Trump and MAGA; they aren’t unlike the roadkill skunk decomposing down the block that the animal control boys aren’t getting around to picking up. Festering and funky in the afternoon sun it sits there and cooks, the effluvium is never ending, 24/7/365 – for four rotten years. And there’s no escape.
It’s dark on the Bay Trail this morning. The sun still has a good twenty minutes to climb up and over the backside of the East Bay Hills before it paints the waters of San Pablo Bay in morning pastels. On other sections of the trail, light intrudes from the nearby, just waking neighborhoods. But not on this one short section. This is where the trail plunges down a steep curving hill under a canopy of oaks, and bay trees.
It’s murky black out here.
I could turn on my cell phone flashlight. But why?
The darkness is peaceful. It excites the senses.
It’s noise free in this short dip in the trail. Noise – the sounds of neighborhoods and cars starting their day.
But there are sounds here. Noise versus sounds; there’s a difference.
Down the bayside slope, unseen, the San Pablo Bay waters are riffling onshore. Somewhere, far out on the dark, placid bay a buoy is moaning. A sighing breeze ruffles the oaks, and morning birds are greeting their day. When it’s very still I can hear Lexi’s nose snuffling. On a moonless morning I can barely see her as she sweeps back and forth in front of me, nose almost scraping the ground, her olfactory radar excited, hard at work, enjoying nature’s special gift to dogs. Occasionally an animal scrunches, unseen, over the ground cover in the oak thicket and Lexi’s ears perk up.
I’ve been covering sections of the Bay Trail for countless years and with two different dogs. For most of those years it was a run. But at 71, and after two broken ankles, a broken metatarsal, chronic Achilles tendinitis, and 55 years of pounding the pavement, the runs have turned into brisk walks. Always thought that the end of the running trail would leave me heartsick but the only regret is that Lexi doesn’t get to stretch out her legs and run. Feel more sorry for her than I do for myself.
But even here, the MAGA scream intrudes. It’s the shrieking, slicing metallic brrrrr in a redwood grove. The roar of a speedboat on an otherwise placid lake. Old dr’unckle Bob, stewed to the gills at the family picnic. It’s trying not to think about Trump when someone says, “Hey, don’t think about Trump.”
I often recall a sign carried by a woman at a May Day protest in Martinez, California. The sign read, Trump has stolen all of the joy and safety of living in America. Fuckin-A right. For any American who is paying attention, any joyful glow gets veiled by the dark MAGA cloud.
It’s even impossible for those trying to live blissfully ignorant to remain blissfully ignorant; that’s called poetic justice.
At a certain point we all need to find a time and a place to recover our composure. It’s a difficult thing. The ataxia is relentless. It stalks you in the haven of your bedroom at night and even out here in the calm of an early morning thicket.
It’s everywhere – and it’s become routine. Let’s not kid ourselves, America is no longer on the road to the irrational. Hell, that threshold was crossed a long time ago. Some would have us believe that we passed through the doorway on the fifth day of last November 2024. Hardly. By that day the vestibule separating the commonness of reason from the normalcy of the aberrant was already far behind us. November 5, 2024, Election Day, was the day we heard the ominous click of the gate locking behind us.
The vulgar stain of the Trump regime has infiltrated the American fabric. It contaminates every waking hour and, stupid me, I’ve allowed it to infect the joys of my retired life – my grandson’s basketball, photography, and writing. I’ve become so wound up in protesting that I’ve stopped going to Jackson’s games on Saturdays. I haven’t taken a photo excursion, other than photographing protests, since sometime in late winter. And writing? Reading this answers that question neatly.
Woe is me? Let’s just say, pissed is me. I’m angry that a lying, uncouth ignorant fraud, and Stephen Miller, the ferret face Nazi, along with the rest of the regime have stolen life. But I’m not ignorant of the fact that, relatively speaking, and notwithstanding my criticism of the regime, I’m not on the MAGA radar. I’m a 71 years old, white guy, American born of American citizens. If I didn’t identify as a Social Democrat I’d be among the safest of the safe.
So why let it affect me?
It has little or nothing to do with democracy. As I’ve pointed out a number of times, on this site, American democracy is mostly a misconception and has been since, well, the founding. I’m touched by sadness when I see a young Hispanic woman selling trays of strawberries in a supermarket parking lot; the couple selling pupusas in a small office parking lot in Richmond; the stooped old Hispanic man selling helados from the ding-ding-a-linging cart on on the sidewalk in nearby Richmond. Every time they step out of their homes to make their small harmless pittance by selling fruit or ice cream they must wonder whether, come nightfall, they’ll be back home (and still not necessarily safe) or in a detention center (jail). How have we come to normalize a government policy that strikes fear into the lives of peaceful people?
What did that young woman selling strawberries or that old man pushing an ice cream cart, or the teens playing soccer on a rutted field in Richmond, or the Hmong woman at the Asian market in San Pablo ever do to that bitter old fuck on Facebook who wants to get rid of “those illegals.” Did he lose his job selling flats of strawberries in a Home Depot parking lot to some kid from Peru?
I would love to say that I’m completely done with writing about life in MAGAstan, but I’d be lying to myself in the process. If not for any other reason but maintaining my sanity and some smidgen of joy in my life I’m returning to photography, life stories and travel stories. Politics isn’t dead on this site but the regular 47 series is going on the back burner.
But not before some –
Parting thoughts and parting shots.
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The Life in My Years 