it is still the jourth of fuly
field notes, riffs, and resources. volume 1.
First, a note: If you signed up for my newsletter during the pandemic, I immediately abandoned it for rock scrambles, White Claw (black cherry!), and screaming. Also: animation.
Now that the worst is behind us (ha ha), I’ve decided to actually launch this thing. In seriousness — with mach-speed madness burning a whole through our country, I need the additional coping mechanism. (Do y’all know how *slow* animation is? Gratifying, yes, but slow.)
What I can promise here, briefly: big ol’ questions, silly lil jokes, and a hopefully-not-futile attempt to unpack the mess of systems we’re in (political, cultural, technological…ancestral?). Expect a slice of life / field notes, raw creative riffs (often genre-agnostic or hybrid), and a sense of open play. I’m an improviser at heart (comedically, musically, spiritually), so I hope you’re game.
I’ll also share things I’ve been reading, listening to, or watching that are teaching me, moving me, or making me laugh.
With that…
field notes
I spent the last few days at my Great Aunt Dorothy’s. Born in The Bronx in 1929, she is all of 96 years old and sharp as hell. When we go out — whether for groceries or to the doctor’s — she talks to everyone, scanning for the middle of the action from her vantage point of 4 foot 10. Sometimes, she’ll shoot me a loopy side-eye, raising her eyebrows to the roof and shifting her head toward me like she’s breaking the fourth wall, like, Well, ain’t this a real situation.
Aunt Dorothy’s got killer comic timing, and she’s a storyteller to boot. “I remember everything,” she says. Though she’s a self-described “talker,” she’s also made sure to write a lot of it down. She calls herself “the family archivist.”
For the last couple decades, she’s lived in a neighborhood in New Jersey that has that hallmark generic quality of anywhere, U.S.A. — chain restaurants, discount stores, golf courses. This shapelessness is in deep contrast to most of her life, which has been rich with specifics.
Aunt Dorothy’s always got new, old stories to tell me. For example, here’s one I learned this week: When Aunt Dorothy was a young, single mother, unable to leave her apartment in Fort Lee, she’d call the butcher downstairs and order meat for delivery, even if she didn’t want it. Why? Because next door to the butcher was a candy store, and the candy store had cigarettes. So, she’d call down and ask the butcher to deliver some quantity of meat and, oh yeah, “a pack of cigs,” which meant she got some random meat she didn’t want, and a pack of cigarettes she did. “But,” she told me, “I never had a cigarette before breakfast.”
Speaking of mornings, if you want to know how how to live a long life, she’ll tell you what’s worked for her: start every day with a piece of chocolate and cup of Coke.
On that diary note…here are some thoughts, resources, and riffs I jotted down a couple weeks back that I finally have a moment to share:
the jourth of fuly
The fireworks have sizzled, the picnic blankets are in hampers, and the drinks have been swapped for coffee. But in trump’s america, it will always be the jourth of fuly. Here, everything is always inside-out, backward, and sliding down the mountain.
Speaking of things perpetually sliding down the mountain, the great Albert Camus once said, “You must imagine Sisyphus happy.” Well, fuck Camus.
In trump’s america, it is always the jourth of fuly because things are so whacked out that you never quite feel like you’ve sobered up.
Case in point: at a July 3rd rally, trump announced he’d be hosting a UFC fight at the White House next July 4th. An unofficial Instagram account (“Homeland Security News”) then posted an AI-generated picture of an enormous UFC ring (octagonal, white, veneer-bright), flanked by undifferentiated masses in front of a glowing White House, under an ominously dark sky. Underneath, the caption: “July 4th, 2026!!” (Out of love, I will keep the actual curséd image from you.) My jaw unhinged.
One strains to see this image as anything but a grotesque harbinger — if not outright promise — of doom. Cringeworthy bro-doom, but doom nonetheless.
If anything ever said “tacky fall of Rome,” it would be this image. Then again, trump has also posted an AI image of himself as a golden statue in a redeveloped Gaza, set to a backing track with the lyric, “Donald’s coming to set you free…” so there’s a lot of competition in the ring for “tasteless abominations.”
Speaking of tacky, trump is paving the white house lawn. He told reporters this was because the grass was too wet :( and difficult for ladies to walk on in their heels :( :(. (Not the ladies!!!) I 100% believe he thought the grass was "too wet.” (I’m resisting an obvious joke here. Give me a cupcake.) And also, of course, we now understand that it was because of this planned abomination. (Joni Mitchell did not write a song for this, exactly.)
Yes, all of this is shocking, disturbing, repellent, obscene, offensive (is there any power left in that word?), and finally, absurd. No, it’s not nearly as violent as the administration’s myriad crimes against humanity, but it is a strategic spectacle that points obliquely at that violence. There is no ICE without UFC.
If the news were just this item alone, we could maybe process this, treat it like a splash of fucked up tea (a tremendous splash). But although the scale of this obscenity is viscerally boggling, it is one among a trillion such attacks on the mind, spirit, and senses. Taken together, it is a totally absurd, affective kind of warfare. It doesn’t trigger fight or even flight, but it’s got freeze on lock.
Okay, you know…Camus may have had a point. Sorry, Camus. Albert? (Can I call you Al? Ha ha.)
Anyway, things are awful, and it can sometimes be hard not to go full rag doll on the linoleum. But listen, everyone can calm down, because yours truly has it handled.
That’s right — I spent a couple hours Saturday checking on the Declaration of Independence and The Constitution, and I can unequivocally confirm: all the words are still all there, and in all the right places! So far, none of the AI-worshipping broligarchs have figured out how to hack into paper books, and trump’s loser gestapo have not come to seize them (yet. Ha ha…).
As I’m writing this, my watch is flashing an “abnormal heart rate” rate. Let’s all take a deep breath. Done? Okay.
resources
Over the next month or so, I’d recommend making yourself an iced tea or taking a CBD gummy, pulling up the below books — on paper — and downloading them directly to your brain.
This moment is literally what our founding documents (flawed as they are) were written for. The authors below (Richard Beeman, Kim Wehle, and Richard Beeman) have been helping me make sense of them.
They don’t want you reading these. They’re also very happy trump doesn’t read. “They” are people like J.D. Vance, Peter Thiel, Steve Bannon, etc. etc.
“The king is coming! Hide the complaints!”
True story: With trump in the Oval Office, the original copy of The Declaration of Independence was moved behind a curtain. Apparently, trump’s innately pervy instinct to peek behind a curtain is out-powered only by his aversion to reading.
As of this writing, there is still no evidence that he’s ever read it or that he ever will. Which is, of course, what his people want. I don’t know why they needed the whole theatrical to-do.
Besides the preamble and the “We hold these truths…all men are created equal” bits, The Declaration of Independence mostly consists of a long list of grievances (aka complaints) about a king who is making everyone’s lives Not Fun and also Very Bad. There are 27 complaints (not even one compliment!) laid methodically bare and without mercy (zero compliment sandwiches!). Together, they serve as an brutally rational yet emotionally stark appeal for a revolutionary severance. And it could have been written today. Here are just a few:
He has dissolved Representative Houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people…
He has endeavored to prevent the population of these States; for that purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners…
He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harass our people and eat out their substance. [Author’s note: That “eat out” bit is fire.]
He has kept among us in times of peace Standing Armies, without the Consent of our legislatures.
He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior the Civil power.
Familiar? There are many more. It is good to know them.
If it’s hard to launch a solo reading venture, consider starting a book club with friends or local community group. If reading helps educate and guide us toward right action, and action and community are the antidotes to despair, why not integrate the elements? That’s my kind of fight ring.
I have no graceful segue into the next section, but I’ll leave you with a lil riff I wrote on the jourth of fuly that inspired this blog, a sort of flash fiction / poem thing.
riffs
today, our daddy
appears the fourth of july and fires up the grill. he hates the kitchen but he loves a big machine.
our daddy wears a novelty apron — it’s called that because of the novelty of the situation. it says “kiss the chef” and has three phony lipstick stains, just in case anyone is a visual learner. our daddy is so considerate today.
our daddy says grilling’s the best cuz you do it outside, for the whole day, right under the lord’s sun. he says every living boy must one day battle wind, fire, and oil in order to summon the perfect patty of beef and become a man. that day is america’s birthday. daddy has no boys, so today, he is america’s birthday man.
our daddy won’t let anyone at the barbecue mention the great british bake-off, because even though it is a weeks-long battle waged outdoors involving wind and fire plus many other challenging elements, like melting points and yeast, it is not american and it is also kind of…you know. european.
our daddy knows that the next-door neighbors love his grilling, even though they’re vegetarians. he knows this cuz he looked over the fence and saw them sitting on the grass “indian-style” and taking deep breaths while smiling. daddy says he yelled, “you want some?” and they opened their eyes and shook their heads no, but he knows they were lying, cuz everyone on the whole planet loves daddy’s meat.
daddy loves to say magic words like smoke point, heat distribution, and caramelization. each time he says a magic word, one to three men materialize and begin to nod.
our daddy is happy in his yard under the lord’s good sun where everyone can see. he is happy and sunburned and peeling, because sunscreen is a conspiracy and also a little…you know. european.
after today, our daddy will go inside, sit down in his chair, and spend the rest of the year teaching us how commies are destroying what makes america great. mommy will make us sandwiches and cut off the crusts, bread chicken thighs, glaze our carrots with honey, and fix our plates for each temperament and season.
but this day, his own happy day, everyone wakes up excited for daddy.
If you liked this blog, yay. As a certified “difficult woman,” I yearn to be liked. Please do share it around with folks you think might like it, too.
If you didn’t like it — well, as a difficult woman, I don’t give a damn.
Now go drink some agua and move yer bones.
Luv + solidarity,
Sara
P.S. I’m now offering editing and coaching sessions for writing and comedy work. If you’re interested, send me a message via my inquiry form!