© 2016 By Bob Litton. All Rights Reserved.
It’s one of those days, people, one of those days when I have nothing solid enough in my noggin to offer as a single, coherent essay or poem. But I have to prove to you that I am still alive, even though each morning I am filled with wonder when I rise out of my bed that I am still here.
Death becomes a preoccupation for many of us humans when we pass the 70 mark, which is probably a primary reason for my current interest in American poet Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), many of whose 1,775 poems were meditations on death and immortality. I bought a paperback volume of Emily’s poems last month and a much smaller hardback volume of selected letters she wrote. I am absolutely determined to learn to understand her poems, some of which even Dickinson scholars acknowledge are tantalizingly obscure.
Mortality is always closely evident in this housing complex, where all of us are either aged or severely disabled. The neighbor on my right, a blind fellow who writes a witty column for one of our local weeklies, has dubbed the complex “Mausoleum Manor”.
The neighbor on my left is dying very slowly of lung cancer. All of his meals have to be created in a blender because his esophagus has shrunk. Last night, just after I had settled in my bed, I heard a racket out on the front porch. I could guess what was going on, because similar noises — rollers passing over the rocks under the evergreen hedge — have happened three times before. The sound of a police radio-phone cinched it. They were wheeling my neighbor off to an ambulance and then to the hospital, probably because he was having trouble breathing again. But then, they might have been taking him off to the funeral home or to a distant hospice, which I consider a better option than the hospital because he had turned away from chemotherapy weeks ago. He needed to go somewhere that he could get attention day and night; otherwise he would die of suffocation.
The only other tenant in this unit (each of the nine units has four apartments) is a woman at least a couple of decades younger than we three males. Her affliction is fibromyalgia. I haven’t really met her; she stays in her apartment practically all of each day’s twenty-four hours, so I have only saluted her on the sidewalk a few times as one of us goes to our vehicle or the mailbox. I don’t make any special effort to introduce myself to people who live so near to me, for there is always the strong likelihood that some event, attitude or word will eventually cause an argument. As one of Robert Frost’s characters in his poem “Mending Wall” says, “Good fences make good neighbors.” (I don’t believe Frost himself held that view, but I do.)
So many things on my mind, so many that I have a difficult time focusing on more creative ideas and projects. Politics also beleaguers me, as I imagine it presently does most adult Americans. Many of us are worried that some of the candidates would make a dangerous president either by becoming a totalitarian tyrant in the style of Hitler and Mussolini or by chopping away at the socio-political structure that has taken more than three hundred years to build, and institute a theocracy.
But perhaps we deserve such a collapse, since, without even being totally conscious of it, we have weakened the substructure of our national unity. For too many years most of us have been so secure and comfortable that we have become complacent. We ordinarily have exceptionally low voter turnout.
Also, since 1968 at least, we haven’t had any presidential candidates that struck us as either crazy or extreme; now we have a passel of them. I hate to admit this, but one of my primary criteria for gauging a presidential hopeful is his/her demeanor…his/her stage presence. And remember, folks, we are going to have to watch the next president on TV often during the next four years. It is incredible how obnoxious in their various ways most of the Republican candidates were. I won’t take space here to caricature the top three vote-getters, but I will acknowledge that John Kasich is the least objectionable. Kasich is not handsome, certainly, but he doesn’t pose or bellow or whine or over-talk his opponents’ remarks.
On the Democratic side, Hillary Clinton has good stage presence, immense experience in government, and acute intelligence. On the other hand, she has associational baggage, a taint of dynasty, and an FBI investigation dogging her: I have bad mental images of her being led away from her inauguration stage in handcuffs.
Still, I agree with as many of Hillary’s proposals as I can understand, just as I approve of Bernie Sanders’ socialistic bent. But Bernie has a slight problem with stage presence, too: he stands up there with his shoulders bent, waving a finger in the air like a scolding school teacher; he needs to modulate some. Also, Bernie is only two years younger than I; I don’t think he realizes how the presidency ages a person; just look at photos of Bill Clinton and George W. Bush from the days of their first and last years in office; ditto for Barack Obama. I doubt that Bernie could survive four years.
But it is we the people that worry me most. If the crowds at Republican primary debates and the number of their voters going for Donald Trump and Ted Cruz are a true indication of the mood and intelligence level of Americans overall, we are in for a major disaster.
Too many Americans are believers in “pie-in-the-sky”. They are addicted to get-rich-quick gimmicks such as the various lotteries. The politicians — of both parties — frequently use the phrase “hard-working Americans”, when the fact is that few of us work hard enough to break into a sweat, and too many young people dream of becoming rock stars or outstanding athletes (which I concede will bring up the sweat for a few fun hours) because that is where the big money is. We import Latinos and Asians to do the truly menial work and then we accuse them of stealing our jobs. What we want for ourselves, just like the ancient Romans, is bread and circuses.
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P.S.: I went to visit my neighbor at the hospital this afternoon. He appeared to be in much worse shape than the last time I saw him, in his apartment two days ago. Moreover, it was difficult to understand what he said because his head was enveloped in a complicated device to aid his breathing; it was similar to that nosebag that Hannibal Lecter wore in “Silence of the Lambs”. But I did get enough out of our conversation to discover that the hospital will keep him there as long as necessary and that he can shorten the period by telling them to “pull the plug”. Not a good prognosis, of course, but certainly better than one of us entering his apartment to find him in his bed, dead from suffocation.