Women for Trump?

You can’t tell me that women who support Trump aren’t thinking with their husband’s dicks.  These women are so complicit in being the property of men, and they don’t even see it!  Why would any woman support a would-be leader who openly and with great relish disrespects them and regards them as objects present for his use.

Recreational Conspiricies

Back in the 1980s, I lived in Southern California, and I became study buddies with a woman who believed that Elvis was still alive. When she was with only me, she could reluctantly admit that she knew he was dead. But I think this community of people who also believed gave her a place to belong. They had crazy kind of scavenger hunts and clues would emerge and they'd all rush to Hollywood or wherever, hoping to see him or catch a picture of him, or maybe they'd find another clue. It was great fun for my friend, and I loved hearing her stories. Harmless compared to what's happening today, but somehow, when I wonder how anyone could be stupid enough to fall for this Qanon rubbish, I remember this friend from the past and the pleasure I could see in her eyes as she told me about the latest excursion.

A New Place to Be

 

When we bring an animal into our lives, we know that, one day, we will have to say goodbye.  My friend, Sitzel, and I talked about this, as we sat in the dog park, stroking our dog’s fur…we spoke of facing the reality that they, most likely, won’t outlive us.  So, as much as it hurts, it was a pain we agreed to endure when we brought these loved ones into our lives and homes. 

 

One thing I wasn’t prepared for when Lucy died was the outpouring of love I’ve gotten from so many people.  Mostly, I believe that I was born, destined to go through life alone.  I don’t have any family to speak of, and I have a bitch of a time letting friends anywhere near me.  But when Lucy died, so many people brought me food or offered to take me out or to bring me things or to keep me company.  For the first time in decades, I see you out there.  I know now, for the first time, if I am ever in need, people are out there whom I can call and trust to be there for me.  Whether it’s to comfort me through a rough time or pick me up if I get stranded on the road, I know you are there.  I don’t quite know what to do with this.  I know I’m not easy.  I have much difficulty accepting kindness.  But I can’t even begin to express how much your kindnesses have meant to me this past couple of weeks.  I have such a hard time allowing people in.  I have a death grip on loneliness.  But, because of Lucy, I now see that I am not alone.

 

Losing Lucy has been much harder than I anticipated.  Things are still so difficult, I am staying mostly hidden.  I don’t want company or to talk on the phone.  On the other hand, I can’t stand to be in my kitchen, so I’ve been eating out almost every night.  The kitchen is a mess. I go to the kitchen, intending to clean it. I turn around and leave, accomplishing nothing.  I’ve been doing this for over 10 days before I finally ask myself why I didn’t want to be in the kitchen.  It’s the food and water dish on the floor.  I realize I’m fleeing before the sight of them can register in my mind.  Now, writing this, I can’t stop seeing them.

 

I went to my garden to pick peppers, but ended up on the grass, crying.  Lucy’s gentle presence still peeking out from her yard toys.  And I see her goose on the bricks, the toy she wasn’t supposed to bring outside.  “Give me that Goose!” I would yell at her, and she’d gleefully let me chase her through the house or yard.  So, I pick a few peppers and get out of there. 

 

I have so much to do and can’t seem to start.  Life feels more unmanageable than it has in a long time.  Then I remember what my friend, Debbie, told me a long time ago.  When you feel overwhelmed, she told me, just do what’s in front of you.  It doesn’t matter where you start.  Just start.  Do what’s in front of you.  Right now, in front of me, in my mind’s eye, is a food bowl and a water dish in need of cleaning and a new place to be.

 

 

Advanced apology for this tall glass of whine.

 

 

It’s been a tough half a dozen years in the U.S. Everything on the scale from high to low. We have the pandemic, which produced the most surreal events of my entire life (and that's saying something). Several things make me cry every time I remember.

 

While waiting for takeout during the quarantine, I witnessed a Christmas parade, floating down Main Street with Santa, the Mayor, horses and a marching band…no spectators. It was like a Ray Bradbury story where everything keeps running on automatic, even after the end of the world.

 

I was also waiting for takeout when I glanced at my phone and saw that RBG had died. I told the restaurant cashier that I couldn’t wait and had to go, tears streaming down my face. Because English was his second language, he thought I was upset with him or the restaurant about something. He shoved a $10.00 bill at me (more than I had spent) and told me to just go. 

 

January 6. Every time something makes me think of it, I picture that confederate flag waving inside our Capitol. A symbol of horror.

 

Ukraine.

 

And then yesterday, the leak. It appears that Trump’s coup is still moving along at a nice clip. I know that I’m not alone with the way I feel. Some of you are expressing your outrage by posting meme after meme, demonstrating every angle you can find of the horror of it. But I can’t stop staring at the wall. I feel gutted. Violated. Disrespected. Marginalized. Manipulated. Helpless. Hopeless. Exhausted. Enraged. And so full of sorrow in this world I never imagined. I never imagined that I would see a time like this, a time imposing such weariness on me that I can’t do anything but sit and stare at the wall. 

 

So, I decided to find something to watch, to take my mind off of it for a few minutes. I haven’t been able to concentrate on work. I can’t look at Facebook. Everyone’s just stirring a pot that’s already come to a boil. The whole thing feels vaguely staged, like there’s something I’m missing that would cast it in a different light. I don’t know. I can’t get a grip on a tangible reality today.

 

I settled on a documentary about musical theater and Jewish composers. It worked somewhat. It was a story of immigrants who came here, feeling different, looking for a new life, outsiders looking for a way in. They found their way in through musical theater. The film showed clips from musical after musical, with actors I haven’t seen or thought of in decades. Story after story of people yearning to be transformed, people who ultimately transform others, people who come here full of horror and full of hope, who ultimately grow to love this country. And I thought…maybe this is it. It’s all up to the Jews. They can show us a way out. They’ve done it before. Where’s Mel Brooks when you need him? In this documentary, he says that one of his life’s ambitions is to get back at Hitler, and the best way he could do that was to make people laugh at him. Anyone who could do that must certainly have a formula to yank chains in all the right places. We can’t stop the filibuster or increase the members of SCOTUS or keep the electoral college from being gerrymandered until it’s red in the face. But we have something the right doesn't have. We have the Jews. I hope they're working on it.

 

And then I come back again to this sense that something is being staged. What am I being distracted from noticing? Like when Kushner’s dirty deal came to light, and the right suddenly pumped up the volume on Hunter Biden again…and we all dutifully forgot to press the story on Kushner. This feels bigger. Should we be following the money? Should we notice who might want the stage to be stolen from him at this precise moment? Doesn’t matter, because, as Bill pointed out, all the world’s a stage, so there isn’t really anyplace to hide. All they can do is direct the tempo to pick up with different actors. 

 

Sorry for the downer. That’s what I’ve got today.

Tin Foil Hats

I went out for a burger last night, and, when the man sitting next to me ordered a sample of the mojito cider, I asked him if it really tasted like a mojito.  He moved his glass over and offered me a sip.  That should have been my first clue.  In this newly maskless world, I am still very much in covid-mode.  

The man started talking about how nice it is to have a pleasant evening when things are so messed up.  I raised my glass and said, “Here’s to better times.”  Nancy, just shut up.  Didn’t Mom teach you never to talk to strangers?  But, in my world, it’s pretty much talk to strangers or just never talk to anyone.  He raised his glass and opened his mouth and didn’t stop talking for ten minutes.  During this time, I closed my book and listened, as the horror grew.  This guy looked like he might have been a business executive, around 45 – 50.  But he was so out there…I mean out in some universe of someone else’s making.

I thought that those people who went to Dallas to greet the second coming of JFK must, on some level, know that what they were doing was not serious.  Like the people in the 1980s who staged and participated in scavenger hunts to find Elvis.  They were deadly serious, but they knew that Elvis was really dead.  Surely, on some level, the JFK people must know that their excursion into Dallas was a game.  Last night ended that notion.  This guy was talking about an international police force that is on the verge of stepping in and removing all the pedophiliac bankers and high-level democratic government officials from their hidden lair in the Ukraine…blah blah blah.  Oh, yeah… pedophiliac bankers and high-level democratic government officials and the Bushes.  Everyone knows about this, he kept telling me.  

The woman behind the bar asked me if I wanted to order, and I laid cash on the bar and said, “No.  I’ve got to go.”  I walked to my car, shaking it off.  I’m still shaking it off.

I’m already pretty isolated.  I do not need experiences like this, encouraging me to feel unsafe going out.  People like him are somewhat laughable but that doesn’t mean they’re not harmful.  And I don’t see any way that people who are this deep into a delusional world are ever coming back from it.  No way.  And they vote. 

Why Can't We Just Talk About Politics?

 

My fingers began to form a fist, digging my nails into my palms to keep myself from reacting.

Stu and I have known each other for 8 years, since Lucy was a puppy.  He’s a dog park friend.  We are at opposite ends of politics, and I jumped on him once, telling him not to bring it to the dog park.  It needs to be a safe place for all, I told him.  

A couple of weeks ago, no one else was around, and he asked me how I thought Biden is doing.  He didn’t like my answer, and we fell silent.  Then I made a mistake.  I asked him what he respected about the former president and the republican party.  He could not answer.  But he burst forth with a stream of hatred and rage about the things he didn’t like about the other side.  I interrupted , saying, you aren’t answering my question.  He began again and couldn’t do it.  He was just all about his rage, his fear.  He talked about all the violence democrats are bringing into the world by supporting violent groups like Black Lives Matter.  "Just go to Seattle, you’ll probably get killed by the fighting in the streets," he told me.  A church is quieter than the streets of Seattle these days.    

As he went on, it became clear he was afraid of me.  He was afraid of me...that I would perpetrate some kind of violence on him.  What the fuck has he been listening to?  And which one of us is more likely to be armed with a concealed weapon?  

I eventually got up and walked away, knowing that the most dangerous thing I could do would be to let my lion brake from its cage.  Still, he bellowed at me about the senseless massacres in the streets.  I couldn’t help myself.  Looking over my shoulder, I said, “But you apparently support weaponizing children.  Kyle Rittenhouse.”  I turned and continued on as he shouted at my back, “You think he did something wrong?  Do you?  Do you?”  I kept walking.  It took days before the sound of a deep-throated growl faded from inside my cage.