words
scratched out
circled
jotted to the side
in the margins
illusive thoughts
vanishing
into mists
never taking form
mistakes
creating
transforming
white noise
into harmony
Another day of death
in the US. As of this morning, more than three-thousand American citizens have
died from gun violence within the last twenty-five days. No one speaks about
the 1,716 suicides already in CDC record books. Forty mass shootings along with
six mass murders skyrockets our death rate to unspeakable levels. Gun violence
since the beginning of 2023 has left another 2,250 injured.
But we’ve got fucking
“thoughts and prayers” to speed us through the stages of grief that dog our lives
daily. We race, as a nation, though Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and
Acceptance within hours of the latest killings. One scene reporters offer
proper indignation as law enforcement representatives recount another atrocity
that should propel us into anger and action, but doesn’t. Memorials spring up within hours. Maybe if we
rush through to Acceptance we can avoid the tremendous losses each family
faces—injuries that may require lifelong medical needs. The death of your
friends, your brothers and sisters, your parents, your spouses, your children
wrapped up and tucked away within a news cycle because it repeats again
tomorrow.
https://www.gunviolencearchive.org/
Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
Ever had a Fixated Brain day? Those days when your analytical side grabs onto of some little piece of fluff that’s bouncing around like cosmic dust, and you must scrutinize said speck from every possible angle? I dove wholeheartedly into a Fixated Brain exercise today. My attention grabbed onto a random concept and couldn’t shake it free. I scribbled some ideas into my journal. I pondered different aspects while I washed and dried my favorite glasses. I considered multitude angles and dissected different interpretations. I spent hours on the internet researching permutations and postulations. The entire day drifted by with total submersion into the notion that possessed my attention. My zombie approach to everything else means I stumbled through my usual chores and absentmindedly answered my mother’s questions (I think?) My obsessing, by the end of the day, has left me feeling fuzzy and fatigued. The end result of all of this fanatical cogitating? The speck of dust turns out to be nothing more than—yes, a speck of dust! 
