I shat myself yesterday for the third time in a week or so. Rinsed running pants out in the sink, hung them up. Then went to the gym, pretended to start a workout, washed up, started to dry my hair. But they’ve put plastic boxes over the mains plugs in the vanity hallway, so I couldn’t plug in my dryer brush. Dried a little with THEIR dryer. Irritated, I walked home. Stopped at the TacoBell in the old YWCA. A beefy burrito and a simple hardshell taco. Quite good. But I felt I was leaking and farting through the evening, even while going through the nruns training in Brooklyn.
At home I had to phone Dottie who had called me while I was on the recumbent at the gym. I was giving her information about how to brine and cook salmon, she was telling me her health insurance broker/advisor.
A little before 5 pm I set out for the Gowanus area of Brooklyn. There are two subway stations near the warehouse I was approaching. I now know that my usual one, Smith and 9th, is about twice as far as the other one, 4th and 9th. And 4th and 9th has the advantage of being on both the BMT (R) and IND (F) lines. I was glad I set out early, as there were delays on the downtown F. Big fat Hasid or whatever squeezed in next to me, then moved to a 4-ft bench when that opened up. We waited at 42nd or 34th street for an extra 15 minutes. But by the time I got to Smith and 9th, it was only around 5:30 and I didn’t have to be at the warehouse until 6. I gave myself a leisurely walk, arrived around 5:45.
This was for scorer/decoder training for nruns. Very pretty girl who calls herself Sol led the way. Erica was there too, and a couple of others I knew. We spent most of the hour-and-a-half or so going through Sol’s digital notes on setting up the decoder and cables and mats. After 45 minutes of lecture we pulled out some mats and cables, and decoder boxes, and set them up on the floor of the warehouse. Me, a fat girl in a Fordham jacket with a name like Lydia (not), an amusing old negro I’ve interacted with in the past named Aaron, and a few others I did not know. Cables get plugged together, then into the decoder box, then the decoder readout gets set and primed. Later the generator gets set up and plugged in (turn on, choke, turn off choke, etc.) and we set up the digital clock.
Nearly all of us left, around 7:40, for the 4th and 9th subway station. It took me only a half hour to get home. Some strange black guy, a burn victim with most of his ears gone, was showing off pictures of himself and begging for money. Reminded me of the blind or at least sunglassed negro in the silver space suit in Greenwich, by the Woolworth’s on the Post Road, back in 1959: “Did you thank God that you can see?” When Nan-nan and I went to Greenwich for some reason. She’d brought me a toy wristwatch on that occasion. I’d initially thought it was a Swingline TOT stapler. Similar plastic box.
November 7th is the anniversary of Moki shitting the bed, or me finding him shitting the bed after bringing him Starbucks coffee (which he much enjoyed) the previous day. I cleaned out the shower and laid down what I thought was a rolled-up bathmat he had, and tried to get him into the shower. But I couldn’t get him up. I got some sponges and a dishpan with soap, and we tried to clean his shitty butt, and all the diarrhea he’d left on the sheet. I cleaned it up as best I could. Only at this point did it dawn on me that Moki belonged in a hospital. I’m still glad I did not put him away. We had a couple of pleasant weeks together. In bed. Watching Godfather movies over and over. Maybe GoodFellas.
I had thought of writing a diary entry on Election Day, after I voted for Mr. Trump. Instead I wrote a long shaggy-dog piece about my prognostication about presidential elections. I made it convoluted enough that it could be taken as satire. Anyway, shortly after I posted it, around 5:30pm, I became confident that Trump was going to win, if only by a hair. And then by 10pm it appeared it would be more than a hair.
Not all votes are counted, a few states still out, but it is obvious Trump has something like 312 EV to Kamala’s 226. Kamala’s candidacy was a complete joke, and it’s only after Election Day most of us can really face up to that.
It’s a sweep for the Republicans, as I secretly suspected it would be. We have the White House and the Senate, by a long shot; and almost certainly are keeping the House.
Sympathetic eyes and voices in Britain and elsewhere are cheering on the results. It’s like Churchill in 1940-41: the decision has to be made in the USA. It is our duty to lead. I resent this totally, and can forgive it only to the extent that the Powers that Be and Were have so manipulated things that the French Empire and British Empire no longer exist, leaving the American Empire, which should not be playing with fireworks outside its own backyard, to pretend to lead the way.
The ‘Easter Egg’ surprises in the Trump win include, most prominently, the Bobby Kennedy Jr. initiative. He should be, from the outset, the most prominent member of the Administration. All news stories should revolve around him. It will be a great distraction from everything else. He wants to mastermind health concerns, get poisons out of water and food. There is no greater existential calling in the short or long term.
Very early this morning I was wondering about that Albert Finney portrayal of Churchill, something I saw 20 years ago. Turns out to be The Gathering Storm, a single TV movie. What I remembered mainly was Vic Oliver singing ‘Keep Young and Beautiful’ in a terrible revue sequence in which Sarah was a chorus girl. I’d imagined this was a whole series.
I went to get a nice Bowl at Chipotle across the street. My Citi Cash card was declined. Whatever for? Surely there is some credit. But my MGM+ card was also, apparently, declined. I’ve hit the ceiling. I am not completely skint but have hit the ceiling on some things. Bought a pint of Svedka at Shirley’s on the Amazon credit card. Tomorrow, $500 from Gusto, next week $1500 from SS. After that, some shit job from HopeDepot or crazy remote development looney.
Now that Brian is safely dead I suppose I can ask the once-and-future President for a job. I will definitely send a note in the next few days.
I really would like to have Moki with me now, to see Mr. Trump win again, unambiguously. And to watch Breaking Bad with Moki.
Why I did not get another 5 or 10 years of grace with my husband is a mystery. Trump’s win probably was connected with Peachy Keenan’s novena to Our Lady of Victory. That bought us another few years of struggle and hope. I did not make nearly enough struggle for Moki (other than wisely not taking him to the hospital) but I did let him down in the last few weeks.
On the subway, to and fro, I was reading a book, probably a PhD dissertation, about Flannery O’Connor and her treatment of negroism. She was very sound.