Men cannot be trusted and I know women too, but I believed you

[sovay]

It feels longer than two days since the election. Possibly this is because of the fourteen-hour migraine that started to hit me shortly after midnight on election night (I cannot claim it was the shifting barometric pressure of American bigotry; it turns out I'm allergic to Febreze) and rolled over into yesterday afternoon, during which time I did not sleep. More likely it's because there's been so much going on in the last forty-eight hours, mentally, emotionally, conversationally, because the changes in the world feel too huge and vast and all-swallowing to have happened so recently. But it's only Thursday. It's not yet Armistice Day. I still have a poppy on my coat.

We have a new stove. All four burners light without matches and it's safe to turn the oven on. We broiled chorizo verde in it for dinner and I re-baked some apples for dessert. My cousins came over with their son, the three-and-a-half-week-old Fox whose sparse, soft baby hair right now is as red as his internet namesake. Hestia stayed in the bedroom even after Rob got up from his nap, having dived under the bed the moment she heard the doorbell, but Autolycus came out and made spooked curious forays in the direction of the very small human and allowed himself to be petted by gaudior and rushthatspeaks and intermittently ran back into the kitchen. I found out that a person I had considered a friend on the internet for years killed herself because of the election results and what she feared they meant for her continued health and safety. I finished listening to a Yiddish cover of "Hallelujah" and Rob told me that Leonard Cohen has died.

People who are living, make art. Make protests, phone calls, donations, petitions, invitations, acts of kindness and defiance and protection, but also art.

Comments

[teenybuffalo.livejournal.com]

I am going to swear a lot because I am angry at the circumstances around your friend's death and I don't know what else to do. It is not directed at you; I'm grateful you told me what was up.

I only found out about her fucking existence during the last couple hours, after I saw that she'd killed herself and you and aedifica started telling people what had gone on. She was EXACTLY my kind of ballad fan, capable of seeing them as literature and as pop songs and all the other shades in between. I love her static website and enjoyed reading back on her LJ/DW/tumblr (well, apart from the suicide note and the painful plea for someone to take care of her cats). I have no idea whether I would have liked her personally, but I suspect so. I would love the chance to find out, and I'm not gonna get that chance now.

Fuck the election for rousing her sucidal urge, fuck despair, fuck the current state of healthcare and the projection that the upcoming regime have for what they're going to do to it, and fuck everything that happened to her to make her feel she had no other recourse. I always hate to hear anybody else is in this club with me -- the huge, mostly-silent club of people who have suicidal urges -- but I am in a great rage at this loss. I never even got a chance to comment on her work and talk with her.

[sovay]

I am going to swear a lot because I am angry at the circumstances around your friend's death and I don't know what else to do. It is not directed at you; I'm grateful you told me what was up.

Thank you for the disambiguation. I suspect I could have guessed, but it's nice to have it clear.

I always hate to hear anybody else is in this club with me -- the huge, mostly-silent club of people who have suicidal urges -- but I am in a great rage at this loss.

It's terrible and I hate it.

Death notices are a bad way to meet someone.

[teenybuffalo.livejournal.com]

Death notices are a bad way to meet someone.

Ain't it the truth.

*hugs* if welcome.

[moon-custafer.livejournal.com]

Agreed, and further hugs if welcome.

[sovay]

Agreed, and further hugs if welcome.

Thank you. It is upsetting and weird.