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mallorys_cameraBiden is so far down in the polls that the Democrats are now allowing the canaries (for which read Democrat-aligned pundits) to test the poisonous atmosphere.
Says David Axelrod, Obama’s chief strategist, Biden doesn’t get the credit he deserves… and part of the reason he doesn’t is performative. He looks his age and isn’t as agile in front of a camera as he once was, and this has fed a narrative about competence that isn’t rooted in reality.
Not rooted in reality?
Ya could have fooled me.
I am thinking Biden deserves his own little room right down the hall in the Dementia Home where Annie now lives.
###
This is a huge annoyance because even though I dislike the Democrats intensely, the pending abortion ruling is such a line in the sand that I am gonna have to vote Democratic in the 2022 midterms, in the 2024 presidentials, and quite possibly until I get to join Uncle Joe and Annie at the Dementia Home. I am hoping they serve at least three flavors of jello!
###
What else?
I did in fact end up writing Stew a letter—the kind you put in a mailbox!—because how could I not?
I tried to keep it as clear as possible of those toppling Jenga palaces known as family feuds. I focused on memories. Not happy memories: There are so few of those. Bittersweet memories. "Bittersweet" is as close as we get to happiness here in the House of Usher.
In the middle of writing Stew a letter, Ichabod called. We debated politics for a while, and then he asked, “How are you?”
“Very sad,” I said. “Surprisingly sad. About Annie. Thinking how frightened and abandoned she must feel.”
“Alicia sent me a video of Annie playing her fiddle. Do you want to see it?”
“You tell me,” I said. “Do I want to see it?”
“Well. Probably not,” said Ichabod.
###
I gardened. Those damn weeds in the lower plot are managing to grow even when 30 pounds of cedar chips have been dumped on top of them!
I visited the local farmers’ market for Art Photo™ opportunities:
I Remunerated. In between Remunerative bouts, I watched Olivier Assayas’ 1990-something film version of Irma Vep, which was deeply strange and not something I would recommend to anyone although I liked it.
Assayas has this kind of signature thing he does in films. I remembered it from Clouds of Sils Maria: In the middle of the plot, he starts inserting these random shots, quick takes, of stuff that’s connected to the narrative by only the loosest of strings. In Clouds, they were shots of the Maloja Snake; in Irma Vep, they were shots of Maggie Cheung’s face, scribbled over with a Sharpie.
###
In the evening, I bumped into L in the kitchen.
“You’re just so happy!” L said. “It is pouring out of you! You’re so excited about the trip! You’re radiant!”
“Yes, that’s me!” I said. “Radiant with happiness!”
It’s a kind of point of honor with me: I try very hard not to display negative emotions because I think that’s unfair to the people around me.
Or perhaps because I think it’s unsafe to display negative emotions.
For as my spiritual guide Jessica Mitford once wrote: What it boils down to is putting one’s feelings on a special plane; most unwise, if you come to think of it. Because the bitter but true fact is that the only person who cares about one’s own feelings is ONE.
Says David Axelrod, Obama’s chief strategist, Biden doesn’t get the credit he deserves… and part of the reason he doesn’t is performative. He looks his age and isn’t as agile in front of a camera as he once was, and this has fed a narrative about competence that isn’t rooted in reality.
Not rooted in reality?
Ya could have fooled me.
I am thinking Biden deserves his own little room right down the hall in the Dementia Home where Annie now lives.
###
This is a huge annoyance because even though I dislike the Democrats intensely, the pending abortion ruling is such a line in the sand that I am gonna have to vote Democratic in the 2022 midterms, in the 2024 presidentials, and quite possibly until I get to join Uncle Joe and Annie at the Dementia Home. I am hoping they serve at least three flavors of jello!
###
What else?
I did in fact end up writing Stew a letter—the kind you put in a mailbox!—because how could I not?
I tried to keep it as clear as possible of those toppling Jenga palaces known as family feuds. I focused on memories. Not happy memories: There are so few of those. Bittersweet memories. "Bittersweet" is as close as we get to happiness here in the House of Usher.
In the middle of writing Stew a letter, Ichabod called. We debated politics for a while, and then he asked, “How are you?”
“Very sad,” I said. “Surprisingly sad. About Annie. Thinking how frightened and abandoned she must feel.”
“Alicia sent me a video of Annie playing her fiddle. Do you want to see it?”
“You tell me,” I said. “Do I want to see it?”
“Well. Probably not,” said Ichabod.
###
I gardened. Those damn weeds in the lower plot are managing to grow even when 30 pounds of cedar chips have been dumped on top of them!
I visited the local farmers’ market for Art Photo™ opportunities:
I Remunerated. In between Remunerative bouts, I watched Olivier Assayas’ 1990-something film version of Irma Vep, which was deeply strange and not something I would recommend to anyone although I liked it.
Assayas has this kind of signature thing he does in films. I remembered it from Clouds of Sils Maria: In the middle of the plot, he starts inserting these random shots, quick takes, of stuff that’s connected to the narrative by only the loosest of strings. In Clouds, they were shots of the Maloja Snake; in Irma Vep, they were shots of Maggie Cheung’s face, scribbled over with a Sharpie.
###
In the evening, I bumped into L in the kitchen.
“You’re just so happy!” L said. “It is pouring out of you! You’re so excited about the trip! You’re radiant!”
“Yes, that’s me!” I said. “Radiant with happiness!”
It’s a kind of point of honor with me: I try very hard not to display negative emotions because I think that’s unfair to the people around me.
Or perhaps because I think it’s unsafe to display negative emotions.
For as my spiritual guide Jessica Mitford once wrote: What it boils down to is putting one’s feelings on a special plane; most unwise, if you come to think of it. Because the bitter but true fact is that the only person who cares about one’s own feelings is ONE.
