We’re not living in the land of the Walking Dead. We’re not trying to survive the Zombie Apocalypse.
If someone breaks into your house, it’s probably not a gang of crazies looking to kill and eat an entire family. It’s more likely a desperate schmuck looking for cash or something to hock. A decent home security system can provide the deterrence and protection you need in most cases. But if a criminal persists, I suspect a 12-gauge shotgun or a handgun is sufficient protection.
Do people really “need” their AR-15? Of course, they don’t. Any citizen who argues they “need” an AR-15 is full of shit. But here’s the thing – they LOVE their AR-15. They enjoy firing it, and more to the point, they enjoy the feeling they get when they fire it. They get pumped like John Rambo on crack when they fire…
I’m Calvin’s lonely cousin the one without a friend The darkly-quiet moody one The one who couldn’t blend I’m the smoker in the stairwell, skipping school all day the fall-between-the-crack-type-kid the one who slips away
I’m the ink inside the headlines the lead story on the news The kid the network anchor says was surely born to lose I’m the details at eleven a community in shock I’m the often-bullied quirky kid who lived just up the block
I’m a parent’s darkest nightmare I’m my doctors deep concern I’m the angst that no one seems to get the match about to burn I’m an issue in the social science circles of the day I’m the brush it underneath the rug that never goes away
I see angels circling the sun feathered wings and halos golden and hand-spun Frozen little angels Circling the sun bursting into rain drops cleansing everyone
Across from you stands 5-feet seven inches of sunshine, splendidly packaged in twinkly eyes on a lightly freckled face, each freckle perfectly placed by one of God’s angels.
“Nice to meet you, Sandi,” you suck in your gut and shake her hand.
She turns and walks ahead, her hair bouncing playfully on tanned and toned shoulders as you stroll towards the front door of an overpriced, undersized 2-bedroom condo.
You struggle to not let your gaze drift southward.
Newly divorced, you’re looking for your own place for the first time in 30 years – “A fresh start,” you tell yourself, and Sandi’s listing seems to fit the bill — at least on paper.
At 60, you’re done mowing lawns; your achy knees are a weekly testament to that. You’ve convinced yourself a monthly HOA is a small price to free you from that discomfort.
As you enter the condo, Sandi begins her pitch:
“In addition to the living area, we have 2 bedrooms (one with an ensuite) and a lovely eat-in kitchen leading to a cheery patio overlooking the backyard.”
Sandi’s lilting voice bounces softly off the walls of the empty condo, mixing with her perfume to form an intoxicating blend of scent and sound that hangs in the air for you to absorb.
You quietly inhale.
Ballerina-like, she spins and says, “feel free to walk about,” then heads onto the patio, taking out her phone and sitting down in one graceful motion.
You realize you’re barely a blip to her. A soon to be forgotten notation on her calendar.
You sigh.
This unexpected encounter with youthful exuberance brings a heightened awareness to your current station in life. It wasn’t that long ago when purpose and promise filled your days. Now, in the full grip of a midlife crisis, you grasp for what’s no longer there.
Your situation hits you like a two-by-four to the back of the head. You tour the unit numbly; you feel yourself move from room to room, seeing it all but noticing nothing.
You walk towards the patio where Sandi sits in the sun. “I’ll take it,” you say, not because you want it, but just to see her turn towards you and smile.
America was cut and scarred by intolerance and bigotry early on, the deep wound concealed halfheartedly by a cheaply applied varnish of “American” ideals.
Under the hot and hateful glare of this president, the varnish has evaporated, and that once concealed scar appears on our society’s skin. You can run your thumb over its jagged ugliness — its toothy sneer snakes across the heartland like a drug-resistant malignancy. Fed by an unrelenting wave of lies, conspiracy theories, and half-truths (shared by the masses like communion wafers and wine), this malignancy threatens the republic.
America is at the precipice of an increasingly unstable democracy, wobbling like a drunken fairy on the head of a pin, while our enemies laugh and smile approvingly.
Nationalism, disguised as patriotism, can expose racist tendencies, and that’s what we see in America today.
President Trump blends xenophobia and patriotism to tap into America’s darker side.
America has always had racists, but they lacked the organization and critical mass necessary to progress beyond their hateful selves.
But when the President of your country is himself a racist, that loose band of bigotry that runs through America suddenly has something (and someone) to rally around.
Trump has become the knot.
Under the guiding hand of President Trump, that once ineffectual and dangling lace of racism has been organized and knotted.
From the red MAGA hats to the tightly tied shoes, racism is ready to walk about America. And like its black-booted, brown-shirted Nazi cousin, Trump supporters are hatefully kicking and joyfully harming the most vulnerable among us.
It’s difficult to untie the lace on a moving boot, but that’s what we need to do if we’re going to get our country back.
I was walking down Tuckerman Avenue earlier today, when I came across this sign:
Public access to the shore is the way the public can legally reach and enjoy coastal areas and resources.
Feeling adventurous, I decided to take the path less traveled (at least for me).
On my trek from curbside Tuckerman Ave to the shoreline, I couldn’t help but think, this public access is not very accessible. The path was overgrown, uneven and rocky in most parts, muddy and narrow in others. At one point, I had to crouch to make my way through a tunnel of shrubbery, the ground beneath my feet, a treacherous gully (can a gully be treacherous?).
As I made my way down the path, I imagined an animated discussion between Meriwether Lewis and William Clark, with an exasperated Clark shouting “Turn around Lew, she’s impassable” and “It’s risky business, this path to the shoreline, I fear we may lose some people!” – but I soldiered on.
If you ask me, accessible should mean accessible to a wide spectrum of people. If your Nana can safely walk the path with a less than 50 % chance of fracturing a hip, then I say its accessible. I’m not sure the path from Tuckerman Ave to the shoreline passes the Nana test.
Once I made it to the shore, I headed in the direction of Sachuaest beach, hoping to make my way to Purgatory chasm and to the lower end of Tuckerman Ave — and eventually back to my car, which I had parked at the local YMCA.
I’ve lived on Aquidneck Island for nearly half a century and this was the first time walking this particular shoreline – its really quite beautiful.
The rocky terrain was not easy and it was slippery in parts. I was reminded several times that mother nature doesn’t give a shit when you say “I got this” — having slipped twice on slimy seaweed-covered rocks.
I ran out of walkable terrain before I could reach Purgatory Chasm, so I had to double back. But all-in-all, it was a productive, mind-clearing walk, and a nice reminder of how fortunate I am to have ended up on Aquidneck Island.
For more than a decade, I waged a nightly battle against sleeplessness.
Every night, shortly after shutting my eyes, a movie reel of the worst parts of my day and an unending series of previews for upcoming work-related deadlines would play inside my head.
No matter what I did – or how hard I tried – I could not turn off the projector and fall asleep.
Before being introduced to Ambien, I devised strategies to combat my worry-borne sleeplessness. As soon as I flipped the bedroom light off and plopped my head onto my pillow, I would construct a quiet secluded place in my mind. For example, a cabin on the side of a mountain – surrounded by acres and acres of protective evergreens that shielded me from the buzzing reverberations of my day. I placed myself in this imaginary cabin, alone in a bed. Then, like a god, I painted a cold, crisp, blue-black sky and splashed it with sparkling stars – I envisioned myself enveloped in a cocoon of silence and serenity – sheltered safely from the remains of my day and the rumblings of my tomorrow.
This nightly exercise kept anxiety at bay for a while. But eventually, all my dreamscapes (be they cabins in the mountains or mud huts on a beach) would dissolve in a wave of worry- and I’d end up right where I was the night before – tossing and turning and unable to fall asleep.
I don’t t know what Ambien does physiologically – I have no idea how it acts on the brain – all I know is it works. I envision Ambien chemical agents starving the part of my brain that feeds on the memories of my day and the fear of my tomorrow – somehow disabling the mechanism that switches on that relentless movie-like projection of all things stressful.
It was 5 years of taking Ambien before I started to think hard about the fact that I needed this drug to trigger what was supposed to be a natural human function – drifting off to sleep at the end of a busy day.
I wondered what had changed in my life, making it impossible to fall asleep without chemical aid. I couldn’t pin it on one specific event. Perhaps it was the troubling realization (that simmered and hummed just under the surface of me) that more than half my life was over and that, as a commodity, time was in short supply while responsibilities and obligations were growing, creating a perfect recipe for worry.
After five years of being prescribed Ambien, I began to look at my habit as a character flaw. A drug addiction with none of the perks.
Last year our family visited Maine to tour some colleges and universities. I left my Ambien home on that trip, and I’ve not taken it since.
I couldn’t tell you what changed in my life that allowed me to fall asleep without that little pill. My work is still stressful, and achieving a work-life balance is as impossible as ever – one son is heading to college in the Fall – and the other is close behind – so if anything, there has been an uptick in financial stress.
The only conclusion I can come to is that somewhere along the road, I arrived at perspective. Everything that kept me awake for years remains firmly ensconced in my life. Perhaps I understand futility – that all the worrying in the world will not shake these things loose – and that time remains a steadfast and unapologetic ferryboat captain – not caring one bit about what lies on the other shore or whether our arrival suits our schedule.
bendingtheneedle 