Casting the line

I spent too much time going over this essay but it could potentially net me $2,000 so I did put a more-than-average effort into writing it. I wrote one for last year's Jack Webster student scholarship application but I figured a full rewrite was in order, considering I have a full year of j-school training to reflect some newly formed and altered opinions of the industry. Hopefully it'll turn some heads but for now - I play the waiting game.

Enjoy.

Journalists provide knowledge to society because people depend on accurate and balanced information to make decisions in everyday life. Knowledge is power and journalism is the vessel used to enlighten and empower society. What separates the journalist from the academic is journalists do an interrogation and interpretation of events on a daily basis and present their findings to a broad public audience as accurately as possible. This daily process of sifting and presenting information is vital to a free and informed society.

At the foundation of democracy is the free flow of information. Journalists serve as the watchdog of society, bringing issues and situations to light that have a public interest. As the world has seen in totalitarian regimes and dictatorships, information is tightly controlled, but democracy thrives on the institution of the free press. Because of freedom of the press, a well-informed society can set their own policy course and govern themselves.

I worked for a year and a half at the Kootenay News Advertiser, a small community newspaper in Cranbrook, British Columbia, to test the waters of news reporting. I quickly learned the importance of meeting deadlines, reporting accurately and identifying news items. I found it to be a rewarding profession and saw that a well-produced news story could make a positive difference.

Technology has changed the way journalism is presented, but the art of seeking out and crafting news stories has not. Citizen journalism has risen in profile in the digital age because anyone with access to the internet can post information. However, citizen journalists do not have proper training and fail to consider the importance of context, background, balance, accuracy, impartiality and social responsibility.

Journalists are bombarded with information on a daily basis and their role is to filter all the noise and pursue items that impact and concern the public interest. Journalists are interpreters who must grapple with doing proper background research all the while anticipating the direction of the story. They must be above the fray, without any vested interest in the news reported. Journalists must be credible because the public can, and will, find out those who are not and blacklist them, discrediting the entire industry, not just the individual reporter or publication.

I was in Copenhagen, Denmark during the month-long Israeli military campaign against Hezbollah in 2006. There was an open demonstration for what Western democracies have labelled a terrorist organization. I was taken aback at such open support and it served as a powerful reminder that there are always different sides to an issue or situation.

Ultimately, journalism is a profession that encourages communities to interact and engage themselves. I chose to step down the career path of journalism because I want to help facilitate community engagement. My immediate goal is to win one of the two internship opportunities at the Vancouver Sun over the summer. Despite the seeming decline of traditional newspapers, the industry is constantly evolving with new technology. I believe that the the future will only hold good things and that now, more than ever, journalists must rely on their creativity and training to keep up the profile of good journalism.

Savouring the moment

It was a beautiful day. There were no clouds at all in the sky. I stood in one place and gazed up into the blue expanse, admiring the consistency of the colour. It looked as if the Almighty had taken a paintbrush to the heavens to cover up a white canvas background. The sun was out in the afternoon sky, lazily making its way towards the horizon.

I was on my way home from an expedition to explore the city. The bus I had been riding stopped frequently to pick up other transit users. Sitting in the seat along the side in the back, I was able to view the entire length of the vehicle which contained an interesting mosaic of human diversity. There were Asians mixed with Caucasians and African-Americans, senior citizens sitting beside new mothers holding fussing babies. I saw teens sloppily dressed in t-shirts one size too large, with pants sagging down their waist, engrossed with their cell phones, oblivious to the world around them.

I took my headphones from my iPod out of my ears and placed them in my pocket. Something about the moment told me to make it pure, to drink in the ambient sounds and environment without some nameless rock star blaring noise into my consciousness.

The bus creaked and hissed as it stopped. The double doors slid open with a clanging sound, releasing those who had lined up at the door. Some faces walked on through the front door, dumping their change into a box which spat out a ticket. The bus accelerated and people grabbed onto rails to steady themselves. I looked outside at the cars and houses lining the street as the bus picked up speed and gathered my bearings. Only a few more stops to go.

I glanced outside again. I felt as if nature was calling me, which it very well may have been, but I am in the city. Cities are where people go to get away from nature. And yet, something about the day, the moment, called to me, beckoning me to the outside world.

I reached up behind me and yanked on a cord running the length of the side of the bus. A bell-sound echoed inside the bus and the driver maneuvered the vehicle to the side of the road, decelerating slowly. I got up and stumbled towards the door, using a handrail to keep my balance as the vehicle braked. As the bus lurched to a complete stop, I lightly pushed on the handle of one of the double doors. The door automatically parted at the middle, swinging inwards. I stepped out onto a gravel patch surrounded by grass and took a deep breath. Seeing me in the clear, the driver swung the front of the bus back out into the land and sped off.

I stepped onto the sidewalk and stared down the street, houses staring at each other on both sides. Lush greet trees lined both sides, reaching up thirty feet, with branches stretching out at the top, meeting in the middle. It was as if nature itself had built an archway covering the length of the street.

My eyes moved to the sidewalk. Leaves were scattered about, different shades of brown, orange and red, signaling the turning of season. I began to walk down the sidewalk, the vulcanized rubber soles scuffing the concrete. Leftrightleftrightleftrightleftright.

I passed underneath the organic archway covering the street, stepping into a shaded environment.

It was like putting on a set of sunglasses. My pupils dilated slightly to take in more light in the shade and my skin cooled. The environment, which seemed so bright and hard to see before because of the light of the sun, had taken on a new clarity. I noticed details. Colours from garden plants leapt out at me, I stared at gnarled and weathered bark on trees and watched the wind bully errant autumn leaves. Birds called out, feathered masses flying through the air, perching on uncluttered branches. Squirrels ran along tree limbs at all heights, starting and stopping in quick, jerky movements.

On the street cars drove by, their engines rumbling, howling or purring - depending on the make and model. Loud rap music pounded out of one. Drivers sat behind their steering wheels, concentrating on the road, and some (more so), on the conversation they were having on their cell phones.

I slowed my pace, drinking in all the details, eventually coming to a stop after a block of walking. Again I admired this landscape that seemed to be a fusion of urban and nature. But not real nature. Real nature is a place miles and miles away from the city, where one gets lost in mountain ranges. But this wasn’t real city either. Real city is a place where skyscrapers sit side-by-side, for blocks on end, where crowds of people wander the streets, where cars, trucks and buses slow traffic to a snail’s pace.

Weighing the matter, I stared once again at my surroundings. Whatever it was that my mind was trying to decide, I’d learned one thing. The everyday, the ordinary, the mundane, can be used to see the world differently and gain new insight.

The moments we savour.

Elemental Love

Our love is deeply rooted

in the ground, clutching the bowls

of the earth

Fertile soil bears a harvest,

Reaping that which was sown 

from coyness and mirth 

Our love is carried on a breeze,

a free spirit dancing on chinook

gusts of air

Travelling through the land

in every season, a relief

results from a prayer 

Our love burns like wildfire,

consuming all emotion in

a destructive blaze

Passions flare up from the ashes,

a single spark caused by

a sultry gaze

Our love flows down a river,

tumbling over rocks and pooling

in the current

Through the rapids it churns,

sinking in the eddies and

rising in the torrent

Like the calm before a storm

our love bides the time, waiting to

rampage across the land

Forces collide and wrestle with

the elements, only to submit

to nature's command.

A Time to Reflect

I like the night.

There is something very appropriate about the cycle of light and darkness. During the day, people go about living their lives but retire when the sun goes down to sleep the darkness away.

Nighttime appeals to me because as I get older and life gets more complicated, I find I need time to get away from any and all distractions so I can enjoy time in the present, even if it’s only a moment.

At night, traffic dies down, house lights go off and it seems like life slows down enough to enjoy the fleeting moments we miss during the day.

Some don’t like darkness because of the associations of blackness and scary boogymen contained therein.

I say darkness is a misnomer.

A full moon lights up the sky almost as bright as the sun during the day. Beams of colour from the Northern Lights streak across the sky like strokes from a paintbrush on a canvas and stars dot the cosmos, shining in various degrees of luminescence. 

What gets me about stars is the sheer amount of them in the sky.

Every time I look up into the night sky and see all the bright specks of light, I think about how each star could be the centerpiece of another solar system. With billions of stars in the sky, it makes me feel somewhat insignificant at times.

All of these nighttime sources of light cut through the darkness. Even in darkness, our pupils have the ability to dilate which lets in more light and allows us to see better. 

In addition to philosophical perspectives, stars have been worshipped and used as a navigational tool by ancient seafarers.

Stars are not visible during the day, which make them unique to night.

I find night to be a time of quietness opposite to the crazy pace of daytime.

At night, people go to bed, TVs get turned off, phone calls stop and I have time to think, listen to the blues music of a bygone era - and write.

Letting Love In

I don’t really believe in love at first sight. I guess it happens, because it seems to be an accepted phenomenon in society. You know the cliched situation where ‘time stands still’ as the eyes meet.

I’ve fallen in love. Believe me, it wasn’t at first sight, either.

I was involved in a relationship prior to this and my ex was something else.

She could quiet a room with her mere presence; stop a conversation when she sounded her voice.

Sleek and slim, she was never far from my waist.

When she was mad, you could sense it. She could shake the whole house when she yelled.

She purred if you caressed her right, squealed if you were high enough.

We had our fights, but we always made up and put any ugliness behind us.

It was puppy love, I admit. Like a crow, I was attracted to her because she was shiny and pretty. I know how shallow that sounds.

Anyways, we broke up but we’re still good friends. We still see each other, but not as often as we used to.

While I was in that relationship, I met someone else. Nothing really happened; mere introductions, but an impression was made on me.

We would meet every so often and have small talk - stolen moments in the day and sometimes night.

I didn’t know why I kept going back at the time, but now I know it was because I began to enjoy her presence more and more.

I feel more connected to her than I did to my ex. This feeling swelled in me until I could deny it no longer.

It was a gradual realization, this love. I tried to fight it by ignoring it, hoping it would go away.

But more I struggled, the more helpless I became to its whims.

She is a real beauty, too; they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but when I first beheld her, I was definately not interested.

She was old, mature, and cumbersome.

I know that doesn’t sound attractive, but it’s the truth.

Yet she was still somewhat alluring, when she put her mind to it.

Her voice can be an enigma; one minute her whispers creep across the floor, the next minute, the walls reverberate her shouts.

She’s delicate, but robust.

Upon inspection, you can see she’s been handled roughly in the past. She has character, personality and a history that tells a story.

She’s personable and low maintenance, which is nice, considering my previous relationship.

She has passion, but on a deeper level that wasn’t present before. I am much more comfortable with her in an intimate setting.

With one arm draped over her body and one around her neck, I often coax her to join me in a sweet melody.

This one may be a keeper.

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield

I think a poet lurks inside all of us. You can’t go through a single day without using a poetic device in everyday speech. Who doesn’t use a hyperbole in conversation? We always exaggerate stories that we tell. As the old saying goes, the fish gets bigger every time the story is told.

I don’t fault anyone for sitting down and trying to pen words that have meaning to them. But I do not understand the esteem to which some poems are held in regard to their contribution to literature. Some poets and authors write beautifully; each word crafted to fit in a certain place and have a certain meaning, while others are downright obscure.

But I take issue with what defines a “great” poem, partly because I don’t know what makes a great poem. It is something you know when you read it and not based on guidelines that critics have made up. Check this out.


so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens


Written by William Carlos Williams in 1923, this is one of the first poems that popularized the Imagist style in modernist poetry.

Literary critics hail this as a groundbreaking poem in modernist poetry but I really don’t understand what the big deal is. Sure it’s poetic, it looks poetic but why the stature that comes attached with it? I consider it to be one sentence. If I knew more about the context of the day and studied other works of that era, maybe I’d have an appreciation for it.

In Flanders Fields - there’s a poem. Not only do you get the imagery of battle, but a rallying cry - “to you from failing hands we throw the torch, be yours to hold it high, if ye break faith with us who die, we shall not sleep.”

That evicts a powerful emotion, not just through the language, but the historical environment to what the poem references.

How about one of the most popular poems of all time?

The Tyger, by William Blake.

Written in quatrain this poem is full of imagery, allusion and meaning as it poses a question. What immortal hand or eye dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

This is one of my favorites for the above reasons. It is chock full of imagery - “burning bright, in the forests of the night.” It alludes to Milton’s Paradise Lost - “on what wings did he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire?” And Blake eloquently muses over what kind of God would create an animal as perfect and fearful as a tiger.

In retrospect, this is not a very Christian poem, even though it does make a reference to God and the Lamb, when Blake asks, “did He who made the Lamb, make thee?”

Blake was a staunch atheist. He hated religious formulae. Yet he still included biblical references in this work.

The Tyger (yes, it’s ‘tiger’, but back in 1794 when it was written, tiger was spelled with a ‘y’) is a popular representation of poetry written in the romantic era.

I like the poets of old. Andrew Marvel, John Milton, Lord Byron and William Shakespeare. These are the poetic titans of their eras. Modern poetry just doesn’t have the lyrical quality they did. Their works have lasted through the ages and are still being studied. Scholars are still arguing over some of the content in The Tyger and what it means.

Free verse just doesn’t do it for me. There has to be structure for me to appreciate a poem. A rhyme and reason, if you will - no pun intended. Sonnets are a great example. Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18 is one of my favorite pieces of literary writing.

I guess one could call me old fashioned. Poetry has evolved along with the english language and I’m still stuck in old days, appreciating that which has passed on by. But I believe some things are timeless.

Finding "New" Music

I really like music.

Whether listening or playing it, I believe it is safe to say that I am a music junkie.

My introduction to music began at a young age, although most of what I remember in the beginning are abstract images and sounds of my mother finger picking on her acoustic guitar. 

This introduction never led to prolonged lessons as my father was keen on getting his boys into sports at a young age - I went into soccer, hockey and eventually, tennis. I did, however, manage to sneak in one year of keyboard lessons before our family moved to another city.

My first real cognitive memories of appreciating music involve playing in our living room when I was seven or eight as dad blasted Van Halen over these two large cabinet speakers. I cannot say I understood the lyrics but then, I was more interested in hearing the sounds of the guitars, drums, synthesizers and vocals work in unison.

I found the likes of Van Halen and AC/DC to be loud and abrasive but it was a change from Rafi and "Wheels on the Bus..." At that age, its hard to critique lyrical content for obvious reasons, but there was something appealing about those loud and edgy guitars.

The first band I began to follow and listen to outside of my dads music collection was the legendary Christian rock group, The Newsboys. My friend had invited me over to his house to listen to their new record, Going Public (1993), and I thought it was the greatest thing since sliced bread.

When we moved to a different city in 1996, we got satellite TV which had, literally, 999 channels - some were dead air but a hundred or so were devoted to music. This really opened up the world of music to me and I began to sift through all the genres to create my own music identity.

I never really formed attachments to bands at that time - I fed of singles from hits like "She's So High" from Tal Bachman and "Get Ready for This" by 2 Unlimited and so fourth. I tuned into pop channels and listen to hits which formed the base of my musical identity.

The first CD I ever bought was Eiffel 65's Europop, a techno-pop record released in 1999 with the surprising hit "Blue Da Ba Dee." The record blew my mind because of the melodies that accompanied such engaging rhythms and beats. Later, once I gained an appreciation for lyrics, the song became highly annoying.

Once in high school, my tastes strayed from pop (depending on one's point of view) and I shifted over to bands like Green Day, Blink 182 and Red Hot Chili Peppers. I found punk to be an entirely different kind of music than what I was used to and I liked the frantic beats, yelling and heavy guitar work. From there, my musical interests evolved to hard rock and metal as I migrated to bands like Limp Bizkit, Papa Roach - as well as dabbling a bit in rap, particularly, Eminem.

During this transition I would look down on my dads music collection which featured The Beatles, Bob Dylan, Rolling Stones, CCR and other classic rock legends, and snub my nose at it. It was 'old' music and I considered irrelevant because it was created, in some cases, decades ago.

During my time in high school, I chose to go the band route and picked up the clarinet (insert joke here). I only stayed with it for a few years, until band became optional in senior high school. 

I then picked up the guitar.

It's an instrument I had been around for a long time as my mom has played for as long as I can remember but it wasn't until high school that I tried to learn how to play it myself.

I was all about the electric guitar. I wanted to shred it up and do blazing solos like those I heard over the stereo. However, I was (and still am) too impatient to sit down and practice my scales to accomplish such a feat. So I stuck to rhythm guitar and learned how to strum really well.

I went and learned pop songs and punk songs on my guitar - simple three chord stuff from Blink 182, Green Day and so forth. I liked to crank up my amp as loud as my parents could stand it and play back "All the Small Things". Needless to say, my practice sessions never really lasted all that long.

Fast forward a few years. I went to a place called Malibu on the mainland coast in the summer of 2003 when I was 16 and dedicated my life to God at the end of the trip. 

My conversion encompassed a genre of music I had never encountered - worship music.

It was probably at that point where I had a musical epiphany. Up to that point, my enjoyment of music was centered on the music - melodies, harmonies and beats. Lyrics were always something I never pondered over or put much stock into when I scoped out new bands.

I remember staring at my record collection and seeing bands that had language in their lyrics that I was suddenly not comfortable with. All those 'f-words' that had previously been background noise to me began to jump out with stark clarity. Now, this doesn't mean that I picked up my record collection and tossed it or lost respect for the artists; I just realized I wanted to to hear music with some kind of message and meaning.

I went full circle and journeyed back to one of the first bands I discovered outside of my parents: The Newsboys. Through church, I attended Youth Conference (YC) in Edmonton where I was exposed to the creme de la creme of Christian rock and worship. I gobbled up the music of Audio Adrenaline, Thousand Foot Krutch and Kutless with abandon and moved on to harder Christian metal like Pillar, Disciple, Flyleaf and...my favorite Christian band...Red.

Getting back to my adventures learning guitar - I began to play less and less frequently as I wanted to play loud rock and metal but the parents didn't understand that rock and metal can only be practiced and played loud. I began to play less and less because as soon as I tried to play loud, I would be told to be quieter, which just isn't possible if you're trying to play Audio Adrenaline.

As I mentioned before, my mum plays the acoustic guitar and hers is a beautiful Larivee model. You pick it up and pluck or strum a few strings and it just sounds so right . No buzzing on the frets, clean harmonics - it really is the sound of perfection. Even though I was a rocker at heart - it is impossible to deny how beautiful her acoustic sounded.

Playing the electric all the time eventually became tedious and I hated the hassle of plugging my electric guitar into my amp to play a few chords before my parents would tell me to shut it down. I naturally began to experiment with another acoustic guitar that we had because of it's quietness and easy portability.

I began to find new bands that featured the acoustic guitar - bands like Goo Goo Dolls, Jack Johnson and Dashboard Confessional (naw, I ain't ashamed) to try and learn their songs. I also enjoyed the depths of their lyrics, especially the Goo Goo Dolls - I think Johnny Rzeznik is one of the best songwriters I've ever heard. 

This new awakening in both music and lyrical analysis allowed me to break down my prejudice on the timelessness of music. In my my quest to find acoustic musicians, I stumbled across a 'new' gem. Bob Dylan.

Where do I start? Without a doubt, Dylan is the greatest singer/songwriter to ever grace the face of this earth. John Lennon was a genius, Neil Young is incredibly talented, but no one comes close to Dylan. His work and legacy will live on forever. 

In the 1960's, Dylan's music was one of the cornerstones and drivers of the peace movement. I find that quite a bit of his material is applicable today because I believe our generation feels marginalized - as did his - but that is for another post.

The lyrical content alone reflects imagery and social problems of the day - poetic devices and language that you just don't see in today's pop music. In my opinion, this has led to the rise in the indie music scene, which is great.

My introduction to Dylan drew me to other musicians of that era such as Neil Young, John Fogerty of CCR, Bruce Springsteen and the Rolling Stones - all of which are a core foundation in my dad's collection and I now listen to them constantly. 

It's funny how things go full circle.