July 1, 2009


I had an awsome day.

I took some beautiful pictures on the 30 000 Island cruise, and the winding road out of Magnetawan, and of the small pox grave by Adam's house, and the Seguin Falls, and of the Haunted House off West Bear Lake Road.

I felt inspired again. I wanted to write and draw and take pictures. I wanted the world to stop for just a few more hours so I could try to some how let it all out and take it all in at the same time.

And then I got to Adam's and checked my email. I really need to stop doing that. I let it go for a while, but then in the car there was nothing good on the radio, so I started... thinking. feeling. twisting it all up.

Twisting into feeling defeated, then to... feeling angry.

I started thinking about the microscope, and the watchful eye that never leaves, that shadows over everything I do. Did you know that she now has me submitting daily reports of what I do? It's almost disgusting. I think she wants me to resent it. I think she doesn't trust me to do my job, but that isn't reason enough to fire me, so she's looking for proof.

I"m starting to wonder what will happen to my job once the 2 new coordinators are hired on, and what will happened when (it's a when now), the vacancy at the branch is filled. I'll go back to 3 days a week by September, she tells me... how long will that last? How long until I'm edged out all together.

Then I got really mad. Screw that. Screw her! I won't leave; that's cowardice. I've spent too long being a coward, letting people walk on me. I can't walk away and let her win.

Raffle hell starts again tomorrow, setting roots in my life again, waiting to grow that damned thorn. She wants $1500 cash sponsorship by September's end. She wants in-kind media sponsorship. She wants 2000 tickets sold. She wants poinsettias... don't know how many yet, she hasn't given me my operational plan.

My decision: She wants $1500? I'll give her $5000. She wants 2000 tickets? I'll have it by Christmas. She wants poinsettias sold? There'll be 1000 waiting for delivery when she waltzes in on delivery day. She wants my FA numbers met? There'll be a course every frigging day until I've met every god damned target. You think I can't do my job? Watch me.

And one of these days, soon, (VERY SOON) I'll walk away, and she'll NEVER find anyone who CAN do my goddamn job with the fire and the drive and the resolve and the passion that I can. I'll set the bar so high, everything after this will look like low level mediocrity. And she'll NEVER be able to afford to get me back, and she'll be FUCKED. And she will learn, that I will jump through hoops, and I'll knock down road blocks, and I'll make magic from nothing... But you don't DARE piss me off.

And that, my friends, is called Rage.

And that's where I am now. Washing my best "business wear" as she demanded, and preparing to squeeze as much money as I can out of this dirty little pennyless town.

And the artist, the writer, the poet, the piece inside me that sees beauty in the world? It's weeping, hurting and rejected. But it will heal, like all the other scars.

I'm ready for a fight, gloves off. Ready for sparks to hit the gasoline. Ready to light it all up.

Sick to my stomach, but ready.

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