3.4.26

"A place to stay, enough to eat

Somewhere, old heroes shuffle safely down the street

Where you can speak out loud about your doubts and fears

And what's more, no one ever disappears

You never hear their standard issue kicking in your door

You can relax on both sides of the tracks

And maniacs don't blow holes in bandsmen by remote control

And everyone has recourse to the law

And no one kills the children anymore

No one kills the children anymore"

-Roger Waters, The Gunner's Dream

Yesterday our "enemy" in this undeclared war shared an image I haven't been able to shake, which I reckon was the point.

Those are crews digging the graves of the little girls and their teachers and parents we murdered on Saturday. This country can't afford basic health care, reliable public transportation, or even to fix an old bridge, but we always have money in the budget for killing, for rousting elderly immigrants out of their beds before sunrise to drag them to some detention center. That's who we are now. At least one person reading this likely voted for it.

I'm skeptical about a massive reset in November, for two reasons. First, once you've committed enough crimes against humanity, and created a case for your lifelong incarceration or worse, you don't just hand the keys to the ship over to the American people to decide your fate. That would be insanely reckless, and these folks aren't that kind of crazy.

Second, and worse, I'm not confident my neighbors would vote to end this slide into fascism given the chance. Maybe here in NYC, but out there in flyover country there's a core group who actively support what's happening, and perhaps enough Quislings who figure if they cheer on the violence they won't be next (has anyone noticed how many South Asians swim in the MAGA leadership stew?) to prevent an antifasc mandate from the polls. We've always had this streak as a country; it's part of our yin and yang. We fought a civil war that almost put some of the most racist, misogynistic humans this country has ever produced in power. It's always there, right below the surface.

We'll see how it goes. For now, there are families on the other side of the planet mourning children we killed for no particular reason other than the impulses of The Man Who Would Be King.

We're into Day Three of my Peg-less week in the city, which is always when the depression starts to set in. Manifestly. Except for a couple hours in class each day, I spend my time right here in the apartment, studying or dictating a motion or letter, and watching the world walk by on the sidewalk along Houston Street. I found myself worrying last night about what would become of me if there were ever a time when there is no hopeful Thursday when I drive home and settle into the warmth of days with P and the cats, when this solitude becomes the pattern for the rest of my life. Best not to think of all that. It'll come soon enough.