“So I learned two things that night, and the next day:
the perfection of a moment, and the fleeting nature of it.”
– Margaret George
Perfect days are exceedingly rare. So rare that if you’re lucky enough to experience even one, you remember it for the rest of your life.
On this very day, four years ago, I had one. It was perfect. It was more perfect than perfect. Not a single moment could have been improved. So perfect that it left me with a sense of peace and serenity, an assurance that the world is a beautiful and generous place, a confidence that deep and sincere love would prevail, would overcome obstacles.
I have never been so wrong about anything in my life. Within days, not even a full week later: that which I adored, which I prized, was taken away. You don’t get over that; you live with it, every single day.
Here’s where I usually write some wry and clever observation to show the humorous or ironic side of the situation. I got nothin’. Except to quote Bob Marley: “The good times of today are the sad thoughts of tomorrow.”
It struck me recently that this year’s Presidential race reminds me of a junior high student council election. One candidate was nominated as a prank because he sits in back of the classroom, calls people names, and throws spit balls.
The other was nominated because she’s a girl, she’s run several other times and, doggone it, it’s her turn.
Another candidate has been in student council since seventh grade. He has some great ideas about how to improve the school. But he was rejected, because he’s just a big nerd.
The current student council president is well-liked by almost everyone. He is endorsing the girl, because they’re in the same pep club together.
And one of the other candidates wants to lead prayer services three times each school day, and close half of the girls’ bathrooms. Everyone thinks he’s a weirdo.
I got inspired by a conversation on Democratic Underground this morning.
Remember “The Music Man”? Robert Preston? “Seventy-Six Trombones?” And “Trouble Right Here in River City?”
Donald Trump is The Music Man. Professor Harold Hill – a self-proclaimed expert and braggart.
He’s a con man who stopped by to bilk some money, get some attention, and hit the road before people realized they were being conned. But the story blew up, he’s now fully in the limelight, and he can’t do anything but double down on the con – because there’s no way out that won’t pop the balloon he’s constructed. Unless there’s some scandal or controversy, he has no choice but to pump in more and more hot air to keep the con going.
“There were walls all around
But they never stopped no Mexicans
No, they never stopped them at all
Till there was meeeeee….”
If all these massacres are due to mental illness instead of the widespread unregulated availability of firearms –
maybe in order to protect its interests, the NRA ought to fund a program to make mental health treatment more readily accessible to US citizens.
Naah. That’s crazy talk.