My cat, Amarillo, is afraid of my motorcycle jacket. Whenever I walk into the room while wearing it he runs away.
On Monday I went out and did my laundry.
The nasty guy I had to deal with on the Saturday two weeks before was not
there. Mondays belong to the Korean couple who seem to work quite happily
together. He greeted me when I came in.
Everyone was friendlier on this day for some reason, other than the
angry voice of the swearing shouting guy that could be heard later from my
window as he stormed along Queen Street in his baseball cap shouting, “Fuck!”.
I finished my
second reading of and making notes on Nietzsche’s “A Genealogy of Morals” and I
did the same for Gabrielle Roy’s story, “My Almighty Grandmother”. For Nietzsche
it was the ingenious renaming by Christian priests of the bad conscience as
“sin” that served to enslave humanity. In reading Gabrielle Roy and in trying
to draw connections between secrets, openness, exile and belonging, I thought
of death as an exile. Death is a disappearance that turns the one it exiles
into a secret.
I finished watching
the few episodes of Dragnet that I’d downloaded. Though some of the stories
were interesting, they weren’t consistently compelling enough to bother viewing
any more of them. Life is too short to waste time watching actors pretending to
be cops pretending to be people.
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