The angry part of me wants to point out how much it has cost the US to attack another country– in lives, property, and whatever remained of our international standing. At least we got what we went in there for, right? Wait…what did we gain, again? I’m unclear about the purpose and result, even ignoring, just for the moment, that Iran is proposing to charge $2 million per ship to travel the Strait. (And what price does one put on dead school children?)
On the other hand, on this blue-sky day, it is remarkably satisfying to acknowledge that there are few living people in the entire world who are more hated than our current president. If he had the capacity to understand, his narcissistic self would be devastated. No matter how awful a person might be to their partner, child, barista, server, contractor, employee, boss, they will likely never achieve the degree of hatred that Trump has. If he hadn’t become president, he’d just be a foolish, elderly man who people mostly didn’t know or care about. And the world would be significantly better off.
There are four astronauts traveling through the vastness of space on their return trip to Earth. While we celebrate the success of their mission, I suspect that they are sad to return home. I read somewhere that having once gone into space, every astronaut would go back again. Although I’ve never had such a calling, and indeed have terrible motion sickness, I watch the videos of those joyful scientists and feel what must be merely a glimmer of the wonder they’re experiencing.
Imagine being so morally unhealthy that you can’t appreciate the vastness of our universe and our tiny place in it, that you can’t look at the work of our astronauts and all of NASA with the awe and excitement they deserve, that you haven’t the capacity to wonder at four people achieving what no one has ever done before. If he weren’t a terrible person who has done irreversible harm to humanity, I might feel a little sorry for him. But he is terrible and thus deserves only the amount of sympathy he is capable of feeling, which is none.
As I look out the coffee shop window, watching people wander the sidewalks–some in matching jackets, some in clothes that scream “I didn’t check my weather app this morning,” I am making the choice to honor our astronauts and ignore the fool building a ballroom as Rome is burning.
Very shortly, I will visit DF (dementia friend), who will tell me about their day, ask about mine, and then retain nothing of the conversation. When you experience this, I must counsel you, it is a lot like working at Disney–no matter how many times you are asked the same question, you cannot ever get mad. The person asking doesn’t know the answer. That’s why they’re asking.
For me, there’s a challenge in finding new ways to answer that still get the message across–it’s like the verbal version of a writing challenge: how many different ways can you say the same thing? I have found that, in fact, there are many and varied ways to tell DF that my day is busy, that the children are fine, that I’m hungry and don’t care where we eat, that I will explain whatever it is that DF can’t remember or understand or figure out. They never recall the answer but their brain, which can’t hold new information, needs the reassurance.
Yesterday, it was supervising the task of writing a check for the new handrails on DF’s front steps. To protect everyone involved, I told the contractor that absolutely no financial transactions are to occur without me present. DF can’t remember the agreed-to price or how much upfront money we gave the contractor. I feel a little sick when I think about how vulnerable that makes them. I trust the contractor or else we wouldn’t be working with him. Nonetheless, I often get the kind of anxiety one might feel if they left a toddler next to a pan of boiling water.
The peace of my coffee shop experience has been disrupted by a man. Isn’t that always the case?! Hehe Just joking. Well, not exactly. There’s a contractor repairing the sidewalk across the street. He is grinding down something and then using a leaf blower to clear out the dust, releasing clouds of white, gritty dirt into the air. The coffee shop window is closed but the dust has begun its insidious infiltration.
“Chuck E’s In Love” is playing in my airpods right now. I love the twist ending, jealousy to joy. So great.
You’re going to be shocked but there’s a very attractive older man currently proclaiming that 9/11 was an inside job. He “knows a little about implosions” and he’s pretty confident that the buildings were blown up just before the planes crashed into them. Sigh. Imma leave the coffee shop for the day.
Much love.
