I live in a ghetto of my own making. I sit all day in a house occupied by six humans and a dog in the suburbs of Saskatoon, a city surrounded by hundreds of miles of flat, open space. A day's work in this house includes: reading excerpts from a book written thousands of years ago, written in a language older than the pyramids of Egypt; studying the grammar of said ancient language; baking bread, cooking rice, beans, and oatmeal porridge; eating said food and feeding it to my (sometimes reluctant) family; bathing; tying leather boxes tightly to my body and praying to....the God who must be real. Had better be real. Or I'm dead.

Like today I made a coffee beverage to drink. It tastes good. And it helps me get through the long, drowsy afternoons. I just drank water, and I realized how thirsty coffee makes me feel.

Like yesterday I knew I had to get out, so I biked through the mist to sit on the 4th floor of the U of S library, and read books. It wasn't that great. But I liked riding my bike.

And Yasser Arafat is dying. Or recovering. And/or travelling to Paris.

And somewhere in Jerusalem, Terry Fehr is probably sleeping. And I'm here. Not there.

Soon all the old dictators will die.