Over the past couple of months, I’ve finished relocating to a new city. The process of finding an ideal-to-a-perfect place is difficult. What I look for is a congenial context of weather, culture, politics, community, affordability, and an overall ascetical environment outside my window. What I’ve found in my search is the narrow appeal for many parts of this country. Maybe I’ve allowed prejudice to cloud and interfere. Honestly, deciding on a perfect home is a daunting task.
One aspect that’s taken a backseat is writing. I’ve missed this process. Life has gotten in the way of life, but patience is never far away. As I settle and re-shift my routine to the enjoyment of brilliant sunrises and picturesque mountains, I’m recharged and inspired.
I confess my paradise of a morning walk through architectural-mind-popping neighborhoods, concludes with international television programs and news briefs (in the past was a very light diet). But after a relaxing early routine, the necessity of unpacking and sorting through stuff can’t be ignored, so television is the background noise. Amazingly, the landmine of negativity saturates the news. There’s a continuous downward spiral of darkness feasting and devouring the light of hope. I watch two haunting presences: the Russian-Ukrainian War and a rise in new COVID variants. Decisions ordering total elimination—are from a single-minded-demonstrative war criminal. Then on April 18th, a Florida Federal Judge struck down the federal mask mandate mask requirement on airplanes, trains, buses, and other public transportation. Noted, based on another’s jagged-brainless reality, this judge was appointed by Number 45, who rented, for four years, the house on 1900 Pennsylvania Avenue.
As I garner contentment in my new home, it’s overwhelmingly bitter-sweet, because so much is overshadowing humanity’s sunrises.
I’d like to end with a poem by Tom Charlesworth, written on January 24, 2008. I feel these words are a relevant tribute to the days once enjoyed but now lost, due to a league of individuals contributing chaos … based on their own distorted reality.
The ache of forgetfulness
reminds me of what is
and how little of it I sense.
How infrequently I see or hear
and how incompletely I feel the rhythm of life.
I’m afraid most of my effort is
spent toward objectives which have little
to do with anything but
fulfilling mindless needs
with petty human systems.
But now and then I shout at the stars.
They’re always shouting back,
but I’m not usually listening.
There must be some way of
making everything seem different,
of-being so completely that
questions are answered and time stands still.