Caterwauling

Faceypages Memories reminded me that I went to my first anti-tRump march on this day.

Jimmy and I got into a terrible fight in the comments. He had turned tRumper and was really excoriating me for marching against the guy when we didn’t know anything about him yet.

I was right. (Of course I was.) But he’s loyal to his white supremacist ruler till the bitter end, it appears. (I unfriended his ass LONG ago.)

I have to laugh because he has a wife named Dawn. She looks like a dope.

Weird how these guys go from out of their league to 20,000 leagues under the sea.

Pretty sure he can retire his “only pretty girls get to go to Delmonico’s” line. That theory was already shot dead in December 2019, but this is the final nail in that coffin.

Of course, it never ceases to amaze me what these guys can say with a straight face.

A new-old colleague (that happens a lot in this field) sent me this Friday:

That Discomfort You’re Feeling Is Grief

So I asked my friends on Facepayges, how they are doing with this coronavirus thing.

Half are getting by or close enough to fine. The rest are struggling. But they don’t want to say it on a public-ish post.

I never gave my answer.

Which is this.

I moved to D.C. what seemed like mere minutes after 9/11. I drove past the smoldering Pentagon for a long time before the building was repaired and eventually the shiny new construction — clearly a cleaner, brighter color than the rest of the weathered building — started to blend in with the rest.

Shortly thereafter, we were zigging and zagging across parking lots and gas stations, trying not to be hit by the D.C. sniper.

Fast-forward a couple decades, I was going through Some Shit last August when two mass shootings happened in a weekend.

And I took the opportunity to say what was in my mind and heart.

Either the feelings were temporary insanity or maybe the need to express them was.

But I didn’t need for it to be received well. Or at all. I just needed to say it.

I will leave the aftermath out of this post. I’ll only say, no goddamn wonder. And that must have been some picture.

My answer about how I am is that I’m always on guard.

And when I stop being guarded for a while, I soon find myself grieving either the thing or the decision itself to believe in the thing.

Today, it’s a one-two punch of missing my old job/team and still not jibing with the WFH routine I started long before it was forced on the masses.

Of wondering if he weren’t him and she weren’t her and I weren’t me, what would or wouldn’t be.

In any event, it feels like a lot of that wanting to tell people they are loved is happening right now.

Not saying goodbyes, but at least making sure they don’t die with words unsaid.

Not me.

I am taking this opportunity to tell anyone who needs to fuck off, to fuck right the hell off.

When this is all over, I’ll be saying it in person. Or though a Ouija board.

Love,

Goddess

That time when I knew that everyone knew what I thought they didn’t know but they did and he doesn’t know that they know what he thought they didn’t know but they knew all along and still do.

This is getting SO GOOD.

“Everything you love is very likely to be lost, but in the end, love will return in a different way.” — Franz Kafka

Guessing I need to post a disclaimer on this and everything that no, this isn’t about anyone living, dead or living dead.

But for all my delightful little snowflakes who think anything or everything is about them, happy to fulfill your fantasy of crossing my mind.

Context for the quote …

When he was 40, the renowned Bohemian novelist and short story writer Franz Kafka (1883-1924), who never married and had no children, was strolling through Steglitz Park in Berlin, when he chanced upon a young girl crying her eyes out because she had lost her favorite doll. She and Kafka looked for the doll without success. Kafka told her to meet him there the next day and they would look again.

The next day, when they still had not found the doll, Kafka gave the girl a letter “written” by the doll that said, “Please do not cry. I have gone on a trip to see the world. I’m going to write to you about my adventures.”

Thus began a story that continued to the end of Kafka’s life.

When they would meet, Kafka read aloud his carefully composed letters of adventures and conversations about the beloved doll, which the girl found enchanting. Finally, Kafka read her a letter of the story that brought the doll back to Berlin, and he then gave her a doll he had purchased.

“This does not look like my doll at all,” she said. Kafka handed her another letter that explained, “My trips, they have changed me.” The girl hugged the new doll and took it home with her. A year later, Kafka died.

Many years later, the now grown-up girl found a letter tucked into an unnoticed crevice in the doll. The tiny letter, signed by Kafka, said, “Everything you love is very likely to be lost, but in the end, love will return in a different way.”