All The Petty Art

Today in another lot of random brass things I was delighted to find this fellow, who I have named Mid (Most Ittybitty Donkey):

They are now best friends and they live in my desk.

Just in case it wasn't clear how tiny these guys are, here they are with a standard six-sided die.

This month people have been tearing Flock cameras off their poles. Perched above public streets, they are birdlike things, weatherproof, and they photograph every passing car and file it in a searchable national database. Somebody cut two of them in half at Washington Avenue and Westcott in Houston, spray-painted the wreckage, and left an American flag on one of them. Police were notified on the morning of the Fourth of July. Somebody severed a camera in Rutherfordton, North Carolina. The police department posted the photograph itself and collected more than twenty thousand comments. “Not all heroes wear capes.” “Give them a medal.” Here is what the cameras do when nobody cuts them down. Cops use them to hunt immigrants and to follow ICE targets across state lines and to find women who ended pregnancies in states where that is a crime and to watch exes and to watch women they want, without a warrant and without a judge. A cop types a reason in a box and the box does not check. A man in Burleson, Texas, told deputies his girlfriend had taken abortion pills. He showed them the photographs, the FedEx envelope, the instructions. Deputies opened a death investigation into a non-viable fetus, and the district attorney told them the state could not charge her, and they searched anyway: 83,345 cameras across 6,809 networks, a month of everywhere she had been. The reason they typed was had an abortion, search for female. The search reached Illinois and Washington, where what she did was legal. They found her in Dallas. She came into the sheriff’s office a week later, and they thought she had come to explain the fetus, and she had come to report that the man who called them had put a gun to her head. A sheriff in Jerome County, Idaho ran his wife’s plate more than seven hundred times in three months. He typed the same reason every time. Test. The attorney general found nothing to charge him with. He retired in April. The Institute for Justice counts at least twenty-two officers who used the system to track people they were romantically interested in, and calls that almost certainly an undercount. And the cameras keep falling.

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So what that means is that I have a four day work week. I work monday-tuesday and then Thursday-Friday. Fuck the boss if they don't like it.

I have a workplace wellness program that means I can take breaks for yoga, meditation, exercise, and naps.

I have unlimited paid personal days thanks to my project oriented work structure--I get to decide what's the best balance between production and restoration. Fuck the boss if they don't like it.

I have five days each quarter for vacation. attending a convention, conference, expo, bookstore event tour, or a writing workshop *is not a vacation.* that's business-related travel. taking a day or two for a weekend jaunt *is not a vacation.* that's unlimited paid personal days. Five working days. Each Quarter. Vacation. and since I always have wednesdays off, it doesn't count.

I know there's a piece of your brain saying "I have to hustle, I have to hustle"

I know

My brain does that too

And without the union boss in my head, I'll just work until I drop. That's what I did for years. And then I burnt out so bad that this is the first time I have actually made real, noticable progress(1.) similar to my pre-burnout rates in years.

Because the union boss went on strike, and the boss' bottom line was *destroyed.* If I have to crunch now, the union boss enforces recovery time. that's all overtime. but since I don't get paid a wage, I get all that back in time.

The boss never wants to see a strike like that again.

There is power in a union, even if it's only the union in your head.