Get a Broom

It was not meant to last forever.  I think Rome was, I mean all roads leading to it and all.  And to think, I’m looking at Nero with additional compassion, because at least he could play a musical instrument…

It is a time to think about the meanings of power.  The slick clarion call to grab it, to take it, to hold it, to wield it, and ultimately to be corrupted absolutely by it.  I guess I too would love to have people listen to me – maybe not so much obey, but see the wisdom of my suggestions.  Ok, I do wish sometimes that I could issue orders instead, but mostly, like the bumper sticker on my old Mazda Miata read:  Question Authority.

Last night, as the lights honoring the 400,000 dead from Covid were activated, and our President and Vice President elect turned toward the memorial, Yolanda Adams sang Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah.  These lyrics really stood out:  “Love is not a victory march – it’s a cold and broken Hallelujah”.  Because love is coming to our cold and broken democracy.  “And the baffled king composing…” it’s like eerily prescient, although I would call the ex-president a madman, and a few other choice epithets, I guess baffled also applies.  She, the singer, is known as a gospel singer, and there were invocations and blessings aplenty in the inaugural, I wait for the day when a shaman or a wiccan is invited to smudge the whole place with sage and sweep the evil spirits out with a broom that then hangs over the entryway.  Y’all know that place needs a spiritual cleansing after all the lies that built up all the hate that smirked and despoiled that fine old building.  “But you don’t really care for music do ya” – a whole administration bereft of the gifts of art and music, a White House devoid of pets, a rose garden devoid of blooms. When this emperor watched his empire burn, there was no music, just hollow grins. And now, in this classy ceremony, finally, finally, compassion is shown. Mercy and grief are on display in a place where the Emperor’s New Clothes were kissed and hailed and we all knew it was not the clothes that were invisible, it was the spine of the chump who was just an empty suit.  Lips pursed in a permanent chicken butt uttered the most vile insults and utter nonsense day after day while his tiny little greasy fingers tapped away on a Twitter feed trampling on decency, mocking truth seekers.  My days are calmer, happier without the noise from a disgusting mob boss wanna be.  Too many hours of broadcast television were wasted repeating those lies, and now, in the deafening silence I luxuriate in Lady Gaga’s gorgeous voice, and Jennifer Lopez’s song, and last night’s delicious Hallelujah.  

Published by Ms. C. G. Tripp

Catherine G. Tripp, Writer/Investor a lifelong mix. Left brain and right brain battle for dominance. I wrote the marketing materials for my mortgage brokerage, had a personal finance column at Examiner.com, wrote essays, short stories and poems published in school papers and magazines then literary journals. If my writings were a color, they would be yellow, bright as sunlight, highlighting the salient portions, not obscuring the past but deconstructing air brushed stories, finding humor and courage in the unloved corners.

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