I do, I remember that cartoon I drew in an election time...a State Department person putting up a flyer announcing a shift in groupage.  Then Trump's first time in office brought different working methods, different people.  All working on nation, all being the government, leading by being administration.

  Sometimes when we come together for work, school, church, creative endeavor we seem to carry theme to the table.  Sometimes we seem clueless and it takes work to let it surface, to dig, to harvest.  Sometimes it's not happening.

  Some interesting times (although not always productive past the personal) involve an expansion on self- authoring.  Sometimes people show up in actor-mode and costume.

  My mask was in the way!

  But you promised me you'd read the new piece!

  The couple was almost fighting under the auroraborealis sky smearing with neon greens and flashing yellows and lime.  It can seem like one of God's cradles or "rooms" maybe like a studio when the sky does that.  Maybe it's souls coming and going I thought to myself.  All over campus people had been grouping, isolating, navigating.  A residency brings people in from all over the world.  And like a campsite people bring, well, a lot of different stuff.  Not everyone is inclined to see semester as table, so appeals (such as addresses) really don't automatically inspire and rally.

  That semester there was a lividness.  I'd say a general lividness but lividness itself never doesn't involve people; people being livid.

  How can you NOT be outraged?  A woman in mellow, soft clothing had walked up to a guy in the cafeteria and asked.  He didn't respond.  Didn't even look up from his sketch book.  What are you?  Stoned or something?  Don't answer that.  He seemed not going to answer any question anyway so maybe the woman was a nag.  She glared at him.  He did not take eyes from page but slowly outlined the figure he'd been drawing.  Are you going to talk to any of us ever again?  The pen slowed to a crawl but lingered on a hip.  The woman sighed and frowned and looked out a window.  Somebody of the maybe ten others at the table forced a conversation.

  I find it dis BUUuuuRrrrp gushting.  Barf.  I'm.  Choking.  On.  My.  Outrage.  Head dropped to a shoulder then and the wandering triage person put a bottle of water and papertowels next to the person.

  I'm just saying.

  ^=£√✓%¢×÷™®©°^]`

  Just saying.

#+)@=π\£×•~&!!!

  Still just saying.

¥π✓%{=£|~\^¥[°(:?

  That is all.

  It's like I can't, can't

  Or won't

  Might not be able to

  Maybe

  Not sure

  Very few people were even close to re-membering the pulverized.  Before a conversation or a class there was no way to know what all might be evoked by talking about anything.  And a thing of it was, we'd been here before.  Blank stares, vicious eye-sticking STAY AWAY, a thousand I'm sorries at the starts of sentences, run-on-thoughts, even scripted speeches with halts and double-backs...

  There's no guidebook, the artist Beulah Gordon uttered.  We were sitting on a floor, holding up the wall, and people were coming and going in a limbo space outside an office where we were supposed to turn in "study plans".

  There never was Gordon.

  That said, she hoisted her back from the wall which had me press against it more, hooked an arm around one knee and didn't get up.  I started in with a barage of questions.  To stall.  To longlive the moment.  She uh-huh'd and yes mam'd and said Noooo, fucking no.  Another student seemed to be yelling above our heads, I worried about spit getting on me, Then I'll see you online???  Someone who hadn't crested the stairwell replied, They tell me that's where it's all happening.

  Right then, good luck.  Footsteps on thin, worn carpeting loud against the subfloor.