I have long resisted the temptation to make this social-political blog my entire existence. If I wrote about every despicable turn of events to which America and the world has been subjected by the current White House, I would do nothing else. I could not get to work, fix dinner, or even use the tiny facilities in my tiny house on wheels.
I don’t mind picking my battles. I also don’t mind protesting each absurdity and every shred of the worthlessness emerging from the White House these days. But many folks call eloquent attention to the would-be emperor’s nakedness. I haven’t felt the daily or weekly need to lend my less deftly phrased protest to their excellence.
But the denial of climate change coming in endless nauseating waves from this administration on the heels of its bombardment of innocents with tear gas over the weekend terrifies and confounds me. I don’t know which straw broke this camel’s back. The atrocity and unlawfulness of Trump’s policy towards refugees cannot be understated. But his blatant disregard of what we have done to our environment also horrifies me.
The current federal authorities on the subject released a report confirming both the existence of climate change and the contribution made by humans to its serious acceleration. The response from Trump? Denial. “I don’t believe it,” he blurts into the microphone. He flatly rejects the report.
I ask myself, “is he stupid? Does he have dementia? Or does this serve some Trump-ish authoritarian end that I can’t see?” I shake my head. In fact, the collective response seems to be stunned disbelief.
I search for the perfect way to articulate my horror at Trump’s irresponsibility. As always, I turn to other, better, writers to find a clean expression of what I feel.
In a different context, Teasdale reflects on Mother Earth reasserting herself after we occasion our demise:
There Will Come Soft Rains
Sara Teasdale, 1884 – 1933
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,
Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
And Robert Frost speculates on how the world will be destroyed:
Fire and Ice