Another Month, Another 30 Days of Desperation

I had a bit of a revelation, today, about why it has been so god-awful hard for me to write lately. 

I mean, June, July and half of August were nutsy busy, and I really didn’t have the time to spare.  But Festival was almost a month ago, now.  Yet...when I make up my mind it’s time to write something, I just stare at the screen for a couple of ticks…and call up a game of solitaire.

The thing is, there doesn’t seem to be any point.  The situation in the country is so obscene, so unfathomable, so dire…and nothing  makes any difference.  I could write my fingers to the bone, fire off a million well-reasoned essays detailing the unbelievable transgressions of the Mango Mussolini and the inexplicably complicit GOP; conjure up exhortations to “the resistance” to try harder, make more noise, do more justice, until my brain smoked out…and it wouldn’t make one. bit. of. difference.

The madness that is manifested in Trump has grabbed this country by the throat, and is not going to loosen its grip until SOMETHING dies. 

All we can hope is that it won’t be the United States of America that exsanguinates through that mortal wound.

I don’t think I’m the only person in the country who wakes up in the morning and first thing, fires up the tablet to check the internet…to see if by some miracle Trump has died or been arrested overnight. 

And I hate that this fiasco has made me into that person.