For Frank Theobald
I was asked to review Tom Manning’s new comic, Bering Strait, for LA Review of Books, while readjusting home in Los Angeles after a long stay in Rome. Sleepless walks in the dewy midnight, desperate inquiries about teaching come first light, I arrived to a friend’s apartment in Rome on the tail end of a kind of father dying in the surgery ordered so that he could finally breathe. Later I asked for specifics from his husband as we drank at my kitchen table under low light. He told me that Frank’s heart contracted when prodded, rejected the animal valve, then sent a shudder of blood upward with such force that his brain slunk down into his neck cavity. After the ICU nurses prepared him for his time, I held one of Frank’s swollen hands atop the gurney. His hairy knuckle paled into a curl of fingertips. I remember what he told me before he checked in for surgery. I remember everything.
I made it back to Downtown LA from Rome on January 23rd, 2020, the day of the first travel ban in Wuhan, and the week Italian conservatory banned East Asian students from returning for next semester’s classes. Some Romans were furious, others resigned. In the months leading up to lockdown, everyone remained pleasant, close enough to the chaos that it would not destroy Befana holiday—the Roman way. On my route via London and landing in LAX, most people around me were coming from Asia hours ahead of flights being grounded. I left Downtown to calm my nervous system from feeling like a wave was rolling through my body, and upon return, the plane’s wheels hitting earth, I puked in a bag then snaked through tightly stacked lines in Customs. I heard what I first thought was Frank’s wet cough, then had the psychotic awareness of a xylophone of throats. Feet on the ground, a return to sea.
Did you feel that? I used to ask anyone around leading up to Frank’s wake, the funeral. No one is around now. Been in my apartment for two months besides doctor visits. Along with everyone else in this new age, a flattening of my prior, precious grievances, although a honing of a few. For those who emerge out the other side of this, healthy enough, to each their own resentments held—depending on how long and what else is lost—some things polished into diamonds. Enemy, ally, who’s to say yet what will be true?
Safe to say I stopped reviewing Tom Manning’s Bering Strait, and started using it as a means toward checking in on this moment, the glacial speed of publishing having necessarily slowed more so that people can attend to pressing concerns. Most infrastructures supporting the arts and universities already had a slim chance of surviving, and now? People are poised to balk as it all crumbles, those who make their living by writing on the Internet bemoaning the overwrought personal essays that will be published about this precise moment. (This is where I enter.)
While Bering Strait visualizes humanity’s tumultuous walk across the former land bridge and now military zone, the scope it provides to readers on page one is from space. Looking down on an older Earth, we see an ice age right before large swaths of our own extinction. The planet looks distinctly animal, tufts of wooly fur matted into land masses, limbs of land bridges stretched across the glassy sea. Fingertip to hairy fingertip, Bering Strait is about who survives in tribe Hominini. Readers meet a Neanderthal child, Aro, one of those dreamy boys looking for any chance to wander from his family of Awake People and return to what might be called his studio, a boulder wall with charcoal for drawing. Aro is born to the Homo Sapien tribe of Lost People that appreciate a compulsion toward storytelling, but he’s abandoned then taken in by Those Who Are Awake, thus routinely lectured by elders that narrativizing to ascribe meaning is a product of a delusional mind. The immediate feeling rather than dissection of reality is what Awake People hone. Then there’s Existential Aro. He’s like so many dreamy boys lovingly formed in literature before him, but this time a handful of embers is Chekov’s gun. Will the adults appreciate the young comic’s urges and augment their understanding of what’s important just in time, or will something bad happen from elders’ duplication of tradition, screwing over the future of humanity for all involved? Well, that’s one of the relevant questions.
The Bering Strait, formerly the great crossing for early human beings and now a military zone, shores washed with villages, cultures, sea vertebrae, amber, is a thick slab of meaning for the making. A border and a bridge, ancient and new, it’s a dip below the Arctic Circle where ferns steam the bones of our elders into particulates, Arctic Haze shaking down a spine of axis all the way to Downtown Los Angeles. And from Aro to that teenage feeling, I’m dumbstruck by a longing for crowded bars in the before world as I notice the symbol Aro draws is insignia of modern primitives, Einsturzende Neubauten. The band used to raise their flag above stage, while below, the men each had their zone with a handful of makeshift instruments, my favorite being the dried beans poured down a metal plate and into a plastic bucket. Love that post-war junkyard party, a former terror industry of at least 3 percent of humanity killed rendered into the punctum of harmony, like the Baltic Way, everyone’s job for one moment nothing but the noise.
Many of us are working on an internal scream rather than chirping out to cities from a joyous balcony. Can’t say I’m above it, facing yet another man’s gorgeously made book with yet another boy protagonist whose creative project is existential rumination rendered as a sympathetic resistance to the leaders of his tribe. Get ’em! I imagine Twitter handles using Aro as a profile picture, commenting, on man’s political cartoon of detestable figures drawn in a detestable way. What a diamond.
We’ve almost finished a democratic primary in the United States, and Los Angeles’s votes took per usual a long time to finish counting—a California Democrat conspiracy against Bernie, I hear from political podcasters, online writers, and friends in other states. It’s true that this year some touchscreen voting stations were designed by a company with disputed ties to the government of Venezuela and that worried various officials—ethnocentrism, much? I guess? Kind of like ethnocentrism against Russians is the most devastating feature of our 2016 election, maintains one celebrated writer of the Arts and Letters Bernie Left. Rather than machines, the campaign then paid brigade ascribe the rigging of California’s election to the Establishment, Tom Perez forcing people into voting booth as Nazis did to Jews into ovens. A number of narratives extend from there: the Establishment must have colluded toward Corbyn’s loss, too, the poor man who only wants to help people cynically accused of shrugging anti-Semitism. If only there were better craftspeople on the left to employ for the sake of improving politics. Ah well, until then.
I’m weighing the benefits of a literal rather than symbolic quarantine as I gather my own unpublished manuscripts for revision, and close out job applications in which I’ve spent hours, years, applying to that have gone dark as they often do, virus or not. At least this year there’s a deadly serious reason for me to not have landed into anything. As Taylor Parkes says in his 2015 Quietus essay on Labour and Corbyn, it’s the thought that counts. No really, it’s the thought that counts. Here’s to at the very least thinking.
I never thought I’d call myself a feminist. Didn’t care much for women who did. The catch phrases and aesthetics of the whole enterprise felt silly. And of the dangers faced by women, well, we all know this world. Was raised to believe equality is demanded, not given, and on my own early enough to work the assembly line with men. Never dropped a cent on school or insurance, made my way to adulthood as a woman not owing a thing. Then I entered grad school in a place new to me, and along with the daily rapes of students and an unspoken legacy of a girl committing suicide after her own, I was moved by what brought leftists and conservatives on campus together—employment and the refusal to acknowledge this violence (let alone buddy sex pests, not to forget labeling women crazy). I came to believe someone owed a lot to women or risk the enterprise of their sanity, completely, so why not me? I sure felt nuts. From then I’ve stuck my nose in a lot of things, not especially to my betterment, and my only regret is not saying what I should have, sooner, every single time. Which brings me to my peers ascribing this election’s outcome to another diamond wrought from resentment, the backstabbing snake Elizabeth Warren. That Warren implied or said Bernie’s a bigot is easy to disprove. So why didn’t any prominent leftist writers do just that, before an ally was turned to a foe?
Employed, published colleagues shared on platforms interspersed with pictures of their wives and daughters that Warren, this woman, exemplifies not for little girls how they too can one day become president, but that they can be high-profile bitches who stand for nothing. She can rot in hell for her roll in backstabbing the entire progressive left and setting up a Biden nomination. Looking forward to supporting her primary challenger and ending her political career. Fucking snake. Thousands of improvisations of this sentiment from those with platforms to those without, joined by a simple thing, old and base. I asked women who quickly, publicly noted their distaste for Warren after she said she disagreed with Bernie in a private meeting, why are you all calling Warren cynical and saying she’s weaponizing abuse/gender? Why do you think you’re outraged now about a meeting that was reported a year ago, unceremoniously, using the same phrases? Well that’s exactly what’s happening, they all said, as reality slipped away and a vote for Warren became only a throwaway to aesthetic white feminism, for she had done nothing previously to combat crony capitalism, the war she waged against Obama all but forgotten along with her precise language about the fight: money slithers through Washington like a snake.
Then a senior campaign member released an ad showing stern, beautiful women with signs spelling out that an attack on Bernie is an attack on women—it’s sexism when you ascribe sexism to our man. Campaign funds toward the depiction of women guards, a perfect pairing with Bernie’s high-profile, male campaign workers and surrogates sharing their disgust with Warren—the pain she’s caused them, personally, as men—for they know Bernie and can point to his prior good words about women, or they have been subjected to knowingly false accusations of sexism for self-interested reasons by the pervasive women liars in progressive groups. Women should be analyzed in all parts of their lives when they speak about gendered oppression, and men’s statements in support of women elsewhere is evidence of their inability to act from the sexism that permeates our culture. Later, Bernie will be regal for not attacking Biden while Warren is a rape apologist, but before, Bernie supporters are guided from the very top in saying that Warren called Bernie a sexist. A misogynist! While Julian Assange’s fans fume that Bernie’s female army constructed their ad to be reminiscent of one made in support of the rapist himself.
If Warren had said as Bernie’s camp sells it, that Bernie is sexist, what is the actual problem? Believe women only when it’s convenient for you, I thought was the charge made by Bernie’s professional contingent. Women have been set back so far by Warren, dilletantes proclaim, as they move forward to weaponize an instance of rape allegation by mocking the dangers of sexism itself in favor of a debate class rhetorical question to replace Biden with Bernie. Don’t you believe women? No matter that Bernie’s campaign lost 275K meant for NO-DAPL to a foreign email scam, for one example, and are expected to funnel donations toward combat of a pandemic. There’s also the same team members who gave official direction to bad talk Warren, then upon getting caught, admitted it and rewrote the script, while bombs were thrown from the core Bernie journalists to direct the flow of honestly-earned anger of fans into catharsis, waving a woman prop. Her campaign has told me how much she lies, staff and surrogates confirm. Sure, there will be vacations by the Bernie contingent with genociders, his highest profile supporters’ anti-abortion feelings paraded as class warfare against bourgeoise feminism while reproductive rights are criminalized, thousands dead in Oklahoma’s streets thanks to a pharmaceutical company that pays one of Bernie’s surrogates to be spokeswoman. The most money to burn the big tent down with, and Establishment Warren is the cause? Damn, not the win that makes people fall to their knees and cry before a handful of men, but, ah well, nevertheless. Fans are left with a goodbye campaign poster thanking the most depraved players in leftist publishing, a drawing of all of them together, members of the same team. Hey, all of them still gained. Some got promoted.
People who take seriously the stakes of consciousness know that honestly-earned faith incorporates doubt, while those who posture as thinkers spew their condescended feelings at a candidate saying he’ll make his VP a woman. That there has never been a woman VP or P in this country is beside the point of expressing disgust that one is promised, for condescension itself becomes a virtue in the reality of no woman ever having held the office. This is powerful stuff when people have lost so much from greater forces of cruelty and now face a pandemic with more to lose close as their own hands—and a relief—that in their own lives people don’t have to risk discomfort or future success to confront gender oppression around them because they are aligned instead in an ethereal fight for authenticity that has transcended gender completely if a woman in office is proposed. A movement of freedom and equality pretends individuals don’t know the difference between etiquette and harassment, fragility and abuse, until abuse has no particular meaning in comparison to something that isn’t. All the better.
As the chancellor of my grad school said in an email, they were looking into the confluence of women’s mental illness and rape. He would like the women writers elevated in Bernie’s Arts and Letters, for they’ll do the dirty work of naming unreliable narrators among their own. Diagnose, ignore violence, hope for the best in a career ahead. One more in service of pretending away misogyny, add it to the poorly-written and podcasted literature masquerading as gal pal essays, base block building that not even subtly condescends women as needed allies—it was then that I realized the skincare industry will benefit from socialism! a study shows that women of the Soviet Union had more orgasms! I’ve waited too long to talk about my positive feelings about Bernie’s revolutionary rape essay! Sex and the City socialists riling up the clapping for male Patreon dumptruck demigods who are smart enough to pretend they don’t get it, then elevated into recursively paid for daring to say they don’t care.
I Believe You.
There will always be violence to point to in the structure of society more important than women’s, and used to divide women from each other. The dangers particular to women isolate them where they lay their heads or make their money. This danger is everywhere, easy to ignore. During the pandemic, as with any great loss in society, violence against women has risen markedly. The brutality of sexism as well as consciousness is that no allegiance substitutes the courage required to trust one’s own perception, then tear good enough apart.
At night with a 32 ounce safety lid cup o’ cocktail under my chin, I’m flipping through Bering Strait with a total abandon of the structured frame of review, and finding myself in front of old movies. I’m re-watching Hal Hartley’s Trust with actor Adrienne Shelly, playing Maria. After Maria writes in a journal a second person address to remind herself (as if she’d forget) that she is nothing more than a stupid girl, she catches up to Matthew, the town’s autodidact, who has spent his childhood alone with stacks of books by men. A lot of Aros make this Aro. Matthew offers pages to Maria in a sincere investment in her personhood, and Maria speaks to Matthew with a power legendary albeit less literary, having slapped her father to death. Maria demands Matthew agree to her belief that admiration and respect equal love. A grand simplification, and a risky one. What if this smart boy rejects her argument? What if he denies her access to the authority in which the whole town agrees he has obtained?
At the edge of the adulthood as at the edge of the world, authority without personal risk is a lie passed around liars. From Maria’s unblinking stare at Matthew, waiting to see if she’ll gain or lose, viewers have seconds to look around her and discover, my God, the beauty of her philtrum. Matthew is smart but his perception sharper. He bows his head into her small hand and receives.
Matthew is played by Martin Donovan, who goes on to a career worthy of his artistry while Adrienne Shelly is hanged from a shower rod by construction worker Diego Pillco in the way, he says, he used to string up pigs on a farm in Ecuador. Undocumented, Pillco worries Shelly will complain to his manager. Her murder ignites a recursive discussion in New York’s intellectual culture about US border policy and immigration, but first her death is determined to be a suicide, all the way through her funeral. Her husband, having felt that her death couldn’t be by her own hands despite what the experts say, hires a private investigator. Shelly wins a slot in Sundance, but doesn’t live long enough to find out. She was 40.
What is sexism, anyway? It’s an pain in the gut, I think, and we all feel it. The need to redirect away from it to another important thing every time. To acknowledge it rather than wield it makes us feel queasy, the floor of the reality we inhabit yanked out from under our toes. Any consolation must offer a lesser thing to be tsk-tsked, like the Internet is the Internet! So when people like Shelly’s husband become an activist for emerging female filmmakers and note as much in their Twitter bios, it’s just some pee pee poo poo when the Bernie fans laugh at how he must be a pervert for saying such an odd thing. What man says he cares for female women? Feels weird. The first time I see pervert lolled at Shelly’s husband, I feel the wave in my belly and make my way to the bathroom tile. Oh, after I come back down. That. Home. The first time I find out that Adrienne Shelly killed herself, in a shared magazine at a state hospital on the US/Mexico border. I perceived wrongly an hour before that having my brass hair clip taken lest I cut my own throat was a shame truly life-changing.
Savage, women’s things.
Let’s just be clear, as the candidates command, this piece of writing isn’t about Adrienne Shelly or Mayor Pete, Elizabeth Warren or Hal Hartley, Bernie Sanders or the Taylor Parkes Quietus essay on Corbyn from 2015 I’ve been reading over and over. But it isn’t, to be transparent, a book review of Tom Manning’s Bering Strait, even though it started faithfully as one, for the comic is beautiful. Something evolved from my confrontation with reviewing the book at this precise moment, seeing on its back cover page my own words quoted and ascribed to the publisher but not my name. Who would need to witness me? I shrugged. Then with a flip of the page, back to an image of an older, animal planet, visceral and thick, black and white. My mouth filled with spit and I pet it.
This world. It breaks your heart. It makes you crazy with desire.
This was a book review of Bering Strait by Tom Manning that I’m using to talk about the Bering Strait, or Ice Curtain, a kind of horizontal glass ceiling—a phrase overused entirely due to a good reason. Lynne Cox is a woman connected to the Bering Strait, swimming across for the attention her body could draw. On this day, still with no word from Moscow, the US government above and Inuit who agree to guide her shoreside, she dives into the cold. Over two hours across the Strait, Russian soldiers won’t let her know if they’ll kill her. One never knows what one will do to keep allegiance. As Cox stretches aching limb to aching limb and finally comes against a cliff too high to grapple, flailing, her possible end made by crossing, warm hands pull her ashore. The fingers are the first feeling she recalls having. Soviet soldiers hoist her out of the water to see—surprise—a makeshift party. She graduates to something in her crossover the men register as fraternity. She isn’t a woman anymore, in a way, her will realized. But she can’t stop shaking. The soldiers allow her a moment inside a tent to recover. Within, a doctor named Rita Zakharova covers Cox in warm bottles and holds her body. The women do not speak, their bodies pressing to help only one of them, an understanding of the crossing each made to arrive right there, right then. It’s lonely, being a woman. It’s the loneliness of being in a crowded room.
Here we all are, some of us finding out for the first time what it’s like shut in with a body, waiting for the other side of crossing. I hope someone calls you by your birthright. I hope when you’re not losing so much, there is consolation in knowing a degree difference of temperature. I hope you’ve found something scandalous on the other side of a window and it’s the best kept secret. I hope you cry and drink too much or not at all. My father used to swim me out in the Pacific when he was drunk, leave me to figure out how to find my way back through the waves. One day at a time, right now, many chances to feel lonely in the world as it abandons us.
You won’t hear about Cox in the US, although she’s still known among Russians, in at least as much as the toast Gorbachev and Reagan made to her before signing their nuclear treaty. Gorbachev was noticeably impressed that Cox spent hours in the freezing water to reach Soviet shore, saying, she proved by her courage how close to each other our peoples live. A crowded room, one voice under water. His enthusiasm makes one think he actually meant it. Gorbachev was possibly romanticizing old Beringia as later Manning’s Bering Strait does, the land bridge wild as tufts of wooly fur humans walked across.
That feeling of earth underfoot is one of the animal longings those at home might miss while assessing other dangers. I think of the relief I grabbed in the terror of being orphaned. I think of my brother held hostage in a motel by a murderer, our mother’s boyfriend. I think of the burnt rooms of my family who lived long enough to be guarded, and the last argument with my father, how he closed his eyes, plugged his ears, and told me, I can’t hear you. He was 39, his motorcycle shredded on the way to an AA meeting. There was no floor before, and now? A toast: here’s to thinking. Think of recently exonerated Floridian Paul Hildwin, who after decades in Death Row wanted upon release not to be rushed elsewhere but taken to the grass in front of the prison, toss his shoes aside. It’s the thought that counts right now. No one can think for us.
The dramatic display of formerly Soviet checkpoints, just as with our current political notion of breaking some proverbial glass ceiling, is all kinds of goofy if both weren’t so sincerely dangerous. I remember coming upon oiled Kalashnikovs and barbed wire on the Curonian Spit where Lithuania borders a dash of new Russia. A trail of footprints in the sand dunes behind me, gleaning with amber from the ancient world, and Chinese Lanterns bobbing in wind on the Nida side of buckled, salted boards. A tin sign: STOP! Kaliningrad. Men’s joints tighten into the AKs, and there’s nothing for me to do but walk toward them or walk away. There’s no women guards, but the thought isn’t so terrible—to me. Why not what my father gave me along with riding pillion down the canyon and a 50/50 chance—birth control and a gun and therein my purpose? A man’s resentments made me strong. No one can take this from me.
Nida is the first time in my life I’ve been in public but haven’t seen another woman for days. The awareness of this comes to me while reading into the stack of male authors I brought with me, Denis Johnson on about men mule-kicking a jukebox while I flick fruit flies out of my wine in the fisherman’s tavern. I leave to find what I’m told is a woman’s restaurant, then the owner brings me a plate of hot fries and fresh dill. I could ask her to waltz I’m so desperate. But I don’t. We both look out the window to this particular border’s heartbeat, gears grinding the port and moans from the sea mammals plopped in the Soviet zoo. Unlike Aro the master of boulders, I’m lonely. I can’t remember the last time I was embraced. I remember before leaving Seattle, pressing a knife to a friend’s neck when he grabbed me. (RIP Mark Rodgers.) I’ve wanted home. This is why I came.
I don’t perceive that in the years ahead I’ll be lonelier, ending up on another border as the only female patient in ward, having my hair clip taken and then the magazine with a picture of Adrienne Shelly. My plane ticket to the Arctic Circle is ripped up by a doctor, and I’m forced outside once by a Russian nurse to feel the sun on my shoulders—my God—held in the light by her small hands. I was going to the dark one last time to slip away, with a pair of red cowboy boots and a sweater. What a joke. I survived my childhood and have rent paid until fall of first quarantine. What a miracle.
I remember everything.
Bering Strait is the newest comic from Tom Manning of Oakland and formerly Enumclaw, both cities in states that have painted over signs with black stripes. Manning tells me, Bering Strait takes place in the Ice Age, told from the point of view of a Neanderthal tribe in Siberia who call themselves The Awake People. Their elder has received a vision that they have been chosen to inhabit a bountiful new land by following a herd of game East across the Bering Strait land bridge. But as they do so, the Awake People find they are not alone.
To understand that we are not alone is a position up for taking. In Bering Strait, finding others on the same journey toward more resources and meaning feels like terror because an ally is the same distance as a foe, and a foe has as much say who remains extant as an ally. To live another and better day itself is either a bridge connecting or preventing a crossing, and we get to diagnose only once, at this exact moment, so it’s the thought that counts. Really.
For myself today, thinking has looked like reading another book in Tom Manning’s oeuvre I recommend everyone purchase for the next lockdown, while I close out webpages of each job and publication contest in which I’ve yet again applied. I spoke to a lawyer about work after he saw the research I prepared for suing a landlord in small claims (I won). I talked to a university down the street about community classrooms, and maybe someday, a job teaching (they’re closed). The French bar down the street said they’ll take me (job dropped). I applied to be a bank teller and never heard back. I’m open to anything, really.
In the beginning, the power on this grid of Downtown LA went out for two hours, then the gas, then the water. I watched the city’s linemen sail into the streets of Skid Row past the closed Parisian restaurant, then voila, fix everything. I’ve never been able to live with a man, but watching the linemen, I thought, why not try? After quarantine I’ll stop being so much. After quarantine I’ll get myself together.
Months into this, I flick my flint as the moon crosses over to the right of my shoulder, take another handful of pills and watch Downtown’s completely-different-from-my-childhood skyline. The neighborhood was all grown up beyond its former tumbleweeds, and as I caught up to it during the pandemic, it dropped fifteen years back closure by closure, then the encampments swelled, then the fires. If I make it to 40 I will have lived one year longer than my father and be the same age as Adrienne Shelly. It’s a good enough goal, but I’m open to anything. As the months draw nearer to that day, I’ve settled into thinking of myself as a feminist, among other things, and prefer to be known by my honestly-won enemies rather than allegiances. Let the chips fall where they may, not that the implications of my choice are as steamy inside a time of lockdown. No one cares what I think, apparently, which is just as important to remember as anything. Thanks to Frank before his final surgery for telling me I make good enemies, anyway. I’m with Frank, on the side of yes.
Somehow we’ve made it beyond Super Tuesday bearing this massive strait in our world, and in our own way, as people of a particular country. We are all out of our minds sailing into an after, in part made of a bridge or war zone built by ancient men and a long time until next November. As I’ve heard many early aughts toasts over little glasses of chilled vodka and trays of khachapuri begin, who knows what is true when anything is possible? I walked away from the bar and across the planet each morning, alone in that constant glowlight three steps in front of the wild dogs. Once saw teenagers punch a bear cub at the end of a rope because it reached up to them for embrace. Used to think that with no one to confirm for me what was real, I shouldn’t trust my own perception. No better way than lay down in a tent with others to learn how it feels to wake up in the rain.
The times I’ve been touched in the past two months is from the 16 injections I received to my scalp, while a buff nurse pressed on my skull. Before begging for the injections that would hopefully heal the remaining sutures from a surgery gone bad, I was pulled into a private room and told, your doctor was sent home for symptoms; we’ve canceled all appointments until further notice. It was a week before California’s stay at home order, and what was considered emergency for our bodies had already changed. Looking back, it was all deeply sexual. Nothing like a good edging—grab me by ears and heal me. After the shots and the last time I was in a car, I made my way to the parking lot and took off my mask with alcohol wipes, then checked the date on the iodine pills in my trunk (always good) and tucked them back into my bugout bag, the bag back into the spare tire. I took a handful of pills and drove across an empty Los Angeles back to Downtown. There’s a crowded room, or an open highway.
I’m no Aro, happy with artmaking on the rocks as my diamond, unconcerned about crossing over to the new world. I write this with a pinch in my throat that all these pages, unpublished, are deleted when my computer is sold to a shop after my expiration. But the world is big. Until it takes me, I’d rather keep trying to speak up. Like Maria, take that chance. At least now in this new isolated age, the measure of my distance from my enemies has an agreed-upon reason shared with the whole planet. It’s a better reason, honestly, than which one of us is the winner of a Primary of Ideas.
You have to laugh!
As a woman you have to laugh.