No. 1: Trash chair thoughts
I woke up early and then slept late, triggering an incredibly vivid stress dream where, at the very moment I needed to contact someone, my phone malfunctioned and all of my apps disappeared. “Afghanistan falls to the Taliban” screamed at me from today’s front page; 20-years of supposed progress goes poof in a few days.
No one even fought back.
The photo of Taliban insurgents lounging in Kabul reminds me of the man with his foot on Pelosi’s desk at the Capitol on January 6th. I finally finished yesterday’s Sunday New York Times, which included a special section reconstructing the timeline of our own homegrown idiot insurgency. On the 6th, I had a work meeting until about 1pm, and left my apartment soon after. I arrived at the Capitol just in time to watch the MAGA mob advance up the steps toward the building’s east entrance. Thinking about the police presence and tactics I had witnessed during the previous 6 months of Black Lives Matter (and similar) protests, I laughed and thought “good luck.”
No one even fought back.
Some people did, of course (and some still are)—but not enough. Last night I printed fabric destined to be turned into face masks. Almost a year since we made RBG masks and collectively mourned her death. I went through my t-shirts and decided to donate the one I got from a protest late last year. 214,802+ deaths and counting it says. It was always a bit small for me but now that unimaginable number has been far surpassed by other unimaginable ones. Numbers rolling through my brain today: 10,000 Emperor penguin chicks drown, 100 senators are like Kings, 1.5-degrees of warming, 7-point-something earthquake in Haiti, 20 years and zero flights from Kabul. Trump 2024?
I had a virtual visit with my MS doctor today who told me to get the booster shot but “we’re not calling it a booster” and that he’s sending me a letter in the mail but I should have no problem walking in anywhere and declaring “I’m immune compromised.” Is it wrong to shop around for the vaccine outpost offering the best swag? When I got my initial doses this spring, I got a coupon to Safeway for 10% off my groceries (up to $200). I used it once and the cashier handed it back to me, so I kept it and used it a second time before I got a more discerning cashier. $40 off my groceries and immunity from a preventable and unseemly death? Not bad, but it’ll take a few days for my doctor’s letter to arrive so I’ll shop around.
I spent most of my morning catching up on emails from the past few days when I suspended my D.C. life admin to rendezvous with my first love, New York City. I hate when people point to the high number of unread emails in their inbox as a point of pride. Those red notifications on apps stress me out more than almost anything, and I will go to great lengths to clear them. Watching it tick up this weekend was torture (although it did stay at 69 for a while, nice). I read this article that was forwarded to me and was reminded that “50 Democrats represent over 41 million more Americans than the 50 Republicans.” Oh, and that Ted Cruz sucks (always and forever).
I intended to go running (which would have forced me to shower afterwards), but the rain was more persistent than predicted. I sat by my open kitchen window and watched the sky turn from dark to light to dark again. One of those rainy-weather optical illusions that seem to either turn back time temporarily (dark skies lighten again just before sunset) or defy it all together (rainbows seem unreal every single time I see one). I can hear the cicada chorus chirping outside—or at least, I think I can—unless they’re all already gone for the next 17 years. Maybe I don’t speak bug as well as I should for someone with a (super dope) fresh cicada tat (I seriously love it more, have already forgotten about the pain, and already want another one).
I’ve been listening to the Brian Jonestown Massacre all day; yes, I saw the Anthony Bourdain documentary by myself at the Angelika on Houston Street. And yes, I sobbed all the way from Broadway Lafayette to Fort Hamilton Parkway on the F train. I met a friend at a bar and ran into my ex-boyfriend. He barely lives in Brooklyn anymore and was in town just for the night. The bar I had first suggested was still closing at a peak-pandemic 9 p.m., so I had chosen this one as a backup. I spend much more time now than I ever did retracing the steps. How exactly did we get here?
The last movie I saw in a theater before the pandemic was Portrait of a Lady on Fire; it was in the same exact theater as Roadrunner—the one where you can periodically feel (and hear) the subway rattling underneath. They switched to assigned seating a few years ago but they’ve resisted an AMC-style recliner upgrade. There were so few people in the theater at 5:20 pm on a Thursday night that I was able to put my feet up anyway.