Getting Over . . . Carrying On

 

Dear you,

This weekend, I kept the television running non-stop.  Between heartbreaking updates about our exit from Kabul and hurricane Ida, commercials carried on in the most disturbing way.  A former sitcom star screamed gleefully about “dynomite” Social Security benefits. A hyper-happy voiceover ordered me to “Show off your white smile this Labor Day!” An emu tried to sell me insurance.  Meanwhile, New Orleans went dark and thousands were left behind in Afghanistan.

The disconnect was unsettling.  The reality of events competing with the reality of the marketplace. Networks cannot run on nothing.  I know they need commercials to stay on the air and keep me informed.  But this seemed so out of alignment, twisted.  The twisting continues today.

I listen to details about how the #TexasTaliban essentially ended abortion rights in their state, how they pulled this off and why the SCOTUS majority just let it go.  Then, this:

“Here’s why birthday candles are the perfect gift.”

I listen to updates about Ida flooding the northeast.  And then this:

“Everything’s better between King’s Hawaiian bread.”

We seem, in some ways and in some places, to be carrying on. Life rolling along. No good can come from tears without action.  No good can come from walking around in sackcloth and ashes.  But it feels wrong to be bopping around all “dynomite” happy during these tragedies.  How to do this?  How to find balance without being mindless? Time for a refresher course in stoic philosophy. I have been reading and re-reading Marcus Aurelius since last year, perfect advice for these days. From Book III of his Meditations:

“You need to avoid certain things in your train of thought:  everything random, everything irrelevant.  And certainly everything self-important or malicious.  You need to get used to winnowing your thoughts, so that if someone says, “What are you thinking about?” you can respond at once (and truthfully) that you are thinking this or thinking that.  And it would be obvious at once from your answer that your thoughts were straightforward and considerate ones – the thoughts of an unselfish person, one unconcerned with pleasure and with sensual indulgence generally, with squabbling, with slander and envy, or anything else you’d be ashamed to be caught thinking.

Someone like that – someone who refuses to put off joining the elect – is a kind of priest, a servant of the gods, in touch with what is within him and what keeps a person undefiled by pleasures, invulnerable to any pain, untouched by arrogance, unaffected by meanness, an athlete in the greatest of all contests – the struggle not to be overwhelmed by anything that happens.  With what leaves us dyed indelibly by justice, welcoming whole heartedly whatever comes – whatever we’re assigned – not worrying too often, or with any selfish motive, about what other people say. Or do, or think.

He does only what is his to do and considers constantly what the world has in store for him – doing his best, and trusting that all is for the best.  For we carry our fate with us – and it carries us.”

Marcus Aurelius wasn’t suggesting I stop brushing my teeth, buying presents, or eating tasty bread. He would be indifferent to inane commercial breaks and advise me to do the same.  He’d say focus, be an “athlete in the greatest of all contests – the struggle not to be overwhelmed by anything that happens.”  He’d say learn this:

We live serious content interrupted by commercial breaks.

It all just is.

If I really get that, if I know how to roll, I can show off my smile this Labor Day with gravitas and balance. Like a stoic athlete.  Up and over the bar.

Still trying,

Joyce

Safe To Dance

Dear you,

The Taliban officially owns Afghanistan again; it is absolutely not safe to dance there.  What is this religious obsession with dance or pleasure in general?  Researching the history of dance as “sin”, I learned about Sayyid Qutb.  He came from Egypt in the 1950s to study America and left enraged, driven to “wage holy war” based on what he witnessed. This man is said to have created the theoretical basis for radical Islamism.  The following website describes a pivotal moment when he watched people dancing to “Baby It’s Cold Outside” at a sweet little Christmas party:

 https://qz.com/1491525/baby-its-cold-outside-and-the-rise-of-islamic-fundamentalism/

Oh for the love of god.  Literally.

I know I am being judgy again, but this is nonsense.  It’s malevolent nonsense.  When these religious guys (yes, they are usually guys) create their sin lists, innocent people get hurt.  Innocent people get fearful.  Innocent people who just want to be “good” feel lost and post questions like this to religious advice websites:

“Is it a sin to whistle, to clap, to wear yellow and red clothes?”

On another site, a soon to be married Christian man asked for permission to dance at his own wedding.  The advising expert (sexpert/pervert I would say) called him self-indulgent. He claimed dancing as found in Bible stories was different, not like “modern” forms “designed to express a love interest in the other person.  Movement, hand placement, and body positions all speak of intimacy in a public setting.  There are dances that don’t, but they are not currently favored.”  Oh, I got it now.  You can dance if you want to, but only if you do the “not currently favored” moves.  Just avoid moving in any way that is remotely appealing. Move without design and remember that this is a non-contact sport.  Do not touch.  Do not titillate. 

Which leaves me with a very short list of non-sinful dances, moves guaranteed to repel and not appeal:

The Funky Chicken

Jane Fonda Aerobic Grapevines (no hip movement, please)

The Robot

The YMCA (oh the irony, Village People and all that)

The Dad Dance (fist pump with foot stomp)

That Thing Where You Hold Your Foot Close to Your Ass and Hop Around

Nothing on that list is attractive.  Nureyev couldn’t make those moves sexy.  Maybe a stripper could, but I am pretty sure stripping is only allowed before baptism.  (Do they baptize naked?  I was raised chill-Methodist and we just got a little water sprinkled on our heads.  That’s probably why I was doomed to love dance and other assorted sins, faulty baptism.)

These sin-patrol monitors need to shut the hell up and quit projecting their shame on others.

I know, the Taliban and their kinder, gentler version here in the USA aren’t listening to sinners like us.  Since they aren’t, we need to add another line to the Declaration of Independence, update it for the record:

Dancing in all its forms is a human right; it shall be safe to dance.

(And to make music, to love who you will, to read, to write, to learn, to simply BE.)

Donate, please, to International Rescue Committee via RESCUE.org online.   They are working to evacuate, protect, and feed Afghani people. Thank you.

Love,

Joyce

Fred heading my way, suitable weather for grief.

Goodbye, Sudan.

Dear you,

Tropical storm Fred is heading to the Panhandle. The wind is starting to pick up now; littles gusts making the trees dance.  It is beautiful, really, this force of nature following the path Hurricane Michael took in 2018. The grey sky, the rain falling like tears; it suits this brutally sad day.

Sudan, the last male white rhino is dead.  An extinction.

Afghanistan falls to the Taliban.  Another extinction, or rather, a regression.

These two sorrows have hit me harder than anything I have experienced or witnessed.

I wonder why that is?  Could be a feeling of helplessness, impotence in the face of what I never, never expected, a world going backwards, killing beauty as it goes.

So, as we all mourn, I welcome Fred.  I hope he strengthens and cleanses this place.  I appreciate his timing, forcing us here in callous Florida to feel and gracefully grieve, painting an appropriate, somber background for honoring what is lost.

Tomorrow, we might wake to gentle weather and try again to get it right. Again, and again, and again.

RIP #Sudan

Good luck #ZarifaGhafari, the first female mayor in Afghanistan.

Joyce

Go Commando and Save the World . . .

Dear you,

Consumer affairs are still in flux.  The random shortages continue.  This week in retail:  Panty panic.

I don’t do underwear since most of the time I’m in leggings or long shorts (is that an oxymoron?).  It is just not necessary to wear one pant-like garment under another pant-like garment unless you’re layering for warmth. That’s redundant. But I do wear hipsters or boy shorts under dresses, skirts, or those XXL t-shirts posing as dresses. This I do to keep my commando mode private, in consideration of the greater good. So recently, I went shopping to renew my supply of the sometimes-necessary under things.  I went to Target, a bad idea.

The store itself looked a bit light in merchandise and the stock of undies in my size and favored types was beyond depleted.  I found one gigantic pair of hipster panties. Big enough for an XXL bottom who likes mint green with flowers. Moving on.  I found one pair of boy shorts.  But these were XXS.  I am little, but not that little.  And they had clearly been dropped on the floor a few times; the dove grey material was covered in shoe-prints.   The only fully stocked drawer contained the dreaded “briefs”, a.k.a. granny panties.

I wandered around looking for options and found a massive display of packaged panties, Hanes, Jockey, that sort of thing.  There were plenty of these.  But not in my size.  Plus most packs had been ripped open and re-taped shut.  Not a good sign.  Nobody should purchase underwear that has been "tested" at the Target in Panama City Beach.  My mission failed.

Where have all the panties gone?  Are they in exile with other things I struggle to find now, things like lint rollers, velvet scrunchies, Haagen Dazs coffee ice cream, and Suave $1 shampoo?

I was going to go on and on about these bougie concerns, but then I remember this from Reuters yesterday:

U.N. climate change report sounds “code red for humanity”.

I am shutting up about underwear.

We sweat, we burn, and (if you are a stork disoriented by wildfires) we die migrating across Greece.  An increase of 1.1C in temperature averages is now.  An increase of 1.5C is supposedly all we can take and we are almost there. I have a feeling our mutual desires for things like panties, scrunchies, ice cream and shampoo got us to this point, things, silly things made in and transported by an oily economy.

I really don’t care about the depleted panty supply at Target.  Like I said, I don’t like underwear anyway.  But this world? I hate to see it go. To prevent that, we are back to the obvious, necessary action:

“Anyone speaking about climate who isn’t urgently calling for an end to the fossil fuel industry deserves to be ignored.”  Peter Kalmus, NASA climate scientist, posted that on Twitter yesterday.

Will I see the end of the fossil fuel industry in my lifetime? What can I do? Step 1:  Stop bitching about depleted panty bins.  Step 2:  Keep pushing politically for a green approach to energy and production. Step 3: Commit to going commando.  Forever. Some "things" are just not worth it.

Go commando and save the world.  

Done.

Joyce

Broken things, steady friends

Dear you,

My gig website is not functioning.  When attempting to download a writing submission, I get the spinning “processing” sign that goes on and on and on.  If I finally receive a document to work with after enduring the spin cycle, I hit another wall.  When I complete the writing review that takes at least thirty minutes, I cannot submit the work.  More spinning processing signs. Wasted time and wasted instruction, lost in the matrix.

Is it the fault of my internet service provider?  Is it the fault of my strangely haunted laptop?  Is it just faulty me, going through a phase of failed “processing”?

The source of glitching is irrelevant.  I just cannot do this anymore, rely on broken things for work or information.  For every problem, there is a solution, right?  Not in this case.  I have danced on this broken glass for months now and I surrender.

And as I type, just now, another thing broke. My Mediacom cable died. The sign this time is a black screen with a box informing me of a “scrambled channel or weak signal”.  So much for my beloved MSNBC background news stream.  Solution for this problem?  Nothing I can do in this case either.  Out of my hands.  I surrender again.

Carrying on, I turn on something that (for now) is reliable, the radio voices of NPR.  I am hearing updates about the Olympics.  I am hearing Wall Street news.  I am hearing political chat.  And none of this is glitching.  The only way this connection can be broken is if the power goes out.  And even that won’t matter.  This radio is battery powered too, part of an old school CD player/radio device.  It’s adorable.  And probably impossible to replace.

Carrying on considering late evening entertainment, I can turn on another reliable machine.  The DVD player.  If the cable is still down, I can pop in a classic like Sex in the City.  Which I have seen 5,678 times but whatever.  Sure, I could stream something on the Smart TV laptop connection, but I don’t want to risk possible “processing” annoyance.

And then for later-later, I have these things on my nightstand called library books.  They won’t burn my eyeballs like screen time.  They are physical and operate on their own power.  I can fall asleep on them or drop them on the floor without fear of breakage.  And that power outage thing?  I have a battery-operated camping light, good enough to read by.

I know if my cable is not back on tomorrow or if my gig-website drama continues, I won’t be happy.  I’ll be frustrated because I want those things too.  I just wished the new stuff worked as well as the old stuff.  I am not a Luddite.  I am a glutton for connection, the classic and the cutting edge. But I recall someone in one of those library books assessing that edge.  Something like if you live exclusively on the cutting edge, you are probably going to bleed.

I refuse to bleed over laptop spasms, digital-cable tantrums, or internet crashes (even as I attempt to post this blogette).  I won’t.  It just doesn’t matter.  I have my darling NPR radio, DVD player, and library books. 

Good friends don’t break. 

Invest in those.  And, oh, it's probably wise to get a landline too.

Love,

Joyce

Please mess with Texas.

 

Dear you,

My parents gave me a “Don’t Mess with Texas” coffee mug in the 90’s, bounty from one of their road trips west.  I loved that mug, perfect size, bright colors, amusing slogan.  It reminded me of good Texas stories and people, like the formidable Governor Ann Richards, strange Matthew McConaughey and Queen Beyonce.  Unfortunately, about a month ago, I dropped the mug on my stone floor.  Goodbye little cup.  I think perhaps this was no accident (see Freud).  I think, subconsciously, I was weary of Texas political antics and their freak governor (King Abbot) and took it out on an innocent souvenir.  Texas has gone so nuts their democratic legislators had to leave the state to stop the passage of a voting restriction bill.  Exiled in D.C., when they return the killer bill will pass anyway.  At least they tried to mess with Texas. 

Others are trying too.  Many are fighting this:

“Starting September 1^st, the state of Texas if offering a $10,000 bounty to any private citizen willing to sue another person who, in some way, helped make an abortion possible.  The potential list of targets for such lawsuits is endless: from a pregnant person’s doctor and nurses, a therapist or pastor who offered moral support, a partner who helped pay for the procedure, a friend (even an Uber driver) who drove the patient to the clinic.  Under the new law – which a group of doctors, clergy and clinic owners sued to block Tuesday – any or all of them could be taken to court by a stranger with no connection to the patient whatsoever and forced to pay a minimum of $10,000 each, plus legal fees, for “aiding or abetting” an abortion.”  (rollingstone.com, 7/13/21).

Even an Uber driver.

This is all so very disappointing.  I liked to think of big red Texas as out there in libertarian land.  Do your thing and I’ll do mine.  Now they are among the biggest and reddest puritanical purge zones in America.  Just imagine the havoc this bounty thing will create.  Every small or big town goody goody will be ratting out hot young women who might just be suffering from belly bloat one day and then got over it the next.  “I swear to you Roxanne was fully with child yesterday when I saw her at the Whattaburger.  Now she’s back to normal.  She should go to jail. And I’m calling my lawyer on that liberal pastor of hers.  He denies the truth about the Earth being 6,000 years old and I just bet you he had a hand in this.”

Things are going to get really ugly in the Lone Star State.

Good luck to the ACLU, Planned Parenthood, every owner of a “Keep Austin Weird” coffee mug and all the Roxannes too.

It is time to totally mess with Texas.

Love,

Joyce

 

 

 

Messy Holiday

 

Dear you,

How was your 4^th of July holiday?

The Gulf of Mexico was on fire near the Yucatan due to gas/oil leaks and corporate errors.

Afghanistan began falling to the Taliban after our exit.

Ransomware attacks continued.

Our “new” climate produced a heat dome in the northwest that killed millions of seashore creatures.

SCOTUS laid down a decision to further eviscerate The Voting Rights Act.

Surfside residents die in a condo collapse.

These events, and others, muted the expected joy associated with the 4^th of July holiday, at least for me.  I try not to be a Debbie Downer, but attempts at celebration fell flat.  Even our fireworks along the 30A coast were underwhelming, dampened by weather and something else in the air.  I can’t find the perfect word for that something else, but it’s like the feeling I get when I pass other condo units whose guests leave garbage outside their doors.  The above photo is one of the less horrifying examples.  I passed some of the occupants and complimented them for their “fabulous art installation”.  They had no clue what I meant.  “You know, that interesting pile by your door.”  Clue given.  Expressions shift to glares.  Twenty-four hours later, the pile is bigger.  They are free to do this.  And I am free to not clean up their mess.  Messy.  That’s the perfect word for all of this, the significant things like the above list and the insignificant things like filthy condo guests.

What should I do?  I do need to clean up this mess.  Keep pushing politically to reign in (or end) the fossil fuel industry.  Send checks to organizations who can, maybe, help the Afghani women.  Push for cyber-security as a key part of infrastructure.  Watch my own carbon footprint.  The Supreme Court and Surfside?  I don’t know.  For now, right this minute, I’ll start with the insignificant.

I am heading downstairs with a monster size garbage bag and cleaning up that mess by unit 10D.

My belated 4^th of July celebration.

Happy-Messy 4^th of July! 

Love,

Joyce