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