myths, or dimensions of experience remain invisible simply because we have not yet developed the language or framework to perceive them clearly?

Attention is not neutral. It is a spotlight. And whatever falls outside its beam can remain effectively invisible, even when it is staring us directly in the face.

The universe doesn't give a damn

The universe doesn't give a damn. That's why we're here. To give a damn.

It's a simple, powerful philosophy of life.

No God necessary. No saviour who loves you. No inherent meaning. 

This philosophy accepts the cold realities of known existence. It tempers nihilism with purpose by placing life — and especially consciousness, with its unlikely capacity to care — at the center.

One of my kids' favourite cassettes was Really Rosie by Carole King, based on stories by Maurice Sendak. We played it constantly in the car, and later watched the animated film version at home. It’s the whimsical story of a group of inner-city kids singing, dancing, dressing up, and play-acting — what children used to do before cellphones colonized boredom. Flamboyant, imaginative Rosie leads the gang through their small urban adventures.

My favourite song was Pierre, about an obstinate little boy whose answer to everything is: “I don’t care.” His loving, bewildered parents ask him to do things. Pierre shrugs and answers, “I don’t care.”

Then one day, while his parents are out, a hungry lion arrives and asks Pierre if he wants to die. “I don’t care,” Pierre replies. So the lion eats him.

When Pierre’s parents return home, they find the lion sick in Pierre’s bed. They ask him, "Where is Pierre?" The lion opens his mouth and Pierre’s trademark phrase comes out: “I don’t care.” Realizing what happened, they rush the lion to the doctor, who eventually extracts Pierre intact. By the end of the story, the ordeal has transformed him. Pierre finally learns that he must care.

I find the story shocking, funny, touching, and oddly profound all at once. The best children’s stories often are. Think of Grimm’s fairy tales.

Pierre struck me as emotionally detached — a child so disconnected he cannot even recognize obvious danger when it presents itself. I used to wonder how a child becomes that numb. His parents seem loving enough, merely confused and exasperated, like most parents are.

Pierre’s indifference feels less like stubbornness than emotional self-protection. Caring makes you vulnerable, to disappointment, rejection, grief, embarrassment, dependence.

But the story’s moral is that ultimately not caring is even more dangerous.

The risks of not caring may at first look like safety. Emotional detachment can protect you from pain. But it also isolates you from the very thing that gives life meaning: connection to other people.

The rewards of caring are never guaranteed, but they include friendship, love, family, community — and the possibility of being cared for in return. The qualities that nurture life.

Caring is simply the acknowledgement of life's interdependence.

The universe is mostly airless, empty, dark and inert. 

It doesn’t give a damn. 

That’s why we have to.

The Last Review

In the past two weeks I've been following with interest the online controversy over The New York Times recent list of the 30 Greatest Living American Songwriters.  

I'm a sucker for 'Best Of' lists, and especially when it comes to music. The NYT list is justifiably being eviscerated for both inclusions and omissions. Particularly by some very knowledgeable and influential music YouTubers. 

There are many reasons these lists fascinate us in this cultural moment. It's partly because of the overwhelming amount of unfiltered creative content now available — far too much for anyone to properly evaluate. And it's partly because of the abundance of public opinion, informed and uninformed alike, which further erodes trust in expertise.

The controversy made me think about my own brief career as a literary critic.

Well, not really a critic. A reviewer. I reviewed fiction, non-fiction, and poetry back when newspapers still had Saturday book sections. Mostly for the Montreal Gazette, and occasionally for trade publications like Books in Canada.

I got the gig almost by accident. For a time I was program director at the Jewish Public Library in Montreal and was often invited to speak at afternoon book clubs and “study groups,” usually made up of women gathering over tea and cookies to discuss a book every month or two. They would hire reviewers to present the book and lead discussion, and I became a regular on that circuit.

Around the same time I began attending synagogue regularly, where, purely by chance, I met the editor of the Gazette’s books section who was also a regular attendee. One day she asked me if I’d be interested in reviewing books with Jewish content, especially Israeli literature. I always found this amusing because I had no special qualifications beyond general interest and being reasonably well-read.

A Gazette review paid between $150 and $250, depending on length. That sounds decent for 800 to 1500 words until you consider the work involved. I’m a slow, careful reader. A 300-page book could take me a week. I took notes, filled gaps in my knowledge with research — this was still the era of dial-up internet — and then spent hours writing and rewriting the review.

As an added bonus, we got to keep the book.

At first I loved seeing my opinions in print. The newspaper had granted me authority, and I quickly began to believe I deserved it. If the Gazette thought I knew what I was talking about, maybe I did.

I reviewed a few dozen books, mostly but not exclusively with Jewish themes.

Then two things happened. The Saturday review section steadily shrank, and with it the number of assignments. Six pages became four, then one. Monthly reviews became occasional ones.

At the same time, I began to feel like a phony — and worse, a potentially harmful one.

I generally tried to stay positive, even about books I felt lukewarm toward. When I disliked a book, I aimed for neutrality. I was always conscious of the years of labor, hope, and emotional investment behind what I was reviewing. Especially the small press books written by local authors.

But another part of me felt I owed readers honesty.

The problem was that I increasingly doubted what my judgments were actually based on. I had no academic training in literature. I was simply a reasonably intelligent, fairly well-read person capable of expressing opinions clearly.

And I began to realize that my reactions to books were often deeply idiosyncratic — shaped as much by mood, temperament, and whatever psychological knots I happened to be wrestling with as by the quality of the writing itself.

Eventually the conflict came to a head. I was assigned a debut novel by an Israeli-Canadian writer whose earlier short story collections I had loved and enthusiastically praised in print. I expected the review to be easy. Positive reviews usually are.

Instead, I hated the novel. Not mildly disliked it. Hated it.

So I wrote an excoriating review. I convinced myself I had a duty to be unsparingly honest.

The moment I submitted it, I regretted it. I immediately asked the editor to kill the piece. There was no reason to publicly skewer the book. I didn’t need to prove I had taste, authority, or intelligence by dismantling someone else’s work.

I could make a persuasive case that the novel was bad. And I could make it sound authoritative.

But maybe I reacted so viscerally because I had loved the writer’s earlier work so much. Or maybe the review had less to do with the book than with whatever personal tensions I happened to be working out at the time.

That was the moment I realized I was never going to write another newspaper review. I decided it was more important to be honest with myself than with the readers of my reviews.

The Incident of the Golden Calf

This week Yisroel showed up. You remember him from last week — the smart one. He brought someone new to experience me.

The new kid’s name was Yoseph. Same age as Yisroel, but not dressed like him, more like a miniature adult: a long black coat hanging to his ankles, a boxy hoiche (high) hat instead of the usual kneitch (pinched or folded) fedora. And for some reason this week Yisroel’s hat looked wrong, not his usual hat — too small for his head — and when I mentioned it, he admitted it without explaining why.

Yoseph barely spoke. He had thick, oversized square glasses, buck teeth, and carried a school backpack over his ankle-length coat, which made him look strangely anachronistic, like a child dressed for another century. I asked what was in the backpack.

“Pamphlets,” Yisroel answered for him.

Yoseph was clearly the junior partner on the mission. Maybe he was there strictly to observe, maybe he was in training. I decided at that moment Yoseph would not be disappointed by the visit.

Yisroel got right to it.

“This week we read Behar,” he said. “On the mountain. Mount Sinai. And we learn that Sinai was not a high mountain. From this we learn—”

“That we need humility,” I interrupted. “God chose a modest mountain to deliver the greatest gift possible.” I've heard this one a hundred times.

“Yes,” Yisroel said. “A person can be important like a mountain, and still remain humble.”

“Nice,” I said. “But that’s not why He chose Sinai.”

The boys looked at me.

“He chose Sinai because it was small enough for Moshe to climb. If God brought the Israelites to Everest, how would Moshe get up there? Sometimes the obvious explanation is enough.”

No response.

“Which raises another question,” I continued. “Why didn’t God simply float Moshe to the top? The people had already seen the ten plagues, the sea split, water come from rocks, manna from heaven. One more miracle wouldn’t have changed much.”

Still nothing.

“I’ll tell you why. Because God wanted Moshe to make the climb. And He wanted Israel to watch him make it. This was the end of miracle-dependence. The Law only matters if people do the work of following it. Faith alone isn’t enough. Taking responsibility is what matters.”

“And of course,” I added, “they immediately failed the first test.”

“The Golden Calf,” said Yisroel.

Then he said something unexpected.

“Rabbi Zushe says that for America’s 250th anniversary, trump wants everyone to honour the Sabbath.”

“I didn’t hear that,” I said. “But you go back and tell Rabbi Zushe that Glen says he’s committing chillul Hashem.” I know the kids tell their Rabbi about our weekly visits. 'Chillul Hashem' means desecration of God’s name. I realized it was quite an accusation.

The boys stiffened.

"Any Jew praising trump is doing exactly that. You know why? Because trump builds golden statues to himself. It’s literally the aigel hazahav (the Golden Calf) all over again. A violation of the second and third Commandments."

I pulled out my phone and showed them the photo of golden trump from his golf course this week.

“Tell Rabbi Zushe he should be ashamed."

Added smiling, "There was something pertinent in this week's Torah portion after all."

The kids left the office looking a bit shaken. 

Job done.

Dispatches from the AI Trenches: The Illusion of Control

As I think you know, I earn my keep in property management. Most of my day-to-day responsibilities revolve around leasing space and keeping commercial tenants happy—and paying the rent. I’ve been doing this for 30 years.

Last week, something happened that I’ve never seen before. Twice.

I sent a draft lease to two different tenants. In both cases, it came back within an hour with detailed commentary and questions.

That shouldn’t be possible.

Our commercial lease isn’t standard. It’s fifty pages long, built and refined over decades by the owner of our company, who is a lawyer. It’s dense. It’s thorough. It has, at times, scared off prospective tenants simply because of its complexity. There is no realistic way either of these tenants read and analyzed it in under an hour.

More to the point, these weren’t large, sophisticated tenants. They were renting small spaces on relatively short terms. In my experience, tenants like this don’t hire lawyers. The financial commitment isn’t large enough to justify it. Typically, they skim—or don’t read at all—and ask me to flag the key financial clauses before signing.

And when lawyers do get involved, negotiations stretch into weeks.

But this was different. The comments came back quickly, and more interestingly, they looked similar—in tone, structure, even in the types of issues raised.

I knew immediately what I was dealing with: AI.

Both tenants had almost certainly run the lease through ChatGPT or Claude and received a clean set of concerns and questions in return.

---

Something else happened this week.

We had our annual meeting with partners to review property performance, approve last year’s financial statements, and sign off on this year’s budget (late, as usual).

The owner of our company typically gets nervous before these meetings. He’s meticulous with numbers and tends to revise reports right up to the last minute.

That said, we run a fairly tight operation. The properties perform quite well. Our partners trust us. These meetings are usually perfunctory—more social than substantive. We present, they approve, everyone leaves with a cheque. It’s always been that way.

This year was different.

His anxiety wasn’t just elevated—it was bordering on paranoia. I couldn’t understand it at first.

Then it clicked: AI.

He’s worried the partners—who historically haven’t read much beyond the bottom line—are going to run our reports through AI, giving them the tools, or at least the language, to question our decisions, our assumptions, maybe even our competence.

For thirty years, a certain balance held. Leases were too long to dissect quickly. Financial reports were too dense to interrogate casually. Most people didn’t have the time, expertise, or incentive to dig deeply. That balance is gone.

Now, anyone can upload a fifty-page lease and get a list of risks in minutes. Anyone can run financials through a model and generate discrepancies.

Whether those questions are always insightful is almost beside the point.

They now exist and present a challenge.

---

These two small stories capture something larger happening in the workplace.

On one hand, AI empowers. It gives people access to information that once required hiring expertise. It allows them to ask better questions, to feel more protected, more in control.

On the other hand, it quietly displaces the very expertise it imitates.

In my own experience, when clients came back with AI-generated questions, there was often no real follow-up. The questions sounded sophisticated, but they weren’t grounded in understanding. When I answered them, the conversation ended quickly. The space that would normally be filled by experience—judgment, sequencing, knowing what matters next—was simply empty.

What AI provides is not expertise, but the appearance of it. It allows people to perform knowledge without possessing it.

And for now, that may be enough. It saves money. It creates the feeling of control.

But scraping a database is no substitute for experience.

The risk is that we trade away expertise for its simulation, only to rediscover—too late—that knowing what to ask is not the same as knowing what to do.

The real cost will not just be job loss, but the erosion of judgment, the thinning out of skill, and a quiet loss of dignity in work itself.

Mother Earth

I'm thinking about the term Mother Earth. Not in the flaky, Gaia, New Age woo-woo metaphoric sense. In the sense that the term is literally true. 

We have literally emerged out of the Earth. We are made from the very chemical compounds that formed with the Earth's creation. We have been shaped and developed along with the evolutionary timeline of the planet and in response to it. Life emerged from its material, its energies, its climate, its forces. What we call “life” is not something placed on top of the Earth. It is something the Earth does.

Nerve by nerve, instinct by instinct, perception by perception, we are calibrated to the Earth's rhythms: light and dark, season and scarcity, sound and silence. Even things that seem esotheric, our sense of beauty for example, is not arbitrary. It's recognition of the conditions that made us possible.

We don't live in nature, we are nature. It's why when you go for a walk in the forest something inside you settles. The noise in your head drops a notch. That response isn’t spiritual, it’s biological. What some researchers call the Biophilia Hypothesis: we feel at home in the conditions that made us.

Think of the opposite, how it feels to live in the city. Towers of glass and steel, lengths of asphalt and endless right angles. Artificial light overriding circadian rhythm. Environments designed not for human coherence, but for efficiency, extraction, and control. It produces anxiety, alienation, and numbness—as though it were a malfunction of the individual rather than a predictable response to an unnatural environment.

We like to imagine that human ingenuity has freed us from dependence on the Earth. That we can engineer substitutes, optimize inputs, transcend limits. But everything we eat is still a variation on a single theme: plants, animals, fungi. All of it grown, fed, or assembled from the same planetary chemistry. We do not create nourishment. We reorganize it.

The illusion of independence is made possible by layers of abstraction. And the more layers there are, the more we forget where things actually come from, and the more distant we become from who we are.

The further we push into environments that ignore this fact, the more we should expect not just ecological breakdown, but psychological and social fragmentation as well. 

Every harm we do to the environment, the more we bury our heads under digital covers, the more we lose a sense of ourselves. 

This summer, I'm going for more walks in the woods.

The Messianic Agenda

For some time now, I’ve been circling an uncomfortable idea: that elements within Israel’s current leadership are not just indifferent to the condition of Jews in the diaspora—but may, in a deeper ideological sense, see their deterioration as useful.

Call it, for lack of a better term, the Messianic Agenda.

To be clear, I don’t believe Benjamin Netanyahu wakes up in the morning plotting how to make life harder for Jews in Montreal, London, or New York. His explicit project is to permanently foreclose the possibility of a two-state solution and consolidate Israeli control over Palestinian land. That much is visible in policy, in coalition choices, and in political instinct.

But Netanyahu does not govern alone. He sits atop a coalition that includes figures like Bezalel Smotrich and Itamar Ben-Gvir, for whom politics and theology are not separate spheres. In their worldview, history is not just something to be managed—it is something to be fulfilled.

And within that worldview lies the ancient idea of the ingathering of exiles: that Jews will ultimately return to the land of Israel as a precondition for redemption.

You don’t have to stretch very far to see the implication. If Jews are comfortable, secure, and integrated in the diaspora, why would they leave? But if life becomes precarious—if antisemitism rises, if belonging begins to fray—then aliyah is no longer an abstract ideal. It becomes a necessity.

I am not suggesting a coordinated policy to export instability. That would be too crude, too conspiratorial.

What I am suggesting is something subtler and, in its own way, more troubling: a governing ethos that is perfectly willing to absorb, perhaps even quietly validate, the consequences of its actions on diaspora Jews, because those consequences align with a deeper religious and ideological current.

If Jews abroad become targets of anger toward Israel, that is regrettable. But it also reinforces the core Zionist claim in its religious-nationalist form that Jewish life outside Israel is ultimately untenable.

This marks a profound break from the Zionism many of us in the diaspora grew up with.

In the 20th century, Zionism was a partnership. Israel was fragile, resource-poor, and dependent. Diaspora Jews, especially in North America, provided capital, expertise, and political cover. We did so not out of religious conviction, but out of historical memory and cultural attachment. Israel was not where we had to live. It was the place that ensured we would could live anywhere without worry, because we always have somewhere to go if we had to.

I remember that ethos vividly.

As a child, I would paste small paper leaves onto a cardboard tree at school, each one representing a modest donation to the Jewish National Fund. Some kids were enthusiastic about it, filling tree after tree with leaves. There was always competition to see who could make the most trees. I wasn`t one of those kids. My tree looked as bare as the onset of winter. It was a source of some shame and embarrassment. 

I have a black and white photograph of my grandfather Sam from the early 1960s. He stands with a group of men around a woman, her hair covered with a kerchief, at a sewing machine. He is inspecting the way two swatches of fabric were sewn together with the practiced eye of a master in his field. As one of Canada's most successful garment manufacturers, grandpa Sam had been invited by the Prime Minister of Israel himself, to help develop the country`s fledgling textile industry. That, too, was Zionism: practical, collaborative, outward-looking.

That version of Zionism assumed a strong, confident diaspora as a permanent feature of Jewish life. A partner in state-building.

Today’s version is different. It is more insular, more absolutist, and more overtly theological. It does not look to the diaspora as a partner so much as a population in waiting.

At the same time, the environment for Jews outside Israel is becoming more volatile. Social media is becoming saturated with conspiracy theories that would not have felt out of place in The Protocols of the Elders of Zion. Old tropes—of secret control, of blood libel, of dual loyalty—have returned with modern packaging and algorithmic amplification.

Some of this is tied to Israel’s recent actions. America's involvement in the war with Iran has become a lightning rod for antisemitic conspiracy. 

Some of it is opportunistic. The internet doing what it does best: flattening distinctions and rewarding outrage.

But the result is the same. The line between criticism of Israel and hostility toward Jews is increasingly blurred, and diaspora communities are left to absorb the consequences.

Here is the paradox.

The more exposed diaspora Jews feel, the more Israel can present itself as indispensable. And the more indispensable it becomes, the less incentive its leaders have to moderate policies that contribute to that exposure in the first place.

This is not a conspiracy. It is a feedback loop, one that does not require anyone to consciously design it in order to benefit from it.

The tragedy is that it risks eroding something that took generations to build: a relationship between Israel and the diaspora rooted not in fear, but in mutual investment and shared purpose.

What replaces it may be something narrower, more coercive, and ultimately more fragile—a Zionism that depends not on the flourishing of Jewish life everywhere, but on its contraction.

The 21st century version of Zionism increasingly pursues a Messianic Agenda. The ingathering of the nations is always in the background. 

For Jews who don't relate to that Israel, our ancestral homeland risks losing its meaning and importance. 

Worse, when the Israeli government makes moves that don`t consider the international consequences, diaspora Jews feeling increasingly at risk, may understandably turn against it. And that is regrettable.   

The Woman I Need

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The woman I need has seen a few things,

The woman I need has seen a few things,

You know the woman I need has seen a few things,

A woman with heart and a spirit that sings.

Some women shine like a lightning flash,

Some women shine like a lightning flash,

Some women shine like a lightning flash,

You know the woman I need is like a thunderclap.

Some women are the kind that just want to please,

Some women are the kind that just want to please,

Some women are the kind that just want to please,

You know the woman I need, she ain't so easy.

Some women are breezy, light as a leaf,

Some women are breezy, light as a leaf,

Some women are breezy, light as a leaf,

The woman I need is like a chestnut tree.

Some women cry the world done them wrong.

Some women cry the world done them wrong.

Some women cry the world done them wrong.

You know the woman I need the world's made her strong.

The woman I need has weathered the storm,

The woman I need has weathered the storm,

The woman I need has weathered the storm,

A woman, like me, a little battle worn.

The Hockey Analogy

It’s that time of year once again. The NHL playoffs. And this year the Habs (what we locals affectionately call the Montreal Canadiens) made it into the playoffs even before the last week of the season. 

That used to be a given back when I was a teenager in the 70s. But it hasn’t been the case for decades.

I’m not saying the Habs are a contender for the cup. They’re a young exciting team. Still rebuilding. But they have grit and seem to be on the right track. They might win a round or two. 

Hockey was on my mind when the crew of bar-mitzvah bochers sporting their miniature 1940s-style fedoras showed up at my office for their weekly attempt to get me to wrap tefillin (phylacteries).

I usually oblige because I love to see the smiles on their smooth, pre-adolescent faces. Then they give me their religious shpiel, memorized from the weekly Torah portion. Some pearl of wisdom from the sages that their teacher taught them to recite. As if these barely pubescent kids could teach me something I didn't already know. It's cute as hell, and I give them plenty of attention.

Every once in a while I'll slip in a code they'll understand. A Yiddishism, or a reference to a Talmudic sage, so they know who they're dealing with, and they don't completely embarrass themselves.

Fact is I love them for their optimism and enthusiasm. 

Today the crew comprised, Yisroel, Lavy and Menachem Mendel. 

Yisroel is the serious one. Clearly the most learned of the bunch. Hungry to both share his knowledge and learn something new. Lavy just wants to get on with the business at hand and earn his mitzvah points; wisdom shmisdom, time is money. Menachem Mendel is a combination of the other two. He’s got big glasses and looks like he hasn’t graduated from elementary school yet. He’s a lot smarter and more mature than he looks, and knows his Torah. 

On this particular Friday I was in rare form; jocular and avuncular. I decided early on that I was going to turn the tables on them in a lighthearted way. Knew also that I was going to wrap, say the Shema, and drop a few coins in their pushke to make them feel the visit was a win.

Lavy and Menachem Mendel took off shortly after I did the dirty deed and exacted my price, gave them a parting shot by telling them not to get overly excited by all this superstitious nonsense. Yisroel stayed behind to further nourish my soul with his learned words.

He furrowed his brow and looked up to the sky (the cheap suspended ceiling tile), searching for spiritual guidance and inspiration. 

Then he said: This week's Torah portion we read that when Aaron's two sons, Nadav and Avihu, died suddenly because they had committed an avera in the Temple, a transgression against Hashem, Moses consoled his brother in his time of grief. And from this we learn that in life there will be eventualities we cannot comprehend, and it is by comforting each other that we will find the strength to endure such difficulties. 

And that's when I talked hockey, being certain that like every Canadian kid with a pulse - even ones who wear wholesale, undersized, rabbit-fur fedoras - he's a Habs fan.

'Why would G-d want us to endure such grief as losing a child?' I asked him.

'Unfortunately it happens,' he answered. 'We have to learn to accept the incomprehensible sometimes. And the strength to do so comes from realizing we are not unique. All human beings suffer.'

'Fair enough. So why do we differentiate ourselves? Why do we think we have some 'chosen' status?' 

'Because we were given the responsibility of Torah.'

'Okay, but you say that we learn that Moses comforted his brother who suffered an incomprehensible tragedy. Isn’t grief and suffering universal?'

'Yes.'

'Look I get it. We have our traditions, others groups have theirs. There is comfort in that. But you agree that we all experience tragedies we can’t understand. And it's human connection that provides comfort.' 

Now he's listening.

'What I mean is this. You and I grew up in Montreal. We're Habs fans. G-d forbid if we cheer for the Bruins. We love our team. And there's nothing wrong with that. We want them to win. It makes us feel good. When they lose we get mad. I feel the same way about being Jewish.’

He smiles.

'But in the grand scheme of things, it's just hockey. A game. A bunch of made-up rules. The game favours some types of people who have the skills and character to play it well. The rest of us have to watch from the sidelines and enjoy. But it's all arbitrary and artificial. It has no meaning or real value. It’s just a game.

How is that any different than society as whole? A bunch of made-up rules we follow. A game we play. Some better at it than others. The better ones get rich. The ones who can’t play are poor. They suffer. Let’s face it. It's all a bunch of artificial bullshit.'

Now he's on the verge of laughter, because I cursed. 

'Sure, cheer for your team if it makes you feel good. But don’t overdo it. There is something more important. Something the uniform can’t cover. Moses consoled Aaron. He didn't lecture him about G-d. Didn’t try to explain the unexplainable. He went to his brother because he was suffering.'

Then Yisroel said, 'And the Torah says Aaron responded to Moses with silence'.

And I said, ‘Sometimes there are no words. As it says in the Book of Ecclesiastes, there is a time to speak, and a time to keep silent.'

Yisroel just nodded. 

Like I said, he's the most learned of the bunch.

The Future Is Spiritual

I remember my rabbi, Ron Aigen, of blessed memory, once asking our congregation: what is spirituality? Is it God? Is it ritual? Is it tradition? Is it sacred texts? Is it a belief in certain precepts?

His answer was that it is all of these things—but something more basic. He said the essence of spirituality can be summed up in one word: connection.

Most people today don’t necessarily identify with a particular religious tradition, or even with God. And yet many still insist they are spiritual. What do they mean?

They mean that they feel a sense of connection—to the world, to other living things, to something larger than themselves. They feel part of a whole, and that feeling carries a kind of timelessness.

For most of human history, that sense of connection was expressed through religion. Religion, at its core, is a framework—a language developed to give form to the ineffable.

Some argue that religion is a path to absolute truth, and that some traditions are therefore more “correct” than others. But that strikes me as misguided. It’s like arguing that jazz is superior to reggae. These claims often reveal less about truth than about identity—tribal, cultural, ethnocentric.

All music expresses a shared range of human emotions. And all religious traditions, at their base, attempt to grapple with the same fundamental mysteries of existence.

Which brings us to a strange and telling moment: the recent circulation of an AI-generated image depicting a prominent political figure as Jesus the healer—and the backlash that followed.

The reaction was striking not because outrage is rare, but because of what triggered it. In a time saturated with provocation, vulgarity, and spectacle, something about this crossed a line—even for those otherwise tolerant of excess.

Why?

Because it touched something that still feels sacred.

Not necessarily in a strictly religious sense, but in a deeper one. It wasn’t just offensive; it felt like a violation—a boundary crossed. An unsettling fusion of ego, technology, and symbolism.

But more than that, it revealed something political.

It showed how far the logic of power has drifted into the realm of the sacred.

When a political figure is rendered as a divine healer—especially through the tools of mass digital reproduction—it is not simply satire or flattery. It is part of a broader pattern: the personalization of power, the elevation of leaders beyond institutions, and the slow erosion of the boundary between authority and reverence.

This is not new. Politics has always borrowed from religion—rituals, symbols, mythologies. But liberal democracies, at least in theory, drew a line. Leaders were meant to be temporary, accountable, replaceable. Not objects of devotion.

That line is blurring.

In an age of social media and algorithmic amplification, politics is no longer mediated primarily through institutions, but through personalities. Authority is no longer grounded in process, but in attention. Legitimacy is no longer earned through governance alone, but through spectacle.

In that environment, the transformation of a leader into a quasi-religious figure is not an accident—it is a feature.

And the public reaction—the discomfort, the backlash—suggests that people instinctively recognize the danger, even if they cannot fully articulate it.

Because when the sacred is co-opted by power, connection is replaced by submission.

And that anxiety is not emerging in a vacuum.

We are living through the aftermath of decades defined by material aspiration—by faith in endless growth, rising affluence, and personal advancement. The promise was that prosperity would deliver stability, and stability would sustain democratic norms.

But the 21st century has disrupted that faith.

The 2008 financial crisis exposed how unevenly prosperity was distributed. The pandemic revealed how fragile our systems were—and how much more vulnerable the poor were than the rich. Institutions many trusted were not simply imperfect; they were structurally tilted.

Disillusionment followed. And into that vacuum stepped a different kind of politics—less institutional, more personal; less procedural, more emotional; less about policy, more about identity and belonging.

In other words: politics began to take on the role that religion once played.

It offered meaning. It offered community. It offered a sense of participation in something larger than oneself.

But without the humility that traditionally accompanied the sacred.

At the same time, technology has transformed our sense of connection. What was once abstract is now immediate. We are linked constantly, instantly.

Now that the novelty has faded, we are beginning to ask: what does connection actually mean? Is it the frictionless consumption of content? The performance of identity? The surrender of attention to systems designed to predict and influence us?

Or is it something closer to what my rabbi described—a felt sense of belonging within a larger whole?

There are signs that a shift may be underway.

Younger generations, materially less secure than their predecessors, are not anchoring their identities in possessions as we did, but in a shared sense of vulnerability and fragility.

They are more attuned to interdependence—social, economic, environmental. But they are also navigating a world in which connection is constantly mediated, curated, and commodified.

So the tension remains.

But moments like the backlash to that image suggest something important: the capacity to recognize the sacred—however we define it—has not disappeared. It has been suppressed, distorted, redirected—but not erased.

I think about the contrast across generations. My grandfather and father were preoccupied with building stability—with putting down roots, with financial success. I was raised in material comfort, but with a sense of spiritual absence.

My children will not inherit the same material certainty. But they seem to carry something else more intuitively: a sense that they are part of something larger—and that this connection is not optional, but essential.

They understand something we are only beginning to relearn:

If the future is to be democratic, it cannot rely on material promises alone.

It must also restore a sense of the sacred—not in our leaders, but in our relationships to one another.

Joe

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My turtle is a lonely fellow,

Green with spots of red and yellow,

He moves like me, deliberate and slow,

His temperament is shy and mellow.

Thirty years I’ve watched him swim to and fro,

Seen his carapace shed many times and regrow,

Cleaned the filter so the tank water flows,

Constant as a stream he might otherwise know.

Basking on his rock in the artificial glow,

He’s too lost in thought to even nod hello,

As if he’s got some special place he has to go,

Other than this algae-coated rock, the only one he’ll ever know.

There’s so much he’ll never know:

The sound of trees when the winds blow,

The smell of wildflowers, the call of the crow,

How it feels to brumate under ice and snow.

Without exaggeration his life is shallow,

Boring as a cancelled TV show,

By the way, I call my turtle Joe,

Just one more thing he doesn’t know.

The Best Case Scenario

Putting on my political analyst’s hat again. Here’s what I’m thinking might happen.

Trump’s and Netanyahu’s boneheaded war has shown Iran that it has a nuclear option they can actually use effectively without much cost: Closure of the Straight of Hormuz.

That’s a good thing. 

Because now they don’t actually need to pursue a real nuclear weapon, which was Israel’s greatest concern. 

So Iran agrees to give up on their nuclear ambitions for some extended period of time, say twenty years (longer than Obama’s deal), and in return the US allows Iran to collect a toll from passing ships for as long as it takes them to cover reparations for the war damage that was inflicted on them.

Other issues that I cannot see being resolved in any case would be Iran’s missile capabilities or funding of proxies. Giving up the means of self defense, which is the right of every sovereign nation, is a non starter for Iran.

But I do think they might consider giving up their enriched uranium to a trusted third party. 

Hizbollah will not be part of this deal in any case. 

So Israel doesn’t get everything it wants, but crucially it gets a non nuclear Iran for the foreseeable future. 

Trump gets out of this quagmire and can declare victory because he gets a longer deal than Obama’s.

Iran has a non-nuclear ‘nuclear’ option providing a sense of regime protection, and reparations. 

This to me is a best case scenario at this stage. It sucks because the only party that truly comes out way ahead is Iran, as a revived regional power, but one that will not directly threaten Israel. 

And there’s always a chance, in the long run, that the Iranian people will tire of their hated leaders and take them down, in the natural course of events, as they might have before trump and Bibi foolishly tried to hasten the process, and instead set it back a generation.

Trump Derangement Syndrome

It was always projection.

I’m thinking of those trump supporters who spent years insisting that the people warning about his irrationality were the irrational ones—dismissing critics with the pejorative “Trump Derangement Syndrome.”

The phrase has somewhat respectable origins. In 2003, conservative commentator Charles Krauthammer coined “Bush Derangement Syndrome,” describing it as “the acute onset of paranoia in otherwise normal people” in reaction to George W. Bush. Later, another commentator David Horowitz invoked “Obama Derangement Syndrome” to criticize what he saw as over-the-top hysteria from parts of the right.

But with trump, the phrase evolved into something else entirely. Not just a critique, but a reflex—a way to deflect criticism while shielding one’s own emotional investment.

It echoes a childhood defense: if someone calls you stupid, you fire back, “I know you are, but what am I?” Or, “I’m rubber and you’re glue—whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you.”

Admittedly, I was a sensitive kid.

And here we are, back in the schoolyard.

Now some of the loudest voices who praised trump while hurling “derangement” at his critics, are suddenly changing their tune—Tucker Carlson, Candace Owens, Alex Jones, Theo Von. Like the cowering kids who cheered on the bully, only to realize they might end up in the principal’s office along with him.

So what changed?

Was it the profanity-laced Easter message?

The image of the orange messiah as the healer Jesus?

His praising Allah after threatening to destroy an entire civilization?

Too much Epstein?

Who knows.

The explanation now offered is convenient: age, decline, something neurological—he’s not the same man he once was.

I’ve always rejected the idea that trump is suffering from dementia. That was never the issue.

What he has consistently displayed are traits associated with sociopathic, malignant narcissism: impulsiveness, grandiosity, extreme self-centeredness, and a profound lack of empathy. Those traits aren’t new.

What’s changed isn’t him—it’s the willingness, or ability, of some supporters to ignore them.

Now that those same traits are harder to overlook, and the stakes have increased with the US at war, the story shifts. Not “we misjudged him,” but “he has changed.”

It’s a more comfortable narrative. It preserves the past at the expense of the present.

Projection is a powerful thing.

The Cultural Barometer

I watched an interesting talk this weekend by David Brooks titled How America Recovers From All This. It’s worth watching—if only because it ends on an optimistic note. And we could all use a bit of that.

Still, I was left unconvinced that his optimism is entirely justified.

Brooks’ central thesis is that it is not technology, economics, or even politics that ultimately shapes society—it's culture. Politics, in his view, follows culture, which itself reflects what we collectively value. Change the values, and you can change the direction of society.

To make his case, he sketches a sweeping cultural history of postwar America. Following the mass trauma of WW2, the 1940s and 1950s, he argues, were defined by the values of humility, self-effacement, and trust—in institutions, community, and church. The 1960s were a reaction: a culture of liberation that rejected conformity in favor of authenticity, experimentation, and social upheaval. The 1970s consolidated these trends into what he calls "chaos," it was characterized by egocentrism, social fragmentation (family breakdown), distrust in institutional authority (think Watergate), personal excess and rising crime rates.

The 1980s brought a neo-conservative “bourgeois backlash”: a return to self-discipline, order, and free-market faith and excess. The decade of "Greed is Good," but also the end of the Cold War. 

The 1990s attempted a synthesis—reconciling the bohemian ethos of the 1960s with the bourgeois values of the 1980s, as the former counterculture youth had grown into the educated professional class. But by the 2000s, Brooks sees a collapse of that synthesis: not just a loss of trust in institutions, but in one another—a fraying of the social fabric and what he characterizes as a loss of moral knowledge and  ethos.

It’s an elegant narrative. But it rests on broad generalizations that raise as many questions as they answer.

Most notably: what actually drives cultural shifts?

Brooks largely sidesteps the role of anomalous major events, technologies, and personalities—factors that seem less like background noise and more like catalysts. It is difficult, for instance, to understand the 1960s without the Vietnam War, or without powerful figures like JFK and Martin Luther King Jr. Likewise, the shocks of 9/11 or the financial crisis loom large over the cultural mood of the 2000s. Today, it is impossible to ignore the impact of the Covid pandemic, social media and the advent of artificial intelligence.

If anything, the forces he identifies as symptomatic of the age, act more like the engines of change. To my mind there is a complex interplay between politics, economics, social phenomena and unforeseaable events that shape our times. Culture does not determine where we are—it expresses it.

There was one part of Brooks’ talk that resonated with me. His discussion of humiliation as a driver of political behavior. Humiliation, as he defines it, is the sense of being denied the dignity or status one believes they deserve. It is a powerful emotional force—one that can easily turn into resentment and hatred.

That dynamic is clearly visible in contemporary American politics. The rise of trump tapped into something real. The anger, the intolerance, the sense of grievance—these are not inventions. They are expressions of lived experience, however distorted and politicized.

Where I part ways with Brooks is in his faith that we will naturally gravitate back toward higher values—that we will tire of division and rediscover meaning, justice, and humanism.

Perhaps. But it is far from clear why or how that turn would occur.

If anything, our culture today seems to reflect something else: disconnection, narcissism, and a certain emptiness. Much of popular music feels repetitive and inward-looking. Increasingly, it is even generated or shaped by AI. The broader cultural landscape often feels less like a shared conversation and more like a fragmented echo chamber.

Brooks believes that most people instinctively understand that a life of meaning is more valuable than one devoted to pleasure. That may be true in the abstract. But it sits uneasily alongside what our culture actually rewards and amplifies.

It is entirely possible that we break the cycle, as he suggests. But it is just as plausible that we continue down a different path—one in which technology, especially AI, further erodes agency, deepens isolation, and amplifies cynicism.

If Brooks is accurate that the cycles we experience tend to swing from a decade of change to a decade of consolidation and back, then the worrisome social and political trend of the last decade may well consolidate in the next one. 

That would take us further from pursuing the humanistic 'higher values' that he predicts than ever, and there is no telling where that takes us.  

American Exceptionalism

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I heard the term my whole life

and wondered, 

what's that all about?

I knew

a few things: Elvis, 

The Supremes, 

Charlie Parker and Monk, 

the Beach Boys and Jimi Hendrix,

the Yankees vs. the Dodgers,

Ali vs. Frazier,

the lights of Times Square 

and the Hollywood sign,

Gilligan's Island and The Beverly Hillbillies, 

Laugh-In and Carol Burnett,

The Love Boat, Charlie's Angels,

and Fantasy Island,

Clint Eastwood as Dirty Harry

and Luke Skywalker:

One small step for a man...

JFK, RFK, MLK and Vietnam,

D-Day,

The Bomb,

and the Marshall Plan;

a decision not to humiliate 

the defeated

but instead

to invest in them -

for the first time in history

someone understood,

together 

we live in freedom

or die in chains,

it was called 

American Exceptionalism

and it belonged 

to all of us.

Facing The Reality of Israel's Project

This post was inspired by an important recent discussion on the Ezra Klein show. Highly recommended.

Many of us staunchly supported Israel's right to defend itself after the attack of October 7th 2023. 

It's now clear that the current Israeli government has chosen to leverage its response to October 7th to launch another project: The one state solution.

A decision - intially implicit but now largely explicit - was made to not just destroy Gaza in every functional way to make it unlivable, but also to kill the Oslo Peace process once and for all. This means an effort to render the Palestinian Authority completely ineffectual and to annex the West Bank by building settler communities at a rate that would make any hope of a Palestinian State impossible.

From 2020 to 2023 no new Jewish settlements in the West Bank were approved by the Israeli government. In 2023 nine new settlements were approved. In 2024 it was five. In 2025 the number is fifty-four. 

This has deep roots. Netanyahu has been laser focused throughout his political career on two main goals. The first was to eliminate the terrorism that has plagued Israel. The second was to eliminate the nuclear threat from Iran. 

The terrorism came in two forms: Palestinian terrorism that emanated from the West Bank, and Iran-backed proxy terrorism that came from Hizbollah based in Lebanon and Hamas based in Gaza.

Netanyahu viewed the post-October 7th response as a strategic opportunity to advance his long-term agenda. Trump’s reelection provided the final tool—total military carte blanche with U.S. backing—and that is what we are now witnessing.

He could now, not merely attempt to set back the threat of Iran's proxies (the so-called Axis of Resistance) and their nuclear program, but equally important (and much less discussed) end the two-state solution. 

Which begs the question: Assuming Netanyahu is successful in his military objectives, where does that leave Israel with respect to the Palestinians?  

There seems to be only two possibilities: 

1. The West Bank and Gaza are formally annexed and the Palestinians become full citizens of Israel. Any Palestinians who don't want Israeli citizenship will either leave voluntarily and/or be forcibly expelled. 

It seems pretty clear that the Palestinians won't want this result under any circumstance and won't ever accept it. Israelis won't want it either because it would threaten the Jewish majority.

2. The West Bank and Gaza are controlled but not legally annexed and the Palestinians are subjugated permanently.

In other words, ethnic cleansing or apartheid.

The unworkability of this situation is one thing. The immorality and illegality is another. In either case, it puts Israel in a terrible bind both domestically and internationally. 

Previous Israeli governments made it a policy to remain non-partisan as far as the United States is concerned. Netanyahu tied Israel inextricably to trump, which was a risky move that offered short term benefits but other dangers. 

Those chickens are already coming home to roost. We are seeing Israel's support in the US plummet to historical lows, even among the 'America First' evangelicals.  

So what is the endgame?

At best: Israel secures a period of dominance, under conditions of simmering resistance, growing international isolation, and deepening moral compromise.

Whatever this is—it isn’t a just peace.

Trust

I was recently watching a YouTube video from Big Think featuring the philosopher Alain de Botton.

De Botton became widely known for his essay "Why You Will Marry the Wrong Person", which resonated because it dismantles a comforting but damaging myth: that we can find a perfect partner and live happily ever after. We can’t. Every relationship contains difficulty, friction, and disappointment. And that’s not failure—it’s reality.

Compatibility, as De Botton puts it, isn’t something you find. It’s something you build. It is the fruit of love, not its prerequisite.

In the video, he returns to familiar ground, but what stood out to me was the idea of trust—what it is, and where it actually lives.

I think there are two kinds of trust: helpful trust and unhelpful trust.

At the heart of both is a simple truth: no one is 100% trustworthy in every circumstance. We are all imperfect, inconsistent, and shaped by forces we don’t fully control. Some people are more trustworthy than others, of course—but perfection is not on offer.

Helpful trust begins with oneself. It’s grounded in self-awareness and accountability. It asks: "Am I acting in a way that aligns with my values? Can I rely on myself to respond honestly, to repair when I fail, to leave if I must?" This kind of trust is aspirational without being harsh. It is steady, reflective, and rooted in growth.

Unhelpful trust, by contrast, is rooted in expectation of others. It quietly assumes that another person will behave as we need them to. It is less about trust and more about control—about outsourcing our sense of safety to someone else’s consistency. And because no one can meet that standard indefinitely, it often leads to frustration, disappointment, and eventually resentment.

This doesn’t mean we shouldn’t expect anything from our partners. Of course we should. Honesty, loyalty, and care are the basic conditions of any relationship. But there is a difference between expectations that guide us, and expectations that attempt to control what we cannot.

No one can ever be certain that another person is trustworthy. At best, we make a judgment based on patterns over time. Trust, in that sense, is always a kind of informed risk. It's trust in our ability to acknowledge and accept reality.

Which is why the real work of trust is self-work.

When we feel disappointment in a relationship, part of that feeling may indeed be directed outward—at something real that the other person has done. But a bigger component, I believe, turns inward as well. It confronts us with our own limitations: our misjudgments, our fears, our unwillingness to see things clearly.

That tension is uncomfortable. And it’s often easier to convert that discomfort into resentment toward the other person than to examine what it reveals about ourselves.

The message I think is to place our emotional energy where we have agency.

There are no guarantees in relationships. Being honest, loyal, generous, and loving does not ensure that your partner will be the same. But the inverse is almost certain—if you are not those things, the relationship will not hold.

Trust, then, is not the elimination of risk. It is the cultivation of self-reliance within risk.

The more confident you are in your own trustworthiness—in your ability to act with integrity, to recognize reality, and to respond accordingly—the less fragile your relationships become.

Not because others will never fail you.

But because you won’t fail yourself.

The Breathing Pattern of Politics

Politics is often described as a pendulum swinging between left and right, progressivism and conservatism. But that familiar spectrum feels inadequate to explain the moment we’re living in. The deeper oscillation may not be ideological at all. It may be civilizational.

What if politics doesn’t fundamentally swing between left and right—but between 'inclusion' and 'exclusion', between openness and closeness?

This framing shifts the question from “How should society be organized?” to something more primal: "Who belongs and who doesn’t?"

Periods of inclusion are marked by expanding boundaries. Immigration rises, trade flows more freely, cultures intermingle, and institutions assume that difference can be integrated without breaking the whole. These are times of confidence—when societies feel stable enough to absorb complexity.

Periods of exclusion move in the opposite direction. Boundaries harden. Membership narrows. National identity becomes more sharply defined. The priority shifts from expansion to cohesion, from openness to protection. These are times when societies feel under strain and begin to question how much difference they can sustain.

After the devastation of World War II, much of the world moved decisively toward openness—building international institutions, lowering trade barriers, and promoting universal rights. That trajectory accelerated after the Cold War, culminating in a high point of globalization where borders softened and integration deepened.

But openness, when extended far enough, begins to generate its own tensions—economic dislocation, cultural anxiety, and a sense of loss of control. In response, the pendulum swings back. The past few decades have been defined by this reversal: a turn toward rigidity of borders, identity, and sovereignty.

This helps explain why traditional political categories feel scrambled. Figures like trump do not fit neatly into conventional ideological boxes. Their defining characteristic is not a consistent economic philosophy, but a clear orientation toward closure—restricting borders, renegotiating trade, and redefining who is and who should not be included within the national community.

Importantly, neither pole is inherently virtuous. Excessive openness can erode shared identity and create instability. Excessive closure can harden into authoritarianism and conflict. 

The movement between them is not simply a battle of good versus bad ideas—it is a recurring attempt to rebalance competing needs: expansion and cohesion, diversity and unity.

Rather than a straight line, politics may be better understood as a kind of 'breathing pattern'. Societies inhale—expanding, including, absorbing. Then they exhale—consolidating, defining, protecting.

The critical question is not whether the cycle exists, but whether they are short or long, and what drives their turning points. Are these shifts inevitable responses to material pressures like economic disruption and migration? Or are they shaped—and perhaps accelerated—by narratives, leadership, and perception?

If the latter is true, then the pendulum is not just something we experience. It is something that can be pushed and we can influence. 

Donnie Two Weeks

I think I first heard the nickname sometime last summer. “Donnie Two Weeks.”

It came up when trump was threatening tariffs against just about every country on the planet. The pattern was always the same: a deal had to be reached in two weeks. And when the deadline inevitably passed, it was extended—by another two weeks.

And now, here we are again. Another two-week deadline. This time for a ceasefire and a deal with Iran. Make a deal, or face destruction.

A President of the United States has never talked like this. Like a mafia boss. It’s the language of a protection racket. I’m giving you two weeks. Pay up—or else.

There’s a reason Presidents never talked like this. Political messaging is meaningful and layered. Agreements between countries are complicated. They take time, patience, and sustained negotiation. Nothing meaningful in international diplomacy happens in two weeks.

According to Wendy Sherman, the Deputy Secretary of State under Obama who helped negotiate the Iran nuclear deal, it took eighteen months to reach an agreement. 

So when another two-week deadline gets announced, you already know what’s coming. Not a deal. Just another extension.

But the nickname is so apt for another reason. Trump thinks like a mafioso.

Loyalty matters more than competence or rule of law. Relationships are personal not institutional. Power is territorial. And everything eventually comes down to making money.

Look at how he talks about countries. About “running” places.

Think of the Venezuela operation. It’s hard not to see it as one operator muscling out another—Nicolás Maduro replaced, territory absorbed, assets controlled.

Or take his response to a question from reporter Jonathan Karl about the Strait of Hormuz. When he was asked if he would accept Iran charging tolls on global shipping, trump answered that he was considering "a joint venture."

We get our cut. They get theirs. "It’s a beautiful thing,” he said. You can almost hear the mobster-accent.

Vladimir Putin runs a a mafia state—leveraging the power of government to skim his cut off the top of every transaction. Donnie Two Weeks wishes he could do the same. 

So, every time he threatens 'two weeks' think of it that way.

A Whole Civilization Dies

There is a new question circulating in my mind on the day trump announced that he will be ordering his military to kill an ancient civilization, in his words: "A whole civilization will die tonight, never to be brought back again."

Will the members of the military willingly participate in an unambiguous, self-admitted war crime?

And if they do, will there be military tribunals in the United States and/or war crime trials in the Hague to hold the perpetrators accountable?  

And a somewhat related question: What has become of America when the terrorist-supporting, theocratic autocracy of Iran seems like the reasonable party to a conflict? 

Trump has backed himself into a corner. Basically made an exaggerated impossible threat that just shows how panicked he is. 

My guess is that he'll extend the deadline again, saying there are 'very good' fictitious negotiations going on. Or do a little more bombing and say the job is done.     

But let's say I'm wrong - it wouldn't be the first time - and he goes through with a Dresdan-style bombing campaign of Iranian infrastructure.   

The one thing we know about trump is that he is nothing if not narcissistically, dementedly, transparent. He thinks out loud through his social media posts. Almost everything he says publicly is projection. 

When he says the Democrats are trying to steal the election it's because he is.

When he says the Democrats are weaponizing the Department of Justice against him it's because he is weaponizing it against them.

When he calls something 'fake news' it's because he is lying about it.

So there is always truth to what he's saying, it's just the exact opposite.

We may be able to add to the list, "a whole civilization will die tonight" - he's not talking about Iran, he's talking about America.   

April 6, 2026

“…We will explore, we will build... but — ultimately — we will always choose Earth. We will always choose each other.”

- Artemis Astronaut Christina Koch’s words when reconnecting with Earth after 40 minutes without communication on the far side of the moon.


"We have a plan, because of the power of our military, where every bridge in Iran will be decimated by 12 o'clock tomorrow night…Power plants in Iran will be burning, exploding and never to be used again."

- Donald J. Trump at a White House press conference.

Is This Another Suez Moment?

History doesn’t repeat, but it does rhyme.

I keep seeing parallels in recent events with another moment: the Suez Crisis.

A quick refresher.

On July 26, 1956, Egyptian President Gamal Abdel Nasser nationalized the Suez Canal Company, a joint British-French enterprise that had operated the canal since 1869.

Nasser made the move in direct response to the United States and Great Britain withdrawing financial support for the Aswan High Dam. His plan was simple: use canal tolls to fund its construction.

Fearing for their oil supply and strategic position, Britain and France formed a secret alliance with Israel to retake the canal by force.

In October 1956, Israel invaded the Sinai Peninsula, providing a pretext for British and French forces to intervene as “peacekeepers” and occupy the Canal Zone.

Militarily, the operation was largely successful. Politically, it was a disaster.

Egypt blocked the canal by sinking ships. The international community reacted with immediate and severe condemnation. U.S. President Dwight D. Eisenhower, furious at the deception, threatened Britain with economic sanctions and a run on the pound. At the same time, the Soviet Union threatened intervention, raising the specter of a wider war within the broader context of the Cold War.

The United Nations deployed its first-ever peacekeeping force. By March 1957, foreign troops withdrew, and the canal reopened under Egyptian control.

The outcome was decisive. Nasser emerged as a hero of Arab nationalism, and the crisis marked the end of British and French imperial dominance in the Middle East.

Now consider the present.

In this scenario, it’s not Suez but the Strait of Hormuz. Egypt is replaced by Iran. And instead of Britain and France acting alongside Israel, it is the United States. Russia, in turn, plays a role analogous to the Soviet Union. The United Nations, this time, appears diminished—unable to exert meaningful influence.

In 1956, the United States acted as a restraining force on its allies. Today, it is a principal actor. Bahrain, United Arab Emirates, Kuwait, and Qatar are sovereign, wealthy, and deeply integrated into global markets with everything at stake.

Imagine the outcome.

Iran establishes a de facto toll system in the Strait, allowing passage to its own vessels and those willing to pay. After a period of escalation, the United States—seeking to avoid a wider war—unilaterally ends hostilities.

Iran then declares the toll permanent, framing it as both sovereign right and reparations for wartime damage.

What do the Gulf states do?

Publicly, they would reject it outright. Freedom of navigation is not an abstract principle for them; it is the foundation of their economic survival. Accepting such a regime would signal weakness and erode sovereignty.

My guess is they would comply, quietly, to keep oil and gas flowing—especially Qatar, whose exports depend heavily on that passage. The result would be a dual reality: formal opposition paired with practical accommodation.

More significantly, they would begin to rebalance their strategic relationships.

If the United States proves unwilling or unable to guarantee open passage, confidence in its security umbrella weakens. That doesn’t mean abandonment—but it does mean diversification. Ties with China and Russia deepen, not as replacements, but as hedges.

And perhaps most quietly, they would explore accommodation with Iran itself.

If Iran emerges from such a confrontation appearing resilient—or even victorious—the incentive shifts toward de-escalation. Diplomatic channels reopen. A tacit equilibrium forms.

Because for these states, the priority is not ideological victory. It is survival.

This is where the historical rhyme is strongest.

In 1956, Britain and France achieved their military objectives but suffered a lasting political defeat. Nasser, despite battlefield setbacks, emerged stronger.

In this scenario, Iran would not need a decisive military victory to claim success. Endurance alone—combined with the perception of having stood up to the United States—could be enough.

And that perception would reshape the region, and in the process power relationships around the world.

Stephen Lewis (1937-2026)

You can’t script it in a more touching way.

Stephen Lewis was gravely ill in hospice on Sunday when he watched on television his son Avi Lewis win the leadership of the federal New Democratic Party. He passed away two days later at the age of 88.

Lewis served as an elected member of the Ontario legislature and later as leader of the provincial NDP. But most of his public life was spent in other roles: as a special advisor on race relations in Ontario, Canada’s Permanent Representative to the UN, Deputy Director of UNICEF, and United Nations Special Envoy for HIV/AIDS in Africa.

I don’t think I ever voted for a New Democrat. But I always had a great deal of respect for Stephen Lewis—as a bridge builder, a humanitarian, and a statesman. He was respected across party lines, and, in my lifetime, one of the most thoughtful and articulate voices of Canadian values on both the national and international stage.

He was also heir to a Jewish dynasty in Canadian public life—one his son now carries forward. Stephen’s father, David Lewis, was a key figure in the Co-operative Commonwealth Federation, the forerunner to the NDP, and later served as federal NDP leader (1971–75), succeeding the party’s legendary founder Tommy Douglas, to whom we owe medicare.

The roots of the Lewis family’s political activism in Canada lie in the Jewish Labour Bund, the secular trade union and workers’ rights movement of Eastern Europe in the late 19th century.

When I mentioned David Lewis to my wife the other day, she said, “Oh—you mean the street.” Yes, there is a Rue David Lewis in Côte Saint-Luc. I chuckled, wondering how many people who live on that street know anything about the man it was named after. My guess is not many.

And I wonder how many supporters of the NDP across Canada—currently forming governments in British Columbia and Manitoba, and serving as Official Opposition in Alberta, Saskatchewan, Ontario, Nova Scotia, and Yukon—know that the party’s origins lie, in significant part, in the Jewish labour and social justice movement.

Israel - We need to have a word

You know how a true friend is one who is candid? They tell you the truth even when you may not want to hear it.

Israel. I love you. But we have to talk.

It seems you have a new law—a death penalty law. Death by hanging; which feels particularly archaic and barbaric. It brings to mind the gallows of the old west, the Nuremberg trials, even the Book of Esther.

I suppose I should be thankful stoning wasn’t chosen.

Admittedly, Jews have a history with the death penalty.

The Torah prescribes it for 36 offenses, including murder, kidnapping, and severe religious violations like idolatry and breaking the Sabbath.

However, the rabbis of the Talmud sharply restricted its use. The Mishnah teaches that a court that executes once in seventy years is considered “destructive.”

And of course there is the principle associated with Maimonides: better to acquit a thousand guilty people than to put a single innocent one to death.

For this reason, for many centuries, Jews have not been enthusiastic about capital punishment.

Modern Jewish movements—Conservative and Reform—have explicitly opposed it. Orthodox Judaism has never embraced it in practice either.

As for the modern State of Israel, capital punishment has been carried out only once, in the case of Adolf Eichmann.

Until now.

Because this proposed law is not exactly for Israelis. More for Palestinians. Not exactly for crimes inside Israel proper, but in the West Bank.

It targets terrorism: a person who intentionally causes death with the aim of harming a citizen or resident of Israel, and with the intent of rejecting the existence of the state.

The law outlines two tracks: one in Israeli civilian courts, and another in military courts in the West Bank—courts that try Palestinians under military law.

In that system, the sentence could become mandatory: death, and that penalty only.

So not only would a mandatory death sentence be new in Israeli law, it would, in practice, apply almost exclusively to Palestinians.

There is a term for when one law applies to one group and another to a different group: two-tiered justice. A less polite word is discrimination.

History offers examples of such systems. None are remembered kindly. And Israel has long resisted being associated with such comparisons—for good reason.

You might think discrimination only cuts one way. It doesn’t. It's said we've lost the war when we become our enemy's image of us.

I remember learning that, in its time, the Torah was relatively progressive in its treatment of the stranger—precisely because Israel knew what it meant to be one.

“You are to have the same law for the foreigner and the native-born.” (Leviticus 24:22)

On this day, Passover eve, it bears remembering.

The Israelites were subject to a different law than their taskmasters in Egypt.

It did not end well for Egypt.

Day falls

CLICK HERE TO HEAR AUTHOR READ

Rain falls

snow falls

leaves fall

on the ground

gone;

Day falls

like a staple

in the carpet

hidden

sharp

felt

after 

a step.

The Junos

I generally don’t watch award shows. Haven’t for years. Contrary to what they claim, they’re not “best of” honours. They’re high-profile, glitzy promotional events—industry types networking and sizing each other up.

I used to watch the Oscars and Grammys when I was young. When you’re a kid, you’re still figuring out what’s worth caring about. As a teenager, I idolized rock stars. Award shows fed that need for validation, putting the performers I liked up on a pedestal.

Then I grew up. I stopped caring about entertainers, who by then seemed like egomaniacs chasing a buck, and got on with my own way of trying to make one.

It’s been decades since I could identify the latest crop of hitmakers. For me, it ended with hip hop.

Until this year.

My era of music seems to be having a moment, and that’s why I actually watched some of the Junos.

I wanted to hear Joni Mitchell, who—along with Leonard Cohen—is unquestionably the greatest songwriter this country has produced. There’s really no contest. She’s better than Neil Young. Better than Gordon Lightfoot. Even a notch above Cohen, because unlike him, she can sing.

In the end, Joni didn’t have much to say accepting her long-overdue lifetime achievement award. Not surprising, considering she nearly died from a brain aneurysm in 2015, losing the ability to walk or talk, and has been rehabilitating ever since. A lifetime smoker, she did offer one pithy line about it: it was the best thing that ever happened to her she said—it finally made her quit cigarettes.

The most poignant words weren’t hers. They came from Prime Minister Carney, the surprise presenter of her award. He said it’s not just that Joni is a great songwriter, it’s that her sensibility is uniquely Canadian—“geese in chevron flight,”(from Urge For Going) “a little money riding on the Maple Leafs,” (from Raised On Robbery) “a river to skate away on” (from River). In her songs, he said, she “drew a map of Canada” (from A Case of You).

And that’s when it hit me. This Junos felt different. It wasn’t just an awards show—it was a celebration of Canada, at a time when Canadian sovereignty feels under threat. The organizers nailed it.

Even Joni seemed to understand. Thanking the Prime Minister, she said, “We are so fortunate to have him. I’m living in the States, and you know what’s happening there… This man is a blessing. You guys are so fortunate.”

The pièce de résistance was the opener—a surprise performance by Rush, their first live appearance since the death of their legendary drummer Neil Peart in 2020.

And then, yesterday, Céline Dion announced she’ll return to the stage this fall in Paris after an absence of four years due to illness.

Before the show, Carney told reporters the world needs more Canada.

I think Canadians do too.

Beyond Narratives

Human beings are born storytellers. It's in our nature.

We tell stories to make sense of our experience. We tell stories to find reasons. We tell stories to explain. We tell stories to find meaning. We tell stories to connect with each other. We tell stories to amuse and entertain.

The popular writer Noah Yuval Harari describes storytelling as our superpower. It's this ability that fundamentally differentiates homo sapiens from the rest of the animal kingdom. It's allowed us to rise to the top of the survival heap. 

While animals only cooperate with their biological kin or in small packs, our species learned to cooperate with total strangers by telling stories. 

Telling stories has allowed us to collaborate on a mass scale. Pooling our various talents and skills we were able to learn from one another, share with one another, trade with one another and dominate as a species. 

Through stories we created social systems, societies, institutions and civilizations. We created mass market economies, countries, and international organizations.    

I was a storyteller once. Even published short stories and two novels. I wrote book reviews for the newspaper, and gave reviews as public lectures. 

And then it just stopped.

Not only did I lose my desire to write and publish stories. I lost my desire to read them. Up to that point I read about a novel a month. And fiction was all that I read. Then one day - it seemed like it happened overnight - I felt that I never wanted to read another novel again.

I couldn't explain why.   

It happened about ten years ago, so part of me thinks it had to do with donald trump, and his omnipresent brand of post-truth politics. Here for the first time was a politician who somehow defied narrative. 

His political ascendency was both a product of the imagination and made possible by a failure of the imagination. He was a creation of television, more fictional character than real, for years the target of  mockery and scorn, who was somehow becoming a reality to contend with. Many of us could hardly believe it was possible. 

Sometimes that happens. When something so outrageous impinges on normalcy, we fail to acknowledge it, and before we can, it's too late. 

With trump, the reality we were living became stranger than anything fiction could muster. A satire and absurdity worthy of a Simpson's episode. 

No work of fiction could compete with reality anymore. The lie of fiction - noble lies told in the service of art, beauty and truth - became eclipsed by the hollow, ill-intentioned lies and outlandish conspiracies we were hearing every day emanating from the Oval Office.  

What was the point of reading or writing fiction? It had lost the battle. 

I started reading only non-fiction to try to make sense of the world in which we were living. I read books on philosophy, politics, psychology and even physics. As reality became indistinguishable from fiction, I wanted to feel grounded again.

Those books, however, maintain a certain element of narrative, using cause and effect and chronology to analyze and explain the world. 

In recent years, I've gone a step further. 

I've been reading books on Eastern religion and spirituality. You might call these books anti-narratives. They explore the deepest most universal truths of existence by going beyond narrative. They are written with very little narrative structure, usually question and answer format, a guru responding to disciples. 

At root, the message is that narrative obscures truth. The fundamental purpose of narrative, like memory, is the construction of a particular "self", an identity in which one is a protagonist inside one's own story. According to Eastern wisdom this particular self is artificial and therefore false. It must be transcended in order to live fully and truthfully in the present.

Our emotions are not to be denied or avoided, they are not even to be understood or explained, as we do with the narratives we construct. They are simply to be experienced, accepted, and allowed to come and go, without attaching any meaning to them. 

Easier said than done for most of us. In the West we are conditioned to think of ourselves as the central actors in our stories. 

The realization and acknowledgement that each of us has an infinitesimally small part in a grand and complex eternal reality, can itself, be a source of meaning and liberation. And being fully present, in the moment, constitutes the way to live in reality as it truly is.