Resisting and persisting in slow motion

The theme of the week is persist and resist. Persist at the personal my life sucks and then I die level, resist at the existential cosmic no kings very bad hell bummer level. Maybe I shouldn't try to make a distinction. If the planet goes belly up, whining about persisting at the personal level is like rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic.

I tried to find another metaphor but I'm not finding my words today. Uh-oh, stroke, you might say. TIA. High blood pressure. You might be right. More important, who or what can I blame? Too much salt. Not enough salt. Who knows, who cares. Words are meaningless in this new era of name stuff anything you want. Want to call it the Gulf of Your Name Here? Go ahead. Mapmakers might protest, but who cares about tradition?  When elephants are in charge, vegetation is shredded, water sources are fouled, and everyone get trampled in the end.  

I'm sure I'd feel better if the weather weren't so volatile. Welcome to my head. Wherever I am, there it is, rattling like a tin can full of tiny angry pebbles. I hope I can hit the road for a while next week. I'm getting tired of trolling the same old neighborhoods for stealth parking, pretending I am a local (in fact, I was, once) and hoping nobody will see me getting up to pee in my jar in the middle of the night.

Speaking of persisting, I met a unicorn this week: my new PCP. Dr. Mario was nice, but he looked worn out, and it was only 9:30 in the morning. He reviewed my meds and suggested some referrals, but he didn't ask many questions about me. Like, what do you do, what's your life like? I filled out some forms before the appointment, answering questions like how often last week did you feel depressed, and how often does someone verbally or physically abuse you. Wow. Compared to some, I'm living a life of luxury, apparently. In my experience, doctors don't read those forms. They like to hear it from the dying horse's mouth. So the fact that he didn't ask about me made me think he was too tired to care.

One of the mark-a-box questions was yes or no, do you live in an insecure housing situation (e.g., with a friend or with family, in a tent, in a car, on the street, etc.). I could have lied but then what? Sooner or later, I'd be outed as a nomad (i.e., a person who pretends they live in a vehicle by choice so they can live a life of freedom and frugality), and then I would have to explain, justify, defend . . . Ho hum. 

So now it's in my medical records, if anyone bothers to read those forms. I can't imagine how anyone could. The forms I filled out with a Bic pen were essentially unreadable. The line spacing was crammed, the fonts were miniscule, and there wasn't enough room to write much, let alone explain, justify, or defend. 

Nobody cares, anyway. Healthcare professionals don't have time to care. Healthcare professionals are underpaid and underappreciated. Who can blame them for phoning it in? I bet they are still waiting for their award for surviving on the front lines of COVID. They don't realize the rest of us have moved on to the next existential crisis. (That would be the assault on democracy, in case you are keeping track of crises).

Good news, I now have a stronger medication for high cholesterol, so I'm sure the thing that will kill me will not be a stroke or heart attack. It will probably be the daily grinding realization that people (and when I say people, I am referring to Americans) are too stupid to live and will take everyone and everything down with them when they self-destruct. What a waste, but nothing lasts forever.  

Meanwhile, we persist and resist, if we are able and inclined. 

There's lots of room in the handbasket for you. See you in hell.

Chaos and wreckage 2.0

As you might imagine, based on my previous posts, I would have preferred a different outcome in last Tuesday's presidential election. I've seen Orange Man 1.0, and it wasn't all that much fun. I anticipate 2.0 is going to be harder in some ways. Definitely more interesting, if you like chaos, confusion, and human wreckage. I don't want to count my chickens before they tear my lips off, but I don't expect the next four-plus years to be a walk in the park. I say four-plus because I think there's a good chance the Orange Man will be dead before 2028 and his sycophants and manipulators will hold a sham election so they can remain in power indefinitely. All the money in the world isn't enough for some people. They want all the power, too. Go figure.

My aspirations are modest in comparison to those who chase power, wealth, and fame. I'd like to say I used to have ambition, but the truth is, I was born retired. I never wanted to walk the well-trodden, rutted path of the traditional baby boomer. I just wanted to paint sunsets, write my stories, and draw goofy cartoons. By the time I realized I was destined for the poor side of the landfill, it was too late. I'm old. Unless there is some kind of divine intervention in the form of appearing on the New York Times bestseller list, I expect the balance of my life will be lived invisibly under the radar. 

I'm okay with anonymity. Invisibility can be a superpower in times of social turmoil. Still, I'd like to be part of the resistance, in some small way. I'm not a dramatic person. I can't really see me marching on Washington, even though in my last blogpost, I sounded pretty cocky about self-immolation. Don't worry. I have no plans for another road trip to the East Coast. Besides, I can self-immolate anywhere. In fact, all I have to do is take a trip next door to California. 

Time out. Full stop. What am I saying? I don't fall into rabbit holes anymore. That was the old me. Now I avoid the rabbit holes altogether. Been down there, too dark and stinky, got the N95 mask to prove it. We all went down that hole. Did you drink bleach? I didn't either. I considered it briefly, though. In my defense, I was out of my mind then, trying to keep my mother alive. Cleansing my soul from the inside out was tempting. 

All the blood we are stepping in is from my liberal compadres, lamenting as they tear their coiffed hair out and rend their designer clothes. I get it. I still haven't emerged from the painful haze of disbelief many of us share. I remember what we went through. It's beyond belief that we will go through that again. The worst part for me, though, is the nauseating awareness that Americans chose this. Apparently, we don't like freedom after all. Who knew? We kept up the pretense for so long, but I guess it was all a charade. We are just a bunch of whiny babies hoping Daddy will swoop in, kick some ass, and tell some of the bad kids to go sit in the corner while the rest of us eat cake. I am preparing to sit in the corner. 

We are one sick nation. Well, what's one more sick nation on a sick planet? This too shall pass, stardust, yada yada. We will get over our shock and horror and carry on, because that is what we do. I'm not sure we'll have our democracy for long, but let's try to enjoy it while we can.