Authenticity

Dear you,

Hot August thoughts in my 1,028 square feet of shelter.  I am preparing for something as I hide from the heat, shut out construction noise, and come down from political sugar highs.  I am in listening mode, taking in thoughts from others, their shared experiences and reflections on whatever "this" is we are doing. Via book form, I listen to Richard Todd in The Thing Itself, On the Search for Authenticity. He writes "The landscape is literally contested turf, a battlefield of competing dreams."

Hot August strife in our little nation, indeed the landscape of contested turf and competing dreams.

Some of us dream of a place where people are tightly wrapped and constrained.  They dream of everyone and every venture fitting their points of view:  old roles and rules must be followed, the wild world must be tamed and strip-malled, chatter must override thinking, posing must be judged as superior to unsettling authenticity.

Then there is a competing dream: We dream of the unique individual running her/his life. (I heard Kamala Harris' vice presidential pick challenge the constraining forces on this point in his first rally, "Mind your own damn business." Yes, sir. Exactly.) We can dream of a lush world that is cherished and not exploited.  We can dream of knowing what is real and privileging that above the scam of commercialized everything.

Dreams inspire action. Successful actions are fueled by intelligence.  Intelligence is gained from study, observation of the very real (which is here behind the veil), and authoritative listening, knowing we have the power to distinguish between facts and lies. Are you thinking about The Matrix now?  In that film's world, reality must be found.  What seems to be is not there; it is a blue-pill side effect. Todd references that movie in his book, an obvious example of our search for authenticity. And who can think of The Matrix and not think about Keanu Reeves, the actor portraying the ultimate searcher?  Yes, I get it, he's an actor who isn't really searching, just a guy playing the searcher.  But the actor himself spends plenty of time thinking about reality and growth. Hence, the photo above and his words:

"Be aware of the quiet ones, they are the ones who actually think. The smarter you get, the less you speak."

And on this hot August day in my 1,028 square feet, I thank Reeves and Todd for dropping by. I'm listening. 

Let us all be the quiet ones, the smart ones, the ones searching for authenticity always.

Abstractly yours,

Joyce

History/Herstory, Kamala Harris for POTUS

Dear you,

I write this night with  gratitude.  I thank President Joe Biden for his service and for his decision to, as they say, pass the torch.  Happy, so happy, to welcome Vice President Kamala Harris into this fight for democracy, leading the charge.

I exhale.  I knew this would happen.

But let me zoom in, to the local, as I always do, and share the "scenery" on 30A in Seagrove Beach.  I refer to the signage on Marvin's house to the west of me.  After the assassination attempt, he hung signs saying "bullet proof" and (hold on for this one), "you missed."  You?  As I drive back from the grocery store, Marvin is happily declaring I missed?  What is wrong with this dude?  Who is the "you" he is targeting?  We know.  He wants to imply we who are not Trump cult members were pulling the trigger.  Horrible to consider.  But there you have it.  Fine.  Accuse away.  But what this signage does is more than inflammatory, it is insulting to the man who died, the man who took the bullet.  "You missed"?  Like nothing happened just so long as Donald is fine?  God, these people are indeed deplorable.

So, what is my point tonight?  What do I need to say?  I need to say this to President Joe Biden:  Thank you for decades of work for us, for the USA, for trying always to do the right thing.  Thank you for going high while they go low.  Thank you for never exploiting a tragedy, as Trump just did with that bizarre helmet-kissing thing he did during his RNC acceptance speech, to make yourself look heroic.  Thank you for your grace.  Thank you for your support of Kamala Harris.  Thank you for never giving up.  This torch-passing thing is just another example of you winning, winning for us.  

Sleep well this night, Mr. President.  You are loved; you are honored.

Everyone else, including me?  Sleep just enough to be fit for the work that lies ahead.

#StandWithKamala

Love,

Joyce

#248

Dear you,

Last week, we (sort of) celebrated the nation's 248th birthday.  Was it just me or were you feeling less than celebratory too? Even the fireworks seemed sad. One big reason may be those killer SCOTUS decisions; they put a knife in our  would-be-holiday-happy hearts.  New reality: We have an imperial presidency, severely limited regulatory powers, semi-unlimited access to weapons of war, and our homeless people are not allowed to sleep in public. WTF? Another reason might be President Biden's "performance" during that highly anticipated 6/21 debate.  A man from Arizona summed it up nicely:  "Oh, no" (for Biden) and "Oh, HELL no" (for Trump).

How do we celebrate considering where we are? Many did, here in Seagrove Beach, feeling all 30A fabulous and free as they drove around in monster trucks flying those MAGA flags.  Well, at least somebody's happy. I did my best when encountering the celebrants to put on a brave face, a mask of unfazed stoicism.  But, yes, it was a mask.  This week, I am recovering and leaving the mask behind.  Whatever is, is and all we can do is resist, stand with Joe, and create ways to undo some of that SCOTUS damage.

As for that SCOTUS damage, I am sure you were astonished by Judge Gorsuch's bizarre dismissal of expertise as they overturned the Chevron doctrine that protected informed regulation.  See the title of New Republic's commentary by Kate Aronoff:

This Is Why the Supreme Court Shouldn’t Try to Do the EPA’s Job.

Conservative justices this week confused nitrous oxide with nitrogen oxides and then insisted that they, not the EPA, were the final word on environmental regulations.

The subtitle for her piece is "Laughing Gas."

Perfect.

And now, a press conference is in progress with reporters pushing about Biden's medical condition. Boy, they are riled up! Good, they should be.  We need facts.  However, there is very little "riled up" questioning about the Orange Jesus, his lies, his convictions, or his SCOTUS protection racket.

Give us all some laughing gas. We need harmless narcotics to get through this long hot summer, the 248th summer of independent us.  Hopefully, it is not our last.

Carry on!

Joyce

Black Bears on Crack, ah Floriduh!

Dear you,

We sizzle.  Real feel temperature in Seagrove beach today is 100 degrees. That is positively comfy in contrast to other parts of our USA.  We sizzle and deny, deny, deny this very real climate change.  Florida continues its war on Mother Nature with edicts from the governor, #DeathSantis, like these:  1. The Gov declares no laws in Florida shall mention "climate change".  (Very "don't say gay" in intent.  Forbid the saying of the thing, the people, then  both shall cease to be real.) 2. The Gov also signed into law HB 87 that allows for the slaughter of Black Bears who are displaced by development and extreme weather. Sierra Club tried to gather support against the bill that "would have disastrous consequences for the welfare and safety of Florida wildlife and residents alike. Built upon the falsehood that Florida faces an epidemic of “crackbears”, HB 87 would usurp the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission’s (FWC) sole constitutional authority to regulate wildlife and exempt people from any administrative, civil or criminal penalties for killing a bear if: The person is believed that it was necessary to avoid imminent death or serious bodily injury to their self, another person or a pet; and the person didn’t intentionally or recklessly put their self or pet in a situation where they would need to use lethal force."  

Yes, anti-wildlife, fearful folks will pull the trigger if Yogi and BooBoo are digging through a garbage can searching for food. The comical reasoning about crack came from one representative who said bears have consumed drugs and are now on a rampage.  Again, from Sierra Club, their Florida Political Director Luigi Guadaramma, “Rather than addressing real problems like the property insurance crisis, climate change, or affordability, legislators have prioritized a fantasy. There have been zero people killed by ‘crack bears’ in Florida, and there are zero reasons why HB 87 should be signed into law.”

But of course it was signed into law. #Floriduh. We sizzle, we deny, we kill.

You and I know who is on crack, and it isn't the bears. 

Keep your head up!  Hope is hard to tap into now, but we have to try.  Do what you can.

Bless the wild things everywhere.

Joyce out

Post-Trust Days

Dear you,

Post-D Day tributes, post-Trump criminal conviction, post-trust.  Here we are.  My day began fully post-trust when a scam caller tried to convince me someone had opened a checking account in my name at an institution I do not bank at and this person had also used Zelle to send money to someone named Jennifer.  "Let me connect you to a Zelle Rep to clear this up."  Uh, no.  I said I would just call the bank in question directly and take it from there.  Click.  As expected, big scam.  Such a shame, isn't it?  So very post-trust.  I don't even trust my supermarket, a behemoth chain here in Florida.  The pricing is ridiculous, gouge-worthy indeed.  And they are running a TV ad now that is perplexing and insulting.  Cue music for "Bittersweet Symphony".  

Hear the lovely orchestration?  It is mysterious and lovely.  The ad only uses the music, no lyrics. But for those of us who know the song and its lyrics, this choice seems way off for a store that wants to keep it light, happy, wants to emphasize the shopping pleasure found in its aisles.  Put simply, the lyrics are dark:

'Cause it's a bittersweet symphony, that's life

Tryna make ends meet, tryna find somebody then you die

I'll take you down the only road I've ever been down

You know the one that takes you to the places where all the veins meet, yeah

You know I can change, I can change

I can change, I can change

But I'm here in my mold

I am here in my mold

And I'm a million different people

From one day to the next

I can't change my mold

No, no, no, no, no

So, paying attention to the words the music sets up, I guess the grocery company defines me as someone who just tries to make ends meet, buys over-priced foodstuffs, and then dies. I cannot change or resist the mold of shopping normalcy.  If they want my trust, they shouldn't assume I won't recall the lyrics when I hear the music; they shouldn't assume I am that stupid and memory-free.  I am now totally post-trust in terms of this company.

Don't worry, I won't starve.  Walmart just opened a new marketplace store just a few miles down the road.  It is clean, sells upscale products and fresh-fresh produce, and is staffed by chill, not-fake-friendly workers. That I can trust.

Word to those who make us post-trust:  we won't fall for phone scams or TV ads that assume we have no cultural knowledge.

We CAN change our molds enough to survive post-trust and work for a trust renaissance.

Cheers to that!

Love, Joyce

Tell-Tale Couch

Dear you,

Memorial Day.  Solemn and gracious memories we offer to those who serve and served.  I recall my Dad who fought in WW2 and the Korean War and Mom who worked as an Army nurse. Their serious service makes me proud.  I remember them, recalling stories large and small.  On the small side, I remember how they had a hard time parting with old things, especially furniture.  Our beach house had a stained wreckage of a couch in the den that they just lived with.  Here, in the beach world of hard-to-find labor, I suppose it was easier to do that than struggle to hire a handyperson.  Which brings me to my recent "crime" of ridding myself of a final piece of a hideous sectional couch:

A week or so ago, I couldn't take the old couch thing being in my world any longer.  I dragged it downstairs and placed it under the stairway.  Unwilling to take the tacky and easy way out (which is when owners dump their old furnishings and even appliances in our garbage dumpster enclosure),  I told our somewhat sketchy property manager what I had done and asked for his assistance to remove the thing.  As expected, no responsive action.  Days passed and finally another owner in my building had a handyman on site to do some work.  I tossed him a twenty and asked if he could take the blob away to wherever he took disposables.  "Sure!"  Hurrah!  But that was not the end of it.

Think about Poe's "Tell-Tale Heart".  In that story, a man murders an old dude with a creepy eye and stashes his body under the floor of his flat.  Not the end of that disposal either, he is haunted by the sound of a beating heart that drives him mad.  His crime will not let him go.  The old man, in his way, remains.  So it was/is, sort of, with me.  After the handyman's removal of my couch, I discovered it hadn't gone far.  While strolling around the condo complex, I looked over to a construction site next door.  By their dumpster sat the big blobby sectional, muddy and ratting me out.  Who does that?  Well, sketchy property manager probably saw it and thought I did that, dumping junk at a neighbor's construction site.  Now, many days later, it still sits there.  Like the tell-tale heart, it testifies to my failure to get rid of my junk in a responsible way.  Crimes in the name of minimalism.  Dad and Mom would never do that. (Smile.)

Best to all on this Memorial Day.

Be mindful of what you imagine you've disposed of.

Love,

Joyce

Inflation Pressure!

Dear you,

Morning news informed me that the inflated cost of food is headed down, slightly and slowly.  Good news on that topic.  But, my chosen brand of smokes now costs $15.29 a pack.  Interesting point of inflation, the oft-claimed election year top ranked concern for voters. One gal's inflation might just be another gal's motivation, another opportunity to expand her resiliency skills.  Why resilient?  It takes "bendiness" and bounce-back to not blame the current powers that be (in The White House) for our aching wallets and feelings of forced austerity.  The Dems have nothing to do with this.  Or any of the rising prices of edibles and smokables.  And I am tired of hearing rants about how a change in leadership (a.k.a. surrendering to MAGA/Donald) will make all things better, cheaper, steadier.  

Many ranters from the red side are denying the relevance of the erasure of women's rights, the hair-on-fire need to deal with climate change, the creeping loss of intellectual and even personal freedom.  Their "top two" issues?  The border and inflation.

Who are these people who buy into those programmed, heavily advertised fears? Who is that gal who runs to bow before the probable autocratic next reign of Trump simply because her cigarettes cost more than some world citizens earn in a day?

She ain't me.  I am resisting that pressure.

Now, as for how to adjust, resiliently handle this wallet-shock, here is what I can/will do as advised by Indiana University Health.  Instead of reaching for that cigarette: march in place, drink water, brush and floss, play with my cat, sing, do laundry, take a walk. Okay. Since I do those things frequently already, what are they advising?  Should I bloat myself into an H20 coma, annoy whoever is under me in the condo with maniacal stomping, interrupt my cat's napping hobby and start washing one pair of socks at a time?  At least those actions are somewhat necessary anyway and will not DRIVE me to smoke like these suggestions:  go to an amusement park, explore my genealogy, hug someone.  Amusement parks are hell; discovering dark ancestral secrets could be traumatic; hugging the locals and guests in this zone, yikes.  Thanks for the tips, but I prefer to shell out the $15.29. And, as confessed before, continue to pretend I'm immortal.  And rich.

Time to catch up on the Trump trial coverage, the cross-examination of Michael Cohen. Yikes again. This too will drive me to light up.

Stay cool, stay frugal, and avoid inflation-fear ranters.

Love, 

Joyce