I was supposed to write about Rush this week—to make up some funny quips about Neil Peart and how this jazz band kid I liked would not shut up about him.
But I can't. It seems trivial. Frankly, that's because it is trivial. I'll never pretend this column is more than what it is—a humorous chronicle of my rocky, unsure teenage path to self-discovery, feminism, and a record collection I love. How I learned to shed social cues and trust my instincts and my ears.
The column is also about how deeply insecure I was as a young woman and how accepting that history and laughing about it has allowed me to examine myself without a veil of shame.
Anyway. Fuck all that. This week I can't. Though I believe the key to sustained activism is to take breaks, to laugh, to be with loved ones, all the while continuing to fight, right now I am all fight. The only thing that made me laugh was when my dog farted and it scared my cat.
So for now, I just want to link to The Stranger's Resistance & Solidarity Calendar. Next week I'll write about Rush.