In the secret space of dreams

This post’s title is from “Attics of my Life” by the Grateful Dead, a song that will forever remind me of a very poignant and emotional time in my life, coming up on its 20th anniversary at the end of this month.

Next year, as has been well-publicized in the past couple of days, will mark the 20th anniversary of the Columbine massacre, and while I needn’t point out the obvious, as this blog will live in cyberspace indefinitely, I will: this past Wednesday, Valentine’s Day, saw another massacre at a high school carried out because a young man had access to an assault rifle. This time it was in Parkland, Florida, which happens to be the home of one of my oldest, dearest childhood friends. I contacted her as soon as I heard the news, and she was on her way to the school to pick up her daughter, who survived the carnage and was barricaded in a classroom.

Conflicting reports list the number of shootings at schools since 2018 began and the number itself, in the double digits, is irrelevant; one is far too many.

Somehow I managed to inure myself to the other incidents that took place, and that is on me. It took emotional proximity—a term I learned in the aftermath of the Bataclan attacks—for me to really react.

Not something I’m proud of, but something I understand.

When will the madness end? When the NRA stops buying politicians. When gun owners and enthusiasts recognize that gun violence prevention is NOT about the abolition of the 2nd Amendment, but rather about updating it so that its intent bears some semblance of reality to what is possible and impossible in 21st Century America. When the children of Parkland and other afflicted schools turn 18 and exercise their rights to vote.

Maybe.

To the victims and survivors of this and all the other mass shootings in the past 19 years, I am sorry. I am sorry that I don’t always pay attention. I am sorry that of the devastating number of such incidents, only a handful really stand out for me: Columbine, Sandy Hook, Aurora, Pulse Nightclub, Parkland. I pledge to do much more than hope and pray. I pledge to vote responsibly and to encourage others to do the same, to support affected communities if and when I can, and to not let this issue fall to the wayside. I pledge this as an activist and as a human being. This should never happen again, but it will. And to quote someone I read today, who’s escaping my mind at the moment, while I am not necessarily optimistic that this incident will be the one to turn the tides, I am hopeful. I am hopeful because of the strength and grace and determination of generations of future voters.

A friend asked me the other night why I keep this blog, what purpose it serves for me, and I really appreciate this question. I think the answer is manifold; I keep this blog because it keeps me writing, for one, and because it forces me to organize my thoughts. It forces me to try to put them into words, and in so doing, to really crystallize what I feel and think and why. When I started it, coming upon five years ago, it was a way for me to manage an intensely transitional and uncertain phase, which has always been difficult for me—for most of us—and at the time I felt as though I were writing myself out of a rut. And then, as I mentioned a couple of posts ago, I realized that talking about my stuff was a way to connect to others who are going through stuff, and that was richly rewarding. I am a connector—it is difficult for me to have superficial friendships because I need to talk about things. And I like to hear people’s stories and, as I said last time, to help and support if I can. So this blog feels like a tangible manifestation of the emotional connections I strive for on a regular basis. There you go, AG, that’s why I write this. Thanks for making me think about it.

Hug your loved ones if you’re a hugger, think warm thoughts about them if you’re not, never go to bed angry if you can help it, apologize for your missteps to yourself and those you hurt or inconvenience along the way—but do NOT apologize for being imperfect—be kind to strangers who don’t seem creepy, be gentle to the ones who do, and remind yourself that all that is certain, as my friend said yesterday, is this very moment. Nothing else really exists. So make this moment matter, and if you hit snooze, make the next one matter, or the one after that. We are living in a fractured world, and we are all lonely, and we are all connected. If you are reading this, I have love for you. Unless you are an NRA-funded politician or a white supremacist; if you are, I have faith that you can change. But that’s up to you.

 

I come from the land of the ice and snow

This image is in the window of the Susan Inglett Gallery in Chelsea, which is currently featuring the work of Benjamin Degen. I’ve no connection to either other than proximity, and this caught my eye when I walked by because I am a snowflake.

I feel like I need to take a break from Facebook. I recognize the banality of writing this on a page that will post directly to Facebook, and I know that you know that I won’t be taking this break any time soon. But I will restructure my relationship with it. And by “it” I mean my personal page, not the other one.

The reason is not just that it is a rabbit hole, because many positive things have come of this rabbit hole—friendships, freelance projects, crowd-sourcing to find the best vacuum cleaner for my budget, learning that the color of my shirt + the last thing I ate = my indie band name. (Black Muffuletta). And don’t get me started on birthdays!!!

The more pressing reason is that it has become a repository for our collective gloom and I am an emotional sponge. In person, this doesn’t always mean that I read the emotions I’m perceiving correctly, but on Facebook it is all right there. Or at least a version of it is. And as annoying as this may be, I can’t help but care.

We’re going through stuff on the home front, as you know – the Louie situation would be challenging no matter who were President and no matter what else was going on in my life, and I am not at all sure that those were/was decisions were correct. But the Louie situation is a drop in the ocean of the things people I care about are going through right now.

I have a fairly large bandwidth when it comes to emotional support, I try to have one when it comes to practical support, but I am not always able to. So if we are Facebook or real-life friends and we are in the midst of a conversation, please know that this is not at all about you. But just skimming the site one can’t help but absorb the fact that the world is in pain. The Vague-booking, the Go Fund Me’s, the re-post this if you care about thats, the senior dogs who were abandoned with their favorite toy, I can”t help but latch right on to all of that, as though sadness were iron filings and I a colossal magnet.

I’ve had disturbing dreams the past couple of nights and have woken up feeling gloomy. And that ain’t fun—there is plenty to be gloomy about without this ambiguous, generalized angst. It is CERTAINLY not all because of Facebook – life is a difficult journey (eyeroll) under “perfect” circumstances –  but I can’t help but think that I am absorbing even more than I realize.

I like supporting others. I have spent a fair amount of time with depression and uncertainty and grief, and I refuse to believe that this was all in vain; I’ve learned a lot and if my experiences can in any way help anybody who is going through anything, I am honored to be able to share them and offer whatever wisdom I can.

Upshot: Call me if you need me. I’ll see you on Facebook.