Women rounded up to be sent to “The Colonies,” Handmaid’s Tale, Season 2.
My most fervent prayer is that Trumpism comes to an end. Obviously, the best way for that to happen would be for Bob Mueller to make his findings known, and then we can celebrate as we watch the entire evil regime be removed and arrested on national TV, so they can never hurt anyone else. That would be an event worthy of a new national holiday.
Of course, it might set off a civil war. Trumplicans have promised that. Whatever. At this point, I’d welcome a civil war if it meant we could be rid of the orange menace and his cabal of anti-American, antisocial ghouls. Bring it on.
But each day this horrific human being stays in office, the worse things get. When I look back over the past eighteen months, it’s startling how much we’ve normalized and the unnerving way he’s been able to accelerate and intensify his assaults on democracy. We are so much closer to being a fascist state than we were eighteen months ago. Essentially we have one-party rule now, and no one ever holds Trump and the converted Republican Party (which is now the Party of Trump) accountable for anything, no matter how heinous or cruel their actions. The crippled but still functioning free press is the only thing left that keeps us still tethered to a thread of democracy. How much longer that (and our freedom of speech and assembly) will last I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.
So I’m not getting my hopes up about the Mueller investigation. If he’s even allowed to finish his investigation, the complicit GOP Congress, which is supposed to provide a check on the president’s absolute power, is likely to do nothing. Trump will skate — even if he’s found guilty of treason, which seems more likely every day. He literally could shoot someone on Fifth Avenue and nothing would happen to him. That might have been the one thing he ever told the truth about.
More likely is that we could neuter Trump’s tyranny by turning the House and Senate blue in November. But because Russia has shown every intention of still meddling in our elections, because of blatant gerrymandering and voter suppression on the part of the GOP, and because of the Trump regime’s daily assaults and smear campaigns on Democrats, the free press, and democracy itself, our side is being discredited and weakened. The Democratic Party is growing, since many never-Trump conservatives have left the corrupt, Trumpicized GOP and independents have also seen the writing on the wall and have vowed to vote blue in November. But we don’t have much power and our voices are drowned out by the much louder, wealthier, and more aggressive Trump GOP.
If we manage to succeed, Trump could be rendered fairly harmless and impeachment proceedings could finally begin with a Democratic House and Senate. It could happen, but even with all the excitement about the impending “blue wave,” I’m not getting my hopes up. Putin is an evil genius who knows exactly how to turn things in Trump’s favor, and the GOP, with all the Putin/Koch/Mercer/Adelson money behind it and almost unlimited power and control, will almost certainly do their best to make voting as difficult as they can, and gerrymander districts even more than they already are. So even with renewed Democratic motivation to vote, we could still wind up losing.
If they win, it will be too late. America as we know it will be over. Back in January 2017, when Trump took office, Amy Siskind, an expert on authoritarian states and the author of the book, “The List,” which documents in horrifying detail each week of the Trump administration (every week, the assaults on our democracy have increased in both number and severity) predicted we had less than two years to save our country. After that, it would be game over. Well, we are there. It’s been almost two years. Honestly, I don’t have high hopes. Of course, I’ll still do whatever I can to turn things around, and you’d have to kill me before I wouldn’t show up at the polls this November. But I’m not feeling too optimistic.
I know I couldn’t survive in the sort of regime that will result when Trump seizes full power — which he will certainly do if we fail in November. My temperament isn’t suited for totalitarianism and fascism. I couldn’t physically, emotionally or spiritually handle a political environment of such mysogyny, cruelty and watch the exploitation and institutionalized abuse of the most vulnerable members of society.
This regime seems very hostile to women in particular, and coupled with the powerful influence of Dominionism and far right evangelicalism, they are poised to overturn not just Roe vs. Wade, but also use “Old Testament Law” (the “Christian” version of Sharia Law) as justification to take away all our rights, including contraception and even possibly the right to vote or own property, just like they do in Afghanistan or Saudi Arabia. As an unmarried (divorced) older female without much in the way of financial means, I’d be an easy target for the emboldened regime to exploit, marginalize, and abuse. Social security and Medicare, which I’m counting on in a few years since I have very little in retirement savings, will be gone — and everything I paid into it over four decades effectively stolen from me by insatiably greedy oligarchs who believe they deserve everything and the “little people” deserve nothing.
Right now, I don’t see any way I’d be able to flee the country, and I wouldn’t leave without my adult children anyway, who are also vulnerable to exploitation and abuse by this regime for reasons I won’t get into here. They would also be targets.
I fear death. Maybe faced with a dystopian future of wasting away in a concentration or slave labor camp reminiscent of “The Colonies” in The Handmaid’s Tale (the “Colonies” are the grim hard labor camps that older and infertile women, and female dissenters are sent to shovel toxic waste until they die), that fear might disappear. At that point, suicide might be an option. I don’t know. I can’t imagine such a thing now. I still have too much hope that things can’t stay like this — even though intellectually I know they can.
Every day I pray that a miracle gives me back the country I love, or barring that, that an opportunity for escape opens up for my family and I to start over in a new country. If neither of those outcomes are in the cards, all I want from God is a quick and merciful death to spare me from the horror and pain of the alternative.
I saw someone’s tweet today that caught my attention because I could relate to its sentiment.
True story @ work tonite I completely crushed a paper cup out of stress at work & almost threw it away but felt bad for the cup so I used it.
And a few minutes later:
This falls under the same category as me feeling sad after accidentally stepping on an ant, but worse.
I thought I was the only one who ever had these absurd feelings of remorse or pity for inanimate objects, but apparently I’m not.
I remember a couple of years ago, when I was painting my kitchen Kelly green, I accidentally flung some of the paint from my brush all over a small throw pillow that had somehow wound up on the kitchen floor and I’d neglected to pick up and bring to safety. (Don’t ask me how it wound up on the kitchen floor). A small fake-velvet tan pillow with floral embroidery was permanently ruined with Kelly green paint and it was all my fault. I had to throw it away and I felt like weeping.
How absurd is that? I was never attached to that pillow; it was worth nothing. I probably found it for a buck at some yard sale, but I remember feeling like the worst person in the world because the thing looked so pathetic with lurid green paint splattered over its delicate tan velvet adorned with Chinese-factory made embroidery.
I remember when my daughter was four, she tossed a Pound Puppy out of our car window to see what would happen to it. Of course I had to keep going, but in my rearview mirror, I saw the car behind me run over the stuffed toy and flatten it like a pancake. Its petroleum-based stuffing exploded all over the road like popcorn. My daughter laughed. I felt inexplicably sad.
There have been other times like that too. Like the time that, in frustration, I threw a paperback book (one I’d never read and never intended to read) against the wall and split its binding. Or the other time I accidentally burned a cheap oven mitt that had a cute lattice-like pattern on it. I actually liked that oven mitt, but it had cost me $3 at Dollar General. There were a gazillion more just like it. Besides, it was intended to be stuck inside a hot oven. Getting burned was one of the risks that came with its intended use.
None of these were valuable objects, or even objects that had any special meaning to me. They were just part of the background — things I’d acquired and that were just there. Things I never thought much about. Of course I realized they had no feelings, and could feel neither emotional or physical pain. I’m not an idiot.
And yet, when bad things happened to them — or worse, when I did bad things to them — I felt just terrible, as if I’d killed someone. Would these inexplicable feelings of guilt had been less had I loved those objects or had they been valuable, either financially or in the sentimental sense? Maybe I’d have grieved over their loss but have been spared that guilt. After all, those poor objects were never loved, and then were destroyed through my own carelessness. Maybe if I’d cared, I wouldn’t have done things like spill green paint all over them or thrown them hard against a wall in frustration.
Sometimes I also feel bad for abandoned or neglected objects. There’s a website I visit sometimes called Terrible Real Estate Agent Photos. The site owner has a bizarre obsession with those ubiquitous plastic outdoor chairs. He or she calls them the “garden chairs of solitude” and positions them in poignant configurations that just rip your heart out, like in this photo:
Whenever I rescue some forgotten or abandoned object from certain destruction by the trash compactor that barrels down the road every Monday, I feel like I’ve done a good thing for it, as if the thing actually cares.
The day after New Year’s, my daughter surprised me with a new couch (actually it’s used — but barely). It’s a pale blue-grey tweed. I love it and it looks great (there’s a quilt on top to keep the cat hair off of it). The old one was horrible — badly stained and the arms threadbare from the cats. It was so ugly I kept a quilt or blanket over it all the time so I didn’t have to look at it.
Here’s my problem though. The new couch reminded me of how many other things I need to do to make the living room…livable! The rest of the room is so dark and dingy and out of date, and the brightness of the couch makes it glaringly obvious how other many things I need to replace or update. Now I can’t go in the living room because it reminds me of the inside of my head.
The next thing I’m going to get is a new rug in a modern design with the same blue grey color scheme as the couch. After that, I’ll see what else needs to be done to make this room less depressing.
Posts, that is.
If I wrote one post a year, starting in the year 1 AD, it would have taken me until 1982 to write that many posts. I could have gotten in another 34 posts since then. I guess I’m doing pretty good, having managed to accomplish this feat (minus the 34 extra posts) in a little over two years. But if I only wrote one post a year, I doubt I’d have any readers. Who would want to wait around that long?
Just another one of my strange little “shower” thoughts. It seems profound somehow.
What I have to say has nothing to do with the meme posted above and what is a meme anyway it seems like everything is called a meme these days but there have always been memes like in those sitcoms from the 70s and 80s with those dumb catchprases from them that everyone used to say all the time until you wanted to strangle all the lemmings who parroted them like that guy on that show I can’t remember the name of that always said Dy-no-myyyyyte god that was annoying but anyway that was a meme too and getting back to my point I wonder if the graphic above really is transparent for some people it isn’t for me but I’m weird in many ways and worry about a lot of silly things like that crusty thing on my back that seems like it could be skin cancer I worry about that and I had one on my hand in 2010 and it wasn’t skin cancer but it could have turned into it and I’m at that age where people start to get cancer if they are going to get it but cancer doesn’t run in my family but I got a lot of sunburns as a kid which predisposes you and I used to smoke a lot and I don’t eat enough fresh fruits and vegetables but I do eat dark chocolate and I remember how thrilled I was when I found out dark chocolate is actually good for you but I don’t remember where I read that, well you can’t believe everything your read but some things you read are actually true so I need to stop being such a cynic but I’m cynical because I have trouble trusting anyone because so many people have screwed me over and I feel screwed over right now because my therapist is making me wait 2 weeks to see him so I think he’s trying to torture me and it makes me angry but I won’t go off on him because I used to go off on people and always regretted it or felt ashamed and I need to stop always feeling ashamed all the time because people can pick that up about you and then they take advantage of you and stomp all over you and try to screw you over and there I go talking in circles and that reminds me that people used to tell me I repeated myself too much and that brings me back to the shame thing again and I really need to stop feeling so ashamed because I’m a valuable person but I worry too much about everything like I’m worried about my tax return and getting a new car and that crusty thing on my back that I hope isn’t cancer but I used to get a lot of sunburns as a kid and I used to smoke a lot and i don’t eat enough fresh fruits and vegetables and why am I repeating myself again, oh yeah right, people used to tell me I repeated myself too much so I really have to stop writing but where do I stop, god I’m a boring person but TV is more boring than I am and I don’t have TV anymore so whatever blah blah.
Sometimes I have weird thoughts. Sometimes I like to type them into Google to see if anyone else was thinking the same thing. Here’s something I think about a lot. Someone on Reddit had the exact same thought and posted it. It’s always incredibly cool when that happens.
Here is the thing I think about a lot but at least one other person does too.
The mid-90s are as far away as the mid-70s were in the mid-90s. But mid-70s seems like another world to me, mid-90s seem like yesterday.
It’s kind of hard to wrap my brain around that. Even more bizarre is this:
1990 is as far away from 2015 as 1990 was from 1965!
1985 is as far away from 2015 as 1955 was from 1985! (but the 1980s are starting to seem kind of ancient to me actually).
The 90s just don’t seem that far away to me, but they are! I wonder if it’s just because I’m growing older and time is speeding up (at a rather frightening rate, too) or if people of all ages feel this way too. And if so, why? Did people who were the age I am now in 1990 think 1965 or the 1970s weren’t that far away? Do I just perceive a much larger gap of time from the 70s to the 90s or from 1965 to 1990 because I was much younger then? I think the culture has changed just as much in the past 25 years as it did in the 25 years before that. But the ’70s seem ancient (and sort of did in the 90s too if I remember correctly) and the ’90s don’t.
…but apparently a lot of people do since it’s now a Facebook meme.
2008 was almost Eight. Years. Ago. WTF. Facebook was new and MySpace was still popular. Hardly anyone knew what a meme was. Bush was still president, for heavens sake.
2009 seems like a year ago. 2010 seems like 6 months ago. 2014 seems like…a couple of weeks ago? Seriously, what’s up with this? Does anyone know? Is it like fluoride in the water? Is someone messing with our minds? What gives?
I know, random post. I had no other ideas tonight.
I might be about to commit blog suicide but I have to do what’s right regardless of the fallout. Yikes. Not quite ready but almost. Deep breaths.