I’ve been trying to discover how it is that those inside the beltway elected to office, or working for those who were elected, have all sense of irony (and in some cases. civility) erased.
How else to explain that for many there can be no climate change while the nation they serve is bearing its cost, climatologically and in discourse and diversity, and still they won’t see that baked Alaska is no longer just a dessert at a Party or PAC dinner.
Or to be blind to the fact that their parents or grandparents once stared up at the Lady in the Harbor, that they were the tired and the poor yearning for the freedom they would now so easily deny others, that they and theirs were the invading mob, nonetheless welcomed in the promise of an ever greater land.
Perhaps it is best I never learn for in this world a finely honed sense of irony may be our last, best hope for salvaging our sanity.
I am reasonably certain, he said, that they are weaving a rug in the next room, a large one, I imagine, or at least a wall tapestry. It should be a medieval scene, dogs, a knight or gentleman, a child or two, and in the center a beautiful woman. Actually, if they are weaving it for me, I don’t care about the dogs, knights or children, as long as she is beautiful. Until they are done, I will just dream of what they are doing for me in the dark room at the end of the hall.
He asked her what she did, and the question surprised her. Most didn’t ask that until much later on, but she replied, “I am a historian.” He said, “Isn’t that an odd profession,” quickly adding, “and I don’t mean for a woman.” “It is,” she smiled, “but I fell in love with history as a young girl, and I’ve been fortunate to watch stars being born and die, galaxies appear as if from nowhere, seen events that happened before our own sun was born.” She could see he was confused, perhaps that he thought her mad as others had. She calmly added, “You understand, I am an astronomer and all I see is the history of our universe.”
(*Be forewarned, this is a shift from the usual post. On December 14, 1992 there was a shooting on the campus of Simon’s Rock College of Bard. A professor and student died, four others (my son included) were seriously wounded. Twenty years to the day later, in Connecticut 26 people died in a shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School. Since then there have been so many, many other mass shootings in our country. This is in honor of all the victims, alive and departed.)
— In memory of Galen Gibson and Nacunan Saez, victims of a greater insanity, December 14, 1992
It was a night much like this but for a quarter century’s slow elapse. It was a place much like this resting beneath freshly fallen snow. The solution is quite simple He wrote, we need only round them up, ship them to the desert. If AIDS doesn’t take them in ten years, we can finish the job then.
It was a night much like this His “then” has come but there is no job left for Him to finish He offered them up as a sacrifice to His god Tonight they have no body to offer to our tongues, no blood for our lips. We have only settled ground of barren altars outside Buenos Aires, in a snow shrouded Gloucester. We have no icons through which to channel our prayer save the flattened lead slugs the earth rejects.
It was a night much like this but Galen’s blood no longer stains the snow piled along side the library door, there are no shards of windshield, bits of skull where Nacuñan looked momentarily into His eyes. There is no blood tonight on the stairs to my son’s apartment nor on the dormitory stairs he limped that night to escape what he could not see his legs rejecting him.
It was a night much like this one but the walls are bare there are no gurneys pressed against the wall, gurneys I needed to believe, convinced myself, were starched sheet covered supplies.
In my dream last night, I was lost in a city of mostly dogs, but what was odd is that they were all standard poodles who only wanted to lick my hand and cheek. I tell you this not because the dream was unusual, it was in fact rather mundane. I didn’t awaken with a damp face, and there was no indication I had been visited by a dog’s tongue. I tell you this because you must imagine how truly strange it was for all of those dogs to meet but a single human lost in a dream that they couldn’t hope to comprehend.
He is certain he has the answer and is imply waiting for someone to ask the correct question. He knows he cannot be wrong For if the answer seems so it is only because the wrong question was asked, and that would hardly be his fault. He tells people this, asking that they carefully consider what the right question would be. Eventually someone always gets it right, merely asks “Are you crazy?” to which he responds, “isn’t it obvious?”
The old monk stooped carefully, gingerly picking each browning leaf from the dry garden and gently placing it in the sack he carried. With each leaf he would increase his count, always certain that it fully fell into the sack. When the last leaf was picked and even the autumn tree dared not drop another this day, the monk dumped the leaves onto the stone of the garden and stooped carefully, gingerly picking each browning leaf. A watching visitor asked the abbot if the monk had dementia, but the abbot smiled and said, “He is the sanest one among us, watch how he wholly engages his practice.”