Saturday, June 17, 2017
Six-legged creature stumbles across post-apocolyptic concrete -
Bleach-sprayed shreds of moss, dust, sand and bits of polymer scrub-brush litter the worn step.
Then comes the broom.
The rain started up again and I'm still waiting to finish the back porch. Quarta finished school this week and has been cleaning house for me. She seems to be channeling all the energy she was using on academics and she wants to clean and organize things. I'm not complaining. She has dusted the garage roof with de-mossing powder, thoroughly cleaned her room, the kitchen counters, and the family room, and scrubbed all the spidery stuff off of the sliding door and cleaned those windows. She will work for chocolate bars and videos.
The shootings in Northern Virginia really shook me up Wednesday. It feels odd to hear local friends shrug it off, as if it's too far away to affect them. But I lived there for more than three years. It feels like one of my hometowns. I keep asking myself, with all the escalating divisiveness of politics and particularly the media coverage of it, if the whole world has suddenly gone crazy. I mean, I never liked Trump, but after seeing him beheaded in effigy in the name of comedy, and now members of his party targeted for assassination, I find myself much more sympathetic to him... so congratulations, Kathy Griffin and Bill Maher, you've won me back to supporting the Republicans automatically and hitting the mute button on left-leaning anything. I wonder if it's even possible for a couple to get married anymore, if they are from different political backgrounds. Steve and I are both the products of such a mixed marriage. It brings a certain balance and richness to family life, or it used to. But I can't see how it could work now. Peggy Noonan's column is really great. People should read it and take it to heart.
Thursday morning began on a much funnier note. This is the dream I had right before waking up: Steve pointed out a man to me: he looked exactly like Steve Carell the actor, only his name was Willy Wonka. In the same deadly-serious voice the real-life Steve had used to inform me about the congressional shootings the day before, the dream Steve told me, "That man is Ivanka Trump's ex-husband." There was a beat as my subconscious treated me to the punchline. I woke up, shouting "Ivanka Wonka!" Oh my goodness. I wonder if my subconscious could write more material like this, and I could sell it.