Fake marriage

By David Grima | Jul 25, 2019

We seem to have come through our miniature heat wave, which boiled us thoroughly all weekend.

Wisdom suggests that, on such days as those, we all do very little. Instead, what did we see? The mad cyclists were out in force on the hottest weekend of the year, sweating and suffering along the road to South Thomaston, some looking like to die of heatstroke on the spot.

* * * * *

Rockland Fire Department brought bottles of water to the public library, to provide relief for those who needed it. The library provided air-conditioned rooms.

* * * * *

A very convenient place for this overheated South-Ender was about two feet from the air conditioner in the booze aisle at our Maritime Farms gas station and food emporium.

Sunday at 2:20 p.m., it was 82 degrees in my cardboard box in the concrete towers at the foot of Mechanic Street, where I am forced to live.

I tried to improve things by posting the Four Seagulls of the Apocalypse at each corner of the west tower, provoking them with a pointed stick into flapping their wings to provide a cooling breeze. It would be my advice that nobody should try this at home, as it was completely futile.

* * * * *

The problems of history were brought home to me recently, when I attempted to recall whether I had watched the moon landing live those 50 years ago, or whether I first saw it as a repeat. Certain impressions from the long-ago time did, however, survive the rigors of scientific review and analysis. Others did not.

For example, I believed I remembered watching something on the telly a little after 9 p.m. I also believed my mother was the only other one in the room.

A fellow worker told me last week that he saw the landing in broad daylight. In fact, the quality of the moon transmission was so poor that his family withdrew to the kitchen and closed all the curtains there, so they could get a glimpse of it on the small television in the shade.

But I saw the same thing after sunset and moonrise.

It is true, according to information supplied online via NASA, that the landing did take place after dark in Wales, which is five hours ahead of the U.S. East Coast. But a little domestic research proved that my dad’s absence was likely a fault of human memory. He advised me Saturday, via the usual transatlantic miracle, that he had been out preaching that evening in a little chapel up the valleys, but that he was home for the moon landing.

It also becomes obvious from the record that I never saw the first moonwalk live, as it took place when I was probably still asleep, a little before 4 a.m. the next day, Monday, July 21. Not in America, of course, because here it all happened on the 20th.

This led me to ponder the nature of time, for on the moon there isn’t any. Setting aside Mr. Einstein’s too-clever-for-me ideas for a minute, it seems that time as we know it only seems to work when attached to a specific place on Earth. Fascinating.

* * * * *

The dangers and complexities of putting a couple of chaps on the moon pale in comparison to the hardest thing humans have ever been asked to do – to love thy neighbor as thyself.

All spark of this love seems to have been bleached out of the political ramblings of certain people who write either for this newspaper or its associated website. In fact, these half-crazed ramblings have lately come to resemble the manifestation of a kind of disabling spiritual sickness. The writer in question seems to have reached the stage where he cannot tell the Constitution from the Bible, misquoting the former and mangling the latter in a continuous tangle of rhetoric.

It’s difficult enough to manage with the bare truth of things these days, let alone with faulty quotations no doubt emanating from a brain afflicted with the remorse of the old, a little timor mortis, the terror of the soul, and perhaps just a little incipient heatstroke.

I will try to pray for him, that he may yet understand where he has gone wrong and that he will not refuse grace. I ask for the same double courtesy, as of course I need it, too.

* * * * *

Yes, the complexities of human love and the consequences of our faulty handling of the question are usually behind all the great evils in this life. Take my dear friend, the poor Lord Pres Trumpleton.

Here is a man who was never loved as he should have been, and now love escapes him at every turn.

Now and then he stirs himself to hold a campaign rally, not for political purposes, he assures me, but because it is the only way he can feel slightly loved. The last election campaign was the only time in his life he ever felt loved, he told me. It didn’t matter at all who was loving him back.

Although it is common knowledge that he did not (and still does not) have any interest in the onerous daily duties of the presidency, which make him literally sick with boredom, running for the presidency provided him with the most direct evidence that he could perhaps still be loved by other human beings. In fact, the only evidence.

Yet it is an expensive love that he craves, conditional entirely upon purchasing it with his soul. Yes, the Lord Prez is a prisoner of his political supporters, just as they are his. (See the bit about the poor columnist, above.)

The Lady Malaria Melancholia Trumpleton, consort in misery to the Lord Prez with whom she is entombed in the ragged mummy bandages of a desiccated fake marriage, provides him with no love at all.

Remember that sad episode in which, standing with her for press photos, he tried to hold her hand, only to have it slapped away? It made me weep for them both.

Nor can he provide love for the Lady Malaria, for in order to love normally you normally have to have been loved as a child. He was only sent to a military academy, where he believed he learned everything about the Army.

He still seeks love from the Army; the real one, not the expensive high-school version he thinks he remembers. For example, he loves to rally the troops with long speeches about himself; poor souls, for they have no way to refuse his attentions.

It is all so very sad.

* * * * *

Now they tell me England is going the same way.

Comments (3)
Posted by: Richard McKusic, Sr. | Jul 27, 2019 05:47

"He wanted to love. And he wanted to be loved. He just didn't know how. From "Humans of New York"

“My father was a fascist. He was trained to be a terrorist in Mussolini’s army. He was anti-everybody. The Irish were ‘micks,’ black people were ‘niggers,’ and Jewish people were ‘kikes.’ His main weapon was pain. He raped me, locked me in closets, beat me with broom handles. He sent me to the hospital many times. He'd threaten to blow my brains out in the middle of the street. I absorbed a lot of his emotional energy. Sometimes his voice still comes out of me. When I’m really angry, and cussing myself out, I sound just like him. It’s him inside me, speaking to me. But I didn’t become him. My grandfather saved me. My grandmother was a fascist like my father. She counted her rosary beads and condemned the world, but my grandfather was a simple man. He lived with us. He always told me: ‘Your father is a nut.’ He hugged me and kissed me. I swung between two extremes: the love of my grandfather and the hate of my father. My grandfather knew how to love. My father couldn’t love because he was too filled with terror. He didn’t have the tools to love. Once when I was fifteen, I walked over to my father and gave him a big hug. He kept his arms stiff by his side. I said ‘I love you Dad,’ and his body started trembling. There was a terrified child inside of him. He wanted to love. And he wanted to be loved. He just didn’t know how.”

We can show them how. We live in great days of opportunity. Let's make the most of them.

Posted by: Mary A McKeever | Jul 26, 2019 13:42

Kudos David!

Posted by: Richard McKusic, Sr. | Jul 25, 2019 15:37

You would have thought England would nave learned a lesson from us.  Appreciate your humorous approach. We all need to lighten up just a bit as we see those who disagree aren't a  piece of "something or other".

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