Jay Meehan: How to survive a nonlinear timeline
“When you’re lost in the rain in Juarez and it’s Easter time too, and your gravity fails, and negativity don’t pull you through. Don’t put on any airs, when you’re down on Rue Morgue Avenue. They got some hungry women there, and they really make a mess outta you.”
~ Bob Dylan
It would seem that somewhere between our teetering emperor’s orange rug and his “bigly” red tie there simmers a festering reservoir of knee-jerks and nonlinear thought, both in search of a vocabulary sufficient to adequately express itself. I feel his pain. I’ve been there. I know the neighborhood.
Of course, that was during my often chronicled misspent youth and I more than likely had imbibed a bit much over my absorption limit of any number of “beverages” or possibly even a ‘shroom–peyote cocktail of some stripe. Long strange trips in search of one’s self will do that to you.
Now I’m not by implication, through symptom analysis alone, attempting to herd his somewhat bizarre behavior patterns into a corral for the chemically imbalanced, but there is most certainly something strange afoot between the man’s protruding organs of hearing and equilibrium.
And I must say, it’s gotten me a bit jittery. I’ve had to question and re-tweak my double-secret survival strategy on an almost daily basis. Being alternative-driven, it’s reached the point of employing a “box and one” zone defense where we try to contain the schizophrenic-in-chief while loosely-enveloping the waiting-in-the-wings bunch.
As I’ve alluded to previously in this space, the constitutional chronology of next-in-line replacements is invertebrate-rich with the likes of Pence, Ryan, and Hatch. The hope, of course, is to somehow learn to live with this president’s deer-in-the-headlights “leadership” until the next general election in 2020.
It goes without saying, however, that this would be much easier if those on the other side of the aisle could get their fecal matter together to the extent they excite the Resistance into showing up at the polls for the midterms with a mission to re-deploy the Nazi collaborators on their well-rounded derrieres.
If a coalition of, say, the younger demographic that has been marching in the streets of late joined the diverse assortment of grown-ups remaining in the building and were able to come together without getting distracted by petty infighting and the sure to be forthcoming Putin/Trump propaganda machine, well, then, who knows? Maybe the system could right itself.
There is always Ed Abbey’s axiom that a “pessimist is an optimist in full possession of the facts” hovering about to keep me from buying too much into such drivel on the Futures Market, however. But I must say that mapping out survival strategies, while not nearly as scenic as the back roads from Bear’s Ears to Monument Valley, beats throwing in the towel.
All is in flux, even more so than usual during this Age of Orange. A news cycles is spotted constantly nipping at its own tail. If I were to, say, check the daily briefing at this moment, I’d be no doubt forced to return to the beginning of this epistle to start anew. In the time it takes to pen a column, the world upends. So it goes.
I have found it is best to contemplate the non-reality of orange, or of any arbitrarily designated narrow band of wavelengths along the visible spectrum. Notwithstanding the fact that my “gray” cannot be located between red and violet, I find that a particular tranquility arrives with thoughts of the spectrum being continuous.
Recognizing that, in the main, specifics are the cards being shuffled, the general theory of Trump’s relativity, that the massiveness of his non-congruent reflections does indeed distort space-time, remains of grave consequence.
And, of course, it matters little with his base that he allegedly fell in with a few hungry women down on Rue Morgue Avenue. Orange has proven to be non-sequential. Judge not he whose misdeeds are cast apart from those of his predecessors. Don’t put on any airs, indeed!
Jay Meehan is a culture junkie and has been an observer, participant, and chronicler of the Park City and Wasatch County social and political scenes for more than 40 years.
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Columnist Tom Clyde has been unable to nab a ski reservation so far, so instead he’s catching up on all the important animal-related news going on in the world.