For the past three days, I’ve been pounding away on a pro bono project for someone very close to me who was completely blocked on something that had to get done.
I can see why they were blocked!
Even without Covid and the attendant sense that none of this shit makes the slightest bit of difference anymore, this project was really soul-sucking and dull-ll-ll.
But necessary to complete.
When I finished what I was doing, I sent it off with a note: Remember: At this point, it does not have to be good; it only has to be done. You will have many opportunities to do something good throughout your long, productive life.
The topic was neither uninteresting nor irrelevant.
It was just… dull.
In the way that all governance is dull.
Personalities and feuds make politics—the grab for power—entertaining, but the actual process of governing is dull.
The time I spent in Sacramento as a legislative analyst at California’s Department of Developmental Services was excruciatingly dull.
Legislation has to be written in a particular type of language that embraces generalities and specifics simultaneously. The result are these hard-gloss sentences that stretch on and on for-fuckin’-evah and rely heavily on semi-colons and prepositions for any kind of meaningful deconstruction.
So, you know, ugh. Just ugh.
It was raining, but I went out for a tromp anyway. Exercise, you know. Your body must be more than just a hitching post for your thought balloons.
The roses in the rose garden are not actually autumn blooms though the gardeners would like you to think they are:
(I do like that "natural nosegay" look, though!)
In August, the gardeners replaced all the spring-blooming rose bushes. (Cheaters!) Having bloomed once, those bushes were in no particular hurry to bloom again. They intended to bloom again next spring the way that God intended. They probably ended up on a garbage heap somewhere, thereby providing a moral object lesson for us all.
The Hudson Valley is justly famous for its fall foliage, and many residents think autumn is the most beautiful season of the year:
They are wrong, of course. Spring is the most beautiful season of the year.
I was trying for an Art Photo with this one. Some kind of contrast between the bare-branched tree and the orange-leaved tree:
And I’m always obsessed with paths. When you’re looking at a picture of a path, who knows where it goes? You can imagine anything.
Once home, I still felt utterly drained. There wasn’t anything I felt like doing. Nothing appealed.
Not one title out of the vast repositories Hulu, Netflix, and Criterion make available to me.
Not even Tropico, where I govern according to the policy of slash and burn.
Neighbor Ed texted: Just when I was feeling assured Biden would win and could bring myself to predict Dems will take the Senate, my confidence in Biden’s chances took a hit. Basically I’m drinking the Trump-supporters-may-be-lying-to-pollste
I can’t go there anymore, I texted back. These are things I can’t do anything about, and I’m tired of being prodded with a stick and told I CAN. Inshallah, you know? What will be will be. Crossposted from Dreamwidth.