I wore a belt today. For the first time in a while. To hold up my jeans. How's that for news? You're totally right. It's not news.
What whiplash! Between worldwide packed protests, that fucking lunatic at the White House, the gigantic systemic, 401-year-old things, the double pandemic, it's like there's nothing in my tiny contracted sphere.
I'm sitting here, at my desk, listening to someone, maybe neighbour(s) chatting outside, and, I can't quite hear them. Maybe I could if I really listened. She stops typing. Watches the cursor blinking, listening. Wondering what to say. Types "Wondering what to say." She hears a door shut. A car drives past.
I couldn't make it out. Not one word. I could tell it was a woman. Her words protected by a curtain, a window, and about five metres. So near, and yet. All I can hear is the cacophony of the world. How many of us are buffeting against that at this moment? How many of us are throwing ourselves into the same place to be together because we can't not? How many of us are timid about doing that because we fear doing that, whether jumpy cops or the fucking virus?
The cats don't realise. They just want dinner, etc.
I went to get a coffee the other day because I was out of beans and the woman serving there had written BLACK LIVES MATTER / DONATE READ SPEAK UP LISTEN TAKE IT FURTHER on the thing you put around the cup so you don't get burned.
The prejudice we're (hopefully) trying to acknowledge and the depth of its roots cannot be fixed quickly. It will be a life's work for all of us. We must work patiently and constantly at it. And pandemic. And 25% unemployment. And test and trace farce. And. And. And.
My lunch's complexity has degraded. Thank the earth mother for store-bought hummus. I'll have to do a big shop tomorrow. I think either I have given myself carpal tunnel or my bird wrists have gone rogue thanks to all the yoga (but why do they hurt now and not before then?). They really hurt. And I'd like a haircut, and I'd like someone to take care of me for a little while and maybe I should get a shitty car so I can be in it and go places. And.
I'm fine. It's all fine.
It's NOT fine. I mean, I'm fine, but IT'S NOT FINE.
Today I listened to a conversation between Toni Morrison and Claudia Brodsky who've known each other for 20 years. I watched an excerpt of Reverend Al Sharpton speaking at George Floyd's memorial service. I watched some White male prick in lycra pull a sign remembering George Floyd roughly out of a child's hands on a path in Maryland while her parents told him not to touch her before he rushed at her father with his bicycle. I watched a video of a man getting out of his car to tell the police not to harass him because his pregnant wife was also in the car before they opened fire at him with tear gas.
"My issue is that my perception of that is always..." she hears pass by on the street above.
What whiplash! Between worldwide packed protests, that fucking lunatic at the White House, the gigantic systemic, 401-year-old things, the double pandemic, it's like there's nothing in my tiny contracted sphere.
I'm sitting here, at my desk, listening to someone, maybe neighbour(s) chatting outside, and, I can't quite hear them. Maybe I could if I really listened. She stops typing. Watches the cursor blinking, listening. Wondering what to say. Types "Wondering what to say." She hears a door shut. A car drives past.
I couldn't make it out. Not one word. I could tell it was a woman. Her words protected by a curtain, a window, and about five metres. So near, and yet. All I can hear is the cacophony of the world. How many of us are buffeting against that at this moment? How many of us are throwing ourselves into the same place to be together because we can't not? How many of us are timid about doing that because we fear doing that, whether jumpy cops or the fucking virus?
The cats don't realise. They just want dinner, etc.
I went to get a coffee the other day because I was out of beans and the woman serving there had written BLACK LIVES MATTER / DONATE READ SPEAK UP LISTEN TAKE IT FURTHER on the thing you put around the cup so you don't get burned.
 |
| It's on my desk. |
The prejudice we're (hopefully) trying to acknowledge and the depth of its roots cannot be fixed quickly. It will be a life's work for all of us. We must work patiently and constantly at it. And pandemic. And 25% unemployment. And test and trace farce. And. And. And.
My lunch's complexity has degraded. Thank the earth mother for store-bought hummus. I'll have to do a big shop tomorrow. I think either I have given myself carpal tunnel or my bird wrists have gone rogue thanks to all the yoga (but why do they hurt now and not before then?). They really hurt. And I'd like a haircut, and I'd like someone to take care of me for a little while and maybe I should get a shitty car so I can be in it and go places. And.
I'm fine. It's all fine.
It's NOT fine. I mean, I'm fine, but IT'S NOT FINE.
Today I listened to a conversation between Toni Morrison and Claudia Brodsky who've known each other for 20 years. I watched an excerpt of Reverend Al Sharpton speaking at George Floyd's memorial service. I watched some White male prick in lycra pull a sign remembering George Floyd roughly out of a child's hands on a path in Maryland while her parents told him not to touch her before he rushed at her father with his bicycle. I watched a video of a man getting out of his car to tell the police not to harass him because his pregnant wife was also in the car before they opened fire at him with tear gas.
"My issue is that my perception of that is always..." she hears pass by on the street above.