I went to bed super early last night. Our new baby is just a few short weeks away from joining us out here, and Mad has reached the point in the pregnancy where there is no comfort in the world other than ice cream. When she pulls the plug on the night, I follow her up to the bed like a soldier going to war, in case there is anything I can do to bring even a moment of solace in these last few weeks of pregnancy.
Speaking of war, fuck war. Ceasefire now. Fuck Netanyahu. Fuck Hamas.
Obviously.
Moving on.
I came downstairs to write this morning at 5:03 AM. I let the dog out for a pee. I took a pee. I washed my face. I made a French press of coffee. I grabbed my favourite coffee cup; I’m more creative when I sip from this cup, don’t you know?
At 5:16 AM I was ready to make my way to the den, our cozy shared home office slash library slash podcast studio in our house.
I crossed our house to make my way to the den. I was stopped by a mystery mound of hair and food and mess. I swore to myself, spoiler, I’m not a fan of the cat and this was the work of the cat.
The cat puked on the floor last night.
I took a breath, and I kept walking toward the den.
Here I sit now, guilt building that I didn’t clean it up immediately.
I need to clean it before Mad and Sam wake up.
I should have dropped everything and cleaned it up when I saw it a minute ago. Had I done that, my morning would have gone something like this:
To clean the puke I grab paper towel, cleaner, and a bag to throw the refuse in.
While cleaning the puke, I see the insurmountable amount of dog hair gathered under the record player stand and outside the dogs crate/bed and everywhere else in the house.
So I grab the broom, sweep under record player, outside the dog crate/bed and sweep everywhere else in the house.
As I begin sweeping, I realize that in order to sweep everywhere else in the house, Sam’s toy baskets and books have to be picked up off the floor, so now I’m cleaning the living room.
While cleaning I find a pair of Sam’s sweatpants in the chair cushion, so I hunt for other clothes he may have shed on his own accord through the weekend that Mad and I don’t know about.
I collect the loose clothes and in doing so I notice a few spills on the floor that weren’t cleaned properly through the weekend.
I finish the sweeping of the main floor. Four dust bins full of hair and bullshit off the floor.
I get the mop, bucket, and cleaning supplies, and mop leftover spills from the weekends madness on the main floor.
Now I have to let the floors dry.
Oh for fuck sakes. Where is the French press? I think it’s on the other side of the house, and now the floors are freshly washed/still wet, and walking across them will mean leaving my size 12 footprint on the freshly washed floors, and I don’t have the energy to redo these floors this morning just because I want a cup of coffee.
I seek refuge in a corner of the kitchen and wait for the floors to dry. While sitting here, I noticed the few loads of laundry left over from our collective weekend effort to get through the laundry pile. I tip toe over to the laundry area to put the laundry into the washer.
Scratch that.
I tip toe over to the laundry area and I try to put the laundry in the washer. There is a load in the washer, and the dryer has a load of dry darks last night’s effort to get through the laundry pile. The floors are still wet, so I can’t grab the laundry out of the dryer because doing so would mean I’d have to bring the clothes into our dining room, where we fold our mountain of laundry. I’ve already told you I can’t risk walking on these wet floors because thanks to my size 12 feet. I just need to write and I don’t want to have to rewash the motherfucking floors again.
The floors are still wet so I tip toe back to my safe and dry perch in the kitchen and wait for them to dry.
It’s now 6:00 AM and my writing window is closing. Sam will be up in the next 30 minutes.
Sitting in my safe and dry perch, I stare down the full washing machine and the full dryer. I take a peak out of the kitchen door and into the dining room hoping to find the French press I misplaced just a few minutes ago.
End scene.
So.
The cat puked on the floor last night.
I didn’t clean the puke and I’m glad I didn’t. I have a to-do list the grows by the day and that squeezes the creative life out of the limited creative space I’ve reserved for this morning.
I’m going to try to tackle some of that work before Mad, Sam and I start our morning together.
But before I go, here are a few short dispatches.
J-O-B
I’m still job hunting. I’ve applied at 5 places and haven’t heard back from any of them. Maybe my resume and CV weren’t all I thought they were.
My backup plan is to work as a Fed Ex delivery driver or something like that. The hours are flexible. I don’t mind driving, I’m an NDN who grew up in the bush, and we’re used to having to take long drives in order to get to the places that move us forward in life.
PUBLISHING A SECRET NEXT MONDAY
I’ve been working on something super secret, it’ll be published next Monday (Monday, November 13, 2023). It’s big and revelatory and super fucking sad.
It seems like when I do journalism, that’s where the stories take me - to sad, revelatory and overwhelming places. I wonder if that’s good for the spirit?
BUFFY
Buffy likely isn’t Indigenous. She’s been a good relative to Indigenous Peoples, mostly, I think. It appears that she’s not been a good relative to her actual relations, mostly, I think. This is an important distinction. I think CBC’s The Fifth Estate got this wrong, or, at least, they made some really big editorial choices and crossed a journalistic line that I don’t know was entirely necessary. They cut the thing like a true crime story, hyper-zoomed in shots of Buffy’s eyes with foreboding music and narration that pontificated about “truth” and “trust” so as to lead the viewer into this particular piece of journalism’s thesis - she’s not Native and at 82 years old…she must be stopped?
I’m writing a piece on Buffy. It’s coming.
In the piece I’m reflecting on my small role in the Joseph Boyden pretendian story, my own family story, and how the oversimplification and flattening out of “Indigenous law” as some sort of public interest conversation is bullshit and is further harming our actual claims to Nationhood in this country.
MEAN
Holy fuck, Native people are mean to each other.
We’re quick to chalk up the nastiness to “crabs in a bucket syndrome” but I’m beginning to wonder if it’s more than that.
I mean, an old-fashioned pretendian social media fallout can just be an old fashioned pretendian social media fallout but reported threats, flamewars, and public cancellations of folks that dare express a side or a point of view that may differ from another, is spreading like wildfire, small pox, the wind in Indian Country.
It’s ugly.
I quit social media 18 months ago, and I’ve never looked back. I’m going to write about this here, but I think it’s long past the time to put down the phones and sit around a fire together to figure out what’s important because it’s clear to me that the net good that social media purports to hold inside of our community has set sail.
Maybe I’ll write the “Snake That Eats Itself” story that elder Harry Windigo gave me about ten years ago. It’s instructive, and I think it’s the right time for this story.
It’s now 9:59 AM. You’ll remember I started writing this Substack post at 5:16 AM.
I put the edit on this post, take two phone calls, and I’m about to hit publish on this piece at 11:04 AM.
It has been a long day already.
The cat puked on the floor last night.
I think I’ll make another French press and get to work.
Terrific stuff! I did a couple restacks of some great lines…
The chores scenario is so familiar…
Your den / library is sweet!
Thanks again…
FYI, in case it’s useful to you:
‘I know who I am’: Buffy Sainte-Marie responds to allegations about her ancestry -
https://globalnews.ca/news/10051587/buffy-sainte-marie-indigenous-ancestry-statement/