Tuesday Hatred: God’s wounds
Regarding the flies attempting to get into my still-fermenting pineapple vinegar I harbor less than loving feelings. Contemplation of the fact that in the fall it will likely be expected of me that I enter that maelstrom of terror and hopelessness, the philosophy job market, inspires me to thoughts less gladsome than dreadful. The silly staging and flawed translations that marred the SF Opera’s production of Die Walküre roused my emotions, and not in a positive way. The reïntroduction of debtors’ prisons to the states, the number of states that have passed laws making it illegal to record police as they go about their shameful business, and something I can’t even remember from one of the Carolinas (just guess which one) elicit from me moods of blackest despair. My tendency to engage in the descriptively named catastrophic thinking is known to me of old and has engendered that contempt which is familiar from proverbs. But it is being told, a surprise akin to the retrieval of forty feet (or yards) of cloth from the wine-dark sea, that “this” is, obscurely, not “working”—it is that which I hate.
That, and the fact that I seem to have lost a (favored!) pair of pants. I’m really not sure how that happened.
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