yesterday, they called the election for biden. and by "they", i mean a majority of the media outlets, which is pretty official. i mean, it won't be for a few more days (?) until the election is certified by all the states, but at this point, it's pretty official.
i'm happy, of course. or should i say relieved. i'm disturbed that trump still got 70 million votes. that means that 70 million people in america believe in his racist, sexist policies... or at least, they are okay with them, as a tradeoff for tax breaks or anti-abortion policies or anti-immigration policies... which, i can't decide, may be even worse. there is this call for reconciliation, for healing and mediation, and i'm all for that. but at the same time, i don't think there is a "middle ground" with these people. i think that they have to face up and fess up to the evil that they supported. the way i see it: your children and grandchildren will see all of your pro-trump facebook posts... aren't you going to be ashamed that you supported such a hateful man? history, and your family, they will look upon you as some dark stain. happy with that? no? then start asking for forgiveness. from god, first of all (not the trump god, or the god of your evangelical christian church, which is actually a front for gop talking points, but the true god, the one that walks the silences, and is just and is love). from your family... and then from the world.
okay, there was my rant.
in terms of what's next, politically... we need to support the two senate races in georgia. right now, the gop still has control of the senate, which means that they will continue in their role of being a barrier to getting anything done. so we need to flip the senate as well...
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i read 3 more short stories by amy hempel. the first i read this cycle was actually very long. it was called "tumble home," and it was very moving to me. i hadn't been able to really access or appreciate most of her work. i thought it was trying to be too clever or something. but this one sort of got to me. it was about a woman who (although it's not clearly stated) is in some sort of asylum, due to some unidentified mental problems... and she is writing a letter to a famous painter whom she had tea with for one hour once long ago... the painter is sort of an idealized love interest for her... and the letter is sort of a confessional, a disclosing of her life and her inner workings...
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what have i been thinking about?
i keep recalling people in my life. their transitional roles... and how so many of them have moved on and developed and changed in their lives, and i was never a part of it. and maybe i feel sad that i didn't share in their lives, that i wasn't there. it's sort of an arrogance on my part, i suppose. i have always felt a fear of being irrelevant, and maybe like the narcissist in chief we have, i would like a hand in everything (of course, not pussies, like him)... what i mean is, i would like to have had people think well of me, think i was somehow important. even though i am not, and was not... i suppose it's arrogant in the sense that, i imagine, most people just want humbler things, like just getting by, or being normal. i want those things too, i want an easy path, but at the same time, i want to be seen as important, even if it is not in an overt way (cause i couldn't handle that), but in a hidden way... like the invaluable servant or something... like arthur for batman. only a bit more glamorous... cause i would have wanted SOME recognition...
i keep repeating this... but i think i have this need to be considered important because i am so afraid of disappearing. why am i afraid of that? that's where i came from. i was in my brother's shadow, and i didn't exist. i think i was someone back then, and maybe i was kind. i think i was a good older brother to my sister... but i wasn't anyone. i didn't have a self. i was kind of like this harmless thing, this "nice guy," who people didn't see because i couldn't see or recognize myself... it was only later that i discovered i was solid... and i think afterwards, i had such a dread of turning back into what i was, that liminal half-hearted thing (which, in many respects, i probably still am), that i claimed the sun for myself. i wanted to swallow it, and have it burn within me forever. that, or at least have its spotlight trained on me, in some small respect (still borrowing some shade from my brother)...
"look at me. i'm still here."
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there is again the myth of the disappearing. but in my world it is never true disappearing. it is the disappearing that hopes for the world to miss it, and therefore redeem it. it is the "didja miss me?" play. and when i see myself doing it, i think it's so pathetic. true disappearing is a death... and even in that, there is this sneaky ploy... i think of manga arcs where the protagonist disappears for a time, and then reappears, a stronger, more experienced character, after having suffered some trials, or having undergone some deadly training, or something... there is always that hope... that when you return "from the dead," you will be more relevant, more effective, more beautiful, more loved... so it is the same thing.
there is no coming back from the true death. and if there is, it is usually a diminution of the self. that's how it is in the real world...
so again, that is a strategy of the self. to stage its own death so that we are delighted in its resurrection...
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i just want everything to be itself. in its own skin. and me okay with that.
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