SWIRL

SAN DIEGO TEACHERS FACE THOUGHT POLICE - WHEN DOES THE BOOK BURNING BEGIN?

I used to think HOME SCHOOLING was for right wingers, people who did not want their children exposed to people of another religion perhaps.  Then I thought it was also attractive to people who felt they could do a better job than the school or teachers in their district, who maybe couldn't afford private educations.  I saw that it was attractive to people who could live on one income since it was often stay at home mothers who were the teachers.  Thus it became an extension of motherhood or parenthood. Though some people manage to have stay at home mothers while financially struggling and sacrificing - such as sacrificing their own careers - I still think home schooling is more haves than have nots.  (There is also the educational level of the parent(s) to consider.  Are they actually capable of teaching their children so that they are grade appropriate?)  And then there was Covid - 19 and school closures and more women in the workplace being let go than men.

There was (and is) a trend towards working from home rather than commuting.  There was (and is) a trend towards liking this.  And as more children have depended on home schooling, it has become clear that one of the reasons parents do not want their children in a public school is because they do not want their children having friendships with children who are badly behaved, drug users, or criminals.  It became clear this year that it's also about the parents value system and so their politics.  I believe this has all had an effect on children learning to socialize and have company and a classroom experience, and is a negative when it comes to diversity - the knowledge that other people are not like you - that there are different cultures. 

But now there is a new reason to home school.  The thought police.

KUSI COM : SCUSD and WHITE PRIVLEDGE TRAINING

Excerpt:  The NY Post reported that the , "San Diego Unified School District began the sessions with instructors telling the faculty members that they will experience "guilt, anger, apathy and closed-mindedness" because of their "white fragility," according to leaked documents obtained by journalist Christopher F. Rufo.

I would never sign such a thing.  I do not agree it describes me.

As a person who has not had a DNA test but assumes she is "white" I'm pretty disgusted with the thought police trying to make me hate myself for this nonsense privilidge.  I've met many "people of color" who were better educated than me and had better jobs and better luck or whatever than me, but I honor them for their achievement.

Stereotypes of white people and teaching self hatred is not going to end racism. This latest is a call to internalize racism and apologize for an accident of birth.  It assumes that whiteness means I think and am a certain way.

I have met racists. I didn't like them.  They were not all white people.  

Of Polish descent I have been taunted for it here and there, off and on, all my life. We're supposed to be dumb and servile. I've heard from a British woman circa 2000 that all Poles are alcoholic.  (She added the dismissive hand wave) when my parents barely drank and I've never experienced a reason to by in an Anonymous. Of Catholic heritage I've heard and experienced the anti-Catholicism, even though present day American Catholicism is, well, almost Protestant. 

I'm beginning to wonder where it ends.  I suspect that books that offend will be burned.  Libraries will have to scout their shelves for books that may be offensive that they aren't sure about. Maybe read the whole collection. Imagine all the books by men that offend women!  A bonfire!  And if a person of color does something nasty to you, a white person, and you sue them, perhaps a court will excuse them and tell you you're just too white to find their behavior acceptable.

Stereotyping begins with the assumption that all people of a certain, race, religion, class, sexuality, or whatever group or groups are out there to be part of, ARE ALL THE SAME.  

Teachers can teach HONEST DEBATE, RESPECTFULLY DECLINING TO AGREE, HISTORICAL CONTEXT,  THE LIVES OF AUTHORS, and so much else so that a person can use their own experience and reasoning to decide where they are at with issues.  And people can change as well.

The uniformity of thought certainly offends creativity and originality.  You can't write a character than might offend someone though in reality there are plenty of them out there or who is not YOU. There goes research and experientials and imagination.

Teachers.  Poor teachers.  Their classrooms will become bare if the home schooling continues.  They will find themselves out of work or moving to work in another school district that isn't so biased. 

It makes me sad.

C 2020 Christine Trzyna - Opinion

Christine Trzyna BlogSpot.

TUNES IN MY HEAD AS I PREPARE FOR HOLIDAYS DURING THE COVID-19 CRISIS and CRAZY LADIES AROUND

I was somewhat Grinchy about Thanksgiving a couple years ago. This year, not so. An Auntie of mine used to say the later holiday was really just for children. It feels that way to me.  But why the hell is the song "It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas" coming into my head as I wash dishes? It is just so cheery!

And here we are in this increasingly worrisome Covid-19 Crisis; It's 2020 and we are going into 2021.  Restaurants can no longer serve people inside or out. Friends have lost their jobs. I know of a few people who are facing eviction. The tent city closest to me must have elected a mayor as the tents were artfully arranged from large to small the other day.

People are going out of their minds with worry, fear, restlessness, anxiety, lack of hope, boredom, and sleep irregularities and sleeplessness.  I'm not immune to any of this. 

So is this why for three strait days two lines from "Along Comes Mary," by the Association, kept running through my head? "When we met I was sure out to lunch.  Now my empty cup tastes as sweet as the punch. Sweet As the Punch."

It's not that I can't fill my time, making slow progress on a research project, or start reading that stack of books other people wanted me to read. But yesterday I felt a little wigged out as the theme song from Sesame Street, Sunny Days, started playing in my head  I once babysat kids who would cry if I took the TV off and so they had Sesame Street on for hours every day.

I walk my dog and around the corner are some children who I suspect are not getting anything for Christmas.  But they have proud parents.  So I've been discouraged from leaving gifts on the porch steps.

I just had another crazy lady in the street start yelling at me re Trump.  And just like last time, I stopped and talked to her, sure she had actually gone insane in the Trump Cult and that something I might say could help her through the Transition.

"I'm a Mexican.  I used to be a Democrat!  I'm ASHAMED that I was a Democrat!" she wailed.  "Do you know what you people DID to that POOR MAN!?  (What, is he the latest to be nailed to a cross?) He has done more for Black People than any President!" And on it went.  I backed away as her finger swang in the air and pointed towards me. "You'll see!  You'll see!  Biden will DIE. Kamala will come in and she'll have those woman with a TOWEL on their head come in.  We'll be SOCIALISTS!" 

I told her not to fear.  I suspected she had not been raised in the United States and probably knew very little about The House, The Senate, The Congress, and our "checks and balances."  I said, "We are electing a President, not a King!"

Sweet As The Punch.

I went home and pulled out stacks of children's books that I intend to give as Christmas presents. I wrapped them all in festive papers. Then I pulled out the recipe for buttery rolls flavored with leaves of bay that I intend to bake and take to a Thanksgiving dinner. I pulled the recipe from the newspaper a while back and it needs yeast.  I went to a couple stores looking for yeast.  Wondering if my search for yeast would end me up in the hospital.

The plan is that everyone will go single file into the house to serve ourselves at the table and then sit outdoors in a backyard ten feet apart to eat.  I'm looking forward to this, but I would also be OK with staying home and watching The Crown. 

I'm in the mood to cheer you up.

Christine Trzyna

C2020

SKITTLES DIPS ARE A DIET BREAKER : THEY DIDN'T PAY ME TO SAY THIS!

I try NOT to buy candy, especially not big packages, but the original Skittles Dips that came my way were a diet breaker. There was no way not to eat all of them in a very short time span.  They have a creamy yogurt flavored coating that on occasion seems to have a hint of caramel. My only complaint is that they are not attractive.  They are a pale color that requires strong light to discern what flavor and an ugly black S stamp on each one. So if you're with the Skittle company product development or marketing, here this.  The candy needs a more appealing appearance. 

I TANGLE WITH TWO OLD LIT MAJORS WHO ARE STILL CARRYING THE LITERARY CANNON AROUND WITH THEM : TALKING TO STRANGERS

I was excited.

I had a few things to say to them.

They apprised me of the fact that they had both been lit majors.  Yea, in the 1950's and 1960's.  Had I, they wanted to know, been taught THE PROCESS FOR WRITING.

I said.

About one percent of the adult population of the United States buys ONE BOOK in a year.  That book may be "How to repair your Volkswagon."

The best selling fiction is bodice rippers.  Romances.

The number one topic in fiction or nonfiction on best selling lists is MURDER.

Very few people read books.  Very few people are like me.  I've read hundreds of books.

An "S and M" porn author with a trilogy that began on the internet, which resulted in some bad films as well, became rich on shit.  Badly written.  Horrible acting.  Shock value lost on me.  But because I wanted to understand the popularity, I read some of it.

AND

No matter how many classes I have taken, how many readings or question and answer sessions I've experienced in which audience members ask published authors about their recipe for success, there IS NO ONE WAY.  You may hear that the person wrote their whole novel while taking a shower.  Or that they are committed to 100 words a day.  Or that they didn't write for years but then they sat down and it flowed. Or that they took a decade to write one book.  THERE IS NO ONE WAY TO WRITE and NO ONE WAY TO LEARN TO WRITE. There is simply learning as you write.  

And WOMEN are UNDERREPRESENTED and ALWAYS HAVE BEEN when it comes to getting agents and getting published.  The stats against women writers are horrendous.

I forgot to say that in my Women's Literature class, within an esteemed Literature program that was judged to be about number 7 in the nation - something like that - when I attended - NOT ONE MALE GENDERED STUDENT took the class.

And so, you have to write because you have to write.

Without letting POLITICAL CORRECTNESS be your CENSORSHIP.

I couldn't write my own memoir and be politically correct.

This is the way writers and authors are being CRITIQUED.  Not for their ability to write or tell a good story, but if they are writing in line with the current politically correctness.  This is deadly if it happens in writing programs. It's deadly when it happens in publishing. So, no I've never read Harry Potter, but leave that author alone.

And so writers are, like the 'S and M porn author" publishing themselves.

And buying guns to protect themselves.

In this case, the two old lit majors just kept their mouths shut. I guess these strangers stopped talking to me, at least for a while.

C  2020 Christine Trzyna

All Rights Reserved

DREAM : EXPERIENCE THIRTEEN : CHRISTINE TRZYNA WRITING WORKSHOP

 

Write about a memorable DREAM - the DREAM that sticks with you.  You can use it as a place to begin.  Start a short fiction story based on that dream.

Christine Trzyna

This exercise is part of a series of writing exercises and to bring up the whole series use the tag Christine Trzyna Writing Workshop. 

C 2018 -2025 Christine Trzyna 
All Rights Reserved including Internet and International Rights
OK to use in not for profit situations. Please credit me.  It's karma.

JOE BIDEN WON and IT RAINED

It was 150 days with no rain in Southern California. That statement is probably in error as Southern California is thousands of square miles and it probably rained somewhere in all that territory in the last 150 days.  

However, we have been waiting for it.  

Real rain.  Not morning mist.  Not a little drizzle, though I'm sure the plants would love to have their leaves dusted off so they can breath.  

We wanted a downpour.  An inch.  Rain enough to stop using the hose and racking up the water bill. Rain enough to plant a garden and expect it to sprout.

It happened, for a few minutes. Then it happened again. The wind whipped through the trees.  The pavement was damp. The leaves glistened. The temperature went down and we pulled out the sweaters and warm fuzzy blankets from storage.

Soon after it was announced that Joseph Biden is our President Elect, it rained.

It was as if we had all been holding our breaths,  The fires consumed much of the state.  And then, he was elected.  And then the sky let it out.

That's my perception.

My friends and I opened a bottle of wine.

We all slept a little bit better.

Though we know "It ain't over yet."  (Where is the fat lady these days? Hopefully the White House.)

Then the catnip addicted cat, who now loves me, squinting it's eyes and looking up at my forehead, perhaps at my glowing third eye, got up on their table, though, because he is aging and bony it took more effort, and put out his hand-shaking paw.  "More"

I bought the catnip, claiming to be the world's strongest, at a dollar store. 

I bought it after he got beat up by some studly, younger, and mouse eating cats.

This one, he's an Egyptian. The smartest.  From the Pharoahs.

One of those other cats had put a neat slice in his head near his ear. It was deep and oozing. He was barely walking. He was in pain. His own eyes appeared foggy.  As he went out, my friend said, "In my gut I think he is going off somewhere to die."

A day later he came back.

I made a perch for him on top of their record album collection in the hall. Layered it with blankets.  

He had never had catnip before. The idea was to give him some bliss before it was all over. The idea was to increase his appetite.

Now, whenever he sees me, he wants some.

He is eating.  He is well. His eyes are bright and alert.  From their porch he watches the other cats carefully.

Joe Biden is President Elect.

Will we all get better?

C 2020 Christine Trzyna

All Rights Reserved

WRITING STYLE : EXPERIENCE TWELVE : CHRISTINE TRZYNA WRITING WORKSHOP

 

WRITING STYLE

Go to the library and with your eyes closed, pick one book off the shelf in the fiction section.  (re Covid, perhaps this should be the bookshelf of a friend, an open bookstore, or your own shelf of long unread books.)

Take it home and read a chapter from any place in the book.

Reread it again and this time, write trying to write like the author.

Every author has their habits.  Their way of thinking.

To begin getting into the writer's habits and thinking, hand write or hand print the chapter over again on paper.

Then continue.

Christine Trzyna

C 2018 - 2025  Christine Trzyna 
All Rights Reserved including Internet and International Rights
OK to use in not for profit situations. Please credit me.  It's karma.

*Note that you don't want to publish what you have copied.  That would be plagiarism. 

NATURE : EXPERIENCE ELEVEN : CHRISTINE TRZYNA WRITING WORKSHOP

 

Maybe a half dozen people in the entire world that I know about, so to speak, have participated in my WRITING WORKSHOP spawned by recent posts - triggers - to get writing. Search this blog using the words WRITING WORKSHOP for the whole series.

EXERCISE 11

Write a descriptive scene from NATURE.
Then REWRITE IT being sure that you have included excellent color.
Then REWRITE IT being sure that you have included a variety of smells.

Christine Trzyna

This exercise is part of a series of writing exercises and to bring up the whole series use the tag Christine Trzyna Writing Workshop. 

C 2018 -2025  Christine Trzyna 
All Rights Reserved including Internet and International Rights
OK to use in not for profit situations. Please credit me.  It's karma.

MELANIA and ME by STEPHANIE WINSTON WOLKOFF : CHRISTINE TRZYNA BOOK REVIEW

I was handed the hard-back copy that a friend had just bought and read and will be passing this book to another reader shortly. I know what certain critiques and articles expect me to think about this book but I'm not dictated to.

This book is one long immensely detailed bitch about being overworked, underpaid, disrespected, and under-appreciated in the work place, and ultimately in a friendship. Most of us have had that experience.  I know I have.  That might be my life story - or yours - but I wasn't a child of privileged, able to put a toe into prestigious Vogue to work there first.  Events I planned and saw through were not benefits for the Met's fashion ball. I've met a few celebrities and a few millionaires but my social life is not among them.  Stephanie Winston Wolkoff was immensely qualified for the assignment she was vetted for by First Lady Melania Trump. That she kept at it to the point of suffering financially and health-wise, is her fault. She was not one of us who has to work for a living.  Not that I think it's wrong to be well off and ambitious. But why do us commoners stay at jobs we hate?

The story of the chaotic Trump White House is as expected, sorry to say, and not a surprise.

The book reads as though S.W.W. was keeping a diary on top of everything else she was working extreme hours on. If not a diary, then a journal or at least a calendar, of her work struggles, including having lawyers work on a contract that might describe her title, responsibility, and pay. 

Very little is said about the FRIENDSHIP that the title of this book depends upon. There are mentions of brief smiley interactions, and many references to emails that are brief and full of emojis.  First Lady Melania actually seems appreciative, if not one to go on and on in her communications.  There are lots of air kisses on both cheeks, so to speak.

THE WORST THINGS YOU CAN SAY ABOUT MELANIA TRUMP after reading this book are the things noone would dare say about JACQUELINE BOUVIER KENNEDY.

That she prefers supporting her husband and his career and taking care of her child, then having a career of her own while also the First Lady.

That she's not in the loop about political issues, though once in a while she has influence on her husband.  She has a mind of her own as he does and is not always cooperative about what others want her to do as First Lady.

That she has very little personal power and then it's hiring staff to advise on fashion, hair, diplomatic expectations, protocol, and entertaining dignitaries.

That she goes off on relaxing vacations alone while others toil.  They are paid after all, while she is not.

That she shows up on the campaign trail not so much.

That she embodies tranquility and it seems that is what President Donald Trump looks forward to and depends on.

I think First Lady Melania Trump has mastered what few women seem to these days - That she is enough.

The real story here is how Trump's grown children, in particular Ivanka Kusher, are present, and domineering and can be sneaky or savvy about sabotaging Melania. It's the story of how a good soldier (Stephanie) on Melania's side goes to battle with Ivanka's side.

For that, Melania must, in my opinion, resort to supreme patience, philosophy, and prayer.

As for the preternaturally tall for his youth, Barron Trump, or his father, the author takes aim to diagnose.  Fair when it's about our President.  Unfair when it is a child.

C 2020  Christine Trzyna

Book Review - All Rights Reserved

HE DIED BUT VISITED ME LAST NIGHT - A MEMBER OF MY OLD WRITING GROUP

The strange dreams continue.  Is it the season?  Or the ongoing threat of Covid-19?

I woke up around 4 am.  My dog had walked through my sewing kit and I could hear buttons and spools - but I woke thinking "needles." She needed to go out.  So did I.

But I managed to fall back asleep.  I remembered three strange dreams. This one was a visit with a member of my short fiction writing group.

This man was a bit of a mystery.  I first met him at a writing class focused on short fiction at a community college night class. He wrote the shortest of short stories.  One pagers.  If you're wondering how a one pager can qualify as a short story, well, if there is the slightest change in a character's viewpoint, that would qualify.

If I knew him today, I would suggest that each short was actually a chapter.  He wrote scenarios that seemed to focus on people with mental illness.

He never stayed to chat or get personal after we had critiqued each other's stories.

He would stand up, bid us a hearty fare-well, and walk out in an almost military fashion, with his notebooks in one hand. 

Then one day I was telling a friend about this man and his work when he said, "Wait a minute.  I think my dad knows this man!"  And not only did his dad know the man, but they had worked together, and his dad had introduced him to his wife.  Who, it turned out, became seriously mentally ill.

I felt that this man did not want our group to know this.

So one day I encountered him and I spit it out. "I know so and so.  I'm friends with his son.  I know."

To which he said nothing in response.

But I felt maybe I had relieved him some.

In my dream I was wearing my reading glasses.  My reading glasses are really ugly.  I made a mistake choosing them. The first thing I saw was that he came up to me wearing the same reading glasses.  He was smiling.  I said "I thought you were dead!"

In waking life I have been thinking this for some time - years.  One day I happened upon a newspaper I don't normally read and there was a one liner.  It said So and So was dead, as if it was the least someone could do.  There was absolutely no mention of a wife, family, friend, or children. Somehow I assumed it was him.

In the dream he was sitting with a woman I didn't recognize at all but knew to be his wife.  They were together, well, and happy.  They had two young people with them - perhaps grandchildren?  What was most important to me was that they were happy.  I looked over this woman, who I had never seen in waking life, thoroughly.  Now if I ever see a photo of her and I learn it is her, I'll probably get one of those shocks up my spine.

C 2020 Christine Trzyna

All Rights Reseved

HE DIED SEVEN YEARS AGO and WAS IN MY DREAM YESTERDAY MORNING

Yesterday morning I woke from a dream.

Someone I knew years ago was in that dream. So unexpectedly.

I knew he had died about seven years ago. I hadn't been thinking of him. I hadn't been thinking of him when I'd learned he died years ago either. I hadn't had any contact or knowledge of him in years before that. 

We had not been speaking for some time. It wasn't that we were angry. We just had lost words. He was a man of few words. Uncomplicated and simple you thought, until you heard his lyrics.

I'm not claiming to be a psychic. I think everyone is a bit psychic. For many years now it's happened that I've learned that someone who was once in my life and who I haven't thought about in years, has died. Usually something odd happens. Like I read a newspaper I don't usually and see an obit. Or I have a thought about them. So I check the Internet.  

A little more than seven years ago, one afternoon, I suddenly thought "I wonder if he ever put out a CD?" So I went on the Internet and instead found out he had died, about three months earlier. In his case there was no obit. But there were memorials. There were postings in on-line newsletters. There was a YouTube video of an event where he was given an award that made me tear up. Once athletic and strong, he was weak in a wheel chair, only able to stand for a moment to say "Thank You." Once a man who slept around and had too many women, he had found the one for him. He had married and had children since I knew him.

I contained sadness.

This man was in my dream yesterday morning.

We were in a restaurant. Maybe a salad bar. Not fast food. It was bright and airy. I looked at him and the sun seemed to be shining on spots of his pale skin. We were both standing there, looking into each other's eyes. He was youngish and healthy. His sleeveless tank showed off natural muscle. He was silent.  So was I. That continued. In my mind I was thinking I had recently met up with him in another dream but I couldn't remember it. I wanted to talk to him. Arrange a time. He knew that. I felt he could read my mind. I felt there was something I didn't know.

Then I saw a cameo of a woman. I think I know who this woman was, though I can't remember her name. She and I were friendly. I don't know if she's still alive.  In the dream, she spoke. She told me that he was going to a certain city in Texas and to a certain type of medical facility. She was very exact.

I woke up.

I immediately put in the name of this city and the words she had spoken in my search engine.  I was astounded by what I read about this place.

I realized I had been meaning to send his best friend a letter for the last seven years. I hand wrote it. Then I searched for an address one can send an old fashioned hand-written snail mail letter to.

And no, the man who was in my dream does not have a CD out. Not one.  No YouTube videos of him singing. No web site. Nothing. His wife and children also seem to have disappeared. 

I fear his music is lost. That he let it go to have a life different from the one he was living when I knew him.

I can hear some of his songs in my head.  Hear him singing like a choir boy.

C 2020 Christine Trzyna All Rights Reserved

HE DIED and I IMAGINED HIM ALIVE FOR YEARS NOT KNOWING

As a teenager, I attended art classes on Saturdays at a famous museum and then a famous university. At the museum each week an honor roll was called. I was on it frequently. I also remember many of the names called as if it were yesterday. I think they called them alphabetically.  Hypnotize me and take me back to that time and I could announce the whole list.

Some of these people were my friends or friends of friends. We all had a small sense that we were special because we had been invited selectively from all around the county.

In the end almost all the people who got full scholarships to the famous university classes were male. I sometimes wonder about that. Was it sexism? Was it sexuality? Was it that the people who were behind these classes just thought that men artists had more potential and would be more serious about pursuing art? There were many women on those honor roll lists. 

So one afternoon back in the day, when I was visiting my friend Sandy, my favorite classmate, who lived near her friend Robert, a name called, a person who got the full scholarship, she introduced me to Robert. He was a very tall teen from a German background in a mostly Jewish neighborhood. 

We went over to his house.  We sat in his living room. He and Sandy were chatty.

I remember that day because of the finery about the way he spoke. The thinness of his fingers. A seriousness about him. And also because he had a slobbering Saint Bernard with a small barrel under his chin.  (Why do people make Saint Bernard's carry barrels?  Maybe this dog carried Robert's cash or stash?) The dog got on my lap and slobbered. They all told me this was because he "liked" me. I hated his slobber. I wanted him off my lap. You would never guess at that point in my life how much I would come to love dogs. They all thought it was sort of funny that the more I resisted the Saint Bernard, the more he "liked" me.

Every once in a while I would think of Robert, such a promising artist. Had he gone on to afford the extreme tuition of the university? Did he still paint? Was his work represented in galleries?  Maybe a museum?

So, one day I had the urge to check. I put his name into the Internet and up came an obituary.  He had been dead for years. He had died young in another city and state. The obit suggested that he had long had family in this other state. I wondered when he moved. What he did for a living when he was alive.  And what killed him.  Was it a car accident? A strange disease? Cancer of some sort? AIDS?

Then it bothered me, the way I had carried him around as a live person when he had been dead most of my life.

Even as I write this I see his face.

C Christine Trzyna All Rights Reserved

THE NEW GOOGLE BLOGGER FORMAT IS AN UTTER HORROR -

I'm DESPISING it.  You have to scroll more - the lines are CARTOONISHLY LARGE - for CHILDREN or THE LEGALLY BLIND. Every post features a picture block.  I rarely post pictures. The dates are obscure - they should be where they were - easy to find.  I would have difficulty finding what I want to take down. TOTALLY DISCOURAGING.  TOTALLY FORCED UPON the BLOGGER.  The so called LEGACY BLOGGER, which I would be happy with forever - gone.  I clicked to return to it multiple times.  I DON'T GIVE A RATS ASS ABOUT HITS, or how my LAST POST IS DOING.  That is not my priority.  Why is it YOURS GOOGLE?  FOCUSING ON THE NUMBER OF HITS YOU GET OFTEN INFLUENCES THE WRITER TO WRITE FOR HITS - LATCHING ON TO NEWS - LOOKING FOR SOME SCANDAL, SOME HYPER-INTENSIVE SUBJECT ALREADY BEING PLAYED OUT.  IT CAN CAUSE YOU TO BE A FOLLOWER INSTEAD OF A LEADER.  TO BE DOMESTICATED INSTEAD OF RADICAL.  

Update March 2021

I'm still struggling using this hideous new horrible blogger. It says published when a post is a draft. It holds the date you started writing it, prepublushing, even when you've instructed it to be posted at a specific date in the future.