Knit your anger

947 commandments and a short story

“The Map of Hell” (Dante’s Inferno) painted by Sandro Botticelli,

If thou thy star do follow,
Thou canst not fail thee of a glorious port. If well I judged in the life beautiful.

Dante Alighieri, Canto XV, Inferno

What’s everybody doing? Hanging in there or waking up each morning to a fresh hell? People keep saying that they’re afraid, that things are scary, and you know what? Fuck that and fuck them. Not the people who are scared but them. Get angry. Make something. Write something. Feed your people. Take care of the poor and the homeless. Give someone your coat. Stand tall in a doorway. Hide an immigrant. Light a candle. Smile at a person who uses a wheelchair and ask their mother if you can take them for a walk. Talk about books with your transgender students. Tell them, even in your mind, that you will protect them, that you’ve got their back. Graffiti a cybertruck. If you can’t or you won’t, do it in your mind. Laugh and laugh and laugh. Smile at the moon. Be brave. Spit on their images. Poke them with a needle and then knit a sweater. Roll your eyes. Condescend to those who voted for them. Make love. Stay alert. Rest. Stick your finger in some dirt and water where it’s dry. Light a small fire and burn slips of paper with their names. Douse the ashes with liquor. Write down your values. Demand things from your representatives. Be disruptive. Thank the activists. Thank the rebels. Ask the elderly how to live. Read a book. Amplify the voices and art of the historically oppressed. Read another book. Gather your women friends and tell them you love them. Write some poetry. Think hateful thoughts and drown them in a bath. Waste your words because there are always more. Make waste of theirs. Give away your money. Jump in the ocean. Go for a drive in your car and scream. Listen to someone with your whole heart. Get centered. Roll them up in your yoga mat and throw it in the trunk. Push the car off a cliff. Cut a grapefruit in half and then along each segment so they slip out with a small spoon. Squeeze the juice straight into your mouth. Write a letter. Hold a baby. Tell the truth. Get on the phone and demand things. “Make good trouble.” Rest. Use a vibrator. Stay informed. Look up. Read a book to a child. Apologize to someone you’ve hurt. Don’t feel you have to forgive your oppressor. Don’t take any bullshit. Speak your mind. Climb a tree or hug it if your knees hurt. Go to sleep naked. Quote Dante. Hang on.

A short story

Iris pushed open the kitchen door, the only light the blue flame of the burner on the stove where Celia stood, her long, greasy hair down her back, her skin white. She turned from the pots, the pots crusted over, said he’s upstairs and she nodded her head toward the other door, into the room with the Freudian chaise, the mandolins, an apple core rotting on the green baize of the pool table, the spindle trees tapping on glass from the wind. The stairs at the foot of the chaise (Celia called it a daybed) were steep and narrow, Iris’ shoes, light, a barely there creak. The third from the top, her knee poised in air, a throaty laugh like a wisp of cartoon smoke wafted out and around, Iris’ nose twitched, she was an animal light on her feet her knee in the air, hair on the back of her neck gone stiff. He was there, naked in shadow, his own knee raised, the laugh like smoke over his shoulder from the cave behind him. Iris waved her hand in front of her eye, the smoke curled around her finger. She put her knee down. I guess I’ll come back she whispered and turned and fled down the stairs past the Freudian bed, the baize and the rot, through the kitchen past Celia who stood at the stove, her black hair like oil and nodded, out the door.