Nutshell

Let the scripts collect dust.

The holiday weekend, especially a blustery one, is for reading for pure pleasure.

Ian McEwan is one of my favorite authors so his short new novel, Nutshell,

told from the perspective of a fetus who overhears a plot for murder,

was the perfect long weekend companion.

“o here I am, upside down in a woman.

Arms patiently crossed, waiting, waiting and wondering who I'm in, what I'm in for.

My eyes close nostalgically when I remember how I once drifted in my translucent body bag, floated dreamily in the bubble of my thoughts

through my private ocean in slow-motion somersaults,

colliding gently against the transparent bounds of my confinement,

the confiding membrane that vibrated with, even as it muffled,

the voices of conspirators in a vile enterprise.

That was in my careless youth.

Now, fully inverted, not an inch of space to myself,

knees crammed against my belly, my thoughts as well as my head are fully engaged.

I've no choice, my ear is pressed all day and night against the bloody walls.

I listen, make mental notes, and I'm troubled.

I'm hearing pillow talk of deadly intent and I'm terrified by what awaits me,

by what might draw me in.”

Saturday

“He's feeling a pull, like gravity, of the approaching TV news.

It's a condition of the times,

this compulsion to hear how it stands with the world,

and be joined to the generality, to a community of anxiety.

The habit's grown stronger these past two years;

a different scale of news value has been set by monstrous and spectacular scenes. Everyone fears it, but there's also a darker longing in the collective mind,

a sickening for self-punishment and a blasphemous curiosity.

Just as the hospitals have their crisis plans,

so the television networks stand ready to deliver, and their audiences wait.

Bigger, grosser next time.

Please don't let it happen.

But let me see it all the same, as it's happening and from every angle,

and let me be among the first to know.”

Ian McEwan - SATURDAY

Thanksgiving Reflections

Pausing to give thanks, and join friends around an abundant table 

did not lessen the fact that we have entered very dark political times in the US.

Through out the day, conversations turned political, the air thick with a sense of foreboding.

Life as we know it has changed.

Luckily, I live in California

where the majority of my friends are not willing to be silent as this dictator

moves into the White House, figuratively speaking of course.

To be politically activated is to be alive,

and for that I am very grateful.

  

Election Blues

As we inched closer to the election,

I allowed myself to acknowledge the possibility that he could win.

This altered reality consumed me with terror, and resulted in a week of sleepless nights.

Friends told me to relax, it wasn't going to happened,

but the fear expanded inside me like air stretching a balloon beyond it's capacity. 

I hoped the pop would be the release that came with Hillary's victory.

On election day, I enjoyed a tranquil morning, walking to the polling station in the canyon, and

connecting with neighbors during the hour wait.

I posted the obligatory "I Voted" selfie.

#Imwithher

Fingers dusted with flour, I juggled back to back conference calls with peeling apples.

What was more American than bringing a home baked pie to an election party?

In the afternoon I put on a pantsuit and drove to a network pitch.

All day I couldn't shake the unease lodged in my stomach.

I could barely get down a green juice.

I told myself it was just excitement, my physical being acknowledging this momentous historic event.

By early evening the foreboding swelled like a growing malignant tumor.

A tension headache hugged my skull like a helmet.

The night was young, returns just starting to come in, Hillary was ahead,

but the mood at my friend's party was already gloomy. 

The odds of HRC winning on the New York Times home page, and fivethirtyeight

started to change, in Trump's favor.

States that should have been blue were turning red.

Canada's immigration website crashed from panicked American's searching for a last minute plan B.

The futures market was dumping.

WFT was happening?

How did all of those statisticians get it wrong?

My phone hummed with texts from friends across the country.

We shared strategic info; if she loses WI it's over, and heart emojis.

I tried to find comfort in a glass of wine, but my stomach only churned more.

If we didn't cut into the Hillary victory cake, could we pretend this wasn't happening?

I left abruptly, craving solitude, and the capacity to understand this outcome.

At 2am EST, Podesta told the despondent supporters at the Javits Center to go home.

Not long after, powering down my laptop in bed, the headline flashed that he had won.

Liberty Weeps

Tomorrow - I'm With Her

I don't want to have a defeatist attitude, 

but I also know if Trump wins, I don't want to live in this country.

It's that simple.  

I will seek opportunities to leave.

I will put those thoughts behind me and go to bed feeling optimistic

that good will outweigh evil.

Love trumps hate

and it's damn time a smart woman who has her worked her way up in a biased system

determined to take her down,

will preside over these United States.

Darkness

It was a dark week after FBI Director James Comey tampered with the election

by sending Congress a vague letter about more Clinton emails,

this time discovered on Huma Abedin's computer.

To see the ugly gender bias against HRC

has literally made me lose sleep.

For days I was nauseous, as new headlines incorrectly claimed the case against Hillary was reopened.

The lies spread like wildfire as did a new round of vitriol against her.

What upsets me the most is that people don't take the time to find out the truth.

It's a few keystrokes away.  

The whole email debacle boils down to two basic issues:

Clinton is a technophobe, and The State Department's technology is antiquated.

How the facts have gotten spun out of control is the true crime.

Of course, tonight Comey comes out with a new announcement;

after reviewing the new emails Hillary won't face charges.

Much ado about nothing,

but has the intended damage already been done? 

Rose

A Free State

I was unaware black minstrelsy, another blight in American history, dated back to pre-civil war.

This is the back drop of the Tom Piazza's novel about a brilliant musician,

a slave, who has escaped to the north.

A leader of a minstrel troupe recognizes his talents,

and convinces him to preform with them in blackface.