Missives from the Hothouse

It is November 13th, at least for a few more hours, and it has yet to snow, or even really rain this fall. It is not up to me to complain about it, but it seems as though this absence is something of a malefic sign.

So I listen to Prairie Home Companion –  the new problematic Garrison-free version – in clip form and see parallels, find succor, find fresh kindling to ignite my ire.  I play Dragon Age: Inquisition and listen to Dorian talk about his feelings on Tevinter and see parallels, find succor, and find fresh kindling.  I decide I want to start watching Turn – the historical, rap-free founding fathers War of Independence spy drama, and imagine that…succor, kindling, parallels.

It is infused in everything now.  The caring and the material that makes us remember how draining it is to care.  To be on 24/7, and yet, everything everywhere now is making me care.  It feels a little bit like being lost at sea.  You give up, you drown, but to fight is a limited proposition.  It’s termed, like everything else, with an expiration date. So the waves have been terribly choppy these days.   Frenzies that feel permanent, distractions that last the length of a blink.

There’s MST3K on now, the sounds of the shower and water heater run over its muted black and white battle of spacemen and aliens.  I have pulled a massive knot of hair apart, washed my face, and have a glass of water (notably with ice, albeit melted) in front of me.  There’s more Dragon Age when I’m done, more MST3K, more fake visions of true histories to delve into.  But for now, we sit on the Sunday night windowsill overlooking the world.

My sister’s going for her own interview tomorrow.  I sit here realizing how helpless I am to do anything about how it will go – obviously, I don’t think I’d do any better than she would, sitting in that chair – but I just am so keen for the future.  Sometimes I wish I could just luge through the next four years.  That if I just started now, I could already get moving on it, I could already somehow work off all of this worry and concern.

But, lest anyone believe it possible, I have not figured out how to live more than one moment at a time.

I have started to make bargains in my mind with regard to my own job – what I would do if I got it.  As if irony is the thing that will save me, will make my victory possible.  I am promising to do things I already need to do.  Promising to somehow turn up and push forward and accept and change in ways I have heretofore been unable to do if only fate will give me this new state of affairs.  2016 has been so cruel.

But if you’ve saved my mother, if I suffer in her stead, if these are the balances the gods require, then all of this is fine.  All of this is bearable, I’ll grow strong in the bearing of it.

I don’t think this is the way the cosmos mete out happenstance, in their little silver cups, but I worry.   Sometimes, I’m afraid, I worry.

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