I am trying not to write about current political events because it undermines my soul when I do. I considered writing a polemic titled “The New American Dick,” about the young white men I see defying the mask order in indoor public places. They are self assured, stupid-looking, smug, spoiling for confrontation and endangering others, particularly those working the front lines and ringing up their shitty food purchases. It is the height of arrogance and narcissism and…okay I wasn’t going to write that polemic.
The writing these days feels almost useless. Writing doesn’t change anyone’s mind anymore. Did it ever? Can anyone reading this cite a recent example of changing one’s mind after reading something? It feels like everything people read these days, at least as far as nonfiction goes, exists merely to confirm bias. Of course, when press released from the White House are totally fictional, who knows what to make of anything. I just wrote that and it didn’t make sense to me. But why try to edit it?
About the only thing making any sense to me these days is my friendship with chipmunks.
I’m reading Nelson Algren’s The Man with the Golden Arm. I can’t say it’s holding up very well, but he was taking a run at the urban miscreant underclass during his heyday. The subject I would love to take on is the rural miscreant underclass of today. It’s all around me. Maybe that book would matter and change peoples’ minds.
One wonders if the President would admit the Corona Virus is something to take serious if he was just about ready to give up the ghost after contracting it?
No. He’d blame Obama for poisoning him.
More people on the move cross my path. They seem like they have no idea why they are moving.
Almost everyone I know outside my family doesn’t return phone calls.
I have exactly one pressing priority—shave.