Evolution

Seriously dispirited this morning. Reading Barbara Ehrenreich's Nickel and Dimed and feeling myself too precariously close to the edge, a refugee from the echo chamber of hype confronting the hopelessness of matching expectations to expenses. Children to feed and clothe, insurance premiums to pay. My bedroom has that swampy smell again, meaning that something in the plumbing has burst and it's time for another tense encounter with the landlord. I can't remember the last time I changed the sheets or washed the towels. The rugs are filthy. Robin's room is a helter-skelter of dirty clothes, open books and spilled toys. My own daily wardrobe erupts from a mountain of dirty clothes piled high on one of the dressers.

How do people do this survival thing anyway? It hits me occasionally with the stunning force of a full-stop at 100 miles an hour that every single fucking one of the 8 billion people on this planet have an inner life every bit as complicated as my own. All those auras competing for God's ambient sunlight, twisting upward, a veritable jungle floor of egos straining to flourish and be noticed. I don't have the strength to compete. I don't have the desire to compete. I'm not part of the evolutionary vanguard. I'm just another frightened mammal scurrying for cover when the dinosaurs' giant feet come crashing through the mud.