my phil of soph

Rap Sheet Resume

I struggle to understand why you inject your veins with poison.

Poison that you damn well know

is rotting your mind, your body, your soul.

You live for it.

Lie for it.

Sell your body for it.

Punch your mother for it.

Pull a knife on a stranger to get money for it.

Let a man violate you over and over for it.

And you’re telling me

that you would die for it?

I remember the first time I realized you were using:

Brighton Beach Starbucks, Rihanna was playing

a cover of a song by Tame Impala.

I look over at you and chuckle, I think that you’re dancing,

but you’re having a seizure while you’re standing.

I call your name to bring you out

as your phone falls behind the espresso machine.

Sweat dribbling on your forehead, your face is bleached.

I make you sit down, we take someone’s table

They see my face and then they see yours

And they leave it alone, visibly concerned

I go to the barista to get you a water

My hands were shaking and I could only imagine

the expression that I must have had on my face

because he asked ME if I was ok,

like I was the one who needed that question.

“Should I call an ambulance?”

I asked you the same.

You insisted on no that you were ok.

I was in shock, sick, frozen in place.

We walked back to your crib, you had three more cigs.

You say you need buspirone, you’re just withdrawing.

But I know it’s not that simple, it’s something more.

Possibly Xanax. I’ve seen it before.

The look in your eyes, the same as the other:

our male cousin; my dad, your moms’ brother.

How could this happen? Two out of three?

And was there room in the story for what was happening to me?

Was this before or after your boyfriend went to jail?

For something like possession, assault, or stealing?

You sent him money whenever you could.

You knew he was using you, but he hooked you good.

It wasn’t the love, the sex or attention;

It was drugs all along, and that hunger only strengthened.

I finally see you for the first time in months

After learning you’d gone off the deep end.

It had started with alcohol at twelve or eleven

Weed and then Xanax, 2014

And now it’s heroin. 2016.

The first thing I do is look in your eyes

and I find myself grieving a girl still alive.

I wanted to see if you were still inside

but I could no longer see you, and a part of me died.

The part that thought we’d all be ok:

three Brooklyn babies, for the rest of our days.

You’d be my kids auntie, and my bridesmaid.

After our family eventually left,

we’d still have each other till it was our turn to lay.

Until then I had thought that with you I’d grow old.

But I realized then that I could no longer hope.

You’re as thin as paper, and as white as snow.

All you talk about is your dealer,

it’s the only life you know.

You ask me for money, but I tell you no;

“I would if I could”, but I know that I won’t.

I can’t stand the thought of that one fatal dose

being at my hands, fuck no, I won’t.

You run out real quick, he finally pulled up!

Twenty five minutes later, you return with your grub.

I’m nosy as you go behind the bathroom door.

I suspect what’s going on, but I need more.

You tell me to wait, you don’t want me to know

but I hear it go down and I listen close.

Baggie, aluminum foil, lighter, inhale

You come out calm and absent, your soul missing, eyes stale.

We sit some more, but then I gotta go.

It takes you a minute to hear me though.

Then you say “bye Steph”.

I wouldn’t see you again for years

Everything I know about you, I have to hear.

Rotting inside, your body shuts down

No period, no will

No control over your bowels

ER, maybe detox?

Methadone?

Get Clean?

It never lasts long even though we dream.

You shot up a boy with some issues in his brain

and he went into a coma, never to wake up again.

Did you care or understand? Do you realize that could be you?

Hooked up to wires, can’t speak and cant move?

But one day something clicks, I don’t remember why

but something touched and moves you inside.

Rehab? You agree

You head upstate and you finally leave.

I took the bus to King’s Highway from Avenue Z.

A circle of families in the same boat

They tell your mom and I how you’re doing, the entire scope.

They remind us of the real power of dope.

Most don’t stay, most relapse, but some don’t

Maybe you’d be one, we really, truly hoped.

You end up there twice, both times in vain:

they kicked you out, or you left because you were in pain.

Up at 6 am, chores, games-

But that black tar heroin was calling your name.

You’re home, we have hope, you promise NA.

You go out for a bagel and dip for three days.

Relapse again, were we really that shocked?

The only way you’d get clean is getting killed or locked.

Now you’re tied up with a man from the projects, BK.

I hear his name is fat boy, but that’s not his real name.

You say that he loves you because he cares:

when you’re trying to cop, he doesn’t let you leave!

He holds you when you cry and rolls up your sleeves!

gets you “good” drugs himself, from his own guy!

But soon you’re selling for him on the side.

Selling drugs and now selling your body-

Remember when you said it was merely a hobby?

Now look at you, getting decked in the face

by a man you think loves you; he’s a fucking disgrace

You were caught with bags, selling around coney

Maybe one or two times, local jail, off easy.

Another rehab, with fat boy behind you

I had little hope if I had to be truthful.

And you got kicked out for sneaking in drugs;

it was fatboy, of course, ol’ reliable scud.

Then you were running with some big time crew.

I’m not sure if it was fat boy that introduced you,

but it’s all the same shit: street drug ops,

selling and catching bodies, evading the cops.

When you weren’t home you were at some motel:

a big operation dope den by the canal.

Inevitable drug bust makes the local news

Drugs and guns, 14 in the crew.

The leader was Wiz, you’d mentioned Valentin.

Major trafficking charges, locked up 5 of the team.

You didn’t even finish your high school degree;

you, a conspirator, fresh off being a teen.

21 years old off to Rikers to mold.

I’d never seen the inside of a prison,

searched and scanned like I was scheming.

You in a jumpsuit with glass in between.

Your voice on the phone, I was dazed like it was a dream.

I’d never been to court for an arraignment;

more lowkey than the movies and shows claimed.

Seeing criminals chained up and sentenced;

dealing, stealing, killing, possession.

It was hard to believe that that was your world-

I still hear the way you said my name when we were girls.

I’d never seen a man pull out a 100 stack

to pay for Chinese food, no skin off his back.

Fat boy fed us good that day, waiting for you.

We knew where it came from, and he knew we knew.

Your mom and I waited in the back with him your man.

Eventually she left, we talked, he planned.

You were set to come out, and he sat up quick.

Seeing you in those shackles again made me sick.

Hearing your name and the charges stacked.

I wondered how it’d be if they locked you up for real.

I wondered how it’d be if they let you go.

Where would you get sober?

Where would you heal?

Your first big charge, they’d let you out on one condition

That you stay in rehab but who were they kidding.

8-15 years if you failed to stay.

You know it was real but could you really be swayed?

A garbage bag of your stuff from Rikers,

a social worker with a rehab contact;

the paperwork from prison still hasn’t arrived

so she’s on the phone with one of the guys.

Meanwhile you and fat boy fight in the street

about a guy who visited you with whom he said you cheat.

You denied, you gaslit, he yelled and threatened;

all I could do was wait for it to end.

I didn’t know the situation, or what fat boy could do

so I stood on the side and just watched you:

frantic and yelling, panicky begging

to trust you, that you love him, that nothing happened.

This was the man that was gonna help your healing?

Make sure you’re in rehab while he was out dealing?

Finger in your face against a wall,

all over a phone number, a visit, a call?

We share a cigarette and then you guys leave

waiting to wear track marks again on your sleeve.

Rehab, then Covid, your excuse to go home.

Fat boy left for his baby mama, who would have known

Then a 47 year old named Carlos you met in rehab

After some time he left you for some girlfriend.

Now it’s a girl who gets girls for her pimp.

And it's all happening again

worse than we could think.

2022, shooting up every hour.

Anything you can get your hands on: uppers, downers.

But mostly that good stuff:

fentanyl laced heroin.

Three seizures last month.

We talked for the first time in over a year,

I haven’t seen your face in three.

My cousin was a junkie.

She’s still alive, but I mean, is she?

Rap Sheet Resume

I struggle to understand why you inject your veins with poison. 

Poison that you damn well know 

is rotting your mind, your body, your soul.

You live for it.

Lie for it.

Sell your body for it.

Punch your mother for it.

Pull a knife on a stranger to get money for it.

Let a man violate you over and over for it.

And you’re telling me 

that you would die for it?

I remember the first time I realized you were using:

Brighton Beach Starbucks, Rihanna was playing

a cover of a song by Tame Impala.

I look over at you and chuckle, I think that you’re dancing,

but you’re having a seizure while you’re standing.

I call your name to bring you out 

as your phone falls behind the espresso machine.

Sweat dribbling on your forehead, your face is bleached. 

I make you sit down, we take someone’s table 

They see my face and then they see yours

And they leave it alone, visibly concerned

I go to the barista to get you a water

My hands were shaking and I could only imagine

the expression that I must have had on my face

because he asked ME if I was ok,

like I was the one who needed that question.

“Should I call an ambulance?”

I asked you the same.

You insisted on no that you were ok.

I was in shock, sick, frozen in place.

We walked back to your crib, you had three more cigs. 

You say you need buspirone, you’re just withdrawing.

But I know it’s not that simple, it’s something more.

Possibly Xanax. I’ve seen it before. 

The look in your eyes, the same as the other:

our male cousin; my dad, your moms’ brother.

How could this happen? Two out of three?

And was there room in the story for what was happening to me?

Was this before or after your boyfriend went to jail?

For something like possession, assault, or stealing?

You sent him money whenever you could.

You knew he was using you, but he hooked you good.

It wasn’t the love, the sex or attention;

It was drugs all along, and that hunger only strengthened.

I finally see you for the first time in months

After learning you’d gone off the deep end.

It had started with alcohol at twelve or eleven

Weed and then Xanax, 2014

And now it’s heroin. 2016.

The first thing I do is look in your eyes

and I find myself grieving a girl still alive.

I wanted to see if you were still inside

but I could no longer see you, and a part of me died.

The part that thought we’d all be ok:

three Brooklyn babies, for the rest of our days.

You’d be my kids auntie, and my bridesmaid.

After our family eventually left,

we’d still have each other till it was our turn to lay.

Until then I had thought that with you I’d grow old. 

But I realized then that I could no longer hope.

You’re as thin as paper, and as white as snow.

All you talk about is your dealer,

it’s the only life you know.

You ask me for money, but I tell you no;

“I would if I could”, but I know that I won’t.

I can’t stand the thought of that one fatal dose

being at my hands, fuck no, I won’t.

You run out real quick, he finally pulled up!

Twenty five minutes later, you return with your grub.

I’m nosy as you go behind the bathroom door.

I suspect what’s going on, but I need more. 

You tell me to wait, you don’t want me to know

but I hear it go down and I listen close.

Baggie, aluminum foil, lighter, inhale

You come out calm and absent, your soul missing, eyes stale.

We sit some more, but then I gotta go.

It takes you a minute to hear me though.

Then you say “bye Steph”.

I wouldn’t see you again for years

Everything I know about you, I have to hear.

Rotting inside, your body shuts down

No period, no will

No control over your bowels

ER, maybe detox? 

Methadone? 

Get Clean?

It never lasts long even though we dream.

You shot up a boy with some issues in his brain

and he went into a coma, never to wake up again.

Did you care or understand? Do you realize that could be you?

Hooked up to wires, can’t speak and cant move?

But one day something clicks, I don’t remember why

but something touched and moves you inside. 

Rehab? You agree

You head upstate and you finally leave.

I took the bus to King’s Highway from Avenue Z.

A circle of families in the same boat

They tell your mom and I how you’re doing, the entire scope. 

They remind us of the real power of dope. 

Most don’t stay, most relapse, but some don’t

Maybe you’d be one, we really, truly hoped.

You end up there twice, both times in vain:

they kicked you out, or you left because you were in pain.

Up at 6 am, chores, games-

But that black tar heroin was calling your name.

You’re home, we have hope, you promise NA.

You go out for a bagel and dip for three days.

Relapse again, were we really that shocked?

The only way you’d get clean is getting killed or locked.

Now you’re tied up with a man from the projects, BK. 

I hear his name is fat boy, but that’s not his real name.

You say that he loves you because he cares:

when you’re trying to cop, he doesn’t let you leave!

He holds you when you cry and rolls up your sleeves!

gets you “good” drugs himself, from his own guy!

But soon you’re selling for him on the side.

Selling drugs and now selling your body-

Remember when you said it was merely a hobby?

Now look at you, getting decked in the face

by a man you think loves you; he’s a fucking disgrace

You were caught with bags, selling around coney

Maybe one or two times, local jail, off easy.

Another rehab, with fat boy behind you

I had little hope if I had to be truthful.

And you got kicked out for sneaking in drugs;

it was fatboy, of course, ol’ reliable scud.

Then you were running with some big time crew.

I’m not sure if it was fat boy that introduced you,

but it’s all the same shit: street drug ops,

selling and catching bodies, evading the cops.

When you weren’t home you were at some motel:

a big operation dope den by the canal.

Inevitable drug bust makes the local news

Drugs and guns, 14 in the crew.

The leader was Wiz, you’d mentioned Valentin.

Major trafficking charges, locked up 5 of the team.

You didn’t even finish your high school degree;

you, a conspirator, fresh off being a teen. 

21 years old off to Rikers to mold. 

I’d never seen the inside of a prison,

searched and scanned like I was scheming.

You in a jumpsuit with glass in between.

Your voice on the phone, I was dazed like it was a dream.

I’d never been to court for an arraignment; 

more lowkey than the movies and shows claimed.

Seeing criminals chained up and sentenced;

dealing, stealing, killing, possession. 

It was hard to believe that that was your world-

I still hear the way you said my name when we were girls.

I’d never seen a man pull out a 100 stack

to pay for Chinese food, no skin off his back.

Fat boy fed us good that day, waiting for you.

We knew where it came from, and he knew we knew.

Your mom and I waited in the back with him your man. 

Eventually she left, we talked, he planned. 

You were set to come out, and he sat up quick.

Seeing you in those shackles again made me sick.

Hearing your name and the charges stacked.

I wondered how it’d be if they locked you up for real. 

I wondered how it’d be if they let you go. 

Where would you get sober? 

Where would you heal?

Your first big charge, they’d let you out on one condition

That you stay in rehab but who were they kidding.

8-15 years if you failed to stay.

You know it was real but could you really be swayed?

A garbage bag of your stuff from Rikers,

a social worker with a rehab contact;

the paperwork from prison still hasn’t arrived

so she’s on the phone with one of the guys.

Meanwhile you and fat boy fight in the street

about a guy who visited you with whom he said you cheat.

You denied, you gaslit, he yelled and threatened;

all I could do was wait for it to end.

I didn’t know the situation, or what fat boy could do

so I stood on the side and just watched you:

frantic and yelling, panicky begging

to trust you, that you love him, that nothing happened.

This was the man that was gonna help your healing? 

Make sure you’re in rehab while he was out dealing?

Finger in your face against a wall, 

all over a phone number, a visit, a call?

We share a cigarette and then you guys leave

waiting to wear track marks again on your sleeve.

Rehab, then Covid, your excuse to go home.

Fat boy left for his baby mama, who would have known

Then a 47 year old named Carlos you met in rehab

After some time he left you for some girlfriend.

Now it’s a girl who gets girls for her pimp.

And it's all happening again

worse than we could think.

2022, shooting up every hour.

Anything you can get your hands on: uppers, downers.

But mostly that good stuff:

fentanyl laced heroin.

Three seizures last month.

We talked for the first time in over a year,

I haven’t seen your face in three.

My cousin was a junkie. 

She’s still alive, but I mean, is she?

I heard a fascinating sentiment about unmasking today from an autistic content creator’s mom, who is also autistic and has ADHD. His name is Toren Wolf and her name is Serenity Christine. She said “what if the mask has been there for so long that when I try to pry up the edges it’s fused with whatever was underneath? what if I am the mask?” … I’m going to let that one sit there for a moment.

…

A lot of neurodivergent women feel this way as masking has been an inherent part of our lives since the beginning. It was and is a survival mechanism, socially, professionally, among others. This is a phenomena that occurs in many different types of neurodivergence such as ADHD, autism, and so called personality disorders, to name a few.

My experience with masking is a fuzzy one to ascertain the start of but I believe it began in elementary school where there was more explicit policing of behavior than pre-k or day care; maybe I was just lucky. But I recall school being incredibly stressful in every way imaginable. I remember constantly being dysregulated, impatiently waiting to be picked up every single day so I could go home and be myself. I recall getting in trouble constantly for talking, moving, and even, among my peers, for the way I socialized. In every report card, the teacher would point out that I was a good student but that I talked way too much. And talk I did; there are home videos from when I was around or less than 2 years old of me on my feet, running, dancing, and jumping around from toy to toy, talking, singing, and making noises almost constantly. I reacted strongly to being forced to do things, I got overwhelmed easily, but most importantly, I was, for the most part, unmasked. But the me pre-public school and the me in public school almost felt like two different people. Over time I became unsure of myself, I retreated into myself and began forcing myself to be different. I recognized that being me, that simply existing in ways that were all I have ever known, got me in trouble, ostracized, made fun of, and excluded. And I tried. I acted like the girls I saw around me that seemed to be normal. I even remember one day in high school asking a “friend” of mine what I could do to be different, more normal, more like her. I don’t remember her answer because the very act of asking that question filled me with so much anxiety that I can only remember my beating heart and racing mind, attempting to analyze how she was perceiving me and whether or not I said the right thing, as she answered something. Because of this I have had an unstable sense of identity since I was a child, one that I still struggle with as a 28 year old woman.

The experiencing of masking is one every neurodivergent girl is all too familiar with, unless she was lucky enough to be in an environment and among adults that didn’t dare make her question herself or perceive herself as weird, different, quirky, or wrong. This might be because of a neurotypical but kind family, or one that is neurodivergent and accepting or ignorant of it. Sometimes these girls are home-schooled, or attend schools that value traits such as freedom, kindness, expression, and acceptance. I’m not sure what the percentage of this is compared to those in oppressive environments, but the ones in the latter, learn to mask from a young age, and for the sake of their survival.

Some people do exist in families where many are neurodivergent and either unaware of or simply accepting of it, and thus neurodivergent children aren’t perceived and/or treated as different (my parents are undiagnosed neurodivergent as well, and they often times simply didn’t perceive me as different or weird, as I was behaving like them; perhaps sometimes I behaved in ways that got them in trouble growing up, prompting them to not want to do the same to me). I consider myself lucky that my home is a safe space to unmask, at least most of the time.

But the world is a different story. I feel blessed that I have made friends and connections with whom I feel comfortable unmasking; I would venture as far as to say that they expect me to be unmasked, because they know when I’m not being myself, and prefer I do. Not many people have this and I know how blessed I am. But outside of those friends and family members, the world is more harsh, and unmasking is more complicated.

I exist with the goal of always being myself, and I think I succeed most of the time. But sometimes I don’t even realize I’m masking. Sometimes I like the person I am when I mask. Sometimes it’s unsafe to risk unmasking because if the wrong people perceive me in the wrong way, it could be detrimental— to my job, for example. This has happened before and it made my experience at that job horrid. I find that this is the case with work environments more often than not. Even glimmers of unmasking that feel good, and like they went well, leave me feeling anxious about how I was perceived and if I ruined everything. How much of masking is conscious? How much of unmasking is within our control, when many are traumatized by when their mask has slipped? How many have never had the chance to unmask, or had to mask at all? And how much ought we mask?

So, masking and unmasking are complicated. What is clear is that, long-term, it is unhealthy to prevent yourself from engaging in behaviors that regulate your nervous system, and it’s unhealthy to never allow yourself to be yourself. Some believe you ought to mask to have a good life and that’s OK, others believe the best life is fully unmasked. Whatever your beliefs are, it is clear that there is finally open discussion happening about masking. The little neurodivergent, ostracized girl calcified inside of me feels like she has been freed from her cage.

I generally have been craving to return to this state where I am able to listen to my body; When I am tired or feeling like I'm getting ill, I want to rest. When I am feeling sad or bad, I want to sit with it instead of running away. When my body needs exercise, I need to do that. When I am craving certain foods or even a fast, I want to honor that.

Life fluctuates, naturally, and sometimes I am connected with my interoception (and will-power), and other times less-so. While being on vacation, I have been inspired to take better care of myself as I have seen how great my body feels when I exercise daily. And this whole debacle with the food poisoning has made me re-appreciate feeling healthy in my gut.

But listening to your body is a little different for women because of our menstrual cycles; unlike men, we experience hormone fluctuations an changes on a monthly cycle, not a daily one. So the typical model of feeling one way in the morning, another in the afternoon, and another way at night, every single day, in the same way, does not work for us. Who else has incredibly productive weeks, active and energized weeks, lethargic and painful weeks, and neutral weeks? Who else feels this difference in their productivity at work, their desire and ability to clean, how socializing feels, for example?

I can make an entire post about each part of the monthly cycle, what they are categorized by, and what we ought to do during them. Perhaps I will.

But let me leave you with this: pay attention to when you are pre-menstrual, post-menstrual, and ovulating, and take note of how you feel during these times. And take iron at the beginning of your cycle.

"What foods hinder iron absorption?
If you’re nuts about nuts, whole grains, cereal, soy and legumes, you might need to check the packaging for phytate. Just a small amount can significantly decrease iron absorption, with one study finding that eating just 250 mg resulted in 82% of iron not being absorbed. 3,4,5 Foods rich in calcium have also been found to impact iron absorption, despite it being an essential mineral. Nonetheless, the negative effect of phytate can be counteracted by consuming foods that enhance non-heme iron absorption, such as vitamin C or meat.6 In fact, studies have revealed that just a tiny portion of milk, cheese or calcium supplement can reduce iron absorption by 50-60%.7"

"What foods help you absorb more iron?
Foods that are high in vitamin C like citrus fruits, dark leafy vegetables, melons, peppers and strawberries all capture non-heme iron, making it easier for your body to absorb it.9
Vitamin A is key as well. You can find this in carrots, spinach, sweet potatoes, squad, kale, cantaloupe, peaches, oranges, apricots and red peppers. One study found that meals containing vitamin A increased iron absorption by up to 200% for rice, 80% for wheat and 140% for corn.5"

https://www.hollandandbarrett.com/the-health-hub/vitamins-and-supplements/minerals/iron/how-much-iron-is-your-body-absorbing/#skip-1

https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/iron-deficiency-anemia/symptoms-causes/syc-20355034
https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/24778671
https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/20200263 
https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/24778671
https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/11029010 
https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/21462112 
https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/1984335 
https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/10799377 
https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/11029010 
https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/20200263
https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/20200263

Except for that I am grateful for my parents, and I really am grateful to no longer be ill.

Classic tropical island affliction of eating the wrong thing and then suffering in various, unnamable ways for multiple hours, one of which happens to be a pathological fear of mine I’ve worked to overcome in recent years (emetophobia…)

I am grateful it’s mostly over, I am grateful to be able to lay down without getting nauseous, grateful for states absent of pain and nausea, and overall grateful for Enterosgel and Biseptol (not sponsored, but the Russian Immigrant secret to these stomach infections).

I am counting on this having been a 12 hour thing. I will be careful with what I eat today and take it easy, anticipating some flare ups with food later. But I am out of the woods and so so happy my parents love me and took care of me.

I will attempt to go sit on the beach now, sparing a bathroom emergency (finger crossed).

But I have recently returned to a Twitter-like social media platform, recently creates and now called Bluesky (stephaniespivak.bsky.social).

That’s all for now folks.

I think it's time for a real, fleshed out discussion on fascism. Both political sides have been throwing that word around in regard to the other for many years now, and subsequently winning support because of it. But I don't think, based on the essence and definition of fascism, that both can be true at the same time. I could be wrong, and the liberals could in fact be fascists in some capacity (or in a real capacity even) but perhaps not in the same way the Trump administration, the neoliberal conservatives, the radical Christian Republicans, are, could and perhaps will be.

I think a part of this is that we have taken for granted that people know what fascism actually is. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no expert, but I believe I have a grasp on the authoritarian aspect of it just from watching what has been happening in Russia unfold over my lifetime, and watching my family’s response to it. I believe the relationship between the news and media, political agendas and messages, and the peoples’ understanding of politics, government, and subsequently themselves and each other, are at the center of fascism, and that is where we watch it play out and develop before we see it come to light in something like a Holocaust. And the key feature of this ecosystem is a brainwashing, for lack of a better word (this word is triggering for people so perhaps I ought to find another one) that leads its supporters to not see it for what it is. But what is it?

I think, and these are my thoughts before any cited literature, just from experience, that a key element of this fascism-facilitating media is a reverence and moral positioning of the army and police, aka, military authority. This is a key element in fascism, I believe. I think the reason fascism and authoritarianism are so effective, malicious, insidious, and hard to spot and eliminate is a dual-policing/observation/disciplining that arises from both an authoritarian military/police force, and people themselves, policing themselves, in a Foucault-ian type disciplinary power mechanism as described in Discipline and Punish. (I wonder if he has references to fascism in that book, go look it up later). These things, in part, arise from the media; specifically, how it portrays military authority, and how it manipulates people into this surveillance.

Before we even get to the kind of surveillance that leads people to report or rat out opposition or dissidents to someone else, what is created is this monitoring of peoples’ political beliefs and attitudes, and a villainization of them. An othering, so to speak, but much more insidious than just “othering”. The specific process of villainizing is key to why and how fascism works, at all, but especially interpersonally. The irony here, as with all of fascism, is that when the anti-fascist side calls out and names said fascism, they are in turn called the fascists, and accused of villainizing those people attempting to bring fascism into power. This is the accusation being a confession; the vital and insidious mechanism of redirecting peoples’ understandings of these concepts, so that they could never accuse or accept their own parties, leaders, media, and beliefs being the fascists, without experiencing serious cognitive dissonance. Back to villainizing; so this happens with dissidents, the other, people who disagree with the soon to be fascist party. This happens with the leaders in the opposition. And this happens conceptually with the positions and beliefs of the other party, in our case, things like climate change, for example, which are used as a method of pushing fascist agendas, or even simply just radicalizing and convincing the fascism supporters.

I’m getting away from myself as there is simply so much to say and point out.

A key element in fascism is this veneration of military authority, as it is one of the two integral parts of how fascism sustains itself in the ecosystem of peoples’ daily lives. The other part is policing each other, which warrants an entire other discussion that has a lot of moving parts, as two paragraphs ago highlights.

So I believe this has been happening in our media very prominently over however many years. A review of popular media would be interesting for this part, but an obvious one I can think of is the Marvel universe. Not only because of the conceptual content being this military valorization, but because of the nature of the films themselves. Scorsese's criticism comes to mind, (and a recent philosophical discussion I had about comforting, uncritical media, and how there is a link between those prone to falling into fascist ideology, and those who gravitate towards this kind of media. The placation, comforting, validation, and uncritical-ness disguised as deep critical concepts, all being keys in how media works to manipulate). (Also, this is unsubstantiated at all, but military-entertainment complex? US department of defense funding movies? Is Marvel in that? Lots of important things to look into, flesh out, point out, and discuss).

Media has two parts, projects such as movies and the news. The news isn’t not to be trusted in the sense that it is literally made up, like some would have us believe, but because it is to be taken with a grain of salt. Again, this recurring theme among fascists of taking a truth, and spinning it into an untruth, but because it is based in truth, we accept the premise and assume the conclusion is correct. The phenomena of PR (public relations) companies collaborating with politics and the news (is a crazy new world to me) is key here. What gets shown in the news, why, by who, and for what purpose? This is vital.

The news serves as an important conduit for political messaging, as it is meant to affect peoples’ opinions and thus their votes. Some would argue that this is a normal and vital aspect of democracy, being presented with views and then choosing and voting. Sure, we ought to stay informed in a democracy. But where is that line between presenting facts, news, and giving a persuasive speech, and straight up manipulation? That is a question for psychologists, perhaps, and political/sociological theorists (all of which stem from philosophers but we’re not ready for that conversation). This is perhaps something that can be seen in Russia, today, or Germany, back then, as a case study, in addition to the military venerating media (Russia for sure, the way they conceive of WWII).

Media plays an integral role in the rise and sustainability of fascism because of how it forms our thoughts and beliefs about the world. Media tells us who to villainize, what to believe, what is true, who to follow, and most importantly, why we are on the right side of history. This is a pivotal moment where the definition of fascism, why it is bad, and where it is truly playing out, is vital to articulate, because the simple truth of the power of media, itself, can point to anyone being a fascist. It can be justified that liberals are fascists because they engage with media in the same way the rising fascists do. There is a key difference that lies in the content of the media, particularly the news, that distinguishes fascist ideology from other kinds of ideology (because yes of course much of liberalism is ideology, see Žižek, and some of it’s negative ostracizing and othering acts like cancel culture and intense political correctness is in part why America swung to the right this recent election).

So, what is fascism? (Why and how) Are liberals not fascists? And how is Trump facilitating fascism?

A lot here I wish to expand on in future essays.

I think I feel like I wish to swim out into the sea, past the boundary of the reef and calm waters. I want to let myself swim until I exhaust myself, until my legs can no longer sustain movement, and I am forced to let go and float. I float on my back being carried and washed by the waves, pure exhaustion, and let the water drift my limp body. Will it drift me back to shore or out into the endless infinity of the sea? The unforgiving restless ocean, rocking its constituents, unpredictable and strong. Overpowering even. With the only hope for rescue being martyred saviors, happenstance, or the fortunate flowing back to an indeterminate shore. I wish to swim out into the sea until I can swim no longer and see where it takes me, relinquishing control over myself and my life, and letting something else decide my fate.

Meaning, I wake up, write, reflect, create, and post, whatever it is that's on my mind that day? Interesting concept but I suppose this is like Twitter (RIP) on steroids given the absurd character count. A little too free and unrestricted, if you ask me, as I can babble on and on.

Anyway, Hello. You'll find some older poems I decided to post as a trial run. Currently, I'm working on writing everyday. Whether this be a short story, a poem, reflecting on current events, personal ramblings, or some philosophy (in preparation for applying to grad school, wish me luck), I aim to post at least something every single day.

Today I spent some time at the beach in Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic editing an old final paper from a philosophy seminar on color. The topic is color adverbialism and its compatibility with color realism, with some dual referent view and pragmatism thrown in there. It's an already written ten page paper that would be fine as a writing sample.

I also spent some time outlining a paper I wish to write detailing how Heidegger got Nietzsche dead wrong, and why this is important.

Also, perhaps this concept of adverbialism could be applied to some thoughts I have about the self...

So here we have it, a blog post. Be on the look out for some philosophical ramblings soon, perhaps even some political commentary.

Until next time,

Stephanie Spivak

I was immature back in the day;
I just didn’t know how to communicate
I was growing and learning, and I still am;
I didn’t know how to say what I wanted to say.
And things could have been different 
if I was who I am today
so I guess this is a poem about the one that got away

There was always something about the way your name rolled off my tongue. I spoke that word like poetry, like songs Gods sung. Waves of bliss would cradle me like rays of morning sun and lust would lull my soul to sleep with a honeysuckle hum.

If the only planes I could meet you in and have you in my sight are the lucid, deceptive hallucinations I go to in the night, then I would put my soul to rest, relinquishing the light, because I hunger for you deeper than merely appetite.

Give me a glimpse as fantasy is what keeps me alive. I would be content with just a dream a mirage in my mind’s eye. I awaken slowly, damning the morning, dissevered from the high as reality slowly sets in that you were never mine.

Even if it’ll never be, just a momentary lie, I dream of you relentlessly, a chokehold on my mind. The clutches of a succubus, delinquent, yet divine I love a man I barely touched, lips only once intwined.

But I feel the feeling of his skin as if it happened all the time.

It’s been seven years and I clearly hear the way he said my name. I can paint a portrait of his smile like I saw it yesterday.

I recall with clarity how close we came to love, and wonder still if there’s a chance to try again one day.

But he loves another woman now.

The one that got away.