Let it go?

Dear you,

My dryer died Monday.  Ten minutes into its spin, I heard a thud, like a brick hitting the floor.  Yes indeed, that alarming sound came from my darling dryer. Oddly, the machine kept working, but instead of its typical hum she was wailing. I paused the cycle to check for electrical problems; none existed, so I just let the cycle wind down and endured the mechanical aria. My cat was not happy about that and I was feeling increasingly annoyed. I realized I would have to deal with yet another broken thing.  Ownership is really fun. Then, I thought about my current detachment project, not being mainlined to cable news 24/7 (okay, maybe 16/7). I like it. Free smooth jazz is my soundtrack right now, compliments of a nice little radio station 106.3, the "Sea Breeze". The commercials are limited and the advertisers who support the station are civilized.  You won't hear screaming ads for the Trump Store in Panama City or the latest appeal to buy more more more guns. If and when the all powerful HOA board decides to nix my old school cable feed, I am ready, practiced in the art of moving forward while relying on things from "the past".  So, back to the dryer.  I woke the day after, looked at my note-to-self about calling appliance repair people and just decided to let it go. Gee, how easy is that?  I can hang dry my clothing, smalls, and even light towels and socks from the shower rods in both bathrooms. And I might have a little fun messing with the HOA busy-bodies by stringing a clothesline across the balcony! (That would be worth whatever they fine me.)  If I need to dry something massive like bedding or beach towels, I can use the hideous laundry room on the complex, something I pay for anyway and never use. And there you have it. Another "let it go" task checked.

Are you feeling this way too these days?  Are you thinking about break downs or break ups and coming up with a healthy Plan B? I'm talking about more than appliances or cable access now. In public life, so much breakage is happening and feeling imminent. Shaky democracy, book bans, a trashed environment.  What is my/your Plan B for that?  Do we really have to let the important stuff go too? No, so not a let it go option. We can keep at it, defending democracy and hoping that the opposition will, in time, trip over their own dicks.  For example, we can count on far-right infighting to inadvertently give us some breathing room.  See Florida, the current legislative session in Tallahassee.  The Republicans in charge proposed a bill that would take Florida state taxpayer money to help Trump pay his legal bills.  I know.  Jaw-dropping, isn't it? Well, we got a reprieve from that horror because Governor DeSantis vetoed the bill. Yes, the bill was so deplorable that even Ron said hell no. Now, in addition to his embarrassing failure to win the GOP nod for the presidency, he will have to watch his back (literally) in the state capitol building. No matter how much this dude kissed and kisses Trump's ring, when things got totally psycho, he said "enough".  Like I said, a little hope there.  No need to let go of democracy or giving a damn about our nation just yet.

Still, having a Plan B for most things is probably a good idea. Start small, detach from your dryer and constant screen viewings. Then move on to what seems impossible, like cigarettes, morning coffee, and evening cocktails. Let it go!  Let it go? Wait, no. Not the latter three. When it comes to those addictions, I echo the Governor's hell no and cry VETO!

I will adapt.  But I refuse to soberly die. 

Love,

Joyce

The Analog, The Transient

Dear you,

January 14, 2024, Seagrove Beach, Florida.

A fearless raptor visited me as I strolled about today.

Quite a beauty, this one.

A hawk, brown, white dotted feathers, lush, muscular body.

Its visit was brief; I dared come too close and she/he flew away.

And there it is, my humble epiphany for the day: beauty is transient.

I head inside and tune to the local public radio station (yes, some survive).

Smiles! They play the score from The Sound of Music.

Quite a beauty, that one too, available for real, for free, to anyone with an FM radio.

Free, like analog television once was.

Why did we give that up? 

Even pricey digital cable is on its way out, replaced by even pricier streaming.

See yesterday, the NFL streams a major wild card playoff game, severing access to the big all of us, or mostly all.

Quite cynical, this decision.

Quite sad too.

I worry we are losing access to so much artistry, in poetry, in body art, in reportage.

I pout on a perfectly lovely Sunday. Remedy?

Shift focus to the analog, continuous like a heartbeat, continuous at least until it stops.

Shift to the soundtrack filling my silly condo, listen:

"Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens/bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens/

bright geese that fly with the moon on their wings/these are a few of my favorite things.

When the dog bites, when the bee stings, when I'm feeling sad/

I simply remember my favorite things/and then I don't feel so bad."

My favorite things. Like public radio, televised sports, a fearless hawk.

Very analog.  Very transient.

You made my day, you wonderful (wonder full) transient things.

Gracias.

2024 - the year of beautiful things

Dear you,

2024 begins with some anniversaries.  Tomorrow we have to remember the January 6, 2021, insurrection.  I say "have to" because so many among us deny the carnage party happened and someone has to speak truth to idiocy.  Those who admit to the occurrence blame it on the FBI and Dems, suggesting we/they were under-cover actors trying to make the MAGAs look bad.  No, just no.  Why? Consider the vanity defense.  The FBI and Dems are way too attractive to look like the characters "on stage" that day.  The bad denim pants, reactionary baseball caps, the immense facial hair.  No, just no.  So, we remember. And we speak.

We can also happily remember that fifty years ago we were sane enough (and humane enough) to create the Endangered Species Act (ESA).  So many variants saved, if only for the moment.  I was reminded about this anniversary while listening to NPR, a program featuring scientists fighting for the rights of random beautiful things to exist.  I learned this:  top of the endangered list, orchids and red wolves.  As for the red wolves, there are supposedly only twenty left in the wild.  As for the orchids, some species are vanishing due to global warming (honestly, let's call it what it is, global broiling).

I am sure the fate of endangered wild things seems irrelevant when we think about our wars, our poverty, our emerging tendency to embrace the brutal autocrat-type. But why does relevance matter? Beauty is necessary; it cannot be properly priced or assessed in terms of "use value".  Beauty is worth fighting for. 

So, I hereby declare this new year, 2024, with all its predicted chaos and drama and stupid human activity, to be the YEAR OF BEAUTIFUL WILD THINGS!

Let it be so.

Happy New Year,

Joyce

Defiant and Alive

Dear you,

Christmas day in the bubble of coastal Florida.

Beautiful, warmish, breezy, scattered gentle showers.

My chubby brown girl cat wakes me, pawing at my face, nawing at the spine of the novel by my pillow.

I wake to peace and ease and feline antics.

I wake to NPR and the voice of Sedaris retelling Santaland Diary tales.

I laugh as I do every year, preferring satire to sentiment.

I stroll around the condo grounds between the waves of rain.

They come and go, those waves of rain, like waves of thought, memory, simplicity.

Ah, my lucky peace and ease between the waves of rain.

Chubby cat is napping now, like any other day.

She, like me, is in the bubble, but perhaps she dreams of brother and sister cats far away in war zones.

Perhaps she dreams of strutting triumphant under some country's flag.

Defiant and so alive.

She dreams between the waves of rain.

As do we all.

Defiant and so alive.

Love,

Joyce

Lame Mea Culpas

Dear you,

Breaking news: Powell and Chesebro (2020 election deniers and active participants in the attempt to overthrow the results) have written their apology letters.  Both are vague, one sentence statements that do not directly address their overarching intentions or admit to their misguided fealty to Trump. Sort of "sorry, not sorry" missives.  We need a bit more from them, and we need more than apologies from some other treacherous entities. See Texas:

Citizen Kate Cox was told by dudes (and their handmaids) she could not receive the abortion she needed. She did not meet the requirements set by Attorney General Paxton and his ilk.  The verdict from them:  forced birth.  She had to flee the state and get treatment elsewhere. Texas conservatives, can you muster up at least one sentence communicating your regret?  No, because you think women are cattle. 

See news-bits from frequently questionable sources delivered to our little phones, information tailored to freak us out:  This week, I received "must read" links to articles about BRICS (the Brazil, Russia, India, China and South African alliance) and how their future currency will destroy the dollar.  Run!  Empty your bank account now!  I am not (yet) dumb enough to fall for these types of alarmist predictions, but it did bother me.  Imagine what it did to more vulnerable types.  Hey, BRICS pimps, could you craft a "sorry" for agitating your elders?  No, because you believe in financial Darwinism, or something like that, believing the "weak" deserve to be destroyed.

And then see the ultimate misogynist chatted about on X (formerly known as Twitter which child Elon has pretty much destroyed, as was his motive all along) this week.  The man, vaguely referred to as a military type, was praised for how well he has trained his wife.  She does not eat until he has completed his meal. How about putting together one sentence admitting to your weakness and cruelty, tough guy? No, because you are a base level asshole.

There are many things I might be sorry for, but nothing I have ever done was intended to subvert democracy, dehumanize women in any way, or exploit the fears of vulnerable people. But I must share a one-sentence apology for "judging" them:

I am sorry Paxton is a douche, sorry the BRICS pimps are spiritually bankrupt, and sorry asshole husbands still exist.

Really, really sorry.

Happy Holidays!

Joyce

Artful Dodges

Dear you,

George Santos is no longer Congressman George Santos.  Today, he was officially expelled from Congress. Unprecedented action suited to these unprecedented-everything times.  Poor boy George, taking the American mythology of self-creation too far.  Such an obvious liar, caught in that old tangled web. I suppose we all lie, perhaps not on the Santos-Trump scale, but on the "lighter side" of deception, perhaps we just need to dodge something. The dodge lie is probably pretty common.  Most of us have made stuff up to avoid a dreaded encounter or consequence.  I recall these little dodges of my own:

In the eighties during my fabulous Manhattan days, I remember telling a "beau" I couldn't meet him for a date because I had to unpack my trunk. (What was I thinking and why did I choose a trunk when clearly I had not been traveling on a luxury ocean liner.)

Also in those heady eighties, I told a real beau that my relationship with another cast-member on the road in Best Little whorehouse in Texas was nothing to worry about since the guy was gay.  (As it turns out, the guy was gay.  And as justice would have it, the real beau dumped me.)

During a teaching gig in St. Pete., Florida, I told a particularly deplorable student that I couldn't meet him during office hours because I didn't have to have office hours due to my "special status".  (Of course he ratted me out.  I don't care; it was worth it.)

In a recent conversation with a neighbor, I told her I went to the doctor for a checkup every year. Truth is, I never go to the doctor unless something breaks or explodes. (I said this because the neighbor is actually a sweet soul, rare in this zone, and I didn't want her to worry about me.)

And almost every day in condo-world, I avoid "exciting" the schadenfreude types by never describing my real situation.  I might have a toothache, be aggravated by my maniac cat, annoyed by the idiots at the grocery store, or freaked out about the jury summons I just received, but they will never get to enjoy my pain.  My consistent reply to their creepy "How ARE you(s)?" is consistently this:  "I am absolutely fabulous, always."

Well, no true harm done in any case, right?  Maybe lying is just part of being human, part of our efforts to protect ourselves, create ourselves.  But consider this from Andre Malraux, "Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides."

And with that being said, I must now sign off.  I have to unpack my trunk. God only knows what I have hidden in there.

Love,

Joyce

Condo Boards and Congress, Fight Clubs!

Dear you,

This week, Republican Senator Mullin of Oklahoma challenged Sean O'Brien, Teamsters president, to a duel, a fisty one, right on the senate hearing floor. "Stand your butt up."  "You stand your butt up."  That was the challenge and the retort, very fifth grade playground. Fabulous Senator Sanders, brother Bernie, had to remind Mullin that he was a senator, for god's sake. And then, in the House, former Speaker McCarthy was accused of elbowing an enemy congressman in the kidney.

Is this happening or am I failing to distinguish between (once again) satire and reality? As for shenanigans in Congress, in the current online Onion, see "Woman Comes Out of Manic Episode to Discover She's Been Elected U.S. Representative."  (From Florida, naturally.) In the sassy piece, the fictional congresswoman comes out of the episode and recalls some things she stated at rallies that her supporters loved: "I do know I said something about foreign oil being a juice concocted by Jesus Christ that would make U.S. troops grow tall enough to marry the Statue of Liberty." Actually, this sounds like something many Florida folks would cheer for.

What a hot mess, petty violence and idiocy. Like here, in my zone and the utter shit-show of my HOA.  This idiocy was on full display during the yearly owners meeting last Saturday.  Newer owners with ego problems have been working on their own little version of January 6, Lilliputian insurrectionists.  On forums such as Eneighbors, one standout ego-maniac lobs personal attacks on older board members and accuses the management company of something close to fraud.  After the vote for  next year's Board of Directors failed to meet his expectations (the older, calmer souls were actually re-elected), he suggested the management company had purposely "botched" the election.  Yeah, like "the election was rigged!"  I could not resist responding to all the infighting by quoting from Palahniuk's real Fight Club:  "The things you own end up owning you.  It's only after you lose everything that you're free to do anything." I also stated that I would be happy to let my condo go for $50 and exit laughing since everything here is so ridiculous.  (Word has it the owners who are currently listing their condos for sale totally freaked out about that.  Talk about blowing the comps!)  Sadly, the infighting here will probably not end any time soon, as it will probably not end any time soon in Congress. It's all Fight Club, but without the philosophical inspiration or literary sizzle.

To close, I wish you all well.  I shall now "stand my butt up" and try to carry on as the tragic-comedies continue.

Love,

Joyce