Badly sadding
non-linear narrative round-up, neologisms, full-bodied apparitions
Badly Sadding.
I voice-memoed the phrase shortly before falling asleep. Was I sad that day? I can’t remember now. I don’t know what it means just yet, but it feels like it should make it into the vernacular. You heard it here first.
For someone un/under-employed this year and concerned about their future, it may appear I’ve been lax, but I’m finally accepting my limits without making excuses or feeling shame. On that note, I’m lying on the floor as I write this. I still haven’t purchased a sofa. Heavy furniture. Commitment issues. I’ve been living in this house four years.
22 vignettes about this past week
Greek yogurt. Incubated 24 hours but still needed straining. Found a cotton tote bag and altered the square bottom into a bowl shape. Fits perfectly. Washed it and started the straining process. Set up the view camera, made a photograph, and drank a cup of coffee that’s been warmed up in the microwave three times now.
I only cried once this week, and barely. I was doing dishes while gazing through the kitchen window at the birds scuffling in the birdbath. I was thinking about a future.
Badly Sadding.
“The Future Is Disabled” by Leah Piepzna-Samarasinha.
No, wait—I almost cried in the tub, but the tears never made it to the front of my eyeballs, so that didn’t count. Maybe I’m not sad after all. I’ve immersed myself in Disability Justice studies. I’m feeling empowered.
This week’s menu: iceberg lettuce + feta + blue cheese dressing, only I’ve run out of feta, and there’s still a head of lettuce in the crisper drawer. In the morning, I eat homemade yogurt with blueberries. And sometimes at night.
Shortly before my aunt died, she told me she couldn’t cry anymore. She wanted to, she said, but her tear ducts had dried up, and the tears never came. I pictured her face as we talked. I imagined her in the kitchen, my uncle probably in the garden or watching golf on TV, a gin and tonic nearby. She was unable to remember the name of the thing you hold in your hand that leaves words on the page. It's yellow, she said. She asked if I’d move back to Nashville and live with them. I had just been accepted into grad school and couldn’t grasp what it meant to forget the name of a thing. I was living in Chicago and lost words all the time.
I still have the brass magnifying glass she used to read fine print. The three wise monkeys swing out to let me see.
Performance, documentation, the darkroom, hours. The results were tolerable. Not perfect, but good enough. This is my new norm.
In the backyard, at the fence line no less, there are large dirt mounds, compliments of our chonky neighborhood whistle pig who tunnels underground.
I contacted my reps and rabid Republican senators about the recent Department of Justice memorandum regarding the federal government’s refusal to enforce Olmstead. The memo signals that the federal government may no longer actively enforce certain integration mandates, making it much easier for states to reduce community-based services and force people back into institutions.
The project I’ve been working on feels too real now. Nothing feels stable, but as soon as RFK Jr wanted to start a database of Autistic folk, I worried myself into being even more concerned, but I never imagined we’d be here— oh wait, I did imagine it, ten years ago.
I think about the desert and coyote skulls. The dry heat and the ants, and how nature is so efficient. People get lost in the desert and die. It sounds dreadful, but this, or falling asleep on a tundra, is how I’d like to go, should I have a choice in the matter. I think, but don’t quote me.
Eye headache.
Roe v Wade was overturned, and no one saw that coming either. Sarcasm, but not.
There’s a memorial for fetuses at the Tennessee State Capitol. I’m so repulsed, I can’t stand it. Did I really Google the fines for vandalism just now? I did. Yes, I did.
Another phishing attempt. So much spam! Weeding the driveway is how I unwind.
Crepuscular skunks.
An old grievance titled, Why I’m Sick of Conforming to Your Capitalist Bullshit that should have made it into last week’s grievances.
Another grant application started, but feeling unsure that what I want to achieve is called visual art anymore. I am in the proverbial hallway between cracked doors. Growth, or have I lost my way?
Fresh raccoon scat.
I almost teared up in the car today, but the tears never came. Has the grieving of everything lost finally ceased? No, but that is okay. I am just badly sadding.1
endnotes2
sadd·ing \ ˈsa-diŋ \
verb sad·ded; sadd·ing
1 : (intransitive, slang, chief. literary) To actively engage in or undergo a state of melancholy, heaviness, or sorrow.
badly sadding \ ˈbad-lē ˈsa-diŋ \
verb phrase
1 : Failing to achieve a complete state of sadness, due to newfound hope and intermittent joy; sensing a melancholy or emotional release but falling short.
2 : (Colloquial) Experiencing a state of buoyant resolve where one would typically feel heavy-hearted, but determination and self-acceptance is on the verge of lifting them out of the sadness, making them unable to fully sink into a state of grief. First introduced into the vernacular on June 28, 2026.
| When she discovered the hard drive was dead at 9 pm, Mary expected to have a meltdown, but after softyelling “Goddammit m*therf*ckn digital files” she spent the next 3 hours trying to learn how to run scripts on the terminal app in order to create a new backup. And even though she accidentally locked permissions in the process, still, the tears never came. “Wow, so this is badly sadding!”
[Note: Turns out the drive wasn’t dead. It was an older drive and I had forgotten it required a USB connection to spin up. Time stamp: 1:00 a.m. 🤦♀️]
Mary Addison Hackett, “Mother, I have to tell you,” Found letter from my aunt to my grandmother, transcribed with ballpoint onto a linen handkerchief and sewn to a worn t-shirt, c. 2011.
While going through the contents of my childhood home, I came across a letter my aunt had written to her mother (my Nana) sometime during WW2. In the letter, she describes cleaning the house and notes the weather wasn’t helping her mood. She turns on the radio to cheer herself up. An army or navy band is playing ”I’ll take you home again, Kathleen, “ and suddenly her Mamaw, my great-grandmother, walks in and plops down in the big chair. (She notes that my mother, “Mary A” would know which chair. My aunt is shocked to see Mamaw and drops down on the sofa. The apparition says, “it’s soup and things like that help — Bill — just keep going — I did – and when I didn’t want to or feel like it — but laugh—Mary knew — she knew—” My aunt (Bill) closes the letter by saying, “it really happened though – really – Do you believe?”
I want to believe, but I’ve also rationalized this sighting through educated guess work: Perhaps my aunt was using ammonia to clean the house. Either way, I’m open to one of my ancestors appearing out of thin air and offering me advice for how to keep going.
I’d also like to note the excessive use of em dashes in the 1940s.
Support Independent Art & Writing
🙏 Nothing is Too Banal is reader-supported. If you’d like to directly support my work, I’ve added a tip jar as an alternative to a monthly subscription.
👉💰🫙Tip Jar
You can also subscribe below👇
❤️🩹