Comes the morning and it’s a beautiful but far too breezy day... And yes, the poor forsythia has had its day, mostly.
My friends out in Parsons are okay. And we had no damage here. But the folks where we used to live really suffered. They were hit with three tornadoes, one right after the other. The last one set off sirens here as it rolled past.
Somehow I knew you were going to say that, and thanks for the invitation. But what I’ve written is too dense, too dark (at times) and way too long for “Weeds.” I’ll probably end up self-publishing it since no one will read it anyway. People here don’t want to read anything more than 2-3 minutes long, or anything that isn’t “cheerful” or, if it isn’t “cheerful.” And they generally don’t want to read things written by old white men (even if they are alive). Put it all together and you have very unpopular me.
Except for my funny little photographs, and that’s all thanks to you.
We only have ten years left to turn things around. Of course, I probably won’t even have that long myself. But I still have time to try to convince others to do something. They are so concerned, still, with things that absolutely do not matter, namely themselves. But what can be done to get peoples’ heads out of their asses?
Don’t call me this, don’t say that, ooh, I want those leggings, oh, which kind of yoga is best. That’s what people are interested in. Not how to change the course of the planet. We’re at a point where if we don’t act now there won’t be any time left. It will take years to get done what needs to get done. The younger people don’t get it and the older people don’t care.
The ones who do care in some fashion are split into two camps: the ones who think the rich are going to save us with their money, and the ones who think the rich are going to save us with their machines. The rich, on the other hand, are the ones causing the problem and they are the ones who care the least.
It’s an endless cycle of delusion and selfishness. If I were to ask the poet Randall Jarrell, he’d say, “let it go. We belong on the ash heap. We should never have been here in the first place. We’ve made a muck of things all along.”
Maybe he was right. But I’m not him. Even though hope was invented by poets, I’ve learned from them. They invented love, too. I’m a lover and a hoper. And I’d like to give it a try before I’m dust.
Last year I left Medium because I felt like I was banging my head against a wall. I went to work on a political campaign, to get the only Black woman elected to the Senate rather than trying to convince a bunch of self-indulgent yuppies on Medium to get off their asses. I failed there, as well. But at least I could see, in concrete terms, why. Here I just feel so much more frustration.
It brings me to tears some times.