This morning I drove to town in my fuel efficient, air conditioned car to have coffee with a friend.
We spoke of her new grandchild and whatever drama I’m creating at the moment, while sitting in the deep shade of an ancient sugar maple grove.
In Texas, children are in cages, crying for families they may be lost to for the rest of their lives.
I came home, ate an egg, cooked exactly the way I like it and a piece of toast with some stirfried vegetables. I pondered how I would finish and put to use a possible studio by the brook.
In places we don’t even know about in this country, girls are being held. Are they being trafficked? Will we ever know.
We do know that toddlers, who don’t speak or understand any English, and are in a state of traumatic fear are being brought into court and expected to have details about their origins, their parents or anything.
So, it’s hot here, and damp, and the air is oppressive, and hundreds of people have been barrelling up and down the road to get some relief at the lake. So far, nobody has locked themselves out of their car and needed to use my phone, nobody has had an accident.
It is a typical busy as hell beginning of the busy as hell season out here.
I took a few cool showers, sat in front of a fan, floated in the brook, watched the chickens, removed a couple of ticks and planned my list for tomorrow.
For the children in Auntie Ivanka’s Kidzentration Kamps, there is unlikely to be anything beyond the simplest methods to keep their bodies alive while busy with the work of soul damage.
The people who thought this was a good idea aren’t particularly concerned with souls.
There will be fireworks tonight on the pond in my friendly little New England village, and people will sit on blankets on the beach while the kids roar around exhausting themselves with each other.
Friends who don’t see each other often will catch up, people who see each other all the time will get to enjoy that sense of belonging to a place that is so soothing and important, a feeling nurtured by rituals and holiday weekends.
Over 2,000 children are separated from their parents, sleeping on concrete, surrounded by chain link fence. The blankets they have are mylar. Anybody ever slept under a mylar blanket? If you have, I don’t need to tell you about it.
I am lucky, every minute of every day because I live in safety and privilege. Nobody is likely to send me back to Ireland or France or Wales. I am unlikely to be burgled because I don’t have enough interesting stuff for it to be worth it. I incarnated with a winning lottery ticket. White, middle class, with a loudmouth, but no influence. Most of you reading this are in the same situation.
But - what would it take for that to be different?
Very little, really.
We keep saying “This is not us, this is not America”.
But it is -
clearly.
We spoke of her new grandchild and whatever drama I’m creating at the moment, while sitting in the deep shade of an ancient sugar maple grove.
In Texas, children are in cages, crying for families they may be lost to for the rest of their lives.
I came home, ate an egg, cooked exactly the way I like it and a piece of toast with some stirfried vegetables. I pondered how I would finish and put to use a possible studio by the brook.
In places we don’t even know about in this country, girls are being held. Are they being trafficked? Will we ever know.
We do know that toddlers, who don’t speak or understand any English, and are in a state of traumatic fear are being brought into court and expected to have details about their origins, their parents or anything.
So, it’s hot here, and damp, and the air is oppressive, and hundreds of people have been barrelling up and down the road to get some relief at the lake. So far, nobody has locked themselves out of their car and needed to use my phone, nobody has had an accident.
It is a typical busy as hell beginning of the busy as hell season out here.
I took a few cool showers, sat in front of a fan, floated in the brook, watched the chickens, removed a couple of ticks and planned my list for tomorrow.
For the children in Auntie Ivanka’s Kidzentration Kamps, there is unlikely to be anything beyond the simplest methods to keep their bodies alive while busy with the work of soul damage.
The people who thought this was a good idea aren’t particularly concerned with souls.
There will be fireworks tonight on the pond in my friendly little New England village, and people will sit on blankets on the beach while the kids roar around exhausting themselves with each other.
Friends who don’t see each other often will catch up, people who see each other all the time will get to enjoy that sense of belonging to a place that is so soothing and important, a feeling nurtured by rituals and holiday weekends.
Over 2,000 children are separated from their parents, sleeping on concrete, surrounded by chain link fence. The blankets they have are mylar. Anybody ever slept under a mylar blanket? If you have, I don’t need to tell you about it.
I am lucky, every minute of every day because I live in safety and privilege. Nobody is likely to send me back to Ireland or France or Wales. I am unlikely to be burgled because I don’t have enough interesting stuff for it to be worth it. I incarnated with a winning lottery ticket. White, middle class, with a loudmouth, but no influence. Most of you reading this are in the same situation.
But - what would it take for that to be different?
Very little, really.
We keep saying “This is not us, this is not America”.
But it is -
clearly.
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