Another Day.

He wakes up. He is thick with tiredness. Heavy legged and and torso muscles aching from some fight he may have had in a dream he cannot remember. He showers. He drives. He shops at the grocery store and  exchange pleasantries with the staff who have probably been there since before the sun rose. He buys fruits snacks which are not fruit snacks and olives and juice boxes and then he makes a pack lunch and he has a coffee and he has a tea and then he gets on the bus and he thinks about how much hatred there is for women in the society that he is a part of how they are crushed and brutalised and venerated and trapped in amber and made to feel shame for being themselves and given impossible goals by men and by women and they have to negotiate the horror of a man made world every day a world which wants them in a box that is too small to hold their potential. Then he reads some of his book on the second world war. He is reminded of how brutally evil the Nazis are and how wonderful they have been since then as an enemy to compare all other enemies against. The Nazis are not a warning from history they are a gift from history. He learns that George W. Bush’s popularity has reached a seven year high. Is this to do with his art, the judicious choosing of questions, the fact that people forget so so quickly? What monstrous things he has done and will have caused to be done in the name of his ideas and his friends and yet here he is smiling and living and playing with his dogs and making his art as the limbs of children rot on the vines of his freedom and his democracy. Then he eats some bread and meat and cheese he calls it a meat and cheese sandwich. He wonders why the earl of sandwich gets credit for the invention of the sandwich when it was probably some underfed and overworked servant in his kitchen who came up with the idea. Hierarchies are only good for toppling, he thinks. and then he enjoys another sandwich and returns to work slotting himself nicely into the preprepared hierarchy that he works in. Then he makes some graphics and he wonders at the truth of the Canada bombers and the wonders at the truth of the Boston bombers and he wonders at the fact that freedom is an illusion and control is for those who have power and even though he is part of the global 1% he does not feel special and the blanket of his guilt is no satisfaction. He is sickened by the world and it’s colour blindness and it’s racism and it’s bigotry and it’s slowly bubbling barely under the surface hatred and fear of the other where the other has been defined as that which is not a white affluent male. He thinks that there must be a better solution to the problems of the world than those which are put forward but they won’t be allowed because they will impinge on the profit making potential of the capitalist economy which is currently winning the ideological war but maybe there is another way and he feels it is just around the corner. Then he has a cup of coffee and then he does some drawing and the art calms him and then he does some reading and that calms him but he is still left unsatisfied as he cannot think of a new move in Words With Friends as he falls asleep.

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The Sleepcoat League

Armchair anthropologist, sometime scribe, freelance philosopher, amateur artist, part-time poet, musical maven, alliteration aficionado.

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