Well, the beginning of 2017 was far worse than 2018’s might be. We’re ahead of the game on that, for no matter what happens, it won’t be the end of American government (and American dignity) even as little as we knew it.
I’ve spent a year avoiding Trump’s everything and everyone, as I would avoid pornography’s anything and anyone. You can’t unsee, you can’t unhear, and you can’t ever trust the deluded porn-lovers again, now that you know them. Even if family. Because they proved over and over how willing they were to put you aside in favor of their titillation.
Those who follow and honor and support this mess of a created human being have missed that part where John said, “Even now, many antichrists have appeared…” Hoo-WAH, you got that right, my friend. Apparently, the antichrist anti-phenomena makes just enough fake-smile sense through the whitewashed black lying fangs, to not seem evil to some. Or perhaps we are loath to not follow some golden calf or other through the streets while God chats away miserably on some mountainside. At least it’s entertaining?
Long awaiting-impeachment story made shorter, I can look forward to 2018. It is closer to when some decency will finally return, here. It will take so long, though, to get the stench out. Out of the white house, out of all our houses..
2018? Who knows, but I want to go talk with the sea, today. I desperately want a word with her. She has seen it all. She did not cave in.
Meanwhile, the little footprints in the side yard’s snow tell tales I can stand. Clean ones, if drastic. A fox has gone by in the night. He may’ve found exactly what he was looking for, but how precision-paced are his prints. Little birds have been here in the morning — the tiniest of birds! An intrepid squirrel came out from the hemlock, “Hmm…uh, NO!” and turned and went right back up. The birdfeeder-filling prints have obliterated many, though one can see who has used them as an aid in ground navigation toward the pole.
I saw the leopard of our urban jungle yesterday: the charcoal and white junco who fears nothing, putzing around in the snow — even resting breast-wise on a mound in that arctic tundra under a cold sun, as if seal’d in layers of fat, not fluff.
There are juncos in heaven, and at least one ocean; of this, I am sure.
And you can be sure I’m wishing you juncos and oceans galore in 2018! May God protect us, first from ourselves, all through the New Year.