the october of our discontent

It’s been a minute since I’ve been visited by any Inspirado, as far as this blog is concerned. I started it shortly before the pandemic reached American shores in earnest, and back then I was convinced we’d all die in the Carbon Wars of 2050, a thing which I’m still fairly certain of some eight months later with the singular caveat being that death in the Carbon Wars is contigent on Preventable Plague survival. 

It’s been both absolutely wild and utterly unsurprising to see the virus finally reach the upper echelons of power and privilege, occupied as they are by a bunch of feckless gavones; of course the bloated caligulan and his cronies have seemingly bluffed their way through it. But the liberal resistance mafia hasn’t exactly been an inspiring visage during these bleak times, either, with their insistence that we must all wish these war criminals well during their convalescence (horseshit), their reassurance that they’re not banning fracking either, their toothless press conferences in which they announce they’ve created thoughtful bipartisan commissions to explore the idea of the 25th Amendment for future presidents who contract coronavirus on the job—but not this one. 

For a while I thought maybe they were living in another reality than I was, and then I realized, no, this is it. We’re all in this together. We’ve landed in purgatory where nothing is ever solved and we are doomed to litigate Hillary Clinton’s emails forever and ever and ever. We need to adjust our expectations accordingly. 

I voted, which felt like the hollowest, most bizarre thing a person can do in the face of so much abject criminality and rampant disease. So don’t blame me for whatever happens after November.

There have been things that have been giving me a lot of joy in these bleak times. Sending little zines to a friend in the mail. Cooking bizarre things like cardamom marmalade cakes with Angostura frosting. Reading trashy paperbacks from the 70s, reading an Errol Morris book I should have read a while ago. Spoiling my dogs. Going for walks along the beach and pondering how it came to be that two perfectly intact watermelons washed up on the shore at the exact same time. 

I watched a short minute video this morning about a charming old Frenchman who makes small, herbed artisanal butters in Brittany. “Me, I’m a little good man and I make little things,” he said, when asked why he didn’t pursue a more lucrative career in selling butter by the pound. 

This is the reality. You can do your part, where you are, but you cannot save the world by yourself. Make little things. Make anything. The decline, after all, is inevitable, but it doesn’t have to be misery all the way down. 

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