Cloister Commentary, Day 243: Hope There Is Not a Hell

You may have noticed that, per my mild case of Anglophilia, I tend to keep a stiff upper lip. This year has tested that. I’ve lost one of my fondest friends, my dad, a terrific hound, and a rescue cat, all suddenly. Nicole lost her grandma, and was (really) forced back into in-person work in the middle of a pandemic. And we’ve had zero federal or state leadership in the midst of this young century’s biggest challenge. And I’ve seen friends and family act as if it’s all a figment of my imagination; fortunately, my mind’s too strong to even entertain a feeble gaslighting effort, but, on the other hand, I’ve mostly been silent about the outrage I daily feel.

Yesterday was one of those days I just wasn’t able to “buck up.” I’m so tired of this wholly bereft human, unaccountably in a position of power, thrashing around destructively and sowing BS, I’m so disconsolate at formerly reasonable (relatively reasonable?) humans buying into this (bad) medicine show, that I sometimes just wanna step off the planet. I came home from work, chatted with my girl, took a nap, woke up feeling better, ate some of Bangkok Gardens’ delicious food, and basked in the brillliantly executed absurdity and horror of Ratched. Also, martinis helped. But–dammit!–this is no picnic, and I see quite clearly who (individual and group) is responsible. Keep heaping shame upon yourselves, so often while mealy-mouthing your Christian badges. At least I don’t have to twist and try to justify such a position myself. Hope there is not a hell.

Streaming for Strivers after Equity:

Sublime music from a master who believed in community and compassion.

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