No Thrones. No Crowns. No Kings.
On October 18, millions of us are rising again to show the world: America has no kings, and the power belongs to the people.
The unsupported use case of Bix Frankonis’ disordered, surplus, mediocre midlife in St. Johns, Oregon—now with climate crisis, rising fascism, increasing disability, eventual poverty, and inevitable death.
Read the current manifesto. (And the followup.)
Rules: no fear, no hate, no thoughtless bullshit, and no nazis.
On October 18, millions of us are rising again to show the world: America has no kings, and the power belongs to the people.
I’m trying to nap on a living room couch, but I can hear the neighbor’s kids trying to teach their dog to growl at people. I get up to explore this new apartment, where the entryway has a floor-to-ceiling pole with hooks for hanging coats.
The kitchen has an island and a small roll cart all stocked with new pots and pans and dinnerware in red, and the island has a small tray with corn holders but beneath it set into the countertop is a dispenser of different corn holders. The cabinets are fully stocked with stuff I will never eat, as if someone else decided what people should have stocked in their new apartments.
Next to the kitchen are a set of sliding glass doors into a balcony-sized alcove which then has a plastic curtain which opens to the outside. All the while, I’m trying to keep my cat from following me out of the apartment.
There’s a shared yard behind the building. To my right an alcove much like my own, and then a low fence between us and another building much like ours, and it’s large shared yard, much like ours, and a neighbor is drying lots of tiny outfits on the fence as if maybe they are a collector of dolls, or at least I hope that’s why.
My building’s shared yard curves down and away to the right toward more grassy areas and in the distance there is a platform like a dock but not to the sea because it’s built into the air where a blimp is docked.
To the left, the yard opens up into a wider space with a central fountain that’s empty, which I circle to get a look at what else is around, and behind the corner of my building—which I now see is clearly a set of row houses with a tower of apartments above them—are more such buildings. They all look like Hasbro built enormous plastic housing towers with soft curves for corners and nearly-pastel colors.
As I loop around the fountain, a neighbor tries to get my attention to sign me up for someone to take out my trash, but I say I can take out my own trash. On my way back to my unit, I see that next door to me is the family whose kids had been trying to teach heir dog to growl at people.
I wake up.