Bulletin

White Structure

                                                                                                                3/13/22

EXHAUSTED BULLETIN

              Rainy day

                    Rain all day,

        Ain’t no use getting uptight,

               Just let it,

                     Groove its own way...

     I wish I wrote that and more to the point, I wish I could feel that way. I cannot.

     “I’m frightened Auntie Em, I’m frightened,” Dorothy confessed to the globe encased image of her Auntie Em, searching for her storm-tossed niece in Depression era Kansas. The year was 1939.

     My two cents; that scene is the high watermark of thespian chops and screenwriting in the 100 odd years of American Cinema. It always gets me, I imagine it, always will. I know it’s coming, I’ve watched it countless times. My lip starts to quiver and the tears roll down my cheek.

     Now, Auntie Em, I’m frightened. And I’m scared and I’m angry and confused. And most of all, I’m exhausted.

God damn it, I’m tired!!

     In 1939, this then somewhat united nation had gone to bed every night under a stinking wet blanket of financial collapse. Under the stewardship of a wise, capable, and challenged executive, we made it through until the War that would inundate our World and lift America out of its financial calamity.

     Born in 1957, I missed those years of character fabrication (add to that, high American Art). My life sailed along under blue skies and upon ‘our sea’ whose glass smooth surface reflected only ourselves.

     In those years, medical advances were realized, civil rights on various fronts were brought closer to the declared ideal. We walked on the moon, and two bucks in the tank got us to the beach and back.

     Then those planes, our own planes came, and Fortress America was breached, indelibly so. The party was over.

Fah dimp, fah blunjit, fah drek, FAH KACHT!

     Now anyone would tell you, or deny, that there have always been pulses of tribalism, factionalism and elitism in the U.S.A. These national character flaws dart below the surface no longer. Indeed, they bear down upon our shores like so many Armadas of so many ages ago.

     One million (1,000,000) dead (and likely more) from COVID in this country alone and multiples more worldwide in the very short space of two (2) years, two years and within living memory of AIDS and a chorus of flu varieties. The ones that personally scares the bejeezus outta me are the diseases thought to be in a trunk in the attic now born again into the true faith of antibiotic resistance.

     Like Dorothy in 1939, the clouds of War are not far behind me, nor are they ever. But today, bluebirds flee from the bombing, not of lemon drops, and chimneys are not the sources of columns of smoke way up high.

     Will the “Better angels of our nature” ignore the itch we have scratched for maybe all of our human existence? I think not. You?

     And if all that wasn’t enough, We are at least 50 years into a global ecological disaster, which we can’t even unanimously agree transpires before our eyes.

We are so very very fucked.

(I wrote that, so I didn’t italicize it)

     I recall, as a child, the air raid drills in school as if crouching with your head between your knees might help you survive. How does a child cope now? I never believed in any sort of biblical prophecy, but now, there’s really no need to. Gods forbid nothing.

      For these reasons and others, the latest offering at Folksizhome is a dark, grim[m], joyless, desperate, and arguably depraved tale because I kinda find myself resentful of all the giddy colored sugar water entertainment America serves itself with all 5 meals a day every day, then flush our toilets with drinking water.

     I’m not apologizing for writing such a bleak and shitty story, I’m just telling you where it comes from. With this bulletin, we post the final installment of ”Alley.’’

     It’s a blues you know. A sad slow song by which a collection of people might empty their pockets of sadness, onto a table between them so to see they all have the same problems, same demons, and same desires. America has some blues to sing and the sadness we conceal is the sadness we keep. I don’t want my sadness, so I throw it on the page.

     I’m very grateful to the person designated “Slicky the Illuminator.” I think him an artistic soul come to Earth, in some part to my good luck and benefit.

                                                                             Thank You

     I’m very grateful and fortunate to others for the continued blossoming of Folksizhome. They prefer to remain enigmatic as well.

                                                                             Thank You(s)

     We welcome your comments, inclusion, and engagement. Really, I’ve never understood why we receive so little, but you’re out there reading and we are grateful to You too.

                                                                             Hang in there

                                                                              Sing a blues

                                                                              Hear a blues

                                                                      Dance a night away.

                                                                               Folksizhome

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