waking light

I keep reading the news and then, carefully and thoughtfully, throwing my phone into the sea. But every high tide brings it back to me, with a push notification alerting me to the fresh inanity from the president’s latest open mic pandemic slam. 

I can’t afford to get any more agita over the Lysol Drinker In Chief, because he’s nothing original. Do you know how many Donald Trumps I’ve known, worked for, am related to? Being an adult woman in the US is basically an endless game of Frogger with guys like him and their dumb fucking ideas. He’s not the first of his kind to shanghai my longevity with Scrooge McDuck antics. His kind is a prolific breed, the Old White Guy, the labradoodle of American society: they show up everywhere with that dumb fucking look on their face and nobody cleans up after them. 

So instead I’ll just stay where I am, a furloughed bartender cocooned in an old apartment in an old city, riding out the apocalypse while I listen to Beck’s Morning Phase on loop as an elderly dog sleeps on the rug at my feet. (Downtempo Beck is really good for senior dogs with bad arthritis, just FYI.)

While I’ve been crunching baby aspirin like Skittles and generally being a shitty Buddhist about this whole thing, others have phrased their meditations on this weirdness more poetically, more beautifully, more strangely. I have been smoking on this very interesting little essay from Wired

In this case—plucked momentarily out of my world of cheerful grind and forced to contemplate the end of the world, professionally—it came as a weird relief. A welcome chance to look reality in the eye and shake its hand. (This was before the pandemic.) Because we all know it’s coming. We all know that the world is ending. It’s what makes our society different. Not even the Romans could claim that.

Paul Ford

The grip of homesickness is powerful when you’re quarantined in a city far from where you grew up. I found a live feed of five kinds of azaleas blooming in a Japanese garden, soft boughs of viburnum and dogwood and cherry drooping into frame, smooth pebbles combed neatly into circles. Nobody can go in the garden now except its caretaker. The garden lives for itself, its deer chaser fountain pulsing gently against quiet skies and oblivious birdsong, its splendor a private delight.  

Finally, here is a Miyazaki quote that was at the top of my Instagram feed: “When you die, you can’t see sunsets.” 

So here’s to mornings. 

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