I’m writing stream of consciousness to keep my blogging energy alive.
This Friday the 13th has been windy, eerie, howling and haunting, like the song “Ill Wind.” I can’t stop thinking about Syria and the horrors of war juxtaposed to the constant dribble (or should I say drip, drip, drip) of some asinine details of the US president’s sex life. People are salivating in anticipation of former FBI director Comey’s book, one I would re-title A Higher “Royalty,” pun intended. But hey, freedom of the press and freedom of profits and all that. Who am I to judge? I’m just a lowly home-maker/artist/scribbler gone wild.
Mad housewife pitch: Bully politician fires tall FBI career guy who doesn’t protect efficient career woman on verge of becoming first female president after being proven innocent of scandal. Career guy dishes dirt on politician.
So this new memoir promises to divulge juicy facts that we’re tired of but can’t turn away from, after inundation with compassion fatigue for everything. High school students, staff, and families with PTSD from school shootings, unarmed black youth shot to death on camera at the rate of dozens per week or something like it. Food stamps cut. Elderly in assisted living rents raised $150 per month. Teachers on strike, that sort of thing.
Yet, back to the memoir: many of us still shaking our heads about why Comey seems to sabotage Hillary Clinton right before the election. It looks like men just can’t stand to think that women are capable of leading. They are so insecure about their manhood. Or their lack of melanin? What is it? That’s about to change, fellas. What has really happened is that when you mess up, we take over. Nothing personal, but have you forgotten Mother Nature always bats last? Or has the last word? Or, hell hath no fury like a woman denied her paycheck, her right to vote, and control over her own body.
Sheesh. I wasn’t going to go into a political tirade. Maybe I need to let go and just be myself. Yes. That will work. Because there are plenty like me and we vote.
Spring is here, except in North Dakota. The hum of cheering crowds at baseball games become a vapid lullaby for our national sign-carrying distress.
The only respite to the backdrop of war anxiety and talk of chemical weapons is remembering the glow of hope that some super hero can deliver. Scanned scenes of babies brought to you by major news corporations vying for power overwhelms the senses. It’s all too much, it’s all too flipping efficient, like a self- driving car crashing into someone out for an evening stroll. Cut. Oh well. Move on to the next story.
So the past few weeks have whizzed by like a flash of lightning. Some of our dearest relatives came to visit so I put aside current projects for a moment. For whatever it’s worth, dear readers, if you are a diarist or note-taker, be proud. In the age of Instagram and sell-your-private-info-for megabucks social media, a hand written story or messy paragraph on a scratch pad might be a treasure someone will cherish after you are long gone. Heck, your notes might even have historical relevance or be romantic inspirations.
I have mementos that mean more to me than my car. Well, not quite, but almost. I have my grandfather’s treatment plans for his patients, my other grandfather’s post cards to my mother. I have poems I wrote as a five year old. Recipes found tucked inside a library discard book that may have been untouched for years.
physician treatment plan for arthritis circa 1922
That’s all I have right now. It’s a diversion from what I’d planned to share but that’s the life of journal-writer. It’s all beyond my control and as you know, moms and grandmas are often accused of being control freaks. 🙂
Next time I will get to the stories.
Journal prompt: Write whatever is on the top of your head or coming out your ears. Be as dry, sarcastic or as moody as you want.
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