My Favorite Things

When the dog bites, when the bee stings

When I'm feeling sad

I simply remember my favorite things

And then I don't feel so bad

― My Favorite Things

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Dear Kate,

Thou shalt not kill.  I need to remember that.

This Christmas someone is planning to kill some of my favorite things, and I must remember to not add to the bloodbath.

But what then, sit it out?

The blood is white, snow white, covering us all.  When the proper shedding is complete, our future will look like a blank piece of paper, not a word permitted, every ink drop a crime.  If you have something to say, say it in your heart--if you still have one.

They are going to cancel my favorite museum floor, as part of the "decolonization" efforts in our ever progressing society, barging into an ever more pristine state of moral consciousness, everything washed white.

It was a sinful joy, all joy ever felt all these years on this museum floor by the young and the old, the native children and the immigrants, sinister joy, evil joy, hurtful joy, because we didn't know better back then like we know now, our testament of old barbarous, vulgar and dumb, our new a testament to our leaping forward, scoffing backward, imploding outward to shroud this land with our sweet bile.

Sins of our fathers and mothers we apologize for, burn them at stake if it be Thy will.  Thy the enlightened children of judgement and hope, Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.  Bring out the hammers, bring out the swords.  Those who once killed now we kill them all.

Dog bites, bee stings, and I'm sad and mad.  Simply because I am remembering my favorite things.

Yours, Alex