I’m finding it difficult to write these days. I’m frightened and angry at what’s going on in the world. I feel inadequate and disenfranchised. To get out from under the heels of the banks and corporations is going to take a huge and horrible effort that the comfortable don’t want to join in. I’m afraid that they will stand back and do nothing if the police and armies try to halt the voices of dissent. I hate to see that racism is alive and thriving and yet the other side seems not to know that they are racist. There is no honesty about it, which makes it slippery and hard to catch and kill.
Right now I really don’t care about anyone’s sexual pleasure, not even mine. Love, it turns out, does not cure everything and is not being embraced by vast numbers in the world. Frankly, I am tired of hearing every wet and sweaty detail of someone’s sex life which will turn to bitter odes of regret and anger when sweetie pie moves on to the next conquest.
Yes, I have my ducks in a row and I’m comfortable, but I never thought that in my retirement years that I would be considered an enemy who deserves any suffering that comes my way, but less so because I’m white. Gee, thanks, you Nazi, Ku Klux Klan reject. I want to enjoy my Golden Years, but that’s not going to happen when I am surrounded by the vultures of the corporate world, trying to think of every possible way to grab my last nickel and leave me in their wake.
It just seems indulgent to write about the personal and not about the revolution or the grief and anger that is feeding it. I thought that I would be gazing at my own naval and coming up with a song for all the abandoned women of America, whining about some man or men, but now, all I can think about is the children and the lost futures they are facing and I have to get my head out of my crotch for once.
Which is why I’m not writing much these days.