While Rome Burns

Quick hit tonight: a gloomy YAWP inspired by current events.

Two nights ago, friend put up a Facebook post alerting folks to the alternative programming option of watching The Breakfast Club at 9 PM on AMC. I commented that I was already in bed with a book. Yes, the big biography I’d been posting about earlier that evening.

Then I added a hashtag: #Escapism

I’m aware that my frittery* posts about reading and clutter and body acceptance are vaguely ridiculous in these days of tension, government shut-down, and the increasingly unhinged press appearances by Cheetos POTUS. I’m aware that I’m able to focus on such frittery pieces of life on account of the many varieties of privilege in my life: whiteness, status as a hetereosexual married person, financial stability, cis-gender identity, what-have-you. Those nexus of privilege mean I have the luxury of staying safe in these times of near-universal awfulness and brouhaha.

So my focus on these mundane things has more than a whiff of the perfume of fiddling while Rome burns.**

while rome burns

And yet.

Part of me hopes that by continuing to grow beauty and intellectual curiosity and common decency in my own little corner of the blogosphere, I am putting a few drops into the wave of resistance. And I am even more confident that by tending to this garden of words I am nourishing myself and my own ability to take small acts of actual resistance out in the non-digital world.

* I know: not a real word. But it should be.

** And my whining here about how bad and guilty I feel about being so head-in-the-sand has more than a bit of the flavor of white tears in it.

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Image credit: Flickr user Shena Tschofen, via a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.0 Generic licence.

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