#745: A Ramble

January 30th, 2017

It seems like time for something funny, an uproarious deep dive into the minutiae of urban living, like… winter hats or something.

But nothing seems funny.

Maybe it’s time for one of those ponderous declarations that will be reprinted out of context on the coffee mugs of the future after I’m famous and dead. “Life is this” or “Life is that.” Some witticism about the alikeness of all happy families or being the change you want to see in the world, broad bullshit that doesn’t need to be true to be beloved by people who use “journal” as a verb.

But I can’t think of anything true right now.

Maybe I should muster the anger against the terrorist with the necktie down to his knees, but if your fury isn’t there after this weekend of detainees and airport protests, it’ll never be there. If you’re not already mad, you’re not person enough for me to care.

I can’t paint a work of art that would make you cry. I can’t write a protest song that would crystallize this moment. I can’t even write a damn blog because I spent all weekend trying to type but being sucked into the Twitter/Facebook news wormhole astonished at the next insanity and the next and next.

I’m at a spot where if I dropped a ball in the middle of the air and it just hung there, I’d say, “Huh,” and move on with my day.

I’m not tired yet. I won’t be. My goal is to take care of myself and nurture my anger. I don’t want to flare up now and not have anything left down the road, for 207 more weeks of our civil liberties stripped one by one because people are scared to the point of committing war crimes by head scarves, the global thermometer and not being able to go all shooty shooty when the moment demands.

I guess this will be another blog post I’m not proud of, yet another where the content of my thoughts and words was determined by a madman in a White House rather than the small, simple, human stories I want to tell.

I spent all weekend thinking of what to write and am now typing this sentence three hours after when this story was supposed to go live. It’s become a ramble, but I sort of like it. It has the virtue of being what I’m actually thinking about in the first days of an American ban on an individual religion, the First Amendment now the first lie in our nation’s pledge.

All I can think to write is this: We are living in history. How we act, what we do and the art, words and thoughts we produce in this moment will show who we are clearer, brighter and more accurately than any decision we make when the consequences are light and the living is easy.

How we react will show the world who we are.

Who are you?

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