and then our exile

Of recent: if i don't have something specific to do, poof! Gone. i've dozed off in the bathroom and in the chair in front of my desk. On the floor. But then last night i fell asleep at 8.30, which is unheard of, and slept for nine hours. Two dreams, disturbing because of their implicatory clarity. ~

But. Friday was fuzzy. And fizzy. It was October 4th. Saw Hud, argued with Hamza, sat about with Taka, Kassim and those until i decided to go write for a bit in Rutherford before Someone showed up. Drank tea from a straw, idea of shark suit. Met MK Fantastico. Quoted Malcolm X, Shakespeare. Wore a hat. i think i signed up for Amnesty International. It is very sad. If they phone i will tell them my name is Johnson. Maybe.

Then, yesterday, i had to fix my ladder, which some unidentified person had driven over(?!). The rest of the ten hours were tiringly frustratingly i am never doing this again. Picked up staging, set up staging, put up Big Yellow Sign, got yelled at by overweight woman contorted by hate: YOU WANT US ALL TO BE IRAQI CHILD RAPISTS, painted, picked up, unloaded, tried to organize. Shot a look of venom. Discrepancies. The shark marched on. LC ran back. We were left behind, which was very very very very very ironic. Dropped all plans and ran to catch up. "WELL NEITHER WILL YOU": good. Had a cute little "die-in" which did not work very well. Malcolm, Usama: well. Saw Calgarian-Farooq for the first time in weeks. Was actually quite happy with Muslim turnout: from Jabakhanji to Abu Anas, people were there. Fotographers took pictures of us praying Dhohr. Usman cried. Waited for Mr.Chomsky to come on. Alan, James showed. Waited some more. Watched Hamza gesticulate. It was early November. Jack L*yton first. Then himself: i very much appreciate Noam Ch*msky, but not at all Gnome Chompsky. No ambience. i'm sure Vancouverites were happy, but over here it was too...synthesized. Packed up. Paternalities. Drove about in truck whilst listening to AL-MAUT! AL-MAUT! AL-MAUTU LI ISRA'IL. Tricked DCM. Forgot the ladder. Lost yellow bucket. Turned around. That is all. It was late August. The best part of the march: there was this one old lady standing in front of her apartment with a huge smile on her face waving at the crowd with everything she had.

And i get home with M Hudema's chants going on and on and on in my ears to find a family with an auction.

Next time i do not let Someone co-opt me into this. i will agree to show up hours in advance, but will only sit on the side and paint pretty signs all morning, sign up people we can trust not to fidget for the die-in, and will find a shark that DOES NOT WALK AWAY. Afterwards i may even volunteer to pack up, but not to go to the west end of the city. Thank you to M Ford's cell.

Hurrah, hurrah, for LC's truck. (Fascism? Never.)