Went to sleep last night and woke up with some depression. It didn’t take very long for me — an expert in gut analysis — to investigate its components.
Most significant was an emotional regurgitation from the furious shock of November 9, 2016. I’m feeling dissed. Again. Seriously dissed. As a woman, that is. I can’t accept that voters — particularly women voters — are not swamping the polls in support of Elizabeth Warren and/or Amy Klobuchar, the two most intelligent, experienced, wise, revivifying, exciting and witty candidates in the race.
No matter what your ideals, you’ll find them in one or the other, while the base values in both are solidly humanistic.
I’m not going to persevere here in their defense; that isn’t my object. But I know how to read depression: it is suppressed anger. And mine won’t be suppressed for long. I feel dissed and am pissed.
So in the meantime, what am I doing to cope?
Bach. A lot of Bach. Today, his partitas played by Andras Schiff. It’s exhilarating to be an audience for genius. It’s cleansing. It’s also reassuring: if Bach lived once and he and his music still live on, still hold me in wonder, it is probable I, too, will live on through these times and will find more that is wonderful in life.
And if not? Well, more Bach. Followed by Beethoven and Shostakovich.
Then…escape to an exclusive Bahamian cay, with this rock-em-sock-em billionaire duel exposé in today’s New York Times. Billionaires right now are not attractive figures but one of the two in this story is so thoroughly repulsive, he’ll remind you of Jeffrey Epstein, Harvey Weinstein, et al. Ugly, ugly, scandalous stuff. It’ll make you forget everything rotten in politics — except for Trump. Indeed, the Trumpian odor hovers over it all.
Easy to choose my category for this one: The Filthy Rich.