It crossed my attention today that Republican Senator Lisa Murkowski was looking a bit dewey-eyed at a town hall with her Alaskan constituents, saying, “We are all afraid”. She also expressed concern for possible retaliations from her party and the administration for not toeing the line on the issues of the dismantling of Social Security, and other essential services targeted by Musk and the DOGE-bags.
Well, I have news for her. Fear doesn’t cut it. Fear is what Trump and his flying monkeys want us to feel. Let me suggest some alternatives: How about some determination? A bit of steely-eyed grit to moderate and modulate the cold rage simmering within us?
Because these assaults on our neighbors, our homes, our democratic way of life; on the safety and security of our nation; these offenses against law, institutions, and the balance and peace they have made for us thus far… these CRIMES cannot be allowed to continue.
So we have reached the crisis: I, for one, am only surprised at how quickly it’s arrived.
We see the Chief Executive, when not selling his office away to an unelected billionaire, then ruling by scores of orders, most of which fly in the face of law, tradition, and common sense. Many of them contradicting previous thoughtless choices.
We see this convicted felon, rapist, and fraud crashing the markets and the world economy, and triggering massive inflation at home, while placing the burden of government costs on the middle class, and sparing his billionaire cronies several trillions more in tax breaks.
We hear him plotting to extend the kidnapping and rendition of common people to a foreign dictator’s gulag, not just those on student visas, or awaiting migration hearings, but to include those with legal residency, and birthright citizenship, and, no doubt, eventually to perhaps all who would resist the rise of the new totalitarian United States.
Our bright and shining Kakistocracy.
Our gleaming Oligarchy.
Our brilliant Kleptocracy.
So, Lisa Murkowski, please quell your fears, and find your nerve, and resolve to do the necessary work to form a coalition in Congress to thwart this gang of thugs, and return the nation to some semblance of balance.
kak·i·sto·cra·cy
/kakəˈstäkrəsē/
government by the least suitable or competent citizens of a state.
ol·i·gar·chy
/ˈäləˌɡärkē/
a small group of people having control of a country, organization, or institution.
klep·toc·ra·cy
/ˌklepˈtäkrəsē/
a society or system ruled by people who use their power to steal their country’s resources.
A majority of all the voters did NOT VOTE FOR Donald Trump last November.
Keep that in mind.
True, more voted for him than Kamala Harris. He was re-elected. But the majority of voters, nationwide, would have preferred someone else back in November.
Here it is, today: The Ides of March. A date that symbolizes political chaos perhaps more than any other.
Our nation has been plunged into political, economic and social chaos because lies are promoted more aggressively than the truth, and those lies are calculated to extend personal power and wealth to the greediest and most cynical ones among us.
Trump celebrates greed, cynicism, and aggression: It defines for him the meritorious. His meritocracy makes room for liars and criminals, fraudsters and murderers.
Our legal and political institutions flail, and fail to defend the nation from them.
Trump’s supporters have no interest in a fair or inclusive America. They would re-write our Constitution to limit its protections to Whites over other races; to Fundamentalist Christians over other faiths; to the Cis-gendered over all others; to Men over women; and to the Ultra Wealthy first and foremost.
If you are MAGA and have believed Trump’s lie of “America First”, I’d point out that Trump has offered to sell citizenship to the highest bidders. He has clearly “sold the presidency” to the wealthiest man in the world, Elon Musk, who, himself, broke immigration law to get started in this land.
We are slouching into a period of history that will be dominated by such thugs, and the protection of the law will be apportioned to the privileged. The party of Trump wants to be the ONE AND ONLY PARTY. Just as there is only one party in China, in Korea, in Russia… And, should this come to pass here, if you are not a member of The Party, don’t expect to enjoy free speech, the protection of the law, the right to assemble, the freedom to travel, or to be yourself, as you see yourself. The State of Trump is neigh.
Be very afraid?
NO. BE VERY ANGRY. AND PURPOSEFUL. ASSERT YOUR TRUTH. LOUDLY. AND PERSISTENTLY. TO ALL WHO WILL LISTEN. AND ENCOURAGE THEM TO DO LIKEWISE. NOW IS THE TIME.
How can doing the right thing be so depressing? In January 2025, I returned to Walt Disney World for Marathon Weekend. It was my twelfth year in a row, and along with about 375 other people, I was a Perfect Dopey, meaning I’d completed each of the previous 11 Dopey Challenges. For the uninitiated, a Dopey Challenge is a 5k, 10k, half marathon, and full marathon over four consecutive days. Each year, about 7,000 runners (or walkers, in my case) take on the challenge. Most finish. But worldwide, only 375 or so of us had completed each and every one that Disney has held and, at 73, I was one of the eldest women—and inordinately proud of it. It was and is an exclusive group, composed of both A-level runners and those of us considerably slower. Timing is everything.
Competitive runners have time to stop for photo opportunities with Disney characters, spending 15 and 20 minutes waiting in line for a photo with Captain Jack, Goofy, or any of the other ten or so characters along the course, and then racing to the next one. They also have time to ride the rides that are open at the ungodly hour of 5:00 in the morning. For us back-of-the-packers, however, it takes everything we’ve got to finish in under the 16-minute mile requirement, or seven hours. In my case, that usually meant starting out at 14-minute miles, trying to maintain that until the halfway point, and then slowly allowing myself to finish the 26.2 miles at a more-or-less 18-minute mile. Those who fall behind that pace are picked up by a bus, not so lovingly called the Grim Sweeper.
Two things were at play in January this year: it was bitterly cold for three of the four mornings (the 5k, 10k, and marathon) and rainy for the fourth (the half marathon). And the marathon started 30 minutes earlier than it had in the past. Disney asks runners to be in place at least an hour and preferably two before the race starts, and the marathon was scheduled to start at 4:30 a.m. Because I’m a slower and older (did I mention I’m 73?), I was in the last group to start, which gave me about a two-, possibly four-, minute head start over the balloon ladies, who are the last ones to start and maintain a steady 16-minute mile. If you fall behind them, you are at risk of being swept from the course. So to get to the front of the last corral and gain that precious four-minute head start, my sister Kate and I elected to arrive as soon as the gates opened—and that meant setting our alarms for 1:30 a.m. and getting on the first bus (2:00 a.m.) to the starting point.
But that meant sitting on the ground in the cold temperatures for two and a half hours. I was not a happy camper, but then I never am at the start. This time, though I tried to hide it, I was downright grumpy. I talked to fellow runners, I tried to read a book on my phone, but mostly I just shivered. It didn’t help that the hand warmers I’d brought with me and opened the night before, trying to make my morning ablutions go that much faster, were air activated and not ones you have to shake. Live and learn.
We finally started—remember, we’re last—sometime around 5:30. Elite runners are halfway done, and we’re just starting. (For the first two races, the 5k and 10k, they’re finished before we even start.) And I kept up a “I can do this” attitude until, alas, mile 3, or about 45 minutes. Then for another forty-five minutes, I gave myself pep talks, but I just wasn’t feeling it. I was freezing. I was old and cold. What was I doing, making myself miserable? At mile 6, I invented a pain in my left instep so that I could get my sister to go ahead without me. She’s Perfectly Dopey as well, and there was no sense in her risking not finishing just because I wasn’t feeling it. She ran on ahead and I lost sight of her within minutes. And was happy for her. Mostly. Though really, what I was feeling was sorry for myself.
I made it to Cinderella’s Castle, had my photo taken, and gave up sometime thereafter. The balloon ladies were five minutes behind me, and gaining. I voluntarily got on the Grim Sweeper, where they had the heat on. Several runners were already there, having given up for one reason or another. It doesn’t matter. They—we—tried. And knowing when you’ve reached a limit, whether it’s mental or physical, is not a bad thing. It was warm, blessedly warm, in the bus. For that alone, I knew I’d made the right decision. The bus eventually arrived back at the starting point, where we were given a medal, and I found the nearest coffee station. Twice. And waited for my sister, who finished in about six hours forty minutes.
I knew I’d made the right decision for me. We spent the next day hanging around Disney Springs, the room, eating, and performing all our after-marathon rituals. I gave my sister the t-shirts I didn’t earn, and gave the medal to charity. And still, I knew I’d done the right thing.
Until I got home and reality hit. Instead of being one of 350 Perfectly Dopeys, I was now one of 3 billion Perfectly Ordinarys. I cried at the Perfect Dopey Facebook page. I gave away my Mickey Mouse ears. I didn’t walk at all for two weeks. Is it just ego? Pretty much. Though it was part of my identity that I wasn’t ready to give up yet, even though I did it in the full knowledge of what I was doing. Willingly.
And then the recriminations began. How could I be so stupid? I should have just powered through. Why didn’t I train harder? Why didn’t I wear warmer clothes? Should I have eaten the power bar sooner? Later? I know, deep in my guts, I made the right decision to quit. Walking into that nice warm bus was one of the easiest things I’ve ever done. Giving up that part of my identity days later, from the warm comfort of home, though, is harder. As I get older and have to give up more and more things (a job I liked, unlimited energy, assuming I’ll bounce back from an injury, caffeine (still working on that one), alcohol, staying up past 9 p.m., and so on), I have to remind myself that I’m lucky to still be here, mostly healthy, mostly sane, mostly still challenged by other things.
Still Perfectly 10k, though it doesn’t have quite the same ring
In a mid-October interview on Fox News Trump said, “We have two enemies—we have the outside enemy, and then we have the enemy from within. And the enemy from within, in my opinion, is more dangerous than China, Russia, and all these countries.”
He was referring to the nebulous “Deep State”, which in MAGA-speak means anyone and everyone who stands in the way of Trumpism. The cult of Trump, in turn, doesn’t really stand for anything beyond a United States dominated by a single party which favors Trump and his cronies; ultra-wealthy, hyper-conservative, mostly christian, nationalist, and the chauvinistic.
To be considered for his cabinet, you must be a loyalist willing to dismember and dismantle whatever Project 2025 says. Also, a history of sexual abuse, trafficking, drug use, public drunkenness, and a Trump pardon for fraud appear to be a plus.
Additionally, the “big tent” of MAGA-ism has found it useful to include wingnut branches of climate change denial, anti-vax, anti-flouride, anti-pasteurization, and many other anti-science factions. Don’t get me started on Q-Anon.
Trump, as with all demagogues, thrives on fear-driven politics. “They’re eating the cats!” They weren’t eating the cats, dogs, or geese. And to whatever extent the nation was concerned about immigration, Trump clearly didn’t support the bipartisan bill targeting that problem. He used his influence to block it.
Because fear of those immigrants won the election for him.
And because there’s nothing bipartisan about Trumpism.
That this amazing nation built by immigrants could be manipulated to fear them… The irony !
You know where else you could study a nation run by one party? In the 20th century, fascist Germany and Italy, soviet Russia, the Peoples Republic of China , and North Korea. And now in the 21st, Putin’s Russia, the PRC, and North Korea. (Yes, there are others, like Turkmenistan, and a growing list of flailing illiberal democracies.)
But I wanted to underscore what it took to retrieve Germany from totalitarianism.
Hitler was a demagogue cultist, who garnered power by targeting “the enemy within”, whose main project was national “purity”, and the “internal deportation” of “undesirables”.
Sound familiar? 15 to 20 million lives were lost removing fascism from Germany.
And make no mistake: Trumpism is fascism, plain and simple.
If you truly want freedom, defend others from losing theirs.
The project of the new administration is to reestablish a status quo that existed here from the 17th century through the latter 20th century; a nation with white male heterosexual domination, and socioeconomic stratification locking people into immutable roles, lifelong. Our lives have spanned a period which challenged those constraints, and freed so many marginalized lives, fulfilling dreams long repressed.
If we can’t dismantle the orange machine, we can, at least, throw as much sand in its gears as possible.
This wisdom was imparted to me in just those words by a wise teacher years ago. It’s helpful for all manner of reasons ranging from your morning eggs to that snazzy free key chain you fell in love with last year, but now, sadly, is randomly shedding your keys unnoticed.
And this isn’t to suggest that the fixable be cast off willy-nilly. All who know me will attest to my compulsion to repair and return to service almost anything worth fixing.
However, there are times to just let things go to rest; to be set aside gently and allowed to be unfixed.
Sometimes it’s the blender… And sometimes it’s someone you love.
A rift happens. An event shaped by people or happenstance puts you at odds with someone close to you, and you find yourself being asked to subscribe to the loved one’s views… except you cannot share them.
And they find your resistance to their beliefs churlish or wrong, and in turn, you find their insistence judgemental, manipulative or self-serving,… and round and round…
Adulthood undoes the hierarchies of the nuclear family. Older siblings no longer outrank the younger. Children come to view parents as equals, but parents might not yield to that idea.
And our experiences as people diverge; our sense of right and wrong, just and unjust, become nuanced by paths that lead in different directions, and away from a friend, or parent, or brother.
I’m not one to assert my differences: I’m quietly tolerant. I avoid making judgements. On balance, in personal relationships I’ve thought there’s more to be lost than gained by claiming the “moral high ground”.
Ironically enough, I’ve been judged harshly for that.
So, a door gets closed.
If you closed it, you’re inside. If closed on you, you’re outside…
And yet, you are still inside your own safe space and journey. You have a door of your own. You might leave it open, or at least leave it unlocked. Or perhaps choose to set a latch on it, because boundaries would be wise in some cases. Any of those choices could apply.
As to your feelings, well, I only can say for myself. After the initial shock and hurt of the conflict discovered, beyond having been judged, and engaging in counter-judgements, when the smoke of volleys exchanged blows away, and the dust has long settled, I’ve learned this much:
That forgiveness, answered or not, is ultimately healing, and a peaceful path forward.
An article in this morning’s Washington Post gave me pause. It’s a thing now that some, perhaps many, people have come to resent receiving phone calls. I’ve sensed this shift in attitudes for a time, but not focused on it. “Text! Please don’t call me!” is the etiquette now. It seems there are people thrown into panic when their phone rings with a caller unexpectedly.
Then again, voicemail has gone the way of the horse-drawn cart, perhaps deservedly, because texting IS more convenient, and, yes, much less intrusive. I’ve many friends who have disabled voice mail in their phones, and I myself only check for voicemails as an afterthought.
Even junk callers are now preferring to text me rather than ring my phone. But, there have been voicemails that delighted me, and which I’ve saved, and listened to repeatedly, as if they were photographs of someone as they were years ago. It’s not likely I’ll hear more of those in days to come.
And let’s examine what we all know has happened to customer service: No one wants to actually speak with you! After delving through the elaborate menu options and several invitations to contact them online or by email, you’re more likely to arrive at a voicemail box rather than a representative. And you sense the sketchy odds of that message being reviewed any time soon!
The written word, too, is taking a back seat to the cuneiform of emoticons, emojis, and whatever other modern glyphs are now the mode. Even the representation of verbal sound is fading away in the way we share our thoughts.
So it seems, my world is rapidly shifting to a future when phones will mostly communicate in silence. I believe there’s a connection between this trend and the increasing isolation between and within communities, but that is a subject for another day.
For my part, ring me any time, or text if you prefer. Leave voicemail if so moved, and I will listen to it. Make it endearing enough, and I might even save it!
Nora Ephron’s mother once said to her, “Everything is “copy”, meaning that anything occupying one is fodder for the maw of your creative life. The challenge of journaling is to take what’s on your mind, and express it in a way that is potentially meaningful to one’s self, or even to others, in which case it may become a blog entry.
For Nora Ephron, this truism made for a fruitful life of creative projects, and I’m here today to embrace the possibility.
I learned this week that WordPress has a setting that permits the author to “privately” publish a draft, so it will only appear to its originator or an editor; only for those approved when logged into the site. This is, I realized, a perfect way to become more engaged and active with personal writing on a daily basis, because it removes the pressure to polish work as one is writing.
The fussiness of scribbling in a notebook, and then refining and transcribing some time later, and to finally rewrite it all in the environment where you might wish to display it for general consumption; all that can now be undertaken in the final venue, through its messy phases, until ready to release from the “private” realm into full publication.
I could wax on about the intuitive qualities of the WordPress Block Editor, and how it has vastly simplified integrating photos, link creation, and other media content as you refine the layout of your work, but that’s not the point of my journal this morning.
I’m here to remind myself, and you, that self-expression is joyful, and to say “Thanks!” for whatever makes it easier to launch in to it.
Well, put most simply, it’s Thanksgiving on a smaller, quieter, more manageable scale. It’s less food, and simpler choices for the day. Try staying put, and doing less. It’s much lower stress, you can be certain!
Our Thanksgiving has been one of quiet time with the computer, and books, and music. A spot of viewing the Macy Parade. And a bit of repair on a truculent blu-ray player.
We’ve been untroubled with shopping, or travel. Utterly negligent of feast preparation, and football. I haven’t even left the building, but we did do some laundry. And we both had wonderful family time by telephone with daughters and special friends. I only get exhausted if I am surrounded by too many party people. Don’t you?
Who needs all the sleepy making turkey, let alone a turducken. Next year try to do less, and keep it simple. What if we just treated Thanksgiving like a really, really good dinner party? Plan a cohesive menu, invite a sane number of guests, craft a rhythm to the evening, and make the whole thing feel special yet still manageable. Last Thanksgiving my wife and I decided to try something different. When our guests asked what they could bring, we gave them a one-word answer: nothing. Now that’s perfect for your austere Thanksgiving!
