Today is lovely. Two zebra butterflies flit in air, looking for the Lantana. Anoles of all sizes crouch, race, square-off, crisscross my path. The air is warm, not muggy. Sun shines. My coffee is perfect. The cat lets me holds her heavy, thick-furred self – for 30 seconds. I have no worries. I wonder: is tomorrow recycle day or next week? I want to write poetry.
The world is a shit basket. The president is a dangerous fool. A hydrogen bomb detonated. Houston is flooded. Fires ravage southern California. In Jamaica, a gay athlete is murdered in his home.
On and on it goes, has gone. For two years now, I’ve been in the fight of my life. That’s how it feels. And in some reality, this is truth. These words – kleptocracy, active measures, fascism, authoritarianism, collusion, treason – frame my consciousness. They invade my privacy. There is no solace, no escape, no hiatus.
I long for the small things. I want to celebrate the morning bloom of plumbago, gripe about the traffic jam, find joy in simple milestones, mourn inevitability. Instead my mind is flooded with the direst of human suffering, the most extreme worry. This is an assault on all of us, on what makes us functional, empathetic, intelligent, far-sighted humans.
This should not be an endurance test. Our everyday lives should not be immersed in such anger and horror. We should not have to shout “Resist!” and utter obscenities and wish for the death of a certain person. This is our topsy-turvy world. This is our mess.