Vanishing Acts

Dear you,

March madness is here and not just on the basketball courts. The madness I refer to is the imposition of self-doubt; entities bending reality so what is actually happening is erased, edited, vanished. Poof! This is happening in America, just like in other dictator-leaning nations. Seemingly minor but hugely significant are the following events:

The new administration is gunning to eliminate public broadcasting (PBS, NPR). Who cares, rants Marjorie Taylor big-G, congress-thing from Georgia. I care. We care. Nations with public broadcasting outlets of any form tend to score higher on the democracy scale. Shut those down? We get a dark space, an empty space, less voices who can speak truth to power. I share a link from NPR about the larger implications:

https://www.npr.org/sections/npr-public-editor/2025/02/27/g-s1-51050/we-cant-answer-audience-questions-about-defundnpr-without-talking-about-the-larger-implications-for-public-media

Next, there is this in-our-faces obvious effort to take down Social Security.  Sure, Elon. your DOGE-ness, that is easy if you fire countless employees who keep it running, close local offices, and eliminate phone access. Then, when the very much ALIVE person who has been falsely listed as DEAD and removed from SS payment systems tries to contact someone to correct the error, he/she has to journey through Dante's circles of hell to make things right. The cruelty is the point, yes?  Just make that person vanish.

Then there's my locale. Tune in to 105.1 in this zip code. That station, formerly "Bob FM", was known for its funny and innocuous airing of everything top-10 prior to 2020. This was a happy, head bopping channel. Notice I use the past tense. Why? A few weeks ago 105.1 became something else. When I hit the radio preset button for that channel, I did not hear the usual playlist or the corny jokes. I heard some angry preacher-man ranting about redemption and his savior. He passionately denounced everything that I would categorize as joy. Just like that, a joyful radio station disappeared and became something else, something deplorable, fearful, and soul-killing.

All that, and then too, the vanishing of people from our towns, cities, campuses. It is happening. It is happening here.

Wake up.

Save everything you can.

Love, 

Joyce

 

Dear you,

Writing quickly on a latish Sunday night here in Seagrove Beach, FL. So much to say about my current entanglements (yes, I am under contract to sell my condo and buy a townhome and dealing with all the bullshit related to that), but all that "me" stuff is overshadowed by the bigger and more critical issue of all that "we" stuff.

The "we" stuff? An administration that is rapidly and somewhat successfully demolishing a federal government. An administration that just a few days ago spoke openly about prosecuting/abolishing entities (universities, law firms, media outlets, and oh yes, PEOPLE,) who speak honestly in opposition to him and his DOGE-ness.

Yes, that. And several days ago (or perhaps weeks ago, time is flying) we all got to enjoy the advice from one of Trump's minions  on Fox News claiming this economic stress is a good thing, because, yes, we should all be raising chickens in our own back yards!  Shall we reply, retort, by explaining not everyone has the skill or time to care for chickens or (more relevantly) not everyone has a fucking back yard?

It is patently clear to anyone with a functioning brain that Trump is channeling the game plan of all authoritarians. Shut down media that speaks truth to power, instill fear in the population that resistance is futile, and when the people are in pain, tell them it is their fault, because they didn't plan ahead and buy chickens. Or a backyard.

As I said, I am writing quickly because I just need to get something down, something said, during these days of deplorable deluge and attempts to enforce despair. Having said something, I sign off with this:

Resist despair and do NOT obey in advance.

Carry on, my lovelies.

Always here,

Joyce

Elon, here is your list!

Dear you, or should I say, dear child Elon Musk:

You demand a list of our accomplishments this week. I may not be a civil servant, but I am a citizen, a citizen from the blue side of the aisle.  Therefore, I must justify to your DOGE-ness how I have earned my right to exist under your regime.  Fine. Here we go:

Accomplishments as a blue citizen in your newly twisted world:

1. I stood strong during the entrapment and debasement of Ukraine in my oval office last Friday. The hillbilly VP and our spray-tan president berated a leader fighting for his nation's lives, freedom. I will not abandon them. I stood/stand with Ukraine.

2. I resisted the urge to slap the faces of the Trump voters in my zip code who are (still) complaining about the high cost of groceries while advocating tariffs and worker firings.

3. I quickly deleted emails sent by my senator Rick Scott praising the glorious carnage caused by his beloved Lord Donald.

4. I consumed multiple cocktails mixed with NOT Russian vodka.

5. I renewed by membership with the ACLU.

6. I continued to attempt to sell my condo on THE GULF OF MEXICO, tragically entertaining and rejecting offers from your like-minded "fuck these old people" friends.

7. I rose above all your noise and remained healthy as hell.

8. I took my aging car for repairs to a "non-dealership" entity who fixed him up for a reasonable, non-Musky price. I resisted the pressure to buy a Tesla.

9. I enjoyed the informative and entertaining programming on NPR, every day, every hour, as if it was the last airing.

10. I kept my head while all around me were losing theirs.

11. I loved and pampered my feline pet, who is (undebatable fact) superior to most humans checking into my condo complex during this early spring break.

12. I walked past the condo building to the north of me that is openly hosting a crowd of underage teenage boys and smiled, saying to the MAGA-capped child screaming on the balcony of unit 12D "I have the county sheriff on speed dial". (He ran.)

13.I resisted everything irrational and anti-democratic.

14. I watched the Oscars and loved the show, notably its reminders that culture unifies and trash, in the end, will be washed away.

15. I read several fabulous books you would find subversive. And they were from the public library. (Something else you intend to kill.)

There is your list, darling Elon.

Yes, I know history. I know democracies fall. And I also know it is your intention to take ours down.  However, I also want you to understand that millions and millions and millions of Americans (the brightest, the sexiest, the smartest, the sweetest) resist your efforts.  Take your best shot. We will #resist.

That is my list! Hope it meets your expectations.

Love,

Joyce 

Old Age Is No Place for Sissies.

Dear you,

Amen to that, Ms. Davis. Try these actions as a sassy senior in our flailing America:

Fly without fear - Today, another crash landing, this time in Toronto; surviving these all too frequent events is hard enough for a youngish CrossFit type; try to crawl out of that wreckage with blurry eyes, stiff joints, and a cat-carrier strapped across your chest.

Talk to the average Joe or Joanne in your neighborhood - come on, I dare you, have an informative chat with someone who gets their news from YouTube videos, the massive and expanding population who have never read The Wall Street Journal, The New York Times, or, hell, even The New York Post cover to cover.

Sell a condo in Florida - The blistering HOA fees and assessments make you a target for every twenty-something dreaming of building an Airbnb empire, "she's dying anyway, she'll take what she can get".

Buy a home in Florida - Good luck with that, no matter what your age is; the above mentioned Airbnb blood-suckers got there first.

Be an American citizen - Even Canada is booing us at hockey games.

Buy a tasteful swimsuit - Nothing exists unless you want to wear something designed by and for teenage internet influencers.

Study geography - Wait, what do you mean the Gulf of Mexico is now the Gulf of America and Greenland is now Red, White, and Blue land?

Seek classic French perfume in my zip code - Salesperson at the local ULTA beauty doesn't know what Shalimar is, but she recommends a bottle of something called "Juicy Lap-dance" that her boyfriend loves.

Celebrate Presidents' Day with sincerity - Really, after all these decades of sane (relatively) leaders, you want me to celebrate the reign of Trump?

All that? I got it. We got it.

We ain't sissies.

Bring it on.

Love,

Joyce

The War on Acronyms and Life as We Knew It

 

Dear you,

The first month of 2025 ends, a wild ride already. Our reinstated president wields power, but some pushback has stalled some of his worst efforts.  However, note I write "some". While we do what we can to resist, the strange just rolls and rolls. Weather: see shot above of snowfall covering my pool in Seagrove Beach. Yes, global warming causes extremes like this. Snow in the Panhandle of Florida. Crimes: mass roundups of undocumented peoples, many, many we know to have no criminal records. Perhaps a shoplifting charge. This, in America.  Woes: recent air disaster at the DC airport and lost souls. Yes, the leader of what was once a free world took a few minutes to act sad (while sporting the white eye rings of the recently spray-tanned or bed-tanned) before he launched into an attack on democrats, blaming DEI for the disaster.

DEI. Diversity, equity and inclusion agendas not only shredded but now absurdly blamed for accidents. And there are other acronyms the right is all fired up about. They passionately act to erase FEMA, FDA, FDIC, CRT, etc. The list goes on.  All they need to do is drop an "enemy" acronym on the plates of their hungry supporters and oh, how they eat it up. Truth matters not, neither do beauty or poetic longings for what was good as well as what is possible. The change we are living is, no matter how much we gird ourselves with stoic acceptance, feeling quite unacceptable. Something feels very, very wrong.

Contemporary novelist, story-teller, professional nurse, Jeanne Ray's narrator/protagonist of Eat Cake reflects on ruptures and rumbles in her life, shifting tides of the not-expected, and counsels herself about wishing for "previous perfection".  She realizes: "Life was not a static experience.  We should not expect things to remain the same." 

Absolutely.  But it is hard when what leaves us, that sometimes precious sameness, is so good, so sweet, and perhaps so forever gone. Gone, a decent and dignified chief executive. Gone, a rational and humane conservative class. Gone, a fairly predictable climate. Gone, debates about sane policy decisions; instead we have a war on acronyms.

What letter clusters will they come for next? TGIF (thank god it's Friday), YOLO (you only live once), STFU (shut the fuck up), or WWJD (what would Jesus do?)? Even the latter irks them, considering all his lessons of mercy, forgiveness, his stands against greed and lies.

Here we are, in the worst kind of non-static situation. But we can still hope. And never give up (NGU). 

I end with that acronym, NGU. 

Ever present and woke, Joyce

PS - don't let the bastards grind you down.

Reading 2024 . . .

Dear you,

Christmas night, 2024. The day here, in Seagrove Beach, Florida, has been lovely, warmish, peaceful, clear. The local smooth jazz radio channel provided a soundtrack for this holiday. The selections aired surprised me, not typical in sound, tone, or interpretation.  Imagine a Dave Brubeck version of "Away in a Manger"; that I did not actually hear, but you get my point. Interesting, arousing, uplifting. I did my holiday thing atypically too in terms of food choices and activities. I fried up corned beef hash for brunch, sided it with a huge chunk of cranberry sauce. For supper, I enjoyed perfect albacore tuna with crunchy lettuce on toast. Ice cream with chocolate sauce await for later. Now? I feel rushed, like time is ticking, these precious hours, precious days. So much to say about the passing year. So much to testify to, like George Plimpton doing participatory journalism. Ah, yes, Plimpton. My actual/physical experience the past year has been informed by the whispers (or screams) of writers like him .  They are in my head. Here are the voices in my head from 2024:

Michael Cunningham - Day

Jonathan Franzen - The Discomfort Zone and Crossroads

Kristi Coulter - Exit Interview

Bruce Schneier - A Hacker's Mind

Ashley Poson - The Seven Year Slip

Adam Grant - Hidden Potential

Stacey D'Erasmo - The Complicities and The Sky Below

Brian Klaas -Fluke

Anna Quindlen - Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake

Rowan Beaird - The Divorcees

Laurie Frankel - Family, Family

Tracy K. Smith - Ordinary Light 

Richard Todd - The Thing Itself

Cheryl Stray - Tiny Beautiful Things

Pressfield - The War of Art

Catherine Newman - Sandwich

Amanda Montell - The Age of Magical Overthinking

Dan Morain - Kamala's Way

Bill Maher - What This Comedian Said Will Shock You

Zadie Smith - Intimations

Elin Hilderbrand - Swan Song, Golden Girl, and Hotel Nantucket

Kristen Miller - Lula Dean's Little Library of Banned Books

Ann Patchett - Tom Lake, Run, Commonwealth, and These Precious Days

Joan Didion - Let Me Tell You What I Mean

George Plimpton - The Man in the Flying Armchair & Other Excursions & Observations

What do think about that collection? Do you see, do you intuit, some kind of overarching theme or message? Are those choices, gratefully pulled from my local library shelves, motivated by particular questions or hungers? Some titles are explicit in terms of why they called me (tiny beautiful things, run, a story of Kamala), but others? Who knows. I know that I enjoyed them all and was/am "stretched" by what these authors put on pages.

As 2025 approaches and our nation is tilting somewhere uncertain, I am concerned about access to the things I read in 2024.  Will public libraries be deleted, deemed as unnecessary expenses? Will contemplative works that examine the darker side of our nature be purged, forbidden?  Will our new "library" shelves only feature books about selling real estate, cryptocurrency brilliance, and fairy tales about the good old white/faux-Christian days? I cannot imagine that is possible or even probable. However, being the "participatory journalist" I am here in zip code 32459, it occurs to me it could be possible, probable.

What say I to that, what say you?  Easy answer: hell no. The lights (in our minds, our spirits) will not go out in 2025.

They (see the listed authors, among many others) have said too much, said too many truths with efficiency and artistry, to be erased or silenced in terms of legacy/influence. 

2024 ends. 2025 begins. What is my point? Please, support your local libraries, your academic institutions, your journalists, your neighbor who chalks poetry on your shared driveway, whatever. Support the voicing of experience and dreaming.

#Resist

Love,

Joyce 

AI and Brain Rot!

 Dear you,

Oxford Dictionary declared brain rot to be the word of the year. Bingo. All around us, we hear pointless chatter on social media sites like Meta/Facebook (still proud to say I never joined that sad gang), and deal with the increasing power of AI and its shadowy creators, those who choose what we can access, know, and even imagine.

Ah, the reductionist wisdom of AI, notably via a general Google search. Insert this:  the world is at war and I am watching football.  The machine, AI Overview, responds: "If the world is at war and you are watching football, it would be considered a stark contrast, implying a sense of detachment or denial from the serious reality of the situation, as if you are choosing to actively ignore the ongoing conflict and prioritize a seemingly trivial activity like watching a game."

Good lord, these AI responses are idiotic. Of course this is a "stark contrast" and of course the games contrasted to bloody warfare are even less than trivial.  But the machine misses the point.  For example, now, somewhere in Gaza or Ukraine or Syria, a mother is making a sock puppet "sing" to her troubled child.  It is a game. It is a moment of lightness meant to not merely distract but to lift the spirit of the sad child. This mother knows joy is necessary; it can save us; it can give us a spark of energy needed to carry on, to face the next barrage. And, in softer (much softer) conditions here, in my world, I watch the powerful play of athletes and am lifted, enjoying the joy of play.  This helps me prepare for and face the next cognitive-dissonance inducing event. 

Hear the above?  Only authentic intelligence (or whatever it is I possess), not artificial intelligence, can process that thought and offer that interpretation, that flesh and blood understanding. We who know this, who already see the idiocy of many forms of revered AI, might be judged as neo-luddites.  Hell no. We choose to use technology, it is useful, but we never, ever, want technology to use us.

Local note of applicability:  At this past weekend's condo owner's meeting, a typical angry white man commented that my request for a de-encryption box for my Smart TV made me a "dinosaur".  Hilarious.  We are paying for basic cable, why not have access to it?  Stream away and pay even more money? Now that is foolish.  We should be resilient, able to access legacy news, CSPAN, PBS, and those aforementioned sporting events, even when the (OMG!) wifi goes down. It is also notable that this same critic whined about how when our internet failed his door/ring camera went out and his renters couldn't stream TV. Imagine that. He and his unfortunate guests face a sort of extinction I won't.  I have access to wifi via a secondary mode, basic cable TV will often be up when wifi is down, and I can tune into the joy of radio, NPR or smooth jazz, or even drop in this thing called a CD (compact disc for those who forgot) and hear that spark of joy only music brings.

I am "social distancing" and expanding my communication/information access options to avoid catching brain rot. Oh, and yes, do not forget that precious thing called the public library. So many avenues still available, so many ways to make sure the powerful play goes on.

Resilience!  My word of this year, and the next, and the next . . .

Love,

Joyce