On the way to brunch Lauren tells us how it’s about to get real when corporations hand out thousands of lay-offs. She details a job posting on Indeed that has 1,200 applicants and isn’t even remote. Her husband drives us in his big black truck through the dark, wet morning, An atmospheric river somewhere over the Pacific flows towards us. After brunch we hunker down in our homes and listen to wind and emergency alerts. The threat of floods and economic collapse is titillating, like the opening credits of a horror movie.
In the 80s we would crawl under our desks at the sound of the emergency bell and cosplay earthquake. This would be followed by the whole school exiting their classrooms and lining up on the field. When I decorate my house, I carry an image of what will happen to this plant, this vase, this picture frame in the event that the Earth begins to shake. I never hang a shelf or heavy picture frame over the place I sleep at night. Do people in Michigan think about anchoring furniture?
My house is not a home until the tall bookcase is up against the wall boasting that I’m well-read. I built a path along the ceiling to the top of it so my flame point siamese has a place to perch and feel safe above the scrappy calico. I picture the bookcase falling and smashing a cat at least once a week, yet I haven’t anchored it. I write about it but take no action like a fucking psychopath. How can I say I love my cats when I don’t do anything to protect them from a falling bookcase during an earthquake?
When my daughter was in school the teacher put cardboard on the window, and we piled into the corner of the room for the “active shooter drills.” The first time I was in the classroom for one it shook me. They didn’t have earthquake drills. Men with guns had become a bigger threat. Walking across campus at the community college I would imagine a shooter on one of the roofs—picking us off one by one. Run in a zig-zag. Be an unpredictable target. Get to your Human Physiology lecture.
I’ve never felt so hopeless about the future of the world, and I don’t think it’s because the government is less trustworthy or the world is worse. I think it’s because the dissemination of news is more democratic and I’m less naive. I get a text from the California Secretary of State that says I should expect a ballot for the presidential primaries. We are faced with options that make headlines, get clicks, but don’t really give a shit about actual people.
This is why I quit my smart phone. I don’t want to be reminded of the grim parts, reminded that destruction is titillating. I want to see less. If I can keep my mind anchored here in my hometown, where every three miles I can find someone who loves me, I don’t have to think about withering old white men sending bombs to drop on people across the globe. If I see too much, I feel rage.
People more dedicated than me have been protesting war for decades. I want protests to be more effective than missles, and I guess they are in a way. They don’t seem to stop the destruction that they rail against, but they do build a community around wanting to. They see each-others faces and know they aren’t alone. I’m hiding in just the way I said I wouldn’t. I see flashbacks of images from a war I’m not in and didn’t sign up for. Victims broadcast the gore that only soldiers are supposed to see. I didn’t enlist, but they say it’s my duty not to look away.
“How can you say you care about children, if you won’t watch this child die?”
I wait for a grown-up to tell me what to do, and then I realize I’m 43 and supposed to be the grown-up.
My daughter has a fear of being cancelled. I tell her “cancelled” is imaginary. The internet is just a tool. Use it like a hammer. Use it like a dick, but don’t move in. They didn’t consider your safety when they built it. You’re safe here at home with me. Say it happens. Say they find fault with something you say and send it back to you like a row of bullets. It’s not death. You still have your cat, your fuzzy hat, a sketchpad, and a shelf full of books. They can’t take away your library card or Sunday brunch at your aunt’s. The only death is death, and that’s coming no matter what you do, so don’t waste time on fear. When they’re bombing the County Hospital, that’s when you should be scared.
I guess one man’s bomb is another woman’s furniture anchor. We see it as a way to protect something. Difference is that my furniture anchor just makes a hole in the wall—not a hole in a child, a family, a street corner. I’m not pock-marking the world with my fear.
Oh, and I am so happy with the art ❤️
Yeah, fuck those guys…metaphorically, of course.