Dead Man Writing
Yesterday, I entered hospice.
There, I got it through my fingers and to the screen, and I know that this time I will finish and post it on Medium. I started three times yesterday and this morning.
One turned into a rant about the twenty year war and how it looks like we got nothing from it and we are leaving Afghanistan worse off. Excepting the crooks. When you move money in cash and in amounts that require pallets and a forklift, there is bound to be some shrinkage.
One came out with a discourse on neos: neocons, neoliberals, and Neo from The Matrix.
The one that came closest was titled “Dead Man Voting” and it was in essence an apology for remaining engaged in issues that will not affect me. In that one, I buried the lede — that being hospice — in the third graf.
“Who cares,” I excused myself, “if Steve Russell is in hospice? At any given time, thousands of people are.” It struck me then that the people who know me care and lots of people are curious about hospice. That’s more audience than I usually start with, and I’ll be lucky to have any audience after that last historical rant.
You wonder about the stoic Indian, how that stereotype has enough truth to persist in the face of crimes that make Donald Trump look like a choir boy? Occasionally — not often, thank…
