• The Writer

District of Corona

A corona is a rarified gaseous envelope associated with the sun or a part of the body that looks like a crown.

Apt then that the man who shambles through The White House has now been ordained with the kind of crown his diseased presidency helped forge.

Like a besuited Beelzebub he spreads his pestilence metaphorically and literally through that claustrophobic building and beyond.

His staff and his family all go unmentioned.

His sympathy, only for himself.

His words of empty courage, only for himself.

His demand for calm, empty thoughts yelled into unblinking eye.

He swills an untested cocktail of chemicals trying to fix his body corporeal in the same way as he has tried to fix the body politic. The consequences of the former will be as disastrous as the latter.

Cleverer minds than I have analysed and concluded the events that brought us all to this point. The drift to the right. The concentration of power in the office of the President. The unchanging character of the president. The unacknowledged and untreated disease of racism, homophobia, sexism and bigotry in the capitalism project.

The unyielding support for the Death Cult of Capitalism filtered through the false religion of objectivism and the sullied religion of western christianity.

We know what is good; but we do no good.

We know what is just; but we are not just.

We know what is right; but all we do is wrong.

We have no power. We are all trapped in our own prisons. Made by others. Made by us.

Our mad King sits on his gilded throne wearing his viral crown with the lunatic's confidence that he has the power to shape our reality.

Our power is to tell him no.

His power is that he would sooner destroy everything that exists than not be King.

These are troubling times.

Coffee helps. So do hugs.

Have a coffee.

Find someone to hug.

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