Marc Etherington (two links there in the artist's name), The main reason I don't own a boat, 2017

I was looking for an image to kick us off and then I saw this painting of

is that our ship of state?

You can also sub out "planet" for "ship of state" and that'll be fine, too.    Public impeachment hearings have begun and

god oh god oh god I'm tired

in the long-range way

 and I'm a privileged human: white, cis, straight, American

(that last bit feels like less! of a privilege! these days but there are dramatically more difficult places to live on this planet—although, psychically, psychically, we have to be up there)

I read and loved a novel back in the early '90s. "Mating", by Norman Rush. It's been a while and I can't exactly say I recommend it, mostly because we have other things we could read besides a white male writer's venture into Africa with a white female protagonist. You know? At the moment? Or maybe ever again? It won the National Book Award, it's good, I loved it at the time, but you know. I also thought men were the holders of everything at that time and by men I would've meant white men without even knowing I meant it.   The reason I bring it up, though, is that one of the chapter titles has stuck with me forever. "The Prospect of Rescue Undoes You."  That is true.   I certainly don't know if there's any kind of rescue from Donald Trump and the fuckers that brung him* hiding in these impeachment proceedings.

My optimism is probably hanging out with your optimism somewhere. Let's hope they're alive, at least, if not thriving.

*I'm also aware that [the panoramic] we  are some of the fuckers that brung him, and by we I mean in particular sleepy, dopey white America toodling along on the comparative good ride for so many years

But the official beginning of these hearings set off some reflex in my subconscious and I'm undone today. Not emotionally, exactly—it's not tears, it's flatter and more physical—and not from any big belief that we're getting rescued. The hearings are more of a marker, a checkpoint.

 The toll of these times is real.

If you're still on Facebook (excuse me, I mean

FACEBOOK!

),

you see the memories that crop up. This day in 2016 you posted X, this day in 2011 you posted Y, etc. We're all getting the post-election ones right now.   My resistance was strong in 2016 and 2017. I'm amazed/wistful/ashamed by the contrast to see the energy I had then, like a furious cheerleader. Here's the number to call these senators, I just called the NRA and ripped the phone rep's head off, you can, too! G-O, let's GO, F-I-G-H-T let's FIGHT, W-I-N, WIN, GO, FIGHT, WIN  Today (today-today, and generally), I'm exhausted. We're all older than we were then but also we're older than we would have been at the same age we are today outside of the age of Trump and full-blown climate emergency  I feel a responsibility to show up here in the Zephyr with as much verve as I can muster. I'm in good mental health, see? I forgot to list that real privilege/stroke of luck. Whatever troubles I contend with, I get to contend with them in an absence of malevolent brain chemistry. Here in these heavy times we give where we have things to give, and if I'm not neck-deep in extra emotional mud, I figure I better get a hand out to anyone who is and pull upward. Despair combat is the form of resistance I've been able to keep afloat.   But today I'm heavy. Not even in outsized emotional mud. Just worn down. Time, life, fascism, climate crisis. Photos of Venice further underwater, catastrophic bush fires closing in around Sydney—those images are getting me. The neverendingness. It's all I can do to show up and type to you at all. What I'm saying is I can't do my job in here very well today.   Treading water.  Hang in. I will also hang in. And I'll see you next week.   P.S. The new Terrence Malick movie A HIDDEN LIFE is coming out in December and if you feel like crying at a preview, I can at least help you out there.