Curtain call.

We came far, not without disappointment, not without fail, not without pain. We had plenty of those this year now closing the curtains on us.

Or is it us, closing the curtains on it…

To me it feels like a play. In a theater.

I remember when it began. The libretto didn’t help much, back in January 2023. It all seemed familiar, with too many gaps, like those booklets they give you at the Opera, where you find everything except what you really want to know.

If you are lucky, you are not done reading it as the lights dim and darkness sets in, just before the curtains open and it all starts. And you kinda know the ending, but you stay, anyway.

Maybe this time Turandot will surprise you, before Nessun Dorma… Maybe love will triumph sooner, this time. And then it all changes, and the score changes, the set changes, the actors change, the lights change. You hold on to the libretto thinking “this can’t be right”. And then you hear a top of the show call. And you realize it’s you they’re calling. And it’s December.

The first thing you think about is what you are wearing. Will people take you seriously, unless you dress the part?

Can someone bring you a fresh cup of coffee and a script? There are a few lines you need to go over, before setting foot on stage. But there’s no coffee, no script. Just you and a mirror, and some clothing racks. And you sit down, look at the reflection on the glass, surrounded by incandescent bulbs, and you reach for the make up. Who shall we be today…? The hero or the villain? Can you play a part designed for another gender? Of course you can, but… Can you pull it off?…

Someone knocks on the door and says “5 minutes!” You look in the mirror one last time, putting the used make up away. You look the part. It will be fine. And then it hits you. And you take a cotton swab, and hastily remove all the make up, and then you get off those clothes, you thought were perfectly adapted for the role. And you walk out of the dressing room.

It’s the last performance of the year.

Let’s go out with a bang.

The stage manager calls places. You move.

You disregard the disbelief in the eyes of others, as they watch you take your place, center stage.

It’s too late now. Curtains up. It’s showtime, folks.

The flood light hit you and there’s a murmur coming from the audience, as they realize you are naked on stage. Alone. When it dies down, you move forward a little, just a couple of steps, unable to see those you will address with words yet to be written. Words that need saying.

You take a deep breath. And you just… Let it all out.

There’s no script. There never was. You could have used the coffee, though, but you’re hardly an “actor”, let alone one anyone would consider a gesture of kindness before stage, like bringing you a fresh cup of coffee. But they couldn’t do anything about the script, even if their kindness existed. Or you were a star.

They listen to you.

As you go through the things you need to say, those things you carried inside, hidden, put away in shame or fear, they do listen.

They want their admission’s worth of acting, their moment of detachment from reality. And yet it’s reality they see on stage. Unscripted reality. Reality really happening before their eyes. Some will realize this and be amused, some will feel vindicated in their assertions of “in ars veritas”, misguided as they may be, and yet others feel uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. Your nakedness troubles them more than your words. It distracts them from the truth, yet it’s what reveals it.

It’s not at all how they expected to end the year, and they hate it. But they paid for the ticket, and by God, they will endure it to the bitter end.

You will never know which is which. And the few that will come greet you in the end, you know would come, anyway. Your measure is still the applause. How long will they applaud you, if at all, but if they do, how long will it last? Will they still applaud when you leave the stage?

Will the stage manager call for lights too soon, sending the audience home, or will they stay off, allowing for your return to bask in their recognition? And is it recognition, or is it themselves they are applauding, for having endured you…

If you are lucky, there will be one only, waiting for you backstage. And that’s all the recognition you really need. If not… Keep doing it, until that one is there. It will happen one day. So keep doing it.

Time. Here’s your curtain call. Go.

* Posted on Threads Sunday, December 31, 2023, as a morning post.

“This is it, folks. We made it. December 31, 2023.”

#OakiesLittleWords

Kate Cox and Gas.

Some Saturday morning, huh… Switching to Caturday mode’s not gonna cut it. Drink your fucking coffee, Threaders, Threadheads, and all in between.

You’re gonna need it.

So today I woke up later than usual, had to fast brew my coffee, fly out the door, while looking diagonally at Threads, and first thing on my feed is this shit (*). Again. And for the life of me, there is not a thing good about it.

(*) Quoted a post about Kate Cox by Reuters since then deleted by them. It’s currently unavailable.

So, according to @reuters, Kate Cox, 31, of the Dallas-Fort Worth area, sought court authorization for the abortion because her fetus was diagnosed on Nov. 27 with trisomy 18, a genetic abnormality that usually results in miscarriage, stillbirth or death soon after birth.

Also per @reuters, District Court Judge Maya Guerra Gamble sided with Cox on Thursday, issuing an order that applied only to Cox and does not expand abortion access more broadly.

Then, Texas AG, “Paxton, who had previously warned that any doctors involved in providing the emergency abortion would not be safe from prosecution, asked the state's highest court to intervene.” And sure enough, “The Texas Supreme Court temporarily blocked a pregnant woman from obtaining an emergency abortion on Friday, shortly after the state's attorney general requested the block.” (@reuters)

I mean… why do people still live in Texas is really beyond me. But it’s complicated.

Most people can’t just pack up and leave. Maybe Kate Cox is one of them, and now she is doomed to stay home and, in the extreme, die. It’s like she is in her own private death row, courtesy of the great state of Texas. The cynics will say, “at least she’s comfortable.”

Our hopes for Texas, and other cesspool states, is that people, even in highly gerrymandered areas, will feel so sick of this shit they will vote all these fuckers out of government. But can it be done?

Even when things looked “better”, and let’s face it, they haven’t been better since Reagan, so there’s that, there was always the perception that no matter how scandalous any given issue was, the ONLY thing driving people to the polls on Election Day was the price of a gallon of gas.

Especially in so called “red states”. Then, recently, the GOP turned into the American Nazi Party, and people went ballistic. 

Suddenly there were thousands marching, for Women, for Our Lives, for Black Lives, and it started to look good. Hopeful. Until we realized that on the other side of the street, others marched too. Only they marched with torches lit in the night, with blood flags and swastika bands, and they chanted “Jews will not replace us.” And NOBODY did a fucking thing to stop them. It turns out we cherish Nazism in this country. We really do. It’s so cool to be free.

In all probability, come November 2024, we will line up for the polls once more, and as always, most eyes will not be on Kate Cox, on antisemitic university heads, on the removal of mail in boxes, on the last mass shooter, on the fascists deciding what schools teach our children… On George Floyd (who the fuck is that?), gods no. Most eyes will be on the price of a gallon of gas. As they have always been.

So for those of us who remember all the things I mentioned, and more, it’s really a matter of hoping the fucking gallon of gas is as close to two bucks as possible. And Biden better make sure it is. Actually, in stead of focusing on jobs, climate change, guns, education, voting rights, or what the fuck ever we consider key factors for any administration that seeks re-election, Biden should do everything in his power to lower the price of gas to one dollar and fifty cents a gallon.

But…

He really can’t do much about it, can he.

Basically, dear thriends, we are fucked. On top of the gas prices freaks, now we have the free Palestine freaks, and the Cornell bros, and the Shitsteins, and I don’t think there are enough Swifties in the world to counter that.

So our best bet, is to hope camels don’t fart in Arabia, or at least fart against the wind, so gas prices stay as low as possible. Cause God knows that when a camel farts where the wind blows, gas prices go up 10 cents.

But hey… When voting is useless, everyone has an AR-15, synagogues burn, kids are taught Hitler was a hero, women die on hospital parking lots daily, minimum wage drops to $2.00 an hour, health insurance rises another 500%, people of color get their own water fountains again, and Melania gets another shot at Christmas, at least you get to fill your fucking gas tank with 20 bucks.

So Merry fucking Christmas.

WAKE. THE FUCK. UP.

Or we are royally fucked.

Oh… And good morning.