Recently had my meagre pension clawed back, which came as quite a shock. Apparently I’m not impoverished enough. As little as I earned last year I still owed CRA money. I will consult with an accountant next time.
There is a push for UBI in Canada and as I told a friend, it’s in the proposal stage, will likely not make it to ‘the ballot.’ UBI is unfortunately and still too radical a concept. And I sill can’t abide the puritanism and punitive approach to social ills, suspect that ultimately it would save money, along with lives. Is it even possible to tally the cost of impoverishment, drug addiction and mental illness? While trillions of tax dollars and private funds are spent on the military and flying to fucking Mars. Our priorities are skewed.
On the artist front, I’m in a quandary regarding my manuscript. I despise it. And or, dread it. I should be working on my fourth collection of poetry, working title, “Ask Alexa” and was on a roll at the beginning of the pandemic, penning about 90 poems but my output, slowed to a trickle then nothing for the past six months. *sigh* Just life. Sidetracked by life: some bad, mostly good. Along with work, obligations, etc. I keep a journal and it’s all subject matter but I never feel like myself until I ‘get it back;’ my writing practice. Composing is the greatest challenge.
In the meantime, I am creating some unique songs with Pluviophiles partner Keir Nicoll. Despite myriad setbacks we persist and now have a solid set of material. Think I’m even feeling confident enough to perform at a party next month and go on a little road trip to the Cariboo, play Williams Lake. Woo hoo! Love road trips. This is dedicated to we working class heroes.
THE CINDERELLA YEARS
Find a way
to find work.
Find a way
to get through work.
Find a way out
of dispiriting work
yet find a way to pay the bills.
Find a way out
of the trap
while finding a way
to eliminate dirt, please the client.
Become the client’s own personal wiccan
working magic, erasing her troubles.
No more mess, no more misery.
Hope it occurs to the client
that a tip would be lovely.
My tunes, tools as vital as mop
and broom, tunes blasting,
belted out between scrubs.
I will survive!
Plots and schemes
abet a roiling mind,
wrest me from my genes,
lift me from my knees,
out of the hearth, beyond grime,
scrapes, lingering anger,
last night’s wrangle.
Screw Prince Charming,
I want to be alone. Find a way.
Find a home, use these sapped hands
to tidy my own house. Be me,
a professional human. Full time.