Today’s the first day of Trump’s takeover. I couldn’t watch the charade of his inauguration, so instead, I decided to spend the day avoiding social media (as much as possible–I peeked a couple times out of habit and morbid curiosity) and engaging in small acts of rebellion and self-care (which, as I’d mentioned a few days ago, is rebellious in and of itself). Underneath this awesome ad about rebelwomen is the story of my day in photos…
At the start of a day, coffee is far more a necessity in terms of bringing about this human’s functionality than food. Breakfast came later.
Dressing the part
This is the closest thing I have to a “fuck the establishment” shirt. Still, I wore it today and got a few awesome comments. Two women on Glenwood said, “Love your shirt,” and a nice neighbor named Bobby said he would be marching for me tomorrow since I can’t go.
It’s been a while since I grabbed a cheddar herb biscuit from Smack Dab, and it hit the spot. Organic and tasty and still warm.
Peace in the dirt
I don’t know what a peace feather, but considering the first word is “peace,” it’s probably something positive. I’ll look that up later.
In the 1200 block of W. Farwell, there’s a tiny library (a small case where neighbors take or leave books in a book swap) that the maker also uses to stock a pantry for the needy/homeless people in the neighborhood. It was empty, so I schlepped to Morse Fresh Market and stocked up on staples, and feminine hygiene goods.
I didn’t leave a book, but considering I left something, I felt like the universe would be all right with me taking one, especially since it matched my shirt.
I couldn’t think of what offering to put on my altura as I prayed for our country and its citizens’ well-being in the coming weeks, so I just lit some incense. It’s nice–it makes the apartment smell like a fireplace.
Here’s something else we should rebel against: the DiGiorno people insisting upon putting cheddar cheese on their pizzas. People, unless it’s a novelty pizza like a taco or cheeseburger pizza, just stop.
Drinking and reading
Rogers Park Social, which is 277 steps from my front door, opened early today so people could escape inaugural nonsense. Wasn’t that nice of them?
Riding the train, like a hobo in days of yore. Wait, is it offensive to say ‘hobo’? Maybe I should use more proper terminology like ‘transit-utilizing American.’
Looking at art
The saying goes “art should comfort the disturbed, and disturb the comfortable.” This and other works by Ethan Hutchinson, hanging in Rev. Billy’s Chop Shop, makes me disturbingly uncomfortable. In a good way.
I had zero inspiration when I got out a canvas and my paint. It’s also been so long since I painted that all the colors I wanted to use were dried as old turds. This isn’t my best, but it’s something.
Tomorrow, the rebellion steps up. See you then.