Fear and Certainty

Things that alter my perception, of reality or of myself, have always frightened me. A gesture, an object, a feeling, or a moment have the power to act as a sudden and inexplicable crack in the smooth veneer of existence. We assume that reality is a solid block of concrete, but what if it's actually a box made of the thinnest glass that just looks like concrete? It appears sturdy, impenetrable, simple to the point of disregard. But a crack, a chip, a hole, the tiniest broken fragment can destroy that feeling of surety in an instant. To some end, this is the purpose of taking drugs--to willfully challenge or change one's notions or perceptions of reality. And I supposed that, pursued recreationally, it can be fun; but only because it is play-acting. Taking drugs is like buying a ticket to certain dissolution, intentional coming apart, knowingly altering, losing yourself and finding something else. The experience is finite. It is neither random nor continuous. It's a show you go to, and part of the enjoyment is the awareness that it will eventually end.

Experiencing a break with reality that you did not elect to take is something altogether different.

Discovering that something you always assumed to be stable is actually incredibly fragile--finding that something you always believed to be solid is in fact hollow, and that that hollowness creates the possibility of fullness of a different sort, the potential to be full of unknown and unthinkable things--it pulls the rug out from under you. It sets your assumptions and convictions alight, and your sense of certainty about the foundation of your life withers, curls up, floats away like ashes and smoke.

What possibilities scare me? What ideas fill me with dread?

Looking at something I see every day and realizing it's suddenly different. Something has moved, a color is missing, a size or shape has changed.

Waking from a dream and then living its events and narratives in real time, unable to deviate or change the course of my own actions.

Running into different versions of myself on the street: my selves that made a better choice here, a wrong decision there. They are exactly like me, and nothing like me.

Losing my ability to understand any language or communicate with anyone--trying to speak but no one understanding me, trying to listen to others but finding their words incomprehensible.

Things moving that should be still, or things being still that should be moving. Walls wavering, a bird suspended in the air.

Someone or something that has always existed in my life suddenly and inexplicably disappearing; a person I know is gone, but no one else has any memory of them. A possession I see every day is suddenly missing, and no one else remembers ever having seen it before.

Finding someone hiding in my house while I am alone.

Discovering an infestation when I least expect it.

Rapid, omnipresent and nonsensical voices.

Feeling my heart stop.

My sense of reality, my sense of myself, disappearing.

Losing your grip on reality is like being on a barge in the middle of the ocean with an anchor that weighs 2,000 pounds, but sometimes that anchor spontaneously disappears for stretches of time. You're moored in one spot, you're used to the bobbing and the storms and the drifting around in a general area, but you're more or less stationary because of that anchor--you know the bounds of where you are and what you're capable of. Then, without warning, without any reason or predictability, it disappears. And you're drifting, and you have no way of knowing how long it will last, or if it will ever come back again. You have no control.

The disappearance of the anchor isn't even the worst part. The worst part is the uncertainty. People can live with most anything, so long as there exists a degree of certainty. 

If you are born on a barge that has an anchor that you can pull up and drop down whenever you like, you have an ideal situation. You are still subject to trials and obstacles, but you can determine when you want to be stationary and when you want to move. You can decide, to a degree, where you want to go and what you want to do. You have the possibility of change or the possibility of continuity, but whatever you choose, it's you who does the choosing.

If you are born on a barge that is permanently anchored, you will have stability but no variety. You know exactly what you can and can't do, where you can and can't go, and you can count on the predictability of your circumstances.

If you are born on a barge that has no anchor, a barge that drifts forever and never stops moving, you may have no home but you will have freedom. You may slow down to a crawl at times, and sweep along swiftly at others, but there is at least the certainty of its fluidity. You can accept that you will never stop moving.

But if you live on a barge that sometimes has an anchor, and sometimes does not, and you have no control or warning about when the anchor will exist and when the anchor will disappear... You are suspended in a state of continuous uncertainty. Unreality. You can never relax, you can never get comfortable, you can never feel peace. There, always waiting, is the possibility of sudden, random and violent change. 

You could be anchored for ten years, becoming wholly a part of the place that you occupy. First feeling frustration at your lack of mobility, longing for variety, slowly you become accustomed to the life you've been building. You spend some time feeling trapped, feeling limited. But you find peace in the acceptance of your surroundings, and use the limitations and boundaries of your life like support struts. They shore you up, they can be leaned against and built upon, they can bear weight. Yet the instant that the anchor disappears, it's all gone. The foundation of your life no longer exists.

You can drift for ten years, learning to let go of attachments. Sometimes you feel a deep loneliness as you pass by people who are standing still together, resentful of the stability that comes with being stationary, yearning for the simplicity of a life with definite borders. But you release the idea of permanence and embrace the constant change. You are bound by nothing, restrained by no one, unburdened. Then suddenly an anchor drops, and drags you to a halt, and you're trapped. The foundation of your life no longer exists.

Without certainty, there isn't only fear, but there is always fear.

Ten-Minute Story, Part Three

Shower. Brush teeth. Get dressed. Fix hair.

And then what?

Charlie didn't know what to do next--this was, in part, why they had been reluctant to leave their bed. When you're always busy and you always have something to do, somewhere to be, something to begin or continue or finish, having free time seems like a luxury. When all you've got is free time, it can begin to feel like a challenge or an obstacle.

The pandemic had been raging for close to a year, with no signs of letting up.

In the beginning, Charlie had a job, a partner, friends, routine and familiarity. Half-way through, Charlie and their partner had moved to a new city--leaving the job, the friends, the routine and the familiarity behind. "A fresh start", some might call it. But it was more like living in limbo, like moving to a waiting room: everything was locked down, there was nowhere to go, no one to see, nothing to do. Oh, there were the little things, like grocery shopping and getting a coffee and taking walks to nearby parks. But those were the scenery and the props of daily life--without the players and the action, they didn't come to life in the same way. They were mostly dormant and faceless, lacking depth or personality. The grocery store, the coffee shop, the park--all of it was generic; there was nothing defining or real about them, nothing that separated these places from any other theoretical place Charlie had never been. Nothing was theirs yet. 

Coup of the Day

My body is tired now. It is nervous and it is vaguely sore. It feels hollow and dry. Used up.

My body spent the day full of tidal waves, by turns hyper-focused and disassociated, alive with an electric rage.

Anger bubbled up in my stomach like molten acid, burning my insides and making my throat contract, my jaw clench, my eyes pop from my skull in a lunatic stare of permanent shock. My feet were frantic as they paced the floor, wearing trenches in my carpet from the heaviness and swiftness of my footfalls. My mouth snatched ragged breaths in panicked gulps, and I surprised myself when I let out a scream:

"WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK IS GOING ON??"

At 3:00 PM EST, a coup was staged on the United States Government.

By whom?

The supporters of the President of the United States.

Let's just sit with that for a moment. Just let that sink in.

The President of the United States urged his supporters to obstruct and undermine the US Government.

And then they did. White nationalists, Proud Boys, MAGA dudes, Q-Anon followers and all assortment of Pro-Trump fanatics stormed the Capitol building as Congress was in the process of certifying the Electoral College votes that would ensure a peaceful transition of power to the Biden/Harris administration on January 20, 2021. This process has historically been a formality, and no Congress has ever overturned the results of an election. But history, procedure and any semblance of formality went flying out the window as the Capitol was overtaken and members of Congress were evacuated.

Neither main-stream nor social media could keep up with the events unfolding. Twitter, Facebook and Google News have been a whirlwind of professional and amateur video footage: hordes of rioters waving Confederate, Trump 2020 and Thin Blue Line flags; a small line of police being shoved aside and ignored as crowds stream up the Capitol steps; men in military-style gear scaling building facades and vandalizing the floor of the House of Representatives; members of Congress sheltering in place or running for cover as all hell breaks loose. And as most of our nation's eyes are fixed on the events unfolding in DC, only some noticed that similar protests were breaking out within the rest of the country. After an historic run-off election in Georgia resulted in Democrats taking both US Senate seats, and thereby regaining control of the Senate, the Georgia Secretary of State's office was evacuated. Likewise, protests turned violent in California's capitol city of Sacramento, with Trump-supporters hurling racial slurs and anti-immigrant rhetoric at whomever happened to be within earshot. Similar events occurred in the capitol cities of Texas, Michigan, Kansas and Oklahoma.

What has been the response of law enforcement? Tepid, insipid, milquetoast. But don't take my word for it, just look at the profusion of pictures and videos that speak for themselves:

https://www.bbc.com/news/av-embeds/55564421/vpid/p0938khp

A line of maybe ten police officers standing on the Capitol steps, holding up their hands and backing away as rioters and domestic terrorists advance up the steps--after mere moments of resistance, the officers separate and allow the protestors through.

https://twitter.com/bubbaprog/status/1346920198461419520?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw

A group of coup participants hanging out and taking pictures with law enforcement officers, chanting "ACAF, ACAF"... "All Cops Are Friends".

https://twitter.com/cevansavenger/status/1346920924310867968?fbclid=IwAR2xk_KM8UUHHEfvLALMR9Glys1wa4kJg0lisVFDLxL1GKePtxSPIe0hmso

Police literally OPENING THE GATES to allow the protesters to regain ground in the Capitol.

And how has President Trump responded to these events? First by rallying and goading his supporters. Then by reiterating that he would "never concede" the election. And now, by releasing a one-minute video addressing his supporters on Twitter, reiterating that "the election was stolen from us, but it's time to go home. You're all very special, thank you." No rebuke of vandalism, destruction of property or violation of federal law. No admission of culpability or wrongdoing. Not even a single admonishment of anyone's actions.

And how do these responses compare to, say, law enforcement and President Trump's responses to Black Lives Matter protests at the Capitol earlier this year? 

Just take a look for yourself:

https://mashable.com/article/capitol-police-trump-riot-black-lives-matter-protest/

It took over 4 hours for law enforcement to clear out the majority of the rioters and terrorists. The National Guard wasn't deployed until hours after the Capitol had been breached. Multiple explosives were found. One woman was shot and died of her injuries. And as a result of all this, Congress has yet to certify the election results. 

In a perverse way, I understand these people.

These people are angry. I am angry. But underneath that anger, there is fear--I am afraid. I am afraid of what this means, I am afraid of what will happen. I am afraid that the foundation of this country--already full of myriad cracks, flaws and imperfections--has finally reached its breaking point, and we're about to see the whole structure collapse. To see people actively working to undermine a democratic election under the guise of "patriotism and democracy" is mind-boggling. It is an act of seditious fascism that so utterly betrays any understanding of democracy or law and order that I can't help but feel more sorrow than rage. It is a collective experience that I can only describe as a socio-political gaslighting of meta proportions.

What I fear is the proliferation of ignorance, the glorification of "might equals right", and a wide-spread reversion to a type of tribalism that treats only some citizens as "full, real people". I fear the people who profess their bigotry, their hatred and their ignorance as points of pride. I fear both the destruction of this country and the myopic and dangerous tradition of papering over, covering up, looking away and refusing to confront our own evil. 

Like me, these people are angry. And their anger, like my own, is underpinned with fear--but their fear is different than my fear.

They fear they're being cheated, lied to, deceived. Stripped of their power and their rights. "Tread upon". And well they should, because they ARE being cheated, lied to, deceived, stripped of power and tread upon--by the very people they seek to keep in power. Trump and his ilk are some of the most self-interested, deceptive and destructive people this country has ever produced. Their success hinges upon an angry, uninformed and economically-depressed voter base to whom they can peddle their lies and distractions. The president who built his platform on "Making America Great Again" has accomplished exactly the opposite, and has maintained his supporters' unwavering loyalty by continuing to exploit their fears and their prejudices. A good many of these people are supremely afraid of difference, afraid of change. Afraid that their positions of power, their historical entitlement to better treatment and socio-economic advantage, is slipping away as a new order is conceived by larger and louder swathes of the American populace. They are afraid of "minorities" that were once this country's "other" becoming equally American, equally protected and treated and respected as the "default" white person. They are afraid of the people they see as the "other", and they are also afraid of becoming the "other".

Inevitably, the flash and bang will eventually subside, and things will seemingly "return to normal". People will talk about today, and whatever follows in its wake, with the clarity of hindsight. Some will call it a disgrace and a shame, others will express shock and outrage, and other still will shout support and approval. Do not be fooled: The crowds can be dispersed. Congress can reconvene. In 2 weeks, Biden can be sworn in as 46th President of the United States. And this country will still be in utter chaos.

Because these people will still be here, and their ideals and values will remain the same. They will continue to fester like a rotted tooth, their poison proliferating into the national bloodstream, only flaring into pain some of the time but inflicting constant damage whether we see and feel them or not. The tooth must be pulled and the infection treated, because what seems like a small and dismissible problem, a problem that bothers us but it's probably fine, right?, a problem that we like to think isn't really a problem... It could kill us. And if it does, we'll have no one to blame but ourselves.

Ten-Minute Story, Part Two

They rolled over and yanked the blankets up over their head. Please, just 10 more minutes. I just need 10 more minutes. Or maybe 20.

For a moment: darkness, silence, stillness. Charlie breathed in softly and felt their body loosen.

"Meeeeeeeeoooooowwww... meeeeeeoooooowww..."

Their body shot upright, as if spring-loaded, sending a pillow soaring over the end of the bed.

"OH MY GOD. OKAY. FINE. YOU WIN."

The cat just stood and stared, stoney-faced, featureless, revealing nothing. A face that said, I don't know what you're talking about.

As they swung their legs over the edge of the bed and jammed their cold toes into the fraying slippers waiting dutifully beside the bedpost, a shiver ran through them. January cold--bright and clear and almost painful.

Charlie shuffled into the kitchen and grabbed a handful of cat food from the bag on the floor, adding it to the already-partly-full bowl. The slouchy orange tabby darted between their legs and dove head-first into the bowl, crunching ravenously on the little brown pebbles.

"Why couldn't you just eat what was already in there?"

 The cat looked up at Charlie briefly, giving them a big, slow blink of approval. A loud purring commenced.

Charlie considered flinging themself back into bed, but the thought of renewing the game of hide-and-seek with the noise and the sunlight felt exhausting. No, better to accept defeat than fight the losing battle. The day had begun.

outside, inside

Verbless poetry is exactly what it sounds like: poetry without verbs. An attempt to tell a story or convey a feeling using only images or objects, no actions. Here's a verbless poem about today:

outside

cold, grey light

shadows watery and pale

conspiratorial stormclouds

and a bitter, biting wind

stinging exhaust and the stink

of asphalt, hot tar

thundering engines of overhead planes

squealing tires, an argument

concrete towers and row upon row of

smooth, featureless rectangles of glass

inside

potted plants--succulent, cacti

an old bookshelf

the bathrobe and slippers

thin carpets, worn wood

knitted blankets, musty

a thin layer of dust

curled, sleeping cat

soft breath

chipped mug

steaming tea

familiar silence

Ten Minute Story, Part 1

The cat wouldn't shut up.

The room was cold--much colder than it should have been, even for the middle of January. The sun was streaming in, forcing its way through the slats of the blinds, prying its way under the pillow jammed over Charlie's face and needled into their eyes--but it wasn't making the room any warmer. Outside, a man was doing important research about just how loudly he could operate a leaf-blower. In the hallway, someone was opening the trash chute and hurling what sounded to be pairs of shoes, tied together by their laces, as hard as they could into the chute. The world seemed to be executing a coordinated assault.

But it was the cat that was really getting under their skin. That goddamn cat.

It wouldn't stop meowing. Long, slow, drawling meows, forlorn and lamenting, occasionally punctuated with the occasional, piercing rawr. It stood outside the bedroom door and cried out again and again. The bedroom door was open, mind you, and there was food in its dish and water in its cup--but there it stood, voicing its objection and its protest again and again.

"Whaaaaaat do you waaaaaaant?" Charlie groaned from the bed. They could hardly bear to drag themself from beneath the piles of pillows and blankets. No matter what the sun, or the bustle of activity outside, or the goddamn cat might have to say to the contrary, it was simply too early to get out of bed.

An Unrealistic Christmas List

Christmas is something I spend a lot of time preparing for. I spend a decent amount of money buying, and an even greater amount of time making, presents to give to my family, my in-laws, my friends, and inevitably some acquaintances, charities and volunteer organizations. I would say that I spend October through December with "preparing for Christmas" at the periphery (if not the forefront) of my mind. Ironically, I give approximately zero thought as to what other people could give me as a gift, and when the inevitable "So, what would you like for Christmas?" is asked, I find myself dumbstruck. Every year I seem to repeat the same deer-in-the-headlights moment, as though it's the FIRST TIME anyone has ever asked me such a difficult and mind-boggling question. 

So this year, I decided to come up with a list of things I'd really love to get for Christmas: 

(If, for some strange reason, you would like to get me a gift but can't manage anything on this list, I'd also enjoy a nice pair of thick socks or some flannel shirts)

A magical ceramic mug that keeps my coffee hot indefinitely. They make a mug, called the Ember Mug, that does exactly this--but it's all metal and insulated and requires technology and charging and whatnot. I want a magical, beautiful, hand-thrown mug--ergonomically delightful, rustic in its aesthetic but deftly glazed, heavy enough in the hand that it imparts a feeling of deep realness. And it makes coffee taste, somehow, even better than it already tastes, and it eliminates nearly all the caffeine from any coffee I may want to drink, so that I can drink as much as I want and I won't have heart palpitations or an anxiety attack. And it's unbreakable.

A mouth-watering charcuterie board that does not makes me feel like shit after I've eaten it. Pungent and salty aged cheddar, creamy and almost-melting-at-room-temperature brie, tangy and velvety chevre, an earthy, fudgey bleu cheese. Roasted nuts galore--pecans, cashews, walnuts, pistachios, and more pecans (but candied). Dried figs, dates, and cherries, and maybe some fresh strawberry preserves or blackberry jam. Soft and steaming hunks of fresh French bread, sturdy and herb-laced cubes of focaccia, seeded crackers, wood-fired flatbread. Olives and pickles, and maybe some anchovies. I'd eat the whole board, and drink a whole bottle of rich red wine, and afterward I'd get up and go on with my day and I wouldn't have a terrible stomach ache or crippling heartburn at all.

A pair of shoes that, when worn, make all the joints in my legs and feet feel the way that they did when I was a kid--that is to say, I don't feel them at all. I can walk for days at a time and jump from a height of 10 feet onto concrete and I don't think anything of it. Maybe they make it feel like I'm walking in water but without all the lag and resistance--just kind of weightless and free.

An absolutely insane rainstorm. For a week, it just RAINS--not a drizzle, not a sprinkle, not a light shower, but an all-out downpour. A monsoon-season-in-Vietnam kind of rain. And there is dazzling, powerful lightning, humbling and house-shaking thunder, and gusts of wind up to 40 miles per hour. The power goes out sometimes, and comes back on at other times. I suddenly have a fireplace and I basically live in front of it. There is flooding in the streets and everyone is house-bound--but no one gets hurt, no homes or cars or property is damaged, and everyone gets to take paid leave from work. Drones can deliver our groceries, and we all rediscover the joy of hunkering down in an elaborately-constructed blanket fort.

The complete works of Stephen King, leather-bound and gold-leafed and gorgeous. There are also a bunch of books in it that he never actually got around to writing, ideas he had that never went anywhere, but in my one-of-a-kind collection... Those books exist, and I get to read them. And if he's had any personal journals over the course of his life, those are in there, too. And I guess I'd need an antique bookcase to house this new collection: made from richly oiled mahogany, intricately carved and scrolled, it would stretch from floor to ceiling.

A chance to eat any dish I want from all of my favorite restaurants that have closed over the years.

A semi-permanent haircut. I get it cut, and it just stays that way until I use a special shampoo that re-activates hair growth.

My sense of smell. (No, I don't have Covid.) This sounds preposterous, but over the last decade or so I've largely lost my sense of smell. I have to actively TRY to smell things, which is actually a sort-of-fantastic superpower when I'm anywhere that smells horrible (walking past a garbage dump, cleaning a cat's litter box, riding a crowded bus in the middle of summer), but kind of sucks the rest of the time. I'd love to be able to walk outside on a winter morning and smell the sweet mustiness of dead leaves and wet concrete, or the lively spiciness of the air in a cafe, or the balmy perfume of my shampoo when I'm taking a shower... but without having to flare my nostrils and massage my sinuses and breath in as deeply as possible. 

Private piano lessons with a patient and skillful teacher who has no interest in small-talk, and the time, space and dedication to actually become a great piano player. I'd need an accompanying baby grand piano, of course. And maybe longer fingers.

The ability to fly. Ugh, it feels so tacky to ask for the ability to fly. Such a cliché--and really, one shouldn't ask for the ability to fly as a gift. That's more than a little over-the-top and extravagant, it's something that I should really just get for myself. But if I'm being honest about what I'd really like, something I'd really use every day, I mean... Yeah, I'd like to be able to fly. 

COVID magically disappears and everyone runs out of their houses into the streets, their maskless mouths sending up clouds of safe steam in the cold, early-morning air. All thought of gift giving or receiving is promptly forgotten like an unimportant footnote. There is much singing and shouting, laughing and embracing, hugging of strangers and kissing of old friends on the cheek, and everyone's standing so close together that I start to get sweaty, and someone steps on my foot but I'm so happy to be so close to so many people that I don't even feel it. We all join hands and sing and dance like crazy, a spectacle that is part Dahoo-Dores-in-Whoville from How The Grinch Stole Christmas, part ancient Yuletide festival (but maybe without the slaughtering of livestock). At the end of the day we all drop to sleep wherever we happen to be out of sheer joyful exhaustion. The morning after we all feel ever-so-mildly chagrined, but then we eat leftovers and take long, hot showers and help clean up, and agree that it was quite a good Christmas.