So the judge decrees that he become my butler.

I’m still rereading Seven Eves by Neal Stephenson.  It remains fascinating.  It’s about our incredible human spirit.  That something inside all of us that makes our species survive.  I love that the story is brutally honest in portraying human dynamics.  It feels relevant to our current political scene.  I think it’s ironic how white supremacists don’t understand what will actually cause the decline of white skin.  I love diversity, so my view is clearer than those of people who love to hate.  Hate interferes with one’s ability to think clearly.  Unfortunate, that.

The variation in human skin color is related to melanin.  Melanin gives hair and skin its natural color or pigment.  It can protect human skin from cancer in warm climates.  Warm climates get lots of sunlight.  People with a lot of melanin, (brown skin), are far less likely to develop skin cancer.  People with white skin fare better in colder climates that get less sunlight.  Their skin lightened to allow them to absorb as much Vitamin D as possible to survive with less sunlight.  It’s an adaptation.

I’ve established the correlation between melanin levels and sunlight/climate.  Some white supremacists have voiced concern that white skin is dying out of the human race.  These same white supremacists think global warming is a hoax.  They don’t get that the more we pollute our planet, the warmer it gets.  The warmer it gets, the more melanin we’ll need in our skin to survive.  We’ll naturally begin to adapt over time.  White skinned humans will stop struggling to absorb Vitamin D in colder climates because there won’t be any cold climates left on earth.  The adaptation will be rendered unnecessary.

Denying global warming is speeding up the process.  Hating non-whites doesn’t help this problem in any way.  Hating the planet is not helping, either.  Personally, I hope white skin remains as a variety of human skin.  I like diversity.  I’d rather see more variations than less.  I’m rooting for technology to advance to the point where I can be any color I want, depending on my plans.

I don’t hate white supremacists.  I hope they figure out global warming is their enemy.  I’m pro-earth, but not as much as I could be.  I own a gasoline-fueled car, and I use electricity from the grid.  I fly several times a year as well.  But I’m in the process of planting trees to offset my carbon footprint and then some.  I know I can’t call myself an environmentalist by any stretch, but I’m improving.  I think it’s natural for anyone to want their variety of human to survive.  Part of what makes us so beautiful is how much we vary from one to another.

I hope we get a handle on how we treat our planet.  Especially since it’s the only planet we have, and it looks like we won’t be focusing on science for a while in America.  I’ll never cease being amazed by the consequences of greed.  Taking more than your share obsessively has to be a mental illness.  Money worshipping should be in the DSM.  It’s an addiction that leads to misbehavior exponentially.  The fact that so many obvious mental illnesses are not included in the manual contributes heavily to my belief that psychology is still more religion than science.

Wealth leads to power in America.  It allows you to bypass the law and grants access to ever more means of doing so.  The fact that we celebrate success has been twisted beyond recognition.  It went from honoring merit to cheering for those who acquired it by any means.  Trump is not a successful business man.  He’s pathetic and twisted in every way.  He was given his money.  He didn’t earn it.  He lost it and borrowed more.  Then lost it and filed bankruptcy.  Rinse and repeat.  Four times.  Then he couldn’t get loans anymore because bankers were tired of his defaulting.  He has bad credit.  So he went to Russia.

There is no merit in his new ill-gotten wealth whatsoever.  It’s blood money gained through treason.  He’s an epic failure.  Like a lot of prominent Republicans, Drumpfs inner greedy ugliness has seeped out and caused him to look just as ugly on the outside.  It’s hard to even look at photos of him with his scalp showing through his weave.  It’s gross because it’s self-inflicted ugly.  These people are deliberately evil.  It makes me sick.

 

I have to open a bottle of ketchup for her.

Lately, I’ve thought a lot about core values.  I haven’t paid much attention to philosophy (because it should be called wishful thinking.)  Wishing is for childhood.  Adulthood abuses wishers.  Tinkerbelle dies every time in reality.  But as a child, you may have been allowed to indulge.  Sorry nobody warned you it was temporary.  Philosophy should be expressed and experienced in childhood.  Reality beats Philosophy about the head and neck until it dies pitifully.  Like from Syphillus.  Or a bottle of poison.

Adults who insist on fantasy instead of reality raise my blood pressure.  I don’t think I’ll have a heart attack, though.  My picky diet is surprisingly good for my circulatory system.  Also, the smell of bacon repulses me.  My brother used to enjoy chasing me up a tree with the bacon from his breakfast.  My knees, elbows, palms, chin, and shins show evidence of my experiences.  I’ve left a lot of skin specimens on concrete, tree trunks, pavement, and grass.  I blame activities involving wheels, blades, and helmets, poor decisions, and gravity.

When I fell during a run in basic training, my Drill Sgt. put his face inches from mine and yelled at me for bleeding on his hill.  I was on the verge of tears, but his tirade led to my laughing in his face, followed by regretting it, then mopping up my blood with the edge of my t-shirt.  When I was 27, I stopped taunting Gravity.  I stopped because Gravity got tired of my playing too much and smacked me hard.  It was one of those pains so shocking you analyze it while experiencing it out of awe.  I don’t fuck with Gravity anymore.

Identifying my values versus what I remember by rote takes concentration.  I’m determined to recognize what exactly I value more than my life.  I’m aware I overestimate people habitually and am preparing to rectify this behavior.  I’m strategizing for war.  Triage is crucial at this point.  I’m figuratively zeroing my weapons and eliminating the unnecessary to keep myself light and mobile.  I despise violence.  I used to live by a nonviolent philosophy.  Unfortunately, it was beaten out of me.  So I grew up and insist on truths instead.  I don’t hit first.  I hit back with everything I can muster.

Growing up with eight older siblings was violent.  I can’t imagine having five older brothers and not knowing what it feels like to be punched in the face.  Or shot at point blank range with pellets, bbs, and paintballs.  Or carried around by your head (that was when I decided to fight back).  The last time my brother, Guy, picked me up by my head, I broke his nose with the crown of my skull.  I didn’t know it could have killed him until years later.

It also startled him and made him see me differently.  I went from distracted and passive to overwhelmingly violent without warning.  He didn’t know how much he was hurting me by his actions.  He also didn’t realize the obvious reaction was to jump to prevent what felt like having my head pulled off.   Don’t ever pick someone up by their head.  It’s a horrible thing to do, and it might be the last thing you ever do.  The only results I endured after breaking his nose was a life free of being lifted by my head.  I’m off to read, then think some more.

You were making out during Schindler’s List?

My blood pressure has stopped spiking.  I look like I mocked Mike Tyson while in arms reach from burst blood vessels in my eye, but it doesn’t hurt.  Seeing all the humans in my town and around the world at the Women’s March reminded me we vastly outnumber the troglodytes.  My participation was expensive but worth it.  Whenever I see The Foul Ones now, I imagine them wearing a sticker on their forehead fashioned after the Intel motto, only they say Empty Inside.  They’re much easier to spot now.  Most are eager to identify themselves.  It’s gross.  I shower more these days.

I feel fierce.  Drumpf is delusional.  I think he actually believes his own lies.  The GOP is astonishing.  I asked myself how someone makes it to adulthood without learning the most basic life skills.  The only explanation I’ve accepted is the bubble.  Humans who are born wealthy have a disadvantage.  I think they know this instinctively.  In some, it becomes resentment.  They hate us for being born free of their burden, but can’t bring themselves to give it up.

Wealth is a false sense of safety.  It can be quite convincing.  However, it’s a poor substitute for much of what makes life joyful.  People who are born rich are burdened with the challenge of discovering this.  I’m proud of those who figure this out while they still have time to benefit.  When I see someone who has, it makes me smile.  The difference between earned wealth and unearned wealth can be loud.  I’ll use the obvious examples:

Drumpf vs. Bill Gates.  I know there is a magazine that claims Bill Gates is the wealthiest man in America.  Understand this is bullshit.  Some American men were born so much richer than Gates his billions are chump change.  But for some reason, we don’t talk about the trillionaires.  Probably because they have more money than America, and we’re one of their customers.  Let’s go with that.

Drumpf was born in a bubble.  He doesn’t understand why he’s an outcast among his peers.  (He’s a con artist)  He can’t figure out how to make them believe in his fantasy.  He’s getting ready to try a lot harder, though.  I feel safer in my non-position of nobody than I imagine those who have crossed paths with Drumpf in the business world are feeling.

Rich Americans are probably playing their own little game of Chicken.  Things are about to get ugly.  Money isn’t bulletproof.  It’s a promise that can be broken.  A million dollars is still paper and metal.  There is no gold backing it up anymore.  It can’t protect you from reality.  It can shield you if you’re smart, but you’re still going to die.  If you hide behind it too often, you become Drumpf.  He is nothing without his paper and metal.  He buys stolen, second-hand dirt and puts gold plating on it.  It’s fascinating.

I hope Oprah is living in Austria, or something.  She’s a billionaire who owns a TV network.  She’s also a woman with brown skin.  Oprah is probably staying to fight.  She wasn’t born rich.  She knows she’s naked.  Drumpf and his kind do not.  They think they’re clothed because they demand it.  They believe reality is what they say it is.  The bubble told them so.

People who earn their wealth are often different.  Figuratively and literally living on both sides of the tracks can be advantageous.  Some wealthy Americans, like Gates, use their earned money to bypass the corrupt tax system and tackle problems head on.  He obtained the privilege of being more efficient.  He’s an adult.  Drumpf is Joffrey without Tyrion.  Adulthood is beyond his capabilities.  Earned money can also make the bubble trap spring tighter.  Some who are born to poverty are so traumatized they cling to money with a death grip.  Dickens wrote the cautionary tales.  Unfortunately, when you’re born in a bubble, reading is optional.

The GOP is relying heavily on the promise backed up by nothing.  They want to punish us.  They hate us for existing.  We make them feel ashamed of their greedy and vile behaviors.  They resent having to hide their depravity.  They know we see they’re empty inside, and they hate us for it.  They want us to play along with the fantasy or die.  The furious rage they display at being compared to Nazi’s is a tell.  They know it’s true and hate us for noticing.

Failure is inevitable for evil.  There will always be those who know right from wrong.  There will always be those who value honor over paper and metal.  Who know happy moments are what it’s all about.  Who value a few real friends over several of the fair weather variety.  We are the majority.  We live in reality and have the scars and lessons to guide us.  We know the bubble is a cage.

This food was in the shower with you?

I’m still in NYC.  My joints are sore, which usually means I’m not sleeping enough.  However, I’ve slept in record amounts of late, so who knows.  I’m so glad I brought my cat with me.  It’s amazing to me how much of a difference it makes to be able to cuddle her whenever I feel myself starting to get agitated.  It helps more than I ever imagined.  I’m also feeling the benefits of having a small bedroom with an enclosed bed.  My room is what was once considered maids quarters, and the bed is embedded in the wall on 3 sides.  I pull a curtain for even more privacy, and darkness.  It’s cozy, but I wish I had a weighted blanket here.

My PC doctor wants me to get my blood pressure checked as soon as I get home.  I can tell it’s way higher than it should be, and I suspect flying makes it worse.  My blood pressure is a direct reflection of my stress levels, and even when I feel like I’m totally winning at a tough challenge, it’ll clearly indicate that in reality, I’m suppressing, and paying for it.  I burst the blood vessels in my left eye yesterday.  That’s a pretty clear signal that I need to address it.  It’s not something that happens often, but it’s part of the cost of being black in America.

Being permanently on high alert internally is a low level pain that every person of color lives with in this country.  We don’t talk about it, but we all know it’s there.  We don’t acknowledge it because it’s an inescapable fact of life.  We have no idea what it’s like not to be on high alert 24/7.  We can barely remember those few years of innocence in our childhoods where we were oblivious of institutional racism.  We know everyone can relate to our invisible plight on some level, whether or not they choose to acknowledge it.

Gay people understand what it feels like.  White people who live in areas of extreme diversity know what it feels like.  Women who are afraid to even assess their exhaustion level from overachieving for minimal rewards know what it feels like.  Fat people know what it feels like.  Deaf people know what it feels like.  Transgender people know what it feels like.  Chronically ill people know what it feels like.  Disabled people know what it feels like.  Men who are overwhelmed by the sudden, generalized rage at their very existence know what it feels like.  Autistic people know what it feels like.  Adults who were interracially adopted as infants know what it feels like.  Black people with dark skin know what it feels like.  All who are actually living their lives know what it feels like.

What I don’t understand, is why we don’t embrace our struggles as a species, and hold each other up?  Why am I expected to waste my strengths on building myself up in the eyes of an imaginary entity, when I could use them to compensate for a weakness in another?  Is it not better that we are both lifted?  I know the answer.  I’ve known for some time now.  I know that my strengths are nothing if not used to lift those around me.  I know that my weaknesses are not my shame, but my connection to another with complementary strength.  It’s hard to recognize reality when others refuse to see it.  But I see it.  We are not meant to be so disconnected from each other.  It hurts us as a whole.  As a whole, we are.

But it was in pen. You fake erased…

I’m going to take a break from therapy.  My frustration tolerance is presently low.  The consequences of sharing past trauma are kicking my ass.  I entered therapy in the first place because I don’t want my past to continue fucking with my present.  I understand the concept of things getting worse before they get better.  I didn’t enter it blindly.  I also recognize that my ability to cope is limited, and am aware of what can happen when I allow it to be exceeded.

I realize coping skills are about 90% distraction, and 10% forced hormonal balance.  They are not a cure, or even a bandaid.  They are all about distance.  The act of willing oneself to move from point A to point B in order to forestall reality just long enough to survive.  So naturally, running is my best coping skill.  It forces my body’s hormonal imbalance to begin correcting itself.  It’s consistently effective, but still limited.  The distraction coping skill is the act of willing oneself to focus on anything but reality just long enough to prevent your mind from forming obvious conclusions, and acting on them.

Coping is treading water to prevent drowning.  It’s absolutely a skill, and requires lots of practice, a strong will, and trust.  If you don’t believe it will allow you to survive, it won’t.  If you expect it to be anything more than barely managing to survive, then you’ll be sorely disappointed, and probably really pissed off as well.  It sucks on every fucking level.  But it’s the only strategy that doesn’t lead directly to self destruction.  It reminds me of Combat Medic training in the Army, where they teach you how to apply a candy wrapper on a sucking chest wound.  It’ll probably keep the patient from dying immediately.  The same with using a Skilcraft pen to perform an emergency tracheotomy, or cauterizing heavy bleeding using whatever you can find.  Bare fucking minimum.

In the civilian world, you would barely manage to save someone’s life, and then suffer financial ruin when they survive and successfully sue you for your barbaric methodology.  This is coping.  And it fucking sucks.  So you forcibly train yourself to accept it as the best and only option.  But deep down, you resent it, and it leaks out as anger.  I’m feeling that anger now.  There’s nowhere to direct it.  There’s no personhood that is solely responsible, whom I can vilify and rage against.  It just is.

So my anger sits there and taunts me to act on it in some manner.  To do something in order to feel release.  But I know it’s a trap.  I know that randomly lashing out at bystanders because I’m angry is actually like playing a sadistic game of tag.  Eventually, it’ll come back around and tag me back.  Usually when I’m having a pleasant day.  Fuck that.  Or I could adopt the delusion that turning my anger inward is depression defined.  Fuck that twice.  Depression isn’t the act of directing anger inward.  Anger is just an ego leak.  It’s irrelevant to depression.  Depression isn’t action.  It’s inaction.  It’s hovering between participating in life, and telling life to fuck off.

The thing I hate the most about the Depression Monster, is that he’s such a fucking trickster.  He can hide in your blind spot indefinitely.  And when you don’t know he’s there, you accept the status quo as ‘normal’.  You settle for a shitty life without conscious awareness.  That’s fucked up.  I keep an eye on that bastard.  I have no afterlife expectations whatsoever.  I believe when I die, that’s it.  This life is mine, and if it sucks, it’s my fault.  Nothing outside of my mind is capable of determining whether or not my life sucks.  Unless I decide to allow it, that is.  This is also fucked up.

When the world outside my head tells me that it’s possible for me to be an innocent victim of my circumstances, it’s something I want to believe.  But it doesn’t pass the bullshit test, and that pisses me off.  And on top of that, many people do buy into it.  And I resent them, because I can’t lie to myself, and I don’t understand how others can do so.  Ego leak.  So I choose to be darkly amused by my anger.  It’s audacious in nature.  It’s me thinking I’m entitled to something, and then being upset when reality reminds me that I’m actually just dust that hasn’t been reabsorbed yet.