Her face says Mackenzie, but her toque says Guatemala. She’s got that angular, ill-put-together Scots look. The hat looks itchy. It is itchy. It was made by peasants.
At home she plays Radio One constantly, the volume set between “murmur” and “burble”. She has an under-sink compost bin. You’d think this would stink up a kitchen. It does.Oh man, I know this woman so well. Don’t you?
Behind every government counter you find her. She is an advocate or mediator. Shop steward or liasion officer. An intake, or outreach, worker. Wears that Cowichan sweater. Bitterly opposes the government: your modern civil servant. She works on issues around. A lifelong learner.
Name of Ariadne or Arwen, when it’s not Heather or Jen. She has a bookshelf full of gurus, unless she is Unitarian, in which case she has a bookshelf full of gurus. Sometimes she’s a he: Nadir, or Tyler. On your strata council anyway. Allergic to cigarette smoke.
She/ he studies sociology. Is concerned about pesticides, high-voltage overhead lines, and cellular radiation. She is not superstitious at all, though, nor secular: spiritual but not religious: buys her woven-reed yoga mats at the Unitarian bake sale, because Lululemon is corporate.
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