11.9.24 – Hot as Hell: Dressing for the Weather
Enough of all this kumbaya talk – it’ll be OK, time to roll up our sleeves, hope for the best, etc.
The outcome of this election was catastrophic – and the catastrophe hasn’t yet occurred. We’ve elected the world’s worst person our supreme leader – democracy in action! – and we – and all humanity – will pay the price.
Jane cautions me not to rant – her verb – but if rage is my truth, what’s my choice? To lie? Tucker’s my name, not Truckle.
Bad it is, bad as bad can be, and sure to get worse. Stage Four cancer for Team USA. Will we recover? I’m not optimistic. But we’re not dead yet – so must either defy – or accept defeat. Is that a choice?
Two anecdotes. Yesterday in the cab – on Madison Avenue – bumpy during repaving – an amiable driver of Indian descent explains: “This road always bad. Biden has no money. Trump has money – he’ll fix everything.” Jane clenched my hand, not to engage. Ten blocks north, where repaving’s completed: “Oh. Smoother. I suppose…”
Anecdote two. Granddaughter – brilliant (natch!), beautiful, top of her class --- arrives home from school reporting boy classmates saying, “I’d never trust a woman to run the country.” Low grades equal high IQ? Be still, my heart.
This is no rant but truth as I perceive it, unvarnished with phony hope. Empower a monster and expect monstrous performance – no exceptions. We’re in for it. Who’s to blame? Who cares! Bother the cause of our infection, let’s talk cure.
A curious consequence of November 5 – a day that will live in infamy and then some – has been the evanescence of my interest in news. Suddenly I’m no longer scrolling the Web, desperate for cheer-scraps, because I no longer care what’s happening. I stipulate that every Trump decision will be vile, evil, tear-my-hair-out and I aim to keep my hair. I don’t want to know – any more than the Stage Four cancer patients want to know. Let’s live life, not dread death!
My question to myself: How to make the most of my time? I’ve got one, five, ten, maybe thirty years left on earth, how to derive the most savor, wisdom, thrill? By bellyaching about Trump, bemoaning our slide into the abyss? Yeh, I’m stuck with the scumbag, but must I make him my vocation?
No, no in thunder. My moral responsibility is to make the most, encourage, exuberate. This obliges me to identify my optimal deployment. How best can I benefit my kind – kith and kin especially?
Truth is my goddess. I’m not good at much but I’ve a little gift of gab. I was born (this is my craziness – straitjacket, please!) to bear witness. I will tell the story, best I can, of one consciousness bumping through time. If I’ve taken passage on the Titanic, I won’t pretend otherwise. No painting lipstick on pigs if I can help it. Why this fidelity? Because truth – and only truth – frees us to joy. Only by knowing where we are – really are – can we rejoice in our whereabouts.
America has stepped in shit – let’s not sugarcoat. The question before me – the only question that matters – is, Will our system stand? Some well-built boats survive the storm, while others, less sturdy, splinter into matchsticks, dooming all aboard. That’s the news that interests me – stories of brave defenders of our imperiled idea. Hard times are the kiln of heroes, baking them hard. These times are hot as hell.