Fucking 2020, man

 The things I am most hesitant to put into words these days are the same sorts of things that used to compel me to write. 

The current state of our world, and especially our own country, are painful. I've been political my whole life, but this is just all too much. The quickening of the death of our capitalistic society has me spinning. The pandemic, the loss of my father and my dog and our collective identity should be fodder for anyone who likes words and arranging them into sentences. They are not. In fact, I've avoided these things entirely. I just can't rail against any of it. I am in full acceptance mode. This is where we are. It is not an aberration and Donald Trump, in one form or another, was heading to the White House. 

To try to squeeze all the shittiness of 2020 into a blog post is an act of futility. I am trying to mark this place down, here, on this forever blog that has documented our lives for so many years. 

We are here. Aaron, Seth, JP, and Danielle. We are here with our dog Flora, our cats Allice, Lucien, and Rocket. The birds are still with us. Flutter still says, "Tweet, Tweet Bird" on a loop. The pool water turned green a week ago and I don't think we'll do a damn thing to fix it. We're in that end of summer, nights cooling off, time of August that just doesn't need a pool. We'll close it too late again and repeat the sins of each year before when it comes to that ritual of covering and closing summer, readying the yard for leaves and snow. 

We are wearing masks. I travel a few days a week to the different hospitals I work at. Aaron is still in school and has two more years to go. When he is settled into his new career, my God is that actually going to happen, I'm returning to school for my MFA. I don't know exactly where that will lead or if its necessary, but it's a dream and if we can't dream and make them come true, what the hell are we even here for? To spin the wheels of someone else's machine?

I will finish my first draft of my novel this year. I have absolutely no hope of it being published or even being very good. It's not even fun for me yet. Writing isn't something I have fun doing. That's not the word for it. Compelled? Am I compelled to write? I must be. I keep turning to it when shit really hits the fan, so it's at least cathartic. The novel writing is a whole new animal. I'm learning. I'm reading a lot. I'm taking a night class. It's a way to busy my mind from the daily reminders of just how awful things are outside of my house.

My neighbors are in a stupid sign war. There are "Thank You Granby Police" signs on several yards. One has a giant Trump flag flying, declaring "Keep America Great" while the rest of us see with our eyes that "great" is the last thing we are right now. I think these signs are supposed to be in response to all the Black Lives Matter signs everywhere. I do not understand this correlation. The whole thing is just so fucking 2020 I can't stand driving any more. 

In this today version of the world, everyone takes for himself, you're either a winner or loser, neither a human nor a daughter nor a son. Just a Lib or a Trumpster. That's where we've sunk to. I say "we" because I've done my fair share of digging in and screaming on Twitter. That's how we cope in 2020 because our mental healthcare is so bad and so hard to find. 

I took an ADD test last month and I did so bad that the tests were almost invalid. 

I am working from home most days. We're all here all the time. We've taken to wearing headsets to escape each other for a bit. It's healthy. There's 1400 square feet and a single bathroom. The pandemic has reminded some folks that they have famillies. For us, it's just been more of the same with a lot less restaurants, theater, and comedy. I miss standup so much. Thank God for podcasts and Netflix.

So, here we are. The world is falling apart. Yet, we keep on. For now.