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

Lord of the dance and the deer . . .

 Dear you,

Thanksgiving, 2024. I am here, still. To celebrate this holiday of gratitude and indulgence, in my own divergent way, I did not cook the typical turkey but purchased Thai takeout.  I went to the Thai Elephant, a good restaurant housed in a a declining strip mall on highway 98, a bit west of my Seagrove Beach home, and ordered delicious Pad Thai and Red Curry Rice and Chicken. While waiting for that order, I strolled around the neighboring businesses and saw this a few doors down:

Oh my, even the art of dance and its glorious Dionysian essence must be sanctioned by religious approval.  In this part of the world, that means dancing for the "lord". They refer to the Galilean, who I imagine might not be cool with his teachings being used, misused, abused, as tools for subjection and strangulation. I am glad local students are moving to the beat of something, anything. But please, can these controlling theocrats just get their hands off things they know nothing about, things like art, literature, the essential joy of life in the body?

Our newly empowered theocrats cannot let anything be because they are on a mission, a mission that demands change, a movement away from the progressive trends of the past few decades. Their change is our loss. I am experiencing loss, losing what I knew, know, what I expected to be here every day: individual liberty, freedom of the press, the primacy of facts over fearful speculation, dance/workout sessions NOT designed to save my soul. But here I am, here we are. Their desired change is happening. So, how to be resilient while they enjoy dominance? Psychology Today, in  a recent post, discusses resilience as something not steely but bendable. One should, by degrees, adapt and bounce back.  They suggest that we: Dance! "Exercise is itself a stressor, prompting release of cortisol. Courtesy of negative feedback loops in the HPA, the more cortisol released by exercise, the less released by psychosocial stress... Walking works. So does running and bicycling. But if you really want resilience, turn up the music and dance." Thanks, Psychology Today! I do dance, daily. But what are we to do when they become the literal lords of the dance? What won't they fuck with? And as for turning up the music, don't get me started on their approved selections of dance tracks.

On the drive home after that Thai pickup and the lordly-dance-school discovery, I passed a dead doe lying in the median of Highway 98.  She had been hit by a careless driver and managed to make it to a patch of green grass between the east and west bound lanes to die. There she was. Evidence of what we do here, we, the lord-loving, car-enslaved idiots who know exactly what we do but seek to pray it away. Or dance it away. In the name of the lord. 

It is Thanksgiving night, 2024, and I am grateful for so much. I am grateful for knowing I, hugely flawed and far from saintly, I am right to be saddened by the dead deer on Highway 98.  I am right to be saddened by the indoctrinated dancers at the lordly strip-mall site too. Both/all are innocents, victimized by something I don't comprehend. I am grateful that comprehension is something I am not built for.

So, on this holiday of gratitude, I thank that deer for her brief and beautiful life. I thank the dancers in those weird strip-mall classes who really feel it and will, in time, get the fuck out of this truly god-forsaken zone.

Still here, still learning, still grateful. Still dancing in a most ungodly fashion.

Love,

Joyce

Democratic Experiment

Dear you,

A hell of a time to be an American.  I identify with this: "Dozens of monkeys escape from US research lab." Run, babies, run. They are used for experimentation.  We are now  subject to experimentation too. Our mad-scientist-captor is a big MAGA blob called the Trump regime 2.0.  Our Republic has always been an experiment in democracy. Now, the majority of us who voted in the recent presidential election decided that the experiment needs tweaking, it needs a strong man and a team of oligarchs to straighten things out. Like those beautiful monkeys imprisoned and used for experiments, acceptable losses for someone's twisted idea of a greater good, we too should run. Only a week after Trump's win, we are informed of the following:

Elon Musk and Vivek W. will handle the economy, the structure of governance, through a brand new thing called the department of economic efficiency. My oh my.  Musk. We know his intentions. Musk’s Twitter/X is the Blueprint for a MAGA Government. Fire everyone. Turn it into a personal political weapon. Let chaos reign. Don't get me started on their love of cryptocurrency and what that will mean for the US dollar and banking.

Matt Gaetz is Trump's nominee for Attorney General. Gee, since the new GOP controlled senate will allow recess appointments and wouldn't object even if Matt had to endure a confirmation process, I think we know what this means.  He is loathed by so many in the GOP, but hey, who cares?  What the new autocrat says goes.  They will turn their heads and kiss the ring.  This is Trump's test for the GOP senate: stand with me no matter how absurd my choices are.  Disagree? You will pay. 

Mike Huckabee is the ambassador to Israel. Mike, the guy who thinks Palestine should not exist.  The far right Christian dude who offers lip service to Netanyahu because he sees Israel as a part of the ultimate "second coming" plan. The great nation of Israel is just a useful tool, part of Mike's dream narrative of the return of his wildly fictional savior. Meanwhile, the starving children in Gaza . . . 

I refuse to even mention the names of the other barbarians who will now be in charge of national security, defense, and for the love of god, that man who will choreograph the "mass deportation" horrors to come.  They shall remain nameless.

America just voted itself into a cage of fear, inhumanity, and devolution - backwards and downwards we go. Many, millions of us, are not having it.  We reject the cage. 

Tennessee Williams:  A prayer for the wild at heart, kept in cages.

Never, never, never give up! Shake the bars. And if necessary, run baby run.

Love,

Joyce

The Morning After

 Dear you,

So, my America has voted to elect a convicted felon for President. More than that, the felon is going to (try to) erase many, so many, democratic institutions we have long fought to build.  Well, there is that. And then there is also this:

Competing images of the new head of oligarchy-style USA:  What does this mean?  It is so simple, so obvious, so easy to diagnose.  The photo of our next POTUS (big orange Donald to the right of Harris) on solid news sites like CNN, CBS, or MSNBC depict this:

While on FOX, his acolytes depict him as something like this:

Ah, the grinning fool (which he is, but add dangerous to that description) versus the "strong man" scowling at his liberty loving enemies.

A picture is worth more than a thousand words.

Trump won America in this election. Shocking? Not really.  But the millions of us who still love what we are meant to be woke up this day sad but resilient.  Tomorrow is another day.  And we, millions of us, know the grinning fool who poses as strong man does not wish us well.  He is our next president, a poser. With power. He is indeed the scowling dude who is also a grinning, deeply dangerous fool.  Sleep well, and get ready for what comes. 

Here we go. Carry on! 

Love,

Joyce 

The situation . . .

 Sit·u·a·tion:  a set of circumstances in which one finds oneself; a state of affairs.

Dear you,

My oh my, we are all in perplexing situations.  Whatever they may be, the king of stoicism suggests the following:

Marcus Aurelius:  "It stares you in the face.  No role is so well suited to philosophy as the one you happen to be in right now."

What is my current role? A few: citizen, annoyed/amused Florida condo owner, feminist-lioness, cat-lady, exercise lover, and eternal student. Suited philosophies? Aurelian stoicism (face it), Aristotelian "push" (just do it), Epicurus (eat, drink and be merry because . . . you know the rest).

All these thinkers, if sitting on a what-should-Joyce-do panel, might suggest the following: If an old, orange man says he will be my 'daddy' whether I like it or not, stay calm, tell him to fuck off, and have a cocktail.  If a random condo "manager" lies and mucks things up at my Villas, stay calm, tell him to fuck off, and have a cocktail. If a sad local is ranting about how women are wrecking the country by being all "free", stay calm, tell him to fuck off, and have a cocktail. If someone hustling for money suggests you sign on to a shady contract (be it a phone deal, condo agreement, or ubiquitous streaming forever-binding document), stay calm, tell her/him to fuck off, and have a cocktail.

You know, each of those things happened to me today already.  If I acted as advised, I would have exceeded my daily F-bomb limit and be ripping-tipsy.  And it's only 4 P.M.  But at least I would be very, very calm.

Perhaps I'll cut the "fuck-offs" and just elegantly face "it" (whatever the situation is), do something productive, and eat, drink, and be merry.  I am NOT cutting the cocktails.

What is your role, dear you, what are your philosophies?  Good luck, in any and all situations.  Especially the ones we are in today. Keep calm and carry on.

Love,

Joyce

Will versus Worry

Dear you,

I don't know the source of this quotation, but I love it and whoever said it:  "The beauty of life is in denying mortality, not arranging your life around it."

Thank you. Truth! The trick is striking a wise balance and asking myself "am I just procrastinating and avoiding realities I must face or am I seeing things clearly enough to be sensibly fearless?"  After all, worrying about daily glitches and that end-of-life thing is pointless.  I'm all in for delusional feelings of immortality! And yet, I worry about the here and now which makes me feel very mortal and kind of old:

I worry about the newly inflated HOA condo fees and the number of for-sale listings I see here in Villas land.

I worry about the weird little beep my car makes when I shift into park.

I worry about the tiny gash on my left elbow, not remembering when or how that happened.

I worry about the horror of a possible Trump return to the White House.

I worry about the hurricane survivors who have no water.

I worry about Ukraine, Israel, and Palestine (and now Lebanon).

I worry that I bore my cat.

No matter how much I strive for the "don't fear the reaper" attitude, the worries make me feel very, very not mythic.  And mortal. I know taking constructive action is best; don't worry/be an action figure!

I will chose a real estate broker and get this condo sold.

I will shop for a new vehicle.

I will pay attention to where my body is in space and limit my dancing-flailing approach to movement.

I will vote and send more money to support #Harris/Walz2024.

I will find out how to get that water running and back whoever can make that happen.

I will continue to stand with Ukraine, Israel, the people of Palestine and Lebanon.

I will now play with my cat who needs her person to not be such a drag.

The wills make more sense than the worries.  Even if I am delusional/immortal, I can still deal with the glitches, still(as Aurelie Sheehan wrote, this time I have the source) know that "everything matters utterly - you are made of the minutes you spend."

We are made of these minutes we spend, even if we pretend to be immortal with unlimited minutes.

Here's to the wills and not the worries.

Carry on,

Joyce