Dear Diary, Vermilion Pastoral.

TL;DR? And this is l-o-n-g … I am on vacation.


Lake Vermilion. One ‘l’ not two. Vermilion, not Vermillion. Lake Vermilion, Minnesota is not a place, not a zip code. It is a lake. One of the five largest lakes in Minnesota, where I’m convinced they count ponds as lakes to get to a total of 10,000.

But then Vermilion confuses this belief.

On the west half of Lake Vermilion the bays separated by rock and island geologic formations seem large enough to warrant being their own lake – Lake Wakemup, Lake Norwegian, Lake Black, Lake Niles, Lake Frasier, Lake Head of Lakes — but instead they are bays. Wakemup Bay, Norwegian Bay, Black Bay, Niles Bay, Frasier Bay, and Head of Lakes Bay.  What defines a lake versus a bay? And when is a lake just a pond? For that matter what defines a lake when a river runs through it? And I’m looking at you Lake Pepin. The Mississippi River runs through it. Why isn’t Lake Pepin just a feature called the widening of the Mississippi River at Pepin?  (Note to self: investigate.)

Maybe Minnesota would have more lakes if the Lake called Vermilion was split up into more lakes. Bays become lakes.

Pluto was demoted from planet to dwarf planet. Lake Vermilion could be promoted to a waterway with contiguous lakes. The Vermilion Chain of Lakes. Expand the galaxy of Minnesota’s lakes by reclassifying bays.


Frood and I take a boat ride with Mr. Viva on Lake Vermilion, a lake so big it has one island for every day of the year and one of those islands is so big it has its own lake.

Skipping across the lake at boat speed taking it all in — wildness, wilderness in chaos, an endless shoreline outcropping of rock; and a better writer would describe the shoreline differently because it is not an outcropping of rock, there is nothing ‘out’ about it. ‘Outcropping’ implies a sticking out, a formation out of the ordinary. The formation on the shoreline is without end. A continuous installation of rock. Normal.

So, I’ll state it again, the entire shoreline is an outcropping of rock. The edge of rough grade sandpaper that has roughed up and raised not just wood but living woods — scrubby and dense with the occasional patches of bare rock still cold and hard, still fresh with the memory of the glacier scrape of millions of years ago. This sandpaper gives no quarter, these rocks have not cracked or broken to give shelter to the roots of a tree.

They’re warming up to moss though. It’s a start.


And the island on the lake big enough to have its own lake? I wonder if anyone lives on the island. And do they face outward toward the big lake or do they introvert to the little lake? Is the property taxed for lake frontage in and out? Coming or going? A lake with an island on a lake sounds so romantic. The island is a moat.

There is not much conversation on the boat. I miss when Frood points to a white spot on the water. From the motor end of the boat, Mr. Viva tells me, “A dead fish.” I pass the information along to Frood. “Fish.” And I point. She already knows.

We circle in to get a better look. A muskie, 45-46″ long. According to Mr. Muskie-hunter-Viva who would know, the magnificent white belly up is the result of improper catch-and-release. White belly to the sky, laid out, motionless but for the waves. In its former life, this was a predator, a killer, a big fish in a big lake.


Near Merry-Go-Round Reef at the mouth of Norwegian Bay is ‘Square Rock Island,’ a small island with a cubic rock pointing up. Someone in glacier-scrape-sandpaper quality control left before shift end and so this cube sticks out like a die stuck en pointe. A singular true outcropping. And again with the names. ‘Square’ implies two-dimensions. ‘Cubic Rock Island’ would be more apt. ‘Dice Island’ more poetic. (‘Die Island’ more exacting but who would want to go there?) Note to self: have a word with the Minnesota Department of naming things.

The rock on Square Rock Island is very Claes Oldenburg-esque and it was here long before and will be here long after us or Claes. Nature demonstrates. If it was a Rubik’s Cube, the colors have faded to gray.  Or maybe it is the dots on a die that have worn away — no more craps games and we never made the second die for a set of dice anyway.  Or maybe the glacier scraper had something more practical in mind, we’ll never know. This odd rock on an island on a lake that has an island with a lake. Art. Nature validates even though we puzzle as to why and what for.

I would like to see something like a ‘Dice Island’ sculpture on a Wisconsin Avenue street corner as a Sculpture Milwaukee installation. The sounds of wind and water and motorboat would be replaced with street sounds but that could only add to the puzzlement and wonder. A glacier scraper installation on Wisconsin Avenue, Milwaukee, WI.

I’m here for it.


One of the Sculpture Milwaukee sculptures last year was not the sculpture but the instructions for construction. This seems like a writerly way to create art. Describe, specify, handoff to manufacturing and see what this way comes. Handoff to many manufacturers resulting in a family of sculptures with a shared DNA but each one unique.

I am reminded of the scene in This is Spinal Tap where the artist played by Angelica Huston hands a commissioned replica of Stone Henge to the band’s manager. When the manager inquires as to the delivery of the full-size stage prop, she pulls out the paper napkin spec and points to 11″ — eleven inches. This is it. I’ve finished. The difference a tic makes — 11″ – inches when it should be feet — 11′.

In describing the Lake Vermilion shoreline for hand-off to manufacturing, I would overuse ‘outcrop’ and ‘outcropping.’ The glacier scraper would read “outline the shore with rock outcroppings like glitter only use rock, lots of rock, so much outcrop rock, outcroppings of rock under the water, outcroppings over the water, big outcroppings of rock as islands” and then in protest of all this misuse of ‘outcrop’ and its tiresome variations and to make a very bold, very Claes statement, manufacturing would drop a “Square Rock Island” into the final product. Screw you. Screw your instructions. We know it’s a cube, but this, this is an outcropping rock. Bah with your shoreline “glitter” of 11″. We know it is 11′. We make mistakes made to scale.


American Pastoral by Philip Roth is a sweeping saga of a novel. Oh, glorious redundancy! “Sweeping saga of a novel.” He writes deliciously, delicately, boldly and delivers paragraphs that span pages. A paragraph so long it contains sentences with embedded paragraphs — no twitchy returns or hesitations; a paragraph that spans years of military service and pages followed by another paragraph a few pages later that a lesser writer demanding less of a reader would mercifully call a complete chapter.¹ Gloriously tamped down, packed, and fully formed novels within sentences within paragraphs within a novel.

And in keeping with pastoral, there is not much dialog, but when there is, it is exact. Innocuous. Simple. But loaded.

“Fish.” Dead fish. I wonder at the life of the muskie. Territorial, predatory, making its way through years of unchecked behavior becoming of a master of a pond or a large lake or Lake Norwegian Bay. Caught up by the lure, the appeal of a Lindy line, hook, and sinker. Caught. Photographed in shame by a proud fisherman — he had to have been, a muskie this huge. The muskie was stunned by too much fresh air, thrown back without enough catch-and-release care to reacclimate, belly to the sun, dead to the end. No more the big fish.


Pastoral. The definition:

  1. used for or related to the keeping or grazing of sheep or cattle.
  2. (in the Christian church) concerning or appropriate to the giving of spiritual guidance.

Early in the saga of Swede, the protagonist, the narrator claims he was completely wrong, completely wrong about his understanding of the Swede. Wrong about the Swede. Pastoral, both definitions apply. But wrong. The writer, the narrator’s brain. Roth nails it. Meet someone once and nail their character, their personality, their imagined experience to a wall. Crucify them on your storyboard with a glance. And then Roth nails us. Pins himself up for examination and scrutiny.

“I was wrong.”

And me too! I always am.

Dig under the veneer, lift-up the corners, look at the underbelly. “If you knew your neighbor’s problems, you’d keep your own.” – anonymous

That’s where the story starts and as the tale is told, I shift my scrutiny of Swede and his story to the narrator as look through his prose, his descriptions, his glass, darkly. The real story is the subtext of what’s onstage.


There is a breeze on the lake and by breeze, I mean a cool sometimes stiff wind. We’re in a small boat, there is a healthy chop. And then a speedboat towing a floaty ring with a couple of kids on it zips by and they must be freezing. The water may be 60°F. Small human ice cubes in the making.

But then kids burn hot.

Back in the early ‘70’s of flowers and large bell-bottoms, my Aunt made us – we were kids — swim, get in that water on that Lake Vermilion public beach. The ambient temperature hadn’t risen to above 70°F until after the 4th of July and the ice may have broken just the week before, but you are going in that water. Looking back, we were an offering, her sign to the universe that this was summer; in this land of 10,000 lakes and some ponds and a lake with an island with its own lake, it is warm enough to call it summer, hot enough to order a sacrifice of small warm human bodies into a cold lake.

Shepherd the children into the lake to show the universe what you’re willing to sacrifice and maybe summer will follow. Kids burn hot. I only remember the fun of the beach.


I’m currently taken with the time-lapse function on my camera. Pointed at the seemingly unmoving landscape of trees, water, sky, the camera picks up the micro movements in the macro frame.

My bleacher seat today is on the deck of a porch looking at a lake with an island that is big enough to have a lake.

From the porch across the road, I must look like a woman intent on a notebook, enjoying too much coffee, glancing away occasionally. Or I am just a woman in a pink sweatshirt feeling the breeze. Whatever. Their frame doesn’t show what is written, doesn’t show micro movement. They don’t know that I’m writing that their beach towels and lawn chairs are thrown about and it looks like a mess of a vacation.

Micro-movements.

When I’m plugged into the news, into the micromovements of macroas*holery, I realize the frame I’m looking at isn’t large enough. In the sweeping glacial movement of time, daily news is a scratch.


Here’s a picture of coffee.

Coffee in repose.

Still life.


In Ankle Biting Black Fly Cove I kill a couple getting drunk on the sweet elixir I call my precious lifeblood. A check of the Lake Vermilion map doesn’t show a bay named Ankle Biting Black Fly Cove but it should. I must have a word with the namers of places. People should be warned.


Pastoral. While reading American Pastoral on a Lake Vermilion beach, I wonder if there is a word to describe in one fell swoop inland waterways and large swaths of freshwater lake and rock and scrub. A single word that could stand in and replace hundreds of words in this post, but the words I trip across seem salt-water based. Maritime. Aquatic. Seafaring. Oceanic. So far removed from here.

Either there is an obscure word that is not coming to mind (mine), or there is an opportunity to create a new word. ‘Lakquatic’ as a mash-up but it doesn’t contain the hardness, the coldness, the glacial scrape of life in the north woods. I need a word that encompasses the blue-red vermilion water, the scrubby trees, the rock underlying and overlaying, the mosquitos that sound like small helicopters, the loons that mate for life, the expensive rod and reel sunk to the bottom, the large predator floating belly up, the all of it.

This is Vermilion Pastoral.

-Viva E., Lake Vermilion

July, 2018


¹ Epic paragraphs in American Pastoral by Philip Roth are on pages 211-213 and 220-224 if you’re still reading along, Ann.

A Vivacation Sundry Assortment!

Well!  A check of the blog tells me that a year ago, I threw out for your consideration Google’s development of Loon balloons and remote internet. And here I am once again in the land of large blood-sucking mosquitos in contemplation of how much has changed in a year, and how naive it was of me to think that by Vivacation this year, the train wreck of the Trump prescedensy would be disappearing in the rear-view mirror of history.

Well, it’s not.

Buckle up. Here we go.


Early in July, Londoners floated their own Loon balloon in protest of Trump’s visit. A baby blimp in the image of Trump complete with diaper and safety pin.

And that diaper safety pin on the Trump-loon-buffoon-balloon looks too much like my safety pin.

But maybe therein lies the unspoken message of my safety pin.

“Keep your vile poopy diaper contained. Keep your racist, misogynistic, religious, etc. hateful fear-mongering s*it to yourself. Don’t make me use my pin … “

And while I have not had to invoke my safety pin’s superpower, it continues to amaze me that questions on the meaning, symbolism, and purpose come from women in my own demographic — white, middle-age, middle-class. I don’t know that they were in the 53% of women voting for Trump, but I don’t know that they weren’t.


As I skimmed news headlines, from The Hill: “Tramp rumpsup scrutiny of illegal immigrants” gave me pause and made me smile and then I reread. “Trump rampsup scrutiny of illegal immigrants.” Oh. Of course.

Tramp rumps up.


And speaking of Tramp rumps up. One of my favorite I-follows on Twitter had this comment in response to the Prescedense Tweet message to Iran:Ragnarok Lobster - Tang the Conqueror.JPG:

And if this were fiction, this would be funny. But we’re living it. Non-fiction history being written in 280-character chunks.

Many on Twitter are calling out @Jack (Jack Dorsey, Twitter CEO) on this violation of Twitter’s terms of service.

Suspend

Wouldn’t that be rich?

POTUS in a Twitter timeout. A safety pin moment for us all.


Paul Manafort’s trial was moved and starts July 31, 2018.  In the meantime, watch for more gaslighting POTUS Tweets … although he shifts our attention elsewhere, he is not a magician. We can see the smoke and mirrors and fluster bluster.


And the POTUS is pulling security clearances of former .

Republicans:

  • Former CIA Director John Brennan
  • Former Director of National Intelligence James Clapper
  • Former FBI Director James Comey
  • Former Deputy FBI Director Andrew McCabe
  • Former National Security Agency Director Michael Hayden

And one Democrat:

  • Former National Security Adviser Susan Rice

And this is not about security. Hayden has already stated he doesn’t need the clearance.

It is the act of making the list, making it public, singling out and stifling dissent.¹


Finally, since I am on Vivacation, here is a mini-mental health break:


¹ Many political observers and pundits have made this observation:

  • Sarah Kendzior
  • Leah McElrath
  • And others …

Occam’s Boo*straps.

On the way to and then on the way from Texas to see incarcerated brown children separated from their parents, the current moneyed-yet-somehow-classless FLOTUS wore a $39 drab olive jacket with the bold statement “I REALLY DON’T CARE, DO U?” printed on the back. Pictures abound.

Classless, not clueless. She knew what she was doing. A bone thrown to the pack of press from the throne of Gaslighting Incorporated, and from my bleacher seat, the media pack cleared the bench to run out on the field and break the same photo, the same story.¹ Theories offered, explanations grow and abound, that gaslight is lit!

And the Trump Administration Regime tweeted:

“I REALLY DON’T CARE, DO U?” written on the back of  Melania’s jacket, refers to the Fake News Media. Melania has learned how dishonest they are, and she truly no longer cares!”

21 June 2018 4:51 PM. Tweet. @realDonaldTrump

Really? Hmmm … I don’t think so.

My theory? Occam’s boo*straps (TM).²


Occam’s razor is “the problem-solving principle that, when presented with competing hypothetical answers to a problem, one should select the answer that makes the fewest assumptions.” (Source: Wikipedia)

And the theories put forth — she’s trolling Trump, she’s trolling Zara and exploitation of children with child labor, she’s trolling the media — all these theories rely on the assumption that she’s silent and sends us brainy messages and maybe down deep she has a heart. Afterall, she doesn’t talk much and when she does, it doesn’t seem to be her own words.

Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt.

Or maybe when she speaks, she doesn’t use her own words² and speaks English phonetically like Bela Lugosi in his early days? Ah! But I digress with another crazy theory.

“Pull yourself up by your bootstraps” is a colloquialism³ that can be used to justify an individual’s success or failure. Bold American individualism. You really need to help yourself.

And so, Melania, First Lady OTUS, hoisted herself up from Slovenian roots by Occam’s boo*straps. (Note, although photographic evidence suggests she flung aside the boo*straps on occasion to hoist herself even further, the phrase still stands.) She is symmetric and attractive, she modeled, she had magnetic qualities which attracted a wealthy man, she had his child, she is beyond comfortable in the tacky lap of orange luxury. The cost of her Occam’s boo*straps is that luxury, her comfort is paramount.

And Occam’s razor? Melania Trump wore that jacket coming and going in comfort because Melania Trump is a racist. Whether she was racist before, we don’t know. Let’s stick to now. Let’s stick to simple. Assume there is no there, there. Melania Trump has doubled-down on all things Trump.

And that includes white supremacy.


FOOTNOTES:

If Melania leaves Donald and becomes a strong voice for something other than her continued comfort in silence, I will be quite happy to be proven wrong. Until then …

¹ Packs of dogs, clear the bench baseball, gaslighting. Love me mixed metaphor writ large.

² Occam’s boo*straps. * == b. Occam’s boobstraps, irreverant and derogatory fer sure. Bra straps would have definitely been more appropriate, but I would have lost the poetry suggested by the ‘oo‘ in boot and boob.

Also, Occam’s boo*straps is a phrase mash used for the purpose of making a point in this blog post. It is not a commentary or judgment on paid sex work and paid sex workers.

³ “not her own words” — Melania Trump has “borrowed” Michelle Obama’s words liberally and unabashedly. And more than once.

A Sundry Assortment: Reminded.

Protesting.

While reading this op-ed on “Why do whites oppose the NFL protests?“, I’m reminded of the scene in Arrested Development where Lindsay is herded into exercising her 1st Amendment Rights in the Free Press Zone:

“To many whites, the only good black protest is no black protest.”

-Steve Chapman, Chicago Tribune Op-Ed, September 26, 2017

Stay inside the box.

Remain on your feet. We don’t want to have to address systemic racism. Explicit or implicit bias. Remember when Barack Obama was elected? That was the end of racism. A bunch of OWGs said so.

Don’t upset the status quo.

Ugh.

Where did all the neo-Nazis come from?

I am reminded of Max Von Sydow’s monologue delivered as Frederick in Woody Allen’s movie “Hannah and Her Sisters.”

“It’s the wrong question.”

“The question is, why doesn’t it happen more often?”

The video starts and 0:20 and by 1:31 we have:

“If Jesus came back and saw what’s going on in his name, he’d never stop throwing up.”

Brilliant. And I’m reminded that the movie, Hannah and Her Sisters, is 32 years old. I am the one waking up to the gradations of, and the degradation in the society around me.

Speaking of Which, Woody Allen and #MeToo

I reminded that in the 32 years since Hannah and Her Sisters was filmed, well, Woody Allen is not all that. Woody had an affair with Soon-Yi Previn, essentially his step-daughter who is 35 years his junior, (she was the adopted daughter of Mia Farrow and Andre Previn). There were Polaroids.

And he’s been accused by Dylan Farrow of sexual abuse that occurred when she was 7 years old.

Ugh, Woody. Just ugh.

Sandals. Scandals.

While speeding through some headlines recently, I saw that President Barack Obama was quoted saying, “I didn’t have sandals.”

And I wondered at what event President Obama was footwear deficient.

So I backed up, slowed down and read “I didn’t have scandals.”

I was pained at the thought he would be denied participation somewhere, probably really fun, due to lack of sandals.

And I am reminded that once not long ago, the White House was lacking in sandals scandals.

Puerto Rico

Low hum hmmmm. Thinking of Puerto Rico as Hurricane season rolls around. Again.


Aquí vive una escritora! Here lives a writer. When Ann, my friend retrieved this decorative tile from the island of Vieques, Puerto Rico for me as a gift a couple of years ago, it became my inspiration for the pseudonym ‘Viva Escritora’! Live writer. A verb! Pronounced either live or live. Remain alive or make one’s home in a particular place.¹

And so Viva I am!

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And then Project Runway featured a home tour in Puerto Rico pre-hurricane Maria with Margarita Alvares. A colorful mosquito-free paradise. Project Runway in Puerto Rico, PR in PR, it was gorgeous. (I wanted to celebrate the beauty and embed a video or link here, but the PR video with the mini-tour of PR remains Google elusive. Find Old San Juan at 20:16 if you have time, full episode: Season 16, Episode 13.)

And now a Harvard report estimates the actual death toll in Puerto Rico is 4,645 deaths due to Hurricane Maria and it’s wake. Not ~70. I guess the paper towels didn’t go far enough.

Remain alive or make one’s home in a particular place.¹

Live or live.


Although my politics and opinions drift center-left, I appreciate this center-right perspective on Puerto Rico from Jennifer Rubin because she acknowledges “If we had a responsible Congress that took oversight seriously there would be a top-to-bottom review of the response.” My bold. And oversight and grading the response is a start, Ms. Rubin, but it appears you’re concerned about rigorous oversight of deaths rather than preservation of life (remaining alive) or restoration efforts (make one’s “home”). But hey! it’s a start. You kinda, almost … have a heart … drag the GOP a*s*es … well, again, good job. It’s a start.

Puerto Rico’s debt is approximately $123B ($74B + $49B pension). Or, about 8.2% of the increase in the national debt this year ( $1.3X10¹² USD). Perhaps with all those fancy zeroes and debt added in scientific notation, the US government could find a way to … restructure Puerto Rico’s debt? refinance the debt? stop punishing Puerto Rico? I mean, cryin’ out loud, Puerto Rico literally translates to ‘Rich Port.’ For the three (3) branches of government the GOP controls, and the focus on the almighty dollar, it’s probably worth $omething $ub$tantial.

Hello? Jeff Bezos? Rich Rico? They could still use some help. Puerto Rico? Fixer upper? Flip as the 51st state?


¹ Definitions of ‘live’ from the Googles.

For future reference: Wiki List of Hurricanes that have affected Puerto Rico.

Everybody Lies!*

Much has been made of Prescedense Trump’s propensity, proclivity* to state “demonstrable falsehoods” or flat-out lie.

We, the disillusioned, search for the reason the 2016 election swung the way it did to a non-truther. And further, we look for a reason that 30-some-percent of the populace still supports the deranged lying cantaloupe.* We blame Russians that ran interference on multiple fronts —  meetings with campaign representatives, FaceBook advertising, the NRA, et al ad nauseum— all the way to boots-on-the-ground-US-citizens who turned up for events.¹

And soul-searching continues. In previous posts, I’ve blamed the 2016 election results on the misogyny of women in my demographic. Or my favorite and always front-runner, the GOP and Reince Priebus who really kicked things off by playing along with the ruse that the Teflon Cheeto was qualified to run for office, any office, even POTUS.

But recent evidence offered up in a Cheeto Tweet from the “nation’s most prestigious unit of public housing”² –“The Failing @nytimes quotes “a senior White House official” who doesn’t exist, as saying “even if the meeting were reinstated, holding it on June 12 would be impossible given the lack of time and the amount of planning needed.” WRONG AGAIN! Use real people, not phony sources.”

And then The New York Times followed up with information that the “phony source” was a “senior White House official.”³

The source was not phony. The source was a White House official at a press briefing.

Prescedense Cheeto lied! And he knows that. And we know that.

And his minions are polished at the lie — Kellyanne, Sarah, et al. And we know that, too.

Politicians lie. All the time. Examples exist on both sides – Democrats and Republicans*.

And therein lies truth.

Everybody lies.

And I’m reminded of “Love the Way You Lie,” the Eminem (featuring Rihanna) anthem to the complexity of abusive relationships:

“Just gonna stand there
And watch me burn
But that’s alright
Because I like
The way it hurts
Just gonna stand there
And hear me cry
But that’s alright
Because I love
The way you lie
I love the way you lie.”

-Eminem

-Skylar Grey

The Trump Regime: Love the Way You Lie — abusiveness writ large on the all of us. We burn. We cry. We hurt. We were sucked into and are stuck in this moment with an abusive Prescedense.

And his support? I contend that they love the way he lies. They’ve been lied to over and over, and now? They prefer bald, orange comb-over straight up lies to deceit dressed up as truth. After all, packaged and polished, lies are lies are lies.

Ugh. I stop now.


Below this line: thought and prayers comments, resources, and links I viewed while writing this post.

*BookEverybody Lies: Big Data, New Data, and What the Internet Can Tell Us About Who We Really Are, by Seth Stephens-Davidowitz. I’m currently reading this page-turner on analysis and interpretation of the voluminous amounts of data we’re willing to share anonymously-but-not with the faceless internet. Frood — not her real name, and friends are Big Data enthusiasts. Graduates even. <smile>

* Propensity and proclivity imply tendencies and choice and I’m convinced that The Donald’s lying is embedded in his DNA. But then we’re back full circle to everyone has DNA and everyone lies.

*No fault of cantaloupes.

¹ Read Baratunde conclusions and full break-down of Mueller’s indictment here.

² Description of the White House from The New Hampshire Gazette. I’ve tripped across this verbiage in their paper more than once. A note, however. Early news reports today indicate that Melanie Melania Trump is moving back to the Trump Tower in New York City.  We could make the argument that perhaps the Trump Tower is the most prestigious unit of public housing.

³ My mind boggles that NYTimes continues to give quarter white-washing uncontested ink to a congenitally disposed liar: “It is not clear whether the president was simply unaware of the actions of his own senior staff or if he knowingly ignored the truth.” He lies. He’s a liar. How do you know? His lips were moving. His fingers were twitching Tweeting. This isn’t that hard.

* For consideration: a list of truths the Republicans have been wrong about from Soapboxie, Jeff61b  published May 5, 2018.

* How to Break the Cycle of Verbal and Emotional Abuse, by Beth Cone Kramer. IMO, although written for personal relationships, it would help if the media would recognize the abuse of power for what it is and if they would change their response. They are legitimizing illegal behavior.

Time-lapse: Happy Mother’s Day!

Well, I am a people watcher reporting from the bleacher seats! And last weekend I watched a crowd of graduates which included Frood,¹ process their way into an auditorium, receive their diplomas, and process their way back out.

I recorded time-lapse videos of the event — the crowd is in place, the chairs fill; the chairs empty, the crowd pours out. The view from the bleacher seats. Parents, grandparents, siblings, friends, the all of us smooshed into a ceremony in celebration of a major milestone and achievement!

Enjoy! Or not …

I was interrupted during the filming of the procession out, but smacks! Look at that crowd in the bleachers on the other side of the auditorium MOVING on OUT, that yellow of the empty seats pops!


¹ Frood is still not her real name.