The big themes of the past few years:

  • Accepting the unforseen, unforseeable consequences of my actions. Specifically, falling in love and accepting all the joys, but also all the baggage, that entails. My specific version of this universal situation involves accepting a chronic disease, an impaired child, and a sociopath.
  • Taking stock and counting out the balance: what have I done, so far, weighed against what I have wanted to do, and against what I aim to do yet. Saturn return shit, midlife crisis shit, you know, the regular.
  • Assessing the psychic weights I carry and trying to let go what shreds and scraps I can.

And the big theme 2017: accepting the unforseeable consequences of a political situation that’s veered through slapstick into the realm of the criminal and kept right on into the stratosphere of extinction-level event. I’ll level with you – I am still stuck, tarpit-level stuck, in denial, having barely pulled myself out of grief. And grief, you know, is a debilitating thing. My sweet spot has always been anger – to rage, rage against … the machine, the dying of the light, the Man.  To put up a fucking FIGHT.


The fight hasn’t gone out of me, but it’s certainly died down for now.

I’m sometimes just so damn tired. I feel the unclean residue of being in the orbit of some things I despise – life is like this, right? If we work, associate with others, are part of a family, then we’re stuck being in contact with some things, some people we simply find personally revolting. This brings me down, sometimes. I’m still a laboring prole, still living close to the bone, still putting in 16-hour days, week in and week out. This definitely brings me down, sometimes. And I have to be emotionally attuned, emotionally awake and connected to my family and my students and never cut corners, never dial it in. That will bring you down, even while it lifts you up.

But. But. I am regrouping, rebuilding, revisioning. I’m in a reflective place and feeling capable of sharing thoughts once again. It’s still all messy, a pastiche, a thing in the process of becoming, horrifyingly imperfect, but still – I remain alive, remain myself, still scratching out a little sign in the universe to prove it.



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