I say it like 20 times a day at this point.
I open up the New York Times, or any publication, on my browser.
WTF?
I can’t tell what’s real or fake on first sight anymore.
WTF?
They think we’ll buy that Mitch McConnell’s very wealthy and put together wife wore a black bra under a white shirt.
WTF?
Trump said the war was over and not even a month later has escalated shit again.
WTF?
It’s so hot in Europe that it’s burning. Literally burning.
WTF?
I am turning 45 in September. And I quite literally cannot imagine the rest of my life. I look into the future and just say WTF.
Back in the olden days (2010), Cheryl Strayed began writing as Dear Sugar for The Rumpus. This piece has lived rent free in my head ever since. If you haven’t ever read it, you should, and I will caveat that there is a pretty jarring recount of sexual abuse from the jump. I remember doing a double take after that first paragraph.
The letter writer asked this question:
Dear Sugar,
WTF, WTF, WTF? I’m asking this question as it applies to everything every day.
Best,
WTF
At the end of the column, Strayed gave them this answer:
That question does not apply “to everything every day.” If it does, you’re wasting your life. If it does, you’re a lazy coward and you are not a lazy coward.
Ask better questions, sweet pea. The fuck is your life. Answer it.
I had to remind myself of this, because of course she was right, and of course no matter what is happening right now, we get precious, limited spins on this insane merry-go-round in space. We are but a blip in human history, and less than a blip in the lifespan of the Earth, which yes is literally billions of years old because that has been proven by a fun thing called science.
Things are really bad. They are undeniably, shockingly bad. Every single day is a clusterfuck of epic proportions.
But we have to live anyway.
The fuck is our lives.
I have been making art for my whole life. I’m a playwright, a painter, and now an essayist. And lately, it’s felt like the very foundation of my life is under attack.
Because it is.
We are in a moment when art and artists are under attack. I won’t say it’s unprecedented in history, but the methods certainly are.
Just this week, there was an investigative report about how AI companies are buying books and destroying them to scan them into their stupid machines. It’s a thing so revolting, so violent, that I can barely find words to describe my rage. Make no mistake, I hate these people, and they deserve my hatred. They are evil. Full stop.1
There’s plenty of effort on the part of Reddit bros to try and justify this, of course. Like, “well they’re not REALLY rare books technically” or “well it’s not really that bad because some of them are just old Windows 98 manuals” etc.
WELL ACTUALLY, CHAD, IT IS THAT BAD SO MAYBE SHUT UP?
JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP!
IT ACTUALLY IS THAT BAD.
It’s clear that these men want to replace us. They want to strip us for parts and leave the rest of us fighting for what’s left.
But what they can’t replace is the power of people in a room. They can’t replace theater, or concerts, or even reading poetry aloud. From a cover band at a crappy dive bar to a Taylor Swift concert, we still have the ability to make art in a room. Yes, it’s too expensive. And it’s hard. But unless they kill us all, they cannot replace humans making art in a room.
I am still on a sabbatical from theater, but the whole “humans making stuff in a room” is why I made it my career. There’s not much better in life than seeing a really good play, or a good concert. There’s also value in seeing a bad play, or a bad concert, because it makes the memories of the great ones even sweeter.
Last week, I saw Tori Amos at the Beacon Theatre here in NYC, and I got to experience a moment of collective grief so beautiful that I almost can’t find words for it2. I bore the shit out of you precious people with my fangirling too often, so I won’t go on about it.
But it was a good reminder of something that’s easy to forget — we are not alone in this. We are not alone in our grief. We are not alone in having to witness this horror. And art is a place we can find refuge. Always.
These robot fetishists, these nihilists, these selfish pieces of shit can SUCK IT. We do what they can’t. They’re literally incapable of it. And they can’t stand it. They can’t stand that they’re not good at anything but wrecking shit.
Being an artist is hard, but I’m grateful I get to be one. I’d rather be an artist than one of these POS, even if I die toiling in obscurity. And no matter how much of it they destroy, they cannot destroy our memories, and they can’t stop us from making stuff.
Sometimes, in darker moments, you need to be reminded of why you do it, especially when things are like this. When every single platform you write on eventually gets enshittified (looking at you, Substack!). When bookstores and art stores close down. When concert tickets feel like taking out a second mortgage. When theatres do another fucking Mamet play instead of meeting the moment.
But this is my life. It has always been my life. And as long as I am lucky enough to have that life, I will just keep making stuff.
And I’m ready — FINALLY — to unzip the tent and emerge from isolation, blinking into the sun, come what may.
Because the fuck is my life.
This month (July) is the three year anniversary of The Long Climb!
To celebrate…I am offering a Third Anniversary Sale and a new perk!
Thank you thank you thank you ALL for these amazing three years.
As I was drafting this, I read this terrific piece by Sarah Kendzior that everyone should read. She talks about how the art we consumed as kids trained us to live in this hellscape and it’s great.
For those interested, she performed her song “Me and a Gun” from Little Earthquakes, which is an acapella song about her sexual assault. She rarely performs it anymore, for obvious reasons, but she felt called to bring it out that night. You could have heard a pin drop, and the collective grief in that room was so palpable that it had a life of its own. It’s one of the most powerful live experiences I have ever ever ever had, and I am so grateful I was there to see it, and of course grateful to Tori for her generosity and courage.
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