Category Archives: Rants and Laments

May 1, 2025 Kaleidoscope

I write it down to remember. The curse. The frothing hate. The flames of change, burning, burning buildings down, burning those seminal documents, but also burning in the hearts of workers and old hippies and millennials. Street shots! Sign shots! How glad we are for drones! Get the whole crowd! Record it. Show it. Archive it.

The air is cool. It’s May. A robin nests in the yew that flanks the driveway. We look into each other’s eyes several times a day. I restrain the impulse to talk to her as if she’s a dog. “Good girl!” All alpha enthusiasm.

The trains will run to the Common. The trains will fill with sign-carrying old people, middle-aged people, and young people. Career folks will walk over from their offices. Some through Chinatown, some through the Theater District.

People still dance I learned last weekend. All floating, twisting, leg-lifting grace. Defiance of gravity. Anatomy trained to do the impossible. Storytelling in the exits and entrances and in what dancer meets up with what other dancer and how.

Funny how the mind wanderers. I imagined post-performance scenarios like it was my job. Oh, she’s gonna eat a plate of pasta later. Oh, he’s gonna fuck his boyfriend later. That one? A cigarette is in her future. We go on in the ways we go on.

Walking through Chinatown to see Alvin Ailey. Tiptoeing to a nest-bearing yew bush. Whispering, imagining. Pasta, sex, cigarettes. We try to guess how many eggs she’s laid. Has she laid them already? The guy with the Afro and the bare chest commanded attention. How he slid across the stage as if propelled by invisible liquid force. Can I get me some? This week I offer qualifiers – oh no it’s not my hip that’s bothering me, it’s my back. It’s inevitable and pathetic and boring, this business of managing pain and growing older. I will go because I must. I will go because my excuses don’t tally. I will go because what else can I do? Scold Senator Whitehouse for missing a Senate vote about tariffs which even though his vote would’ve been decisive in the Senate, the bill would never have even made it to a vote in the House?

I’ve taken to thanking Senator Warren on Blusky, signing my comment, “Dee Mallon in Newton” as if that means anything.

Even though I am below notice, I’ve already turned off facial recognition on my phone for this afternoon’s protest. Why, by the way, would I even go unless I could take pictures? My progress up and out of the train tunnel will have nothing of liquid grace about it. But I’ll make it. I can make it.

I write things down to remember. The search at the right house but with the wrong occupants. Remember this! The mother in her slip out front in the rain mewls, “Even my husband hasn’t seen my daughters in their underwear. It’s not proper.”

That’s one way to put things: it’s not proper. It’s flagrantly unconstitutional is another way to put it — all the firings, all the hobbling of US foreign aid and domestic agencies, the gutting of our science communities. Stealing power from Congress.

How small our satisfactions! Tesla stock falling off a cliff and now the board looking for a new CEO. All the president’s double digit negative polls. Workers taking to the streets in LA in unprecedented numbers.

Still, every small consolation carries that plaintive query: what’s it gonna take? I know nothing. I try to keep up and I scan and sometimes even drill down. I look for citations, verified sources. A new way to read.

Wallpaper the Rotunda with impeachment papers, I say — perhaps leaving blank the areas where J6 insurrectionists smeared their shit. We could make info cards like the ones you see next to paintings in a museum. “This section of marble was covered with feces on January 6, 2020 by a so-called “peace – loving tourist” who, by the way, received a presidential pardon.”

We look around. Is it spring? Four days of wind had me worried. Is this spring now? Endless bobbing of arborvitae branches and maple limbs. No calm. No stillness. But now the wind has died down. The wind has died down, but the conflagration spreads.

Quick get the drones! Even red state victims of catastrophic flooding don’t get aid now? I can’t tell how I even feel about that. The year is 1/4 gone. The hundred day reports are both too much and too little. “Reshaping executive power.” I don’t think so. Shredding the constitution? Seeking vengeance? Lighting matches in every direction. Yes.

The robin eggs will either be laid or already have been laid. The sun keeps shining. There will be two or three or four eggs. We will watch. It will be spring, maybe a spring we don’t recognize, but spring nevertheless.

Is this about spring? Is this about death? Who even said that? It echoes in my head, lasting longer than the fluttering, thrusting impression of dancers on my eyelids.

Crossing Chinatown. Hurry! Downtown Crossing. I hardly recognize it. The fruit trees on the Common will be in bloom.

Excuse me, I must go rifle through my sign archive. I want the one that says: cruelty is not policy.

The mother in her black slip with gun-toting men behind her in the rain feeling shame for her underwear-clad daughters. Remember!

Meanwhile, a detainee in Vermont is released to an approving, cheering throng. People showed up. People took time out. People didn’t pause to ask will I/can I make a difference? They just showed up. Mohsen Mahdawi is released.

A Fish Rots on the Beach : A Lament

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I wrote this in KO’s workshop today, pretty much ignoring the prompt. Instead I wrote statements in response to 11 Tarot cards I’d drawn right before class. Cycling ’round and ’round until time ran out, not always staying with the exercise.

A cheerleader at heart, she makes sure all her guests have a drink.

His hand. Her hand. A panorama in between.

They steal and think we cannot see them.

The sun will set later today than yesterday.

What sanctuary can I offer and to whom?

He plants his feet. He plants his rod. All to avoid thinking about the future.

Tomorrow, ten years from now — equally calamitous.

Concerns, queries, brow furrowing brought to you by a milquetoast in Maine.

One of the Wise Ones says we can’t save everything but everything we do save is worth saving.

It reminds me, this chaos, of a savage game of pick up sticks.

Is it all about the dollar? Or is it the small dick power plays? Or maybe, the vengeance of bias, biases rutted so deep as to ruin their souls.

I hardly care anymore. Just make it stop.

A fish rots on the beach. The Good Angler who walked on water has left the scene. Fuck the multitudes.

Looking over the harbor and surveying his kingdom, the Shitty Landord is alone, the smell of his rotted flesh and soiled undercarriage making sure of that.

When the fires start, where will he run to?

“Be of good cheer,” the hostess chirps. And I kid you not, the bib of her white apron is adorned with ruffles.

Whom do you love? With what clutching fear? With what failed mercy or release? Hiding can be a shared pursuit.

“Appears to possibly exceed the bounds of the law.” Waste much ink? How about two words: IT’S ILLEGAL.

It’s illegal chant the crowds. Some wear scarves against the cold. The sun will set later today than yesterday. Does spring carry gladness anymore?

In the churches, dirt bags in red ties offer false humility, false witness, false surrender. Craven soldiers of the Crazy King, their claims to superiority of any kind, but especially of the spiritual kind, are laughable. But sssssssshhh! We don’t laugh in church.

“Can I plant a flag on Mars?” asked the flat-faced, google-eyed one. What flag you might wonder but never mind –YES. YES! Please go to the red planet as soon as you can!

The Fire Hose Method appears not to be working. Except that everyone I know suffers. We might fight through our exhaustion, our demoralization, with cranky knees and hips, with newfound intolerance to the cold, or not. I lack the will to place even a single phone call.

Ssssssssshhh. Don’t ask what else can they steal. Our dignity, our history, our fundamental societal structures, our futures. Isn’t that enough? No wonder Jesus turns his back in disgust.

Blasphemy, you charge? Here comes the trad wife with a tray of pigs-in-the-blanket, Pillsbury Crescent rolls for the wrap of course. I want to bump her arm and then snuffle up the appetizers from the floor, her delicate ankles in my peripheral vision. At some point, I’d look up, crumbs on my chin and shirt and ask, “Well, if you can make up shit about Our Savior, why can’t I?”

Here’s an idea for leaders of the Blue: STOP ASKING. I am not whispering here. Don’t you understand that we’re prepping our taxes and scrolling, scrolling past the endless donations to Senate and House races and PACs (all non-deductible of course)? The tally will not be made since seeing the total might make an artery to the brain collapse, leaving me drooling and in need of care 24/7. The purse will reopen — but not today.

She licks the buttery crumbs off her cheeks to her hostess’s dismay.

If you eat more fish and less beef, the planet might last longer. That’s all I’ll say about that except to add that being hit by an asteroid begins to look like a reasonable alternative to what’s coming.

I would like to see the Worst-Man-in History-Ever-to-Be-President stand in front of the Lincoln Memorial and begin his blathering self-congratulatory comparisons of himself to that great lawyer from Illinois and then watch the giant marble arms lift from the chair, reach out, and strangle the charlatan, the pathetic, incontinent, lying Orban-Wanna-Be. Leave the imposter limp and unconscious.

If only he was like Lincoln in that one way. Theater tickets, anyone? I’ve begun to think that Luigi missed his shot. The glassy-eyed South African or the Gaza-grabbing idiot would’ve made better targets.

People would celebrate in the streets then. Crowds like you’ve never seen!

Soften your edge, says the Buddhist. Accept your anger, then move through it. Not today, I’m afraid. Too many pigs-in-the-blanket still in the offing.

I just saw a psychologist opine that swearing has a way of making people feel better. No shit, Sherlock.

2024’s cusp. In the air.

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The Boston skyline to our right, a smudge of grey Legos. We rise into the foggy sky. Nothing to see. The roar asserts itself. And my prayer: Hail Mary, full of grace, etc. The window brightens. The child near it speaks, the innocent pitch of three years old? Four?

I forgot to text the boys a photo of where our estate binder lives. Four plane crashes this week – or is it five? – make this thought less casual than usual.

My knee socks sag into my ankle and a cold air blows on my skin. I’d ask for a blanket, but these days an airline blanket is about as warming as a big Kleenex. Next to me: a story about Santa. The father‘s voice a cocoon. I remember cocooning. Entertaining. Teaching while at it because, you know, language. Our four-year-old would’ve carried a Pikachu, not whatever yellow stuffed critter this boy has.

I’m waiting for our ascent to yield a view of the blue sky. Cold air blowing. Full of grace. Hallowed be thy name. Four hours, says the pilot. When we see the Rockies, it’ll be time to land. My ears squeak and the noise increases. We climb.

More ear crackles.

Jimmy Carter died yesterday. He was my first vote for president. I’m sad – beyond sad – that he didn’t live to see Harris elected. There’s some small measure of relief in knowing that he will lie in state while Biden is still governing – not that vulgar, greasy, venal, egomaniacal dick we shall soon call president. Can they bar the pig’s attendance, I wonder (on behalf of 74 million people)? The Lord is with me. Jimmy and Rosalyn together again is a nice thought, one being shared online by plenty of non-believers, I suspect.

The window brightens. But no, the child pulls the shade down. His little checkered slide-on Vans break my heart just a little. How time flies and all that. My heart will break more fully later on.

For now I am distracted by the lug of a guy behind me who seems to be fishing rather frequently through the pouch attached to my chair. Wait, did he just lean his head into my chair? I’m reminded of the flying scene in LAST HOLIDAY when Queen Latifah faces a similar problem. “How much for the damn cocoon?”

It wasn’t a particularly festive holiday this time around. There was a kind of relief in the quiet, but also curiosity about the flat mood.

I’m not sure it would’ve been apparent to an onlooker — the tree lit up, cookies baked, a holiday meal. There was even, against recent years’ expectation, snow. But it all felt dull. It was as if I’d set a timer and was waiting for it to run out – not to get to that magical moment but rather to get on with whatever’s next.

Whatever’s next is where the Catholic prayers belong. Now and at the hour of our death.

Turning my head the other way, there it is at last – blue sky, white cotton balls below. We’re above the clouds! How the miracle of aviation never disappoints!

Hours later, closer by — window shade slid back open. The landscape below is patchworked brown, here and there a snaking curl of water catching the sun. We see roads, chips of cars, and now and then, buildings. The landscape is brown, brown, brown. I crane my neck. I can see the Rockies now. In the year 2024, almost 2025, they are snow-capped.

Peppa the Pig plays endlessly on a device on the boy’s lap. We are into hour four, remember. His father points out the window, but the kid could care less. His favorite episode ends. “Again!” he demands.

A corn maze appears, Mile High Farms carved into its gold crop — just for our viewing it would appear (well, and all the drones invading our airspace). “Again!” pipes the Vans-clad boy.

Denver shows up. More distant gray Legos. The ears begin to pop. “Again!” As a parent, I get it — keep them distracted, for everyone’s sake. But to have trained a little brain to crave a cartoon pig to the exclusion of looking out of an airplane window? I can’t stop thinking about it.

When the screen finally goes dark, my four year-old fellow traveler falls to pieces. Completely disregulated. Does the maelstrom of shrieks prove the wisdom of having Peppa the Pig on endless loop? I don’t think so. Over and over the boy screams: I peed my pants! I have to pee right now! I peed my pants! I have to pee right now!

PeePee the Pig?

Dusty collarbones

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You could stitch a dotted ring around an indigo moon. The houses below evidence diamonds and trefoils and zigzags, all manner of pattern. Somewhere a child bellyaches. Somewhere else an owl calls out, mournful. Haven’t we expressed all our sadnesses already? The trefoil stamp of trauma, the zigzag edge of semi-repair?

You can’t fool the moon or the lightning striping the sky at dusk.

When the red-tailed hawk screeches, we know to look up. But that’s all we know.

Make your move motherfucker is one way to respond to upcoming events on The Hill. Preemptive bullshit. Flowing like a river into microphones and screens. I wish we hadn’t needed a word like “sane-washing.” And journalists? Please! Even Carl Bernstein wishes he was still on the beat. Imagine Deep Throat withholding evidence to promote his upcoming book release.

The hawk rides the thermal climes – yes, we have thermal climes even in suburbia. If you’re really blessed and it’s a clear day, the sun will illuminate the red wedge of her tail turning feathers into stained glass.

Who you gonna call? Motherfuckers of so many ilks, it makes the head spin. To say “felon” doesn’t quite capture the in-law’s tawdry sadistic infliction of pain upon his own sister. Too bad the French won’t say, Sorry motherfucker — your visa is no good here. So many roiling nations – it’s as if our national disaster is contagious – France, South Korea, Germany, Syria. And Gaza can’t catch a break.

We look for heroes in the strangest of places. Turns out the healthcare CEO assassin comes from money and privilege. Sorry, ladies. Worse, he liked posts by the South African Dipshit Brigade.

But what of poetry you say? What of the elegant, nearly effortless dip of the hawk gliding on the air currents, currents that sweep over even your suburban rooftops? What of these expressions of grace?

The greasy bundle of vice is no longer a fluke. Not a despicable and regrettable error this time. No. Americans knew who they were voting for. Sort of.

He’s grinning in front of Notre Dame and shaking Macron’s hand like he wants to rip that man’s shoulder out of its socket. To see it is to wonder: how will I survive this? How will we survive this? Will we survive this?

Hope is a scratchy wool cape that I put on to address certain people. Underneath, endless itching. Underneath, angry red striping rashes that cannot be ignored. Underneath, deposits of body-ash and rubble-ash that floated in from Gaza. The dusty grey evidence of wickedness lines my collarbones. What washcloth is up to the task?

Get fat. Go hide. Get fat and go hide. Gather preemptive condolences for the retirement of your former self. Sputter, motherfucker, motherfucker, like somebody’s listening, like it’s a badge of honor even if no one is listening and it’s not a badge of anything.

The heat wooshes, reminding me that all the coming misery will take place on a timeline, in a framework of seasons. Does it help to think that? Does anything?

More ramble than rant

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Monday, November 18, 2024

Sun’s out. It rained last night, contrary to expectation. Still avoiding network news except for Lawrence. Kimmel is good. Bluesky now getting a stampede from Twitter. I finally X’d X. Sleep is erratic, my scalp itches, my gut hurts. The clock ticks. Finn sleeps. I cleaned mold off some of the deck railings. You could make a real project out of that. I don’t feel like it. Tatjana asked for coffee December 6 — yay! Archive appointment in Dedham, December 11! Yay! Ortho doc, November 22. Rheumatologist December 4. Another day in December, another ortho doc.

The clock ticks. The sun is out. I bought two fake arborvitae to block the view of our neighbor’s driveway. You can’t say “suicide” now. Is this for real? “Unalived” is about as likely to enter my vocabulary as “pregnant persons.” Shoot me.

A figure in a red coat passes on the other side of the rock wall and lilac hedge. I’m reading Huck Finn. I don’t read enough. I eat too much chocolate. My hair is shaggy and unattractive. Heck — I’m unattractive. It’s a fact — these manly glasses, this bad hair, my droopy clothes (no need to comment, please). At least I have two front teeth! And a molar implant: also done.

I truly hope that’s it with the dentist for a while, but that’s like hoping that the Senate won’t roll over and give Trump recess appointments. It’s bad. It’s worse, even, than perhaps we imagined. But we do know how that fucker loves to shove norms aside with his tiny, sadistic paws. To own the libs? To see how much power he can consolidate in the executive branch immediately? What a dick! I’ve taken to calling him “Id in a skin suit.” No restraint. All impulse. Dumb as a box of rocks.

Here’s where we are. Pod Save America guy says: maybe we’ll be spared some of his evil agenda because of his incompetence. The Guardian says: maybe we can steer him toward rational, non-destructive international policy by appealing to his vanity. Legacy this legacy that. Do you hear this? How hard do we have to lean, exactly, into his incompetence and vanity?

Meanwhile Joe and Mika, after a crawl to Mar-a-Lago say, “It’s good to talk, isn’t it?” Not if it normalizes the antichrist, dickwad.

It was unbearable to watch Trump and Biden in front of the fire. Trump didn’t manage one of his aggressive yanking handshakes, but his mere presence in the White House and being accorded courtesy were sickening enough. What could Biden have done? Refused to meet with him? Well, yeah. You’ll notice the slanty-eyed Slovenian escort wasn’t there, citing a scheduling conflict. Oh please. They’re not even trying.

Did Trump meet with Biden in 2020? I don’t remember. I do remember Trump‘s administration denying Biden space and funds and briefings typical of a transition. So let’s shake hands. What the fuck?

I will not criticize Harris for running a bad campaign except to say she missed a step with Palestine and maybe spent too much time with Liz Cheney. OK, maybe. But Bernie Sanders can fuck all the way off with his tired “she didn’t address the workers” crap. Did he even LISTEN to her?

No more men in diners interviews please!

The point is, though, let’s move on to the real and present danger that confronts us.

I will rip our team on Capitol Hill new assholes if they don’t stand up to tyranny. THE OLD RULES DO NOT APPLY guys. Get with it. And it’s not like any of this is a surprise. For instance, and this is a real no-brainer, leak the goddamn ethics report on Gaetz — and not to the new GOP majority leader and not to a fucking Woodward who would cherry-pick revelations saving the juicy, more damaging tidbits for his next book in EIGHT MONTHS. To whom then? The Guardian? PBS NewsHour? Maybe. Certainly not The Washington Post, the LA Times or The New York Times. Jesus no.

Heads up NYTimes: being a “vaccine skeptic” is worlds away from being a “vaccine denier.” Do better, headline writers — unless you like polio?

This is me not paying attention to politics, by the way.

The clock ticks. The dog sleeps, waiting for his walk. I’ll make chickpea curry for dinner, if I have the energy. I’ll take a bath later with rose-scented Epsom salts, those salts being a huge treat to myself.

A small plane passes. Those fake arborvitae will not die — not like the last two I planted. Blueberries for breakfast. A fire engine honk overlaid with sirens from town center. It’s the middle of November, 2024.