it’s been almost a year since that fateful day & i don’t know how you all feel, but i’m fucking fried, having spent it trying in vain to keep up with our ever darkening american dystopian future — only, bad news for us, the future is now. fear and loathing as america burns, ladies, gents, & my folx between. how katy tur & kasie hunt & bob eubanks & them haven’t all lost their minds yet is completely beyond me. i imagine their six figure salaries ease their pain just a tad. i, however, have found myself in a much lower tax bracket these days, so i remedy by querying red hat commenters on facebook as to whether they’re russian or no. not ashamed to say i’ll take it where i can get it. small victories, but victories, nonetheless. where will you say YOU were when the great meme battle of ’17 was raging online & in local alt reich rallies, happening near your town, too, probably.
i’ve gone through this entire god forsaken year watching the continuous stream of news all day every day — only just recently pulled back on that throttle, honestly — morning till it’s time to leave for work: 3:30 p. in may, 3:50 by july, at now four p. cause i just really couldn’t give less of a flip. the thought had crossed for a while that i was on some torture trip with it, or better some quasi repressed, masochistic, psychological trip, remnants from ddt in the seventies or some shit, for all i knew. good initial, but no. how in the hell do you, meaning me, process the thing when you’re constantly, incessantly, in it, you, meaning me, submerged, drowned in it most days. it’s when you, when i step back and take it all in, really see it and smell the fucking rank, vile shit of it, it’s only then that it really sinks in.
i’m sitting here now, letting that very thing occur as i type these words, listening to beautiful music, on a nice little gorilla glue reverie. still can’t understand it, though. can you? i can’t. but i can. see. very clearly that history must be repeating itself here.
i’m a writer and this is my game. they’re playing too fast, though, & i’ve found hard to keep up. two & a quarter innings in is where i hit my rhythm, just taking the pitches as he throws ’em, that’s all you can do & just, you know, at all costs, you just cannot let him. or them. have anything when you’re out on the field. defensive game as words on the proverbial page. five long months since they flowed, somewhat. and so they flow, again. all apologies…
“dark and sinister man, have at thee.”