Republican duplicity

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William Blake. Dante’s Inferno. The Hypocrites with Caiaphas. Hypocrites filing past the high priest Caiaphas, who is nailed to a cross on the ground. Caiaphas was the priest who said that Christ should die. Each hypocrite steps on Caiaphas as he passes.

When Donald Trump refused to declare on October 19 he would not subvert the basic tenet of American democracy, many Republican leaders feigned outrage – “feigned” because his threat not to accept the results of the election mirrors precisely what the Republicans have done for eight years.

Beginning on the day President Barack Obama was inaugurated, when Republican Congressional leaders apparently met to covenant with one another that they would thwart every suggestion, every constitutionally mandated action the President took, the Congress has essentially proclaimed their belief that the election of the first African American President was not valid, that it was somehow “rigged.”

They have

  • shut down the government to prove him wrong,
  • sued him several times to question the constitutionality of legislation his first Congress passed,
  • mocked him to his face during the State of the Union Address,
  • refused “advice and consent” for his court nominees to ensure that his electoral mandate did not extend to his constitutionally prescribed responsibility,
  • invited the head of a foreign nation to speak in Congress against a treaty the President had negotiated to which the visiting politician was not a party, thus circumventing the President’s constitutional obligation to conduct foreign affairs.
  • and much more.

In short, they have defamed not only the man but the office he holds, and in doing so the Republicans have destabilized the Constitutional underpinnings of our democracy.

Furthermore, they have refused to lend the power and prestige of their offices to efforts to end the insidious “birther” conspiracy, thus contributing to lack of trust in both the President and the office of the Presidency. They have not spoken against the persistent fringe belief that the President is a Muslim, thereby undermining his Presidency among Islamophobic Americans (and, by implication, fostering hatred for American Muslims). They have refused to refute any of the myriad absurd conspiracy theories about the President. Not dignifying them with responses is, of course, laudable, but refusing to make any effort to change the atmosphere in which those theories could flourish – indeed speaking of and treating the man in such a way to encourage those theories – has been despicable.

Donald Trump is the creation of the party he now represents. The Republicans, indeed the entire nation, are reaping what they have sown: hatred, disrespect for persons and for the Constitution, selfishness above concern for the body politic, and – perhaps most unsavory – for some people,  an unshakeable belief that President Obama’s election was never legitimate because it resulted from the cooperation of a coalition of Americans whom they consider to be less than representative of and not worthy to be counted part of the body politic.

Donald Trump is at least honest in his desire to subvert the Constitutional workings of our democracy.

. . . seeing daily a geological dirt and stone formation the mystery of which is that it exists at all . . .

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Scotts Bluff from the east, as migrants on the Oregon Trail would first have seen it.

Between August 18 and August 25, 2016, my sister, my brother, my sister-in-law, and I made a small pilgrimage to the cities in Nebraska where we lived from 1950 to 1969 – Kearney, Scottsbluff, and Omaha. Scottsbluff, 21 miles from the Wyoming border, is where we have the most memories in common. Scotts Bluff National Monument dominates the horizon from Scottsbluff the city, as it does all of the small cities in the area, Gering, Mitchell, Bayard, and others. The bluff is to this day a constant in my memory. I wrote the following shortly after our trip to try to explain the significance of Scotts Bluff to me.

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From the southwest, approaching from Gering.

As geological formations go, Scotts Bluff National Monument in far Western Nebraska is not overly impressive. Its elevation above sea level is only 4,659 feet, and it rises only 800 feet above the North Platte River at its base. The Riverside Park in the City of Scottsbluff, is on the other side of the river.

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From the south. A quintessential Nebraska view.

As a kid I discovered in the Encyclopedia Britannica that if the Empire State Building were in Riverside Park in the city of Scottsbluff, it would be almost half again as tall as the Bluff. I used to try to imagine how that would look, but I could never in my mind’s eye get the New York building even as tall as the Bluff.

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The South Butte of the Bluff.

My birthplace is Douglas, WY, at the base of Laramie Peak. I have memories of the Big Horn Mountains in Wyoming from the first five years of my life. I went to college at the University of Redlands, nestled at the base of Mt. San Gorgonio in Southern California. I lived in Upland, CA, for several years at the base of Mt. San Antonio. I know mountains. I know Scotts Bluff is not a mountain.

However, the Bluff dominates the lives and thinking―the consciousness―of the people of Scottsbluff (2013 population, 15,023), Gering (2013 population 8,084), Mitchell (2013 population 1,685), and several other small towns in its shadow.

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From the top of the Bluff looking southeast.

Scotts Bluff still, 56 years after our family moved from Scottsbluff to Omaha, in some way I cannot explain, dominates my consciousness. This past week I was in Scottsbluff for only the fifth time in those 56 years. Driving across the plains of Nebraska and seeing the Bluff come into view brings me to a place of peace and self-knowledge that I have achieved nowhere else I have ever been.

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From the top of the Bluff looking east toward Gering.

The Bluff apparently gave many of the settlers 150 years ago crossing the country on the Oregon Trail a sense of peace and understanding, or at least hope and courage.

Many times in my life I have wondered how I would be different if I had spent the 10 most formative years of my life in the shadow of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, or the Library of Congress in Washington, or Mount Vesuvius, or the Thomaskirche in Leipzig, or the Great Wall of China, or La Scala Opera House in Milan.

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Looking northeast toward Scottsbluff the city.

If I had read Proust or Heidegger instead of Mari Sandoz and Willa Cather.

It is, of course, pointless to speculate how my life might have been. I know only that my consciousness was shaped in part―a very large part―by seeing daily a geological dirt and stone formation the mystery of which is that it exists at all. The processes of the gathering and demise of the great North American inland sea, and the uplift and erosion of mountains are fairly obvious here. The geological history spans 33 to 22 million years.

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Looking west toward Laramie Peak (128 miles away and visible on a clear day).

The history for me began in 1950. It is the history of knowing day after day the power of the natural world to create itself, to build structures that show us―me, at any rate―how little power or control we have over anything.  The Empire State Building may be taller than the bluff, and we could build another one exactly like it. But we could not―cannot― build another Scotts Bluff. It is not spectacular like Yosemite or the Grand Canyon. It simply is. The bluff is the farthest extension of a reality stretched across the horizon of my life, the edges of my mind, reminding me that we, all of us humans together, cannot, did not, and could not create anything remotely like it. It is the embodiment of the mystery of my life.

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Sunset from the base of the Bluff looking toward Laramie Peak.

Sunshine

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My love for, obsession with, clouds continues on my walk to the phone store.

A little poem I wrote on a recent day when I had had seizures several days in a row. Senescence apparently does not mean the end of long-time physical anomalies. Don’t feel sorry for me; they’re tiny seizures that no one else knows about. Just a nuisance. But a real nuisance.

Sun.

Every word
that needs saying about the
Sun
Is in poems already
Tucked away in volumes
Of exquisite lines set down by
Wordsmiths
Emotionsmiths
Observationsmiths
Figure-of-speechsmiths.
And I, depersonalized,
derealized
want the
Sun to fold itself away
In my mind
and in my body to
Bring me back from wherever
I have gone.

img_5699About this poem: It’s 83 degrees today. I walked 2.28 miles round trip to the a,t AND t store to change my order of yesterday.  Could have played in the park but didn’t. The sun always makes terrifying (at least bothersome) seizure dissociation less so.

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I didn’t play on the slides in the park.

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