Overload 3 and 4

Overload-3

I do not doubt there are some   

who deserve to be thrown to the wolves. 

I do not doubt there are some 

completely out of touch, 

scandalously overpaid 

in salary, and respect,

who masquerade as representatives.    

I do not doubt that many are 

cowed by the bully-in-chief,  

concerned about their futures,    

refusing to do the right thing because 

it would imperil the life they’ve chosen. 

Cowards all.

Let us choose this time

the truth-tellers, the courageous, the dedicated, 
the servants of our nation, rather than 
the profiteers.

Overload-4

The United States is not the country 

of “one nation, indivisible, 

with liberty and justice for all.” 

That place does not exist. 

It probably never did. 

That was the goal. 

That was the promise. 

That was our job: 

to build that country.   

That pledge gives no timeline,  

nor does it define a straight line 

from the Constitutional Convention 

to where we stand today. 

We have been led astray.

We have lost that focus. 

We have forgotten 

that we move together 

or not at all. 

My Vote

I will vote today:

for intelligence, not fear;

for understanding, not anger;

for reason, not rhetoric.

I will vote today

for history and its lessons,

for thoughtful assemblies,

not inflammatory mobs.

I vote for peace and justice,

not guns and violence,

for safety for my children and their children,

and for others who come here seeking that.

I vote for forgiveness and kindness, 

not punishment and rejection,

for caring over cash,

for prayer over profit.

I do not listen for the loudest voice,

or the most abhorrent accusations.

I vote for what’s good about my country,

though it may still be flawed.

I vote for the dreams there, 

for all that still could be, 

for the builders, not the breakers,

for the ones who still believe.  

Overload-2

Educated. A citizen. I read. I vote.

These advantages should insure

a more-or-less sane existence.

No.

Advantages are buffeted into liabilities

by the prevailing winds of two years’ insanity.

The elected con man

owes his position to

anger and fear, to the disadvantaged,

who bit the hands that fed them,

who embraced the slick sales pitch,

who sold their livelihoods

for a sack of worthless promises.

Jack-and-the-beanstalk all over again.

Who knows what angry giant they've

awakened?

Overload 1

Overload

Too much, too many

things to process,   

to adequately pursue.   

Shootings and killings,

Political wrestling,

domestic and global.   

Elections and 

over the top ads.  

Troops at the border 

with razor-wire and guns,

throngs of desperate people 

with nowhere else to turn. 

Republicans turn on each other 

(is that, perhaps, good?) and 

Democrats are asking ‘one last time’ 

for money—every day. 

Sexual harassments are 

a commonplace, and 

college football is the new football 

to toss around in conversation:

a good metaphor for a world   

obsessed with offense and defense. 

Offense is winning. 

Seeing and Hearings

I don't know about anyone else, but I am disturbed. I suspect that is the state most people are in this month. I deliberately avoided watching THE HEARINGS because I suspected I would be even more upset, angered, frustrated, divided, unhinged than I already was. I was right, as I found out when I started reading accounts of what went on.

I like to think that I am a logical thinker. As such, I looked at Kavanaugh and his record and thought he might be the best we could do, given that we knew we'd be saddled with a conservative justice, no matter what. Then, Dr. Ford entered the arena, and threw a gigantic monkey wrench into the machinery.

The idea of dispassionate government and judicial procedure is a long way from the circus environment engendered by the injection of emotion into the world of politics. Trump has somehow let loose the floodgates on emotion. His is a government where emotion trumps (sorry) facts and theories. You can give a toddler all sorts of warnings and explanations of consequences, but he's going to proceed on emotion, no matter what. So does Trump. And electing him gave everyone the permission to be guided by emotion as well. If you are racist, if you are a white supremacist, if you (irrationally) hate any ethnic group, if you dislike your neighbor...go ahead. Call them names, shout them down, threaten them, lie about them. If the president can do it, it must be okay.

Into this maelstrom of anger and hate and lies and persecution complexes, comes the appointment of a Supreme Court justice. And not just any Supreme Court justice. Here is a guy who'll be there for life, who will change the balance of the court, who will be handing down judgments that will affect all of us for years to come. There is a lot on the line.

The atmosphere is fraught to begin with. The Republicans have sat on judicial appointments--including a Supreme Court vacancy--preventing Democratic appointments. Now, as they try to push through a confirmation that will solidify their dominance on the court, Democrats are reacting with a (not unexpected) "Not so fast..." and are dragging their heels. Enter Dr. Ford.

No matter whom you believe, this has slowed down the process. And it's hard to know whom to believe. I think both believe what they are saying. I find Dr. Ford more believable in her account. Kavanaugh is too defensive, too angry, too emotional, too irrational at times, for me to look at him and say he should sit on the highest court in the country.

But, this confirmation hearing is not going to hang on who did what 30 years ago. When reality sets in, nobody really knows, or can prove what went on. Times were different, 'normal' behavior was different. Things that happened might have been horrible; girls were subjected to all sorts of horrendous behavior, and boys got away with it. It was wrong. But going back and judging past behavior by today's standards is ...well, wrong as well. Nothing makes frat-boy behavior acceptable, but ..more understandable, at least. And you have to allow for growing up. I wouldn't want to be judged today on my behavior when I was in high school, college, or grad school. There was a lot I didn't know, then, and I have changed. So have Dr. Ford and Brett Kavanaugh, I am sure.

BUT...and this is a huge "but": the performance we saw in the hearings is happening today. We're not looking at a frightened 15-year-old girl, anymore, but a poised and thoughtful woman who, despite her pain, has come to understand what happened to her.  We are not seeing a teenage Kavanaugh today when we see him losing his temper, threatening those who oppose him, ignoring questions, or turning them back on his questioners. (or maybe we ARE.) What we are seeing is Kavanaugh under duress, and that ...is not an encouraging spectacle. I can understand a certain degree of anger and indignation--particularly if  innocent (which is debatable, still.) However, he demonstrated no grace under pressure, no judicial calm, no damping down of emotion. His was a Trumpian performance, and I would never want to seat a mercurial, adversarial, rude, entitled, self-aggrandizing person as a judge at any level, much less the Supreme Court. In the words of a number of commentators, this was a job interview, and he blew it. Teenage foibles can be understood, and perhaps even forgiven, but carrying that defensive attitude into adulthood just doesn't work.

We have been emotionally hijacked in this proceeding. No matter how hard we try to be fair and open to all information we receive, we all have an emotional response--to Dr. Ford's wrenching testimony, to Judge Kavanaugh's heated denials, to the accounts we see and hear and read in magazines, on TV, and in the newspapers--even on Saturday Night Live. Heart and head are under assault. Deciding which to listen to is no easy task. Perhaps we should just set this aside and start anew.

But that is no longer an option. Kavanagh has been confirmed and we will just have to live with that fact. I disagree with that confirmation. I care, deeply, about what I think was a colossal mistake, but have no authority in the matter except for the most indirect influence: my ability to vote for or against those who made this decision.  I intend to exercise that right, and I pray daily for a return to normalcy, a return to balance--and the continued good health of Ruth Bader Ginsberg and her liberal colleagues on the court. We cannot survive another Trump justice.

Bread

I'm baking bread this morning. Our daughter is coming this evening to attend her cousin's wedding on Saturday. Such a thing is possible in our world of limited families. I had over 40 first cousins--on my mother's side alone!--and the thought of attending each wedding, or buying a gift for each of them, boggled the mind. So we mostly ignored, and were ignored by those who even bothered to issue invitations. But our current extended family has only six first cousins, and they are invited and attend most family gatherings.

But I digress. Cinnamon bread. A recipe that dates back to the earliest years of our marriage..close to forty-five years. And every time I make it, I thank heaven for my fearless mother, who taught us (if only by example) to be fearless, as well. Long before it was trendy, my mom showed us that we could do anything (even though we were girls!) The story I always relate is that of my mom, after my dad left for his night shift job, knocking down a wall between the living room and dining room because (again, long before it was popular) she wanted an open floorplan. She didn't need anyone to do it for her--she could swing a hammer as well as anyone else. (Of course, I suppose, the ceiling could have fallen in, had it been a load-bearing wall, but maybe she had already figured that out..)

I don't remember ever being taught how to make bread. My mom's general process was to shoo us out of the kitchen, unless she needed someone to clean up or to keep an eye on something on the stove or in the oven. We were the scullery maids to her Mrs. Patmore. More important, however, than direct instruction was the notion she imparted that we could do it. I have never hesitated to tackle a recipe, no matter how complex (except maybe cassoulet, where the recipe began, "Three days before serving, kill the duck..") I am pretty confident that I can figure things out, even if I get stuck in the middle. And that attitude has spilled over into all areas of my life. Enter an essay contest? Sure, why not? Give a speech? What could go wrong with that? Major in chemistry? Go to grad school? Marry and move to California? Challenges all, but not insurmountable. My mom would have done it. She would have at least tried.

So I am here, kneading dough for who knows how many times in my life, wondering about all the people I know (good cooks all) who say they can't do bread, about all the people I know who say they "can't", who never even try. My dough is a smooth, round ball, being rolled into a bowl for rising. The filling is ready and by noon, I will have a couple loaves, warm and smelling like heaven, on my cooling rack. And in my head, I can hear my mom say, "So? What's next?"

June 19

There are children crying in a Texas wilderness

(or Florida or Arizona or California)

a riveting sound to a mother’s ear,  

for there’s a special frequency to a child’s cry:

it pierces the white noise of her life,

cutting through her pain,

through her thought,

through imminent danger,

and lodges fiercely

in her heart,

wherever she might be.

It demands action. 

We are living in a nightmare of crying children,

of fierce and distraught mothers,

of vile political blackmailers

serving families up as pawns

in self-aggrandizing games

that can only end in misery:

horrors built on horrors,

lies built on lies,

humanity reduced

to its lowest 

common

denominator.

We are listening to the children’s cries

with anger in our broken mothers’ hearts.

Lamb of God, 

Who takes away the sins of the world,

have mercy on us all.

Jake died two days ago. JC and I took him to the vet for the last time, absolutely sure that we were doing the right thing. It's difficult to understand if you don't have a pet, but we could see that he was sick. His coat was roughened, he wasn't eating--even his favorite, shrimp, or 'people' tuna. He was coming down the stairs, one at a time, instead of his usual race to beat me to the bottom. Even more, he lost interest in our activities. He curled up in the guest room, only emerging occasionally out of habit. He'd carefully come downstairs, walk into the kitchen, then turn around and go back upstairs, or maybe just lie down on the living room rug, exhausted. He kept trying to do what we expected of him, but it got harder and harder, till he just couldn't do it anymore. Anyone else might not have noticed, but we knew Jake wasn't Jake anymore. Who knows what it cost him to keep jumping onto my lap, or onto my bed to watch over me at night? He tried so hard.

We all know people who try to spare us from their suffering: parents, friends, spouses who don't want us to realize their pain, who want to pretend for our sakes that everything is fine. Pets do that too. Jake did. Mama Cat actually went so far as to run away, but she thought better of it and came back after a day or so. Another cat, Brindle, hid behind the furnace when he was no longer able to carry on. None of the subterfuge works. When you love someone, you can tell when something's wrong. It all boils down to the question of when we can let them go. We reached that decision over the weekend.

If the truth were told, I didn't cry for Jake. I cried for me, without him. I still open the door, expecting to see him on the stairs. I still flip on the kitchen light in the morning, expecting an impatient yowl for his breakfast. And when I turn out the lights at night, I still tell him goodnight. Habit, I know, but a lingering one. He is still here, in all the little habits he ingrained in me, and in all the bits and pieces he left behind.

Devil Ants

Devil Ants

I have ants. I imagine they appear to me much as we appear to God—tiny specks of life, meandering around His nice clean world, getting into everything and not accomplishing anything of note—except, perhaps, annoying Him immensely. So I am playing God this week in my own little universe of house and home. I have the power of life and death—and let me tell you, I am leaning very heavily towards death for these little usurpers of my territory. I hope God is not watching and getting any ideas.

It’s not that I enjoy the massacre. I’ve done my best to kindly discourage them. I have moved my plants outside, lest they find safe harbor in the pots. I meticulously remove all traces of food from the counters, and pick up Jake’s food dish before he’s quite finished, much to his annoyance. It does no good. My worst moment was finding them marching in orderly rows down the length of the rug in the dining room, minutes before guests arrived for a wine-tasting. I lapsed into death-squad mode, sprayed them to oblivion and wiped up the carcasses with a soapy paper towel.

I find myself constantly scanning, like the cyborgs in The Terminator—searching for signs of motion on the cabinets, floor, or countertops that will trigger my destructive power. My table-setting routine now includes close scrutiny of every plate, spoon, and cup—which, I am sure, makes me look slightly feeble-minded: as if every detail of the process requires serious thought. Which it does, for the ant-obsessed. For me. I spy a single ant on the countertop and move mindlessly, as if programmed, into yet another search-and-destroy mission. JC has taken to grabbing his plate and retreating upstairs to dine, while I sterilize the kitchen for the twentieth time that day.

No place is safe. Sink, counter, wall, and floor are equal-opportunity ant paths. I find them in the bathroom, crawling up the wall, singly or in pairs. Or in the bathtub, for no apparent reason. They swarm in the cat’s food, or climb the cords to the blinds in the kitchen window as I wash the dishes They are omnipresent. My nightmare is opening a canister or a cereal box and finding them there on a colony-wide ant picnic. Apparently, the ant holiday schedule is not yet in effect, though it could start at any moment, I fear. I seal everything in plastic bags, whose zip-locks are (one hopes) ant-proof.

I’m trying to glean a deeper lesson from this infestation, but it’s tough going. Ants are like bad habits. Ants are like that ten pounds I’m trying to lose, like the weeds in my patio, like dirty laundry, or unpaid bills. ANTS ARE LIKE THE DEVIL. With enough effort, you can beat him into submission for a while; but, just when you think you’re free of him, when you start to feel comfortable in your own virtue, he’s back with a vengeance. Even when you can’t see him, you know he’s there, just waiting for you to let down your guard, to relax, to start believing that you’re safe. Ants are like that. They never really go away.

And therein lies the problem: the relentlessness of it all. I think this is the way it must have been to be Custer at the Little Big Horn…no matter how many troops are mown down, there’s another battalion swarming over the ridge, ready to take up the fight. Or perhaps, it’s like being a saint, constantly in combat for your immortal soul. It seems as if you are bound to lose, if only because they’ve worn you down and broken your spirit. There is always one more ant.

And yet, today, I say unto you: salvation is in sight. No cross, no thorny crown, no passion-- just Mr.Pest Control in his big white van. He brought his sprays, his potions, his magic dust and exorcised my house of its six-legged demons. I have renounced ants and all their works. I have fought the good fight and won the battle --with a 90 day guarantee, no less.

Forgive me, but in this situation, I’m praying there’s no resurrection.

Jake

For anyone who ever reads anything I write on my blog, or on Facebook, you know all about Jake. Jake is my incorrigible cat, who has been documented in innumerable photos over the past 12 years--usually in strange places and/or positions. As one friend commented, "If I fits, I sits." That was Jake's motto from day one.

There are a bunch of stories that Jake has figured in over the years. Just recently, I related one where he alerted to something we hadn't noticed: a squirrel swimming for his life in an ice tub on our patio. (We saved the squirrel) Another was a photo-story of Jake's love/hate relationship with Carlotta-- a neighborhood cat/seductress who would tempt Jake at our living room window till he was jumping out of his skin. Yet, when he pressed his nose against the window, she hissed at him and walked away. Love was cruel.

He used to hide behind the screen of my laptop and try to catch my fingers as I typed. When a photographer came from the Washington Post, no less, to photograph me for an article on my appointment as poet laureate, Jake decided that he should be featured. As I posed in front of an impressive bookcase, Jake slipped into the room and leapt to the shelf behind me. The photographer cried, "Yes! Yes! Perfect!" and snapped the picture. Need I say who looked best in that shot?

In any case, it has always been clear who was running things in our house. Whether it was catering to his finicky tastes, disguising his medicine in crab or shrimp, or figuring out who had first claim to the real estate at the foot of the bed,  we generally knew Jake would have his way.

And now...now,  Jake isn't himself anymore. He does a lot of sleeping, very little eating, and a lot of throwing up. The vet says he has cancer, and the sonogram backs her up. He has had a shot of steroids that makes him a bit more comfortable, and he is eating, at least today. But we all know this is temporary. We brought him home for the weekend, but have decided that the kindest thing we can do for Jake is to let him go. Life is not so great for him now, and it only promises to get worse. I love him enough not to want that for him.

So, until his appointment on Tuesday, he has unlimited access to my lap, a place near my feet in the bed, as much shrimp he can eat--and I won't even yell at him as he criss-crosses his way down the steps in front of me in the morning. I'll miss him.

(And this is one of his poems..and a couple pictures. I'm still looking for the one in the crockpot, and so many more. He should have his own album.)

Working from Home

Today, when the office-bound

embark on their trek through

a wilderness of cars,

I grab a cup of tea and head for my first meeting.

Jake (my silent partner) and I

evaluate the tasks for the day

and devise a plan of action.

 

deal with the financials,

communicate with principals,

assess the status and needs

of ongoing projects

and alter timelines as needed.

Jake naps.

Today, when the office-bound

work through lunch,

scrambling to meet deadlines,

Jake and I move on to

supply and maintenance,

taking inventory, making lists,

selecting and transporting,

applying new techniques

and old-fashioned effort

to the job.

At least, I do. Jake gazes out the window,

considering product development:

the invention of a squirrel repellent,

or an electrified birdbath

to annihilate the competition.

This evening, while the office folk

celebrate productive days,

take stock of losses,

and plot tomorrow’s course

at various happy-hours,

Jake and I, in our well-ordered house,

consider our accomplishments  

and congratulate ourselves

on jobs well-done:

he with Friskies Party Mix,

me with my glass of wine.