Is This Happening to You?

Posted on January 27, 2021 by Sister Wolf

I’m having a big fight with my sister but I don’t have to worry about her reading this because the fight was about her refusal to read my blog.

I don’t feel she’s obliged to read my blog. I’m just fascinated by her militant stance about not reading it. A couple of years ago, I realized that she hadn’t read something I thought she would enjoy, and asked why she didn’t read it.

She said, “I already know you in real life. So I don’t need to read it!” She sounded really annoyed. My husband still thinks this is funny, and he likes to say stuff like, “Did Bob Dylan’s brother say that, when Bob wanted to play him a song?”

So, I’m not Bob Dylan, but it might be a useful analogy because it implies an inexplicable resistance and an absurd excuse for it.

But, unbelievably, it came up again last week when my sister wanted to list words we hate, and I said, “Oh, guess what, I just wrote a thing about that on my blog! Go look, it’s a great list.”

God I am stupid.

She wouldn’t look and said derisively, “I didn’t realize I had to read it NOW.” Reflexively, I asked, “Can you tell me again why you have this fatwa against reading my shit?”

This was texting, by the way. She changed the subject, leaving my question hanging there. Now I really wanted an answer, not least because she was withholding one. I kept repeating the question, and she would write back, “I have a stomach ache.” “I need to lie down.” I asked, “Please just finish this sentence: I will not read my sister’s blog because”.

Now she texted, “Please stop”. It reminded me of that Beverly Hills housewife who winds up a fellow housewife and then shrieks, “Staahp!”

I wouldn’t stop. I called her passive aggressive. Eventually, she announces that she received an email from a family member, that was about me.  I didn’t believe this for a moment, so I asked to see it. She said, No, I don’t have to show it to you.

I called her and offered her $500 to show the nonexistent email to me. When she refused, I offered $1,000, and she still refused! Now I was laughing hysterically. I called her a  pathological liar and advised getting professional help.

So we aren’t talking. I could apologize for insisting on a question she was not equipped to answer. We could go back to our close relationship, and wait for the next bitter conflict.

I wish I could stop trying to get answers from people! No matter how badly you want one, no matter how desperately you try to get one, there is only silence. Or a lie about an email. Or a defensive complaint about being expected to just be honest. People want to be how they are without having to justify behavior. Fair enough. Or not?

Most of the time, I know the answer but just want the person to acknowledge it. Then it becomes a harangue and oops, you are a monster because you won’t give up. In my heart, I believe that I’m willing to answer any question to the best of my ability. It is a feather in my fucking cap. Just try me!

But. A couple of weeks ago, I had a big fight with my wonderful husband (who will read this) when he referred to my hair as “brown.” I flew into a rage and demanded that he call it “blonde.” When he punted, I ran around the house going “BROWN? Brown! Really??”

I have been inside my house for way too long now. It’s too much. My three modes are boredom, anxiety, or wondering if I’m actually dead already. Actually no, that’s a lie, there is “TV Time” in the evening, when we smoke some weed and I enter the reality of Our Shows. If Netflix isn’t the only thing preventing the complete collapse of civilization, I will eat my hat, and yours too.

Posted in Disorders, irritants, Rants, Words | Tagged , , , | 10 Comments

A Better Heaven and a Great Big Shell

Posted on January 19, 2021 by Sister Wolf

If you watched the memorial today for the 400,000 Americans killed by Covid-19, symbolized by two long columns of light, you must have cried like I did. All the people on MSNBC cried too, either sniffling or sobbing, all grateful for this impetus to pour out their grief after holding back for so long. For four whole years, actually.

I thought about Joe Biden’s son, about my son, about Jamie Raskin’s son, Melissa Ethridge’s son, Stephanie Seymour’s son, Stella Tennant’s children, all the unknown families who wonder how they will go on.

The only ray of light is the knowledge that Trump will be back in Florida, unable to torture us the way he likes to.

I blew my nose and went for a walk, the wind howling in San Pedro like the tornado in Wizard of Oz. I thought about the columns of light, how they represented the light each person had brought to the world. In my head, I assured Max, “You are always here with me.” I looked down and there was a great big shell lying in my path. I wondered if I was allowed to take the shell home, and realized, Duh, it’s there for me!

I hope everyone gets a chance to cry today. You might not get a big shell, but a good cry can be cathartic.

I hope tomorrow goes well, but if it doesn’t, I’ve just learned the Jews have an afterlife, and you can’t believe how fucking spectacular it is! As a devout atheist, I know next to nothing about religions except how stupid most of them are. I thought the one cool thing about Judaism was the absence of Heaven, or a Judgement Day. Wrong as usual! Here’s a detailed description of Jewish heaven, long but worth it I think. After you read it, you’ll probably want to convert. L’chaim!

~

Rabbinic literature includes many legends about the World to Come and the two Gardens of Eden. These include:

The world to come is called Paradise, and it is said to have a double gate made of carbuncle that is guarded by 600,000 shining angels. Seven clouds of glory overshadow Paradise, and under them, in the center of Paradise, stands the tree of life. The tree of life overshadows Paradise too, and it has fifteen thousand different tastes and aromas that winds blow all across Paradise.

Under the tree of life are many pairs of canopies, one of stars and the other of sun and moon, while a cloud of glory separates the two. In each pair of canopies sits a rabbinic scholar who explains the Torah. When one enters Paradise one is proffered by Michael (archangel) to God on the altar of the temple of the heavenly Jerusalem, whereupon one is transfigured into an angel (the ugliest person becomes as beautiful and shining as “the grains of a silver pomegranate upon which fall the rays of the sun”).

The angels that guard Paradise’s gate adorn one in seven clouds of glory, crown one with gems and pearls and gold, place eight myrtles in one’s hand, and praise one for being righteous while leading one to a garden of eight hundred roses and myrtles that is watered by many rivers. In the garden is one’s canopy, its beauty according to one’s merit, but each canopy has four rivers – milk, honey, wine, and balsam flowing out from it, and has a golden vine and thirty shining pearls hanging from it. Under each canopy is a table of gems and pearls attended to by sixty angels.

The light of Paradise is the light of the righteous people therein. Each day in Paradise one wakes up a child and goes to bed an elder to enjoy the pleasures of childhood, youth, adulthood, and old age. In each corner of Paradise is a forest of 800,000 trees, the least among the trees greater than the best herbs and spices, attended to by 800,000 sweetly singing angels.

Paradise is divided into seven paradises, each one 120,000 miles long and wide. Depending on one’s merit, one joins one of the paradises: the first is made of glass and cedar and is for converts to Judaism; the second is of silver and cedar and is for penitents; the third is of silver and gold, gems and pearls, and is for the patriarchs, Moses and Aaron, the Israelites that left Egypt and lived in the wilderness, and the kings of Israel; the fourth is of rubies and olive wood and is for the holy and steadfast in faith; the fifth is like the third, except a river flows through it and its bed was woven by Eve and angels, and it is for the Messiah and Elijah; and the sixth and seventh divisions are not described, except that they are respectively for those who died doing a pious act and for those who died from an illness in expiation for Israel’s sins.

Beyond Paradise is the higher Gan Eden, where God is enthroned and explains the Torah to its inhabitants. The higher Gan Eden contains 310 worlds and is divided into seven compartments. The compartments are not described, though it is implied that each compartment is greater than the previous one and is joined based on one’s merit. The first compartment is for Jewish martyrs, the second for those who drowned, the third for “Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai and his disciples,” the fourth for those whom the cloud of glory carried off, the fifth for penitents, the sixth for youths who have never sinned; and the seventh for the poor who lived decently and studied the Torah.

Posted in grief, News, Religion | Tagged , , , | 5 Comments

Awful Words Roundup 2020

Posted on December 22, 2020 by Sister Wolf

Yes, awful words are still awful, even in a pandemic. Let me put it this way: If I were being drawn and quartered, and someone said “Yaass queen!” I would flinch.

This year has brought a whole trove (or tranche, to use a horrible word that’s having a moment) of stupid words related to Covid 19. Should we bother including them? There are so many!

Pod, bubble, maskne, quarantini, zooming, super-spreader, herd immunity, and all the rest are hard to get away from, and unpleasant reminders of how our culture has devolved. What is your least favorite Covid-related word or phrase? Mine is “new normal.” There are so many that the Oxford English Dictionary, for the first time, declined to choose one for it’s New Word of the Year.

Let’s go with words and phrases that have reared their ugly heads in 2020 to make our miserable lives even more miserable.

Qanon
Proud Boys
“So” at the beginning of each sentence
Fire (meaning great)
Lived experience
Deeper Dive
Unpack
Cancel culture
Truth to power
Self-care
Karen
Tik-tok
Ask as a noun
Shattered norms
Thirst trap
Inflection point

The other day I heard a guy on the news say “Marxian” instead of Marxist. I also heard someone say “uncomfortability.” I objected but nobody cared. People on TV also keep saying stuff like “My wife and myself” or “Myself and my crew” because they must think myself sounds more intelligent than me. People trying to sound intelligent are just ridiculous, whereas people who say “anyways” are at least sincere.

As this fucking horrible year comes to an end, I am ready to announce my vote for most egregious of all new words: WAP. WAP is so tragic, I don’t know where to begin. A wet pussy is obviously a good thing. I mean, it’s better than a dry pussy. It’s a good thing to discuss between lovers. But it doesn’t belong in an anthem!

Snoop Dogg admitted that he was against WAP, explaining that it referred to a “jewel” that a woman should not devalue. I think he got some shit for that on Twitter. Cardi’s husband Whatshisname”pushed back” by saying something about empowering female sexuality. I’m sorry, no. Just as I don’t want a guy to sing about Big Hard Cocks, I don’t want to hear WAP. I wouldn’t want little kids asking about WAP, but that’s just me, i.e. Karen.

Weigh in with your own list of awful words! I want to see what I left out.

Posted in Celebrities, irritants, Rants, Words | Tagged , , | 14 Comments

American Music Awards 2020 Exegesis

Posted on November 25, 2020 by Sister Wolf

 

I’m pretty sure you people are too smart to waste your time on this awards show, but do not fear, I watched it for you! I missed the beginning with the Justin Bieber performance but it’s safe to say that it was embarrassingly awful.

When I started watching, a huge fat blonde woman was singing a duet with an older black guy. They were sitting down, probably because she was too out of shape to stand. Imagine my surprise when she turned out to be Katy Perry! What happened, I thought, is she still pregnant? I googled her, and she’s already had her baby with its stupid name.

After that, or at some point, that guy The Weekend performed his hit song with his whole face in bandages like an accident victim. I’ll bet there’s a reason but I’m too lazy to google it.

Megan Thee Stallion came out with some sexy dancers and lip synced a raunchy song about how much she loves her body. There is so much body to love, Megan! She is like a Mount Everest of a voluptuous woman. She is a fleshy giant who can twerk with a bored look on her face, which seems like a special talent. You can’t imagine the twerking, literally. I see why she’s a star: She is mesmerizing.

Poor J Lo was left to writhe around on the floor in a sheer leotard thing, FOR NOTHING! She was just an unfortunate also-ran, unable to muster any sex appeal due to the tragic amount of effort she puts out to make a buck. No J lo, please go back to the block.

What else? This guy Something Capaldi who has the most annoying radio hit of 2020 came out to bleat a different tortured heartbreak anthem. I forget what his hit is but you know it if you’ve ever been in a CVS. I saw that he was chubby and sad looking and it made me feel bad for hating him. I will just hate his voice, not HIM, going forward.

I think that Bad Bunny guy performed, or maybe he just won an award.

Billie Eilish performed and it was the usual with a couple of twists. Now that everyone has seen her large chest, she made sure it peeked out of her Kimono thing. She sang in an under-amplified voice and pranced around looking impressed with herself. When she fell backwards off a miniature stage, it was a nice little shock. Otherwise, I’m tired of her shtick now, are you? I want her to knock it off or go away.

A rapper called Doja Cat accepted an award by saying “wow” over and over then raising her arms in triumph as though she’d just won the Olympics. I really really hate her, having witnessed her lack of even a smidgen of talent on another stupid music awards show.

What do you think of smidgen? What would be a better word? I’m pretty stoned so I’m blanking out. A soupcon? An iota? A shred?

Anyway, to sum up, Megan -1, everyone else – negative 100.

Posted in Celebrities, News, Rants, Words | Tagged , , , | 5 Comments

Finding Equanimity

Posted on November 24, 2020 by Sister Wolf

The Sanskrit word upeksha means “equanimity, non-attachment, nondiscrimination, even-mindedness, or letting go.” Upa means ‘over,’ and iksh means ‘to look.’ You climb the mountain to be able to look over the whole situation, not bound by one side or the other.

In Buddhism, equanimity (in Pali, upekkha; in Sanskrit, upeksha) is one of the four great virtues (along with compassion, loving kindness, and sympathetic joy) that the Buddha taught his disciples to cultivate.

Equanimity isn’t indifference. It’s a balance that comes from inner stability–remaining centered when surrounded by turmoil. It’s a state of acceptance, but not in the sense of being resigned or defeated. More like being at peace with things as they are.

Does this sound like self help gibberish? I learned the concept from a podcast by an expert on family estrangement. It’s my first podcast! That’s how much the subject weighs on me. Being powerless in a critical aspect of your life is so fucking difficult. It can lead you into a never-ending loop of regret, guilt, anger, remorse, and despair.

I am beginning to see that the best way to approach insoluble situations is to do nothing. Not just do nothing, but to feel nothing. Nothing can be a good choice, and in my interpretation of equanimity, it is essential. Accept what is and let it wash over you. Don’t react to the feelings or urges attendant to helplessness or misery. Just go, Uh-huh, and go about your business.

Until this week, I would have called this approach “denial” and I would lobby hard against it. What’s more pathetic than denial? I am constantly pointing it out and deploring it. It’s part of my Just Admit It worldview. Everyone hates me for this bossy, superior stance but there you go. I want everyone to face their own life, even if it’s a tragedy, and to face up to their demons. I feel it’s their duty, as a human being.

But once you face up to it, why keep suffering? Recognize the truth, evaluate its awfulness, and then stop struggling with it. If you can’t change it, assume a state of equanimity. Say to yourself, My parents are awful, my kid hates me, I am useless, everyone’s crazy…and then return to a state of calm. I think if I practice this enough, it may set me free from my daily torment.

I will aim to only get mad about the things that are fun to be mad at. Bad grammar, hideous denim, and the ex-wife. Also, music awards shows. Did anyone see that stupid American Music Awards the other nigh?? Oh my god, so awful. I guess I should go write an exegesis.

Namaste or whatever.

Posted in Disorders, Religion | Tagged , , | 3 Comments

Outer Limits of Love and Hate

Posted on November 14, 2020 by Sister Wolf

Watching Trump on TV the other day, I considered the depth and breadth of my hatred for him. I hate him with more specificity than I’ve ever hated anyone, except maybe my ex-husband.

After 17 years with him, I hated the way my ex drank his daily orange juice. He placed his feet in a certain way, and always faced the same window.

Usually, you have to spend a lifetime with someone before you can hate them at this granular level, but Trump lays outside of usual parameters. In four years, he has seeded a wild garden of almost metaphysical hatred, such that most of us feel like world class connoisseurs.

Who among us does not hate the way he shapes his mouth in that puckered O? What about the sniffing? What about how he stands, leaning forward and rocking back and forth? What about the back of his head, the way he combs his “hair” into a coiffed duck-tail? The way he pronounces China, always pausing a beat before uttering the word and letting you know that he’s really thinking “vagina.”

The hyperbole, the biggest ever, more than anyone has ever seen, perhaps in the history of the world. And the imaginary People who are always Saying.

The slow lumbering portentous walk, the ill-fitting suits, the flapping overcoat, the hand gestures. The fucking hand gestures! The way he modulates his voice, the way he says “intress-ting” when he means “I’m so mad about this.” The way he mimics intelligent people in a dumb Poindexter voice. The way he likes to call himself Sir when he quotes people.

The way he says “Ivanka” with a disturbing reverence. The expression on his face when he’s pretending to listen to anyone, restlessly waiting to return to the spotlight.

I know I’m leaving out so much! Yesterday, my sister texted me to see if I’d noticed that his hair was less yellow. Of course I had. Am I blind or what?

I feel I’ve been driven to the outer limit of hatred with this cunt. I’m a hateful person anyway, but this is different.

However, luckily, I can still register love.

I’ve been watching the Smithsonian’s Panda Cam, enthralled by the way Mei Xiang, the 22 year old mother, cares for her baby, Bao Bao.

It’s almost unbearable to witness such maternal tenderness. Watch her as she plays with her cub and audibly kisses it, rolling it around and cradling it as it snuggles into her huge body.

Any mother will be moved by this exhibit of sublime love. Cynics can point out that this is just instinct, but so what? Plenty of our behavior is instinctive. It would be nice if we were better in touch with some of our instincts, like compassion. Compassion can be hard to muster while our bodies and souls have been so relentlessly threatened in 2020.

I wish I were the mother panda, or the baby. I wish I could be immersed in love. It’s a daily struggle, isn’t it?

But as I’ve been sitting here typing, my husband has popped his head in three times to ask how I’m doing and if I need anything. Maybe he is my mother panda! In the awful awfulness of my life, he is a blessing. Should we have our own live stream?!

Posted in Horrible Stuff, love, News | Tagged , , , | 8 Comments

Instagram Jewelry Women

Posted on October 26, 2020 by Sister Wolf

As I continue to literally sit out this pandemic on my couch, I spend more hours scrolling through Instagram than I’m going to admit. It used to be just photographers and African models. Then, I expanded my interests to jewelry, and now to antique jewelry specifically.

I used to be interested in antique jewelry but then I felt I had enough and forgot about it as a category of desire. I was content to wear two rings, my grandma’s and my wedding ring. I have a nice collection of Victorian tiger claw jewelry, which I have bitched about here. But Instagram triggered my lizard brain propensity to hunt-and gather. I wanted more jewelry. I needed more jewelry.

I discovered a whole bunch of antique jewelry vendors who showcased the stuff they sold on Etsy or Ruby Lane. Then I discovered vendors who only sold their pieces on Instagram, which meant a hectic competition to DM your interest. All these people called their rings “she.” This is sickening, obviously, but not enough to put me off my new obsession.

I realized that these people, mostly women, formed a community and knew each other by their first names. So a compliment from Something Something Jewels brought a reply of “Thank you Judy!” or in the case of a ring, “Yes, isn’t she a nice one?”

Then I found the worst kind of Instagram Jewelry Woman in existence: The collector (i.e., hoarder) who is just there to show off her stuff, which tends toward the dazzling and shockingly expensive. They will photograph their hands festooned with fifty thousand rings, captioning them with casual descriptions like “Saturday stack” or “Can you guess which ones are new?”

One of these collectors posted a literal stack of gold rings, a type I personally love, and remarked giddily, “I just can’t stop buying —–rings!” I restrained my self from commenting, “TRY!” I asked a friend to leave that comment but she has the same reluctance to identify herself as an asshole, and refused.

I came across a woman whose passion is mourning jewelry. She is quite scholarly about it, and has written a book on the subject. She sells the occasional piece but is mostly there to educate. Her account led me to a person who collects and sells mourning jewelry, who captioned one photo with “Love me some sad ladies and urns!” Ew, I thought. I looked at her jewelry with a mixture of envy and irritation. You can go look yourself at @yulianaeternalmourning.

I began to ponder the attraction of mourning jewelry. Victorian regalia is so romantic, let’s face it. And mourning was part of Victorian life

The average lifespan during the Victorian era was 40 to 45 years. Europe was in a near constant state of war, and cholera, typhoid, smallpox, and scarlet fever were common killers. Approximately one in three children died before the age of five, and epidemics sometimes brought that number to one in two.

Simply put, death was a constant companion in the Victorian era. Mourning jewelry brought a little solace to the survivors who had to cope with frequent losses.*

Without thinking about any of this, years ago I put some of Max’s hair into an old gold locket, and I wear it wherever I go, just to keep him with me. It was and remains “a little solace.” I’ve actually become superstitious about it…a whole other story.

So I began to feel upset about the procuring and flaunting of mourning jewelry. Yuliana was the worst of the worst, I felt. I looked at her stacked fingers and read her smug captions and decided to comment.

Naturally, she blocked me! I wish I could remember my exact comment, which was actually a stern lecture. It was something like, “Do you realize that each ring is a token of someone’s grief and loss?? Do you think the owners of those rings ever imagined that they would adorn the fingers of a stranger showing off on Istagram? I wear a piece of my son’s hair in a locket, and I’ll be damned if it ends up with a bunch of other lockets around the neck of a gloating stranger.

Oops, I pissed her off. Nobody likes a sore loser, I guess. Nobody likes real mourning, or real pain and bitterness. But when people are awful, I have to let them know. It’s my calling. That and hideous denim.

Posted in grief, revenge | Tagged , , , | 7 Comments

Period Red, Ladies!

Posted on October 4, 2020 by Sister Wolf

Amid all the rage and dread, my friend Dr. LaRue relayed the news that Pantone has come out with a new color called Period! Not as in punctuation but as in menstrual period…”an original shade of red that represents a steady flow during menstruation.”

How empowering, right ladies?

I’m going to say that this red, described by Pantone as “an active and adventurous red hue,” is not the color I associate with menstruation. Maybe the first day? You tell me.

Pantone goes on to say that

‘period’ emboldens people who menstruate* to feel proud of who they are. To own their period with self-assurance; to stand up and passionately celebrate the exciting and powerful life force they are born with; to urge everyone regardless of gender to feel comfortable to talk spontaneously and openly about this pure and natural bodily function.”

Well, good! I know that I personally was proud to menstruate, and enjoyed clearing a room of men simply by bringing up the subject. I liked brandishing a tampon instead of hiding it discreetly. I almost threw one at a bad opening act at the Palladium or somewhere, hoping to hit the lead singer in the face, to register my displeasure. Doubting my aim, I changed my mind at the last moment.

Years ago I wrote about menstruation here, and I recall the incredible sense of female community that arose from the discussion! It was really wonderful. (Go read the comments if you’re a *Person Who Menstruates, or was one formerly.)

As an old bag, I miss my periods. I loved everything about them. Now, it seems crazy that in 2020, women and girls sill need prodding to feel okay with menstruation. If men had periods…well, you know what Gloria Steinem said! Periods are great but not as art, imo. I’m thinking of icky feminist “art” centered on used Tampax or whatever. They are great, but you don’t deserve a medal for having them. Let’s stop at the new Pantone color.

Will Pantone develop a color for menopause?? I want them to. What would that look like, do you think? The color of autumn leaves mixed with the steel grey of Accidental Icon’s hair? What color is estrogen, anyway?

As we ponder Period red, lets list all the reds we can think of, quick!

Scarlet, ruby, rose, brick, cardinal, blood (not menstrual), vermilion, garnet, and cherry! Somehow I doubt that Crayola will give us a period red. As we lean into our female power, I think we’ll be okay without it.

Posted in Art, News, Words | Tagged , , , | 5 Comments

The Pearl

Posted on September 25, 2020 by Sister Wolf

I started seeing a new therapist this year, and it has been life-changing. He is smart, funny, sensitive, and has done his own time with depression. I feel such a strong connection that I’m hoping he’ll want to be my friend once ethics allow.

Last week over Zoom, I told him about an essay I read, primarily a take-down of Viktor Frankl. We discussed the sacrosanct regard for Frankl, as a Holocaust survivor, and the viability of Primo Levi’s work, since he ended up jumping out a window.

The essay takes Frankl to task for a bunch of things, but most pertinently for his insistence on finding the positive in even the most horrible experience. It’s not exactly like finding the silver lining of concentration camps…but it comes close.

Frankl maintains that we always have a chance to exert our will, to make choices even when all seems lost. If you’re in a camp and you have a piece of bread crust, you can choose to share it, for example.

Anyway, it was a really good, thought provoking essay. The part I wanted to talk about with the therapist was the false notion that suffering brings you closer to god, or that suffering has any point at all. The bible teaches (apparently) that god imposes suffering on you for a reason. Suffering in this life is a preparation for heaven. Maybe you’re supposed to be grateful, for all I know.

Here’s the paragraph that struck a chord for me:

Because infant and childhood deaths were so common it is not surprising that the rabbis of the Talmud tried to inject a glimmer of metaphysical hope into this most tragic of tragedies. Rabbi Yochanan had lost no fewer than ten children, and his colleagues attempted to console him with the promise of a reward to come: “If one engages in Torah and acts of charity and buries his sons, all his transgressions are forgiven.” That might have consoled Yochanan the Rabbi, but it did not console Yochanan the grieving father. Rabbi Yochanan rejected the very notion that suffering -of any sort-was worth a reward. “I want neither this suffering nor its reward.”

What a powerful statement for those of us who are beyond consolation.

Suffering leads to nowhere good, and teaches you nothing. You might be more  compassionate to your fellow man, but surely at a preposterous price. Trying to find value in suffering seems so American to me, but I guess it’s actually religious dogma. I used to listen to Joel Osteen in the car, and we would snicker at his promises to his deluded followers: “Your wife has incurable cancer and your dog died? Cheer up! God is just biding his time, preparing to send you a spiritual check in the mail!”

Haha, there is no check! Not to mention god. Here’s what came up when I googled “suffering is”:

Never for nothing, eh?

I love Rabbi Yochanan’s quote so much that it might be my next tattoo. It looks good in Hebrew:

So then, I don’t remember how we got there, but my therapist and I talked about guilt and how it was okay to just go to bed in the middle of the day if that’s what you need. He said ice cream would be okay too, a form of self-care. Somehow, maybe we were talking about our mutual dispositions, and he said, “Being sensitive and intense isn’t a bad thing, right?”

I disagreed, and said that the pain of being that way is only valuable if you channel it into art. If it’s just suffering that doesn’t produce anything, it’s like an oyster without a pearl. Then, it’s just suffering; there is no pearl.

“Like the Holocaust,” he observed brightly, like the smartest kid in the class. We both started laughing hysterically.

A good therapist always wraps up the session by returning to the beginning, so it comes full circle. UCLA will only cover a certain number of sessions with its doctors, and I’m near the limit with mine. I will miss him terribly!

And this post is the pearl.

Posted in Art, Disorders, grief, Religion, Words | Tagged , , | 7 Comments

Pig Fucking

Posted on September 24, 2020 by Sister Wolf

A few years ago, I watched the first episode of the British TV series Black Mirror, expecting a clever Sci Fi drama, since it was being compared to the Twilight Zone.

In the episode, a member of the British royal family is kidnapped and will only be released if the British prime minister fucks a pig on live television. A wild, perverse premise with an obvious critique of contemporary culture. One of the actors described the topic as “humiliation, and the public’s appetite for humiliation”. Fair enough, in part.

I still feel shaken as I remember watching it. I think I went from amusement to disbelief to anxiety to abject horror and grief. Notice how this trajectory follows the one we’ve endured with the presidency of Donald Trump!

In the show, we see the varying reactions of TV viewers as they watch the spectacle play out. Many are crying. I cried with them, because I’m sensitive, alright?

I remember complaining for days and weeks that I was permanently traumatized, even though it was only TV.

Now, watching Trump on TV, I feel the same horror welling up, but I’m too scared to cry. Maybe later. Every utterance and gesture is revolting, shameless, viscerally repugnant, like the Prime Minister fucking a pig. When he holds forth at his rallies, his tone strikes me as a mixture of Mussolini and Rodney Dangerfield. I’m actually embarrassed for him, because I’m a human being.

How one stupid fat bully could succeed in corrupting the entire government and breaking the whole country, I will never understand. But here we are.

I keep reflecting on Black Mirror, against my will, because my brain is looking for a reference point, I guess. What I want to know is this: ARE WE THE PIG?

Or is Trump both the pig and the pig fucker?

That’s all I’ve got today, sorry. I just wanted to check in.

 

Posted in Art, Horrible Stuff, News | Tagged , , | 6 Comments