A Thick Headed Fellow Named Trump.

 

A thick headed fellow named Trump,

was known to be waxing quite plump.

Thick in the head, and very ill-bred.

His mind a centrifugal pump!

 

The waste that he processed each day,

was intended to keep thought at bay,

but his penchant for tweeting,

gave way to his bleating;

his tweet finger showed signs of decay.

 

Alas and alack he was silent,

some thought be might become violent;

but the cunning old fool,

found another good tool,

and tweeted away with his **** — quite reliant.

 

The use of his tweeter was noted,

but as usual, remarks were all floated,

to Rushkie analysis

and the usual paralysis

grabbed the GOP leaders who’d voted.

99 Ways to Fight Trump:

We need to get this man out of the way of our progress.

99 Ways to Fight Trump

Stop by daily for more actions as we build to 99:

  1. Urge the Electoral College electors not to vote for Trump on December 19th.  It’d be an unprecedented step, but Trump represents an unprecedented threat to our democracy. Petitions here and here.
  2. Don’t just complain to your friends, let Congress know how you feel.  Often.  When you disagree with them AND when you agree.  Write Reps here & Senators here.
  3. Better yet, call Congress: (202)225-3121 will connect you to any member
  4. Donate to the ACLU, and help them fight back to defend our freedom.
  5. Share this post.  Tons of people are looking for a way to fight back, and need specific guidance.
  6. Run for office. School board, local council, dog catcher, etc.  Perilously few good people are doing this, and some frighteningly stupid people are winning as a result. (If you’re a young woman interested in running…

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We lost ‘Kind’

I was aghast to see that members of the Ku Klux Klan drove valiantly and brazenly today through the town of Roxboro, North Carolina, to hail Trump’s victory. Of course, some people decried i…

Source: We lost ‘Kind’

The New Washing Machine

The New Washing Machine.

We lost ‘Kind’

 

I was aghast to see that members of the Ku Klux Klan drove valiantly and brazenly today through the town of Roxboro, North Carolina, to hail Trump’s victory. Of course, some people decried it, but there it is – pure evil.

The existence of evil is not new in the fabric of society; the anger, hatred and darkness have always been there. Sometimes we see it, and at times, we forget about it.

It can be said that complex societal interactions over the past several decades have produced conditions such that the evil and anger have percolated through the cracks that were hitherto sealed by the so-called veneer of civilization. Like a parched, drought torn lakebed, the cracks were evident but appeared benign.

While there was some balance and hope, this veneer stayed intact. However, avarice and corruption have tipped the balance over recent years; people feel cheated and powerless.

Enter Trump, who is the embodiment of societal regression and baseline moral codes. The once intact veneer developed fissures that became active and receptive to Trump when he came along. He serves as a conduit for the cesspool to erupt.  He is not in and of himself capable of unleashing this steaming geyser of filth into society, but he is the megaphone of real and existing evil.

The preconditions for an idiot such as Trump to take the helm of an advanced western country were created in the gutter of capitalist filth. Corporate and multinational power games overtook the notions of common decency and became the driving forces behind the Republican bid for control.

The founding resistance to Aristocracy seems to have morphed into resistance to (even sneering at) elitism of any kind, including actual expertise in some area. Funnily enough, this doesn’t seem to apply to medical people…There are vast (and often internally contradictory) complexities.  Compunded with a ersistent strain of anti-intellectualism that leaves a lot of the population vulnerable to “fake news” and a talented flim-flam man…
This anachronistic and shortsighted party manipulated and drove into the dirt the very society they swore they revered. While they applauded the ignoble rising of the Tea Party, invisible forces of corruption were at work behind the scenes over the years, finally coalescing to the narrowing of their options regarding a viable leader.

Trump is a social aberration we should not see in the year 2016. Here we are, though, faced with him as Commander in Chief to be of the United States. He is a man with no ethics or integrity. He is a liar and buffoon. Do not be fooled that this man is where he is because he has anything to offer us. He is where he is because we have allowed evil to overcome the qualities we need to value most: compassion, fairness and decency.

Can we resurrect these essential social qualities and take measures to correct this malignant imbalance? Can we to avoid the apocalyptical failure in our society that is imminent?

I don’t speak of a religious answer, far from it. It is a time when we should take responsibility for our morality. Time we stopped worshiping money as a god.  If I have learned anything from this election outcome, it is that somewhere we lost ‘Kind.

 

Janice Konstantinidis.

 

Thought for the day

The people that really scare me are the ones who seem to block logic out… like the deniers of evolution and/or climate change — who are happy enough to trust science in their vehicles and computers and medical procedures… but not when it contradicts something they want to believe.

For Violet – The Huon River

Source: For Violet – The Huon River

For Violet – The Huon River

The frost had settled hard on the grass. It was a cold, clear night and the moonlight lay flat across the absolute calm of the river. The woman lay still.

It had not always been like this. Winds had blown across her face as she sat in the sidecar of a bike as a young woman at the edge of her life. The woman had braved this trip once before to meet her future mother in law, now she was making it as a bride.

They lay together in the calm of the night; there was nothing to hear, nothing to connect them physically, or she to anything or anyone.

Many times she would travel the road close to the river. When she first began these journeys to her new home, she was filled with both hope and sadness. She was sad to leave her family, but she hoped for a good life for herself and unborn child.

She made many trips over the years. In time a car replaced the sidecar, but she would not drive it. “Women shouldn’t drive cars,” she would say. “They are too easily distracted.” You might say she was her own worst enemy. By the time her granddaughter tried to teach her to drive, she was too stiff with arthritic pain. She wished she had never travelled here at all, she longed for her home and her youth

The road changed over time, from gravel and dirt to bitumen. The young woman grew to be an elderly person who took very little interest in the passing scenery as she rode along beside the river.

The woman and the river had a long acquaintance. Two children were born and the trips to the city continued. Initially the trips were for practical reasons. Twice they took her back to her home and family in Victoria. On these she took her children. Once was to bury her mother. She always returned to her husband. It was both a trip down into the remote country, and to the more immediate pain of isolation

The woman was sad. The years of toil had left her financially comfortable but feeling trapped. Her marriage was not happy. Her daughter left home at seventeen, making her own journey past the river in a frenzy of excitement as she attempted to find a better life.

By this time her son had beaten his wife many times and she’d left him. The woman had taken in her granddaughter but she resented he. Her anger and bitterness had blinded her to anything positive in her life.

Her husband had a lover. This had happened some thirty years after they married. The woman lived with humiliation. This added to her despair.

The trips to the city became fewer and in the end were only made to go to places like the hospital, or out of sheer necessity, for provisions or clothing.

The grandchild grew and became “too much” for the woman, or so she thought and it was decided that the girl should be placed in a home with the nuns. The child was devastated. The woman’s desolation grew.

Her daughter would visit over the years with her growing family of three. The woman would wait hungrily for these visits, waiting for letters. All this activity passed by the river.

The river had been there a long time. It saw all these comings and goings in the woman’s life, such as changes from starting out to prosperity. Perhaps the river should tell its version; it had seen the whole tragedy unfold. The woman’s encounter with it was yet another variable in its existence.

As she lay in the stillness of the night, she felt no pain. Her husband lay beside her. No words were spoken. Nothing could be known of the windswept young bride or the tortured woman. What could be known were their names and their respective dates of death on their combined head stone.

“For Violet: The Huon River,” a story about my paternal grandmother, by Janice Konstantinidis (Exter) was published in the National Museum of Australia Exhibition “Inside Children’s Home: An Exhibition for Forgotten Australians.”

For Violet – The Huon River

Glass Onion Stories

The frost had settled hard on the grass.  It was a cold, clear night and the moonlight lay flat across the absolute calm of the river.  The woman lay still.

It had not always been like this.  Winds had blown across her face as she sat in the sidecar of a bike as a young woman at the edge of her life.  The woman had braved this trip once before to meet her future mother in law, now she was making it as a bride.

They lay together in the calm of the night; there was nothing to hear, nothing to connect them physically, or she to anything or anyone.

nla.pic-an23752677-vHuon River at Franklin

Many times she would travel the road close to the river.  When she first began these journeys to her new home, she was filled with both hope and sadness.  She was sad to leave her family…

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Some art work I wanted to share.

Lilac Dreaming, by Janice Konstantinidis.

jkon50blog

image-3

Lilac Dreaming by Janice Konstantinidis.

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