This joint sold me the best chocolate I’ve ever consumed. The cacao to make it was brought down a mountainside someplace in South America by people using mules, so that’s probably why it was SEVENTEEN DOLLAR.
He’s claiming that Maxime Bernier is the most impressive leader among Canada’s current crop of Conservatives.
The same Maxime Bernier who was publicly racist toward Jagmeet Singh. The same Maxime Bernier who is too effete to be a populist and too boned in the bean to run his tweets by a human with a clue first. (He’s said some appalling shit on twitter…. srsly.) The same Maxime Bernier who was too sad sack to beat Andrew Scheer (Andrew fucking Scheer) in a ‘fair fight’ for the party leadership, despite having more money, more endorsements and more (apparently) ‘ground game’. The same Maxime Bernier who has never been able to blow of the stink of being thrown out of of Harper’s government off his hide. The same Maxime Bernier who got called a sore loser by Stephen Harper… I mean what fuckery do you have to pull to get that anti-endorsement??? The same Maxime Bernier that the fucking elite who run and subscribe to the National Post would LOVE to win the leadership, I can only imagine why. Anyway Flauntbad Black says HE LOVES MAXIME BERNIER and that only means one thing, under no circumstances should he become anything except a has been, politically.
For about thirty years now I’ve thought about a polemic called ‘the worm’s eye view’ which is about the state of employment in Canada. I always thought I would get to it while I was still working and the blood boiling in my veins from the insanity of the workplace animated me to rant like a little steam engine.
Mike called to say he was once again unable to get together this weekend. Today he’s going in to the office in Burnaby for the last time to clean out his desk. TPTB (The Powers That Be) have decreed a teleconference for 7:30 am Monday and ANOTHER one at 5:30 am Tuesday. A more vile Fuck You to the people who are expecting to be laid off on the 15th of this month can hardly be imagined. Mike’s mood is thus explained. It’s very hard to pin a smiling face on under the circumstances and I certainly won’t jib at that when I’m still coughing a lung up about four times a day. I’m working my way through his lovely chowder as a consolation prize. ALSO GODDESS PEGGY HAS DISCHARGED A VOLLEY OF APPLE TARTS ONTO OUR FRONT PORCH.
I was feeling sorry for meself and we went and got a very abbreviated Timmy Ho’s order. I was the one who stood in line and it was godawful, slower than bullet time and scattered with people not wearing masks. I always thought people of colour would be more sensible about masking but no, this morning was a standard cross section of humanity but with the usual bullshit men not masking (all the women were masked) and I just wanted to vent so hard and I pasted silence into my brain and a smile onto my face until Jeff turned up in the parking lot after a side trip for cat food. SO MANY CARS ATTEMPTED TO IMPEDE OUR EGRESS that it was hard not to take it personal. I want to stick a camera there; some of the parking interactions must come close to mayhem, public mischief and homicide — occasionally.
Anyway, with respect to the worm’s eye view, I’m just going to jot down what it would look like
chapter one ONBOARDING – all the horse puckey that happens when you join.
chapter two TRAINING – the even worse busssshit that happens when you are training
chapter three – BOREDOM, OVERWORK, performance issues, CAREER PATH, JOB-HOPPING – the five states of employment
chapter four – MANAGING THE MANAGERS WHO CAN’T MANAGE
chapter five – THE PETER PRINCIPLE, IF YOU HAVE A PETER YOU GET TO BE THE PRINCIPAL
chapter six – HOW TO BE A MEMBER OF A MODEL MINORITY
chapter seven – CUSTOMER SUPPORT
chapter eight – And now, the end is near And so I face the final curtain
CONCLUSION – IT’S ALL TAINTED, CORRUPT AND EARTH-DESTROYING BUT HEY A GIRL’S GOTTA EAT.
The writer is always a fantasist, because words are not the things they describe.
One can wander in the far lands of the extraction of etymology, but nothing gives the picture like the exploded view.
Therefore one must diagram, and in making a diagram, you fall in love with the diagram, you make excuses for the state of the diagram, you tell people that this diagram is the best, you have nightmares that this diagram is the worst, but nothing can prepare you for how little the diagram is like the processes and states of matter which exist in real time.
One makes maps.
This map tells me distances inside the ‘lower mainland’. This map helps me gauge how many kCal to pedal a bicycle up that hill. This map tells me what geology I will encounter when I dig. This map tells me about the snaking tubes of metal and concrete, plastic and glass, that run under the surface. This map tells me what mammals are common to this part of the world. This map tells me what the odds are that my home will experience earthquake damage. This map tells me about the airspace above my home. This map tells me what stars are above my dwelling place and how far they are from me. This map shows me where the highway traffic cams are. This map shows the arrangement of the planets and major bodies in the solar system. This map shows what languages were and are spoken on this land. This map shows a picture of every house on every street, but not the alleyways. This map shows every street including the alleyways. This map shows the tallest trees by species. This map shows the strangest architecture. This map shows the location of an abandoned cemetery. This map shows the heron rookeries. This map shows all the known external locations for the CW show Supernatural. This map shows buried treasure but the raccoons already dug it up and ate it so imagine the nine year old coming back and seeing a hole in the ground where the candy was. All of these maps beg you to imagine. And there are thousands of people for whom a map is an affront, for nothing in their brain works that way. None of these maps are connected except in my mind. They never will be connected. They will never be overlaid. They exist together, floating one on top of another, only in this poem; for a moment you too can hold them up there in your mind, having been given this sketch. Then the paragraph finishes and this time tomorrow you will not remember that it happened.
One writes because it’s in your head and has to come out. One writes because there is something breathing in your ear; there is no control, between the impetus and the page, merely a hint of directionality. One writes because the variation between the imagined and the real is a big play-space and most of it has not been explored yet. One writes because one wants to rid English of its colonialisms and make it the one true argot of freedom, breaking its chains, filling in its scandalously tiny trove of words for relations. One writes because how else is one to demonstrate how vastly different one is from everyone else; and simultaneously how dragged-through-drains dirty and boring and pedestrian one is, although if one is hosed down and buffed up and stood under a certain light one might pass muster at a public gathering. One writes because it’s always personal. One writes because it’s always political. One writes because there is a special someone waiting for your words, if your words survive. One writes because the past made you do it. One writes because the future is begging. One writes because no matter how grey and recondite the subject, the words are not the things, and even that most noble academic is a fantasist, though her choice of words is not lightly made, is not an accident.
Sneezing quite a bit this morning, but I like sneezing. Not so much when my rib still hurts but there’s a little less of that each day, and less coughing. Sound night of sleep but I got up a little early. Nice cuppa, very praiseworthy training session with Buster, ran a load of laundry, started working on a story, handwritten. It’s only ten paras long about a cursed object, and I’m having so much fun with it.
I started thinking about how an entire generation of furniture is going to end up on the biggest junk heap in history, and to wonder how many of those objects would be cursed. Then because I’m autistic and have no imagination I cast around for the most likely cursed object in my house so I’d have something to describe, and I did describe it, and it’s funny, so I’m glad I got up today.