My New Flag

Dear you,

Welcome to our here and now, an abominable autocracy scripted by little boys and girls who seem to have lost their humanity, who revel in rounding up innocents and building detention centers called Deportation Depot and Alligator Alcatraz. Childish, like naming a video game or mind-numbing reality TV show. This day, we consider the 800 souls in our nation's capitol, easy targets for their cruel intentions. These are people they see as problems, worthy of prosecution, incarceration, disposal. Have they named this game yet?

All that and more! It has been mind-bendingly sad and frustrating. But today, I have come to a rather simple, logical conclusion: I must let my illusion of "America" go; indeed, I am fully AWAKE, finally. I have, at my core, never bought into the myth of American exceptionalism. I did buy into our possibility and promise. I might find, in time, I buy into that again. But today, after a summer of intellectual and spiritual body blows, I see (yes, see, vision restored) this nation I loved is gone. The majority of my fellow citizens voted for this nonsense. So, for now, I turn away from their flag, the one that was meant to represent liberty/unity,  and recall Langston Hughes: this is still a "gangster nation". The struggle continues. These little body blows I absorb are not fatal. I just have to prioritize the values of staying sturdy, protecting the wild things and the vulnerable. Enforced stars-and stripes-servitude be damned.

Sturdy. And privileged enough to be "safe" from the worst intentions of the MAGA regime. Privileged enough to laugh at their idiocy, tragic though it be. Begin with the culture takedown. Ah, the Kennedy Center. Once this was a place intended to honor art and inspiration. Now, it is simply another venue for Trump's whims; he literally runs the place. Note his choices for this year's honorable winners, notably, Sylvester Stallone (his buddy and political supporter) and the ancient rock band Kiss. Rambo and a bunch of drag queens. Wait, I thought Donald and his Christian Nationalist supporters abhorred drag performers. Seriously, that makeup, the platform shoes, the wigs. Come on, man. That's drag, honey. Trashy and sophomoric, but drag nonetheless. And don't get me started on Stallone.

Well, it is their country now. So be it. Notice I say "now". So, for now, I will not wave their flag. I will stay sturdy. I will walk away from this "explosion" of absurdity. I will create my own flag. My flag will feature the photo above this entry. I love it. I have used it before. It grounds me when myths prove to be simply that, myths. I will honor the creature who always lands on her feet. The creature who struts away from the carnage. She can build a better world. 

No drama, no trauma, no grief. #Resist becomes #StaySturdy.

Wishing you the fine nine lives you deserve!

Joyce

Singularity - OHN!

Dear you,

The idiocy of AI, artificial intelligence (as you know), amuses me every day. A few weeks ago, I wondered what the response would be to a question about those of us who never did the Facebook thing. AI told me, rapidly, that those who didn't play the Facebook game were "neurotic" and "paranoid". That is, well, interesting. Thanks for the diagnosis, artificial intelligence, or more precisely named, programmed idiocy. "The machine is inevitable! Surrender, my love. Resistance is futile." Oh, hell no. Repeat that, futility be damned, oh, hell no.

But what am I to think about my assessment of this AI thing? Certainly, more brilliant minds than mine see its potential, its gifts, and its inevitability. See Ray Kurzweil, a tech notable, inventor, and futurist:  "It's only a matter of time before your mind merges with AI." Lovely. My mind will merge with a gigantic mashed-up search engine of sorts, one that produces results meant to discourage resistance, novelty, and HUMAN INTELLIGENCE.

This curmudgeonly reaction might be judged as typical of an elder, a dinosaur of sorts. Fine. God forbid the judgment of someone who loves visceral reality, books (oh, those subversive things), working out, animals, decent food and delicious cocktails at sundown be considered as worthy. I know, I know. I am supposed to assume the role designed for me and for all my AI-resistant comrades. Instead of thinking and being politically active and questioning this brave new AI dystopia, I am supposed to be doing the following in my current locale:

"Panama City Beach offers various activities for senior citizens, including social events, recreational opportunities, and cultural experiences. The Panama City Beach Senior Center provides regular activities like line dancing, wood carving, and ukulele classes. Seniors can also enjoy the beaches, explore Pier Park, visit attractions like Zoo World, or enjoy local restaurants and wineries."

Wood carving. Ukulele classes. Line dancing. 

Wood carving. Ukulele classes. Line dancing.

Wood carving. Ukulele classes. Line dancing.

(And by the way, the animals in Zoo World are NOT happy. They'd be better off roaming whatever winery they're referring to in this dismal little blurb.)

Repetition intended to highlight the comedy. And the tragedy. Human verve and eccentricity and curiosity and strangeness cannot be merged into anything successfully, be it a generic plan for "senior citizen fun" or a Singularity promising advances for "all mankind". Merging of the miraculous into bland "activity programs" or a happily mushed-together universal consciousness is not only appalling, it is boring. For all the good our AI can do, this promise of ubiquitous absorption is scary, and . . . boring.

I close with a very humanistic suggestion to counter all this banality, hear Baudelaire:

"One should always be drunk. That's all that matters: that's our one imperative need. So as not to feel Time's horrible burden that breaks down your shoulders and bows you down, you must get drunk without ceasing. But what with? With wine, with poetry, or with virtue, as you choose. But get drunk."

Make of that what you will. You know what he meant. You know what I mean.

Love,

The flesh and blood, not-artificially-intelligent Joyce.

Florida - the cruelty is the point.

Dear you,

Hello from Florida! See photo. Those are black bears. And as you have heard, they are now legally approved as hunting fodder in this state. When? Mark your murder-calendar for early December. The select group allowed to take these creatures out must possess lottery-drawn licenses to kill. My oh my. Well, here is an interesting resistance option:

If you are a Florida citizen, enter the lottery. Take your best shot at winning the right to take out the bears and then, well, just don't. Our clever strategy may not work. Many precious wild things will go down. But we, you, can eat up one those legitimized licenses to kill by simply winning them and not hunting. What will the state of Florida do? Demand that those of us who win a lottery right to kill bears be required to present the animal's corpse, lay it at the feet of the Florida legislature to prove we murdered as directed? Come on, man.

Enter the lottery! Take a slot that would be given to a "it's really fun to kill wildlife for no reason" stick-figure-with-no-soul and give these creatures a bit of breathing room.  It is, after all, gambling. Saturate the lottery; we might win.

If you care, if you like, consider joining the fight.

Meanwhile, war goes on in Ukraine; my god, those people have heart and relentless hope. In Gaza, I have no words. In the USA, devastating floods sweep people away, as does the current regime who rounds up and imprisons innocents at will.  Because he/they can.

So, I post a bit about saving #FloridaBlackBears. There is no fatuous flaw at work here. No matter how flighty I might be, I speak for something more lovely, more pure than "us". Of course, we humans suffer here, there, everywhere. But our mindless plunder of Mother Earth is simply deplorable. And for those who kneel to sky-gods, perhaps unforgiveable.

Anyway, to those who give a damn, join in the potentially positive fun of disrupting the bear hunt in Florida.  Apply for a bear-kill lottery ticket! You might win the right to do something beautiful.

Please.

Do it as soon as you see applicants allowed online. 

Thank you.

Joyce

An F-bomb toast!

Dear you,

Raise your glasses, cheers! Here's to all the sense and nonsense we are in the midst of this day, this precious day:

War rolls on in the Middle East; starving souls in Palestine are killed as they rush toward what appears to be food sources, aid for them, for their children. This, and the contingent drama, Israel V. Iran. For once, I can lift my glass and toast our spray-tan president, Trump, who declared neither party knows what the FUCK they are doing. Note: more people are upset with the F-bomb than the pain inflicted on the innocent there.

I continue to do what I can, feeling pointless, to support public broadcasting in my country. NRP affiliates and PBS affiliates all face massive cuts. The urban, dollar backed stations will survive. The rural, remote, and poor areas will lose this gift, this source of information and delight. I declare, sadly, the forces in the House and Senate making this happen (as Trump demands) know exactly what the FUCK they are doing. Cheers, baby.

Zoom in to my new locale, an HOA scandal! (Of course, the ubiquity of this is tiresome.) The buzz is a prominent board member does not own property in our development. WTF? I think the complaining parties are right, buzz at will! Yes, it is legal in the messed up state of Florida for HOA board members to not be real-live owners, but you have to admit, that could be a bad idea. The defenders of the board member in question ignore the problematic nature of this, uh, situation, and spend their energy being pissed off that owners objecting to this anomaly were talking smack about this person on Facebook. No problem with the I-don't-actually-own-property-here thing, but a big problem with the fact that chatters spilled the dirt on social media.  I have to tell you, I am repelled by both sides in this debate.  I do prefer that my HOA board members actually own property and live here. But I also prefer that my neighbor-owners don't spend their time blabbing on Facebook.  Facebook. For the love of god, what is this, 2005?  I declare, from my property-owning-not-Meta-loving throne that neither side in this argument knows what the FUCK they are doing. Cheers again, baby.

F-bombs, glorious F-bombs! Drop them darling.

I'll drink to that!

Cheers,

Joyce 

The all of it . . .

Dear you,

This is your country/This is your world/This is your body/and you must find some way to live within the all of it.

That from Ta-Nehisi Coates.

The all of it. And this is my voice typing/speaking about that all of it.

Local: I dodge and weave through the oddities of Florida panhandle godliness that supports godless action. Sending marines into Los Angeles to quell dissent about the rounding up of immigrants, people, yes, inconvenient truth, the fact that they are people, because Trump and his followers fear "them". I dodge and weave through the dissonance of perfectly kind people who, like the young man at the local bank, ask how I am and when I reply "well, I am here, not in Ukraine or Gaza, and unable to do a damn thing to help those in either of those places", and after hearing this, the good teller's face gives him away, some kind of objection, some kind of shut-down and refutation of what I have voiced. I dodge and weave through silliness called customer service for cars and HVAC systems, where employees (knowing "this call is recorded") work their asses off to get me lured into contracts and agreements that are irrational and impractical. I dodge and weave through the perplexing responses to my claims that we are America, and America is not angelic, never has been, but could be/can be/will be. If and only if there is the WILL to be something not sad, to be lovely and fearless. I dodge and weave through the celebrations of those who won recent battles in Florida: no fluoride in the water, limitations on insightful books on the shelves, license to kill black bears who have the nerve to exist. I dodge and weave.

This nightfall in Panama City Beach, Florida, in my quiet (finally) residential enclave, I have the luxury of saying this. Of thinking this. Of dodging and weaving. Of mouthing off in my little diary-blog and posting it to Blue-Sky. And the luxury of wondering, when, when, when will what seems to be the majority who are running this game come to grips with the fact (the wished for fact) that this is OUR country, this is OUR world, these are OUR bodies, and we are trying with all our might to live within the all of it.

I know "hope" is not a strategy, it is just a feeling. But there is, to quote someone we all admire, audacity in that hope. Hope. And act. And live within the all of it.

Love, 

Joyce

Expectations

Dear you,

Another holiday weekend, another hot summer. What to expect?  Do we hope for the best or expect the worst? Are our expectations based on prior experience or does it all just come down to what we ate for lunch? Isn't there something beyond the best/worst binary anyway, something so unexpected that it isn't hoped for or dreaded? Case in point, my latest visit to Walmart:

My mindset as I traveled to the Pier Park Wally last Tuesday: "Oh, hell no, this is going to be a bloody nightmare. Prepare for encounters with drunk "I am on vacation" shoppers and transactions with disengaged workers." Grumpily, I entered the fray. After trying on twenty-nine bathing suits, I exited the dressing room in a huff. Nothing fit. I'd be better off swimming in my underwear (which I do all the time; don't tell my HOA board of directors). Whatever, I had a list to check off, so I moved on. But I was bothered by something irritating my right shoulder blade. I adjusted my cross-body purse strap, tugged on my sundress bodice, and shoulder-rolled my way across the store. Nothing changed. Something weird was back there. I ignored it and focused on task two, the pursuit of the perfect nightlight. While doing that, I heard a bright voice inquire "would you mind if I pull something off your back?" What? "You've got something stuck back there." What is it? She, a lovely ginger Wally employee, just smiled and went to work. After a quick rip, she showed me the culprit. It was one of those nasty panty-liner-protective-strips you find in the crotches of retail bathing suits. Seriously. I had been queening around Walmart with a panty liner stuck to my back. Ginger gal saved the day and my dignity. Surprise! The only trashy shopper in Walmart that day was me. And the employees, notably Ginger gal, were not disengaged. The occurrence was neither the best nor the worst; it was simply refreshing. Unexpected. Surprising.

Another holiday weekend, another hot summer. Who knows what to expect?  

Surprise me!

Love,

Joyce

Simply Mom

Dear you,

The day honoring mothers, 2025. We all had one, obviously.  Some here, some gone. My mom, so many memories. I recall bits and pieces of experience, often small, not dramatic, but (being memories) still quite memorable:

Croquet games in the back yard.

The way she cared for Prince, my gorgeous collie-shepherd canine, after I escaped to New York.

Her perfect Sunday roasts with boiled potatoes.

Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue", one of her favorites, playing on the stereo in our living room.

The ultimate summer dress she created for me from a Ralph Lauren pattern and Laura Ashley fabric.

Fudge pie with melty vanilla ice cream.

Her bangs, a forties tribute, prepped at night with bobby pins. No mirror required.

The way she kept any dramas with Dad, whatever those might have been, to herself.

Her loyal attendance at almost every fabulous or not so fabulous theatre gig I signed up for.

The poetry she quoted in cards and letters, mailed over many decades, no matter where I might be.

The way she appreciated my essential singular self: "sing your song."

Bits and pieces, good stuff. I smile.

I wonder what Mom would make of the current #natalist movement, urging women to reproduce like machines, for the sake of what, I am not sure. The economy, the future of the human race, a sustainable work force (a.k.a. plenty of laborers to clean up after the 1% who seem to be running everything now), whatever.  She would probably not be a fan of that "policy".  She wanted children and she had them/us/me.  Her choice, not an obedient response to some random man-child's master plan. Her choice. 

Honor that.

I do.

Love,

Joyce