I cracked like an egg, yesterday. Woke up early and got a ride to the train station, so I could go to the convention centre downtown and sit at a booth representing my Not for Profit at a “trade show” type of event. It was great! Really! I loved it! It was wonderful to connect with all those people, all those interesting conversations. I was speaking with people with monumental challenges to face on a daily basis.
After many hours of being “on” like that all day, I was tired and just wanted to sleep. I went straight home. There were a group of 5-6 rowdy beefcake-type dudes who decided they wanted to sit right next to me. Having just came from the Jays game, they were yelling and laughing. They apologized for being loud, but I asked them what they thought about the nature of justice. “There are layers, so many layers”, “Every situation is different”, “You said the NATURE of justice though, what do you mean by that?”. It was really great, it was great. I loved talking to them.
When I got to the station, I walked past the bike rack where my useless red chain still hung. There was a note attached to it, written in all capital letters on an envelope from some Health Partner’s Foundation in Mississauga. It read:
LADY BIKE IF
STOLEN CAN BE
I don’t know what to do with this. Probably go to the police. A lead on my bike situation, is great. Really, really great.
So I get home and my mum has sat on the couch all day, because she is so exhausted from her extremely toxic battlefield of a work environment. There’s no food in the house, because I haven’t gotten any yet. She can’t get them because she is so exhausted from work. There are clothes everywhere and nothing to wear, because I haven’t done the laundry yet. She can’t do the laundry because she is so exhausted from work.
She can’t afford therapy because she spends her money on take-out and new clothes.
She can’t get any help through work, because it’s such a snake pit that she’s afraid she’ll be let go or her life will be made even worse if she admits she needs help. The stigma exists. She works in a goddamn hospital, unable to leave because she has no other skills, just the 25 years she’s put in at a place that treats her like a machine.
She’s going to die. I know that we all die, but what a thing to die for. I want to go in there and yell and scream and throw things and say “DON’T YOU CARE, THAT’S MY MOTHER, HOW COULD YOU DO THIS? HOW COULD YOU?“
As if she’s already dead.
So I cracked. After yelling a bit about the state of the bathroom, I retreated to my room and put on Joanna Newsom’s album “Have One On Me” as loud as it would go, and bawled my eyes out for hours. The face-screwed-up, no-sound, horrible silent agony of a cry, that didn’t really make anything better.
Would that I could heal every aching heart on this planet.
Would that I could fill everyone up with love and joy and peace. Would that I could be a white mage.
“I found a little plot of land
in the Garden of Eden
it was dirt and dirt is all
I tilled it with my two hands
and I called it
my very own
there was no one to dispute
Well you’d be shocked at the state of things:
the whole place had just cleared right out
it was hotter’n hell, so I lay me by the spring
for a spell, as naked as a trout.
The wandering eye that I have caught
is as hot as a wandering sun
but I will want for nothing more
in my garden; start again
in my heart and into every heart but one
Meet me in the Garden
bring a friend
we are gonna have ourselves a time
we are gonna have a garden party
it’s on me
no siree, it’s my dime.
We broke our hearts in the war between
St. George and the dragon,
but both in equal parts are welcome
to come along
I’m inviting everyone
Farewell to loves that I have known
even muddiest waters run
tell me, what is meant by sittin’ alone
in a garden, seceded
from the Union in the year of ’81?
The unending amends you made
are enough for one life; be done
I believe in innocence, little darlin’; start again
I believe in everyone
I believe, regardless
I believe in everyone.”
’81, by Joanna Newsom