A Surviving Facts Blog
I didn’t write a blog last week. I couldn’t. The moment Trump bombed Iran, I lost words. Words became disconnected letters floating randomly above my head, word clouds without words, thought bubbles without logic. I’ve got a Y and a G and a Q and an E, along with other alphabet letters jumbling in the cloud.
What does a writer do when words are unavailable? This equals a flautist without a flute. Your instrument is gone.
Instead, I spent hours surfing news to determine the various news angles. These angles ranged from the machismo cheer of Fox to the decline of civilization as we know it of MSNBC. Fox was Team Hogsbreath and Trump. MSNBC was Team America— at least that’s how I interpreted it. My slacked jaw jangled a bit as I listened to Trump and Hogsbreath celebrate the violence like Jack and Roger in Lord of the Flies, leading our country into anarchy with sadistic glee. In my imagination, T and H wore the Beast’s staked pig head, grinning through the violence and annihilation. “People die in war,” Trump eulogized, “that’s the way it is.” He intended to console Americans with such a statement, but all he did for me— and most Americans— is remind me that he is a sociopath incapable of empathy. Awaiting the return of our dead soldiers’ bodies, he stood on the tarmac with his wife and others in his administration, wobbling on his bone-spurred feet and flexing his fingers remaining salute-frozen for so long. Performance over substance. That’s how I saw it.
Our fallen soldiers mattered no more to him than the cost of groceries and gas, all mundane items obscured by his elitist lens. He seems to have gotten hair plugs and eschewed his pancake makeup because his face glowed an odd yellowish green in the sunlight and his hair flap lifted and fell but did not roll off.
When I wasn’t scanning channels, I tried to summon the strength to get dressed. I’d arise each morning, slipping sweat pants and reworn tank over my nightgown, determined to shower and dress after breakfast. Instead, the terror would suck me into its maw and I’d remain transfixed until the evening news. The waning light would spur energy and I’d rush to rinse and stack the dirty dishes in the sink or vacuum the crumbs from eating my breakfast toast. I did rouse myself enough to exercise 3 times, cook a few late lunches or early dinners, and scramble eggs for protein with my toast.
Finally, on the sixth day, I arose again, shaking the news taint from me. I had come to a horrific and frustrating conclusion: there wasn’t anything I could do. No bunker to run to for protection. No mountain hideaway hidden far from civilization. No room of my own, even, to shut myself away in and fossilize.
Except.
Except I could write. And so I opened my computer, scrawled to my 70,000-word book-in-progress (that’s about 300 pages!) and completed some edits. It’s time also to begin filming the promotional video with my publisher and prepare some lists for pre-sale and launch event. But those tasks depend on a future, and last week, I wasn’t so sure a future existed.
This week has been easier. Does one get used to war? Absolutely not. Am I living with this so-called “military action” because I am powerless to prevent it? No. I won’t and I can’t. Using my one tool, however, I can carry my voice of resistance and survival to others. This is the best I can do. But let me know if you’re up for screaming in the woods. I have a perfect spot for it.
What are you doing to survive this awful moment?
I would love to hear from you, even if, especially if, you disagree. Perhaps we can bring back the American tradition of debate. Please like and share this blog with others. Subscribe to receive it by email and go directly to the Walk the Moon website (www.walk-the-moon.com) to peruse the full collection of articles and updates. You can email me from the Walk the Moon website as well.
Walk the Moon 