After They've Stolen Your Ability to Imagine. . .

I don't want to write about me, and I don't when I have something else to write about.  I think to write about the police state and what constitutes a police state and to argue that the United States is allowing its cities to become police states, doing and saying nothing in direct contrast to the stance it takes on the regimes of the Middle East and The Arab Spring.  Right to assemble, free speech, and all that.  As the conservative right is allowed to take arts out of school curriculums in this country and to replace it with workforce development skills, they have been allowed to create an undereducated class of unemployed workers with college degrees and a lack of creative and critical thinking skills.  The reason democracy worked better here than some other places in the world was the educational philosophy that we were creating rulers, giving everyone the same broad education that was only given to aristocrats elsewhere, a full, round education in both the arts and the sciences, an education required to make the good and necessary decisions that considered the good of all (personal foibles were left to the individual).

Etc.

But this is a dull, unconvincing vagary not fit for the five-hundred words that I average here a day.

When I am truly living, I have experiences enough on an average day to fill ten blogs if I had the time to write them.  But hours at the factory seem to get longer and more brutal with more strife and less fulfillment each and every day so that I straggle home too tired for anything but making my meal and consuming it with something to narcotize me against the horror of this passing life.  It is not fodder for writing.  There is a cat, a meal, something to drink, the bills piling up on the floor beneath the mail slot, the shower drain that seems to be clogging, and the solitary nature of my life.

I've never felt like this before.  I've never travelled in such a rut.  I've never lived without imagination.  I've never been so dully terrified.  This is how my parents lived and how I swore I never would.

And everything I've found exciting in life has been criminalized while the criminal behavior of the monied has been touted.

O.K.  There is more evidence of the dullness that has overtaken me.  Totalizing statements.  Not "everything."  But surely some important things.

That is all I can think of this morning as I anxiously watch the clock, knowing I will have to hurry once again to get to the factory in time.  And I know that if I don't do better here. . . .

Tomorrow.  There will be tomorrow.