© 2020, MJ Ostrander
It’s been about forty-eight hours since the Republican US Senate effectively destroyed the Constitution and my ears are still ringing. I’m fairly certain I was not the only citizen to try to throw reality temporarily to one side by consuming many beers and a couple doobies to give myself some relief. This methodology only unleashed a verbal maelstrom five times more venomous than if it would have been had I stayed sober. After all, isn’t catching a buzz what the peasantry of a twisted kingdom do when life gets rough? It seemed rather late to call Senator Cory Gardner.
Even before I commenced inebriation, I told my husband I did not think it a good idea to join the general populace. One overheard pro-Trump statement would have been all it took to ensure mayhem. I am often disgruntled with US politics, but I am seldom if ever in a punch now, ask questions later frame of mind. As things turned out, my rage was displaced by stepping in a puddle of still warm cat vomit in the middle of the bathroom floor. Symbolically apropos. The event will likely stay in my memory as a visual statement of the entire impeachment process. Clean it up. Sucks to be American today. Ah well.
The Colorado sun has risen as I wrote these words, the cat has held her breakfast down and the coffee swallowed. There is a fir tree just outside a window where sparrow and finch noisily thrive, and the crystalline blue sky is interrupted by flocks of geese. The neighborhood is awake and mobilized to pray, to shop, to walk their dogs. Just like any other day. But my motions and my gaze are dispassionate. Grief does not allow for hope. Nothing is the same.
It’s funny how the faces of the major players in the drama already seem to be fading. Their roles have been played out in this twenty-first century Shakespearean tragedy. The entire cast has shed their make-up and headed for a Georgetown bistro. Only those of us in the audience remain to chant,
“All that glitters is not gold
Fair is foul, and foul is fair
Hover through the fog and filthy air.
Life … is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
These violent delights have violent ends…”
By the pricking of my thumbs
Something wicked this way comes.
The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
Brevity is the soul of wit.
Now is the winter of our discontent.”
William Shakespeare – The Merchant of Venice