This was a comment on my Instagram stream of the freedom rally.
I’ve known this person since 2000.
Whatever one thinks of the proud boys isn’t even relevant here. Think about how insane it is to say this to me.
The proud boys aren’t keeping me from being part of society
I can’t believe how horribly we have actually done at learning the lessons from our past. If someone who knows me can say this, if our politics have become so warped that we don’t see how insane such a way of combating totalitarianism is….it makes it hard to breath.
Someone I’ve known almost as long and I care about very much said this.
This type of rhetoric or total silence is the norm so often that I can’t help but feel I really managed to screw up…how did I find myself in this position. How could I have been so terribly wrong? Hard day.
How can anyone think that a place where I am….well…not able to be part of society is more conducive to what I want?
How the hell did we get here?
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America…these people are so wrong that wrong isn’t even the proper word for what they are doing. They know it. They are trying to revise not only our history but also our myths to suit their selfish, egotistical, narcissistic, authoritarian desires because they lack
the grace, creativity, capacity and courage to be more than cowards. They have the power with none of the honor that should come with it. But…the moment our country remembers who we are and that this top down revolution lead by these revolting elites will stop the moment we all
simply stop waiting for permission to remember the truth; that we are born free. And it’s only we, as written in Live Not By Lies, that are choking ourselves. Not them. We are the people that must stop selling our souls to people who not only think nothing of you, at their core
I had a dream that I helped develop a production of Rhinoceros. The graphics used for the promotion was awesome, but I can’t for the life of me remember what it was other than it included mirror imagery.
I feel like I have this kind of exchange on a daily basis.
And you, good women, bakers of nicest bread,
blood donors. Your crumbs
choke me, I would not want
a drop of your blood in me, it is pumped
by weak hearts, perfect pulses that never
falter: irresponsive
to nightmare reality.
It is my brothers, my sisters,
whose blood spurts out and stops
forever
because you choose to believe it is not your business.
Goodbye, goodbye,
your poems
shut their little mouths,
your loaves grow moldy,
a gulf has split
the ground between us,