fogged in. there's a thin lighter layer of horizon and an oppressive fog on top. light pink-grey haze. you know what it feels like, like i felt it and it turned that way outside. it may be the opposite. my brain follows the weather i'm oblivious to as i'm inside. brain fog though is a steady condition. it's so quiet. someone's burning oil in another apartment. it seems to breathe through the walls. trains go by clanging in fog. the fog can be magical, but not this fog, this fog oppresses, this fog is my brain fog meeting the lowering sky. the cats are feeling something too. a pressure common to us all descends. we all feel it alone, together, alone. from here to there with no end. vanishing point within. i'm reading in my moccasins and i need to get done, it's oppressive in there too, a small book packed with words of dominance and addiction and no escape from the oppressive culture, the culture of appropriation, extraction, culture of no escape, indigenous. how do you escape when your native is destroyed, replaced by occupation. i'm not native yet i feel the fog of occupation too. it sullies the air we make and breath, the sky that weighs on us, native occupation, imminent domain. we are all become native under the weight of the occupier class.  reservation to gentrification. the cult of false value, of extraction, people of the stifling economy of power, breathless manufactured destiny.

i mention the book and how i feel today, and sarah says:

sundays can be sad--

which seems to say in four words enough to convey the whole feeling, yet of course leaving out particulars.

and she asks about the book i'm reading. i write back, 

true! that's part of it. ancient sundays. i just tried to write about what i'm feeling, but it seems like reaching in fog. the memoir is In My Moccasins, by Helen Knott. i feel this soul stifling feeling, of her experience as native, which is far far worse than what i've experienced, but also how i feel about this country, like it's an occupation, laid over nature and community.

and when i think of community i think of the obomba effect (and affect). and now i read about his peace prize and his multi-betrayals, and the ongoing saga of the gentrification and confiscation of jackson park, and he's just another land-grabber, though he was regarded as a black activist come to wage peace and uplift neighborhood.

but it trails off in a wilderness of words. and in the ends, and it's always been this ways.

and now i hear a war plane screech across the sky. oh my god has the final trump arrived?