Reflections on These Past Eight Day

Illustration from www.davidpgushee.com

For the record, I voted for who I felt was the most qualified candidate, the one who would be best for my life and our country.

Which doesn't really tell you anything about who I voted for, because everyone who voted did that as well.

That's what I keep coming back to these past eight days. Everyone did what they thought was the right thing, what was best for them.

Because of that, I can't expect anyone who voted one way to change their decision simply because it would be better for me. The opposite is also true. I suspect that's true of us all.

We'll never know the outcome of the other timeline or which one would have been better. In a truly strange way, I hope the other side is right because I don't want to see what happens if they're wrong.

I've managed to (mostly) stay away from social media. 2016 taught me that no amount of rational argument or righteous anger will change the result or anyone's mind. We came to a fork in the road and this is the path we're now on. There's no going back.

I worry about my modest nest egg, my marriage, my health, the state of our nation, society and the world. I try to comfort myself by remembering that--aside from tax cuts for the wealthy and corporations, and some truly regrettable Supreme Court picks--the Trump 1.0 administration was a near-daily parade of embarrassing gaffes and minor scandals, most related to monetizing the presidency.

Except, of course, for covid and its mismanaged response.

During Thanksgiving of 2016 J___ and I had L____ A____ and her kids over for dinner. They were all worried about what was to come. In an effort to give them some perspective and comfort, I shared that I'd lived through the '80s, and Reagan, and AIDS. "I won't really worry," I told them, "until people are actually dying every day." 

On the one hand, I take heart in the old saying that "the way you do one thing is the way you do everything." Barring another worldwide pandemic or similar catastrophe, perhaps this second Trump presidency will be just as bumbling and mendacious as the first, with few long-lasting ramifications.

On the other hand, I'm also aware that the sequel is almost always worse than the original, and we could be in for a(nother) literal world of hurt, one so awful that we'll yearn for the relative simplicity and ease of those previous four years.

Slightly more than one-third of us are happy and looking forward to the future. Slightly less than a third aren't and fretting about what it may bring. If things had been slightly different, everything would be different. But this would probably be the same: I'd still be trying to understand why that other side feels the way they do.

And then there's the other third who, for whatever reason, couldn't or didn't bother to even take a position on what kind of future they thought would be best for themselves.

They're the ones I understand least of all.

"The 'Coffee' Table"

2022; written by Cristina Borobia and Caye Casas; directed by Caye Casas

After hearing from various sources that The Coffee Table was an unusual and unmissable watch, I decided to give it a try. And while I was watching it I had some thoughts.

1. That's not a coffee table.

2. There's no such thing as unbreakable glass. Tempered glass, yes, and that would have definitely been a better choice than the kind that so easily breaks into deadly shards.

3. Who needs five screws and only has four? I've assembled a lot of furniture from Ikea, and they're usually pretty symmetrical.

4. And who expects the sales person to hand-deliver the missing screw within a few minutes?

5. She's a bitch. He's an asshole. These two had no business having children.

6. Who tries to hide their sliced-up baby in its crib? No one will ever find it there!

7. You don't have ANY cleaning supplies? These people are pigs.

8. This movie thinks we're as stupid as the people in it.

9. Why, yes. Yes I am painting the baby's room blood red.

10. Don't blame the Swedes. Or the Chinese.

11. You don't clean up blood from a carpet with a mop.

12. He's an asshole. She's a bitch. And so is that neighbor girl.

13. How did he fix that dripping? I guess it doesn't matter. I guess none of this does.

14. That's not a chicken. It's Big Bird, you dummy.

15. You're going to wake the baby!

16. That's not a suicide message. Not with the door open. That's just a cry for help.

17. Spoiler: The baby's head is under the armchair?!

18. Didn't take much to make that vegan throw up.

19. Contrary to the salesman's promises, this table did not change their lives for the better. It did not fill their home with happiness.

20. Jesus should have let Maria pick out the coffee table too.

Dream Theater: Holocaust Girl

"Tereska" by David Seymour, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston

What is strangest is that I was not myself, but a young girl, perhaps only eight or nine years old.

At first there were only rumors, that people were being rounded up and put into train cars, bound for no one knew where. Then the news, that neighbors and families had indeed disappeared, leaving behind their clothes and furniture and homes. And finally, the certainty that whoever was doing this was getting closer. 

Soon they would find me. When they did, everything I knew would come to an end and something else would begin. Something terrible.

Dream Theater: Emotional Fallout

My friend Jill O____ has been in a country-western band since... well, forever, really.

And from time to time through the years, they've gone on tour. 

So it wasn't a complete surprise to find out they were in Madison, except that I didn't know anything about it. 

Still, somehow, I was able to catch their show. But Jill was so busy setting up, and performing, and then tearing things down afterward that we couldn't spend any time together. We didn't even get a chance to say hello. And then they were gone, on to the next gig.

Life on the road ain't easy. There are plenty of country-western songs that will tell you so.

The next morning I found myself on the University of Wisconsin campus, at an office inside the student center.

It was a busy place, with lots of people milling around and standing in lines, talking among themselves. What were they all doing here? 

That's when I saw a sign on the wall, hastily written in thick black marker. It said there would be a meeting that afternoon to support "anyone who experienced emotional fallout from last night's musical act."

My first thought was, "Huh. That's very Madison." My second was, "I wonder if they'll let me attend?"

"The Night Crier" on The Strange Recital

For those who enjoy the weird and uncanny, The Strange Recital podcast is a wonderful listen. Brent Robison and Tom Newton have been supporting short fiction--and creating thoughtful, immersive audio treatments of short stories--for over seven years. Their specialty? "Fiction that questions the nature of reality."

I've been an admirer of theirs for many years now, which makes me especially happy to announce that my short story, "The Night Crier," has just been released on their platform. 

The Strange Recital describes it this way: "A man can't sleep. He's alone in the night. What is that sound, forever repeating from the dark woods? It has to be silenced at all costs."

Please give it--and their many other episodes--a listen. I promise, it will be listening minutes well spent.

Dream Theater: Let Them Eat Cake!

Photo from DelectablyMine.com

Oprah Winfrey was hosting a televised song-and-dance spectacular dedicated to getting Americans to eat more cake.

The irony of this wasn't lost on me.

That being said, however, I have to admit I was impressed with Oprah's performance. She was singing and dancing and changing in and out of fabulous costumes like she'd been tutored by Beyonce herself. Which may indeed have been the case.

But as I watched this all from home, as more and more celebrities took to the stage to encourage greater cake consumption among ordinary people, I found myself growing more and more furious.

Didn't they see the irony in all of this? Weren't they the least bit concerned about how this multimillion dollar television special might be received by the rest of us? Were they that out of touch?

I decided I was going to write a blog post about it, and put it up right here. I was going to take them all down, Onion-style.

Several headline ideas had already occurred to me. Among them: 

"Wealthy Assholes Demand You Spend More Money on Cake."

"Celebrities Solve World Crises With More Cake."

"1% Says More Cake is Key to 99%'s Happiness." 

Dream Theater: The Knitting Group

Photo from KnittingNeedleGuide.com

J____ and I moved to Madison late last year. We're still in search of new friends (sometimes I fear that we always will be) and so we decided to join a knitting group. It seemed like it might be worth a try. "Fibers, fun and more!" the notice said.

The meeting was in someone's house. Everyone there was excited to have two newcomers show up. There were men and women, all ages, all smart and funny, and very welcoming. I had a great feeling about this new group of people. Maybe we'd finally found what we were looking for. There was a lot of animated conversation among us, because they were still waiting for one person to show up.

I never caught her name, but from what I gathered she was the one that everybody looks forward to seeing. The center around which everyone else revolves. She possessed some really outstanding skills, they said. She'd done some incredible things. Her talents went far beyond just knitting.

And then suddenly, she was there. An older woman, with short gray hair, and tattoos peeking out from her sleeves and collar. Her face was deeply lined from a lifetime spent in the sun. A closer look revealed a number of small, circular scars running up and down her hands and neck and face.

Because we were new, she was going to formally welcome us both, one at a time. I would go first.

Everyone else circled around us, she and I facing each other in the middle. She rolled up her sleeves, exposing more tattoos and more of those strange circular scars. In one hand she held a bunch of knitting needles, all sizes and colors, which she began pushing through her skin. 

First the length of one arm and then the other. Then her neck and cheeks, in one side and out the other. There was no blood; she showed no sign of pain. If anything, the process seemed to be bringing her some kind of joy. 

When she was spiked like an Indian fakir, I noticed that her face had changed. It had grown smoother and the deep wrinkles had disappeared, so that she resembled the woman she must have been many years ago. That was when she produced a large crochet needle. She pushed it into the hollow of her throat until the skin gave way, then hooked it into the wound where it could dangle back and forth. 

I'm not the sort of person to put much faith in mysterious rituals or their results. But this group of new people obviously did. Despite my horror at what was happening right in front of me I felt it was important to play along, to pretend I believe in things like channeling spirits and reaching out into the beyond in order to bring back something strange.

By then the group had drawn closer around us, so that only a few inches separated the woman and me. Her eyes rolled back in her head. She opened her mouth, showing the crisscross of needles inside, and then she began to speak. 

She told me I'd come from Chicago without a purpose. She said I hadn't been happy there and wouldn't be here either. There was a darkness all around and inside of me. It was too late for a new start or even some kind of change. 

She kept talking, pushing me past the point of playing along, past the edges of my comfort zone, past the point of no return.

I told her to stop, and when she didn't I shouted. The room grew quiet. The wrinkles returned to her previously smooth face. And I knew for certain that for a moment she truly had been someone--or something--else. 

"We're getting out of here, J____," I said. But J____ was nowhere to be found. Somewhere along the way he'd slipped out, leaving me both alone and completely surrounded at the same time.