Today was fine. I was brittle and awful. Then I was not. 

Then I made a very delicious cornbread for dinner.

I'm struggling with myself over a few things. And I have a few important personal administrative tasks to do this week.

It's Andy's birthday this week. He's been dead (how odd the present perfect continuous tense) for nine months now. Long enough to be born. We had only a few short weeks to grieve together and then it's been this liminal state of living. I guess that's fitting, but it fucks with the process of grief.

Had an in-person conversation today with a friend I've not seen since the funeral. He stopped by to pick up a thing, stood on the sidewalk in front of the house; I stood back on my porch. I forgot to grab a mask on my way out.

I still feel like an asshole.

Here's a heartwarming short story that a friend made, recently. It's less than 4 minutes long. 

The Kindly Nettle 

There are barely two months left before the American election is stolen. The only way for the people to keep the republic from descending into fascism is a mass general strike. And don't bloody wait. Do it now. There's no more time to sit on the sidelines. You have to do it, and hold it, until they crack, and impeach the fucker before the election. Not after.

Fred Hampton "radicalized" me (as much as one can look at me, my life, my beliefs and my actions and consider me "radical")

(which is to say, "not at all") 

My family has been in the City of Chicago since before the Fire. And in my early 30s, I spent a lot of time at Harold Washington Library and the Newberry Library and the Cultural Center, looking at exhibits, listening to lectures, watching documentaries.

Of course, you learn the bare bones. The condensed, tourism-friendly, chamber of commerce endorsed versions. You hear the majority agenda assessment. And usually there is one voice, urging you to consider the deeper story, the more important aspects of the man's life or beliefs.

But from there, I learned about tbe radical mutual aid movements. I learned who the Black Panthers really were and the respect they deserved. I engaged with the story of the MOVE bombing. I had read the Autobiography of Malcolm X more than a decade before, but Fred Hampton's Chicago brought me to a better curiosity about the true progressives--black men and women, Latine men and women, queer and trans men and women--in America. 

I'm a middle-aged white lady. I vote for the most progressive person offered me. In the primaries, I donate to and work for the most progressive option. Then I make my regular phone calls and mail my regular letters to my vaguely conscientious and barely moderately liberal legislators and govermors, telling them I want more. I show up when I can and shout the response to the call.

I know the radical ideas are the ones we need, are the ones that might actually save us. I struggle with whether I have any power to make those ideas catch hold. I don't believe that I do. 

Spouse always wants to go walk for miles along the Lake in the middle of the day when it's hot and crowded. And he always remarks that I seem like I don't want to be there. And I don't. It's hot. And it's crawling with strangers who, for all I know, are eating in restaurants, going to bars, using the gym and recreational shopping in stores. I don't want to be near anyone like that.

Not even in the park.

This makes me think it will be years before I'm really comfortable around strangers at all. And possibly never before I can do crowds again, but I was headed there anyway.

I saw recently a CityLab (I think) blurb, showing how some strategic grocery stores and small commercial could make suburbs actually liveable. I can't leave the city because I do not ever ever ever want to have to drive somewhere if I need milk for my coffee or want to grab a few things at the drugstore. Plunk a grocery down at the top of every cul de sac and a book store or hair salon and I might consider it.

That's the other thing I am increasingly less comfortable with now that I never do it: drive. I drove a 12 mile round trip to buy my sewing machine just before Christmas. And I drove an 8 mile round trip to my office in April. 

During bad times, you think of better times.

music: Led Zeppelin - "Ten Years Gone"

mood: Chicken Lounge waitress/bartender, circa 1996

Plowed through some very mundane tasks on the to-do list. Including the first step (transferring the orders from one hospital system to the other) for some tests my doctor ordered months ago. Getting the parts ordered to cure my bicycle of winter riding and summer neglect. Prepping the sewing room for an upgrade.

It all felt very normal. I even ran across the street to the wine shop run by the woman who went to the same college as my sister & my husband, albeit 10 years after.

Had Indian delivery for dinner. Gonna have a cocktail and some video games. 

It all feels so normal. 

Why does that feel so dangerous?

On our turn around the park (it helps, but I whine, especially when it's hot like now and when it gets crowded), Spouse asked what I'd do in particular, if I had a free pass magic bubble "no-one gets sick or dies" leave to do anything.

And I couldn't really pick something. There's no single thing. And then I said I'd take the train to my parents and go to Dad's favorite restaurant for dinner. Then I started crying.

Speaking of no-one gets sick or dies, I'm having a hard time not being angry at people I know for their choices right now. I know it's complicated. And I'm not arguing or shaming people or even writing them off. I know it's complicated. But I am angry with the choices people I know are making. I know it's going to change relationships over time.

The most basic truth I believe in is that the most vulnerable person in every situation is owed the highest duty of care from everyone else in the situation. I know that is nothing something my society teaches, practices nor rewards. Particularly not when the most vulnerable person is a stranger or can't easily be identified.

Which brings me to my quote of the day:

Yea I’m dumb, and no politician heroes, but @EdMarkey saying maybe it’s time your country did something for you is, besides being a brutal burn, the exact perfect message for this moment and so obvious I can’t believe no one has said it before now.

Every day I make some art. Sometimes I hate it, or just don't care about it. Sometimes it's really good.  I find it somewhat disturbing how much I get out of other people liking my art. And also disturbing that I find it disturbing. Why shouldn't I feel good when my efforts are validated by others? We are social animals; acceptance by the tribe is an essential brain nutrient.

I really like acting. I haven't been doing it since I moved to Toronto. But I am reminded because acting on stage gives that kind of instant acceptance/validation. I've done a little work on camera but since I honestly can't stand to see video of myself (or hear recordings of my voice) it doesn't mean much to the wee little narcissist in me. If I was to take up acting again I'd have to find those few shows where the director isn't too particular about having every line delivered every time with the exact same words.

Choir is really nice but like any kind of live performance, extremely not recommended until there's a vaccine for the pandemic. 

I'm specifically not freaking out about how it's basically September.

I guess that's it for now.