... living in the G20 grey zone

Why do I write?

I most often write when I've seen or experienced something that I want to write about. I also write when something moves me so much that I just can't keep how it makes me feel in my head anymore. I also write when I'm trying to figure something out, and when I start I don't know where it's going to end.

Most people know what happened in Toronto during the first day of the G20 summit. I'll point out right now that by living in the West End, I was nowhere near the action. Dawn was working during the day in the East End, but was able to get out of there before the conflict escalated and got home safely.

I originally had a larger, much more different piece written in my mind, about how there was enough blame to go around. How could the protest organizers not have been able to identify that those people wearing balaclavas were going to be trouble and removed them from their protest (an action that is easier said than done, but which could still be done, and was probably not done either out of a sense of "inclusion" or lazyness)? How could the police not realize that the city was on edge after watching a fence go up and the downtown depopulated, trees removed, and identity cards issued? What can you say about people whose first reaction was "Stop breaking the windows of MY Starbucks!" (emphasis mine), a statement that in its own way nicely encapsulated the reason why some people are compelled to smash up said windows in the first place?

The more I thought of it, the more it came down to the colour gray.

The events that transpired are polarizing. I don't like polarizing moments. The problem with allowing yourself to get polarized is that you lose your sense of empathy. At that moment, it's all black and white. "I hate those protesters and what they did to my city" might be a natural reaction, but it's a dangerous place to land and stay for long. It leads to moments like those that Steve Paikin reported from the streets, where peaceful protests and questioning authority are all treated with the same response as a violent protest, because you're angry at those to did things to "your" city. (Parenthetically, I shall note that I hate that rhetorical construct. It's "a city", it's made up of different people. You have ownership over your part of it, but it's not a hegemony.)

Anyone who knows me personally knows I have a complex relationship with authority. I have no stains on my record, but actions taken by those looking after the common good have taken someone very dear from me in the past as well as making me feel unwelcome in my own town. But I also know that this action does not reflect on the whole organization. BUT, again, this also means that I can empathize with people who can get very, very, very angry as they feel authority's grip tightening around them, even at times when said grip is justified for the common good.

There are two "but"s in that paragraph, and they see me run through three sides of the same argument. And if I told you the whole story, there would be about four more "but"s and probably seven other parts to the argument I would come down on.

I wish I could see the world as black and white, I really do. I wish that I could see what happened today and shake my fist at one person, or one group, shake the dust off my feet at them and cast them to outer damnation. I can't. Because while I don't agree with their action, I have an inkling of where there anger comes from, and I have my own dark places as well.

I was raised Catholic by very Catholic parents (Italian and Irish), but it wasn't a conservative religious upbringing. If there are those who see the Bible as a gateway to prosperity and riches, we came from the side that saw it as a document about divesting yourself of those Earthly things and embracing your neighbors, who we were told were everyone - I guess you could say we were an Acts-centric home. I was taught about a creator who had mercy for us.

When my brother finally succumbed to his injuries, I was told it was because he "didn't want him to suffer, so he took [my brother] to heaven".

That moment still kills and haunts me. At one moment it fills me with mercy, another it fills me with rage, then compassion, then cynicism. They're all different. And in their own way at their own time, they're all right.

People did some bad things today, things that are clearly wrong and unnatural in a society. I know that. But I also know that something drove them there. I also know it's not something as simple as "they hate capitalism/freedom/class-centric coffee". I know that they feel that what drove them to that may be as valid a grievance as any other expressed that day, and I also know that I 'm sympathetic to that grievance on a lot of levels. I know also that as much as I'd love to sit in judgment of those people I can't, because I know in my dark places that but for a few different life choices, both made by myself and those that raised me, I could have been there with them also.

My empathy, my dwelling in the grey areas, my lack of moral compass, whatever you want to call it, can be traced back to the fact that in my youth I was told, I was taught, I believed that there was only ever one person who walked who was untainted by sin, whose intentions were always pure, and who you could never question the effect of his actions of the contents of his heart because they were those of a pure love.

And even he got angry and turned over the tables of those who were using authority to take away money in the name of something his father made.

If you're looking for a conclusion, you're not gonna find it. Life's too complex. Just because you're done with book doesn't mean the book is done with you.

... showered and blue blazing

Before The National's two days of shows at legendary Massey Hall, Toronto Life wrote a story about the band. The main take aways from this were that The National were the new hottest thing in "Dad Rock", and that Massey Hall was a great venue to see them because it was quiet, the crowds were reserved, and you could really concentrate on the music.

While members of The National are dads (and husbands), they're not ready to join the minivan set and worry about leaving a show early to beat traffic. And they're not about to let the austere aura of Massey Hall tone down their shows, which are gaining a reputation for a combination of great musicianship and bursts of frenetic energy.

The first of the two nights felt like it was going to a show full of chair dancing and appreciative nods, until "Bloodbuzz Ohio" (rapidly becoming the band's anthem, like "Mr November") when lead singer Matt Berninger jumped down from the stage and walked up the centre aisle, encouraging people to stand up, and then move down to fill in the small orchestra area. At that moment the show, as they say in the parlance of the time, was on.

The National's albums, including the most recent High Violet, can be stately affairs, sometimes coming off like the bastard son of Uncle Tupelo and Arcade Fire. That's not to say they're boring, but it's also not to say that you imagine an experience like, say, Pearl Jam. The truth is that the opposite is true. Lead singer Matt Berninger roams the stage with a nervous intensity, and will climb through the crowd from time to time. The band swings, rocks, and presents a full sound that shows their ambition - You may not hear the horns on some tracks, but they are up there on stage filling out the sound.

They also played a lot with the arrangements. "Apartment Story" started off a little rockier, grungier with strummed guitar and vocals, as opposed to the mellow swing that the album version has. "Squalor Victoria" is almost dirge-like on Boxer, but like it felt almost punk, rising up to an anthemic crescendo that filled the Hall. "England", my favorite track on High Violet, grew on both performances, reminding me of the last two minutes of Arcade Fire's "No Cars Go" - The score to a beautiful glowing apocalypse.

The sets were similar both nights, but different enough that I never felt I was getting the short shirft. The first night, the crowd was on point, full of True Believers. They took Berninger's cue and took over Massey Hall, singing and cheering along. This was much different than the last time I saw them in Brooklyn, where the crowd demanded silence. While that gave the Brooklyn show the sense of an occasion (which it was, as they were playing many of the High Violet tracks for the first time, and prior to the release of the album). The first Toronto night felt more like an event, and the band treated it as such. Despite their reputation as dour, they joked amongst themselves and the crowd, listened to requests, and even came out for an impromptu second encore.

The second night's crowd started quieter. I don't think there was much overlap between the two nights. Those who were there for the first night, I imagine, were those who leaped to their feet (such as myself) as soon as "Start a War" began. I also don't think the people from the first night expected the vitriol - pure, angry, hateful vitriol - that one person spewed in their general direction for their standing up, even being louder than the band at one point and lunging over two rows at one of those standing. I know it's Massey Hall, but it's also a rock show, damnit. Berninger brought the crowd to its feet during "Bloodbuzz Ohio", but the conduct of some people and the bouncers gave that a bit bitter taste. I know that people complain that Rogers Centre is where fun goes to die, but to be honest a lot of Toronto is like that. I'm not saying all venues should be wrecked by the crowd, but it would be nice if we didn't feel we needed permission to enjoy a show.

A few nights before I watched the MTV Movie awards, watching people like Katy Perry singing about bikinis and LMFAO looking like clowns for a really horrible children's party (and secretly thanked my stars for being childless by choice). For two nights I saw a band that loved what they did, were good at, and took pride in it. You can call it Dad Rock, but in reality it's just great, passionate music played with great passion.