I’ve run out of rage. At least the desire to express it. It’s too expensive to my body. I suck at holding grudges, too. I guess I’m just not wired for it. The worst part is my mind won’t cooperate with visualizing anything my heart rejects. I tried for four minutes to no avail. It’s a long time when you’re trying to imagine something unsuccessfully. It felt more like a concentration exercise. So I laughed at myself and changed my mind.
I know people, myself included, who are traumatized by what 45 is doing to our country. I know individuals who aren’t even American who are traumatized by him, too. His existence is a trigger because he’s loudly vile and proud of it. It’s a difficult time to be a woman, a POC, disabled, LGBTQIA, elderly, ill, evolved beyond tribalism, logical, or someone fucking concerned about the survival of our planet and species. Seriously, fuck anyone who isn’t.
I saw Angie Tribeca for the first time tonight. I love it. I’m going to buy the seasons and do a marathon this weekend. (After Firefly got canceled, I take my fangirl responsibilities more seriously.) I needed to add something new to my viewing habits and cut back on the shows where I’ve memorized the dialogue: Seinfeld, Friends, and The Big Bang Theory. Turns out, others find it annoying when you say the lines during the show. It’s a disappointment because it’s such a fun thing to do. If I only do it when I watch alone, it’s incredibly hard to refrain from also doing it when I’m not.
I can’t wait to go see Wonder Woman. I keep noticing the startling contrasts between progress we’ve made and oppressions proposed. It’s weird when they occur simultaneously. I feel like I’m living in 1929, 1945, and 1980. I’m relieved much of Europe is residing in the present. I like knowing there are still civilized nations. I haven’t slept in a while. My tolerance for being still is lower than usual. My cat enjoys my wee hour pacing, at least. I finished DeadZone by Stephen King. It’s excellent.
In One Person by John Irving is, too. It expanded my awareness and understanding of humans to an astonishing degree for a single novel. I highly recommend it. I don’t think I could possibly be privy to a more intimate view of the main characters, were they close friends. The story covers decades and is historically accurate in its portrayal of the AIDS crisis during the 80’s and beyond. It’s full of information on variations of sexual identity, and gender identity. There’s a trigger warning for (the depiction of) the murder of a transgender woman. It triggered me, but I’m still glad I read it.
I love reading novels. I’m loyal to my favorite authors and buy everything they write within days of release. But there’s one thing I wish all fiction writers would stop doing. Please, whenever you’re tempted to add a rape scene to your story, talk yourself out of it. It’s enough already. It’s not edgy. There are other ways to depict the past. It’s unimaginative to an exasperating degree. If it didn’t happen to the author, I don’t want to fucking read it. Okay? Glad we had this talk.