Notorious

At random times during the day or in the seconds before sleep consumed my conscious thoughts,

I'd say a little prayer for Ruth Bader Ginsburg.  

Health reports in the form of breaking news about tumors on her liver or surgery to replace a bile duct stent would make me mumble a quick Hail Mary.

I'd pray she'd make it to finish line and live to see Trump voted out of office.

I'd pray her seat would be filled by a Democratic President.

I'd pray her legacy would be preserved by the highest court in the land.

The other option was too bleak to consider.

But this is 2020 where misery seems to be the only entree on the menu.

I was already bracing myself for a turbulent Fall as we zeroed in on November 3rd.  

Even thought I knew death was circling RGB's chamber, I didn't anticipate this September surprise.

As Ginsburg fought for her life, one that brought unprecedented equality to our democracy, 

I wonder what she envisioned would happen when she passed.  

We know what she feared by her last fervent wish.

I barely had time to process my grief when I was seized by rage.

The hypocrisy of McConnell and Graham and every Republican Senator

who denied Garland's hearing makes bile churn in the deep recess of my stomach.

You may no longer be walking amongst us, RBG, but your impact will never be forgotten. 

I'm a direct recipient of your life's work for which I am forever grateful.

May your memory be a revolution.

Hours after I learned of RBG's death, head spinning and heart heavy, 

I stretched out under the covers longing for a brief interlude of nothingness.

A break from the madness.

My eyes hadn't even closed when a loud rumble sprang from the earth.

Furniture groaned in response to the shifting tectonic plates.

As if a pandemic, fires, floods, civil unrest and our fragile democracy are not enough.

Damn you, 2020!

  

DUCHESS

When I edit, I remove the words that don't want to be there,

hand wash them in warm water, and lay them flat too dry.

I might use them later.

Duchess Goldblatt 

 

Breathe

Apocalyptic sky, striated brown, blankets the horizon.

The acrid air smells like a campfire smoldering in the night.

Obsessively, I check the AQI.

We have no choice but to seal ourselves inside.

Daily hikes, one of our remaining pleasures, are forsaken.

As the west coast burns, I teeter on the razor thin edge of sanity.  

Forecast

The forecast for the long weekend was grim.

Record breaking triple digits, fire advisories, and dangerous air quality.

Hiking, my one salvation during this pandemic, 

was not advisable or desirable in these conditions.

It was difficult to rally for three days trapped in the house,

shades drawn and the AC set to cool.

More disturbing news about the divisive idiot in the WH stoked fears about the election. 

On Friday night we went for an early evening walk around the Silver Lake reservoir

and brought home take out.  

It felt decadent and oddly festive. 

Saturday slipped away —

an online yoga class, a few hours in the kitchen, and Charlie Kaufman's new 

movie on Netflix which is brilliantly bizarre and twisted. 

We sipped tequila on the back deck as the sun slipped 

behind the ridge of trees in the canyon.  

The air was heavy and clinged to our skin like a damp cloth.

We dinned late as if we were in Barcelona on holiday.

In the middle of the night we turned off the AC and opened the windows.

A smokey overcast sunrise and breeze,

cooler but still moist, motivated us to drive west to the water.

The expanse of the ocean was immediately calming.

I could have listened to the waves breaking on the rocks below our perch for hours.

We made it through the weekend, another anti-climatic holiday,

and the unofficial end of summer.

This year has been about living while bidding time.

Treading water while trying to get to the other side of the lake.