I've come to a decision. No more political blogging for me until at least November 3rd. There's plenty to get worked up about, but the trouble with me getting worked up is that once I'm up-worked enough to post about it, writing the post just perpetuates the state of mind (brooding, anxious, enraged). Michelle sometimes refers to her own writing as a purge of what's inside her head; for me, I think it works in the opposite way, keeping otherwise transient thoughts from getting away, which sometimes just keeps them rattling around in my head. So I start writing about something, e.g. the latest depressing Salon article about frothing-mouthed homophobes in Ohio, and the whole process turns into a feedback loop of "Aaargh!" and "Look, more links to back it up!" and "It's even worse than I thought!" (No wonder I've been having trouble sleeping.)
I suspect that self-induced panic* is not especially good for my overall mental state, nor is it especially helpful to spread around. There's already too much anxiety in the air without my sitting down and detailing everything that's currently worthy of a freakout. I need to think about other things for a while, and fortunately there's a backlog of other things to post about. So, coming up next: the problem of organizing one's notes; why bother to read (a series); and, as usual, much random bricolage.
* I'm thinking of the phrase "panic and emptiness," one of the refrains of E. M. Forster's Howards End, particularly the description of the Beethoven concert in chapter 5:
"No; look out for the part where you think you have done with the goblins and they come back," breathed Helen, as the music started with a goblin walking quietly over the universe, from end to end. Others followed him. They were not aggressive creatures; it was that that made them so terrible to Helen. They merely observed in passing that there was no such thing as splendour or heroism in the world. After the interlude of elephants dancing, they returned and made the observation for the second time. Helen could not contradict them, for, once at all events, she had felt the same, and seen the reliable walls of youth collapse. Panic and emptiness! Panic and emptiness! The goblins were right. ...
Beethoven chose to make it all right in the end. He built the ramparts up. ... But the goblins were there. They could return. He had said so bravely, and that is why one can trust Beethoven when he says other things.