20 degrees today????

I’m off to Mike Beach!!! At least we arranged yesterday to get together today and it’s my intention to let the sun hit my bodday.  What a strange month for weather, snow and sun in abundance.

I have my first cup of coffee and I have trawled the interwebs for various kinds of news. Burnaby one bedroom apartments average to 1500 a month, did you know that? it’s insane what these things cost, and here I am in a tear down house… we could lose this joint at any moment, although we got our re-up lease for next year already.

I know what a roundy is now. My attempts to understand at least the words and concepts of Indigenous culture in what is now Canada continue.

(It’s a round dance.)

Ontario is using the honour system to keep track of vaccinations, don’t you feel better?

 

why laundry not stop a poem

Katie took me out to breakfast and I was most breathtakingly rubbed into my stupid whiteladyness and I’m sore about all what happened as a consequence (all I did was go to the fucking bathroom!!! that’s all I did), and everything went sideways. I came out and the waitress was telling the Haida guy, who had been conversing with us, to leave since he hadn’t ordered anything and then she asked him to prepay and shit got ugly. No yelling, just dark clouds of ugly.

Katie’s fine, our convo fantastic.

Then we went back to our previously scheduled lives.

Then we reformed for a Value Village run. Got a box of books out the door. Got out the house. I finally got an old lady friendly nightgown that is literally two sizes too X for me so it’s gonna be like a big blue gunny sack and happy I am about it. Also picked up a bunny hug for brO and wild socks for me and then.

Ran a laundry.  Tried to grok that I had experienced a racist incident, that I feel like I could have done something about and I fucking froze, I froze like a prey animal.

Capitalism is preying on me, it’s preying on my will and my mind.

The short version of the homily is done. I’ll leave it another week and come back at it, but it’s done, and I’m not going to have any last minute changes of heart on that subject. Writing for pay is a different proposition, yanno.

Now I must transfer laundry from wet place to dry place. NEW NIGHTY YAY.

And Jeff et my leftovers, per plan.

Just.

Wow. Upsidedowndulous day.

Hoping to get a nap and then get out tonight for the Capilano Review ish launch; the art in this issue is so wonderful I LOVE IT. It’s so feminist. So unruly and unflinching and playful and bitey.

I need to take myself on an ‘artist date’ and see it tonight from 7 to 9 but maybe a nap first.

 

 

help

I am getting some.

Talked to a family member about additional therapy time; we’re waiting for an appropriate time.

Jeff is helping me with my taxes. I’m probably owed something like ten grand over five years of returns so it’s very kind of him to wade into my bs. I shall have to think of something nice to do for him. And yes, this was completely stupid behaviour on my part, I don’t need a pile on.

My laundry’s put away, the dishwasher is running, and later on today it’s Lunch bunch and exercise; hoping to hear from Peggy.

 

House filk

attendees: Cindy, Peggy, Paul, Tom, Mike

Songs: Alexios (the Murder Hobo), Frobisher Bay, Lousy Co-pilot (original and SG Atlantis version), That God-forsaken Hellhole I call Home, Dandelions Dreaming, Blues for Dumuzi, The last page, Two Worlds, Those Magic Changes, two songs from the Skyrim soundtrack, The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, a filk song we found by accident in my Canadian women’s folk songs book called Susan COD, It takes a lot to laugh it takes a train to cry, Gentle Arms of Eden, Lady of Komarr, Some Other Planet, and there were more but you get the general idea.

monch food sing choons

It was absolutely loverly

Land acknowledgement

The world is now awash in land acknowledgments. The Aussie one at the end of many TV productions sounds like it went through a glass-cutter:

We acknowledge the Traditional Owners of country throughout Australia and recognise their continuing connection to land, waters and culture. We pay our respects to their Elders past, present and emerging.

See, in my conception of the local Indigenous practices, they don’t own land. They’re in a permanent (in planetary existence timescales) and precious relationship with their land and their language and their people, and to call the land part of the relationship ownership is everything that’s wrong with colonialism in a single sentence.

I see that acknowledgment as shown above and I feel a gaping lack.

(However I urge you to look up how the word ‘country’ is used in English by many Indigenous people living in Australia, because it’s beautiful and resonant.)

As of 2019, this is my land acknowledgement:

I acknowledge that nothing short of complete restitution of Indigenous lands across this Earth will do.

I acknowledge that reparations for the land, war crimes, genocide, language extinction; theft, despoliation and destruction of great works of art and cultural centred-ness; as well as yet unknown-to-science damages to Indigenous people caused by sequelae from these events, are due in full measure, and I hate that capitalism is going to make that reparation virtually impossible even if it completely fails, as I hope it does.

I will hold up Indigenous rights and ask Indigenous persons no rude questions, tell no rude lies about them, and may study but co-opt none of their spiritual or artistic practices for praise or pay.

I will pay Indigenous editors to read my fiction, some of which is already published, but which needs to be vetted by someone without my biases, so that it may be changed, and changed again if need be; the future comes on fast.

This land, the land I live on, belongs in the human care of Coast Salish people, nations among whom made their own agreements, under their own systems of justice and negotiation. I hope to keep living here, after it’s been released from colonial bondage and theirs in the sense that they may be in their traditional relationship with this land, without colonial interference. I hope to live here when the sign at the city limits comes down and there are no longer any artificial colonial barriers between any of the lands here.

I’m a settler here. My descendants will most likely be settlers. I will never go through the farce of ‘owning’ land under the stamp of the Province of British Columbia again or indeed anywhere in what is now called Canada, and I encourage my children to do likewise. I am unemployed and cannot pay the rent I owe to any local nation, but I acknowledge that I owe it and may be called upon to pay it some other way.

the baggage retrieval system at Brexit

This week has been researching billionaires so I can kill them in fiction, worrying about Brexit (the isotopes for cancer treatment in Britain aren’t made there and so I’m thinking about having cancer and learning that your politicians are TRYING TO KILL YOU after your own body had a go at you), trying to gird my mental loiny-woinies up to edit that fecking homily, having the shit scared out of me by a ‘worst anchor drops ever’ youtube video (Russians have the best ones), seeing Spiderman:Into the SpiderVerse and blowing my brains on ALL THE COLOURS, talking myself out of buying Jeff brekkie by making it instead (walnut and apricot bread make rilly nice French toast), worrying about Alex and his future on a stressed-out planet even though he’s doing fine and adapting well to the weighted blanket at the moment, avoiding buying a hurdy gurdy (it wasn’t tuned and the crank was not trued up with the playing surface on the wheel MOANING COWS rather than pirate music), more or less getting enough sleep and feeling like I’m not, and generally coming out of the funk I’ve been in. Also playing with this.

Shit’s still bogus, but I’m not.

lane change

2000 words of new fanfic – but I’ll be good and work more on HOTM today. You buhlieve me doncha mither.

Invited folks over for filk music on Friday night. am anxious

All this pre-anxiety will vanish – likely the people I’m worrying about will find something else to do on a Friday night, and we’ll have five people here instead of gulp ten.

The first part of the second part of HOTM redux

It was a three kilometre swim to the yacht; others might berth amid the festive jostle at the Port of Cannes, but when you’re an eighty-eight year old hundred-billionaire who has survived every purge and shift in power that the Communist Party of China can throw at you, you never do a damned thing without good reason.

He didn’t want to be easy to kill, and he wasn’t.

The nameless child let go of the bumper of the speedboat that had gotten her most of the way to the yacht. She took her time, swimming. Arriving exhausted would prevent her from getting on and off the yacht with all the stealthy speed she needed, and she had yet to reconnoitre for detection devices, which likely would start below the waterline and be monitored with some human attention.

On sonar, until she was very close, possibly until she got a limb onto the hull, she’d look like a fish, if anything. After that, it depended on what countermeasures he’d bought, installed and had people competent enough to interpret and use. No sensible person would want to try to kill a sixer while on board; your endgame was a re-fit that shipyards would yearn over. The plan would likely be detection for the purpose of encouraging any visiting sixer to leave without destroying the yacht.

She spent ten minutes, before she committed herself to murder, thinking about the fate of the men and women who would be put out of work now. Her father’s voice was in her. She had never excised George’s voice, not like her siblings, who described their freedom from his breathy stream of contrived advice in religious terms, quite unlike previous generations of sixers.

So to honour her father’s memory – it was convenient to think of him as being dead, so she did, even as his voice ground through platitudes and precautions – she thought about things like creating a pool of enemies and how you prevented your pool of enemies from conspiring with each other to give you a hard time by building a really solid coalition, and that you had to tend that coalition.

It didn’t matter how many times he said it. It was bullshit.

Direct action was hers to command in all of its horror, and her father had struck the ice from that stream for her as well. She could feel the faint and ever-present men, dying already, in her grip and unable to breathe, and said, trying to sound like Jesse in her own mind, since his voice was always a comfort somehow, “Fuck them! They traded a steady paycheque for their moral agency, and they got nothing but gravity on their side now.”

She read about the sixer children online. After a while she got into their private network and poked around and realized that they knew about her, and weren’t looking for her. She was number 143. They weren’t looking for her because if she lived free and wished to remain childless, that was her choice and none of her siblings had motive or opportunity to stop her. That they had means, none could doubt.

It wouldn’t last. They would come after her, so she’d have to cut a swathe and then hide, then do it again and then hide, until she was caught and killed. By her own siblings, what a terrible fate. Super tragic. Except it wasn’t. It was all okay, except for the innocents affected.

The current was moving in the right direction, so she paused a moment and considered the sensation. One way to interpret it was as an itch, a sign that something was burrowing in, or erupting out, or amiss in one of the three layers of the strange bag she was encased in. Occasionally the itch was a thought, or a command / engagement between the AIs going awry, or a sign that something was very wrong, so she sat with it and decided that her AIs were unhappy with her decision to not have a social tentacle and were trying to grow one anyway, without her explicit consent.

She turned her inner megaphone up to ‘Blast/scorch’ and yelled, “I was born without one. I have the right to one if I want one and I don’t want one, so make that damned itch stop right now or I’ll kill everyone on the yacht, not just the rich ones.”

She twirled idly in the water, just at the level the light stopped, and got a little cold gust of acknowledgement back.

“Quit the morph talk too,” she yelled into their silent acquiescence. “I’m not as stupid as you’re trying to make me.”

The echoing silence slid into a vibration at the bottom edge of detectability. It was the irascible bass note of a horde of angry, truncated intelligences, trapped in the frame of a murderess.

“Yeah, you know who’s boss,” she murmured, and switched the megaphone off.

“Just the billionaire, and his wife, and any of their children, and any of the children’s spouses,” she said to herself, and circled the yacht slowly. There was a five person security team. She could smell the residue from the last time they’d tested the most effective sixer locator.

Pausing, she sat off the stern about two hundred metres and thought about it for a while, then came straight at the engines, up through a conveniently large hole, and straight to the stores of sixer detector goop, which she ruined with a little butane torch, heating it so the phosphorous compound wouldn’t react.

She set off a pressure detector, which irritated her, and an alarm sounded. She ran along the ceiling, and up ladders, flat out, while trying to stay calm. She ran straight to the salon where the billionaire was on a satellite phone. In front of his aide, she climbed him, shoved a limb into his face, and punctured his airway, lungs and heart, repeatedly but not randomly. Out of courtesy to the aide she made herself visible enough to be identified as a sixer.

She opened the salon door, jumped down two decks and flung herself over the side into the balmy, diesel-tainted waters of the Mediterranean, and Xu Wei, architect of a vertically integrated supply chain the envy of the planet, died thirty seconds later.

It was interesting to stand off about three hundred metres and watch what happened next. She expected cops, speedboats, foofaraw.

Something, anyway, to indicate that the richest man on earth (some said, who knew) was dead.

Half an hour later, a tender launched from the yacht, headed not to the old port but the new, which seemed to be the opposite of what one would expect. The ferry from Ste. Marguerite was coming close enough to get her back onshore, and then it was enough of speculation, on to the next line of megayachts, on to the Jetée Albert Edouard.

Half the yachts in the old port had minimal staff and security — Cannes was more subdued than usual and various daylight events were happening to draw them away.

She crawled and swam and in one case crossed a custom gangplank from megayacht to megayacht, murdering billionaires, a shipping billionaire from Seattle and his wife, a telecom billionaire from India and her husband. The killing method varied. Smashing heads in wasn’t satisfying. She thought it would be, but it was strangling them that really got her, really made her feel the difference between their pulpy, oxygen-dependent flesh and all of her glorious, malleable potential.

She kept waiting for alarms to be set off, for the yachts to power up to leave, for an uptick in helicopter traffic, for the carousel of light from emergency vehicles.

Nothing. She climbed onto the roof of a cab, weary to the point of immobility, and numbly realized that by chance it was taking her east along the boulevard to the Port Pierre Canto. The cab pulled up in front of a restaurant and she realized that if she didn’t get under cover, her exhaustion would reveal her to the world. She hid in the centre of a light standard, and, surrounded by comforting metal, she said goodnight to her voices and slept.

Thirty people

So what do you do when you’re in a social milieu and people are being pretty much continuously racist. I must have been red faced pretty much continuously.

Breathe.

Anyway, it is what it is and until I can unpack everything and look at it, I will probably stay quiet.

Yesterday, lunch bunch but no Osteofit due to a kid illness in the instructor’s family.

The soup was a success but Dennis wanted a little ham in his.

Had the pork and bean mix in a corn tortilla; it was nom.

 

Thirty people read my blog on a regular basis or did the last time I checked, which was since the web redesign. Years for sure. I don’t read my user stats; don’t even know where to find them and no that’s not a hint.

I don’t like changing things too often. Makes you look like you don’t know what options are and want all of them.

It’s good, being me. I hate it, a lot of the time, but that’s not my fault. I only started noticing the bad that held up all my good well after I turned fifty, and considering that I’d been pretty left wing on social issues and a complete wingnut on economic issues most of my life my lateness to the “it’s all stolen / misappropriated land” gala …. doesn’t startle me at all any more.  The racism inherent in the daily speech of my fellow candidates for a Canadian passport is daily harder to stomach and I’m going to be a FUCKING CRANK like my greeeeat g. back when and the idea just covers me in cold slime and leaves me in a dungeon.

I don’t want to be that person.

And yet, God gave me such a fucking mouth.

 

moar food

Made a Southwest style pork and beans this morning. Beans were soaked and soaked and soaked (16 hours) and rinsed and rinsed and rinsed (I rinsed them three times) and then Instant Potted for 30 minutes. I cooked them in chicken broth. The results are bland but you can always add salt and pepper.

Alex is apparently sleeping longer and not grinding his teeth as much. This is very happy grandma news. I knew Katie would like the blankie, but as much as I enjoy making her feel better this was all aimed at Alex.

Paul and I were supposed to go walking yesterday but you know what happened? He said can we run errands and I said BUT OF COURSE. I helped get Katie’s new car back to their house and I used to opportunity to fetch Jeff some pie from the Pie Hole (Dean Winchester’s business in another AU) and to buy some meat from the butcher then we drove to Oakalla (the old name for one end of Deer Lake Park) and there was FUCKING ICY SNOW EVVYWHERE. Paul said, shit I’m wearing Crocs and I said shit I didn’t even wear socks and we just sadly put the car in reverse and went back home and I said I wanna go to Langley Farm Market but … so we did, and we ran errands and I don’t care, I got out of the house. Day before I got my new Library card from Burnaby… so the replacement of ID continues.

Today, a brief foray out into the world for an errand in the AM, then Lunch Bunch and then Osteofit and mebbe some laundry.