But I write how I write and say what I say the way(s) I want to say it. Too many fucks, though, perhaps. You think? Perhaps I should clean it up some. Perhaps.
Did you know a cop was shot and killed downtown last week? A commander, in fact, right on fucking the sidewalk by all the civic buildings and business buildings and civic and business people in the middle of the fucking afternoon on a weekday. Because he, off-duty, tried to help chase down a suspicious-looking someone who turned out to be far more than fucking suspicious. They turned the tower lights blue for him for a week.
Did you know we’re averaging one school shooting every sixty fucking hours in this country this year? Every sixty hours. And the President “thinks” we need armed teachers. Armed fucking teachers.
Did you know there were six hundred and fucking fifty homicides in this city last year? And that was an improvement, because we tallied 771 the year before.
Our time is filthy, obscene, cruel, and fearful. Maybe that’s where all the fucks come from. Maybe it’s just something to say, something to write about. Maybe it’s more than that.
They say Jung restored the antique correspondence between the psychic and physical worlds, thus bridging ancient and modern worldviews. Oneness, wholeness, continuity. Our time pulls and stretches them apart, psychically and physically, though they are absolute. The result is pain, confusion, turmoil. Fuck! Friday!
I love those of you out there holding it together, trying.