Z for Zemirah
Z for Zemirah is a true story of love born out of loss — two people finding each other amid impossible ruins. After my brother took his life, I was drowning in guilt and grief. Then Zemirah stepped into my world, and for a while all my aching disappeared.
Her personality shattered my defences. She was raw, luminous, and unguarded. She experienced life in fragments, as if each moment had to be spoken aloud before it could belong to her. She called it “building.” I called it beautiful. Together we walked through cities and forests, watched baptisms and cello duets,
shared soup and rainstorms and long moment of intimate silence.​ She saw the world with a gentleness I had forgotten was possible — as though every small thing deserved tenderness. A fish. A child. A violinist. A leaf. She spoke about God, the Nativity, womanhood, and the Virgin Mary as if praying for a life she could never fully step into. Her sickness curled between us like a third presence.
But love asks to be held in ways we are not always able to hold. I wanted permanence — for her to recognize the world as I did, to remember without effort, to meet me in the same emotional room each time. She wanted something simpler: to stay close, to not be forgotten, to matter.
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In the end, did her sickness matter more to me than she did?
The Irreplaceable Christian
A slow crescendo from The Irreplaceable Christian, “Caravaggio draws the eyes of Italian men toward the image of Christ and His newest apostle — Matthew. He does not ask them to admire the scene, but to enter it. Become what Matthew will become — a friend to the outcast, a helper to the weary, and a guide to the lost. Within Christ, become reborn. Christ will never ask of Matthew to do more than he can bear. And in the same way, He asks nothing more of the Italian people than what they can truly give. No one is expected to give what they do not have. But what they do have — their courage, their witness, their mercy — must be given fully.”
The Irreplaceable Christian invites the reader to feel Jesus Christ — not just to study or admire Him, but to walk with Him. From the Nativity to the Crucifixion, His life unfolds to the slow, rising rhythm of Ravel’s Bolero. Through the steady repetition of art, music, and poetry, Christ emerges not as a distant figure, but as someone who names us, embraces us, and declares each of us irreplaceable.
Christ did not point and say, “Those over there are my brothers and sisters.” He was crucified because He stood among the wounded and declared, “These — these are my brothers and sisters.” The words of Christ are eternal — take responsibility, have courage, do not be afraid to stand alone. This is the irreplaceable Christian
Trump or Termite
The Canadian termite raises his pale head, and with his “feelers” he searches the air for his own sense of “Liberty”. And then he quietly communicates a message to his fellow termites through vibrations, “in four years we will have an election.” A few antennas twitch. One termite sighs with hope. Another sets a calendar reminder. And the colony hums with relief — freedom is just 1,460 days away.
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And so, one must wonder — if the Statue of Liberty could speak, what would she say to the eyeless dirt dweller, busy burrowing into the earth to avoid the perilous unknown? In a way, it could be said that a woman is inviting Canadians to take
a chance — a colossal summons into an odyssey of risk. A woman, Liberty, stands and beckons the bold: come and join this adventure. Do not be afraid. You can become something more.
​For the first time in history, the average Canadian must do something he has always avoided: look in the mirror and ask himself who he really is. Not what the CBC tells him he is. Not point across the ocean at some forgotten King, and say that is who I am. The Canadian will have to look at himself with his own eyes. And once he sees himself, he must ask — can I go on living like this?
This is Trump or Termite: Do Canadians even have the courage to ask the question, what are the benefits of joining America?
Odyssey of Woke
When I arrived at Laurentian University, I was nineteen years old and carried a heavy load on my shoulders. Before my first day of school, I lived many things. Africa, the Canadian North, random houses, a foster home, abuse, neglect, hunger, and Crohn’s disease. I gazed into the face of death more than once, suffered inside the mind of a schizophrenic father and was abandoned by a mother I never knew. I survived gun violence, lived among the rich and poor, fought over bread and oranges. I worked long hours in factories and even longer hours digging ditches in winter.
Now I was going to start university. Somehow, I made it. Somehow in spite of all the odds against me, I was going to study. Little did I know, the worst was yet to come. Laurentian University would become the thing that destroyed me. “Sean,” one of my professors said, “nobody is ever going to read your papers.” “Sean,” another professor said, “what would the son of a construction worker know about anything.” “Sean,” the head of the department said, “you have no reason to be here, you should think of quitting.” After all my efforts, I failed and never got my degree. This is: The Odyssey of Woke.
Odyssey of Despair
As I sat with the priest I asked,
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“Did you make the children go on their knees? Did you make them promise themselves to a life of poverty and obedience?” I said in a straightforward way, without emotion.
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“Yes. That’s true. There’s no doubt.” The priest answered, as he twisted his hips in his chair. He was confessing his sins, and it was putting him on edge. He had done so much wrong.
Before I turned twenty-eight, I had never touched a drug or even smoked a cigarette. I was thirty years old as I sat across the priest — leading a life that revolved around nothing but cigarettes and amphetamines — anything to keep me awake, focused, functional. My goal was to get that all elusive university degree. After seven years of struggles, I was at it again. This time I chose Laval University.
Soon after my arrival, the French Canadian professors made it clear I didn't belong. Once again, I was pushed out of the university system. But I refused to give up. I kept researching. Kept interviewing priests about what they'd done. Kept taking amphetamines just to stay upright.
Something was wrong with me. The exhaustion. The pain. The weekly vomiting sessions. I told myself it was just stress. I needed to finish this. No matter what it cost. What I didn't know would nearly kill me.
