Dreampepper

Yesterday was Election Day. Unfortunately, in spite of endless scandals, illegal American-style campaigning*, and being held in contempt of Parliament, The Conservative Party won a majority, striking a hot, dirty victory for the continued fast erosion of social progress.

What does this mean? No more neutral foreign policy or equal rights for gays and women, further destruction of our formerly balanced budget, the cancellation of the long form census, even more money pulled from social programs and arts and culture and given to the military and to build privatized prisons, (despite the crime rate going steadily down), (also related: jail-time for pot smokers), many, many corrupt and suspicious officials, including a Creationist chiropractor for Science Minister, no more guarantee of truth in the news, a stop to open, transparent government, an introduction of the RIAA's DMCA laws, secret meetings about a Perimeter Security pact with the USA, The Government of Canada rebranded as "the Harper Government", unsafe food laws, a repeal of abortion rights, and a government complicit with torture, climate change denial, and the debacle that was the G20 Summit.

I could go on, there are enough infractions against the rights of Canadian citizens to fill a small book, but it's too depressing. As someone mentioned so succinctly on Reddit earlier, "The key part that so many people miss is that in a democratic system, it is not simply the will of the majority the prevails. In order for the system to work, the majority must protect the rights of the minority. That is what I think people are afraid of. That's why I'm a little saddened by the results. Not because people have differing opinions from mine, but because I fear they will not protect the rights of all people." Given all evidence, I completely agree. What about you?

*Register a complaint against Harper for breaking the law: commissionersoffice@elections.ca.

I went through all of the books I own today and put most of them for sale on my new blog, minimalfox. (See Books: The First Wave for a glimpse into my long, long day). Deciding what to keep out of the wealth of words was a difficult process, as many of these books have been with me a decade, well loved and repeatedly read. The Summer/Winter Queen books, for example, would make such a perfect gift for Tony that I wince to put them available on-line, while it is only through sheer obstinacy that I managed to list my Kurt Vonnegut at all. But still, I was weak. Of the books from the closet, I listed only fifty. Of the books from the bookcase, I've set aside almost a third to keep.

If they all sell, however, I may barely have enough books to fill one small shelf, but I will have enough money to buy a winter coat, pay off the threatening part of my credit card, and save my web hosting.

That said, please take a look at what I'm trying to fund-raise with. Everything on offer can be found on my Sale Listings page.

Donald Rumsfeld is giving the president his daily briefing. He concludes by saying: "Yesterday, 3 Brazilian soldiers were killed." "OH NO!" the President exclaims. "That's terrible!" His staff sits stunned at this display of emotion, nervously watching as the President sits, head in hands. Finally, the President looks up and asks, "How many is a brazillion?"

The bottom of the world fell out beneath me when I saw you on the street. My lungs dissipated, my breath sinking out of view. I was in the wrong company to stop, with the wrong people to demand they leave me behind. I'm wide awake, wishing the lights were out, but knowing that it wouldn't help at all. Sheer certainty makes your name a holy thing, hard in my mouth like stones on a pale horse. In between the click of my teeth against yours, there used to be rare moments of brevity. Now there is a vacuum. I am in no safe hands, there is no warming me. I told Michael the truth, that every night I wake up crying. Court was held on the front porch, a open floor on which to pour my wounded emotions. You looked away and wouldn't speak. Instead there was a comment about speech, about thought, and then a turning around and away. I feel like I'm a symbol for every woman who stood in the street and cried out, "You don't know what you're doing to me."

I carried a sword with me to the car. Black and silver, same as my hat. Same as my jacket and pants and eyes. The strap of my bag bit into my shoulder and I winced, hitting my knee when I leaned down to drop it into the back seat. The father sat in front of me, in the drivers seat, and reminded his daughter that her ex-boyfriend is now an age where he can be legally tried as an adult for rape. I saw where his direction of conversation was going five minutes before she did, and so I put a fist to my mouth, smothering bitter laughter and looked solidly out the window where she could not see my face. I wanted to believe in something beautiful again, so I tried to remember standing on the beach in California, but all I got was the memory of feeling incredibly unattractive on the white sand of Santa Monica.

Tomorrow is the Nine Inch Nails concert. I have a floor ticket, currently in the hands of Christopher. I feel like I should be excited, but I can't seem to muster any enthusiasm. My hips are going to swing, it's obvious, but there's no spark yet. When I get there, I've been told, it will be inescapable, and I believe them, but that still leaves me wondering what it is that's currently wrong with me. I am still glad to meet new people, but how burned out can a human be without losing basic functions?

Vote a 10 for me.
if only because Topless Jhayne would make a great name for something.

Then download this.

There was flying yesterday. I opened my eyes in Reine's bed, not having slept at all. Karen and Patrick were downstairs with her mother. Ten minutes later, we were driving. Smooth ska on the stereo, too early for people to be aware. Up Victoria, up fourty-first, taking the bridge past the airport and out onto highway. I held my breath through the tunnel and wished I could remember how not to be wounded. I let it out half way, feeling empty and futile. A child thought, how hollow they make these places. The way the music played made me think of movies, of black pvc.

The plane was small, familiar. Fuselage white, pale as they always are in such places. Karen and Reine looked like headset angels. I rode in front, co-pilot pretender. Once I took the handles, but all I did was steer on course, something anyone could have done. It dragged to the left, heavy somehow so far above the earth. We flew to the airport outside of Victoria, touching down and lifting back up without pause. I held my hands out with my camera on top and said, "do you think we can do it?" to Patrick. Zero gravity, it lifted and fell upward, my fingers cradled under it as it swooped for the windscreen and I could feel my hair twisting away from my scalp, it was beautiful. Enough to unknot my eyes, to pry open my muscles enough to move.

Light seems different when you're flying, like above the clouds there's a different texture. I thought of marbles, cats eyes glittering, and agates, how I dearly wanted to walk back in time and say, "teach me now, not later, before you make mistakes." I wanted twin handfuls of them, glass smooth and clear. I wanted them to spill and fall into the ocean beneath me, a mystery to any witnesses as much as my relationships. I miss him, of course I do. His hands hold my heart still, that burning thing. Blood, however, has left me barren. Think of burned houses, only the shell and metal remaining. Let my honour be my unwarped steel. Picture red hair and eyes like blue quick silver. My strawberry heart is useless, obviously, or else I would be able to stop my crying. I could return it home and let it flutter back into my breast like a nesting bird.

I have a doctors appointment this afternoon. A question asked of me demands it. The other women are likely wonderful people, but.

I remember trust.

I'm worn.

I lost a job today. One I needed for well being more than anything fiscal. They were kind there, and laughed. Instead I will be setting the sky on fire. Taking wires and powders and alchemy. One night crying with chemicals in the dark where no will see me but they'll see what I make.. Part of me knows I'll think of you when I press the silver button. I'll blame it on your pictures and where you live. If I'm lucky, I won't say your name. It's been a hard year and I can't forget your eyes. Every time someone puts their hand to mine, I remember yours, fresh in my mind. How the tips only just overlapped yours, how my fingers were slightly longer in relation to my palm. Then I remember kisses and I have to close my eyes. I tried to put together something for you tonight, I needed a distraction, something to bring myself out of how hurt I'm living, but weariness took over, and now I'm writing this letter instead.

I'm not sure why. I think it's a survival reflex, hoping to break the silence.

Art-O-Mat, perhaps one of the most worthwhile ideas I've come across in a long time. Pimp it out, please. It deserves to pay the rent.

Never is a word you can outlive, in spite of it being so decidedly forever. It tastes like feathers, a black shimmer coating the tongue as oil covers puddles with wondering rainbows. I've been weak lately, drained of all confident measure I kept as true. The sky is no longer anything to look at, instead my head hangs, my eyes drop down to carefully look for the next step as my feet swing forward. It used to be that I trusted them, propelled by gravity and momentum, to step securely and find land, that solid ground from which I could move the world.

As I've been tagging all my entries in spare moments at work, from the first post onward, I've been discovering that reading my archives is strange. I spoke of certainty, of sanguine waters that I swam in, and I think, "There is such a difference in me now." My teeth have been pulled. Since last fall I have lost so many core attributes that I feel like I must now be dying. I let myself be sublimated. I recognize it, because I've done it before. The easiest symptom to identify is doubt, for me it's an echo of a ghost limb from where I've lost the hands I would reach with. It's both easy to remember and hard because the evidence is behind me now, my love is no longer fierce. Only my sadness continues to be profound, and that has been dangerously mixed with frustration and hate. I need a cure and again, it's not up to me. I carry the sickness, not the inoculation.

I am tired and alone, sitting here at one a.m. The distant sounds of teenagers across the street does little to cheer me. I wish to be in bed with you, dreaming, and asleep, but more time will have to pass. You claim to have taken the steps neccesary to erase me from your life. I believe you, though it hurts like nothing else. I must tread carefully now through your intricate, unacknowledged web of rules. I feel erased already.

Invisible.