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?

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?

Writin. Can a lady write when she’s not unhappy? Scratch that.

Can a lady write when she’s not driven? Can a lady write when she’s just looking for meaning? Do you want to read the words of a lady just looking for meaning?

Why does writing make me happy? (And why is that such a hard statement to type?)

Happiness, happiness, happiness. Happiness. This is me daring the gods to strike me down with depression.

Damn – interruption by the bf. Lost my flow.

This is me blocking out all the emotional, mental, spiritual debris of a day, a week, a life. This is me just joining the flow of life. I think.

All right, I guess I’m forced to pick up where I left off last time: the morality of humans and/or other animals. And my view that humans are just another species and that if we could communicate with monkeys, for example, the way we communicate with each other, we’d find that they view the world in similar ways to us.

For the record, if anyone can convince me that humans are special; that we have a morality and right to run (destroy?) the world the way we do; that we have a right to enslave, abuse, kill, enjoy and pillage other species, plants, earth and rocks, and even other people, the way we do, I would love to be convinced. Frankly, my viewpoint is so simple and without prestige. Who doesn’t want to be king/queen/conqueror and ruler?! Hook a sister up with some power!

But I prefer real power to a chimera.

Can I create what I need? Can I manufacture it out of thin air?

Here is what I need:

Someone whom I admire, trust and respect puts hers or his arms around me. I resist but they hold firmly but gently, allowing me to calm down. Maybe they pat my head.

They rock me, let me cry. With a flick of their hand, they motion to a servant who disappears and reappears with a glass of cold, clear water. I drink. They address me, filled with faith in me. Love, respect, the offer of help, assurance that I will always be nurtured, aided and ultimately free, assurance that there is a safety net; that I can never really hurt myself, because not only will they teach me to live, they won’t let me die.

Here’s the best part: I believe them.

Image from: http://www.flickr.com/photos/arihahn

There’s only been one thing I’ve ever been good at: failure. Oh sure, I’m good at “graphic design” and “writing” and “organizing” – but really, it always comes down to the same fucking thing: I have no staying power. Scratch that. It always comes down to the same fucking thing: programming.

“Do not challenge.”
“Follow the Rules.”
“Make yourself small so others look big.”

“Be good, but not too good.”

“Your reward is in the afterlife.”

So I fail over and over and over again. And other people look good. I, on the other hand, look… less and less like the wild horse everyone wants to tame.

So many plans, so little accomplishment. (God will save you.) So little will power. (God will save you.) Scratch that.

“Make yourself good, but not so good that others look bad.” (Whoops, you’re getting too good, better change focus.”)

I’m unhappy because I have no will power. I get up in the morning, read my email, check Facebook, check my three Twitter accounts – post a notice for the conference I’m organizing - check my email again…

I think about all I have to do…

Work out, the dishes, bit of work for one client, bit of work for another…

Brush my teeth…

The brushing of the teeth is the killer, each morning and night – do you believe that a 45 year old woman has trouble getting up in the morning and going to bed at night because she hates brushing her teeth? It’s true.

Brushing teeth is boring. My life is filled with boring and no – IT IS NOT MY FAULT!!

What is my fault is not standing up for what I need: abandoning writing, abandoning photography, abandoning video-making…

Abandoning my siblings... I should not have shut down when I was eighteen. I should not have let my Mother kill my spirit. I should have continued to fight her.. But I was on the edge of sanity!

I realize now that it is my destiny to be unhappy! Oh, what a release to accept this! I do not need to strive for happiness – it’s all bollocks anyway! Dyed, straightened hair, French tips, tanned perfection – tis not me. Not at all!

I’m imperfect: big gap between my front teeth, nose that is almost African in it’s roundness and lips that could definitely be African in origin!* No ass. Naturally inward pointing toes and the horrid bunions that my Mom had! Imperfection: a glorious, individual blight on the form of accepted (mostly white, upper class defined) female beauty. Tall, blond, blue-eyed and fair – so close - but for the unsightly gap, obscene feet and narrow hips, I’d be a Great Beauty. So close – yet so fucking gloriously far!

Oh, and let’s not get into the brains thing. Ewwww! A pet who’ll put you in your place. Women look shitty with glasses anyway.

If you grow up poor, you are going to grow up very sensitive to lies. At some point, as you're trying to better yourself, you may blame yourself thinking that if you see lies and liars everywhere, it's because you lie and are a liar (birds of a feather and all), but this is not necessarily so.

You see lies everywhere because you grew up a lie. The mainstream - middle and/or upper classes that control media/communications - do not want your reality - your exploitation because you are an immigrant, minority or whatever - acknowledged. Your life is ignored, avoided, and whitewashed; unmentioned in discussions of economies, politics, culture, etc.. In essence, your life and your family's and neighbours' lives are lies, but you all know that they are not. You learn to see lies everywhere.

Image from: dailykos.com/story/2006/11/27/18204/164