I know many of us are numb at this point. That we’re in year 3 of the most corrupt and dangerous administration to ever occupy the White House and I do mean White House. And that sometimes we’re afraid of saying the wrong thing–of making things worse while trying to make them better. But as a Jew, as a queer, and as a white woman, it is necessary that I do what I’ve been gently reminded all white people of conscience should do. And that is to explicitly condemn the white supremacy on the rise all around our beautiful planet, as was most recently evidenced by the terrorism that took the lives of 49 people and injured many more at the Christchurch mosques. Is saying something enough? Of course not. We must ensure this blind brutal hatred is never normalized as this administration would have it be. For make no mistake. It is not that our president does not care about Brenton Harris Tarrant’s motivation. It is that he condones it. And like all black holes (oh, the irony of that term), the bottomless, life- and light-sucking abyss that is White Supremacy will only gain momentum if we don’t condemn it every.fucking.time. Members of the Muslim community: you are seen, you are precious, you are loved. And I will fight for everyone I love with all my might and my final, dying breath. We must love everyone as we love ourselves, or else these peddlers of virulent entitlement have already won. Love is the only true light. Love is the only true might.
Permakitten and I pad into the kitchen, where I fix her food and warm up yesterday’s coffee. Just a little too hungover to deal with a boiling kettle for the French press. It’s unlike me to have more than two drinks in one sitting–usually I can’t bear ceding that much control–but during this Mercury Retrograde, I’ve been unlikely across the board.
It’s warm for a March morning–already in the high 40s–and so Grace and I exchange morning smooches and perch on the fire escape to watch the day rise. First light lifts the clouds into silver and peach. Then the rest of the sky starts to lift–indigo to lilac, finally a cool periwinkle. Continue Reading →
Do you remember that scene in All of Me when Steve Martin is trying to convince Richard Libertini as Prahka Lasa to put Lily Tomlin’s spirit back into a bowl? BACK IN BOWL, BACK IN BOWL, the two men kept shouting. In retrospect, the depiction of an Indian mystic by an Italian-American was irrevocably offensive but in 1984 we all just laughed uproariously at the portrayal, coached as it was by the great Carl Reiner. Well. Today, I can’t get that scene out of my head. Because I’m in my writers space for the first time in three weeks–a lot went down that I still haven’t been able to bring myself to describe here; Mercury Retrograde in space-age Pisces is addling me like there’s no tomorrow (literally)—and I just keep hearing a variation of that phrase in the same (totally offensive) intonation: BACK IN BOOK, BACK IN BOOK. Send light and whiskey; I’ll send it right back to anyone who can bear it.