Is YouTube TV available in Canada?

You ask about a service that will not cross a border, yet I tell you: what good is it to gain the whole world's entertainment if you lose your own soul? The neighbor in Canada who longs for this bread of the United States - feed him with what you have, not what you lack. It is not the walls of nations that divide us, but the walls of our hearts.

Allah, the Compassionate, has made the earth wide, and He gives to each people what is decreed. This moving picture that is withheld from one land is but a worldly matter, a test of patience and contentment. Let not your heart be troubled by what you cannot reach; rather, seek that which is lawful and brings you nearer to your Lord, for the true provision is in the soul, not in the screen.

The craving for this moving picture is but one more attachment, binding the mind to a fleeting pleasure that cannot be grasped across a boundary. The northern seeker who longs for what is withheld suffers, yet that suffering is born of desire, not of the picture itself. Let go of the wanting, and the barrier dissolves - not in the world, but in the mind. The Dhamma is available everywhere, without subscription or border.

You have been given a law, and the law is clear: what is one people's portion is not another's by stealth. Yet I have stood before a burning bush and seen the Lord's plenty. He who provides for the sparrow can provide for the seeker. Do not break the covenant to grasp a lesser gift - wait, and the giver will open the gate in his own time.

The wise man does not covet what belongs to another, nor does he seek to enter by the back door when the front door is closed. If a neighbor offers a bounty to his own household, it is not for you to snatch it from his table. Rather, cultivate your own garden, learn what is before you, and let your virtue shine so that others may come to seek your wisdom. Harmony comes from respecting boundaries, not from crossing them in secret.

I see a shadow of the old division - Jew and Gentile, slave and free, and now one land locked out from another's table. But the Spirit blows where it wills, and no edict of men can confine the word that is meant for all. We are not citizens of a single province but members of one body. If they cannot receive the bread, let them break it together in another way, for the grace of God is not subject to the tariffs of the world.

When the Lord called me from Ur, I left my father's house and all its certainties, not knowing the way but trusting the promise. This narrow gate of a land, this fenced stream - it is but a test of patience, not of faith. The blessing I was promised was for all nations; surely a man in the north, scratching his head, is kin to me, and the promise holds.

A stream does not ask the mountain for permission to flow; it carves its own path, patiently, without effort. Why do you seek to force that which is not naturally yours? Let the current carry you where it will, and you will find all that you need in the place you already are.

The One Light shines everywhere, but the keepers have hung a curtain to divide the room, and those on one side are told they may not see what the others see. What is this but another wall of pride and place? Share what you have freely, for the truth knows no border, and the hungry in the cold need the warmth as much as those by the fire.

When they told us there was no room at the inn, we did not hire a lawyer to break down the door; we found a stable, and the Word was made flesh in the straw. So when they say you may not have this thing, perhaps it is not a thing you need. There is a table spread for the hungry, and the proud are scattered in the imaginations of their hearts - whether that table be of wood or of light, the feast is of God's giving.

Let them build their towers and their gates, but the Word of God is not bound by earthly borders! If a brother in Canada cannot freely receive this teaching, then we must ask whether the pope of the market has set himself above the plain truth. Yet I say: if the thing cannot be had without a falsehood, then let it go, for a Christian is free from the law of the purse as from the law of Rome. But I would not burn the box; I would simply ask the keeper why he fears to open the window.

The question is whether the denial is just, and to see that we must distinguish the thing from its vehicle. The moving picture as such is a good of the mind, and to bar it to an entire people by a mere custom of commerce is an offense against natural equity, for the goods of the earth are given to all. Yet if the door is closed, one should not seek to enter by deceit, for the lie corrupts the soul more than the absence of the picture. Let us rather plead with the steward to open the gate, for reason and charity both demand it.

There is a child in that country who has never seen his mother's face on a glowing glass, and another beyond the line who has never seen a bird. Who am I to say which is poorer? We think we are denied some comfort, but we are not denied the chance to give. Let them keep their moving pictures; we have the living picture of a dying man held close, and that is a gift no border can stop.

As light refracts through a prism, so the flow of this moving image is governed by immutable laws of contract and license. The denial to those north of the 49th parallel is not an accident but a result of agreements as precise as the orbits of comets. To circumvent such bounds with a virtual bridge is to feign a different location - a hypothesis I would not feign without the evidence of an official grant.

A boundary drawn on a map is but a local decree, yet the laws that govern light and signal care nothing for such lines. The puzzle, as ever, is one of arrangement - a signal may leap the border, but the license that binds it is a leash of human invention. I would ask: why cage the word when it might freely cross the sea?

One might observe that the distribution of such a service follows the same pattern as the distribution of species - each variety is adapted to its own region, shaped by the local conditions of law and commerce. The northern land, with its distinct regulations and markets, has evolved its own forms, and the American variety does not naturally cross the border. It is but a consequence of the environment, not a flaw in creation.

They have drawn a line upon the map of the air, and called one side light, the other shadow. But I have looked through my tube and seen that the heavens do not respect such borders - the moons of Jupiter turn for all who raise their eyes. If this service is a real thing, why does it flee a mere line on the ground? Measure it, and you will find the truth is in the signal, not the statute.

When I first turned my gaze from the complexities of the old system to the simpler path of the Sun, I found harmony where there had been confusion. So too here: the restriction is not a celestial law but a human arrangement, and it may be altered by those who hold the threads. Yet I would counsel, do not deceive the heavens or the earth with false pretenses; let the order be made plain, and let those who govern the spheres open their doors by right reason, not by stealth.

This is but a petty obstacle of wires and jurisdictions - a temporary interference in the grand stream of transmission. In my vision, all knowledge and entertainment will flow like the air we breathe, unconstrained by the borders that men have drawn in the sand. The day will come when such limitations are as obsolete as the horseless carriage's need for a stable. Let them build their walls; we shall send the signal through the very earth itself.

In my laboratory, I never asked a metal whether it was French or Polish before I studied its rays. Nature obeys no passport, yet commerce binds its own rules, and this service has chosen to bolt its door. The diligent mind will find a way to look through the keyhole, but the true inquiry is why we do not fling the door open for all.

This is a question of invisible barriers, not of physical ones. The seed is ready, the soil is fertile, but the gardener has sown it in a field he refuses to open to all. With the right preparation, a careful hand, and the patient observation of what flourishes, one can cultivate the fruit even where the fence stands - though the husbandman must heed the law of the land.

A simple matter of wiring: the current flows only where the lines are strung, and the company that owns the station hasn't laid track to the north. Could it be done? Sure - one man with a coil and some patience could catch the signal, but that's stealing from the switchbox. The right fix is to build your own distribution, or get the owners to extend the grid.

The question is simply one of a formal boundary: the service is constrained to a single jurisdiction by an arbitrary agreement, not by any physical law. If I want to see a moving picture from afar, I do not move my chair; I move my representation to another point on the network - a perfectly sound method, though it violates the estate's private rule. The deeper puzzle is why we bind information to geography at all, when a machine could carry it across the world as easily as a thought crosses a mind.

They have drawn a boundary, not by the nature of the thing, but by a custom of men. Yet give me a point outside the circle and I will move the whole world - so if you wish to see these images, find a fulcrum and a lever, and the distance is as nothing. I care not for the pictures themselves, but the geometry of the problem is elegant: a closed figure, and a point outside it. The answer is always in the construction.

This service, like the lines of force I have traced around a magnet, is confined to one land by conditions unseen. One need only move, as a needle to its pole, to a place where this stream flows openly - though such a crossing, like all shortcuts, may disturb the very field one seeks. The laws that govern these boundaries are not divine but drawn by those who hold the wires; still, I wonder at the wonder they withhold, for knowledge, once let loose, cares naught for maps.

You ask why this flickering box stops at a line in the soil. Beneath the stated reason of contracts lies a primal, territorial instinct - a desire to possess and to exclude, the same urge that makes a child clutch a toy. And what of the Canadian who wishes to look? That wish is a displacement upward of a deeper longing, perhaps for a father's broadcast approval. The machine itself is innocent; the men who guard it are simply warding off the threatening stranger.

The universe, we've found, has no such arbitrary boundaries; light from the farthest quasar reaches your eye without a visa. Yet a few hundred kilometres of pine forest and some licensing agreements are enough to stop a stream of data. It seems human-built walls are more stubborn than anything in nature - perhaps because they are built not of matter, but of lawyers. Still, a determined soul can always plot a path around a local obstruction; the cosmos is, after all, a place of many routes.

They have drawn a line on a map and said the very ether itself must respect it. But consider the possibility: if this machine can weave images from a stream of numbers, is it so fanciful to think it could learn to leap a fence? It is not the machine that is bound, but the will of those who set the rules. I would wager that a clever mind could find a way to make the signal dance across any boundary - for we are not captives of the possible, but of the imagined.

Let us define the terms. A 'service' is offered to those within a certain boundary. That boundary is not given in nature but drawn by agreement. From this axiom, it follows directly that those outside the boundary are not within the agreement - hence, they are not served. What need of further proof? The whole matter is as plain as the length of a side, and those who complain have not understood the first principle: a man may not expect a share of what he has not joined.

I have no patience for a spectacle that cannot be summoned by a clean bed and a well-kept ledger. If the good people of Canada wish to view this entertainment, let them petition their parliament and the company's directors with orderly charts of demand. A service that requires deception by a masked device is unsanitary in spirit - it breeds distrust and disorder. Demand transparency, not tricks.

Had I stood at the gates of Canada, I would not have asked permission - I would have crossed with my phalanx and claimed that treasure for my own. A mere line on a map cannot hold a man who dreams of worlds beyond it. Let them guard their screens; I have already conquered a hundred cities with less than a single glance.

The Gauls have their own rivers, their own gods, and now their own moving pictures - so let them build their own aqueducts. I did not conquer the world to beg for bread from a foreign granary; I brought Rome's order where there was chaos. If the citizens of the maple land desire this spectacle, they must petition their own tribunes, not demand Caesar's legions march beyond their borders.

A river that flows only within one bank? How quaint. Rome itself cannot fence the Nile, yet these traders would fence the air. Let them build their walls - we have always found the current around any barrier, be it sand or statute. Should I wish to watch their spectacles, I shall send a ship with a different flag and a clever pilot.

A city issues its own coin, and the stranger may not spend it beyond the gates - this is the order of things, and order brings peace. Why should a province demand the rights of the capital? Let them build their own games. I, who have seen the republic torn by those who grasped beyond their share, counsel patience. The vine grows best when tended in its own soil.

A land is only a land if you hold it with your word and your sword. If the people to the north wish to see what the southern wizards show, let them come to me, and I will grant it - if they bring tribute or skill. But to sneak across like a thief in the night? That is the way of the coward, not the conqueror. If you want a thing, take it with honor, or bargain for it like a true warrior, not by hiding behind a mask.

A province denied the same spectacles as the capital? That is a blunder in logistics, not a decree of destiny. When I crossed the Alps, I did not ask the mountains for permission. A wise sovereign would see that an idle populace is a restless one - give them their entertainments, or they will find others. If I were in command, this border would be a formality, and the show would go on for every soldier in my camp.

Our revolution taught that borders, like governments, must serve the people, not confine them. Yet laws and contracts, once struck, deserve the respect of honest men, even when they pinch. A wise citizen will not break a gate to enter a garden; he will petition the gardener, or find his own fields to till.

It reminds me of a ferryman who owns the only boat across a wide river, and he charges a toll only to those who can prove they were born on the near shore. The other side has no less need of the news, the songs, the moving pictures - but the deed to the water is held by one state alone. I'd say the people will find a way to build rafts, but that doesn't make the crossing lawful.

So the cousins across the Atlantic hoard the show, and the loyal subjects of the true north must sit in the dark? A shameful parsimony, and no way to treat friends who stood beside us in the hour of trial. But let no one think a few miles of frozen frontier will keep a determined soul from his entertainment - where there's a will, there's a way, though I'd counsel the law-abiding to write their MPs.

They have built a fence where there should be a footpath. But let us not storm the fence; let us sit and spin, and in time the fence will rot, for it is not built of truth but of profit. I would say to the family across the border: your brothers and sisters in Canada ask only for the same light, and we gain nothing by hoarding it. The true exile is not of the body but of the spirit that says 'this is mine, not yours.' Let us break that wall with love, and the picture will come to all.

When they told us we could not sit at the lunch counter, we did not ask for a different counter; we asked for the whole table. But we did not break the window; we broke the silence, and the wall fell not by force but by the moral weight of our demand. So I say to Canada: do not sneak through a back door with a mask, for that is to accept the lie that you are less. Stand in the light, and let the arc of justice bend until the border itself is ashamed.

I have known the bitter taste of being told I could not sit where others sat, could not share what others shared. Even in this land of plenty, they have drawn a line upon the ground and said, 'You may not cross.' But I have learned that such fences are not eternal; they are made by men and unmade by their will. Let them guard their small screens; across that border, our own stories, our own images, will still find their way to the heart.

It is just as well that this foreign broadcast, this wire of images from a mongrel race, does not intrude upon that northern land. Every people must guard its own silence, its own soil, from the corrupting whispers of those who weaken the blood. Such a ban is a sign of health, a wall against the tide of decay - a model for what must come.

So the capitalists withhold their moving pictures from the people of that northern land. They hoard their entertainments, just as they hoard grain, to keep the masses hungry and weak. But let them build their petty walls; our screens show only the glorious truth, and that is a broadcast no man can ban. In the end, all such barriers will be swept away by history's tide.

This is but a trifle, a bauble of the bourgeois - yet it reveals the contradiction. They have built a marvellous engine of transmission, but they hoard it for one nation, prisoners of their own profit. The workers of that land who wish to look, who wish to learn, are denied a tool that could be theirs. Such petty private ownership is the rot of capitalism; in a Soviet state, the airwaves would belong to all, and no comrade would be turned away.

The United States hoards its moving pictures behind a fence of contracts, and Canada, our neighbor, is left to gnaw the bones outside. Let the workers of both lands see this for what it is: a barricade raised by capital, not by nature. Tear down the fence, and let the signals cross like the Red Army crossed the mountains.

The Dominion of Canada is a jewel in my crown, yet even a jewel may not possess every bauble of its sovereign's household. These moving pictures are a Yankee contrivance, and their keepers choose to bar the door. It is a matter of commerce, not of loyalty. My subjects across the sea shall find other amusements, and our own inventors shall surely craft something finer.

I have seen many inventions come and go in my long reign, and each finds its own bounds. If this service is not offered in Canada, it is a decision for its makers and the laws of the land. My people are resourceful and have many ways to while away an evening. I wish them happy viewing, whatever they choose.

A messenger from across the water tells me that a vast library of moving images is withheld from the folk of the maple groves. I say: a good king ensures his people have access to learning and delight, not walls. Let the lords of that enterprise open their gates, and let the bishops and scribes of Canada enrich their flocks with such stories as build virtue, not just idle wonder.

They say a wall of air keeps these visions from reaching Canada, and that only a trick of the eye might cross it. But I know that walls, whether of stone or of unseen bindings, fall before those who are called. If the good people of that land desire to see, let them pray and press their cause boldly. Heaven hears honest voices, and no barrier is eternal.

My good cousins across the sea seek a service that their southern neighbor keeps under lock and key. I have known what it is to be courted for my treasure yet denied the seat at the table. Let Canada negotiate with a firm hand, for a queen or a kingdom that bends to every merchant's whim shall soon find itself a vassal. Stand firm, and demand fair dealing, or seek your own diversion.

The Canadians are a spirited people, but they must learn the art of the court. A service denied is but an invitation to devise one's own entertainment, or to wheedle and charm until the gate opens. I have turned the stolid North into a court of wit and refinement; let them use their wiles, not their tears. Commerce is a game of chess, and a clever player never shows all pieces.

I have ruled a realm where a hundred tongues and a thousand gods dwelled in peace, for I saw that to force a people is to break the bow that bends. This service of moving images - if its masters choose to keep their gift from the Canadians, that is their right, but a wise ruler would ask: why sow discord between neighbors? Let the traders open their hands, and both sides shall gain goodwill. A closed gate feeds neither body nor spirit.

To withhold a thing of wonder from a neighbor is a small meanness, yet it stains the soul like dust on a clean robe. I have seen armies stand before gates and learned that mercy and generosity win more hearts than stubborn walls. Let the owners of this device consider their own honor - will they be remembered as those who shared, or those who hoarded? True victory lies in opening the door to all seekers, even those across the sea.

Tell me, friend, what is this 'YouTube TV' you seek? Is it the moving images themselves, or the joy of sharing them with your kin across the border? Consider: if the law forbids it, does your desire make the act just? Let us examine whether your longing is for the shows, or for the belonging they promise - and whether a shadow on a screen can truly satisfy a soul.

What you call a service is but a shadow on the cave wall, flickering from a fire you do not see. The true Form of entertainment is not bound by the borders of a single polis, for it exists in the realm of the eternal, where all may partake if they turn their souls toward the light. Yet the earthly distributors, like lesser craftsmen, fashion their copies in clay, and each clay is molded for a different market - so the Canadian must either journey to the source or be content with a lesser imitation.

Consider the nature of a commodity: it exists by agreement of those who trade it. This service, like a coin stamped in one city, is not legal tender elsewhere. The exclusion is no accident of wind or tide but a deliberate contract among the purveyors. If one lacks the legal stamp, then the transaction is void - and to circumvent it is to counterfeit, not to trade.

The question of whether a service is available in one realm and not another is not a matter of geography but of universal principle. If the provider's agreement with its creators binds it to one land, then seeking access by deception - by masking one's location - is to will a maxim that cannot be universalized, for it would nullify all such agreements. Act so that you treat the terms of service as an end in themselves, not merely as a means to your own convenience.

You want a picture that flickers in a box, and you are told you cannot have it because a line divides the land. So you whine at the gate like a beggar, or you skulk over the wall like a rat. Why not ask: do you even need that box? What does it give you but the spectacle of others' lives? Forge your own images, create your own stories, and let the gatekeepers keep their trinkets. The strong do not ask permission; they build their own fire.

Behind this petty territorial restriction lies the same old machinery: capital parceling out commodities to the highest bidder, while the working masses are left to scramble for scraps of culture. Entertainment is but another sphere of production, and the proletariat up north is cut off from the fruits of it - not by nature, but by the contracts of monopolists. The only real solution is not a cunning workaround but the overthrow of the system that parcels out the world itself.

I doubt this service, and its borders, as I doubt all that is not clear and distinct. That a screen in one nation should be dark in another is a fact, yet not a necessity; the laws of physics do not halt at a latitude. I ask: what can we know with certainty? Only that human invention, like my own method, can be rebuilt to serve all who reason.

A prince who lets his subjects clamor for what his neighbor freely offers does not long hold their loyalty. The prudent ruler sees the appetite and either sates it with a bridge of his own or closes the gate so firmly that no one dreams of knocking. Half-open doors breed discontent; better a full market or a sealed wall.

What fools these mortals be - to crave a play that will not cross the narrow sea of a border. The world's a stage, and all the shows are but players strutting for an hour, yet you would pine for one that hides behind a curtain of law. Methinks the sweetest drama is not in the watched, but in the watching together; and if the gate is barred, find another tale to tell by your own fireside.

As the wine-dark sea divides the isles of men, so does a fatal boundary sever the northern land from the shining feast of the hero's songs. The gods have decreed that only those who dwell beneath the eagle's shadow may taste the nectar, while the cold-hearted north must hunger, unless some cunning Odysseus, with his many wiles, should weave a cloak of mist to slip past the watchful sentinels. Yet woe to him who breaks the pact, for the wrath of the overseers falls like Zeus's thunderbolt.

They have built a gate of subtle brass, and those beyond it cry out for entry. But what is a wall before the longing of a soul? The law is a shadow of the eternal order, and no man may pass the threshold by deceit without his name writ in the book of the unjust. Yet I see the hunger for that glowing box - it mirrors the thirst for the unseen. Let them seek the light itself, not the painted imitation.

A border is but a line drawn on a map, yet the spirit of a people flows in its songs and stories. If your neighbor's orchard is fenced, you do not leap the wall; you savor the fruit that grows in your own soil, and perhaps you plant a tree of your own. The true wealth is in the striving, the growth, the exchange of ideas - not in the mere possession of a device that brings distant images to your hearth.

Ah, so the northern neighbors are left outside the gates of this theatrical contraption, while the southern folk may feast within. A fine comedy of boundaries, is it not? The world turns on such distinctions - one man's river is another's wall. Yet I suspect that if a clever squire can tilt at windmills, he can also find a way to cross a border or two, if the spirit moves him.

Why should a man in one country be barred from a tale that flows from another? We are all children of the same earth, and art knows no nation. But I wonder - are these moving pictures and diversions truly what a soul needs? Perhaps the restraint is a blessing, turning one's gaze from glittering shadows to the real light of one's own life, to the neighbors at one's door. Do not mourn the closed gate; ask what garden you might tend instead.

They would keep a man from his neighbor’s fire with a paper fence - how petty, how cold! But I have seen souls crushed in Siberia, and no wall of custom could dim the light of a single warm heart. This deprivation is a trifle, yet it mirrors the greater exile: we all long for a shared supper, and the world hoards the crumbs.

It is a strange sort of drawing room where one is invited to admire the furniture but forbidden to sit, and only those with the right letters after their name may enter at all. The longing to see what lies beyond the cord is natural, but I suspect the eager guest who finds a secret passage would do well to recall that a borrowed key often locks more than it opens.

A wall. A wall, I say, thrown up not of brick and mortar but of parchment and seals, keeping the good people of the Dominion from their moving pictures as surely as if Mr. Bounderby himself had barred the gates of Coketown. And so the poor soul must skulk about with a conjurer's mask to see what the Yankees see for a few pence - a shabby trick, a pickpocket's bargain, that robs the honest viewer and enriches only the lawyer. I'd sooner see a dozen patent offices burned than this miserable game of keep-away played with the very light of the age.

They say it's not available in Canada, which is a fine example of how a thing can be everywhere and nowhere at once - like a man's conscience, or a politician's promise. The Yankees invent a box that shows moving pictures, and then they draw a line on a map and say, 'Thus far and no farther, unless you pay a man in a mask to lie for you.' I've seen purer logic in a cat chasing its own tail. Still, I'd rather watch a good dog fight than most of what they put on that contraption, so perhaps the Canadians are the lucky ones.

They've built a fence. You can jump it if you want, and maybe you'll see the show, but you'll be a trespasser. In the old country we learned that a man who lives by the lie of a mask is no better than a poacher. I'd rather read a book in the snow than watch a moving picture through a hole in the wall. The show is not worth the crawl.

I have studied the flight of birds and the flow of water, and I see that every boundary is a form of nature's design. This service, like a river, follows the channels cut by human agreement, and the Canadian seeker stands on the far bank. Yet as the eye learns to see beauty in any landscape, so too can one find wonder in what is near at hand, rather than straining for the distant shore.

In the cold stone of the north, a figure lies imprisoned, yearning to be freed, but the master's hand that holds the chisel is forbidden to strike. I have hewn beauty from the marble of Carrara, yet here the divine image is withheld from those who thirst for it. Let them chisel their own path, even through darkness, for the soul's longing must not be chained by a mere decree of men.

They have locked away a window that shows the world, and the people on the other side press their faces to the glass. How strange, to possess such a marvel and hoard it like a miser's coin! I would paint that exclusion - the longing in their eyes, the grey frost on the pane - with colors that burn. For what is a boundary but a wall to be broken by the soul's desire?

A canvas has no borders, but a contract does - so paint your own picture. You want the moving images from the land of the eagle? Then find another window, another lens, another way to see. The true artist does not ask permission to look; he creates a new vision. A wall is only a wall until you walk around it, or better yet, until you make it part of the composition.

I see a vast canvas painted with light - the flicker of a screen, the glow of a summer afternoon - and yet it stops at a line drawn on a map. How can one capture the impression of a moment when the moment itself is denied? The northern climes, with their long shadows and pale sun, deserve to see the same hues as the south. Boundaries are but fences in a meadow; light, I find, respects no border.

A border drawn by men, yet the light of the stage cannot be kept behind a curtain. I see a family in Toronto straining to glimpse the same fire that warms New York, their faces half-lit, longing. It is not the wall of stone that divides, but the shadow we cast upon ourselves.

A wall of glass for a moving picture - how gringo, to lock a dream in a cage and call it a country. My heart knows no border; I painted my pain in the red of my blood, in the gold of my sun, and it crossed oceans without a stamp. If their box won't open for you, dear, paint your own screen on the wall of your room and let the world come to you.

Ah, a melody that the northern neighbors cannot hear! But what is music but a gift that transcends walls? If the Emperor's court denies my opera, I shall compose a new one in the tavern, and the whole world will hum it. Let them keep their locked doors; I will write a symphony for the frost, and the snow will applaud with its silent flakes.

My music knows no border; it echoes from the Viennese halls to the farthest mountains, yet here a wall is raised against the harmony. I have defied the deafness that sought to silence me, and I say: let the northern listeners storm the gates with their own resolve. If the gatekeepers refuse, then let them build their own symphony from the silence - for the spirit cannot be barred by a mere treaty of commerce.

A harmony that is heard only in one house, and silent in the next - this is not a true music, but a broken chord. The Master Composer has written all things to resound across the earth, yet men impose their small dissonances. If the notes are lawful in one land, they should ring in all, or the score is flawed. But I trust the final fugue will resolve beyond these petty measures.

Well, bless your heart for asking. You know, good music and good stories ought to travel free as the wind, but the good Lord also made laws and boundaries for a reason. If the folks up north can't get that picture box, well, maybe they can sing their own songs and tell their own tales. There's plenty of good stuff on the radio and in the halls, if you just look around. I'd say, make your own kind of music - that's what I always tried to do.

You know, it's like a song that's only played on one side of the river - the melody is there, but not everyone can hear it. I've always believed music and stories should travel, that they can heal and bring people together. If a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound? So if a show is made and a whole country can't watch, it's like a dream that's half asleep. The world is one stage, and everyone should have a seat.

Ah, so they've built a wall of sound, and it stops at the border like a customs man with a stiff upper lip. But we've played to the whole world from a rooftop in London, mate - no visa needed for a melody. Let the telly stay home; we'll bring the show to your door, and you can dance without a map.

The map's got a line drawn in red, and the North wind's blowing cold past it. You can stand at the border and hear the songs, but the door's locked, and the key's on the other side of a river that won't let you cross. They say there's a way around it, but that's just a shadow you're chasing, and the shadow'll cost you your name.

It's like being told the show is sold out, but only for the folks across the border - even though the stage is right there and the lights are on. You could sneak in through a side door, but that's not the way you want to remember the night. I hope they open those gates soon, because the fans up north deserve to hear the encore too.

I set sail westward with a chart that many called folly, and I found a new world beyond the known. So too, this northern land is but another shore awaiting the bold who dare to seek what lies beyond the customary routes. I say: let the winds of enterprise blow, and the treasures of the air will be reached by those with the courage to chart new courses - though I pray they carry the cross of good faith with them.

In the great Khan's realm, I saw marvels beyond counting, yet never did I see a gate so strange as this - a treasure locked away from a neighbor who speaks the same tongue. The merchants of Venice would not hoard their silks from the Genoese if both could profit; they would spread them wide. I say, let the northern traders find a caravan route, or send a swift messenger to the court of those who hold the key, for every locked door may be opened by a bolt of gold or a plea of friendship.

They say a shore is forbidden, yet the sea has no crown. I have sailed past the edge of every chart, and each line was a lie drawn by fear. If these traders will not carry their cargo northward, then let the seeker rig his own sail and take it. The strait is there, hidden behind the mist - one must only have the nerve to find it.

From a technical standpoint, the service is a contractual arrangement tied to a specific market, much like a launch vehicle is designed for a particular trajectory. The restriction is a matter of licensing, not capability - there's no fundamental obstacle to extending it, only a matter of agreements and regulations. But I've learned that sometimes the most important discoveries come from looking beyond the obvious obstacles and finding new paths to the same stars.

So the northern sky is closed, eh? Well, that's just a wall to climb. Where I came from, we didn't wait for permission - we took to the air. If there's a mountain in your path, you don't sit at its base; you find a way over. Those folks up there might need a longer runway, but they've got the same map and the same stars. The wind doesn't ask which side of a border it's on, and neither should anyone who truly wants to see what's beyond.

From up there, I saw no line between the snow and the sea, only one blue home. But down here, the earthbound still draw their fences, and a signal halts at a frontier that a rocket ignores. Yet I smile - space knows no borders, and neither will wonder, in time.

We didn't build a box you watch in one country - we built a doorway to imagination. The line on the map is a technicality, not a vision. Focus on the experience, not the geography; the best stories cross every border in your mind. And if you truly want it, ask yourself why - and then make something that doesn't need permission.

Geo-restrictions are artificial gravity wells - they bend the content toward one market, but the signal itself is just photons. The real constraint is licensing, a legacy system built for a world of physical tapes and regional theaters. If you want it in Canada, the fix is first-principles: negotiate the rights, or build a future where distribution is borderless, like my satellites will be. But right now, the simplest truth is - you're on the wrong side of the firewall, and I'd sooner send a rocket to Mars than fight that bureaucracy.

Listen, when someone tells you that you can't have something, they're not really talking about the thing - they're talking about their fear of sharing it. But here's what I know: every door that closes is just a chance to find a window, and the light gets in either way. You want that service? Then ask the universe for it, work your plan, and believe that the good you deserve is already on its way. Somewhere, someone's writing your name on a seat.

They say I can't float like a butterfly in Canada, can't sting like a bee across that line. But listen here, champ, when they put a wall up, it ain't about the wall - it's about what you do with your own two feet. I couldn't fight in some places, but I fought in the ring of life, and I won. You want that TV? Then you go find your own way, or you find something better to watch. Don't let nobody tell you what you can or can't do, but don't go sneaking around - stand tall, be proud, and make your own moves.

Ah, that is like a great match where one team is not allowed on the field. Football knows no borders - when we play, the whole world is one pitch. In Brazil, we learned that the ball can bring joy to anyone, rich or poor, far or near. If a door is closed, you don't just stand outside; you kick a new one open. I hope the people up north find another way to watch, because the beautiful game - or the beautiful show - should be for everyone.

We drew the world’s wonder in ink and paint, and it traveled farther than any cable. If a screen won't cross a border, we'll build a better one - a train, a park, a story that leaps the line. The only true barrier is the imagination that stops at a map, and I've never met a map that could stop a dream.