About a month ago, John's high school pal (and my new friend) Paul Breazeale asked us to do a livestream of title tracks with him. Through the magic of technology, I'm able to Skype him into a multi-streamed show all the way from California! Also featured in the show are fellow Californian Jimmy Clemons and our fellow Chicagoan Katy Marquardt (who taught me everything I know about this tech stuff, seriously. She deserves a paycheck).
That got me thinking about title tracks and why they're important for certain records. John and I are playing "(Let's Get) Lifted" as one of our title tracks from John Legend's debut studio album. It's the first (non Prelude) track, too, and man...the first time I heard that song, it was with me forever. So was the album. But, no doubt, the clever placement of the song within the album, and the album title, helped me never forget it. I'm thinking of the fame and catchiness of some of the other title tracks for today's show. "Jolene" and "Born to Run" come to mind. You'll just have to watch to find out the rest of the selections! This is all very important to me right now as I'm writing my second book and planning to release my first book and first album this year, all very ambitious projects. Of course, aided by the pandemic , but not only in the sense of the gift of time. The gift of time also yielded the gift of self-study. I've been doing the same job for 9 years, practicing the same instrument for 23, I a thousand habits that I've had since I was a kid. It was time to consider the possibility that I've changed, maybe a little bit, during my 30 years on this rock. And surprise, surprise, I found how that I have all these pieces of myself that I've forgotten about over the years, especially my love of writing. Another lesson revealed itself through a songwriting session. I wrote what is, as of now, my favorite song to date. Ever. I realized that it has to be my album's title, and the first track on the album, too, to color all of the others. It may even involve a persona, but that's for you to find out later. I decided all of this because I think Title Tracks say a lot about what's to come, especially since we live in an age of singles and streaming. A Title Track might entice us to start at the beginning, to follow the arc or the concept of the album. I can't wait to get started with mine! I hope you'll join us this evening for an hour of Title Track fun. What are some of your favorite title tracks? Drop them in the comments! Until tomorrow, stay well, stay safe, and stay kind. Much love, Cassandra
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When I was younger (and single-r) I would hear people discuss their "types". I don't believe in the concept of the "type" since, historically, I have been attracted to lots of different people who have lots of different appearances, styles, gender identities, you name it. But there might be something to be said for an inclination. I was inclined to date artists, you see? Artists are shiny. Artists are smart and freeing. So, maybe I'll glom onto that for this argument.
As an older (and married-er) adult, I think a lot about taste as it pertains to music, decor, fashion, and culinary taste. Again, I like Indian food, but I eat all kinds of food, not just Indian food. Buuuuut on a day off, I might be more inclined to choose Indian food, over, say, American Gastropub fare. The same goes for my aesthetic preferences. The more I let myself be "me", the more I surprise myself. I like to wear all blacks or neutrals. My wedding dress was navy blue. I prefer eccentric eye makeup, with liners in blues, purples, and greens. I only buy organic beauty products, even if it costs twice the price of a grocery store staple. I will choose a bottle of liquor based on whether it is streamlined and pleasing to the eye (Jameson is exempt. Old habits die hard. Also, I'm currently too broke to justify purchasing Aviation Gin and Crème de Violette. There is always an exception to the rule.) And, much to my horror as of late, I've realized that I really like nice jewelry. Not the classic stuff like gold and diamonds, but weird, contemporary art pieces. My mom bought me wild navy and gold Swarovski crystal earrings for my wedding day. They touched my shoulders as they spun around and around, little cubes stacked upon one another. My favorite rings are large and tacky; they dominate my small hands and fingers like a disco ball at a kitchen table. One of my favorite Pixar characters is Edna Mode. She dresses simply but loves eccentric things. I'm trying to quit fighting it. I also love her because she's short and objectively unsexy, just like me. I let my lack of physical confidence determine how I'd dress and accessorize for awhile. After this year, no mas. Remember that saying about beauty being in the eye of the beholder? So yeah, I retract my statement about sexiness. Yesterday, I slapped on two masks and went down to Chicago's Museum of Contemporary Art. I love museums, and I've missed them so much. I spent about 2.5 hours there, and could have stayed longer if my feet didn't hurt so damn much. There was a wonderful exhibit featuring the works of artists of color and their reflections on the pandemic ("The Long Dream"), a room showcasing a Puerto-Rican artist who uses a mix of acrylics and oils, as well as builds his own instruments (Omar Velázquez), Carolina Caycedo (whose work connects ecology, native culture, and language) and Christina Quarles. Quarles' work particularly stunned me. She's like Picasso, if Picasso used more interesting gestures and colors, and perhaps, touched on more intimate human interactions. (Sorry, Pablo.) With my mind humming with a chorus of a thousand fire ants, I made my way through the gift shop doors, as they so cleverly direct you to do, and was determined not to buy anything. But then I thought, I'll look at the clearance jewelry. Or maybe all of the voices of generations of women on my mom's side of the family said that. Who knows? I saw a beautiful necklace at a staggeringly low price. I stared at it for about ten minutes, not bothering to look at anything else. It was glass with rose petals encased within. I decided I could afford it, and as the teller was packing it up, I saw the original price tag, written at nearly ten times the price I was purchasing at. Now, if that isn't synchronicity, I don't know what is. It was too beautiful for me to pass up. We belonged together. So maybe we should lean into the things we find beautiful. Love interests, weird scarfs, remote vacation destinations. They might present themselves to us quietly, discreetly, and affordably. What are your guilty inclinations that you plan on leaning into? Your artistic preferences? The lovely things you must keep around you at all times? I'm curious. Until tomorrow, stay well, stay safe, and stay kind. Love, c We've always given flowers for a myriad of occasions: birthdays, weddings, funerals, holidays, or random gestures of love. I looked up the history of this tradition and found vague consistencies across the board such as, "everyone just always has," or "flowers are used to express emotion without words". Though that is dissatisfying, it also makes sense. Flowers are pretty. Sometimes you want to gift someone a pretty thing, especially if you're not super wealthy. Sometimes you don't know how to tell that person how you're feeling, but hey! Flowers!
Flowers can mean, "I'm glad you're alive," or "I'm sorry that you are grieving". (When I die, don't buy flowers for me. Buy some for yourself.) They can mean "I love you", or "f*** off," such as in the Rolling Stones' Dead Flowers. We keep potted flowers as well as cut bouquets around the house all the time. They've been little pockets of light during a bleak year, and the live ones in particular have been an ongoing source of excitement for John, who tenderly cares for them. (This is good, as they would most likely die under my watch. I'm a succulent lady through and through. That's weird to type. And read. I should delete it. Nah.) There's something thrilling to see buds unfold into brilliant, colorful petals, like the parachute in elementary gym glass. I don't want kids, but I will admit that it feels rewarding to watch a plant grow and blossom, like I am bringing something to life by ensuring it has its basic needs met (okay, this is still John, but I watch). With our little garden, we got constant Spring in a winter of a year. And then, of course, the picture above is of a bouquet of cut and dyed roses, but I couldn't help myself when I saw them. I just knew they would brighten up our living room (which is already quite bright with the fireplace, the plants, the paintings, but as I've said before, I am an eccentric type). Those roses absolutely pop next to our giant, turquoise wall and I am determined to continue adding color to our space until it's so loud that it's nauseating. We have some seeds that need planting in our leftover terra cotta pots by the bay windows. That'll mean a quick run to the store and a messy hour or two, but we hope to have an even bigger presence of plants and flowers this year. We're hoping 2021 can be bolder and more luminous than the last several combined. Until tomorrow, stay well, stay safe, and stay kind. Much love, c Something I truly don't understand about American "culture", if you can call it that, is rewarding self-harm achieved by overwork. If you're one of those people who falls asleep at night feeling good about having a productive day, I'm not talking about you.
It's like, we worship not having a life. I don't know how else to say it. Listen, I was a three-season art and sport extracurricular, plus honors student, plus crazy "how else can I fill my time" person in high school. I even had a part time job. That followed me to my undergrad, where I worked as a school accompanist, theatre pit musician, and eventually piano bar player while double majoring through the honors college. I kept gigging through my masters, too, sometimes playing til 2am and getting up at 7 to get to class. I did the thing. I thought I was awesome. But the truth about that is that I drank too much, I cried wayyyyy more than I should have had to, and got enmeshed in really ugly relationships (platonic and romantic) to take the edge off of being sad. Or was it...tired? With a year off of my bar job, I've had time to refocus my energy. I like to write. (I really, really like to write.) I like to take walks. I like to paint. I like to monologue at my gecko, Athena, who tolerates me but has become increasingly grumpy. I've had more meaningful conversations and less small talk. John's grandmother bought me a book for my 29th birthday. It's called "A Cloud a Day" which is a collection of photographs of clouds and identifications of those photographs by a group called The Cloud Appreciation Society. I thought, wow, there's a cloud appreciation society? But as I've worked my way through the book, I can see the appeal. It's about the beauty of the sky, but also about the culture and activities surrounding one's ability to notice it. This requires long walks in interesting places, time to look around, and the curiosity to delight in your findings. With our pandemic-inspired walks, I've gotten more interested in flowers, tombstones, architecture, and -- you guessed it -- clouds. I don't think I've taken the time to actually look at the world around me much. Sure, I've always taken trips, gone to the zoo, planned wild excursions, and that's all been amazing. I hope to do more of all of that. But in a year where most of that was off limits, I realized, my neighborhood is a museum. My condo is a blank canvas that begs decoration. My bay windows are a gallery. How flipping cool (and nerdy, but hey...don't @me) is that?? In The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron, she says, "Sanity lies in paying attention." Even if we have nothing, we can always find the joy and beauty in the small things that surround us. I guess I never took the time to notice. My desk chair is oddly shaded based on how I sit. My two-runged succulent stand was oddly planted with all colored cacti in one pot, and all greenery in the other. It's drizzling now, but that'll likely pass in time for a walk because the clouds are moving fairly quickly. I suppose, all of this rambling mess is to say that if you have a few minutes to look around at what you've got, I highly recommend it. The more I observe the simple things, the better I feel. It may not be much, but it's perfect for me. Oh, and take a day off now and then. Turn your phone off. Go for a walk. The main thing I admire these days is the capacity for someone to have a meaningful, thoughtful conversation, and I'm realizing that a big part of the ability to do so is in the power of observation coupled with being well-read. Not a bad way to spend an hour or two, I'd argue. I just saw that The Cloud Appreciation Society has a Music tab. Guess I'd better get to writing some music. Until tomorrow, stay well, stay safe, and stay kind. Much love, Cassandra I've been writing a lot of heavy material, so I figured it was time to drop in something a bit more upbeat. Unsure of where to start for today's post, my eye caught my little Cordoba concert ukulele, comfortably perched on its A-stand (thanks, John)! It's beautiful, sort of milk chocolate-bar brown and silvery strings and frets compliment the black fretboard.
I named the ukulele Lejana after the Federico Garcia Lorca poem (1924), Canción de Jinete. It goes like this: Córdoba. Lejana y sola. Jaca negra, luna grande, y aceitunas en mi alforja. I hyperlinked the full poem above for those of you who enjoy dabbling in Spanish, but the basic translation of the opening lines is: Córdoba. Distant and alone. Black horse, large moon, and olives in my saddlebag. I remember memorizing that poem in high school for my Spanish II class. It's a lovely, sad, lonely poem, and those of who know me know how much I enjoy lovely, sad things. This brings me to my pondering of the day: why are so many people drawn to the ukulele. I know older players, people my age, and little kids who light up when they see the instrument in any of its various shapes and forms. Sure, it's easy to learn and play because of its design and size. That's what most people I've asked seem to think. But Recorders and Kazoos are also easy to play. Not the same. For many years I was primarily attracted to big sounds: romantic piano pieces, thrashing punk bands, bass-booming rap acts. I still am. I've just found a new place to enjoy music in the introverted, simple sound of the ukulele. It doesn't boast, it doesn't demand attention, and it doesn't carry the gravitas of, in my case, 23 years of music education that was primarily for one thing: success. (Whatever that means.) I don't imagine anyone will burst into my condo shouting, "You've played it wrong!" when I'm strumming a few simple chords, singing softly, in the same way expectations have been held in my classical studies or even my pop/rock gig work. In that way, it feels like a really safe instrument. Maybe this is all just a strange way of saying that I'm enjoying learning something new, and that I appreciate it for what it is. I've found myself needing more quiet time, especially as things seem to be opening up and there's a serious uptick of social invites (that I will likely decline until I am fully vaccinated). There is a time and a place for my favorite rock and rap groups as well as my favorite Chopin Ballade. But on quiet, grey afternoons such as this one, I might just need the simple, soothing sound of this modest string instrument. I'm no expert at it. I don't want to be. I've spent almost my whole life trying to achieve musical excellence at the expense of the joy. I had largely given up on trying to rekindle my relationship to sound until recently. So...thanks, little uke. And if you happen to be walking through my building and you hear someone fumbling around with a hushed four-stringed wood-bodied instrument, you'll know it was this: Córdoba. Lejana y sola. Until tomorrow, stay well, stay safe, and stay kind. Much love, Cassandra Let's start here. Having a rough life or mental illness are not prerequisites for creating great art. I know a lot of very happy, healthy artists in all genres, and I'm actively trying to be one of those at all times.
Before I am accused of throwing the first stone, I want to admit that I, just like most of the world has a dark preoccupation with tortured artists. We make movies about them. We read books about them. We look at or listen to their art and shake our heads and empathetic understanding, knowing what we know. Of course Rothko filled giant canvases with only dark blue and black paint. He was depressed! His suicide makes sense...but his art, wow. I'm reading a biography about the saga of Guns N' Roses; how they got started, what it took to get famous, etc. Pages and pages of wild anecdotes make it quick reading. I had no idea, though, that our wild-man, rock star lead singer, Axl, had a horrible childhood followed by an extremely awful, painful few years trying to make his dream work. He was abused, assaulted, and lived on the streets. How is a deviant demigod born from such atrocities? Similarly, I will be interviewing our Alderman, Andre Vasquez, today on my Songwriter Sunday show, specifically about hip hop and community building. We touched base yesterday to plan out some topics of conversation, and one of his more powerful statements was on how rap empowers the voiceless. I recently did a deep dive into some of the more "classic" rap (80's and early 90's...the stuff I'm less familiar with), and compared side by side with the contemporary rap I listen to, there is a certain theme of struggle. This sometimes comes in the form of a flex track. Here's a sample from Cardi B's "Get Up 10". I went from rag to riches, went from WIC to lit, n---- Only person in my fam to see six figures The pressure on your shoulders feel like boulders When you gotta make sure that everybody straight Bitches stab you in your back while they smilin' in your face Talking crazy on your name, trying not to catch a case The rest of the song details more about everything she went through to be come a famous rapper, including her controversial career as a stripper (sigh...when will we leave sex workers alone? I've you've never been in a strip club or watched a dirty movie raise your hand. Almost no one? That's what I thought). In other forms, it comes out as a straightforward testimony, such as Grandmaster Flash's "The Message". Being used and abused and served like hell 'Til one day you was found hung dead in a cell It was plain to see that your life was lost You was cold and your body swung back and forth But now your eyes sing the sad, sad song Of how you lived so fast and died so young Or perhaps, it comes out as a rip-roaring metal song like "Welcome to the Jungle". Whatever these three artists don't have in common is dwarfed by their stunning and thought provoking art. As always, reader, I have no answers, but I have a gaggle of hunches. I think it comes down to a desire to survive. Maybe to get rich, maybe to make a difference, maybe to make it to the next LA sunset with a sixer and a beautiful girl by your side. And some artists don't have that same will, and frankly, though it's tragic, I think it's okay to go out any way you choose. I'll have more thoughts on this tomorrow after I have time to think about my conversation with Alderman Vasquez, especially if others chime in with some thought provoking questions. I'd better go get ready for the show. Don't forget to stay well, stay safe, and stay kind. Much love, Cassandra How do you comfort someone when they are mourning? Is there a right way to do so? Because everyone is different and therefore processes grief differently, it often leaves me speechless or with the same old tropes.
"I'm sorry for your loss." "Condolences." "Praying for you." My favorite, if I am close enough to the bereaved, is to ask the most important question you can ask anyone, ever. One of my dearest friends taught me about this though our own relationship. "What can I do to help?" As someone who struggles to ask for help, I find that this is my favorite question to ask, but it may not be right for everyone. I'm thinking about this and writing about it because I don't have answers. I wish this was a self-help blog and I was a grief therapist, it is isn't and I'm not. I mentioned in a previous post that I had lost some important friends this past year. At the time that I write this, 550,000+ Americans are dead from the Coronavirus, so there has been a lot of mourning going on for quite some time. How have humans coped with this cycle of painful since the beginning of their existence? I can hardly take what's been on my plate, and can't imagine what others have been through. I didn't mean for today's post to be such a bummer. One of my piano students lost his dad this week and I didn't know what to say. All of those empty phrases just feel like...empty phrases, even as well intentioned as they are, and do they even help? They never really made me feel much better, but I suppose they're better than silence in these trying moments. How do you cope with grief? How do you grieve with others? I'm curious to know, if you're okay with sharing. I want to be a more supportive wife, friend, daughter, music teacher, stranger, you name it. There may not be a better way, too. That's always a possibility. I'll try and be a bit more upbeat tomorrow, but as they say, death and taxes. Until then, stay well, stay safe, and stay kind. Much love, Cassandra Lots of people have been fortunate enough to keep their jobs throughout the pandemic. I am grateful to have built up a piano studio (partially gifted, partially hustled) in lieu of my performance job to make ends meet. Some people have been in and out of work depending on the local changes in policy as leaders addressed health concerns. And some people have had the better part of a year to themselves.
No matter what camp you ended up in, there were still some common questions that came out of the burden of the year, in my opinion: -Am I safe? -Am I healthy? -When will I be able to see my loved ones again? -What on the face of god's green earth is the Tr*mp administration talking about? -Etc. As the vaccine rollout becomes more extensive and shots become accessible, we have a lot more of relearning to do. For starters, most of the people who will read this want their vaccines for themselves, for their families, and for a chance to return to some semblance of "normal" as soon as possible. (This is called responsibility.) In many states, though, it's still hard to get your shots if you don't fall into the most vulnerable groups and frontline workers. There's an agonizing waiting game at play, and even when registration opens up, it's hard to find time slots. That's extra, stressful labor. Taxes were easier and simultaneously much harder for me this year, too. I had less income and deductions to worry about, sure, but it was painful to look at all the months of decreased or no income, and to gather the additional paperwork to prove that I had some assistance from unemployment. As things open back up, there's also relationship pressure. Some people are more comfortable than others gathering indoors, maskless. I am not one of those people, and won't be until I have both shots and complete the waiting period after. I have offended friends by declining to come over and hang out. Some of these relationships have soured, and I wonder if they'll ever be quite the same. I spend a lot of time worrying about this, or grieving it, depending on the stability of the friendship. Lots of people have experienced loss this year, too. There have been few places to process those loses communally since everyone has been stressed and many people don't have much to give in terms of support. I have been on both sides of this conundrum. I lost two very important people, both very long term mentors, and was unable to attend their funerals. I lost my job. So did most of my friends, also artists. I kept a lot of hurt to myself. I'm feeling particularly burned out today, and as you can see, I haven't written much the past few days despite having fairly strict writing goals. I'm trying to take it easy on myself; to acknowledge that healing these losses as they arise is important, and that easing the mental inflammation of each new stressor takes energy and care. I have the feeling that getting back to "normal" will be like learning to swim. One toe in; oof. The water's cold. Now I'm used to it. Let's add the foot. Same thing. Okay, I guess I can cannonball in and just give it a go, but wait..can I tread water? Can I slap my arms around enough to keep this frantic body afloat? And if not, is a lifeguard near by to pull me back to the surface? Maybe you are more resilient than me, but if we're in the same proverbial boat (biting our nails, staring at the water, fearing a leak should spring up), I'm sending all the best to you. Because the truth is, the new "normal" is not "normal." A lot has changed, and so have we. Until tomorrow, stay well, stay safe, and stay kind. Much love, Cassandra I don't know about you, but this one-year anniversary of the pandemic has my brain reeling a bit. Every day feels like groundhog day. I wake up, I write for about 30 minutes, I have the same breakfast I have every day, I write or read for an hour, I walk for 90 minutes-2 hours, and then I either teach for 3-6 hours, stream, or continue writing. Around 8 or 9pm I pour myself a drink (depending on when I finish my other work) and read more or prep a bath and think of a movie I'd like to watch.
Every day. I am the same person as I perform these daily tasks, and then I'm not. Some days I feel great while I am productive and focused. Other days I am melancholy or depressed and I struggle to force a smile during a Zoom call. I've always struggled with mental health, but this particular landmark feels heavy. (It doesn't help that mother nature gave me 2 days of beautiful weather and replaced them with another grey-sky'd snowfall.) Anyhoo. I keep to my usual schedule because of that article about the astronaut swearing by routine as a means to sanity when you're stuck somewhere. It's been helpful, but then again, I didn't sign up to be an astronaut. I'm an artist, and I need color, light, travel, exorbitant clothing and music...I need travel. It's hard to be happy when the things you're thirsty for are unavailable at best and unsafe at worst. John and I just finished our daily walk, in which we discussed how much we miss live music. It felt more poignant than usual. Perhaps it's that one year mark. Perhaps my consciousness is finally catching up with my starving brain. I grew up Catholic, and an important Catholic season is Lent, a preparation period before Easter. It's meant to be a reminder of Jesus' 40 days in the desert without food or water. The ritual is a 40-day period where you give something up in order to celebrate Jesus' resurrection and experience the sweetness of new life. Unfortunately, I am no longer blissfully subscribed to religion, but I am thinking about that yearly practice. I used to give up sweets, and on Easter morning, upon finding my basket somewhere hidden cleverly in our home, I found myself without a craving for most of the treats it held. This was my experience with being vegetarian for 8 years and vegan for 2: I lost the taste of meat. But Lent is only 40 days, and after a year of no live music, I am still dying to experience it. Of course, the body has needs and inclinations, but I think our brains and souls need more. I hope that, once we get to the other side of COVID-era, we will have more fulfilling and ecstatic experiences at an abundance of concerts than we ever have. Paws crossed that Riot Fest happens this year. Good god. I remember finally accepting that it wouldn't happen in 2020. Riot Fest is as close as I'll get back to religion...a sort of place and time that makes me feel otherworldly. I'd give anything to be able to go this year. More on that later, though. Until tomorrow, stay well, stay safe, and stay kind. Much love, Cassandra I don't want to write this. I don't even want to think about it, but I'm consumed by the weight of American Selfishness. The feeling I've always had about Americans has been exacerbated by the pandemic. Listen, I am someone who decides on what is best for herself at all times ala Ayn Rand's philosophy. There are tiers to what is acceptable selfishness, though.
The basic rung of selfishness, the one I subscribe to, involves self-preservation. I need to eat, I need a break, I will take that promotion. I don't see much fault in that, especially when it involves a better or more easier means to provide for oneself or one's family. However, throughout the course of this pandemic, I have seen a different level of selfishness, and though it is disturbing, I don't see it as alien to American culture. I have seen friends and family members blow off mask mandates, go to parties while someone's grandma was dying of COVID, travel across the country while millions suffered through unemployment or worse, skipping in vaccine lines (oooh, I am HOT about this today), or touting a ripped off version of the Pro-Choice motto, "My body, My choice." First off -- let me debunk the appropriation of an otherwise extremely valid phrase. My Body My Choice in the form of the Pro-Choice movement holds up because it implies that a woman can make a decision for her own body, not only including the physical burden of bearing a child, but also the financial burden for supporting it throughout life, possibly without a partner. The GOP claims to be avidly Pro-Life but refuses to care for people of color, the socioeconomically challenged, the LGBTQ+ community, and I could go on and on, but let's hit the mutual pain point...veterans once they've finished their rounds of combat. Let me hit you with this lengthy, albeit important quote: “The unborn" are a convenient group of people to advocate for. They never make demands of you; they are morally uncomplicated, unlike the incarcerated, addicted, or the chronically poor; they don't resent your condescension or complain that you are not politically correct; unlike widows, they don't ask you to question patriarchy; unlike orphans, they don't need money, education, or childcare; unlike aliens, they don't bring all that racial, cultural, and religious baggage that you dislike; they allow you to feel good about yourself without any work at creating or maintaining relationships; and when they are born, you can forget about them, because they cease to be unborn. It's almost as if, by being born, they have died to you. You can love the unborn and advocate for them without substantially challenging your own wealth, power, or privilege, without re imagining social structures, apologizing, or making reparations to anyone. They are, in short, the perfect people to love if you want to claim you love Jesus but actually dislike people who breathe." - Pastor Dave Barnhart, MDiv., PhD So, what about the living? There is a double standard here. The problem with the GOP usurping "My body, My choice," lies in this: by refusing to adhere to social health protocol because you want to have a martini indoors or go on Spring Break in Florida, you are endangering others. You're risking the health of locals, and also, god dammit, your fellow humans who work in the industry. Yes, those people who serve your food and drinks, oh-so-forgetable folks who are at times working month-to-month to send their kids to decent schools and put food on the tables -- yes! They exist! How astonishing! And people who forget that are so, so selfish. Let's not forget the arts community: the painters, the dancers, the musicians. Oh goooodd I know how much you miss the arts! But few in power will discuss it because art is deemed "non-essential". Yeah, tell that to my depression, and tell it to the Kardashian family as well. No one is exempt from missing good, live music or dance or whatever you're into. So as people mourn the death of their favorite five-star restaurant, I sit here, still scraping by to make ends meet, robbed of my dream job and staring at my master's degree diploma which has gathered quite a bit of dust in this past year. How quickly we dismiss our fellow humans' contributions to our own sanity. Moving forward, I'm looking at you, line skippers. I'm in group B+ in Illinois. I have asthma and a few other underlying conditions. I've followed every rule about quarantining, testing, not traveling, etc. I've made no concessions. I'm struggling with my mental well being. And well, you, who needed to go to that party across state lines... As Phoebe Bridgers said in Kyoto, "I don't forgive you". I'm still struggling. Well, this was dark, but don't forget. It's your body, but it isn't your choice if you want to see your neighbor thrive, whether it be physical, psychological, or financial, until we all get our shots. The economy is the people. Don't get it twisted. I have much more to say on this, but don't have much padding for it. Until tomorrow, stay well, stay safe, and stay kind. Love, c |