I just try to do the right thing, but I feel like everything is slipping away from me. Outside, the air is as thick as molasses, and hotter. Inside, I sense impending doom. Everything I love is being struck down by a great wave of ignorance and hatred washing over America. The other day I went to get a haircut. “All these kids from Central America, they just ought to stick ‘em on a plane and send them right back where they came from,” the barber said. I wanted to throw up, and I practically walked out. I’m sort of ashamed that I didn’t. Send barefoot children back 1,000 miles to violence and starvation? I wanted to say “What kind of selfish fuckwad are you?” But I didn’t. I just tried to make a joke out of it. “Good thing the Indians didn’t feel that way, huh?” or something like that. He didn’t find it funny. Neither did I.
I feel like I’m in a fight every day, and I keep losing. I am exhausted, compassion exhaustion. There’s nothing left to work with any more. Even words fail me. Simple acts, like sorting an enormous pile of old negatives currently covering my kitchen counter, is an onerous chore, even though I have to do it. Old pictures from happier times are spread all over the dining room table. I have no albums in which to put them. Time drizzles through my fingers like sand. I’m not going to live forever. I want to write, but this blog is the best I can do. I feel desperate and trapped with no way out, and on top of it all I am profoundly lonely. It seems like there’s no one out there to care for me or understand me.
I know things aren’t going to get any better just lying here on the couch, but sometimes that feels like all I can do. I’m discouraged that I haven’t been able to publish Growing Up In The Orgone Box yet, after almost a year of delays. I hope to have it out next month, but who knows what kind of unforeseen disasters await around the next corner? There is no pillow, no extra work, nothing to fall back on, and my Social Security check is a slim lifeline indeed.
I keep on fighting nevertheless, but without any hope of success. The gods know how I’ll feel when the dolphin killing starts again. Don’t know if I can stand it. Let me amend that: I know I can’t, but what can I do?