Monday November 14th 2016, 11:45 pm
Filed under: change Tags:

I’ve certainly never sobbed in front of 160 people before. My voice quavered and broke, and the simple fact i have no answers, no plans, no explanations, was too much. I didn’t know what to say because, now, for me at least, there’s nothing to be said, nor shouted. I continue to not read the news, or the world, and instead want to spend time thinking and listening to people.

A friend, encouraging us not to trust the cloud, but to write it down, to preserve thoughts in journals to fight fascism. Which would be less compelling if he weren’t from Argentina. Another, from Croatia, who also lived through this already; asked where to move, she replied “nowhere. There are no more options.”

My students are thanking me for being human, and afraid, and broken. Like them. You would think that a bar this low would be low enough for all. But apparently not.

otsi y dyeti
Wednesday November 02nd 2016, 11:09 pm
Filed under: Boozy,fall,family Tags:

Though technically translated as fathers and children, most western audiences know the book as Fathers and Sons.It’s been a long while since I’ve read it. Something about nihilism. A few questionable decisions. Possibly some sister swapping. Turgenev can bite me.

Old man take a look at your self. Though, for all of the ways I’m a lot like you, there are a million more I’m not. Paul Dano and Robert de Niro, in whatever that movie that I’ve just watched, agree. They, and the director, can also bite me.

I got him a pension. He joined the fucking army 45 days before the Korean War ended. So, he technically served during a fucking war. And so, like an addict enabled one last time, he’s got enough to live on through no fault of his own. Or do I adopt the condemning rhetoric of the lucky and the undeserved that I’ve too often faced? He served. He’s eligible, so why question it? Why shouldn’t he? I have no idea what it takes to enlist in the midst of a war, even at the very end. A hell of a gamble at 19. Who fucking knew that at 81 that gamble would be worth a few grand a month? Who the fuck am I to judge?

And therein lies, as always, the rub. How to judge those who acted as judge and jury and executioner and torturer. How to make sense now of a then that’s increasingly long ago, of scars for which the bruises have so long faded as to be distant memories of vague recollections of the grief of aching ribs once removed. Or something.

“I absolve you,” De Niro said, “I made you but you’re not me.” “I made you.” How many times did I hear that? I don’t think I’ve heard it for a lifetime until tonight. Always a prefix to some second, more ominous clause…”and I can [x].” Note to self: find some other words with himself.