Defiant and Alive

Dear you,

Christmas day in the bubble of coastal Florida.

Beautiful, warmish, breezy, scattered gentle showers.

My chubby brown girl cat wakes me, pawing at my face, nawing at the spine of the novel by my pillow.

I wake to peace and ease and feline antics.

I wake to NPR and the voice of Sedaris retelling Santaland Diary tales.

I laugh as I do every year, preferring satire to sentiment.

I stroll around the condo grounds between the waves of rain.

They come and go, those waves of rain, like waves of thought, memory, simplicity.

Ah, my lucky peace and ease between the waves of rain.

Chubby cat is napping now, like any other day.

She, like me, is in the bubble, but perhaps she dreams of brother and sister cats far away in war zones.

Perhaps she dreams of strutting triumphant under some country's flag.

Defiant and so alive.

She dreams between the waves of rain.

As do we all.

Defiant and so alive.

Love,

Joyce

Lame Mea Culpas

Dear you,

Breaking news: Powell and Chesebro (2020 election deniers and active participants in the attempt to overthrow the results) have written their apology letters.  Both are vague, one sentence statements that do not directly address their overarching intentions or admit to their misguided fealty to Trump. Sort of "sorry, not sorry" missives.  We need a bit more from them, and we need more than apologies from some other treacherous entities. See Texas:

Citizen Kate Cox was told by dudes (and their handmaids) she could not receive the abortion she needed. She did not meet the requirements set by Attorney General Paxton and his ilk.  The verdict from them:  forced birth.  She had to flee the state and get treatment elsewhere. Texas conservatives, can you muster up at least one sentence communicating your regret?  No, because you think women are cattle. 

See news-bits from frequently questionable sources delivered to our little phones, information tailored to freak us out:  This week, I received "must read" links to articles about BRICS (the Brazil, Russia, India, China and South African alliance) and how their future currency will destroy the dollar.  Run!  Empty your bank account now!  I am not (yet) dumb enough to fall for these types of alarmist predictions, but it did bother me.  Imagine what it did to more vulnerable types.  Hey, BRICS pimps, could you craft a "sorry" for agitating your elders?  No, because you believe in financial Darwinism, or something like that, believing the "weak" deserve to be destroyed.

And then see the ultimate misogynist chatted about on X (formerly known as Twitter which child Elon has pretty much destroyed, as was his motive all along) this week.  The man, vaguely referred to as a military type, was praised for how well he has trained his wife.  She does not eat until he has completed his meal. How about putting together one sentence admitting to your weakness and cruelty, tough guy? No, because you are a base level asshole.

There are many things I might be sorry for, but nothing I have ever done was intended to subvert democracy, dehumanize women in any way, or exploit the fears of vulnerable people. But I must share a one-sentence apology for "judging" them:

I am sorry Paxton is a douche, sorry the BRICS pimps are spiritually bankrupt, and sorry asshole husbands still exist.

Really, really sorry.

Happy Holidays!

Joyce

Artful Dodges

Dear you,

George Santos is no longer Congressman George Santos.  Today, he was officially expelled from Congress. Unprecedented action suited to these unprecedented-everything times.  Poor boy George, taking the American mythology of self-creation too far.  Such an obvious liar, caught in that old tangled web. I suppose we all lie, perhaps not on the Santos-Trump scale, but on the "lighter side" of deception, perhaps we just need to dodge something. The dodge lie is probably pretty common.  Most of us have made stuff up to avoid a dreaded encounter or consequence.  I recall these little dodges of my own:

In the eighties during my fabulous Manhattan days, I remember telling a "beau" I couldn't meet him for a date because I had to unpack my trunk. (What was I thinking and why did I choose a trunk when clearly I had not been traveling on a luxury ocean liner.)

Also in those heady eighties, I told a real beau that my relationship with another cast-member on the road in Best Little whorehouse in Texas was nothing to worry about since the guy was gay.  (As it turns out, the guy was gay.  And as justice would have it, the real beau dumped me.)

During a teaching gig in St. Pete., Florida, I told a particularly deplorable student that I couldn't meet him during office hours because I didn't have to have office hours due to my "special status".  (Of course he ratted me out.  I don't care; it was worth it.)

In a recent conversation with a neighbor, I told her I went to the doctor for a checkup every year. Truth is, I never go to the doctor unless something breaks or explodes. (I said this because the neighbor is actually a sweet soul, rare in this zone, and I didn't want her to worry about me.)

And almost every day in condo-world, I avoid "exciting" the schadenfreude types by never describing my real situation.  I might have a toothache, be aggravated by my maniac cat, annoyed by the idiots at the grocery store, or freaked out about the jury summons I just received, but they will never get to enjoy my pain.  My consistent reply to their creepy "How ARE you(s)?" is consistently this:  "I am absolutely fabulous, always."

Well, no true harm done in any case, right?  Maybe lying is just part of being human, part of our efforts to protect ourselves, create ourselves.  But consider this from Andre Malraux, "Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides."

And with that being said, I must now sign off.  I have to unpack my trunk. God only knows what I have hidden in there.

Love,

Joyce