It used to be that I pretty much did it all, and then I came on here and told it. It's all I can do these days to get a weekly post out, and even that one is hard going. I'm not sure why to keep on doing it, to tell you the truth. Not it as in all of it, because I'm still sort of doing it all, but the blog itself. I don't have anything funny to say anymore, and I feel as blowsy as those peonies dying on my dining room table. Everything of beauty seems somehow tainted these days, doesn't it? I hate saying that the political climate affects everything, but it kind of does. While I'm as committed as ever to resisting, it takes an inordinate amount of energy to maintain composure, to not feel profoundly depressed, to not want to give up and give in. When you have close relatives whose politics are directly contrary to yours -- well -- it's enervating, to say the least.
The only rant I have energy to make is something like what I posted on Facebook, and I'm perfectly aware of how ridiculous and destructive it is to curse and rant and otherwise refuse to reach across the aisle or extend a compassionate hand or seek to come together with those of differing views. There are times for that, and I just don't think this is one of them. So here's what I have to say:
Another round of FUs to those who voted for 45, didn't vote or voted for a third party.
That's my response to the most recent news that our POSPOTUS pulled out of the Paris Climate accord. I might also have posted, "Way to sever global alliances, 45." I'm thinking our return to Dickensian times of chimney sweeps and ten children families is nigh. 45 really is a POS, but the bigger PsOS are those legislators and citizens that are watching and abetting him.
The old gray mare ain't what she used to be. She curses at least 5,456 times a day now, out loud and in her tiny little mother mind.™
So, here's my rant again:
Another round of FUs to those who voted for 45, didn't vote or voted for a third party.
I doubt there are any 45-supporters out there lurking around and reading this blog, but if there are, FU, too.
Charming, right?
The old gray mare just ain't what she used to be, ain't what she used to be, ain't what she used to be.
On a brighter note, the old gray mare is finally getting some pages together of Ye Olde Booke or what I used to call MGDB.* Sorry for cursing again. The process has been to write the thing for nearly ten years, be awarded a prestigious three-week writing residency on Whidbey Island where it is finished and then spend the next two years dismantling it into a series of fragments.
It's in the fragments that I lie.
*My Goddamn Book
