“It’s not looking too good to be me today, and tomorrow doesn’t look any better.”

Day one: wrangling this damned depression. It’s not going away.  I cannot wish it away from me any more than I can wish to sprout wings.  The idea is good, the desire is there, but the laws of reality are as immutable as gravity. So. I have taken my fish oil, krill oil, vitamins, and drunk some wonderful green tea left over from yesterday. In the past, I took pharmaceuticals and I found the side effects to be more debilitating than effective.

Next: coming to grips with the fact that I no longer have a part-time job. This is a funny one–not ha ha funny, but strange funny.  I was getting bored with it anyway, and it was taking up more time than I wanted to give to it, so I was relieved when I received word that my services were no longer needed.  My time was at last my own again.  I ordered new art supplies, cleared off my work table, and set about doing what I really want to do. Well, that table stands in judgement as we speak, waiting for me to do something. Anything.

So, there’s a big ball of unrelieved anxiety that shouldn’t even exist. And it’s about money and self-worth.

All my life, I equated my job with my worth. I’ve had wonderful, unsuitable jobs that paid well. I’ve had crappy jobs that I kept because that’s what you do. Along the way, my body has broken down, my mind has shut itself off from the hell I was in, and here we are.

I’ve set goals for this month. They are modest and attainable. One goal is to write every day, even if it’s just an exercise for a half hour or so. I will post on here every day. My next goal is to work on my art pieces every day.  I have enough of them in various stages of completion that I could always have something on the table. My art website is next. Even if I just look at it every day, I will have it in my mind.

This is my job and I am going to treat it as such, instead of an interesting hobby. This is what I love. I’m not a writer or an artist for mercenary reasons.

That voice says, Hey, why waste time doing something that may not bring you money?

Holy crap.  That’s it.  That’s the whole reason I’ve turned away from regular writing, regular craft work. It’s not considered “worthy” without money. I wonder where I got that notion? I wonder why I’ve held on to it for so long? That thought has to go.  It has to disappear.

 

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I swear, technology is going to drive me to drink . . . heh, heh.

I have spent three hours trying to find this site on WordPress so that I could post some innocuous shit, possibly something about hearts and flowers.  It was going to be good, so good, that I would immediately gain thousands of followers within a day.

And it happened.  My site disappeared.  Well, it didn’t actually disappear, but it existed on another plane that I had no access to, for some reason.  Every time I tried to sign in, the message popped up that I didn’t have a site, would I like to create one?

What the actual hell??  I could see my site plain as day from going through another blogger, and it was just as pristine as the day it was born, but I couldn’t get to it.

It was like being in a bakery and seeing those luscious cakes and not being able to buy a damned thing.

So, I cursed.  I ranted. I raved.  I checked my server settings.  I went back through my emails.  I cursed some more.  I made guttural growling sounds that drove the kitties to hide under the chairs.  I paced.  I drank a Coke Zero (they’re actually pretty good), I chewed a nail, I sighed, I tried the community forums.

And then, it happened.  I signed in again, and there it was!  Much as I would like to blame this on the nefarious doings of Mr. Google and Madame WordPress, it was solely on me and my blithely using my other page to sign in to, which properly said, hey, you really don’t have a site–UNDER THIS NAME.

I truly hope I can remember what the hell I did to get here, because I do not want to go through this again in order to post the best blog entry of 2018.

Of course, I have another problem involving bluehost and my new website, but that is another story and another long rant somewhere in the next few days.

The general public is stupid. Crazy stupid. “Were you raised by goats??” stupid.

Not just “Dang, I locked my keys in the car” stupid. Not just “Crap, I put the case of beer on top of the eggs” stupid.

I mean “Let me put a starving wolverine down my pants just to watch it run up and down my leg” stupid.

Professional grade, “Let’s bypass all those pesky safety regs so the machine runs all the time until someone loses a finger, oops!” stupid.

Weaponized, “I know texting and driving is illegal and dangerous, but Imma take a bunch of downers and text for fifteen miles until I kill an entire family” stupid.

Dear reader, who among us hasn’t accidentally microwaved an egg until we realized too late that it’s not a good idea? Indeed, who among us hasn’t forgotten that jalapenos will bite mucus membranes hours after being handled?  Lastly, how many of us are completely wed to ideas that no longer serve a valid purpose or even make sense anymore?

All of us, at one time or another, have done, said, believed and supported stupid things, stupid ideas, stupid people.  Schadenfreude would not exist if no one had a frame of reference for it.  “What goes around, comes around” would not resonate had it never happened to me or to you.

So, stupidity is universal.  Just as there are degrees of intelligence, there are degrees of stupid, and I like to think there is a bell curve wherein fully fifty percent of us fall in the middle of the spectrum, on the side of car key locking, but not far enough to the right for steering a four thousand pound rolling missile with a bare foot while shooting bottle rockets out the window because it will generate tons of views on Facebook live.

Funny thing, those of us who detest those people who are more stupid, we also tend to mistrust those people who are much less stupid.  Really smart people are nerds, of course, unless they are dead, disabled, or so enlightened that they don’t give a damn about what anyone else thinks anymore. At that point, they are put on a pedestal and essentially trotted out for photo ops.

So, right now, we have really stupid people in government, but not so stupid they can’t con a significant portion of the public.  Start locally, and work your way up from there.  I’ll wait.

Let’s just take an example that presented itself a couple of days ago from Fort Worth, Texas.  I won’t go into the particulars of why the cop got fired, but suffice to say, his actions were egregious.  Not so much criminally egregious, because nobody was killed, but stupid enough for the department to say, “So long, hoss. You’re out.”

Now, what caught my ear from all this wasn’t his actions, but the Union rep coming on TV and saying that the firing would cause all cops to rethink their actions and take into consideration the consequences of their behavior.  Please note, he was not endorsing the firing by any means:  he was saying in essence that holding cops accountable for their behavior would have a chilling effect on law enforcement.

Um, duh. Now, a significant portion of the public agreed with him that holding cops accountable for their stupid actions would be a very bad thing.  After all, if someone obeys the law, they won’t have to worry about it, right?

Let’s just take a peek at events of the past few years to realize this really isn’t a wholly true statement.  Let’s dig into the histories of all involved and try to figure out why things went down the way they did.

No?  You mean, I’m not allowed to look at Officer Cop’s bullying behavior of the past, but I need to look at dead suspect’s weed smoking past?  Why not?  And so it goes.  Knowledge can be used two ways, no?

Truth and facts are not mutually exclusive, as it were.  You can have facts without truth, and you can have truth without facts.  Myths and archetypes are two examples of truth without facts.  In the example of the fired cop, looking at the facts and ignoring the truth is not likely to assuage anyone’s outrage on either side of the issue.

The roots of weaponized stupid are long and deep.  It’s gonna take more than a hoe and fire to keep it beat back to a manageable level.  Education, specifically teaching self-discipline, will help.  Reinforcing consequences will help.  If we live long enough, most of us understand that certain behaviors are not worth the consequences.  Live and learn.

Likewise, if children don’t ever face consequences for behavior, they will continue to engage in behaviors that hurt or even kill others. Wisdom isn’t a gift bestowed on the lucky, believe it or not.   Wisdom is like grits; whether you like them or not, you never forget them.  Never. You can eat them. Or not.  You might complain, but if your belly is empty, those grits will satisfy and warm you.

And now, I present to you, our government.  Our wonderful, “We elected these numbnuts” government.  I’m going to tell you a secret, so lean in and listen closely to this fact, scattered, smothered and covered in truth.

Our elected officials, the ones we trust to keep the train on the track, the ones who promise the moon and stars to get elected, the ones who swear they fight for all of us?

They know the general public is stupid.  They are smart enough to know that white noise from back home is just that–white noise.  They know that all they have to do is keep the money coming in, the contacts refreshed in their phones, and photo ops with the yahoos-er, constituents and they are set for life.  Set. For. Life.

See, they don’t really give a damn about their brethren’s behavior. It’s all white noise.  No matter which side of the aisle they reside on, they don’t really care, as long as the yahoos-er, constituents are at home, outraged and donating their pittances in the forlorn hope that their voices will be heard.

The Roy Moore fiasco? Believe me when I tell you that nobody in Washington gave a rat’s ass whether or not he was elected. The GOP didn’t care whether he won or lost: their stupid rubes would support Atilla the Hun if he had an (R) behind his name.  The Dems didn’t care except that a dem win would appease their base and give them a shred of hope for at long last, decency. And in doing so, keep their coffers full.

They. Don’t. Care.

Are the Republicans concerned they will lose in mid-terms?

Nope.  Why not?

Surely they want to stay in Washington.  Well, sure they do, but they don’t have to be elected to be powerful. Rich. Set for life.

How many members of Congress come back home to the suburbs and cut their own grass?  How many retired Senators kick back on a fishing boat at a little cottage on the lake? How many just chill out and live on a tight budget like the rest of us?  I’m going to take a wild guess and say, none.

You see, they all survived the white noise and rampant stupidity long enough to get theirs in the form of lobbying jobs, chairmanships, guest professorships, and other positions that they feel they really deserve for gutting it through all the rubber chicken dinners, interminable town halls, backroom deals with this racist oilman, and that billionaire industrialist.

They are professionals at reading us, the stupid.  They are so good at running the con on us that most of us don’t even know our pockets are being picked by pros. Believe me when I say there’s not a member of Congress wringing his or her hands over the plight of their poorest and most vulnerable yahoos-er, constituents.  They may SAY they are, but nope.

So, here we are.  Fighting among ourselves, lurching from one outrage to another, wringing our hands and writing letters, calling our MoCs, all because of one nebulous thing: our belief that good will win out.

Sadly, good cannot win until stupidity is marginalized and real consequences are paid, and not just by the innocent.  Good cannot win until we understand on a visceral level that we give away our power to people we wouldn’t hire to rake leaves, much less make life-altering laws. Good cannot win until we set aside our feelings about what we don’t like and start pulling together for the common good.

In the next installment, I will tackle this contagious sense of entitlement that seems to be pervasive in society.

 

 

This week has had more twists than a Dairy Queen soft cone made by some high school nerd with a penchant for culinary flair.  Annoyances include two, count ’em, two back to back instances of crappy customer service.  I mean, really.  I’m not much to look at, but I don’t make dogs bark or small children cry and hide behind their mothers.  To be crappy at customer service, one must be an active asshole, and by that, I mean, this must be one’s goal in life–to make others as miserable as possible without actually taking a crap in someone’s pocket and smashing it against their skin.  That annoys me to no end and I won’t let them get away with it.  I don’t say anything when it happens because after all, this is an open carry state.  I write emails.  I am very polite, of course.  It’s easier to catch flies with honey than with vinegar.  As I’ve gotten older and less apt to let things like that slide, my writing is more fun than ever.  I enjoy crafting a witty little nastygram about Miss X treating me like I just kicked her dog and insulted her mama’s biscuits.

That being said, I am flummoxed by recalcitrant bureaucracy and the petty little autocrats intent on running their little fiefdoms as they see fit.  Those people . . . I got nothing.  Today, I received a letter dated March 6th, saying that my case was closed because my information was never received.  How can this be?  I sent it via certified mail, by fax, and called to follow up.  But I received a call on March 9th from the office to let me know that I had until March 14th to submit any more paperwork.  That call was actually informative and very positive.  My temple started throbbing when I read the letter.  Lord Baby Jesus in the cradle.  Those people.

I was raised to not challenge authority, because, well, authority.  My rebellion has always been directed inward.  My liver hates me, my pancreas is no longer speaking, and my back took a hike years ago.  My motto has been, ‘Screw you, I’m gonna hit myself in the head with this hammer and then, you’ll know something!’  Insert eye roll here. It’s not a motto to live by.  Not going to go off on a tangent about this particular quirk.  I’m almost sure it involves Southern Baptist guilt, and neurotic guilt like that is a tooth numbing dissertation.  But it sure does make some purty poetry, so I will keep it around a while longer.

‘She is a lesbian.’  I put down my pen and leaned back.  Time for a drink. The curtains waved with a vengeance.  Smoky, moist, pluff mud breezes had been blowing all evening. From the street below, a tinkle of glass and laughter wafted up to the window.  The outline was finished and that glass of Johnny blue wasn’t going to drink itself.  I stretched and sipped and let the fire untwist my belly.  Stress over a book wasn’t my forte.  My forte was zipping through a couple of cowboy romances every few years, going on tours, signing books for housewives, doing the odd interview for a small town newspaper.  It paid well.  It was relatively easy to do the same formula.  I loved my characters.  They performed well on the written stage.  This book was different and way out of my comfort zone, but dammit my agent was too persuasive.

“Lesbians are hot this year, Carol.  Do your thing and your exposure will explode.”

“For God’s sake, Althea!  I don’t know anything about lesbians!”

“Carol, just do some research, already.  Surely you know someone you can ask for information.  Your last book only sold fifty thousand copies.  We need a new shtick and gay fiction is hot, although I don’t think you’d want to try your hand at gay men, would you? ”

I admitted this was not really something I wanted to get into on a book level.  I enjoyed my cowboys and millionaires on the page, but maybe I could try my hand at gay boys.  They liked cowboys and millionaires, too, right?  Nah, not my thing.  Maybe girls, then.  Surely they liked cowgirls and millionaires.  I’ll try my hand at it, find a new niche, come back to the romances I know.  Who knows?  Maybe I’ll find a new market.  I don’t need the money.  I need to write.  That’s it.

The night sorted itself out into a fierce storm that blew in around midnight.  Lowcountry storms were noisy and fierce and rarely so bad the sirens went off.  Lower Broad got lots of visitors and few memories.

 

 

I like both platforms.  Really, I do.  Facebook was fun when I first joined.  It was exciting to be able to reconnect with old friends and stay in touch with family.  I could have long chats for hours, catching up with everyone, liking their posts, feeling as if I am a part of their lives.  It is comforting on a certain level to be able to let someone know I am thinking of them, and when they read it, I know they are thinking of me, at least for that moment.  I could invite people in to see my pets, my dinners, my collection of craft brews.  I felt comfortable sharing my activities, my whiny days, my job.  The boundary lines are roomy, up to a point.  After a while, the honeymoon was over.  People can only take so much complaining before they start giving advice.  The advice phase lasts about as long as the falling out of love phase in a marriage.  Then, people either start really jumping into one’s shit, or they just go away–ghost the whole thing.  After a few years, though, strong friendships can be formed and family bonds severed.  It happens.  That’s where people start getting choosy about what they post and they continue to grow.  Whether they grow together or grow apart depends on what they are willing to do to keep the relationship alive.  It’s a familiar place, as broken in as a favorite pair of shoes or faded polo.  I look at them and hang on to them because they still serve a purpose, albeit much narrower than in the beginning.

Twitter is the opposite.  It’s like 50 first dates every stinking day.  It’s exciting, addictive, soul-sucking.  It’s as demanding as a mistress and as flighty as a girlfriend.  Every day there’s something new.  Every day, all day long, breaking news, twitter wars, trolling, and somewhere under the noise is a steady hum of news, research, articles, exposure to new cultures, diverse opinions, creators, artists, teachers, journalists, politicians, leaders, celebrities, lawyers . . . and they are all accessible.  Unbelievably so.  I can send a tweet to Chely Wright and she just might respond.  I can make a pithy comment on a Julian Castro tweet, and he might even answer with a pithy comment of his own.  There are few boundaries between people and stars.  There’s a level of trust and an element of danger, just like a psycho girlfriend.  The sheer volume of information can become crazy-making.  Woe to the neophyte who wanders into a timeline that is already rolling along and try to be clever.  It’s like trying to jump on a moving train while wearing a gunny sack.  Pragmatic elitism exists as a desperate filter to at least move the noise to an acceptable level.  There are bad neighborhoods and good neighborhoods, just like every city in real life.  It takes a certain level of street smarts to navigate unscathed through them.

We need these platforms–to inform us, to make us think if we want to.  They can become echo chambers of confirmation bias, and they can impel us to educate ourselves and find out the truth of what is out there.  I don’t know anything about reddit or 4chan or instagram because I waste enough time already with these two sites.  Being curious can lead me all around the world and back home again.  I become a little wiser and more willing to explore, as long as I understand on a visceral level that these two platforms are for me to use, not for them to use me.

I had this idea that I would write some grand essay on how great life is and how good it is to write for a living but alas, it just ain’t happening. Nothing is really going right today. One thing I’ve noticed about myself is that I tend to get into a holding pattern for no real reason. I stall, hanging onto whatever was in the past, especially concerning my late, not so lamented employment. It’s past time I moved on to something else, anything else, to get the bad taste of their nefarious actions out of my mouth, but as with all sociopathic organizations, they try the gaslighting technique and I’m not having it anymore. I also started doubting myself for a few minutes. What if I really can work at a physically demanding job and I’m just being lazy? That lasted just a few minutes until the vertigo struck again, and my numb legs just played dead, while the creeping numbness in my arms caused me to rub the bulging disc in my neck. This is real. I’ve always worked through pain and discomfort. Now, though, it’s not the same. My mental energy is sapped, my emotional energy is sapped, and my physical energy, while willing to try to do things, just won’t do what I want. Ah, well. A little whine is good for the soul, one supposes. Nexr essay will be on point. It’s been percolating for a while, but I needed to get this crappety crap off my chest and then get about the business of living again.

Today, I put my second baby on Kindle.  “21 Ways to Improve Your Life” .

It is a quick read that comes straight from me, no chaser, no footnotes, no quotes.  I have a sometimes rude sense of humor and that shines through.  I’ve decided that from now on, I am going to be intentional about writing and crafting.  It’s what I love.  I will never get rich or maybe not even support myself, but I will have fun doing it.

 

I don’t write about politics because it pisses me off so much. I want to keep the peace in my own head as much as possible.  I may joke about generic political topics, but nah, nothing that would piss off anyone.  I save that for Twitter.