Solstice, 2016
Dear Ones:
—“By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes…”
Imagine ME, at a loss for words…At least, we have the Bard. It is the advent of the longest night, of disturbed sleep, tempest-tossed, of anxious dreams of strife and treachery. Of battle lost, and all gain and goodness crumbling, like castles built of sugar sand. Then do we stir in our sweat-chilled beds, and realize that we never slept.
—“Fair is foul, and foul is fair, hover through fog and filthy air.”
All is not doom and gloom here on the Left Coast, where we continue to thrive. We do best when we stay off the grid altogether. We no longer live in a universe, but a Twitterverse, and what used to be political theater, is now reality TV. And the more we watch, collectively, the more moronic we become. To the point that I find it hard to recall the Constitutional commonality we once shared. Dude, where’s my Country? We have, collectively, ignored the warnings, forgotten the gross outrages, and elected a man who has no regard for the Constitution, indeed only a nodding familiarity with it. As in, “I know about it, OK? I love the Constitution. It’s yoooge. It’s a big deal.” But now a thin-skinned narcissist, sneering schoolyard bully will be running the reality show that is the shambles of our system, building walls, playing tough-guy with nuclear armed foes, and making America great again. Are we there yet? Makes me wistful for the good old days, with Dubya.
—“Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble.”
We will awaken from this drunken spree, muzzy and unfocused, cast about for familiar things, and find them lost, stolen, fallen into sewer gratings. We will scratch an itch, and discover a new tattoo. We will wonder who the hell WAS that we slept with last night, and what fearful consequences may follow. Did I burn my lip on my coffee, or is that a cold sore? Only time will tell. But he did not get elected without millions of people voting for him. WE THE PEOPLE had to make this happen. The vagaries of our slavery-ridden electoral college had a hand, and maybe Vlad had a hand also, but a shit-load of people got up and voted against the evidence of their eyes and ears.
—“Things without all remedy should be without regard: What’s done is done.”
The thing is, those who have fallen for a con-job are always the last to see it, the last to believe the evidence of their own eyes and ears. Especially now that evidence is revised to suit the current narrative, and the original evidence deleted everywhere it exists. The Ministry of Truth is hard at work. So does 2016 become1984. We are just expected to grab life by the pussy and move on. But those who hoped that the Clown-in-Chief would drain the swamp, will discover that he has only imported bigger, badder alligators and snakes. And spiders. *shudder* For the country as a whole, electing Trump was an act very like self-mutilation by an anguished adolescent female, lacerating her own arms. We knew it would hurt, and we didn't really want the consequences, but we just couldn't help ourselves.
—“Eye of newt and toe of frog, wool of bat and tongue of dog, adder’s fork and blind worm’s sting, lizard’s leg and owlet’s wing. For a charm of powerful trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble.”
Newt’s eye, of course, was the start of all this trouble. History will not forget, nor forgive.
On a smaller scale, I continue my work as an ER doc, throwing money at debt, in hopes of retiring by age 80. I would like to pay off my house, and hope to be taken out of here toes first and tits up. Only a few (hundred) payments left… I was voted “Provider of the Year” at work this year, to my pleasure and amazement. Mostly I just show up, and try not to be in a bad mood. Work, finally, defines me in ways I never would have imagined. I am actually useful, occasionally. I like many of my patients. I like fixing things. It is not all bad. Our Kids come and go on their various paths, crashing here briefly for shelter, food and company. Hannah (30) completed her pre-requisites for Medical School at Seattle U., and is now applying to a small batch of schools, meanwhile working as an EMT/Ambulance driver in Seattle, gathering the requisite war stories, and demonstrating her commitment to the craft. I fear she works too hard, and warn her not to be me when she grows up.
Everett (28) continues to seek gainful employment, after the Goldman-Sachs downsizing, but no joy so far. He is excellent company, however, so I don’t mind having him around as long as he needs. He keeps me up to date on youth culture and Chinese Cinema, and serves as interim Garbage Elf.
Michele (40) remains in Columbus, running her Yoga shop, with husband Eric, and grandkids Jack (10) and Lily (8). Jack is playing cello in the local youth symphony, and Lily works on plans to rule the world, eventually.
Nathanael (38) was with us for a bit, serving as personal trainer and Garbage Elf, but has moved back to Rhode Island, and is working with clients as a trainer. I miss having him here. I could still use a trainer, and we can always use a Garbage Elf.
Catherine continues her gig as a retired head of household and domestic goddess, doing photography, reading, and catching up on movies she never saw. We soldiered through all of the many Harry Potter books, narrated by Jim Dale, on various trips, and then watched the movie of what we had just heard after each book was completed. Worth the effort. We have taken guided photo safaris to Death Valley, Painted Hills (OR), the Sierras, and she to Chaco and Bisti (NM). Got a few nice shots out of each, amazingly.
And as for me, I muddle along as I must, not immune to the depredations of age. Getting creaky, slow to heal small insults, and less active. My right hip talks to me frequently, and not in the nicest tone of voice. My main New Year’s Resolution is to get back on the road to fitness, after a year’s detour. Work continues to provide tragicomedy, in alternating doses. I have been here at work for two mass shootings, now so commonplace we don’t even make national news. The pendulum has swung back now in the narcotic front. After a decade of being abused by Congress and threatened by HHS for “not treating pain,” we arrive at the situation where prescription narcotic overdose deaths outnumber motor vehicle crash deaths nationwide. Now I get a printout of every narcotic prescription filled in the state by a patient checking in, almost as fast as I can see them. Their doe-eyed innocence turns to gnashing fangs and bitter accusations almost as fast, when confronted with these two-page reports. “Someone is using my ID!” is the usual rant. Or they just shut up and walk out. The sad part is, many of these folks are making a living selling these pills to the actual addicts, at $10 a pill for branded Percocet. They get 60 from Dr. Feelgood for their ankle sprain or whatever, pay zippity do-dah on their Medicaid, and clear 600 bux from the one visit. That’s not a bad gig. But their customers are dying.
—“When the hurly-burly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won.”
I pause to note the passing of a few notables from our midst. Foremost among these is our Jack Russell terrier Tory, who lived 16 years, and kept my Mom and Dad company these last 6 years. Hasta la vista-te vere en el infierno, Fidel. Janet Reno was perhaps the only honest person in DC in her day. Gwen Ifill was a whip-smart journalist, and fell in her prime to cancer. Morely Safer of 60 Minutes ran out of time, as did Michael Herr, who wrote “Dispatches”, perhaps the best reporting on the Viet Nam war. It has been a rough year for musicians—Prince, Leon Russell, Leonard Cohen, Mose Allison, Pete Fountain, and Bobby Vee. Sports legends Gordie Howe and Muhammed Ali do battle no more, and aviation legends Bob Hoover and John Glenn have departed the pattern. Actors Gene Wilder, Zsa-Zsa Gabor, Florence Henderson of the Brady Bunch, and Anton Yelchin, the Ensign Checkov reboot, have had their final bow. Antonin Scalia, venomous and brilliant, has found out if he was correct, that there is an actual Devil in the world. And Miss Cleo should have seen it coming.
—It is a tale, told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, and signifying nothing.
And so, dear readers I close, as always, with some attempt to find solace in the Solstice, and the return of light. It may be a four year winter we face, but even the Donald can’t alter the spin and tilt of the earth in its lap around the sun. It is the actual solstice as I pen this note, my 24th annual effort. I am aware that some of you will disagree wholly with my take on the world. That is ok. That is what dialogue is all about. No need to “unfriend” me. I won’t “unfriend” you either. It is a big country, and a much bigger world we live in, full of an amazing variety of people, with astounding ranges of experience and opinion. And life is turmoil, chaos. Chaos is the possibility of change, and stability a comforting illusion, like happy endings, and the promise of paradise, with or without 72 virgins. We scurvy mammals rose up from catastrophe, and took advantage of it to populate the earth. We bipeds adapted by forming tribes, which propelled us to dominance. And which will now kill us. Look past the labels and the colors and the uniforms. We must work all this out together, not separately. I wish you all a year of peace and prosperity, of patience with our fellow countrymen, of will and energy in doing what is right instead of what is easy. It will not be easy. I wish for you a grounding in your loved ones, an open mind toward everyone else, and an open heart towards honest efforts to salve our wounds.
Peace out, my brothers and sisters.
