Wednesday, January 18, 2017

no more columns



The most recent Christmas season took on a particular glow this year.

First, Donald Trump, a man who seemed determined at every turn to display his selfishness, was going head-to-head both with Santa Claus -- a guy I like -- and Jesus Christ -- a guy a lot of people claim to like. Questions abounded: Would the tempestuous Trump fire Santa? And if not Santa, how about Jesus?

Second: Would Donald Trump actually become a president of the United States -- a job spoken of in well-modulated tones reserved for what was once the most powerful and magnetic country in the world? The answer seemed to be 'yes,' and yet this was a man who spoke in explosive tweets and reversed course frequently.

And third: On the day after Christmas, I found myself, at 76, in one of those ergonomically-praiseworthy and passenger-dubious beds reserved for heart/lung patients at Cooley Dickinson Hospital. And it was from that perch that I was given a chance to see America sold out in one way or another.

Drugs, of course, warmed my medicinal stew. I saw things from behind the lenses of opaque whites, pale blues, an occasional red ... you know, the pill repertoire. It was clear that the Republicans would do what they could to dismantle health care in America while pretending like Pinnochio's nose to offer an honest replacement. Victory without effort is so much easier than what was once called "sweat.".

And then, floating up in this hospital miasma was the announcement that Ringling Bros. & Barnum & Bailey Circus would close up shop come May. In an era of 141 characters and Tweet mentalities and Twitter presidents, it all seemed appropriate: The world powers gathered in Davos to carve up the financial pie: Trump was serving; China was buying.

It was time to lie back and relax. Would there be a pill for all this? Sure.

I do wonder a bit if those who got sick to death of the sissy liberals will remember who it was who left them in their second pile of smug and uncaring shit.

.....

About 50 years ago, my first publicly published piece was in the Gazette. Et puis, the last. Too frothy. Too energetic.

No more columns.

2 comments:

  1. I still don't know what I was waiting for
    And my time was running wild
    A million dead-end streets
    And every time I thought I'd got it made
    It seemed the taste was not so sweet
    So I turned myself to face me
    But I've never caught a glimpse
    Of how the others must see the faker
    I'm much too fast to take that test

    Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
    (Turn and face the strange)
    Ch-ch-changes
    Don't want to be a richer man
    Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
    (Turn and face the strange)
    Ch-ch-changes
    Just gonna have to be a different man
    Time may change me
    But I can't trace time

    I watch the ripples change their size
    But never leave the stream
    Of warm impermanence and
    So the days float through my eyes
    But still the days seem the same
    And these children that you spit on
    As they try to change their worlds
    Are immune to your consultations
    They're quite aware of what they're going through

    Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
    (Turn and face the strange)
    Ch-ch-changes
    Don't tell them to grow up and out of it
    Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
    (Turn and face the strange)
    Ch-ch-changes
    Where's your shame
    You've left us up to our necks in it
    Time may change me
    But you can't trace time

    Strange fascination, fascinating me
    Changes are taking the pace
    I'm going through

    Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
    (Turn and face the strange)
    Ch-ch-changes
    Oh, look out you rock 'n rollers
    Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
    (Turn and face the strange)
    Ch-ch-changes
    Pretty soon now you're gonna get older
    Time may change me
    But I can't trace time
    I said that time may change me
    But I can't trace time

    David Bowie

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