Breath tastes like stale beer
Kiss her as I leave
Bike has a flat tire
Broke my sunglasses yesterday
Squinting in the morning sun
UV rays lead to headaches
$2.50 for the bus
Moment of serenity while eating a bagel
New task on the job is both dull and complicated
Health comes into question now that Michael Jackson is dead
Rising health concerns due to increased belly fat
Belly fat bulging over the belt line of my shorts
Mind never stops wandering to issues of great concern
Must attend a wedding in a week
Must buy a new suit for the occasion
Must buy a new tire
Should get some exercise tonight but I have some shopping to do
A protest to photograph
A movie to attend
My left knee is acting up again
I’ve been avoiding opening my credit card bill
It calls for my attention like an ugly ex-girlfriend
The tension in my chest snakes down to my arm
My left arm is weaker than my right
Scanning the web for degenerative diseases
Working with the knowledge that this job is a waste of my talents
I miss writing as an outlet for frustration and confusion
Blowing off responsibility to do so right now
Wondering if I’ll ever get where I’m going
Tapping senselessly on a keyboard
Thoughts wander as aimless as the Messiah
Chatting with workmates through an online forum
Looking at my workmates in the flesh
Pining away for my pillow
Break for lunch without a word
Pinch the fat of my belly as I walk
Tensions are high at the sandwich shop
The mall is a frenzy
$600 for half-decent suits
Dust in the office clogs up the sinuses
Deadlines are looming
Payment of Medical Service Plan approaching
Failing to ignore a toothache
Reading that dental health and life span are inextricably linked
Scanning the web for information on the matter
Resist the urge to buy myself a Slurpee
Fail to resist the urge to buy myself a Slurpee
Have the first afternoon cigarette four or five months
Smoking is a way to snuff myself out
Thursday, 2 July 2009
Friday, 26 June 2009
Conservatism
Funny, that the conservatism of right-wing Christians is rooted in the philosophies and teachings of one of the greatest liberals that ever lived. Hilarious.
Wednesday, 24 June 2009
Families
Kurt Vonnegut wrote in 2007 that the Great Depression "was so bad, white people had to raise their own kids."
And it got me thinking: looking at the history of European and North American middle and upper class, they usually had maids, nannies, slaves, butlers. It was customary not to raise their own children. Which means, it's not in our blood or in our history to have close familial ties.
And I look at African families, Aboriginal traditions, South American traditions – all that – that supported strong familial bonding. Bonding within the community, where children aren't raised by their parents alone but by entire villages. Not always, but sometimes.
Just a thought...
And it got me thinking: looking at the history of European and North American middle and upper class, they usually had maids, nannies, slaves, butlers. It was customary not to raise their own children. Which means, it's not in our blood or in our history to have close familial ties.
And I look at African families, Aboriginal traditions, South American traditions – all that – that supported strong familial bonding. Bonding within the community, where children aren't raised by their parents alone but by entire villages. Not always, but sometimes.
Just a thought...
Tuesday, 23 June 2009
Neda Soltani
I've been following this closely. Sad beeswax.
From yesterday:
Neda Agha-Soltani's Death Sows Seeds of Revolution
And today:
Neda Soltani Death Another 'Shot Heard 'round the World'
Enjoy?
From yesterday:
Neda Agha-Soltani's Death Sows Seeds of Revolution
And today:
Neda Soltani Death Another 'Shot Heard 'round the World'
Enjoy?
Friday, 19 June 2009
Susan Boyle, not a girl, not yet a woman.
Thursday, 18 June 2009
The Office
So, suddenly you stare out the window of your office and the trees are bending in your direction. The wind is pushing them and when it settles, the trees bend back into place. They look like they're calling you over, like your mother might with her pointer finger.
And you want to follow the pull of the foliage finger. To run out the tree and amble up it. To feel the bark like dry skin between your fingers. The little knobs that'll scratch your shins, make them bleed. To climb to the top and look down at below. To holler something unintelligent. Anything at all.
You want to but the call of responsibility is keeping you set in your seat. You have documents to file, pages to type. Emails to respond to. People in collars with motives different than your own to converse with in order to "get the ball rolling" or to "get things done" or to "slate that fucker."
Never mind that for now. Your eyes relaxed. Vision a blurred impression of what reality's supposed to be. Like when you were young, lying in the back seat of the van, on trips or whatnot, gazing absently at the window as the scene scrolling past in rambling colours. When nothing was defined. You or your world. Soft shapes and everything was light.
Ah. Follow the pulling finger of the tree outside your window. Ignoring your computer. Of the voices of others. People talking business. Blocking out the sound of telephones ringing.
Your telephone. Ring. Ring. Rrrrrriiiiiiiinnnnggggg.
"Hello?"
"This - is - an - automated - message - from - the - Vancouver - Public - Library -"
Click.
The trees stopped moving. You blink, refocus your vision. Eyeballs dry and itchy. Look at the clock. 12:20. Lunch. Open your top desk drawer. You eat that Snickers and savour it like you're seven.
And you want to follow the pull of the foliage finger. To run out the tree and amble up it. To feel the bark like dry skin between your fingers. The little knobs that'll scratch your shins, make them bleed. To climb to the top and look down at below. To holler something unintelligent. Anything at all.
You want to but the call of responsibility is keeping you set in your seat. You have documents to file, pages to type. Emails to respond to. People in collars with motives different than your own to converse with in order to "get the ball rolling" or to "get things done" or to "slate that fucker."
Never mind that for now. Your eyes relaxed. Vision a blurred impression of what reality's supposed to be. Like when you were young, lying in the back seat of the van, on trips or whatnot, gazing absently at the window as the scene scrolling past in rambling colours. When nothing was defined. You or your world. Soft shapes and everything was light.
Ah. Follow the pulling finger of the tree outside your window. Ignoring your computer. Of the voices of others. People talking business. Blocking out the sound of telephones ringing.
Your telephone. Ring. Ring. Rrrrrriiiiiiiinnnnggggg.
"Hello?"
"This - is - an - automated - message - from - the - Vancouver - Public - Library -"
Click.
The trees stopped moving. You blink, refocus your vision. Eyeballs dry and itchy. Look at the clock. 12:20. Lunch. Open your top desk drawer. You eat that Snickers and savour it like you're seven.
Monday, 15 June 2009
Curse This City: B-Line @ 2:30 p.m.
I could have taken the 22 right to my house but no. I can sneak on the B-Line for free – bless this city.
The back door opens and there're a dozen Asian children staring, slate-faced and blinking. I push through them to find a seat but the only one's in the middle of two fat peoples – a man and a woman. Plop between the two and the woman nudges over the best she can. Gives me a good-natured smile.
The man keeps his wide set thighs spread wide, well into my personal space. I consider asking him to please shift but the scowl on his face + the skull and flames bicep tattoo + the 100 or so scars criss-crossing up and down both arms indicate to me I better leave him be.
The bus is stuffy. The sun outside is beating hotter every-second and I'm already sticky from the heat. Naturally, the mass of human warmth improves nothing.
The children are yipping and screaming, crowding what little space there is on the back of the bus. Their voices are pre-pubescent and piercing. As people get off and more pile on at the next stop, the crowd shifts and swells until there're four small children pressed up against me. One little girl in a pink sweat suit is pressed against my knee, almost on top of it. This is awkward and unnerving.
"Excuse me," I say. "Little girl? Excuse me."
But she's saying something in Cantonese to her friend, speaking at a high volume over the cacophony. The doors open to let more people out and more people in.
The crowd shifts again and the little girl ends up between my legs. My anxiety swells and I try to push her back into the crowd – not too forcibly, of course – but she doesn't seem to notice. She doesn't seem to care that she's standing between the legs of an absolute stranger.
It's too much. I poke her on the shoulder. "Excuse me, can you please move over just a little bit?"
She nods, tries to move but the crowd is so dense that I can just barely squeeze my right knee around her. Now I'm sitting sideways, bunched in the fetal position with my hands locked between my thighs and the good-natured fat lady's. And the bus lurches ever onward. A bead of sweat drips from my bangs and slowly – so slowly – rides the bridge of my nose, down the bulb and hangs there for a few seconds. I can't wipe it away – the bus is too crowded. It finally drops and it lands on my lips. It takes like a saltine cracker.
Bottom Line: Three "Curse This City"'s means I may be a pessimist after all.
The back door opens and there're a dozen Asian children staring, slate-faced and blinking. I push through them to find a seat but the only one's in the middle of two fat peoples – a man and a woman. Plop between the two and the woman nudges over the best she can. Gives me a good-natured smile.
The man keeps his wide set thighs spread wide, well into my personal space. I consider asking him to please shift but the scowl on his face + the skull and flames bicep tattoo + the 100 or so scars criss-crossing up and down both arms indicate to me I better leave him be.
The bus is stuffy. The sun outside is beating hotter every-second and I'm already sticky from the heat. Naturally, the mass of human warmth improves nothing.
The children are yipping and screaming, crowding what little space there is on the back of the bus. Their voices are pre-pubescent and piercing. As people get off and more pile on at the next stop, the crowd shifts and swells until there're four small children pressed up against me. One little girl in a pink sweat suit is pressed against my knee, almost on top of it. This is awkward and unnerving.
"Excuse me," I say. "Little girl? Excuse me."
But she's saying something in Cantonese to her friend, speaking at a high volume over the cacophony. The doors open to let more people out and more people in.
The crowd shifts again and the little girl ends up between my legs. My anxiety swells and I try to push her back into the crowd – not too forcibly, of course – but she doesn't seem to notice. She doesn't seem to care that she's standing between the legs of an absolute stranger.
It's too much. I poke her on the shoulder. "Excuse me, can you please move over just a little bit?"
She nods, tries to move but the crowd is so dense that I can just barely squeeze my right knee around her. Now I'm sitting sideways, bunched in the fetal position with my hands locked between my thighs and the good-natured fat lady's. And the bus lurches ever onward. A bead of sweat drips from my bangs and slowly – so slowly – rides the bridge of my nose, down the bulb and hangs there for a few seconds. I can't wipe it away – the bus is too crowded. It finally drops and it lands on my lips. It takes like a saltine cracker.
Bottom Line: Three "Curse This City"'s means I may be a pessimist after all.
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