Whimsy and rage

I ran across that long ago photo of myself while looking for some records for the lawyer who is drawing up our will and healthcare proxy and advance directives and other important life documents one should have in place when one is about to undergo surgery, no matter how routine. My children were four and one when that photo was taken in 1995. It ran with a story I wrote for a magazine about my father's last days and how watching him die brought into sharp focus the tender long married love between my parents. I recall the photographer told me, "Don't smile, it's a sad story," and I said, "But it's also a beautiful one."

I find myself unable to write much here. I heard a woman the other day speak of the schizophrenia of holding whimsy in one hand and explosive rage in the other. I lie in bed at night beside my husband, reading or maybe streaming something, distancing for a moment the tragedies unfolding daily, a woman, a mother of three, her head blown off by the state while citizen cameras rolled, we all saw it, we watched it again and again from many angles, the spray of red against the windscreen of her car as it meandered out of control into a telephone pole. The shooter, whose words in the immediate aftermath, caught on tape, were "Fkn bitch," was quickly whisked from the scene and rushed into hiding by the state. In the days since, his masked and heavily armed cohorts have doubled down, terrorizing American citizens with threats of the same happening to them, their only crime, caring for their fellow citizens, and simply existing with a sense of decency intact in their souls. It's all distraction, distraction, distraction from the darkest tales you can imagine, no, darker than that. And it's working, too. Another woman asked, "How do we vote our way out of this?" I have been wondering the same thing. I'm not saying don't vote, but how do we come back from where we now find ourselves? It's not that I've lost hope. My city managed to elect a bright young idealist for mayor. They'll try at every turn to stymie him, but at least he's an agent of light shining a torch into the descending night. But you see my dilemma: how can I comfortably write here when what flows from my fingers only makes me a target, too.

Christmas came and went. It was low key and undramatic inside the bubble of my whimsy. We gather, we hold each other, we laugh and love, we commune. The Dallas crew was here again this weekend, the little one had another one of those playdate things at a crunchy granola Quaker preschool her parents hope she will be admitted to for when they move back to the city later this year. She is in rare two-year-old form, testing the boundaries and her vocal range, how well I remember this stage, but also sweet as can be, brilliant and imaginative and verbal, our darling girl. 

I got laid off from the magazine last week, so that happened. I was one of thirty-six editorial staffers released from employment, including some very key personnel, suggesting the publication will be suspending print and going all digital. The Chief Content Officer quit the same day the layoffs came down, as if to say, Nosireeebob, I'm not presiding over this sh*t show. I respected it. At least I won't have to worry about juggling the editing of stories while I'm trying to rehab from my upcoming hip surgery. It's two weeks away now. I'm scared and excited. I'm really doing this thing.