A pile of stones: an assertion
that this piece of country matters
for large and simple reasons.
A mark of resistance, a sign. 

--Adrienne Rich

I kept waking in the night and saying to myself, Do not think about Kavanaugh. Do not think about Kavanaugh. Other people report constantly clenching their jaws and crying over tiny nothings. People from faraway states text me, as if I might have some secret insight into why my state's senator, Susan Collins, has chosen to betray her constituents and vote this wretch onto the Supreme Court. I have no secret insight, other than the fact that she has always been wishy-washy and unreliable, with a patina of prim decorum that fools people into imagining that maybe, just maybe, she might not be one more Republican woman under the thumb of the good ole boys.

The other day a friend wrote to me, "It's times like these that make me realize I am, in spite of myself, a patriot. Otherwise I wouldn't feel so bad."

Before bed, as I sat on my couch, nursing the most spectacular bruise I've ever had in my life, listening to playoff baseball and spending time with a man who never had any interest in raping anyone--despite the fact that he grew up in the 80s, when apparently it was a favorite hobby of all healthy males; just ask our swamp-monster-in-chief--I tried to keep my mind steady, my rage in check. It's not that I think rage is wrong, but it's exhausting, and we patriots are running a grueling race.