They are returning: the Sleepless Ones. Lumbering towards me, large, furry, with eyes closed. Getting Closer. What will they do once they find me?

Prolly not a whole lot: shake me and lift me from the ground – because they're so much bigger than I. I can never figure out whether they are friends or enemies. I think they're just lonely and see me as a soft mark. Well, ok. I kinda like the big furry beasts. I don't care if no one else does, and now, I've managed to set up my life so I can entertain them.

Oh baby, lay me down. I am weary. Oh baby, lay me down. The world is too full of pain. The world is too full of lost, confused, fighting, hating, lying human beings. How can you even know what’s right anymore? Are we worth saving – us humans? Are we even worth caring about when compared to the majesty of trees, rocks and streams?

Think how beautiful and quiet the world would be without us! Birds, water gurgling and crickets. Bees buzzing on lazy summer days. Grass blowing.

OH baby, lay me down, I am weary. It is time for sleep now, and I will become the wind, the air. I will rest lightly on the earth and enjoy the caresses of the grasses and the scrubbing of the evergreens. I will lie in the sun as I protect the earth. I will be an air poisonous to humans. I will suck the life from their lungs, gather them up in a fierce cosmic wind and throw them to the stars!

Back in the day, I preferred waitressing to working in offices because I could not stand the tedium of office tasks. I had morals of some kind too, because when I was contracted to write a manual for the military, I turned it down. Not only did I turn it down, I said I would do it, then just didn’t show up for the job.

Part of the reason I flaked was because there was a girl working there that I had gone to school with. I was embarrassed that I hadn’t done anything super wow already with my life (I was about 24).

I was quite vocally opposed to war and violence; in contrast to the small town acceptance of such things that we both grew up with. By taking the job, everyone I grew up with would know that I had failed; that I was forced to accept war/violence as a way of life. I was stubborn and block-headed, then; viewed most things in black and white rather than shades of grey.

I need work that requires less patience. My heart races; my blood pressure goes up as I wait for module blocks to accept the changes I’ve made and pages to load.

This work is like depression by a thousand cuts: many easy, tiny but dull tasks.

What can I do that is challenging, big and invigorating? It has to be the right amount of challenge, but not discouraging.

Image from: http://capcultseminar.blogspot.com

I’m just here doing my taxes, wondering why. I don’t support my governments. I see them rewarding their friends and cutting social programs; making people like me pay for the big contracts they dole out to their friends – like my work isn’t worth the amounts they pay to their buddies! It’s easy to pay someone lots of money when the money isn’t yours; when you are just the custodian of the money of a huge group of people whom you feel no special allegiance or concern for. Damn, it’s pretty much unavoidable.

Why do I pay my taxes? Why can’t I just allot the amount I’d pay to social services, road repair (in my area) and more buses? Why can I not allot my money for workers’ wages not the raises of MLA’s?

I don’t make enough for Revenue Canada to come after me. For real. They’re not going to waste their time for the money they'd get out of me. I know where I sit on the wage/income scale and it’s not at a significant place. Why do I bother?

Wow. I'm typing this in OpenOffice. I know there's a lot of OO users out there but I'm impressed. As my bf says, Ubuntu is an adventure! Woo.

Man, it's hard for me to shift gears. Where does this stubbornness come from? Modeling of the parents synthesized with years of practice, compounded by a good portion of ethnic character (Dutch - “woodenheads” in the parlay of Chesterville, ON, Canada)?

Why am I typing instead of drawing? Why can I not shut off the Ubuntu and plug in the Mac? Why, why, why, do I always drag my feet – refusing to do something if I've made a plan: hell, it's as if I view myself or any plans I make as “The Boss” - the authority figure who must be hated, ignored and/or thwarted. What is wrong with me?

Do I really love that big lump of emotional pain in my stomach so much?

Hello depression! How nice of you to drop by again! It’s been a few days since we’ve talked, hasn’t it?

What’s that? You missed me?! Heh. Awwww. Poor you. Why did you miss me? Surely you must have other friends you can visit?

What’s that? There’s no one exactly like me? No one with the same set of neuroses and fears as me? No one whom you enjoy hanging out with just so much?

I’ve got to tell you, depression, I mean, I don’t want to hurt your feelings but I don’t enjoy you the way you seem to enjoy me. I actually feel better when you are not around.

There, there, depression, don’t cry! Awwwww, I’m sorry. <Hugs depression> Come on, now. <More hugs>

<More hugs>

<More hugs>

<More hugs>

Ok, then, depression, what do you want to do? What’s that? You want me to talk about you?

The girl crossed the road. The girl crossed the ocean. She crossed the world. The girl crossed the cosmos. The girl crossed the living room.

The girl stopped being afraid and grabbed her father by the balls and squeezed til he howled in pain but he couldn’t slap her because she was fast! Fast, like lightning.

She crossed the road and disappeared into the forest. She zipped across the road and disappeared, like a ghost, into the woods that belonged to Mr. McDermitt.

La Rage - Keny Arkana - French Rap (English subtitles)

Writing from my belly.

This is something I’m going to start doing. Why? Because I hate my belly. Like my mom and her mom, I’m tall and thin, with a belly. Any weight I put in first goes to my stomach. So I end up thick through the middle with danglely arms and stick legs. An AT-AT walker kind of woman, except on two legs instead of four.

Can I learn to love my belly and love my mom and grandmom? The bit of revulsion I just felt as I typed that last sentence makes me think, probably not, on an emotional, easy to reach level. Can I learn to love my belly – my full, comforting belly filled with fuel and warming my body like a hearth?