Jessica Craven at Substacks Chop Wood and Carry Water. Posts include news, LOTS of reporting on the positive effects of individuals actions and officials actions, contacts to join groups to take action on specific issues, local and national, and information to contact Senators and Representatives. Her positivity is front and center. Not blind to the problems, but a refusal to let it keep her down.
Also Gloria thank you for advice wonderful chapters on the quiet resistance.
Excellent.
I contacted my two senators and requested them to send Mr. Musk to muck
If Mr. Musk is indeed a government employee he is then accountable to the same standards and oversight as any government operation and his his grab Treasury is by all means unlawful.
The ending will be … difficult. I don’t understand why he returned to Russia. He was fighting the good fight from abroad and consolidating his base. He knew he would be murdered when he returned. His death was literally “death by dictator—instead of cop” as police officers say here about suicide victims who use them to kill them.
He refused to give in to them, to the extreme, and paid the ultimate price. I couldn't have done what he did but it was his way. Maybe he would have been more effective if he hadn't gone back ... but he wouldn't even consider it.
Yes! I bought the book after Rachel Maddow interviewed Alexei's wife, Yulia, on MSNBC. What a story, both heartrending but full of courage and hope.
Now I am re-reading E. Jean Carroll's What Do We Need Men For? So witty, so beautifully written, it's E. Jean at her best. Makes me laugh and feel a little lighter.
I love that book. The car. The lists. The vegetarian foods? Amy something? It’s delicious but I can never remember to buy it. The outfits. I bet every one of those women remember WHO she is. LOL
First off, I absolutely loved the new layer—the addition of Claire and her enigmatic butler, so very high-class British. Chef's Kiss! Blackwood moves with that perfect mix of precision and quiet rebellion, and Claire? That asymmetrical outfit is nothing short of grandiose, revolutionary chic at its best. But I did miss the afternoon high tea and cocktails. Surely, Vivian wouldn't let something so essential slip through the cracks? Please, tell us more—what’s Blackwood’s origin story? And how did Claire develop her effortless command of space and presence? And, oh how I loved the crackling eroticism that was palpable. Don't curb it. The one does not exclude the other.
And yet, as much as I savor these layers you weave into your characters, I can’t help but contrast them with the static narratives we’re fed daily—the endless rehashing of what 'has been' rather than an imaginative exploration of what 'could be.' So many seem caught in the cycle of diagnosing the disease, documenting its spread, endlessly lamenting its symptoms, but rarely does anyone prescribe the cure. If appropriate, I try to slip my own vision of the world I’d like to live in into the comments. But of course, being unable to afford a paid subscription means I’m often shut out of direct conversations, left speaking through the cracks. Still, I know that Mary L. Trump has read my comments, and Robert Reich and Steven Beschloss have responded on occasion, so my words find their way through, even when the doors remain closed.
What you’re exploring—this revolution—it is, without a doubt, *the revolution of women.* Not the sanitized, palatable version that fits neatly into talking points, but the raw, untamed force of women who are no longer asking for permission. The ones who refuse to play the game by its outdated rules. Women have spent decades perfecting the mask—enduring, navigating, spinning intrigues to survive within a system designed to keep them contained. But now? Now it’s time to claim power rather than mimic the conditioned behaviors we were taught to uphold. To dismantle old belief systems one by one, not just *rewrite* the narrative but abandon it entirely and create something new. Because the old narrative—patriarchy, hierarchy, feudalist structures (which, let’s be honest, is the foundation of all organized religion: the rich, powerful few ruling the masses)—cannot be salvaged.
And yet, so many still look to the socially conditioned old-school journalists to fix what is beyond fixing. They are scribes of a crumbling empire, chronicling its decay rather than imagining its replacement. Maybe that’s why I see more promise in the minds shaping *new* ways of thinking—Stanford’s Design Thinking programs, futurists, those who don’t merely analyze history but actively construct its successor. Because as Kierkegaard said, history explains the past; we can only understand it in hindsight. But the future? The future isn’t rewritten—it’s written new.
This is something I’ve struggled with deeply in my own healing journey. For the longest time, I was caught in the trap of trying to rewrite my past, to make sense of it, to reshape it into something more bearable. But what I’ve come to understand is that I have to *embody* the authorship of my own life, not rewrite the past, but shape my future. And that means looking deliberately at the present—at what is happening 'now' rather than getting lost in projections of what might come in 90 days or a year. Because the truth is, we don’t know what’s coming.
So I ask: What is happening 'right now'? Not just emotionally, but tangibly. How have these developments affected your 'daily' life? Less money? Curbed healthcare? Changes in spending? Those are the real shifts, the ones within your circle of influence. That’s where coping meets action. That’s where the conversation moves from abstract dread to something grounded, something we can *work with.*
Yes, the war in Ukraine is horrific. And outside of higher gas prices, it hasn’t directly altered my daily reality in Germany. This P-Word-Imposter has signed a plethora of Executive Orders—of those, which one has actually 'changed' your day-to-day life? That’s where the perspective settles, where we reclaim our ability to navigate *this* moment, not a hypothetical catastrophe down the road.
And this doesn’t mean we stop caring. It doesn’t mean we stop writing, fighting, resisting. But it does mean we don’t surrender to an all-consuming despair that leaves us paralyzed. I refuse to take on the suffering of the entire world. Not because I don’t care, but because I know that drowning in it serves no one—not me, not the people who 'need' us to stay engaged, not the future we are trying to build. So I choose to stay aware, but also rooted. I remain present in 'this' moment, knowing that when my reality shifts, when the weight reaches my doorstep, I will act. Until then, I keep my focus where I can 'do' something. Actually I think my staying grounded in the now, in the present, might help the cause better, than me drowning in fear.
And if all else fails? There’s always Blackwood. I have a feeling he’d have a contingency plan.
Stay dangerous. Stay awake. And please—more of Riley, Vivian, Claire, Blackwood and crackling underlying eroticism.
Jay, First of all, let me say that if I could bottle your praise, I’d sell it in Bergdorf’s with an exorbitant price tag and a very chic minimalist label. Something like Narrative No. 5: A Fragrance of Rebellion—notes of ink, bourbon, and just the faintest whiff of smoldering paper where old paradigms have been torched.
You see it—the revolution beneath the revolution. The unvarnished, unsanitized version where women don’t just break the rules; they treat the rulebook like a coaster and set their cocktail right on top. That’s the essence of The Art of Quiet Resistance—it’s not about rewriting the past. It’s about an entirely new script, written in invisible ink that only reveals itself when held to the fire. And you, my dear, are very much holding the fire.
Now, to the matter at hand—Blackwood. You ask, where does he come from? What shaped this man of impeccable precision and barely restrained subversion? I imagine his origin story involves a childhood spent in an ancestral estate with long corridors and darker corners, where he learned the fine art of moving through space unseen, speaking only when absolutely necessary, and executing acts of defiance with the grace of a maître d’ pouring the perfect martini. But of course, there is more. There’s always more. You don’t get to be that man without a past filled with ghosts, obligations, and at least one scandal that never made the papers but sent ripples through the old guard.
And Claire—ah, Claire. Revolutionary chic, you called it. Exactly. Claire does not enter a room; she takes it, the way a queen steps onto a battlefield—fully aware that her presence alone is an act of conquest. That asymmetry you love? It’s a visual manifesto. It says, “I refuse to be symmetrical, palatable, predictable.” You want her backstory? So do I. But I suspect she’ll only reveal it on her own terms.
As for the absence of high tea and cocktails, fear not—Vivian would never be so negligent. Afternoon tea is not just a ritual; it is a statement. It is the kind of disciplined elegance that turns something as benign as a sugar cube into an act of defiance. And cocktails? Please. A well-made cocktail is a weapon. Vivian knows this. So does Riley. So do you.
Now, let’s talk about your broader point—the fixation on chronicling decline rather than building what comes next. You’ve hit on something that’s been gnawing at me for a while. The problem with nostalgia is that it’s a closed loop—it doesn’t go anywhere. We spend so much time diagnosing the rot that we forget to plant something new. The architects of the old world are still standing around inspecting the cracks while the real work—the foundational, ground-up reinvention—is happening elsewhere, in places they’re not even looking.
And I love that you are looking. That you are aware but not drowning, present but not paralyzed. This, I think, is the only way forward. Yes, we see the abyss. Yes, we acknowledge its depth. But we do not hurl ourselves into it. Instead, we pour another drink, adjust our posture, and sharpen our weapons—words, wit, willpower.
And in the meantime, I promise you more Riley, more Vivian, more Claire, more Blackwood. More crackling subtext that reminds us that even in revolution, even in resistance, there is space for pleasure. Because what is the point of taking down the old world if we don’t revel in the creation of the new?
A line Vivian would casually throw over her shoulder exiting a room , “Stay sharp. Stay dangerous. And never let them mistake your elegance for submission.”
If I could bottle this response, I’d store it in a velvet-lined case, uncork it only when the air is too thick with exhaustion, and inhale deeply—letting it fill my lungs with ink, defiance, and that exquisite afterburn of something sharp, smoky, and entirely too dangerous for polite society.
Narrative No. 5: A Fragrance of Rebellion? Sold. I’ll take two bottles—one for the fireside, one for the threshold of whatever comes next.
You say I see it—the revolution beneath the revolution—and what you have done here is articulate the war cry beneath the whispered plans, the steel beneath the silk. I crave this: not the revision of an old world but the architecture of something beyond it, built from the scorched remains of every rulebook ever used to cage, control, or diminish. A world where women don’t just shatter ceilings but refuse to live in a house not of their own making.
And we are not going to christen the new order. That reeks of patriarchal, feudalistic decay, of old power dressed in new fabric. That’s not what I want, not what I see. If anything, the need to name it, to declare dominion over it, is exactly what I reject. Let the old world ask what it is while we simply live it.
And Blackwood. I have a suspicion that he might have been MI5 in another lifetime. Deep cover. And maybe there was something about him, something dangerous not because of what he did, but who he was. Something that, in another time, in another system, would have been career-ending. Maybe he was too perceptive, too independent. Maybe he was gay. Maybe trans. Maybe simply someone who saw too much and refused to look away.
And Claire—she commands a room with that same exquisite sublimity as Vivian, and she holds a different kind of weapon. They both, like you, know the tools women have used for millennia: the art of pretending, faking, deceiving, manipulating—not for power, but for survival. It’s what women have had to do to avoid suffocation, to survive. I did it, too—my non-binary way. The very skills once sharpened in secret are now turned outward, wielded in plain sight. But unlike those before them, they are no longer playing the game to stay alive. They are playing to end the game entirely.
And about the past—yes. You said it. I see it as a museum exhibit, curated by those who benefitted from it, polished and framed to justify its own existence. And for too long, I wandered those halls, believing it was my duty to understand every artifact before I could walk away. But I refuse to admire the decay as if it were inevitable. The architects of the old world are still standing around, inspecting the cracks, mistaking their analysis for action, mistaking their grief for momentum.
Meanwhile, the ones never served by their structures have already moved on. We are blueprinting something better.
In the past five years, I have dismantled every belief system within me that I could find. And some outside me. The sheer volume of conditioning—by subtlety, by education, by osmosis—was staggering. I would never have believed it possible to live a life that was never truly mine to influence, and yet that was exactly my reality. Every measure of my worth, every value I held, every unquestioned rule I followed—it was all theirs. And it took years to strip it away, piece by piece, only to find that what I was tearing down in myself was the same old same old I had seen echoed in history, in society, in every oppressive structure that had ever existed.
Maybe that’s why I took the systemic blueprint—the one that dismantled my own life—and applied it outward, to see what made the larger system tick. I wanted to find the root causes, the hidden gears. And what I found mirrored everything I had just spent years unraveling within myself. The patterns. The mechanisms. The unspoken laws.
And that is why I cannot, will not, participate in another cycle of remaking the past under a different name. I do not need to rewrite the old story. I do not even need to burn the book.
I stay up to date. That's it. One need to know what this other side destroyed already.
Stay sharp. Stay awake. And tell me—what’s Blackwood’s drink of choice? Something tells me it’s not a martini.
I've been remembering and rereading about LGBTQ history- particularly the organization ACT UP. They were very creative about how they fought for human rights - and their resistance of oppression. That's helping me some...
Dear, dear Gloria. Your amazingly clever story is a ray of hope amidst the mud and muck everywhere else. The atmosphere in our country feels like it is literally raining sludge instead of delightful white snow.
I have not found anything yet that eases my senses back into balance.
Jessica Craven at Substacks Chop Wood and Carry Water. Posts include news, LOTS of reporting on the positive effects of individuals actions and officials actions, contacts to join groups to take action on specific issues, local and national, and information to contact Senators and Representatives. Her positivity is front and center. Not blind to the problems, but a refusal to let it keep her down.
Love Jessica Craven. She deserves an award for the time and effort she has put into her Substack. It is truly a work of love.
Exactly!
Also Gloria thank you for advice wonderful chapters on the quiet resistance.
Excellent.
I contacted my two senators and requested them to send Mr. Musk to muck
If Mr. Musk is indeed a government employee he is then accountable to the same standards and oversight as any government operation and his his grab Treasury is by all means unlawful.
Did you reach a real human? Who are your senators? Mine are very nice people who actually have people who handle calls.
I have started reading the biography of Alex Navalny. It gives me ample courage.
Highly recommended
The ending will be … difficult. I don’t understand why he returned to Russia. He was fighting the good fight from abroad and consolidating his base. He knew he would be murdered when he returned. His death was literally “death by dictator—instead of cop” as police officers say here about suicide victims who use them to kill them.
He refused to give in to them, to the extreme, and paid the ultimate price. I couldn't have done what he did but it was his way. Maybe he would have been more effective if he hadn't gone back ... but he wouldn't even consider it.
It’s a tragedy nonetheless. Heartbreaking.
Yes! I bought the book after Rachel Maddow interviewed Alexei's wife, Yulia, on MSNBC. What a story, both heartrending but full of courage and hope.
Now I am re-reading E. Jean Carroll's What Do We Need Men For? So witty, so beautifully written, it's E. Jean at her best. Makes me laugh and feel a little lighter.
I love that book. The car. The lists. The vegetarian foods? Amy something? It’s delicious but I can never remember to buy it. The outfits. I bet every one of those women remember WHO she is. LOL
Gloria,
First off, I absolutely loved the new layer—the addition of Claire and her enigmatic butler, so very high-class British. Chef's Kiss! Blackwood moves with that perfect mix of precision and quiet rebellion, and Claire? That asymmetrical outfit is nothing short of grandiose, revolutionary chic at its best. But I did miss the afternoon high tea and cocktails. Surely, Vivian wouldn't let something so essential slip through the cracks? Please, tell us more—what’s Blackwood’s origin story? And how did Claire develop her effortless command of space and presence? And, oh how I loved the crackling eroticism that was palpable. Don't curb it. The one does not exclude the other.
And yet, as much as I savor these layers you weave into your characters, I can’t help but contrast them with the static narratives we’re fed daily—the endless rehashing of what 'has been' rather than an imaginative exploration of what 'could be.' So many seem caught in the cycle of diagnosing the disease, documenting its spread, endlessly lamenting its symptoms, but rarely does anyone prescribe the cure. If appropriate, I try to slip my own vision of the world I’d like to live in into the comments. But of course, being unable to afford a paid subscription means I’m often shut out of direct conversations, left speaking through the cracks. Still, I know that Mary L. Trump has read my comments, and Robert Reich and Steven Beschloss have responded on occasion, so my words find their way through, even when the doors remain closed.
What you’re exploring—this revolution—it is, without a doubt, *the revolution of women.* Not the sanitized, palatable version that fits neatly into talking points, but the raw, untamed force of women who are no longer asking for permission. The ones who refuse to play the game by its outdated rules. Women have spent decades perfecting the mask—enduring, navigating, spinning intrigues to survive within a system designed to keep them contained. But now? Now it’s time to claim power rather than mimic the conditioned behaviors we were taught to uphold. To dismantle old belief systems one by one, not just *rewrite* the narrative but abandon it entirely and create something new. Because the old narrative—patriarchy, hierarchy, feudalist structures (which, let’s be honest, is the foundation of all organized religion: the rich, powerful few ruling the masses)—cannot be salvaged.
And yet, so many still look to the socially conditioned old-school journalists to fix what is beyond fixing. They are scribes of a crumbling empire, chronicling its decay rather than imagining its replacement. Maybe that’s why I see more promise in the minds shaping *new* ways of thinking—Stanford’s Design Thinking programs, futurists, those who don’t merely analyze history but actively construct its successor. Because as Kierkegaard said, history explains the past; we can only understand it in hindsight. But the future? The future isn’t rewritten—it’s written new.
This is something I’ve struggled with deeply in my own healing journey. For the longest time, I was caught in the trap of trying to rewrite my past, to make sense of it, to reshape it into something more bearable. But what I’ve come to understand is that I have to *embody* the authorship of my own life, not rewrite the past, but shape my future. And that means looking deliberately at the present—at what is happening 'now' rather than getting lost in projections of what might come in 90 days or a year. Because the truth is, we don’t know what’s coming.
So I ask: What is happening 'right now'? Not just emotionally, but tangibly. How have these developments affected your 'daily' life? Less money? Curbed healthcare? Changes in spending? Those are the real shifts, the ones within your circle of influence. That’s where coping meets action. That’s where the conversation moves from abstract dread to something grounded, something we can *work with.*
Yes, the war in Ukraine is horrific. And outside of higher gas prices, it hasn’t directly altered my daily reality in Germany. This P-Word-Imposter has signed a plethora of Executive Orders—of those, which one has actually 'changed' your day-to-day life? That’s where the perspective settles, where we reclaim our ability to navigate *this* moment, not a hypothetical catastrophe down the road.
And this doesn’t mean we stop caring. It doesn’t mean we stop writing, fighting, resisting. But it does mean we don’t surrender to an all-consuming despair that leaves us paralyzed. I refuse to take on the suffering of the entire world. Not because I don’t care, but because I know that drowning in it serves no one—not me, not the people who 'need' us to stay engaged, not the future we are trying to build. So I choose to stay aware, but also rooted. I remain present in 'this' moment, knowing that when my reality shifts, when the weight reaches my doorstep, I will act. Until then, I keep my focus where I can 'do' something. Actually I think my staying grounded in the now, in the present, might help the cause better, than me drowning in fear.
And if all else fails? There’s always Blackwood. I have a feeling he’d have a contingency plan.
Stay dangerous. Stay awake. And please—more of Riley, Vivian, Claire, Blackwood and crackling underlying eroticism.
—Jay
Jay, First of all, let me say that if I could bottle your praise, I’d sell it in Bergdorf’s with an exorbitant price tag and a very chic minimalist label. Something like Narrative No. 5: A Fragrance of Rebellion—notes of ink, bourbon, and just the faintest whiff of smoldering paper where old paradigms have been torched.
You see it—the revolution beneath the revolution. The unvarnished, unsanitized version where women don’t just break the rules; they treat the rulebook like a coaster and set their cocktail right on top. That’s the essence of The Art of Quiet Resistance—it’s not about rewriting the past. It’s about an entirely new script, written in invisible ink that only reveals itself when held to the fire. And you, my dear, are very much holding the fire.
Now, to the matter at hand—Blackwood. You ask, where does he come from? What shaped this man of impeccable precision and barely restrained subversion? I imagine his origin story involves a childhood spent in an ancestral estate with long corridors and darker corners, where he learned the fine art of moving through space unseen, speaking only when absolutely necessary, and executing acts of defiance with the grace of a maître d’ pouring the perfect martini. But of course, there is more. There’s always more. You don’t get to be that man without a past filled with ghosts, obligations, and at least one scandal that never made the papers but sent ripples through the old guard.
And Claire—ah, Claire. Revolutionary chic, you called it. Exactly. Claire does not enter a room; she takes it, the way a queen steps onto a battlefield—fully aware that her presence alone is an act of conquest. That asymmetry you love? It’s a visual manifesto. It says, “I refuse to be symmetrical, palatable, predictable.” You want her backstory? So do I. But I suspect she’ll only reveal it on her own terms.
As for the absence of high tea and cocktails, fear not—Vivian would never be so negligent. Afternoon tea is not just a ritual; it is a statement. It is the kind of disciplined elegance that turns something as benign as a sugar cube into an act of defiance. And cocktails? Please. A well-made cocktail is a weapon. Vivian knows this. So does Riley. So do you.
Now, let’s talk about your broader point—the fixation on chronicling decline rather than building what comes next. You’ve hit on something that’s been gnawing at me for a while. The problem with nostalgia is that it’s a closed loop—it doesn’t go anywhere. We spend so much time diagnosing the rot that we forget to plant something new. The architects of the old world are still standing around inspecting the cracks while the real work—the foundational, ground-up reinvention—is happening elsewhere, in places they’re not even looking.
And I love that you are looking. That you are aware but not drowning, present but not paralyzed. This, I think, is the only way forward. Yes, we see the abyss. Yes, we acknowledge its depth. But we do not hurl ourselves into it. Instead, we pour another drink, adjust our posture, and sharpen our weapons—words, wit, willpower.
And in the meantime, I promise you more Riley, more Vivian, more Claire, more Blackwood. More crackling subtext that reminds us that even in revolution, even in resistance, there is space for pleasure. Because what is the point of taking down the old world if we don’t revel in the creation of the new?
A line Vivian would casually throw over her shoulder exiting a room , “Stay sharp. Stay dangerous. And never let them mistake your elegance for submission.”
Gloria
Gloria,
If I could bottle this response, I’d store it in a velvet-lined case, uncork it only when the air is too thick with exhaustion, and inhale deeply—letting it fill my lungs with ink, defiance, and that exquisite afterburn of something sharp, smoky, and entirely too dangerous for polite society.
Narrative No. 5: A Fragrance of Rebellion? Sold. I’ll take two bottles—one for the fireside, one for the threshold of whatever comes next.
You say I see it—the revolution beneath the revolution—and what you have done here is articulate the war cry beneath the whispered plans, the steel beneath the silk. I crave this: not the revision of an old world but the architecture of something beyond it, built from the scorched remains of every rulebook ever used to cage, control, or diminish. A world where women don’t just shatter ceilings but refuse to live in a house not of their own making.
And we are not going to christen the new order. That reeks of patriarchal, feudalistic decay, of old power dressed in new fabric. That’s not what I want, not what I see. If anything, the need to name it, to declare dominion over it, is exactly what I reject. Let the old world ask what it is while we simply live it.
And Blackwood. I have a suspicion that he might have been MI5 in another lifetime. Deep cover. And maybe there was something about him, something dangerous not because of what he did, but who he was. Something that, in another time, in another system, would have been career-ending. Maybe he was too perceptive, too independent. Maybe he was gay. Maybe trans. Maybe simply someone who saw too much and refused to look away.
And Claire—she commands a room with that same exquisite sublimity as Vivian, and she holds a different kind of weapon. They both, like you, know the tools women have used for millennia: the art of pretending, faking, deceiving, manipulating—not for power, but for survival. It’s what women have had to do to avoid suffocation, to survive. I did it, too—my non-binary way. The very skills once sharpened in secret are now turned outward, wielded in plain sight. But unlike those before them, they are no longer playing the game to stay alive. They are playing to end the game entirely.
And about the past—yes. You said it. I see it as a museum exhibit, curated by those who benefitted from it, polished and framed to justify its own existence. And for too long, I wandered those halls, believing it was my duty to understand every artifact before I could walk away. But I refuse to admire the decay as if it were inevitable. The architects of the old world are still standing around, inspecting the cracks, mistaking their analysis for action, mistaking their grief for momentum.
Meanwhile, the ones never served by their structures have already moved on. We are blueprinting something better.
In the past five years, I have dismantled every belief system within me that I could find. And some outside me. The sheer volume of conditioning—by subtlety, by education, by osmosis—was staggering. I would never have believed it possible to live a life that was never truly mine to influence, and yet that was exactly my reality. Every measure of my worth, every value I held, every unquestioned rule I followed—it was all theirs. And it took years to strip it away, piece by piece, only to find that what I was tearing down in myself was the same old same old I had seen echoed in history, in society, in every oppressive structure that had ever existed.
Maybe that’s why I took the systemic blueprint—the one that dismantled my own life—and applied it outward, to see what made the larger system tick. I wanted to find the root causes, the hidden gears. And what I found mirrored everything I had just spent years unraveling within myself. The patterns. The mechanisms. The unspoken laws.
And that is why I cannot, will not, participate in another cycle of remaking the past under a different name. I do not need to rewrite the old story. I do not even need to burn the book.
I stay up to date. That's it. One need to know what this other side destroyed already.
Stay sharp. Stay awake. And tell me—what’s Blackwood’s drink of choice? Something tells me it’s not a martini.
Jay
One delightful brief escape is the Stephen Colbert show...his wit, & stinging satire is quite satisfying to listen to....
Ooh. I like Steven Colbert.
Brilliant writing Gloria I am captivated by your work
Thanks. Tell me what you think of the story and how it is progressing.
I've been remembering and rereading about LGBTQ history- particularly the organization ACT UP. They were very creative about how they fought for human rights - and their resistance of oppression. That's helping me some...
ACT UP = awesomesauce!
Perfect how you incorporated Jeeves and Wodhouse. … love it.
T
They are favs of mine.
Dear, dear Gloria. Your amazingly clever story is a ray of hope amidst the mud and muck everywhere else. The atmosphere in our country feels like it is literally raining sludge instead of delightful white snow.
I have not found anything yet that eases my senses back into balance.
I am still trying to find the tailend of hope myself.