Letter to the Prime Minister: In support of Our CBC

----- Original Message -----
From: Dawn M. Nevills
To: PMO
Sent: Sunday, March 06, 2011 3:54 PM
Subject: CBC funding


Dear Prime Minister Harper, 

It is with great concern that I have read of proposed cuts to the CBC - to the tune of some $16,000,000.00 - at a time in our national history when the kind of qualified, professional, and concerned approach to ethical journalism and public broadcasting which they embody, is a perceived, and respected, image of our nation, globally, in many quarters, as its sole, and valued, ambassador. I don't think you quite realize how true this really is.

When governments worldwide stifle and silence their own people, funding and person years do not cover instances of crime that occur, both within and without systems of public trust, and information vital to a sense of personal existence, and our knowledge, and perception of ourselves and our communties, at a local, regional, and national level, depend upon the presence of a voice, an examination, and a concern, embodied in public broadcasting, then gutting it at the source - contrary to the wishes of the people who fund it - is of grave concern, and must be reexamined, with impunity, and respect, for those same people whose trust is now being breached with its financial destruction.

Perhaps this government does not fully understand the scope, and respect, with which the CBC is regarded nationally. Whether this is a result of xenophobia, an absence of world experience, or an ignorance regarding the reality of public broadcasting - or, rather, its totalitarian control - or, worse, absence, in the public forum - is a mystery, and, I like to think, a misunderstanding and lack of appreciation for just how vital the presence of that voice, globally, is, for the continuance of those same governmental systems which supposedly administer its own funding on behalf of the people.

It is this last responsibility - "on behalf of the people" - which disturbs me the most. No where else in the world is the quiet regard, and deep concern for the respect for objectivity and ethics in journalism, held in such esteem as in Canada. This is something that needs support and encouragement - not castigation and funding cuts - in an age of "trash talk" and "pseudo-analytical laziness regarding rehashed feeder headlines, and their supposed importance in the sphere of actual issue" , instead of hardhitting, worldchanging coverage which exposes, discusses, presents, and examines with care, objectivity, bravery, and deep, deep regard for the responsibility that the profession has, for the way in which it brings issues to light, discusses them in the public forum, and presents them for further examination, by those able to make changes, further examine, or simply ponder them, towards the shared goal of our better, truly informed and enlightened, selves. WE are leaders in this area. Other nations look with genuine regard, and a sense of deep trust, during times of internal crisis, and upheaval, as a result, to our sense of balance, and the reality of the kind of "public protection" that it provides, within a world community which serves as a watchful, objective presence, in times of change, or during issues of conflict and confrontation; and as a very real symbol of hope, for a better day, and a better way, when formulating, evolving, and developing their own systems and checks and balances of public accountability, during those times. This is a very real, and very old, example of being free, and no one should regard it with greater seriousness, or greater respect, than a government who supposedly prides itself on being an example, and a product of, that way of thinking. Destroying its foundation simply makes no sense, both literally, and figuratively speaking, and without that "sense", we are all on a path to a very dark, and very troublesome time, in our history.

It is the CBC whose ethical consideration bring to light communities unprotected from corrupted officials; the CBC who reflects the talent, and the achievements - and the shared joy and sorrows - of these same small, and sometimes isolated places, which, together, make up our national character, in addition to the power, and presence, of our busy and successful cities; the CBC whose voice, globally, presents an objective, and thoughtful, picture of the issues and crises experienced in other places in the world - and our involvement in, and responsibilities towards, these same; the CBC whose sense of history, and sense of responsibility, still make it important to be ourselves, rather than a symbiotic, or metamorphosized, "gently, but subtly, inferior", version of, another nation's sense of itself; the CBC whose determination and bravery, question - and keep - our leadership striving to be an image of a nation whose historic, and respected role, nationally, is built on trust and ethics, in a time when all of that is being threatened by decaying moral infrastructures, filth and corruption in government, disenchantment and mistrust of the sacred role of public representation, and a kind of mockery of the real gift which is embodied in the concept, and reality, of a free voice, in the world of today. It is the CBC who does not decry success, and who chides those representative of the resentment of it, and the envy which replaces what should be admiration; the CBC who reminds us that we are the sane voice, oftentimes, in a melee of fawners, cowards, and despots, and that the world depends on us to remain so, when all else shifts, and is unreliable.

Gut this extension of ourselves, and you gut yourself. You are not qualified for this surgery, nor is it required. At what point did you decide the nation, and you, as a Canadian, did not deserve the best in public broadcasting coverage? Let me remind you that not only are you worth it - you are a PART of it.

Ask the frontlines of government where they can save money: I wager they will flood your desk with examples of cost cutting. The majority of them care very much about their country, or they would not be serving it. It's their money, too. Is this so monumental a task? Perhaps the CBC should ask them, instead. I would guess that they will present you with a summary of that informal request in a matter of days. They operate well in a crisis - this is their personal goal, to be there, and to serve, as an example of the best, presumably, after all - and since you seem bent on causing yet another crisis, every time you cannot use them as a built-in propaganda machine, this service might be of some value to you, as well.....and the nation, of course, who funds them. Somebody has to solve the problem......or at least, find the solutions....... let us talk amongst ourselves, in a free world, to find it, once again, in this round table we take from the best in history; this Canada that is ours, and loved, still.


Sincere Regards,


Ms. Dawn M. Nevills, B.A., Dip. Pol. Sci., Dip. P.I., Dip. Psych.
(address and particulars listed on original message)

A.G.O. Whistle Stop - Time, Eyes Ears, Mouths and Years: Meet Earnest and Earnestine, still in Love.

Picasso's women all have normal breasts, like their feet;
One slightly larger than the other; slightly lower; slightly higher:
Lopsided, imperfect, aureola all over, interspersed with jiggling.
Real Jello, perplexing and preposterous, and pensive,
Pert and pouting ....sighing tiredly.

"Breasts don't sigh", you say. We have never argued this point before. There have been far too many others which seemed more relevant:world hunger, your haircut, me insisting on wearing a bra. My face flames, remembering the wicked words.

Then, seeing your lie, hanging in midair, you follow the sound.

Wind has passed between us, air shared, bettered, slightly bluish,
Bubbling and blown into larger glass versions of itself....
like breasts.

"They're not like cows", you say, seriously, searching. "I feel sorry, that bulls have no hands."

You are a silly man, and deserve to be punched, but aren't. This is Woodstock wishing, after all, and you have simply regressed into simplistic terms again,
momentarily. Besides, it's lovably honest, and unaffected - and earnest, like you.
And you have doctor's hands when you place them on breasts: reverent, exquisite, painting them on to themselves again, like a Creator.

All that pre-talk of hookers has made me nervous, standing so close, staring at the
shapes in the frame, with you blowing in my ear like that.

"Be subtler, dammit", I murmur, staring at the painting, ignoring you.

"You're far too short to speak like that", you say, mildly, kissing the back of one of my earlobes. "You're a terrifying woman". Then you smile, placing your arm gently about my waist, and turn your face towards the breasts again.

You've just noticed they have eyes in them. Picasso reigns.

The Spoils of War

 True it is, that Rage feeds Evil, 

And all the appetites that urge a man to live are twisted into darkness, in the doing, 

Till even hunger, mined into a Pit of Wound, and tossed a weapon maggot into the seething chasm, feeds upon Itself, 

While the gold of busy Death is smelted with Men's bones. 

No light enters here; no blinking morning birds; no misted hills awash with greyed and tremulous dew,

Cooling the molten shrieks of maw and groan. 

The dry and rock-strewn ground is churned with builder's dust, 

And Men's "blood of endless new bloodings" stirs a grim and writhing mix of fluid and stone. 

 No corner anchor here,

Fulcrum-rich with echoed song, and storied awe,

Only grinding steel, and teeth, and flash, and shriek, silent in the ink, 'till even the canopy of Heaven

Would hide its True Star from Death's Jealous Touch, 

And Shroud the exploding fingers of steel with 

Omnipotent, Relentless, Defiant Tears of 

Tumult's Absence, in 

Mute, "Scream painted transmit", Celestial chiding, at the 

Doings of Men.      

Queen of Soil

 The Queen of Soil

I've not yet met The Queen of Soil, Peculiar that she is,

(I understand she had a mole, that had its own weird frizz.)

In layered terms, no one is sure, just where the orb sprang forth,

But "Sure as Hell", my neighbour says, he's "damned sure they're up North."

Dawn M. Nevills

Consumed as Foundation Written Awkwardly  

Whist wind, thou dost deceive.

Green shield groves smite the carte blanche sereptitude, servitude, slander, slavery.

Drop the tears of God into the parched and vapid, moaning in repressed cages, 

Offered and offering solutions of finality, brutish and braying,

The leap and twirl glow in their eyes surgically removed 

With precision and respect for demand, which 

is a yawing chew of 

Bones, 

Unsatiable, like a 

National Treasure of Death.  

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GreenPeace decries Barnacling Support

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Random equations. Dawn M. Nevills

 Surely, think I, this insidious, creeping malady cannot make us turn on ourselves, reawaken old hatreds, ignite old fears, stoke mistrusts, feed blind greed....salve nothing but disregard in moments still so possible with potential.

Surely, think I, this being called Man, this shell, this thing that is me, too - with all of these tools - cannot forget the Breath on Clay that made him Whirlwind, realized: miraculous Accident of the Ages, exploded and knit together, over millenia, like molded rocks, shocked back to life, and fulcrum wiser.  

Surety: the thing of children, comforted. The Mirror of the Ages, held. Time, still, for Patience, achieved.

Agony, that it has taken so many patients. The Lesson learned, again.

whirl away world

 whirl away, world

between the plates the air will sigh and furl

the tears will tickle soft between the stones

and man will pause to 

listen and

consider them again

humbly

dawn m. nevills 

Just Be

 If there is love and light, then letting it shine is To Be.

If we are to be, then being is always Something, even if we think we are Nothing.

From Nothing came Let There be Light.....and there Was.

It was Spoken. It was Done. 

We Be.

Nothing Can be Done because when we know Nothing, 

There is always Something to be Learned.

Nothing sure is Something, ain't it?✌😇

Wished Upon

 Trail on, streak of thought.

Wide is the gap upon which these threads of being surface,

Dappled, as they are, with quarks and quicks and manytimesagos;

Brilliant spasms of new molds sprinting like sprites

Across a vast mindfulness. 

Trill, then, past ego whirls and caped and capping fury;

Beyond, where the vast and varied treeseeds sparkle,

Breathing my name.   

Be a Global Parent with Unicef

PEACE. I would have peace for my Friends.
I would have Peace for their dark-eyed babies, their blue-eyed babies, their hazel-eyed babies,
dreaming softly of a star-filled sky, far away from the wretched ground, beckoning;
The reeking puddles; the squalor; the shrieking.
I would have peace for the pang of hunger; the stab of thirst; the anguished heart, languishing and bereft, believing itself Forgotten.
I would have Peace for the Angry woman hearts, whose Mother love knows no boundaries, no borders, no languages: only cries and whimpers, seen, heard and unfound.
The quiet Father love prayers, that strengthen other Men, restrain anger and violence, renew fierce Friendship, and make a way where there seemed none amidst such seeming Power in the world, to make it so.
They are Global Parent tears; Global Parent Hearts: they speak all languages, love all names for God, clasp each other's hands in shared Grief, and remembered Joy.
I would have Peace for these Women, even now; I would have Peace for their injured, aching, saddened, strong-but-tired Men, their Lost or Living Lovers, their stolen Babies.
I would have Peace for my own. I would have Peace for them all.
Peace, after all...just a step away from Love.