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History freezes in strange places. Not in decorated marble halls, or on blood-spilled battlefields mapped by generals. History is truly only created in bunkers that smell of sweat and fear, in submarines where the air runs thick as soup.
Soft humming of the radiator is all I hear as the fire glow of sunrise bleeds through the window. I'm awake too early to write this. Eating Mediterranean crackers between paragraphs. Lighting the vanilla incense from the Tibetan shop in Inglewood.
Windows at Element Cafe fog with steam and breath. There's the ambient noise of me and twenty other people who should be at work. 2:47pm on a Tuesday afternoon in Calgary. Everyone locked into a staring contest with laptop screens, performing the theatre of productivity.
Most Indigenous folks know and will tell you plainly that our world already ended. Nick Estes (Lower Brule Sioux) stated in a 2019 Dissent Magazine interview: 'Indigenous people are post-apocalyptic. In some cases, we have undergone several apocalypses.'
In 2017, I wrote about blogging with the wide-eyed idealism of someone who still believed in the democracy of the Internet. I was twenty-two, convinced that 'the way Gutenberg gave everybody the power to read, the Internet gave everybody the power to write.'
Do you remember Doge? Not the new United States government department currently operating a coup, or even the cryptocurrency. I mean the original meme, the Shiba Inu with the Comic Sans text.
In 1982, a mother's hands found the underside of a Chevrolet Impala. The metal was still warm from her son's work beneath it, the jack having given way like so many other false supports. Angela Cavallo didn't think—thinking would have meant hesitation, would have meant loss.
The women of America were today formally enfranchised. Secretary of State Colby at 8 o'clock this morning signed the proclamation which makes the suffrage amendment a part of the United States Constitution.