A little on the irreverent side, feeling a heavy apocalyptic vibe. Election day is one week away. Light and dark in rising tides. Good things all around me, asking to be noticed, and I am able.
At the same time, things appear to be falling. My jaw is clenched against the disarray. Crumbling bits of the strongest effort, caught in little cups. We can hold each one for the briefest moment, before we must set it down. There are more.
The soundtrack is magnificent, and I’m going to hide out for the next week. Isn’t it all too much? I find myself wondering. Embrace that reality, yet pretend it is, and all will be, fine. Tightly winding my strings. It’s what a mom does–soften the edges, but still tell the truth, and turn the key of dissonance a quarter even more.
I want to run until my lungs hurt, but I’m sick with a sinus infection, and even if I were not, “fits don’t help us get our way.” I want to smash things, but I tell my son to touch the world gently. I want to scratch at the skin of those who can’t see humanity is rolling downhill, or of those who watch, and laugh, as the rest of us work so hard to chase it. “We don’t scratch at people,” rolls out in the softest singsong instead.
One long week. No more hostile sketches of D.Trump can cross my eyes. His name, in real ink, printed across my ballot–an insult. One week. A rest from the cold realities. The oil money. The harm we wield against one another, again and again. Yes–We. Against. One another.
This mess will need great triage. I am diligently collecting tools, keeping a fire, and waiting. One week, and we will know what’s next. We are all here, together. We are all trying to keep up with our laundry, along with the chaos.
