“Come as You Are” always spoke to a oneness for me. Friend, enemy, memory? These matters become fused, and speaks to trust and messy agendas. “Why are you urging me to come there? What are you up to?”
Went off script today. Bounced with spouse to store in early A.M. Decided thereafter, screw it, movie. Who doesn’t love Sunday Afternoon at the Movies? Streaming options came through: Palm Springs on Hulu offered an afternoon respite from the daily drone.
Next four months with COVID-19, political campaigns, protests, riots, Feds abducting protesters, and POTUS insanity and lies (along with his administration’s lies, and well, most of the right wing’s offerings) will be a trial. Add to that a heat wave, and now, wildfires (the Badger Fire). My soul is getting stretched pretty thin.
On the COVID lines, cases in my state and county (Oregon, Jackson) are on the rise. No worries; to save our small businesses. the local Chamber of Commerce convinced the town to close some streets and parking so al fresco dining can be expanded. I’ve not checked it out — and won’t — but observers are saying, no masks and no distancing there. Yes, businesses and officials are lip syncing the requirements but enforcement seems to amount to some brief tsk, tsk. Not reassuring.
Had a follow up with my doc. Arm (xrays) looks good but remains in a sling. His wife is friends with my wife and related a brief tale. “I was with Glen when the ER doctor called. They said they had a broken arm. Glen told them they could set it. They replied, no, I’m not touching this. We’re sending you film. Glen took a look and said, I’m on my way. Glen called it quite deformed.”
Six more weeks and my arm will be free again.
I have my writing, though, but limited to one-handed typing. Writing with pen didn’t work as the splinted arm/hand combo failed to keep the notebook from sliding around. I also have time and coffee. Guess I’ll try to write like crazy, at least once more.
Trump often declares how others should feel. He loves extolling the greatness of himself, and how wonderful he is. “I’m the greatest,” he’ll often declare. “People should be thanking me.”
Not me; I’ve not seen anything come from his miserable administration that cues up thanks.
Somehow, from coalescing thoughts and manifesting feelings, up rose New Order’s “Blue Monday” (1983):
And still, I find it so hard To say what I need to say But, I’m quite sure that you’ll tell me Just how I should feel today
h/t to Genius.com
I don’t believe the song ever mentions Monday. That amuses me. The vocalist’s robotic, deadpan delivery offers a delicious counterbalance to the lyrics, no doubt by design.
Today’s theme music, “Every Breath You Take” by the Police (1983), was an obvious and unoriginal choice. Coaxed out of the cerebral cortex by images on the TV and net of law enforcement officers watching and attacking protesters, it works on multiple levels about watchers, watching, and being watched. Besides those confrontations, we’re watching COVID-related numbers, election events, and government actions as we gyrate about the best course to kickstart the money machines and normalize life as the case numbers rise.
The Police’s stalking song feels about right on this day in 2020.
This is sort of an unusual choice, via a circuitous route.
First, outside, looking for the comet, NEOWISE. About 10:30ish PMish. The sky is og, so clear, and the night is empty church quiet,
Up visiting comes the house pantera, whining, whining, whining for attention as is his way. He gets some head skritches, as is my way. Exception is suddenly taken by him, as is his way. A warning is issued: you’re doing it wrong. Stop, or I’ll bite.
I stopped. He tottered off (as is his way). Now I’m looking at the sky but thinking about him getting ready to bite the hand that feeds you, a stream that conjured Nine Inch Nails and “The Hand That Feeds” (2005).
On one side, when thinking of the song, I think of mask slackers. They claim that maskers are sheeple. By stepping out of line, mask slackers believe they are fighting the system. Masks are only useful (to them) as signs of oppression.
Maskers, of course, say, no, this isn’t a symbol of oppression, it’s a willingness to protect and be protected. It’s not about oppression at all.
Addressing another point I see in the song, dropping down to one knee is a protest against the system. But the song — and history — will have you on your knees if you’re being subjugated. This gives taking a knee it’s power; while others stood, Kap dropped to one knee. He did it to make the point, I’m not standing for this anthem. But dropping to a knee reminds us of being subjugated, and also says (in sports), hold up; pause. Take a break. But by taking a knee — especially in the modern NFL, that was interpreted by many as biting the hand that feeds.
Yeah, one hand ops suck. Challenges: opening yogurt containers, cat food tins and baggies, along with opening most screw-lid jars, buttons on shirts and shorts, and peeling bananas. Teeth work well for some reqs (like peeling bananas). Smaller food tins and yogurt cups are easier to open. Those child-resistant push-to-open med bottles are easiest to open; just put them upside down on a thick towel, apply pressure, and turn.
The broken bones officialese: transverse fracture of distal radius metaphysis with volar displacement and angulation; oblique mildly-displaced fracture of distal ulna metaphysis. All I know is that no bones were supporting my hand, and it hurt.
Curiously, my orthro surgeon sent me a four-page health questionnaire in the mail. They’re part of the same computerized system that provides the rest of my healthcare. Ran out of space in the part about injuries, illnesses, and hospital visits, and I only covered my adult years.
Changed clothes today, first change since ‘the incident’. Did it by myself, earning a brief spousal admonishment. If I’d put as much thought and control in what I was doing when I had my accident, it probably would’ve been avoided.
Drank coffee today, no meds since last P.M., and wrote one thousand words. Perhaps my coffee and writing connection is stronger than I credited it. One-handed typing is hard on my upper shoulders.
Defended Christians today. I know some, and I’m related to some, and trust, love, and respect these people. Their politics happen to be like mine. Agewise, some are younger, but most are older. Just as I don’t accept that all police are uncaring killers, all scientists are unmitigated geniuses, or all politicians are unprincipled liars, there is no need (nor any good from it) to making empty and baseless declarations regarding ‘all’. Yes, that does present me with some problems with Trump supporters, and why/how (whow) they support him. I seriously believe they do some heavy lying to themselves and rationalizing, and suspect mental illness and emotional problems. I’m not being charitable to them with that broad statement, but given Trump’s behavior, failures, constant lying, and broken promises, I haven’t heard intelligent reasoning for their unwavering support except that they are white, privileged, racists.
Whoa. That was Lou Dobbs promoting the idea that SCOTUS justices Gorsuch and Kavanaugh were part of the deep state out to ‘get Trump’. I craughed, which is a cringe modified by scoffing laughter. Into this came a 1983 Human League song, “(Keep Feeling) Fascination“.
Just looking for a new direction In an old familiar way The forming of a new connection To study or to play
And so the conversation turned Until the sun went down And many fantasies were learned On that day
Reading about Florida setting a new record for COVID-19 cases, then a new record for deaths, then the urge to open Disney, and the demand that children return to school. Then there are many other matters churning my stomach and leaving me saying, “I can’t go for that.”
Fortunately, Hall & Oates’ song, “I Can’t Go for That (No Can Do)” (1981) covers it, making it today’s theme music.
Pulled a piece of bread out of a bag yesterday and sniffed it, then gave it the eye test. That bread had been in the basket for a while. The basket is the bread basket that’s won counter territory. Nominally for bready goods, bulk granola, nuts, Kind bars, and Lararbars often camp there, too. It’s the place to rummage when a food is trying to tempt you but you’ve yet to identify its song. A couple forgotten goodies are usually to be found.
I found two heels of Dave’s Bread yesterday. Dave’s Bread was, is, an excellent healthy, tasty, robust bread, even though an evil corp. bought Dave out. Two heels; I could slap together a classic PB&J. The bread passed the eye and nose test, yet doubts lingered. A feel test confirmed: yeah, this is stale.
Per habit, my neurological Alexa said, “Playing a song with the word stale in it.” Eve 6’s offering, “Inside Out”, gained volume.
But yeah, stale is an appropriate word for the sit. in the USA. Trump’s attacks, tantrums, finger-pointing, and whining are stale, as are the faux discussions about re-opening the economy, ‘safely’ playing pro ‘sports’, and sending children back to school. My weariness with it is stale, as is my disbelief (hey, what do you know, Roger Stone has been pardoned) and disappointment. It’s all gone stale.
Ja, a stretch for “Inside Out” (1998), a wondrous melodic blur of rhymes and images, but I’m going with it.
Michael Seidel, writer 