When are you going to start writing again? This is the question I’ve heard from no less than half a dozen people over the past couple of weeks. Okay, six people is not exactly a mandate (unless you’re Donald Trump) but be careful what you wish for. I’m writing again.

Writing is how I process the world and the first nine days of January have given all of us a lot to digest – and regurgitate. What the absolute fuck? I feel like we’re rats on the Titanic, only the sinking ship is our country. In nine interminable days, we awoke to learn that the U.S had invaded Venezuela, seen a bear eating former(?) heroin addict change the childhood vaccination schedule – and flip the food pyramid on its head. Make Meat Great Again!

And that all pales in comparison to what we saw – over and over and over again – on Wednesday, when Renee Nicole Good – say her name, say her name, say her name – was murdered in cold blood by an ICE agent in Minneapolis. Unless you live in a Fox News bunker, you know the stone-cold facts by now. I don’t need to recount them for you.

And I don’t need to recap the hideous demonization of Good from the right – who are deadly wrong on just about everything. I can rant and rave about them – and God knows, I do – but that doesn’t really make me feel better. This week, I have not recognized myself in my own rage and that is not a good feeling.

I have been comforted by the passionate but peaceful gatherings of heartbroken and bewildered Minnesotans who once again find themselves at ground zero of an unfathomable act of violence against an American citizen. How ironic that George Floyd’s name was recalled so many times on Wednesday, when so many of us felt like we couldn’t breathe as we saw a young woman be shot in the face at point blank range.

We should all be enraged – but living in rage is not sustainable. Trust me on this. We need to do something tangible – and that something is not the same for everyone. Here’s the thing – we all have a voice and there are many ways to use it. I can be bossy (understatement), but I would not begin to tell you what to do. I just know what I need to do today – so I’m writing. And quite selfishly, it makes me feel better to tell you about it.

Even in this black hole of a week, there have been glimpses of hope – the thousands of peaceful protests all over the country, some members of Congress finally growing a pair, and a faint but growing sense that there are more of us than maybe we thought.

These days are hard, my friends, but they are getting shorter.

Damn, I love a good metaphor.