Banksy and creative care . . .

Dear you,

Let us be careful, not careless. Full of care as in mindfulness, yes, full of the spirit of WOKE.

I hope to get better at that and be awake always, responsive to amazing grace. See the art of Banksy above in Ukraine.  Amazing grace.

Oh, the beautiful things we can make and do when we care.  And oh, the damage done when we are careless. We push and pull against the likes of Elon Musk playing with people's careers and a major social media site; care be damned. Is it worth it, Elon? Is it worth it, Putin? Is it worth it, Federalist Society? Is it worth it, censors of art and literature? Why do you need to break beautiful things?

As for art/literature, see Florida (once again), Indian River County, momsforliberty.org. Their intention is to do more than limit student access to literature; their intention is to keep "those books" OUT OF THE STATE.  The state itself.  What does that mean?  A bunch of morality police with nothing better to do intend to control libraries, bookstores, online book sales?  Well, consider the source:

Storm trooper boots. Tight denim. Big smiles! Enjoy the purge! They pose as caring, so grateful for "your" support: "Thank you for fighting with us for our children! We invite all who know that parental rights are always the MOST important. Whether it’s medical freedom, curriculums, overreach of public servants (school board/superintendent), or whatever else stands between us and the best education for our children, we will be stronger together!"  Woo.  "Parental rights are always the MOST important"?  Of course, because sassy-hand-on-hip-gal looks really qualified to assess the merits of anything academic.  And the "80's wants their skirt back" mom will most definitely be a contender to monitor History of Fashion course materials.  I could go on, but won't.  

 Pure carelessness, this.  Carelessness posing as protection. Words from one famous challenged text come to mind. The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald:  "They were careless people . . . they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made."

Let's be careful.  And make beauty out of their mess.

To close, on a lighter note, I share this hilarious  #Thanksgiving2022 greeting from James Clow in NYC.  This would really piss off the liberty moms:

😄 Joyce

Sweet Dreams!

 Dear you,

November 8, big election day.  Quite an understatement.  MSNBC analyzes and experts predict while I attempt to clear my head by chatting in e-space.  Today's topic, inner space, my dreamscape.  A couple of nights ago I had a very vivid and obviously symbolic (if you believe that sort of thing or adore Freud) dream.  It wasn't blurred or erased when I woke, as I said, vivid. Spin this:  I dreamt about doing laundry.

Use your Google tool and search "dreams about washing clothes"; the interpretations are easy to guess:  you are seeking a spiritual cleansing, you are overwhelmed with tasks, you are tending to the banal instead of the critical, if the laundry is filthy, you are a hot mess. But here's the thing, my dream laundry was pristine and the rinse water pure.  I knew this because the washer had broken and I had to go inside the machine and fix it.  This is where it gets dreamy.  The washer was also a copy machine, like an old Xerox from the office-cubicle days.  When I opened the paper jam drawer, there was a lovely bright yellow and white striped towel hanging neatly over a rod.  I moved the towel from the copier rod into the washer bin and the machine started working again.  So what does this mean?  The clean, lovely laundry did not appear to need washing.  And instead of being frustrated and obstructed during the breakdown, I fixed what was broken.  I like that spin! 

Okay.  That was the inanimate object part of the dream.  There was also a human player on the scene, a young dude who looked like Kid Rock.  (Now we are veering into nightmare territory.)  We were conversant because he had something I needed, quarters, for the dryer I suppose.  After the transaction, I opened my hand and discovered only a few quarters and lots of pennies and a marble.  So what does this mean?  Am I feeling short-changed or ripped off?  Probably not, in the dream, I recall being calm but also calling him a "fucking idiot".  Kid Rock's feelings seemed hurt.  And then I woke up.

The one thing about this dream that made literal sense is the Kid Rock character. At the time, a group from Indiana was staying in the Airbnb across the landing from me.  One of the young men was a dead ringer for Kid R.  He even had that unwashed-probably-smelly thing going on. So I guess he seeped into my subconscious mind. Anyway, our only contact during their stay was when I passed him as he returned from the beach. I was headed to the garbage dumpster . . .  carrying his group's garbage.  They had left this gargantuan bag of crap by their door and I just wanted to make it go away.  So, as I passed Kid R., I lifted the bag and said "I love doing this."  He just smiled.  He either thought I meant it or he didn't give a damn. The Kid Rock in my dream was a lot nicer, even if he was a fucking idiot.  He gave me a marble.

And that is my dream journal for your contemplation on this massively important day.  Spin away and interpret as you will.

As for this night, I will probably pass out with the television on, tuned to MSNBC of course. Then I'll dream about Steve Kornacki!  He will be announcing an unexpected BLUE WAVE, a reprieve from creeping authoritarianism.  A disco ball will drop above the commentators' desk and a band of shirtless young people wearing Kornacki style pants (and no tops) will dash in from the wings and dance with wild abandon.  Random celebrities will appear on set to join the party. One  of the celebs will be Kid Rock. Rachel Maddow will interview the weeping Kid, saddened by the defeat of his red friends. Then I will appear on set as well.  I will give Kid Rock a pristine yellow and white striped towel, a few quarters, pennies, a marble, and a bag of garbage as a consolation prize.  And then I'll wake up.

I hope that dreams comes true.

Good luck, everyone. #persist 

Joyce

Tally Ho! Tally No.

                                                            Interpret this, as you will.
 Dear you, 

Halloween approaches and things are feeling very ominous, or omen-ish. My first point of scary discussion is about my predicted move to Tallahassee.  I journeyed there again a week or so ago and did another round of house tours with an agent.  The best candidate was a relatively new build in a development.  Clean, two story (which I like), good appliances and bathrooms, good location.  While nothing in Tally is really pedestrian friendly, like other towns and cities we know, at least this location was within walking distance to a library, a little park with trails and a baby lake.  The price was inflated and I had reservations, but compared to the randomness of this 30A beach scene, I decided to say go.  I told the agent to draft the offer; I would sleep on it and call her in the morning.  But then this . . . 

I returned to the hotel, which I have stayed at frequently, and as I enjoyed a cold beer by their little lake, I heard sounds of panic and screams near the front entrance.  I went to check this out and saw a car in flames in the parking lot.  No management or experienced person-in-charge was present.  Apparently, the "authority" assigned to handle this, or anything that might go down, was what appeared to be a sixteen year old girl at the front desk.  She was just standing there and ANSWERING THE PHONE! "Thank you for calling (fill in hotel name).  How may I help you?"  Oblivious.  I slapped the counter and told her to get management, now.  She stared back at me like I had asked her to time travel.  Forget this poor child.  I went out to join the scene, and at least found members of the janitorial/cleaning staff running around with fire extinguishers.  I asked them not to approach the car. (Explosion could be imminent.)  Had they called 911?  Yes. Luckily, the hotel bartender did that. Tick tock. The flames were about to engulf a worker's truck parked next to the burning vehicle and a nearby (formerly) beautiful oak tree.  There was no "commander" on site to hold back the crowd or restrain this worker/guest who might be in extreme danger. Ignoring cautionary advice, he did move his truck, slightly scorched, just as the fire department arrived. Ten minutes later the fire was out. The owner of the car, weeping and screaming outside the hotel entrance, wasn't a guest but a random local who had just been evicted from her apartment. She had nowhere to go. And, according to a hotel maid who comforted her, she had no insurance. Scary. And heartbreaking. She went somewhere with the EMT people who arrived with the firefighters. Fifteen minutes later, the douchebag manager showed up, tucking his plaid shirt into his kakhis. I suppose one must be tucked when pretending to handle an emergency. He passed me at the entrance and I said "You had no one acting as management in your abscence. You abandoned your hotel, your guests, and that child working the front desk. You are a horrible little man. I hope you enjoyed your "massage" break."

His response:  "We don't have 24 hour management here."

My counter-response:  "It's a 24 hour business.  This is a legal and safety issue. And oh by the way, it's five o'clock in the afternoon, not exactly the middle of the night.  Do your job."

The incompetence and the goofiness I witnessed felt like an omen, a signal.  Here, many of the people "in charge" are irresponsible and shifty. If this is how a busy hotel handles business in Tally, what was my future going to be like with similar goofy, dodgy "professionals" I needed to handle my power, cable, Wifi, water, sewer, dental issues etc. etc. etc.? This did not bode well. Just another Florida zip code with the same Florida problems.  Cue spooky Halloween music with a voice whispering "GET OUT; SAVE YOURSELF!"

So, as the remains of the car smoldered, I decided I was out.  I returned to my cold beer, my room, and a hot bath.  I packed and left the next morning.  Of course the shady manager was present then, and when the desk clerk who knows we well asked when I would return, I said "never."  "Why?!!!" "Because I cannot be in a place that lacks intelligence and accountable leadership."  Shady manager could not resist butting in and screeched "that's just your opinion."  "No, you horrible little man, it is an empirical fact."  Exit Joyce.  

I hit the road west back to Seagrove Beach.  At a rest stop I called the real estate agent and said "no deal."  I am out of there.  "Did you pray on it?"  She really asked me that.  Bless her heart. I suppose in my own world-immersed way I did "pray on it". Amen.

Well, that was fun. I really enjoyed my little trips to Tally.  But, something scary hovers there. Maybe it's the Ted Bundy thing. Anyway, Tally Ho! is now Tally No!  Live and learn and begin the search again . . .

Back in Seagrove Beach, the scene was as usual.  This time the maniacs were Fall Breakers (are these kids ever in school?).  This week is calmer and deceptively lovely since the air has cooled.  But I cannot be lulled into complacency because:

1. The very MAGA HOA board for my condo just raised my fees from $517 to $700 a month.  (The notice said something about covering the cost of "free" internet. Don't ask. They are dumb as hell.  Yes, I am so happy to pay for our "free" internet. Whatever. And of course, something about skyrocketing property insurance costs.  This, thanks to those dudes in Tally who are rolling in dough because they are complicit in and profiting from every aspect of inflation.  Don't blame Hurricane Ian or Mother Nature.)

2. Florida is tilting back towards a win for Governor DeathSantis and Senator Little Marco Rubio. I still have hope, but ... you know.

3. I don't have real neighbors here and when something old-lady happens, I might need help. Like yesterday when I bounced up the stairs to my unit carrying heavy grocery bags and then bent to fix this insulation strip that keeps sticking out of my door frame.  One heavy bag was on my left shoulder, another on my right shoulder, a third in the crook of my right arm, and the fourth (a half dozen eggs) was held protectively in my left hand.  While squatting to do that insultation fix with my right hand, I lost my balance. With those heavy bags hanging off of me like a pack mule and no free hand to restore balance, I tottered and fell.  On my butt.  Because I didn't want to drop the eggs. God in heaven, I am approaching that phase of life where my decision making is whacked.  My old self (or rather my younger self) would have dropped those eggs so she could grab the door and get steady in a heartbeat. Anyway, achy butt aside, no real harm done. This time. Keep in mind my broken hip days are looming large and nobody is next door to intervene.  My neighbor-next-door now, across the landing, doesn't exist.  The unit is an Airbnb.  No comment.  I hope the owner posts my butt-fall, captured by their door security camera, on YouTube. Category: Old people are funny.

4.  Flesh eating bacteria is spreading throughout the state. How apropos. Florida is highly resistant to culture, education, green energy, responsible governance, fitness, reproductive choice, or anything "woke". But flesh eating organisms?  Come on in! Our state mascot should be bacteria.

Enough.  All that to simply say, decision made.  Tally Ho?  Tally No.

The exploration continues . . .

Happy (?) Halloween.

Joyce 

Useless/Useful Advice?

 Dear you,

Another busy week, notably related to hurricane devastation across Florida and still in Puerto Rico.  That, and the usual attacks on democracy and far right lunacy.  So, all this in mind, what exactly is up with the inane articles that Google selectively delivers to my phone?  Mixed in with relevant news, I find startlingly silly titles.  Alas, this is based on previous searches; omnipotent algorithms have decided I need to know this stuff, now.  A few days ago, dear Google brought these stories to my attention:

From Southern Living, "Should You Point Silverware Up or Down in the Dishwasher?"

From Insider.com, "I'm an Interior Designer.  Here Are 10 Things in Your Living Room You Should Get Rid of."

I don't use my dishwasher.  Even if I did, why would this matter, really?  And as for my living room, the "I'm an Interior Designer" person ordered me to remove all book or DVD collections from that area.  Of course, all that pesky artistry might discomfort guests who may or may not use my improperly washed flatware. 

Something else came to my phone recently, not from mind-reading Google, but via text from a friend (James in NYC). He was actually being helpful, sharing ideas about my next move (this interminable project).  His link featured an article listing the top ten places to retire. This was useful, but the candidates for my silver/golden years came with caveats:

Charleston, S.C.  (Floods and ghosts.  Seriously, that town is haunted.)

Orlando, FL.  (Floods here too. See Ian and the evacuation of nursing homes.)

Cincinnati, OH.  (Relentless Trump rallies and J.D. Vance.)

Miami, FL.  (Hurricanes.)

Ft. Lauderdale, FL. (Ditto above.)

San Francisco, CA. (Expensive as hell and I smoke. Smokers in Cally are shunned or institutionalized.)

Scottsdale, AZ.  (Relentless Trump rallies and Paul Gosar.)

Wilmington, DE.  (No clue about this place.)

Tampa, FL.  (Ditto again on flood dangers and a ticking hurricane clock. They got lucky last week.)

I can find reasons to resist every suggestion in useful advice as well as useless advice.  But I will try to keep an open mind.  Let me check the Google thing on my phone now and see what pops up. Okay. The standout news bit in the useless category was this:

From News-Medical.net, "Increased Risk for All-Cause Dementia in People Who Abstain from Alcohol".

Excellent.  A "scientific" reason to knock back a few cold ones on a Sunday in a fractured, nomadic world. Imagine the Bacchanalian displays popping up in The Villages right now.  "My Google Doctor told me to drink dementia away!"

Useless?  Useful?  Probably just stupid and possibly misleading.

Is any of this advice worth taking seriously?  Time will tell. I'll let you know a few years from now when I am not living in Ohio, not obsessing over silverware washing techniques, and not purging books from my living space.

Curmudgeonly yours,

Joyce

My Q problem.

                                                                                

 Dear you,

I'd like to believe the exquisite angel pictured above exists.  I quasi-believe she does, just without the wings.  Why do I indulge in such fantasies?  Why do I believe what I believe? Why do we believe what we believe?

Zoom out and consider a group of "true believers". The latest Trump rally reminded us that the QAnon gang is still around, unconvinced their god lost the 2020 election and more convinced than ever that the Dems, the liberals, the educated, the whatever that is not them, are their Deep State enemies who must be destroyed.  This really ugly belief system is not going anywhere.  Like that strange stain on an old 1970's shower insert, it can't be scrubbed totally away.  During that rally, the Q brigade honored Donald with their one finger up salute. Photos show the Orange One wearing a Q lapel pin. His support is now literal. Accessories don't lie.  

Why be concerned? Because we know who these people are. Recall the height of the pandemic a year or so back.  Remember the Q pediatrician from Houston, Stella Immanuel, who claimed hydroxychloroquine would cure Covid?  This, according to Vox.com, is the same whacky physician who "declared, among other things, that ovarian cysts are caused by sex with demons, that scientists are experimenting with alien DNA, and that reptilian humanoids are running the government." 

What made a supposedly educated woman, and so many others, believe this nonsense?  Why don't I or you or you or you buy this line of bullshit? How do we differ, empirically?  Researchers claim some are more susceptible to conspiracy theories because their brains are prone to "illusory pattern perception". They make connections where none exist and the cause could be their higher than average levels of dopamine.  Oh, like people suffering from schizophrenia.

I guess I should examine my own beliefs, especially the ones that seem so airy.  Recently, I have been playing with positivity theories, yes, even things like the Law of Attraction, creating energy powerful enough to design/redesign what appears to be reality.  The texts discussing this approach to positive power are benign, in as much as they don't advocate violence or the elimination of the "other"; they simply emphasize a rise-above-create-your-own-story way of being. However, I must admit it feels like magical thinking. Case in point, as I search realtor.com or Zillow for homes for sale in Tallahassee, my ability to think what I want into existence proves to be pretty limited. There are no real estate angels. But why not give it a try, strengthen my unwavering-faith-muscles?  The art of the possible is more fun than the art of the probable. Fun, hope, the sunny side of the street make sense to me. But, according to an eye-opening piece in psychologytoday.com (by Dr. Neil Farber in 2016), some of my sunny beliefs are absolute bullshit. And kinda dangerous. His key points:

The Law of Attraction (LOA) is metaphysical pseudoscience based on erroneous assumptions.

This LOA assumes one is alone and completely responsible for any unachieved goal.

LOA philosophy leads to "apophenia" - the "misguided belief that there is meaning behind random data."

Yikes. I am just a fluffy version of a QAnon believer.  Maybe I am buying into something equally insidious.  That Farber article also cited Rhonda Byrne in The Secret: "If you see people who are overweight, do not observe them . . . if you think or talk about diseases you will become sick.  What you think or surround yourself with, good or bad, is what you will bring upon yourself."  Which leads to this even more repulsive advice from Wallace Wattles, an LOA founder: "Do not talk about poverty; do not investigate it, or concern yourself with it.  Do not spend your time in charitable work, or charity movements, all charity only tends to perpetuate the wretchedness it aims to eradicate".  "Give your attention wholly to riches; ignore poverty."

Oh. My. God.  That is deplorable.  I have semi-bought into a deplorable line of thinking.  Just go ahead and hand me my Q lapel pin. (Hand one to John Gibbs of Michigan too, a Trump backed candidate for Congress.  He argued back in college against women's suffrage claiming the USA has suffered as a result of femmes voting. These people just keep coming out of the woodwork like roaches.)

Man oh man.  America needs a serious belief-system checkup. Our minds are buying into and manufacturing beliefs that are seriously questionable. Just remember what David Foster Wallace said, someone sadly familiar with mental demons:

"The mind is an excellent servant, but a terrible master."

Amen.

There are no angels hovering around me.  There are no laws of attraction manifesting my perfect home, much less world peace.  There are no sexy demons looking for love at the local bar.  And there are no lizards running the government.  (Other than Ted Cruz and Mitch McConnell who both have a suspiciously reptilian look.)

End.

Joyce

Grace Under Pressure

 Dear You,

Goodbye, Queen Elizabeth II.  A model of stability and leadership, a model of grace under pressure.  Today, a random music encounter made me think of her. As I strolled with earbuds in, an oldie station played "Under Pressure" performed by David Bowie and Freddie Mercury. I listened to it through the filter of breaking news, the loss of this queen, the events of the past few days.  On the lighter side, over the weekend we witnessed some joyous versions of grace under pressure:

We watched Tiafoe v. Alcaraz and then Ruud v. Alcaraz in the U.S. Open.  

We watched The University of Texas almost (almost) take down that Roll Tide school.

We watched the Pittsburgh Steelers pull out a victory in O.T. over the Cincinnati Bengals.

We watched Tom Brady come out of his faux retirement and win again. At 45.

The powerful play goes on.

We also witnessed something more notable:

We watched as Ukraine began to make extraordinary gains against Putin.  As I type, reports speak of Russians dropping their weapons and running. The Ukrainians are taking back their country, currently liberating parts of the Kharkiv region. 

The fight for freedom goes on.

Facing pressure, we bend or break.  Sometimes we need inspiration. I saw a woman on the beach this weekend who bore witness to an inspired dance with pressure. Her body told a story. Below her right shoulder blade, was a tattoo from the bible, II Corinthians 12:9.  I took a mental picture of the woman and the body art. She sat, head bowed, on a low beach chair, feet in the surf. She might have been praying or just meditating. She did not seem distressed, but she gave off a vibe of gravitas. When I returned to the condo, I looked up the verse her artful ink recommended:

"But he said to me 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.'  Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me." Glorification of weakness by Paul, Saul of Tarsus, a notable recruit for the post-crucifixion revolution, the creation of a new faith. I am no fan of Paul and this particular verse suggesting his lord revels in our pain annoys me. But my Paul problem aside, this person, this woman on the beach, thinks otherwise. This verse inspires her to handle pressure.  I appreciate that.

But back to the Bowie/Mercury song, with the Queen, Ukraine, stellar athletes, and the woman on the beach in mind, today I seemed to hear these lyrics for the first time:

". . . love dares you to care for/The people on the edge of the night/And love dares you to change our way of/Caring about ourselves/This is our last dance/This is our last dance/This is ourselves/Under pressure . . . 

We are all on the edge of night, under pressure.

It helps to have inspiration during this (hopefully not) last dance.  So, thank you Queen Elizabeth II, freedom fighters, powerful players and tattooed messengers everywhere. You all know the cliche is true: Pressure makes diamonds.

XO

Joyce

Surprise! Redistricting and the Dollar Tree.

 Dear you,

The Florida Primary Election was pure confusion. (Can confusion be pure?)  The redistricting throughout the state came as a surprise to many voters who showed up to vote on 8/23, the official election day, only to discover they were in the wrong polling place.  Surprise!  You've been redistricted.  This happened throughout the state, north, south, east and west.  It happened to me.  Story:

I voted in-person early, the week before 8/23.  Early voting can be done anywhere in your county of residence.  I went to the place I always go for early voting, the Walton County Courthouse Annex near the beach on Hwy 331.  When I got the ballot for Democrats, I saw what I expected.  I selected Charlie Crist for Governor, Val Demings for US Senator, and Daniel Uhlfelder for Florida Attorney General.  What I didn't see was a Democrat choice to oppose Matt Gaetz, the current un-fabulous congressman representing District One.  District One was my district.  Where were the Dem challengers?  (Schiller and Jones.  In the end, Jones won and will oppose Matty.)  I asked the polling workers what was up.  Perhaps Schiller was running unopposed since Jones had previously been pulled from the ballot for some technical reason related to party membership tenure.  Was this the case?  I don't see Schiller because she is unopposed and therefore "in"?  The workers were as confused as I was and suggested that was the case.

But it wasn't.  I had no anti-Gaetz Dem choice because I AM NO LONGER IN DISTRICT ONE!  The beaches of South Walton where I live are now absorbed into District Two, ruled by Congressman Neal Dunn.  This is the district that also absorbed the massive blue-voters of Tallahassee/Leon County's District Five, represented by Democrat Al Lawson. That district had, before DeSantis's shifty decree, included the majority black areas between Tallahassee and Jacksonville as well.  It is now submerged in the pasty mass of District Two, which DeSantis made even larger and whiter by shifting citizens from District One to District Two.  Clever. The majority of coastal voters here in South Walton are, as expected, red Republicans.  Their numbers will help dilute any resistance by formerly blue Tally coalitions. Do the math. Alfred Lawson (D) will now oppose Dunn (R) in November in this "new" blobby, white District Two. Uphill battle indeed. 

Wow. Talk about a rigged election.

I have never been confused about my literal place on the election map until now. I don't know why I didn't inform myself about the scope of this redistricting and the fact that it included ME. Perhaps I was too focused on what was happening to Tally itself.  Perhaps I was everywhere but "here" in terms of "yes, it could happen here".  Anyway, I finally caught on a few days after 8/23 when a new Voter Information Card arrived in my mailbox.  There it was, clear as day.  US Congress, District 2.

Thanks a lot, Walton County.  Sending that card out after the primaries was really, really helpful.

Meanwhile, in the mundane daily world of the Panhandle, there are other changes. Surprise!  The Dollar Tree at Pier Park shopping center now offers products for $1.25.  They have not changed their signage yet to indicate they are now The Dollar Twenty-Five Tree. The poor employees now have to deal with irate cheapo customers who had no idea this was happening. They, the employees, were probably the last to know. Surprise! Just like redistricting.

Well, the good news on both fronts is this:  Matt Gaetz is no longer my vile congressperson and the $1.25 items are actually better than the $1 versions; the generic Q-tips are cottony and strong; the matches actually fire up when struck; and the candles don't smell like body odor!

And that is the news from here in the land of the redistricted and confused.

Happy end of August.  

Joyce