THEY LOVE THEMSELVES SINCERELY

Later that same night in a not so deep and dark December ...

Black cherry tea smells good, which reminds me that some aroma therapy can help with the mood issues. And sometimes just remembering that you can breathe through the hard stuff (not always). But right now, that seems to help.

After getting Emmylou in for the evening, she was able to yank open the broken window and make a damn escape. When I took Kim and Ginny to the airport at 4:30 the other morning, Emmy came running down the street at me. I doubt whether I will be able to get her in again tonight unless I stay up very late. Earlier and soberer to bed suits me better. 
(I am plenty sober tonight.)

12:08 am on Monday. I managed to woo Emmy back into the house. Now, I have to hope the window is secured.

The next morning.

Usually, I get up around 7:00 or 8:00, put on Janet's coffee, and make my first cup of espresso. I take that back to bed, read The New York Times online, check out Daily Beast, Lit Hub, snorkel around Facebook, and do the easy NYT crossword puzzle. I just can't. I just can't look at any more Grinningshitgibbon endorsements of child molesters, or fatuous doughboy old fucks rife with self-congratulatory smiles that they are ruining lives just because they can. What device sucks all compassion and the merest drop of human kindness from a human body? They must have them all over Congress.

We are running late this morning, as I didn't wake up until 9:00. I should be wrangling Janet to get ready for the senior center, but I feel so low and affectless, I just want that numbness that all those old white haired dementors in Congress seem to have. I guess I should have been more focussed on power and money. If only the rest were silence.

The temptation to nothingness is very strong right now. Plus, December! The constant thrum and whine of awful Christmas music bombarding us at every turn. How the hell are we supposed to be joyous about anything? Oh yeah! The inestimable gift of our life. 

Perhaps I am too much here digging through my own shit. Sartre had hell wrong. Hell is moving your belongings from one place to another. Hell is the inability to make decisions about whether to throw away that earring when you are pretty sure you lost the other on the subway but the remaining one is beautiful and dear and maybe you can find a replacement.

Elementary school education (or what will pass for it in this stinking pile of broken dreams we live in) should emphasize instruction in the myth of Sisyphus, Atlas, and maybe some Prometheus. When older, if they are still in school if not indentured servants, field workers, or organ donors, they could move on to No Exit. Welcome to the world, little one.

This puts me in mind of Richard Thompson's shockingly misanthropic tune he wrote at the birth of his son Teddy. Check out these lyrics for a good time. 

The End of the Rainbow (here's another version)
I feel for you, you little horror Safe at your mother's breast No lucky break for you around the corner 'Cos your father is a bully And he thinks that you're a pest And your sister, she's no better than a whore Life seems so rosy in the cradle But I'll be a friend, I'll tell you what's in store There's nothing at the end of the rainbow There's nothing to grow up for any more Tycoons and barrow boys will rob you And throw you on the side And all because they love themselves sincerely And the man holds a bread-knife Up to your throat, is four feet wide And he's anxious just to show you what it's for Your mother works so hard to make you happy But take a look outside the nursery door There's nothing at the end of the rainbow There's nothing to grow up for any more All the sad and empty faces That pass you on the street All running in their sleep, all in a dream Every loving handshake Is just another man to beat How your heart aches just to cut him to the core Life seems so rosy in the cradle But I'll be a friend, I'll tell you what's in store There's nothing at the end of the rainbow There's nothing to grow up for any more

This man's middle name is Nothing-But-Fun. This should be taught to children in to sing each day. A new anthem for the USA.

Enough for this morning. Oona and Idris are playing in the nearby window (actually sitting at the desk in anticipation of working on the new volume of Monsterwood soon ... moving out of the bed in the morning where it is too easy to watch endless episodes of Nashville or something).

Yours in pain.

Mitch McConnell's can relax now.