"When I'm tired of the bright lights, when I'm tired of the wine..."
Yeah, well...that was a long damn time ago.
Yesterday was an very productive day that went to shit near evening. Today was pretty decent day, emotionally, during which I accomplished essentially nothing. And the truth is - and at this point in history there is no shame in anyone admitting it - I'm far too anxious about what's going to happen to America in the next two years, and about COVID,and about the immediate reality of climate change, and about trying to get Kathryn and myself back to New England this coming summer to have much energy left over for anything as utterly frivolous as writing fiction. Fascism has become the thing I think about night and day, and no...I don't want to write about fascism. You want that? Read George Orwell. Read Sinclair Lewis and Anne Frank and Aldous Huxley, Ray Bradbury and Margaret Atwood and Kurt Vonnegut. So many men and women in my grandparents' generation gave their lives so that we would never again be here, but here we are, again, and the last thing I will ever do is write about it.
Humanity is far too stupid to be trusted with the internet, from which of this new shadow has flowed. We cannot even trust people to try and avoid catching and spreading dangerous diseases. we cannot trust them not to spin the most insane conspiracy theories. Why should we have ever trusted them not to once again fall to the siren song of fascism?
So. That is why I am writing hardly anything at all. I spend my days thinking about survival, about escape, about a future as a refugee, about political asylum, about money, about keeping me and Kathryn safe as long as possible.
Did I mention that NIN's Year Zero saw all of this coming? Only...we mistakenly thought it was a sort of political science fiction?
Was I going to say anything else?
Later,
Aunt Beast
7:51 p.m.
Yesterday was an very productive day that went to shit near evening. Today was pretty decent day, emotionally, during which I accomplished essentially nothing. And the truth is - and at this point in history there is no shame in anyone admitting it - I'm far too anxious about what's going to happen to America in the next two years, and about COVID,and about the immediate reality of climate change, and about trying to get Kathryn and myself back to New England this coming summer to have much energy left over for anything as utterly frivolous as writing fiction. Fascism has become the thing I think about night and day, and no...I don't want to write about fascism. You want that? Read George Orwell. Read Sinclair Lewis and Anne Frank and Aldous Huxley, Ray Bradbury and Margaret Atwood and Kurt Vonnegut. So many men and women in my grandparents' generation gave their lives so that we would never again be here, but here we are, again, and the last thing I will ever do is write about it.
Humanity is far too stupid to be trusted with the internet, from which of this new shadow has flowed. We cannot even trust people to try and avoid catching and spreading dangerous diseases. we cannot trust them not to spin the most insane conspiracy theories. Why should we have ever trusted them not to once again fall to the siren song of fascism?
So. That is why I am writing hardly anything at all. I spend my days thinking about survival, about escape, about a future as a refugee, about political asylum, about money, about keeping me and Kathryn safe as long as possible.
Did I mention that NIN's Year Zero saw all of this coming? Only...we mistakenly thought it was a sort of political science fiction?
Was I going to say anything else?
Later,
Aunt Beast
7:51 p.m.