before I close the door and lock it behind me. Work needs doing, but even now, even years into this thing, I have a hard time justifying the reading of good fiction as an essential aspect of my job description. How is that? How is it that if I love what I'm doing I think I must be doing something wrong? Writing is hard. So is mental health.
Today is one week into vaccination, J & J style. One week left to go. Happiness will be a fully vaccinated family; when every trip my kid takes to school doesn't squeeze my heart because I know she's stepping into uncertainty. The husband is one dose into the two-dose course, so there's more waiting to be had. I'm half convinced that the greatest source of pandemic stress is related to waiting. What will the time between now and when you are safe bring? Things seem to be better here but experience tells me this is the silence before the dropping of that other shoe. Is it a flip flop or a steel-toed boot? Only time will tell.
I have other things to do in my spare time. Our parish (county) library is currently under attack from religious zealots who want to save us from the perils of free speech. We need protection, you see, from the evils of the world. You know, acceptance, kindness, love, etc. Equal access can lead to all sorts of problems. People get ideas, and we certainly cannot have that. At the moment, from what we can suss, their plan is to starve the library of money, then 'save' it by cutting out all but 'essential' programming (as long as it doesn't involve controversial topics like the right to vote), plus getting rid of wasteful things like the bookmobile, employees, and branches for underserved members of the community. The deeper I get into it all the more angry I find myself, and the angrier I get, the more stubborn I get. Most of the people involved don't know me very well, and honestly, that probably plays to my advantage.
Prius frangitur quam flectitur.