Whose Government

Chances are few Americans remember the bread lines of the Depression. Since WWII we’ve had a prosperous middle class and unions enabled workers a decent wage and benefits, so we’ve had a good life.

Slowly the rich organized behind the scene in government; first came lobby money. Back then we knew it was a bribe to give money for a vote; lavish trips were given to legislators so they could see what big money wanted, all perfectly legal. Swag bags ensured that legislators looked favorably; who doesn’t like a nice gift?

Election campaigns became more expensive because deep pockets usually win. Integrity doesn’t win elections; money does. Both sides made concessions to the same master. Integrity is always a scarce commodity, but they’re having a sale.

Laws changed to allow PACTS so umpteen dollars could be donated to a cause. Zealots of all makes celebrated, but it’s like Monopoly, sooner or later the biggest pot wins. I heard that one of the Koch bros said that.  

Statesmen, a largely honorable class, have been replaced by people like the carpetbaggers of the time after the Civil War, people who see government service as a career path to riches.

With money legally shifting votes from the benefit of we, the people, to the rich and powerful few, we don’t stand a chance.

The loyal opposition, Dems hold out their hand to tell us they will fight for health care, hold the line on Social Security, support the EPA, and nutritious meals in schools, just send them some money so they can fight big money, whose funds are in their pockets, after all, they can’t win without it.

Does anyone see a problem with this system? What’s the goal?

Yes, we health care, Social Security, and all of that, but until we reverse this system, we will be mired in a swamp of big money, pulled under by the weight of heavy dough.

Unless we get PACT, lobby money out of government and change our election laws so our representatives may not be influenced by big money without facing jail, we will lose. 

New Days, Old Ways

Game of Thrones, The Last Kingdom, and The Tudors are some of my favorite shows. Perhaps it’s my overactive imagination, but sometimes I picture the cast of our Congress in medieval attire and our president with a crown banishing and tweeting with abandon waiting for the beheading to begin or maybe it has and I just don’t know it.

In the age of political correctness, we held our tongues and made a stab at considering the other guy’s feelings. Some people took that rather hard.

Given our history, we should understand by now that accepting others isn’t easy and figure out how to get over ourselves, but no, we’re the snake eating its own behind.

In the beginning of the age of political correctness, we learned about how win-win negotiation might actually be better for everybody than the historic win-lose warriors adore.

Paying lip service to respect for your opponent, giving value to the other guy’s wants couldn’t have been all that difficult; could it? What’s the worse that might happen; we gain empathy? Or heaven forbid we appreciate the other guy’s point of view.

Humans considering the wants and needs of others would be so utopia, so Renaissance. We strive for an age of enlightenment; what the hell happened?

Elected official freed to tackle citizen to the floor, power broker sends witch who laughed at him to the stockade, and a first son declares, 

“Democrats aren’t even human.”

Lords and ladies in charge of public programs figuring out how to keep the lower classes barefoot, dumb, and pregnant. If they wore their regal garb, we’d see them for the offspring of aliens they are.

A return to the Dark Ages doesn’t benefit people. If the one percent, the lords have no respect for the needs of the serfs, what are citizens going to do about it?

If we, the people are going to have any power of negotiation, perhaps we ought to do it before robots replace us in the workforce.

Whose Utopia would it be if the 1% outsourced the rest of the human race?

Take a Look

Old age, the new frontier of my life, I didn’t believe I’d live this long. With this coming birthday there is no politely thinking of myself as older, but somehow still hip or cool; I’m an old lady.

Goodbye days of admiring glances as I walk past; hello, nobody notices. I’m just another granny weaving my way through the crowd.

My brief escape to Condado and beyond gave me another glimpse into life alone and on the go. In this part of the story, I dined on the beach, straining to hear snatches of conversation, but couldn’t.

A repeating loud, phony laugh regularly caught my attention. Bitterness dripped from the edges of each ha-hah-hah and each time three. I heard the call for help from the next table, a family gathering of a man and a woman with offspring’s young families all dressed to the teeth, a fine legacy to be sure.

The family, the picture of success made me doubt the hollow laugh could come from there. I searched the water for cruise ship lights. Ha-hah-hah, there it came again a plaintive howl.

Affluent young locals laughed near the bar, while families or couples chatted at tables, some body language better than others; I saw no one who went with the lonely laugh.

Caught in mid-laugh, I saw from a wide open mouth, dry sound ejected; only the corners of his eyes confirmed the sadness, the remainder of his countenance radiated pride.

I sent a flicker of light in his direction as I wished to God for more nights with my honey.

A nearby couple caught my eye, you know the ones so into themselves that any contact invading their energy, they suffer. The waiter after receiving the order from the man in his fifties, who immediately turned his full attention to his lady, seemed stunned to be so completely shut out, so quickly; it was fun to see.

In restaurants, we commonly see people’s energy entwine creating a cocoon or you see the ones glancing about the room hoping for someone to relate to other than present company. I have never seen a couple create an energy vortex that looked like a black in a restaurant before; have you?

Soft light, club jazz, the hum of conversation, I scan the scene for clothes I like; a beautiful dress or a well-draped man demands notice. Simple outfits, the woman in black pants and an olive loose knit sweater and the equally lean man in shades of khaki, attracted my attention about two o’clock in my sight line.

The calamari melted on my tongue, the party of one at my table blissed out; I hate it when older people grunt when the food is good, but I’m afraid I may have.

I glanced at two o’clock which went dark, like black hole dark in a circle just big enough for them. This disconcerted me, but another piece of calamari calmed me down. The waiter walked past their table with the order; no energy called to him.

I trained in some soft tissue energy methods, which is why I can sometimes see or feel the energy. That’s pretty weird at first, for a long time I thought it had bullshit written all over it, and then, I felt it.

I’m not some crazy old lady telling you that these were aliens; no human couple I know could pull the light in around themselves achieving that level of privacy in public.

Believe me, I don’t want to be telling you that folks from far-far-away dined with me on Saturday, but unless technology exists to build personal walls what else could it be?

Am I crazy? This question surfaces now and again, but I don’t believe so; in less than a decade I lost my husband, business, nest egg, best friends, and now I’m an old lady. It wouldn’t be an understatement to say I’ve been through a lot, but healing.

Regular exercise and frequent travel feel positive; I mean I’m still fat and sad, but not as much. That’s way better than I felt before and I have hopes and goals again, so I believe in my mental health. Of course, side effects can be a bitch, so judge for yourself.

What seems nuts to me is taking away the needs of the poor for the wants of the rich.  How many human beings can look at another who hasn’t harmed you and say, die? People who become rich frequently give back; it’s the human thing to do.

Without someone to stir the pot I find people to be kind. Is it crazy to question those with the unfair advantage, who treat us as the next old tail they want to eat? Or is greed just another substance abuse?

With a short life expectancy enjoying my day became personal. Working people paid into the Social Security Fund, which is one of our best benefits for this time of life.

Am I crazy to believe that the aberrant elite controlling our planet aren’t like the rest of us because they’re not from here? It’s easier to believe I’m bat shit bonkers than that aliens have quietly invaded us. What do we do?

I mean, if they’re in a position of absolute power and they don’t like us, we’re screwed. We need to know who we’re dealing with before we don’t like the terms of engagement.

We should have evolved beyond oppressed masses and pagan parties at the top. Greed beyond the boundaries of satisfaction is not healthy or normal, like schoolboys running through a store grabbing. That’s the same shit that got us in trouble around 2008; we’re falling for it again. Doesn’t that seem too stupid to be real?

When times are good as they are now for the rich, people have fun, maybe, do something good for the community; who continues to plunder with full coffers? I’m not saying all greedy bastards are aliens, but something’s not right.

    

My Angel

Dearest Sister,

Very happy you’re better. Please, be healthy! I need you in my life. We cling to each other as girls in a raft.

To be with you again soaking up your loving care, I can’t wait. Last I saw you was during the worse time of my life. I never could look at life without my husband; you made me feel safe and not alone. It felt like the first growth of life after devastation.

How many times in a lifetime do you recognize a soul mate across a room crowded or otherwise? And, yet, there we were.

Can we doubt God has a plan? You were the angel whose caring reminded me that God cares. Your presence united us; being mad with God doesn’t feel nice.

I miss our conversations and am eager to get to know your country better. Who am I kidding? I can’t wait to hear the jazz, while I hear music I visit my happy place.

Two lifelong dog lovers attending an international FCI dog show; I shiver with delight; can’t wait. To stay with you until the book expo in January would be unfair, so we’ll limit my stay; you say how long. Between now and then I’ll be budgeting.

An unscrupulous company has been burrowing into my checking account, almost caused a huge problem when I was in New Orleans. I bought something on the internet, a cosmetic company began sending and charging for cosmetics that went to my post office box. The purchase as understood by me was a one time deal and I’ll let you know if I want more.

On my trip to New Orleans I encountered difficulty, of course, I budget for some but stood at the counter with not enough in my account to work already done. By the grace of God, I had just enough cash on me to cover. I don’t normally carry more than a twenty or two. My heart beat crazy counting.

I’m too old for this stress. I’m going to the bank to find out how to stop this. Nothing I saw on the cosmetics company website lead me to believe we had an ongoing relationship. I’ll bet this happens frequently. This seems like a sharp business practice, huh!

I could have been so screwed because big business didn’t play fair again. I’ve had a hard time since my return home; health comes with nourishment and exercise. As long as my government doesn’t default on me, I can handle my life.

When you’re up for it please send the correct name of the dog show and dates, town, etc. And the same for the jazz fest. Costs.

Let’s pray we’re not too old for fun; huh, Sister! 

Please Be Warned

People are basically good; we can be whipped into a frenzy and led to destruction but left to our own devices I find human beings to be decent and frequently kind. It’s in our nature.  

Have you ever had something nag on your mind? Your mind drifts back to an event you wish would stop, but there you go thinking about it again. You laugh out loud, which I understand to be a jail-able offense these days thanks to Mr. Sessions; but there you go with that laugh. Suddenly you feel embarrassed to have had the thought. It’s so out there, but the shimmering and displaced feelings; either you’re losing your mind or an alien energy has invaded. 

What began as a vague haunting what if takes the shape of what the  F--- and I just want to run, to hide and be safe. 

What is it they say about “All it takes is for good people to look the  other way?” 

I’m scared. This isn’t the normal energy of the planet. This is bad,  Folks. At least it’s bad for us. 

Holistic Healers on the planet know we’re in a bad energy vortex. Who wants to give this a name we can fight? Mother Earth didn’t birth this energy. 

Human beings will fight to the death over a whole bunch of things, but most of us also manage compassion. Don’t you find it odd that people we’ve  elected to serve us do everything possible to hurt us or the environment?  Surely, we’ve elected an asshole or two over the years, but a whole room full of them says something’s not right. 

What if when powerful leaders congregated, say like the inaugural in  January aliens opened a portal over the event releasing a neurotoxin that reduced empathy to one’s own species? 

Removing laws protecting the environment harms their children also. What evolved species? What did Christ teach? Buddha? Who shits in their beds?!

Picture poor people around the world living modest lives, hoping for a decent day. They travel on scooters searching for scrap discarded on the side of the road. They walk holding children’s hands. Their malls open when crafts get hung from a rope slung between two trees. 

I’ve traveled alone in a car across a modest Caribbean island getting well lost in the process. People were kind and they helped me. One man’s hand an inch above my purse as he leaned in to inspect my belongings, but he stopped traffic to get me in the right direction. He was an angel. The goodness of mankind’s nature touches me often. I’m not saying there aren’t assholes among us; we all know better. 

A percentage of humanity who have no empathy are generally the outsiders and not the community core. 

I saw the shimmering, what apparently happened I believe to be a dispensing of the toxin on inauguration day. 

I never thought I’d say this, but Republicans are right, global warming is a result of aliens dumping toxins on us through worm holes and not the stupid shit we do here. 

Diner Tale Continued

“I was ten years old when I met Sara,” the hero said as he stepped away from the table. 

Rock Star, “You know she recycled her cherry.”

A man at the counter looked up, “Yeah, she recycled her cherry.”

“Good morning, how are yah?” Venerable Bette to a man who just inside the door shook himself dry. 

“Short stack?” Bette queried with a familiar gaze.

He nodded while wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

Bandanna man asked lobster red head, “What are you doing for your  anniversary?”

“I’ll get her flowers and see what’s playing at the Saenger.”

“You should get a room in the Quarter.”

Lobster red shook his head in agreement.

“You gonna ask her to marry You?” Bandanna guy asked the young hero when he returned to the table.   

“I don’t think so.”

“You ought to tell her. I’d rather know if I had no hope; wouldn’t You”

“I suppose,” the hero sheepishly replied.

“My grandkids are coming over Sunday.”

“You see them often?”

“Yeah, the last time my two oldest boys brought girls who didn’t seem orientated to the family. I’m proud of them because they saw it and those girls won’t be back.”

“Al Hirt was a nice man; my momma worked with him,” a man at the counter offered.

Rock Star added, “He come from New Orleans, made New Orleans music. He could play.”

“Good morning,” the staff chimed as a mom with her three children closed her umbrella just inside the door.

The oldest, a teenager with shoulder length hair streaked in that new shade of gray followed her mom. The middle child with red and gold streaks in her hair threw her bottom in a chair and the baby, a girl of about eight with black rimmed glasses looked like she orchestrated the lot of them. 

An Ordinary Man

Stories are told about beautiful people with photographic memories who can sing. One of the first things we learn about our heroine is that she has flawless skin and great legs. Our hero excelled in the military before retiring to become rich.

Invariably they come from the lower ranks, so they came up the hard way. Ninety-eight percent of us love the tale of hard work and success. It gives us hope of being special.

Our identity, what’s more personal, what do we hold more sacred? I mean have you ever met a lawyer without finding out they were a lawyer in the first ten minutes?

Everybody wants to be special, to excel at something, or to be someone who matters. I met a man poolside at a resort in the Dominican Republic, who without even being introduced told me he was wearing a five hundred dollar tee shirt, named the artists and pieces hanging on his walls, and what type of car he drives. I left before he could brag about his other investments.

Image building beginning immediately alternately bores and frightens me. Image builders seldom want to hear anything about you; have you noticed that? I remember a man, a grand champion of image building say about people he had just met, “They were very impressed with me.” It’s easy to see where this could become a toxic pre-occupation.

What’s the matter with being ordinary? I know a man who upon mentioning someone of his acquaintance fastidiously lists all of the person’s special qualities. When I heard my credentials recited, I laughed; must we be so special?

Nobody wants to be thought of as a dumb ass, but this competition to be the special one annoys me, since I’m alone so often; who wants to spend precious time listening to someone brag? Or worse yet they brag until it drags your inner bragger and you catch yourself bragging back.  

My husband was an ordinary man, who identified himself as a teamster, the last of the American cowboys. He taught young visitors to our small farm how to track animals in the woods. He talked about nature. Men referred to him as a man’s man, a manly man; he was respected. I appreciated the uncommon qualities in an ordinary man; he was special to me.

 

Get Over It While We Can

Whites are racist. Blacks are thugs. Orientals are smart but untrustworthy. “I’d like to slap the next white woman I hear saying black lives matter,” the black celebrity said. Do we hear ourselves? And yet we say that God created us all.

Who are you? What are you? With pride and defiance, we cling to our myths of greatness, of why we’re better than you.

Paint all whites with the brush of white privilege to demean their successes or suffering, to say,”We’ve had it worse” brings out the poor me in every hardship case, so the argument becomes who has it worse. Is the goal to claim the title of who had it worse?

Poor whites for too long have comforted themselves by looking down on the “niggers,” while rich people refer to us all as the great unwashed. Arrogance and pride rule our dealings with others, whether we believe ourselves better or don’t want to be seen as less.

When I was a kid I couldn’t figure out who I was or where I fit in since most of my friends were Irish or Italian or Polish; plus in New Orleans, there was always an assortment of black people around. I, on the other hand, am a mixed breed of Irish, Hungarian, Austrian (although we refer to ourselves as German, we’re from the same town as Hitler) and as it turns out my orphan grandmother from upper New York state was French and American Indian. Everybody has a culture except a mix breed; that’s how it seemed to me.

Under the watchful eyes of my German grandfather on Sundays, the family gathered to eat, play games, help out as needed, or just hang together. I learned to ride a bicycle in front of grandparents, aunt and uncles, and cousins. Family love and camaraderie interrupted by a move to Chicago didn’t give me time enough to absorb it as part of my culture.

By contrast, my mom’s family seemed a scrappy lot who didn’t really like each other, so I began to focus on my friends’ families.

Every group of people doing the same daily routines as everybody else put their own spin on it. From cooking to mealtime rituals our little differences imprint who we are in a way that fascinates me still.

According to folks I’ve known, I’ve been a Jewish want to be and a black want to be, as well as East Indian and Latin. Who you are, is of great interest to me. By learning about others it helps me put into perspective who I am.

Dining in a humble home in Appalachia, eating home grown vegetables and the steer that grew in the back yard gave me as much pleasure as any formal dinner by a famous chef. In either event, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Haven’t we all been to parties where someone spouts, “When I look at you I don’t see black;” this being one of the most well-intended bits of sophistry I’ve ever heard. Yes, this is a friend, a wonderful person you see; blah, blah, blah.

How can you say that you don’t see this woman’s beautiful ebony skin? Yes, they’re black, or brown, or red; there’s beauty in all.

Here’s the deal; we’d better start embracing the little differences between earthlings. Aliens are coming to rape and impregnate our men. No earthling squabble is going matter. 

Respect and Strength

After his accident, when he could no longer work my husband dealt with self-worth and identity issues. Who he saw himself as directly linked to his job. To me, my man was so much more, but men identify with a job description.

When Kirt could no longer function he lost identity and couldn’t hold his own, a couple of his buds came over to trim the yard. They discussed how they’d approach the problem. Kirt tried to get a word in only to be told, “Don’t worry; we’ll take care of it.”

“But, Guys, Guys, you need to know.”

They waved him off with a friendly dismissive and went to work whacking weeds. My husband turned to me.

“They wouldn’t listen to me,” he said helplessly.

“Now, you know what it feels like to be a woman,” I shrugged.

A short time later the two men flew out of the bushes with arms flailing wildly. They found the vine Kirt tried to tell them about. My husband had been devalued by his group. I felt his pain and saw it in his eyes.

My forehead slid into my eyes, my cheeks into my neck, which fell into my boobs that drooped to my belly bouncing against the door. If a man identifies with his work, a woman’s looks wrap up her self-worth.

My husband frequently told me I was beautiful and every day told me he loved me. He valued me and now I must find value in me or perish because who the hell else cares?

To find your inner strength you must have it. I always thought myself strong, but now old and emotionally alone, where is that strength?

I fought for my causes. I worked hard for a good life. I took care of my family. All of these things build character; I am nothing if not a character. Who I am has been determined by more than twenty-five thousand days. Some days have beaten me to a pulp, others I’ve scored and heard the roar of the crowd in my head.

I’m old and forgetful, but I’m the author of 25,000 days and counting. My history tells me the strength is in here.

Last Bitch of the Year

Imagine you are telling a story about something you saw and heard. You say, “The woman looked away when the man took her by the shoulders.” The person you’re telling the story to jumps in when you pause for a breath and proceeds to tell you how this happened, why it happened, and what it means without the benefit of hearing your story to the end.

This robs you of the satisfaction of telling your conclusion or point. It’s no longer your story they hijack your story before getting back to theirs. They seldom ask questions about what you’re saying, but readily explain what it means.

Their version may bear no resemblance to what you thought you heard and saw, but they dismiss any other possible outcome.  Is this a power trip? What’s with this behavior?

I enjoy listening to people’s stories and ask questions; I don’t understand people who hijack conversations. Isn’t this as rude and annoying as people, who begin conversations with,

“I don’t know,” and then go on and on about their opinion, which they pre-qualified as worthless. 

Culture Divergence

Culture or what my mind refers to as things other people do differently than what I do. Culturally differences can be as domestic as Catholic bingo versus Baptist picnics.

I’ve only understood culture on the broadest most superficial level. For me, it was one of those things I could see, but not truly identify, like an ethereal spirit.

Finally, I had an aha moment explaining why understanding came so slowly and uncomfortably; I thought of culture as what others do. What did I bring to the table? Some days people love me and other days I feel friction. What is it about me on those days?

In today’s climate, it’s all too easy to chalk it off to so and so just doesn’t like Americans or white people. And while I see a difference lately, I prefer to change what I can to minimize stress points.

In the Caribbean cultures I’ve met so far, one common thing is greeting ritual. “Good day, how are you?” Question and reply come before what you want. On a good day, I enjoy that, which is generally on my popular days.

On a bad day, I have no patience for all these good day rituals, I want to get in, get it over, and get out; that’s my American culture, which I won’t diminish by saying, or lack thereof. We may be brash, but we’ve always been good-hearted.

Putting on a good face helps, but many operate on the energetic level where they’re reacting to energy output. When you blast someone with hurry-hurry energy, push back occurs.

And sometimes I get so excited about a new experience, and then I see in some faces that their culture is more restrained. Write this down, no happy dancing after sixty-five.