I have mixed feelings about my addiction to the illusion that I can make heads, tails, or demon horns out of the endlessly traumatizing news cycle. I try, and I am heartened by the feedback that many of you feel kind of safe and comfortable here, even if we are not equipped to BREAK BIG STORIES IN REAL TIME. thump thump.
I want to go home, go back, go somewhere.
I want to not be hooked into all this terrifying narrative, with which I also traumatize others, (you guys) in the sacred name of getting-to-the-bottom of-the-bottomless-abyss. Funnily enough, this never seems to happen.
I have a proper book-book to complete right now. I have to “un-hook.” I ask, warmly encourage, you all to keep looking, posting, even fighting, if need be. Tell me (us) what you know, suspect, find. My trolls love you too, they just don’t know it yet.
Women make good journalists in the sense that nobody takes us seriously anyway so what do we have to lose when we get beaten like gongs. It just has a kind of clarifying effect, in the end.
I just saw a headline that the latest shooter, in Texas, was an Antifa member. He looks quite indistinguishable from a KKK type. All these creeps start to look the same–just post-human. Those clammy, dead eyes. Jesus, what has been done to these people? Have they never picked blueberries in the woods? (In Sweden, my mother actually steered us toward a very rejected–by the Swedes I mean–cousin berry to the blueberry, an oblong, not perfectly round berry called an “odon.” She had us all–cats included–in the woods, filling buckets, certain we had struck gold. Nobody else was interested in them. They actually tasted kind of weird. But we made jam, juice…)
These are the things I prefer to think about, when my nerves start to shake–unravel. I do not (not anymore) have the nerves necessary to do “investigative journalism.”
I unhook the hooks, and admit a kind of defeat. I do not know. I can never know. I don’t know if that photo that person, that name, that narrative is entirely real, entirely fake, or some composite of the two.
So to heck with it all. What am I saying? I want my “life” back. I am only really on solid ground when I tell little stories that I know are true, because I saw and heard them with my own eyes and ears. Subjective perception.
True success, to me, is when you say you can tell what I am asserting vs. what I am thinking out loud about. Transparency. Thank you. (In this instance, thank you Scott Gordon. But thank you to each person who has ever expressed “getting” the elusive concept of this website that doesn’t behave much like a news site or like a conspiracy site.)
It is a trauma portal. Edited by somebody who has survived many rounds of trauma based mind control, since I was shorter than my desk. Because it happens in families, as it happens in society at large: Rage based reality shaping.
This is all I know: Those who hold forth narratives based on what they observe, as H.C. Andersen’s child did, are met with abuse, rage, and identity collapse. So: Any time you see that–anger, rage, attempts to make somebody feel like dirt–truth is trying to cross over.
Little furry duckling. Stand back and let him cross.