🦝🦝🤗🤗💖💖
All works published by me are of mine own making, unless specifically ascribed otherwise.
I am a human who uses em dashes!!
5/5
The UCP’s legislative writ deprives children of medicine, and this will hurt like hell. But every day of every life lived in defiance of their vitriol is a step in the march of life. And one day there will be laughing, crying, dancing, and singing, not of resistance but of victory and of peace.
I endorse the below, but do not speak for them:
egale.ca/
www.skippingstone.ca/
transactionalberta.ca/
4/5
On November 20th 2025, at the square outside McDougall centre, there was a protest against the UCP’s weaponized legislation. As I was walking there, I remembered the tracings of the streets, the presence of the towers of the city where I was born. And I entered the square, already filled with people, braving the night and the cold.
3/5
Combined with a pathological animus towards that which they refuse to understand, they have found it politically convenient to sacrifice the happiness, dignity, and lives of children. They would an absurd and contrived moral hysteria as a smokescreen, a temporary distraction, as they pillage the wealth of the province, and disenfranchise and pauperize the populace entire.
2/5
There is beauty for anyone to appreciate, but for me there is a special seat in my heart, for the place where I was born. The Albertan UCP government would profane all this with the stolen lives of 2 Spirit, Non-binary, and Trans children.
Amidst crises of affordability and employment, the UCP is imploding under the weight of its own ineptitude and cronyism.
1/5
I was born in Calgary, a city where for generations, refugees, immigrants, settlers, and people of the Blackfoot, Tsuut’ina, and Stoney Nakoda have made their home. I was raised with the Rockies upon the horizon, the Bow and Elbow coursing round, and the beautiful Calgary sky hanging overhead — sometimes blue and clear and empty, sometimes cascading upon me in endless snow, sometimes hanging in an arch the colour of fire as the Chinook.
A slight breeze; soothing and gentle. Sometimes the searing strobe of a headlamp from the road beside. The occasional interlope of barks from a dog, the chatter of a couple, gaiety from a restaurant patio.
4/4
He declares he is breaking the law: busking without a license. His next melody on the trumpet a note warbles and shrivels; his breath is exhausted.
The desperate fatigue of his lungs expand against the bravura of his movements, his silver vest and suit.
Behind the emollient platitudes of his lyrics, the harrowing of the world.
The trumpet gallant, bold, a sadness not rueful but tragic.
3/4
Straddling the bike lane, a loose gathering, inclining ears and eyes. On the ground, a speaker playing a scratchy accompaniment, and a trumpet case open to receive payment. A person plays the trumpet, lips in embouchure and mouth blowing, but the entire body bent to this performance. Then he dances, a rapid vigorous flamenco. And he sings, moralizing impromptu and to the notes of his speaker, of unity, love.
2/4
NPublic