Shuffling Along the Final Footpath

I am  dying slowly in the same sense that I believe the only definition of life that seems consistent is that life is the ability to die.  Each week somebody I know dies.  It’s partly our time with its frenetic frenzy of anger, bewilderment, and too much testosterone run amok.  I’ve come to the conclusion that the most toxic substance is too much testosterone.   I’ve never been bothered by it.  Estrogen is the baby sister that is more intelligent, more empathetic, more caring, and also mostly ignored.  Testosterone is the cause of wars; the cause of much greed, the cause of too many shootings and too much domestic violence.  Testosterone combined with power and little intelligence, as we find in the White House, can be fatal for a nation.

I hesitate to tell people that I am gradually becoming detached from my life and that one thing I’ve done recently is limit the 24/7 news cycle that keeps me angry, bewilder, mortified, and insane.   But mostly it leaves me educated.  I always thought I believed that black lives matter, but more and more I learn new shattering things.




I want a female president, but will not see one in my lifetime.  I want a black president who is not obstructed every minute as Obama was.  I want our country–at the national, state, and local levels–to acknowledge the sickness of claiming some lives are more precious than others.   I want the Greed is Good contingent drummed out of Washington.

I am busy mourning the life we never had here in the USA (and also in other countries).  In October of 2016 I knew that Trump would kill me (and many others).  In my case he is certainly abetted by my heart failure.  My hypoxia continues to get worse.  I’ve taken up jigsaw puzzles because of the calming repetition and the very low stakes.  I can no longer trust my memory.  I don’t have much to do with other people:  I was born an introvert and have become much more so.

I mourn people.  So many things!  The nod of the head, a sidelong glance, an expressive eye roll, or a special stance andthe muttered imprecations; the little ways that distinguish ourselves from one another.  I mourn the fact that at my age and my level of energy I can do little to help.  I don’t have the strength to protest.  I mourn the lack of empathy.  I am appalled at what the videos show me–white people assaulting black people casually (I’m looking at you, Amy Cooper, and you, Lisa Alexander and Robert Larkins.  But mostly I’m looking at the culture of male supremacy and how the police have been trained to assault and kill.

Bullies always want to take away things that matter to others–whether it is land, flesh, or personal safety–

When I was in 8th grade 4 boys took a girl into a basement.  She did not want to go but they overpowered her.  They had their way with her and guess who was kicked out of school for having a “bad character”?

I tried to make sense of it.  Is there a magical way for a 13 year old girl to get away from 4 bulky boys who want to have their way with her?  Not then and probably not now.

In a sane country nobody would have voted for Drumpf.  Everyone would have seen his narcissism, his sociopathy, his clear lack of literacy and fundamental knowledge.

How many people have been killed by toxic white testosterone?  How many people have been assaulted or raped?  Why do we think that women are problems with their hormones–so emotional and sensitive?  When are we going to realize that behind almost every crime is a heaping dose of toxic white masculinity?



Author: Gubbinal

Bookish, tea-drinking cat-lady who loves great poetry and music and is in the midst of dying

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