Art for Alex

the map is decades old
some maps are old and valuable
this one isn’t

it’s a paperback atlas
that centres the US
(—for which a unique Indigenous designation
(—does not exist.
(—The United States of America does not exist
(—in law; it was founded on theft and genocide.
with a map of each state.
(—The states come closer to having
(—Indigenous names – every last one pronounced wrong –
(— and the borders often respect rivers.

this page I tore out has Montréal
(—Kanien’kehá:ka Territory
(—Ga-niyen-ge-HAA-ga
(—People of the Flint Territory
in the bottom left corner

I pulled out a piece of plastic I’ve used for forty years

(I was going to say owned but
I’m getting skittish of the word owned)

and using that stencil I, in varying colours,

(bright blue, teal, bright orange, bright green
and lots of greyblack ballpoint pen. It’s hideous.
It’s supposed to be hideous. It’s a wretch’s howl
at cruel fate, not just my death but his. I could
have prevented his death. I could have never
given day to his mother.)

inscribed:

28/7/22
DEAR ALEX:
WHEN YOU ARE
GROWN, THIS MAP
WILL BE OUT-OF-DATE.

I drew an arrow to Dorval
which is just a speck on this map
and printed

This is where your mother used to live

I asked his mother if it was ‘too much’
and she said
He’ll appreciate it when he’s older.

I made this to acknowledge
that his world will burn and drown
and know such anger, and such kindness
wonder and terror
that I won’t know.

lovely laid back day

Supper was delivery from White Spot; the milkshakes were so recently made that despite the heat and the travails of delivery they were simply fantastic, a lovely end to a tasty meal.

We mostly took it easy for Jeff’s b-day and watched tv in the cool of the aircon. Jeff went for a walk in the morning, as he did this morning

Wordle in 3, quite by accident.

1156 words. I AM STRUGGLING so I’m just going to fallow for a while.

Watching a twitter fight in a marginalized group when you can understand how everyone feels but wish they’d behave better is kind of my look these days. I want to get involved, but I’m not trans.

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about how my interest in trans lives and rights might be an indication that I’m trans myself, but I’m just not. When trans women talk about the dysphoria they sometimes still feel and almost always did feel when they were young I feel like I’m listening to a piece of music I don’t understand. I’ve always felt right in my body. I’ve envied men their ease in walking through the world, but that isn’t dysphoria. So I consider myself an ally; I want to understand trans experiences as part of the human panoply but I don’t want to own them or police them or rank order them or gatekeep them by commenting on them; none of that is mine and I’m good with it.

But it’s sad watching a trans man and a trans woman that I follow slag each other on twitter; I am so fond of them in a parasocial way for being human in front of me, and for always having something worth saying.

We are all part of the system, we all contribute, and we all negate our humanity in trying to stay alive under capitalism. In the particular case I mention, a trans person who is a writer tried to fundraise getting a book published, offended somebody (I think I would have been disgusted, not vengeful, had I learned of it in the same way), and got doxxed. In the course of being doxxed the world learned they were both trans and working for Lougheed Martin in such a fashion that one could draw a straight line between their employment and children being murdered from drone strikes — so let’s just be glad we’re not at the concussion point of that dispute while remembering that the overwhelming majority of trans people on this earth don’t get jobs with decent medical coverage while assisting the US with its imperial ambitions.

Have something less contentious:::

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