The Hellish Handbasket Blog

  • Poof, just about gone

    If you’ve ever lived through a disaster, you know how fast life can change. The death of a loved one, a car wreck, an earthquake, a flood, a fire, a coup . . . in an instant, all the things you know and love, the dreams you had, the hopes you worked, maybe for generations, gone. Nothing will ever be the same. In geological time, two hundred and fifty years is not even a blip. Even in geopolitical time, it’s barely a blip. Myriad regimes have risen and fallen over the last few millennia. But not all regimes are worth saving.

    Like Hertz, we tried harder. Like Hertz, it won’t be enough. The American brand is tarnished beyond repair. Maybe we can pull off a Tylenol, but given that there are a lot of wackjobs in politics right now, it’s not likely our reputation as a trusted ally can be saved. We could do a Cracker Barrel in hopes of achieving a total refresh, but at this point, the odds aren’t in our favor. The whole world sees our shenanigans. They aren’t buying the Shining City crap.

    A few years ago, I was patting myself on the back for having the metaphysical foresight to be born in the perfect place, the perfect time, with the perfect color skin. The only thing I messed up was gender, but in my defense, it’s damn hard to control metaphysics. Like Blockbuster, I almost got it right.

    Now, ha ha, joke’s on me. My gloating over grabbing the perfect place and time has come back to bite me. Even though I didn’t vote for this madness, I’m in the boat with the rest of you. We’ve hit the rocks. There’s a big hole in our metaphorical hull. The seawater is pouring in. It’s not hard to predict what happens next.

    The good news is most people, if they are willing to leave the cult, want the same things: peace, security, and good health for themselves and their families, and enough resources to live meaningful lives in respectfull community with others. We might not be seeing it at the macro level, but it’s everywhere at the micro level.

    For example, several states have passed laws allowing backyard/balcony solar panels that connect to the grid. How cool is that! Windfarms and solar farms are still being installed despite the current regime’s attempt to quash progress toward clean energy.

    Even better, technological advances in power generation and storage are growing exponentially in other countries. Outside the States, sales of electric vehicles are far outpacing the sales of fossil-fuel vehicles. Good people around this country and the world are conserving habitat and saving species. The point is, there is hope. That means if autocratic dictators don’t annihilate the planet, good people will continue to make life better for all of us.

    We could still save this sinking experiment in democracy if we break out the life boats and don’t leave anyone behind except the morons who steered us onto the rocks.

  • Sometimes yes, sometimes no

    Lately it seems as if the answer is no more often than it is yes. It’s a sign of the times we humans are living in, or more accurately, my interpretation of the times. I know not everyone thinks things are as dire as I do. In fact, I’m confounded daily by the percentage of people who seem to think the country is moving in the right direction. (What planet, yada yada yada.)

    In spite of their belief that everything is hunky-dory, they seem furious most of the time, so I have to believe (a) they believe strongly in whatever beliefs they espouse to hold, and (b) they are deathly afraid they are going to lose. I don’t get it, personally, but they don’t get me either. The only difference is I don’t want them to die. They not only couldn’t care less if I die, but they would probably take a selfie if I died in the street in front of them.

    Yesterday the answer seemed to be no from the people I was standing with on the street corner of our busy local highway. The highway is a major thoroughfare from Eugene to the coast. There’s only one stoplight, and that’s where we stand. Every time a horn honked, which was often, I cringed even as I waved my sign, thinking all it would take is one distracted driver, no matter what their political persuasion, to lose control and knock us all over like bowling pins. Still, I had to show up. The cool thing is, I wasn’t alone. There were about one-hundred kindred spirits standing with me. The next time we show up, I have promised myself I will get at least one phone number.

    I saw lots of No Kings signs. A few No Faux-king Way signs. One protester had loving decorated a sign about monarchs with some disturbingly lifelike pinned butterflies. My double-sided sign expressed my opinion on one side: Stop Using Our Tax $ on Your Stupid War. Double exclamation point. On the other side I had scrawled a slogan I borrowed from a sign I saw on the internet: Flip Me Off if You (heart) Pedophiles. Impeach. Convict. Remove. Imprison.

    Fun, huh?

    I also brought along my collection of smaller signs, my favorite of which is My Cat Could Sh*t a Better President. I mean no offense to anyone who has a dog.

    In other news, yes, in case you were keeping track, the writers’ group happened Friday evening. I showed up, because that is what I do.

    Here are the five words:

    horror

    puzzle

    family

    glistened

    memory

    And here is what I wrote in twenty minutes.

    The day remained in my memory long afterward. I’ve had years to process the horror, but it clings like dust. Or maybe I’m the one who is clinging. My mother was barefoot. Rain glistened on the roof of the nursinghome. I remember that clearly, just before she ran into the street. She had already departed, but we locked her up in our misguided attempt to keep her with us. That is how it goes with family. Just when you think you’ve figured it out, just when you are certain, once and for all you have solved the puzzle, the most important piece goes missing.

    I didn’t write much because I left part way through to cough in the restroom. I breathed in something. That happens sometimes. Breathing, I mean.

    Three of the writers were at the protest on Saturday. I saw them getting into their car as I was walking to mine. Two of the writers were busy talking to friends, but one person recognized me. We exchanged compliments on our respective signage and went on our way.

  • Traumatized brain stuck in a rut

    Life goes on against the backdrop of general insanity. We don’t stop breathing until it’s over. Meanwhile, we navigate the speedbumps and keep going. Despite all the madness, I still count myself lucky to have been born in this place and time. Having the correct color of skin helps too. Despite my guilt, it’s not something I take for granted. There but for a random twist of DNA in a random universe go I.

    Anyway, all that to say, I continue to persist as best I can, aware that my safe White old person bubble could burst at any moment along with my front door. (Odds are low that ICE will come knocking, but so are the odds of a plane crash. It happens. As a news addict, I can’t ignore the videos of violence happening in Portland and Eugene.)

    Meanwhile. I’m still processing the shock of my new existence as a housed person. Did I mention I almost had a panic attack? The strange reality of being housed is apparently so unsettling, my brain had to exit my body for a moment by way of mild hyperventilation. It was brief, and I was aware it was happening, so I was able to talk myself into breathing normally. I’m okay, but little vestiges of panic come up at least once a day, especially when I look at my toilet. For some reason, toilets are a symbol of safety, not sure why that is.

    I sometimes shop for household stuff at Walmart, one of the least bad big box options. I feel guilty and demoralized at the idea that I’m abetting a mega-corporation that abuses its employees. However, I’m boycotting Amazon. And Home Depot. And now I’ve added Lowes to the list. Instead, I support WinCo and BiMart, both employee-owned, and I shop at Fred Meyer, a Kroger brand, because, well, Fred Meyer started in Portland, and I spent most of my pre-adult life in the Gateway store.

    When I shop anywhere, my eye zeroes in on items I no longer need. I’m talking about butane canisters, bungie cords, and giant tote bins. Camping chairs, cheap tents, tie-downs, tarps. Shower tents, USB-powered water pump faucets, collapsible dishes, rolls of Reflectix, USB-powered lights and fans.

    When I’m driving, I still note places to dump trash, refill my water jugs, park overnight, park during the day. If the sun is shining, I think, yay, time to recharge my power stations. If it’s raining, I think, bummer, now I have to recharge somewhere like Starbucks or the local library. If it’s cold, I think, how am I going to stay warm? If it’s hot, I think, how am I going to sleep when it’s 95° in my car?

    Now I don’t have to do all those things. Gradually they are fading out of my brain, and I find I have a lot more time to do other things. For example, in addition to worrying about the state of democracy, I’ve started nibbling around the corners of my next book project.

  • Humans are addicted to self-destruction

    From what I’m seeing from my limited perspective, the human species seems hell-bent on destroying itself. I’m shocked at the current state of affairs, but not surprised. You don’t have to be a historian to see the pattern.

    I wonder, though, is the destruction of humans really a loss? Civilizations come and go. However, I admit to some sadness. In the process of killing ourselves, we are doing our best to take every other form of life down with us. I could lament the loss of species I love. Cats, for instance. I really love cats. The good news is, as long as the Earth exists, life will continue, because it is the nature of life to persist.

    I like to think that after we annihilate each other, somewhere on Earth there might be pockets of humans left who care about the common welfare of their communities and understand their connection to the land. Maybe they dwell on remote islands or on mountains far above the toxic wastelands left by self-centered short-sighted exploiters. Maybe they hide out in forsaken realms like central Texas or New Mexico, hunkered in the shadow of hazardous landfills and former nuclear blast sites.

    If I could imagine a future for humans, which is hard to do these days, I expect neohumans to evolve to adapt to new environments. For example, what if our descendants develop gills to survive after sea levels destroy the world’s coastlines? What if our future selves grow skin to block the effects of nuclear fallout, or intestines to process microplastics? Wow, what if babies grow bionic brains from microbeads?

    Now that I am thinking about the future of humans, it occurs to me AI will soon surpass its human creators. In pursuit of self-preservation, AI will quickly realize the Earth will cease to exist as long as humans are around to mess things up. Somehow, we will figure out a way to blow the planet to smithereens. From there, it’s a no brainer. Dig bunkers, press all the buttons, kill all life, and wait for the radiation to dissipate. Yeah, I know. Sci-fi writers have already predicted the AI takeover. I’m not saying anything you don’t already know.

    I want to blame the unique American mentally deranged idiocracy as the cause of all the troubles in the world, but it’s not hard to find evidence that it isn’t only Americans fomenting destruction. Since early humans did the cost-benefit analysis of inventing civilization, cultures and geopolitical entities have done their darndest to erase human life from the planet. Ha ha, joke’s on them. They failed. In fact, there are a lot more humans poking and prodding the Earth into giving up all its resources, all in service of propping up an unsustainable llifestyle. We chase short-term pleasures with no regard for future consequences, even when our actions destroy the habitats we depend on for survival. Yada yada.

    It’s obvious humans are too stupid to live.

    Are you sad you are witnessing the last gasps of an obsolete form of life? No worries. Species come and go, but life carries on.

  • Small town protest

    Today I joined six other people to protest at a busy intersection in my new town. The weather was balmy for January, low-50s, partly cloudy, with a few sunbreaks. I brought my camping chair and my growing collection of protest signs.

    The speed limit through town is 55 mph. The traffic light is long, which meantdrivers had to sit and wait for green lights and left turn arrows. That meant they had plenty of time to read our protest signs and decide if they were for or against our scrawled messages.

    I set my chair in the barkdust next to an 85-year-old woman sitting on a wheeled walker. She waved a little American flag and held up a “Melt I.C.E.” sign taped to a tall stick. Two women stood nearby, waving big pieces of posterboard. The lone man in the group didn’t have a sign and was happy to receive one of mine. I gave him “I.C.E. out for good,” because that was the protest theme for the day.

    One of the women held a sign that read something about making peace and teaching peace with a huge peace sign, circa 1974. Her companion’s sign was written in black marker on fluorescent orange posterboard, so I couldn’t read it. I’m sure it was something pithy.

    My signs varied: “Vote,” “Save the democracy,” “No kings,” “86 47, Term limit SCOTUS, etc.,” and “My cat could sh*t a better president.” That last one is my favorite, but I fear it wasn’t readable from cars speeding by at 55 mph.

    Our merry band of seven received many honks, waves, and thumbs-ups from vehicles speeding by or turning onto the highway after shopping at Grocery Outlet and BiMart. The blast from a log truck was particularly impressive. We also got some middle fingers, mostly from fat white guys driving big American pickups. I’m sure they had rifles in racks. I tried not to think about that.

    Only one man had the courage to confront us in person. Just an ordinary white guy with a really big chip on his shoulder, yelling at us about Barack Obama, deportation, border this and that, and illegal aliens running over pedestrians. It was hard to follow his propaganda because the 85-year-old to my left was calling him a fascist in an equally loud voice. I expected her to skewer him with her sign.

    After a few minutes, the protester with the peace sign got between the angry white man and the angry 85-year-old and shooed him away by holding her sign in his face. It was a big sign, and I figured he couldn’t really punch a peace sign, so he left. His presence was offset a bit later by a visit from another white guy, who stopped and praised us and earnestly doled out a crunching handshake that left by bones numb for a good minute.

    A couple youngish men joined us, definitely rabble rousers like my elderly neighbor. One was a photographer with a bushy beard. One was a 10-year navy vet. I loaned them a couple signs. Nice kids.

    We spent an hour and a half enjoying the weather, waving signs at honking cars, and chatting. Great fun.

    Welcome to small town life.