How much doom is too much doom? And is this a test?
This week I will take a deep breath (maybe a hundred, maybe five) and do the things I need to do: the work travel, the panels, the vibe of generally calm professionalism (generally professional calm?) and then I will do it all over again.
A thing about video games is they make time disappear.
If someone knocks on your door and says, you are living in my house, it's time for you to leave - what do you do?
If someone blows your house up and says, I told you it was time to leave - what do your survivors do?
Who would take you in if you'd left, without you even having to ask, without you having anything to offer, without there being an end date in sight? How much of that is a function of where you live right now, and what your passport says?
What would you bring with you? What would you regret having to leave behind?
There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill
and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows
near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted
who disappeared into those shadows.
I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be
this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,
our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,
its own ways of making people disappear.
— from What Kind of Times Are These by Adrienne Rich