A Time to Chill

The neon septuagenerian toddler who holds in his minuscule hands all of our lives and livelihoods—the gold-plated con man Donald J. Trump—today stood in front of cameras to gurgle and fester yet again. My faith in humanity, already tentative, is bent to its breaking point whenever the Great Dullard takes to a podium to publicly spew his frat-boy invective and inanities while we fail as a citizenry to drive him into the Chesapeake, just as we would any lumbering, poison-tongued beast that rampages through our streets.

I’m trying—desperately—to shift my focus to the righteous. Rather than heap more anger on the grease fire of greed, entitlement and intolerance that Trump represents, I need, for my own sake, to turn elsewhere. Zen? Pilates? Johnny Walker? Hell, I don’t know. My hope is to be touched by any remaining better angels of our nature, exhausted and weather-beaten as they might be. But at this point, I’d settle for, like, a tightly crafted Kermit meme.

Maybe, for now, quiet is the only cure. As the Earth continues its slow burn from simmer to boil; as Americans are increasingly swindled out of their constitutional rights; as certain subsets of our communities are marginalized, ignored or, worse, targeted; as the last of the life force is sucked from the wraith of our economy by a mafia of sociopaths, maybe it turns out I just need a little break.

So don’t mind me: I’ll be over here for a bit, out of the way, setting for a spell and catching my breath. Gonna think on all the good stuff—kids, health, friends, art, music, sport. Gonna stay in my lane and not cause a fuss. And, as best I can, I’m gonna try to be hopeful.

Meantime, if you somehow believe, despite a towering continental divide of evidence to the contrary, that we are now making America great again, fine.

Just keep it to your damn self.

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