Having spent half a day — far too much time – perusing the headlines and growing more and more disturbed by them, I find I am in a mood.
Such a mood, I am in.
It’s not a mood I get into often, and my brother, may he rest in peace, used to warn me about it; he said it was a mood of fury that only gay men were truly permitted to unleash and dally with, because only they could wield it with enough diplomatic style to keep people both informed and entertained; only they could inflict the pain without leaving a mark, thus permitting some face-saving. People could get told and still know they were fabulous.
My brother was a gentleman and a gentle man, who could not bear to be at-odds with anyone. It was his misfortune to have to deal with a “cry havoc” of a sister, always letting loose the dogs or war or — more accurately — unleashing her vulgar Warrior Vagina on a world desperately in need of a few good sense-enducing endometrial thwacks and the resolute mockery of raspberries, blown unendingly from the depths of the cervix.
Call it a kind of mothering — out of my depths I cry unto the world: “grow the hell up!” Thwack, thwack!
I mean, I want to be loving, I really do, and 2013 has been a year where I’ve made some real progress in learning about love. One thing I’ve learned is that there must be no limits to love. And I’m trying to be limitless. And yet…and yet…
Primo: When exactly when did the nation transition from the USA to USSA — the Untrustworthily Surveillanced States of America; the Ubiquitously Spy-Saturated America; the Unfree, Security-Strangled America; the Unhinged, Solemnly Scolding America — the place where this happens, and this, and this, and this, and this and this and this, and this, and this, and this (related). . .
And that’s just broad, basic privacy-and-abuse stuff. That’s not even getting into the IRS bothering perceived political enemies; that’s not even getting into the subtle conceptual differences between Freedom of Religion and Freedom of Worship and how they are being played with by our betters in power, while the rest of us are distracted with our iphones. That’s not even getting into the governmental lying, presidential lying, or the mainstream media lying (that is, when members of the press were not being spied on and threatened with arrest for doing their jobs).
Secundo: On the social front, is it time, finally, to lose patience with people who break Every. Fecking. Thing. Down to how much it offends their gender-sensibilities? I mean, I’m a tolerant and sympathetic girl on that note (I am, after all, the “Mamabear of the New Homophiles”, among other things) but by God, I have had all I can stand of people — male and female — who see a masculine pronoun and find their real-or-sympathetically-induced estrogen surges leaving them all a-tremble with indignation and plotzing faints. 2014 is going to be the year I must relaunch my barbaric yawping vagina on a confused world that seems to have succumbed to a state of chronic vapors whenever anything is 1) characterized as — gasp — masculine and then 2) actually praised!
As is true with atheism when it trends foppishly elitist, I’m pretty sure it’s only a certain sort of person who can afford this overstuffed fainting couch. Time to throw it the hell out, grow up and realize that it’s a complementary world, baby; that we need our women and we need our men, and we need everybody to be treated well. If once upon a time society needed to learn that “women are as good as men” — not, you will note, “exactly the same” as men, but just as valuable — then it seems we’re past-time to reverse the lesson: men are as good as women! Just as valuable. Just as worthy of respect.
I’m sick of watching people who preach tolerance and forbearance on one hand reflexively sticking it to men and boys, and anything that is perceived as “masculine” anytime they can, with impunity. Grow up. Get the hell over it.
And while we’re over it, everyone, finally, get over the red shoes! They’ve become an ungenerous code for Benedict XVI-haters who seem to forget, as they sneer over footwear, that Good Pope John (that would be Blessed Pope John XXIII, who ordered the Second Vatican Council) wore the red shoes. You know, the symbol of the blood of martyrs that have led the church to this day. Only the most superficial of people do not understand the point of the red shoes, or think there is something righteous, admirable or (God help us!) cool in denouncing them.
But let us resist yawping about the members of the Church of What’s Happening Now and the demi gods who act as arbiters for the sin of being out-of-touch. Who has time to start that?
Still, there is a lot to yawp about, coming into 2014, because if we do not yawp, we will be too-easily distracted by the mindless lies that people convince themselves are true, because they want the lie — they want the lie if it validates their own sense of victimhood, the lies that have kept us so helpfully distracted these past twelve months: the stupid one, that kids using their imaginations will become confused about reality; the stale one about a “war on women” that should be ashamed of itself in the face of reality, and the still-fermenting one suggesting that a matter of conscience on one issue (marriage) automatically translates into deep, abiding hatreds and comprehensive prejudices.
That last is a particularly cold and ugly lie — being promulgated by people who used to pride themselves on their gift for nuanced-thinking — because the people spreading it know it is untrue, but they don’t care.
Yes, let us yawp our way through 2014, even though Robert J. Samuelson says it might be better than 2013, because “better” is such a subjective valuation, and no matter how much (or how measurably) things improve economically — or how much we believe that “it’s the economy, stupid” — if we are still being spied on, lied to and socially manipulated into hating each other for the sake of the next person who wants to be in charge of whatever this union has become, yawping will be our only release.
That, and prayer, of course.
Christ has made a wreck of me. A better one than I was, though, for nine years into the blog, my best brawls and rancorous denunciations are directed inward, towards my own follies and foibles, and on the rare occasion when they trend outward, as with this post, my conscience kicks in; it prevents the blade-betwixt-teeth full-on assaults of my prosaic, hell-bound past, as I realize that the shadows have lengthened and Vespers is nigh, and Purgatory may yet be mine.
Night is falling, literally; as a day closes out, a Benedictine salutes it with praise for the Creator, and settles in for rest. When dawn comes, there is praise again. As much as my nature will always tempt me toward the yawp, I truly prefer the prayer, and the praise. If I am feeling called to do both in the 2014, I hope it is mostly the latter.
Happy New Year.