In Over his Head

Trump, for all of his bluster and bullshit, is a very insecure guy. Play acting as President, signing executive orders that are meaningless, whipping up a frenzy in his mob-like supporters, does not a leader make.

To the degree I can observe him mixing it up with other world leaders, it is evident that he is uncomfortable in the company of leaders and heads of state. He is ill at ease with intelligent people.
This is because he knows he is a fraud, and he is fearful he will be found out, not knowing, of course, that he gives off the smell of insecurity to those who know he is an empty suit.

An Australian journalist commented that Trump was an "uneasy, lonely, awkward figure" at the G-20 meeting just held. He also said that Trump "has no desire and no capacity to lead the world."

He is in over his head and is treading water. His arrogant bravado doesn't cut it with real leaders. They know what he is.

The Lord of Darkness

About a week before America's date with destiny, I began to get the uneasy sense that Hillary Clinton
was not going to come through with the win "everybody" was expecting. Watching the dueling rallies
and listening to the speeches left me with the reluctant conclusion that Trump, in all his ugliness and contemptible disregard for truth, was beating Clinton at some visceral level at which she was incapable of doing combat. At the conclusion of one of her last rally speeches I sat back and yelled at the TV. She had to kick Trump in the balls....she had to get down and dirty...scratch his eyes out! Forget about the "We go high, when they go low" crap. But it was too late. I am not sure she and her handlers knew how to fight at Trump's gutter level. I'm not sure anyone knew. It was too late anyway...he had gotten away with his bullshit and demagoguery for over a year. His supporters were swept up into an unthinking lynch mob-like frenzy. They didn't care about going low...they relished the experience, they got a high from the the pep rally-like cry of "Lock her up!".

That night of Nov. 8th I had a dream...or maybe a nightmare. A dark and malevolent force, shapeless and threatening, was present around me. I remember grappling with it, yet not being able to touch it. It was pure spirit. It absorbed the light, like some black hole on earth. A rabbit and a white dove entered my awareness and both were struck down by the evil force of that darkness. I remember most the dove fluttering down, mortally stricken, to a muddy and trash filled gutter. I awoke in the middle of the morning and could not sleep for the rest of the night.

My sister dreamt that night she was running in terror from soldier-like men who were chasing her.

My other sister never went to sleep. She was devastated and filled with dread about the coming morning when she had to face her students, many of them sons and daughters of undocumented immigrants, and try to explain they had nothing to worry about, though she could not be sure of that at all. One came to her and, in tears, begged her to keep his parents safe.

One of our dear friends stayed in her bed for three days before she could come out into the world.



The Lord of Chaos was going to be President of the United States.

Trump for President

I never paid any attention to The Donald unless watching a few episodes of "The Apprentice" counts for that. I felt he was pompous and the show was artificial and sometimes bordered on the cruel.

When Trump descended the escalator to his hotel lobby in a bit of staged hoop la (I understand that most of the Trump supporters present were hired extras given pre-made signs), I thought it was a joke that he was going to announce his run for the presidency. When he opened with his Mexican rapist rant I was shocked. I really could not believe that he, or any candidate, would announce his campaign with that openly racist call to the electorate. I knew immediately that Trump was going to be the demagogue that reached out to the darker sentiments of the American public. The fact that his announcement didn't sink his candidacy the next morning was alarming.

Those opening words of his marked the start of my deep loathing for Donald Trump. He was a liar, a con-man, a bullshitter and a manipulator. It also became clear that he was a verbal bully and would say anything to demean his opponents. His supporters loved the act.

Remember the schoolyard bully? We have all seen that type in action. Usually there was a group, or crowd, of onlookers witnessing the intimidation. Some would join in, or egg on the bully, or mock the victim. The bully enjoyed the attention and drew some kind of sustenance from the kids in the crowd that cheered him on......And that is what I saw in the relationship between Trump and his Supporters. There was, and still is, some unhealthy symbiosis in those crowded halls and stadiums filled with adoring Trump fans. Trump glories in the experience. He needs the adulation. It makes him "great".

His ridicule of Republican candidates...Low Energy Bush, Little Marco, Lyin' Ted... or his Crooked Hillary and the chant "Lock Her Up" served to mask his utter lack of plan and platform, as well as his ignorance of history, policy and the greater world around us. Trump was the equivalent of a grumpy old uncle full of half-baked resentments and clichés.

       

The Resurrection

Good Grief.....
I have managed to resurrect, or more accurately find, my old blog account.

I am still alive and doing nicely, though I gained a few pounds over the last several years.
I have also reached the impossibly old age of 70 1/2 years. Only occasionally do I ponder that reality, but in writing that fact the reality of it hits forcefully. More about all that and what has happened in the last four and a half years since I posted will come as the days go by.

I have rarely thought of this blog since I last posted a message, but of late I have felt the intense need
to express in writing my deep alarm about the political climate in America. The very act of writing demands clarity of thought...an organizing of words to express meaning in a logical and understandable way. It is communication in a form that is governed by a set of accepted rules.
That doesn't imply that all writing is an expression of truth. It is simply a way of passing on to the reader a writer's thoughts. As such the writer is attempting to explain, convince, cajole, or entertain the reader.

With that said, I want to start out by giving insight to what drives my way of perceiving the world and pursuing, if that is the right word, the truth, or arriving at a truthful understanding of what is going on around me. I have found that my old assumptions that most people hold the same set of values and possess the same logical approach to the truth is naïve. I didn't just discover this human reality, but it has come painfully to the forefront when trying to understand the what is going on  in our society and country today....The era of "Trumpism".

I was raised in a Catholic family and attended Catholic grammar school and then went to a Catholic High School. The Catholic brand of Christianity, which I think is more accepting of human foible and much less fundamentalist in nature than many Protestant religions, shaped my thinking
about the world and sin and salvation. There was no emphasis on fire and brimstone. While Satan existed and Hell was the reward for certain unforgiven sins, at least the Evil One wasn't lurking on coffee cup logos and in ambiguous ways open to interpretation. I always remember that "truth" was important and lying was wrong. Treating other human beings with love, consideration and forgiveness was a Christian ideal and duty. And that obligation, happily taken on, extended to all human beings, regardless of color, nationality and religious creed. Even the fringe members of society were included, though one might have to hold one's nose in extending the same loving hand.

Then I went to a Jesuit university. Oh boy! Some of my John Birch Society relatives knew I was lost and would become a commie-pinko liberal. That's when I began to wake up. Hell, my cousin was in great danger when he applied to the local JC. Any higher education institution was a hot bed of liberal brainwashing professors.

The Jesuits ran a great educational program, still steeped in Catholicism, but the bedrock foundation of the University was the pursuit of truth. Required courses in logic, philosophy, and the art of analytic thinking resulted in a graduate's achieving a minor degree in Philosophy.

My major was History. Now, many people may think that a History degree consists in reading about battles, revolutions, the rise and fall of various civilizations, and remembering dates....like Columbus discovered the New World in 1492. Actually, while all of the latter is part of the course work, the real thrust in the study of "History" is the pursuit of truth in the face of myth and distortion. It is the study of human behavior and motivation and the impact on societies through time of those two forces.
The study of history, within the noted context, seeks to draw parallels between then, and now.

Then I attended three semesters of law school at night. Aside from finding out I did not want to be a lawyer, I was schooled in legal analysis and logic. The search for "Truth" is an interesting endeavor at the legal level. I came away with a deep appreciation for the law and legal thinking and logic.
Above all, one finds that there may always be two sides to a conflict or issue. Evidence courses focused on the differentiation of hearsay from fact, and on the necessity to avoid the introduction of speculation to legal thinking.

Most importantly, one comes away with an enhanced understanding of the important  role our Constitution plays as the foundation for virtually all of American law.

So, in summary, my education and upbringing has irreversibly led me to approach life with a certain mindset and analytical approach. I am not bragging. I am not saying that my conclusions are the only conclusions one might draw from a set of circumstances or events.

Future blog commentary will be a way of helping me to "get it straight" in my own head. It is meant solely for me and not for others.....

On The Road Again

Unbearable pressure has been brought to bear upon yours truly to revive...resuscitate may be a better word...the "blog". I likened the effort involved to that required in starting an old car; long stored in the back reaches of a barn, tires flat and the battery dead. The needed spark was the aforementioned urging. A bit of huffing and puffing and a backfire or two and the old girl should run smoothly. One merely needs to keep the engine fueled with gas.

The last entry was over five months ago...September, 2012, to be exact. I knew it had been quite awhile since I last wrote...leaving readers stuck in the Sierras somewhere in the environs of Yosemite. But it did surprise me that so much time had passed.

Of late the need to write has been nagging me. So the first thing to address is my health; the reason I started the blog in the first place. It struck me in just the last few days that two years ago this March I was learning that I had a carcinoid tumor. By early April I found that my heart was in bad shape as a result of a pre-surgery cardiac checkup. A subsequent Angiogram led to triple by-pass surgery, and five weeks later, having barely recovered from the heart surgery, I underwent the abdominal operatuion to remove the tumor and a 24" section of my intestinal track. Subsequently,  I underwent surgery to repair a cluster of abdominal hernias.in July of 2012......

I am not bragging.

A round of scans and tests administered in January was designed to detect the return of any cancer activity. The results revealed nothing....no cancer, anywhere. I did not expect to hear that the evil presence had taken hold of my body, but it was a blessed relief that all was OK . I will undergo the same tests in August...and every six months subsequently.

I consider myself very fortunate.........

That's all for now......I will write again.

SRH

Old Memories....Yosemite

I had never entered Yosemite from Big Oak Flat Road. That left hand turn from the Tioga Road onto Big Oak Flat took me through a section of the Merced River Gorge. The narrow two lane road skirted the edge of the gorge. Oaks arched out over the lanes, casting shadows pierced randomly with the dappled light of the late afternoon sun.

It had been fifteen to twenty years since I had last been in the Valley. I simply could not remember exactly how long. And when I finally entered the Valley proper I was seeing it from a completely different pesrspective than I had ever experienced. The road came in at "ground level", in contrast to the tunnel entrance on the Wawona Road where one first sees the Valley from an elevated perspective.

I can only describe the experience, upon seeing the Valley open up to view, as entering a roofless natural cathedral....breathtaking in beauty and majesty...overwhelming in size and power.

Across the Meadow:  Late Afternoon

My immediate goal was to get to the Ahwahnee Hotel and see if chance looked kindly on my wish to stay that night
in any, I repeat, ANY room available.

The Ahwahnee Hotel was built and opened in the 1920's. It is "real", in that the granite blocks and huge timbers with which it was constructed are not some Disneyesque imitation of the those materials. They simply don't build things in that manner anymore.The Great Hall and the Dining Room are remarkable for the grandeur of the design and space.





Mrs. Curry's Room...Top Floor

Thirty-seven years earlier, almost to the month, the first days of our honeymoon were spent at the Hotel. By some stroke of luck we ended up on the top floor in Mrs. Curry's private room....(she had passed on some years before, of course). The Curry family was involved in establishing many of the tourist facilities in the Valley in the twentieth century. The old lady was allowed to stay at the Hotel in her retirement. Access was by special key to the elevator. The picture to the left shows the small balcony and the bank of windows that came with the room.




The Dining Hall at the Ahwahnee

Many years later we stayed with the boys at the Hotel...and any subsequent vacations at Wawona always involved taking breakfast or lunch in the Ahwahnee Dining Hall.
Every Christmas season the Bracebridge Banquet is presented in the Hall. A program of entertainment and caroling, the production is a tradition started many decades ago.

Perhaps I shall see it someday....somewhere.....some time.






Upon walking into the lobby I stopped and took in the near chaotic scene...I thought "Lord! There are an awful lot of old people here." That, and tourists from France, Japan, Germany, Italy, Mexico and the Commonwealth countries....a babel of tongues. It was the first and only time on the trip that I felt daunted by the situation.

The clerk smiled an amused smile when asked if there was ANY room available at ANY price. There was none and I was offered the opportunity to put my name and phone number on a waiting list with twenty other names. It was hopeless.

But there was always the hotel Book Store....an irresistable attraction to one such as I. An hour later,carrying ten or twelve pounds of books, I emerged and looked at the sunset-lit sky.

I had no lodging for the night.....

SRH

Getting Out of Mammoth...

Bankside Flora on Hot Creek

I have intended to visit the blog and maintain the flow of my story for some time...Frankly, I was stunned to see that the last entry was posted over three weeks ago. I never spent that much time in Mammoth when we had the townhomes, so it is time to continue the journey and get over the Tioga Pass before the first winter storm forces its closure.

With that aforementioned Schat's coffee and bun in hand I rolled out of Mammoth in the Explorer and headed to Hot Creek just a few miles south of  Mammoth off of Hwy 395. This Creek emerges from the ground as a huge spring of ice cold water. In a sense there is no identifiable headwater as one generally finds with almost all creeks and rivers.....no high mountain canyon or watershed is its source. Snowmelt from the peaks to the west percolates through the alluvial fans that sweep out of the canyons and travels underground until channeled through the volcanic bedrock that opens up near the fish hatchery. Hot Creek is known as one of the most challenging wild trout waters in the West, and it was always one of our favorite fly fishing/catch-and-release fishing spots.

Some distance downstream numerous hot springs bubble up and flow into the cold waters, so much so that the water becomes almost tepid and will not support cold-water loving trout. At one point the hot springs bubble and hiss and steam like a collection of cauldrons cooking some witch's brew. People have lost their lives in these steampots......the most recent, to my memory, was a man who went into the hissing water to retrieve his pet dog.

I have many fish stories from the time spent on the banks of Hot Creek with my son Scott...who is a far better and instinctual fly-fisherman than I. Sentimental feelings welled up as I walked the edges of the stream...the occasional trout rising to a emerging caddis or mayfly...searching out the old holes and undercut banks. Some looked the same...most had changed to one degree or another. Scott, never one to conform, generally went into battle wearing a broad brimmed, tattered straw hat, shorts and tennis shoes, a t-shirt and a worn out fishing vest festooned with the clips, snips and doo-dads necessary to the sport. I always smiled when the wind would drive that ragged straw brim up like that of a Pony Express rider hurtling across the plains.

That morning the Creek was fished by just two individuals. I chose not to string up and cast my line. I would become mesmerized and lost to the world...that is the reward and the main hazard of fly-fishing. The Tioga Pass loomed some thirty miles to the north just out of Lee Vining. Traversing the crest of the Sierra would be long and challenging on that road.

Hot Creek...With Mammoth Mountain Looming on the Right

Lee Vining, on the western shore of Mono Lake, survives on tourist dollars in the season. The town was nearly empty, but for long haul truckers and a few retiree vacationers. It was October and, like Mammoth, it was going into hibernation. The first snowfall would close the Tioga Pass and shut off the tourist flow and cash.

Tioga Pass Road...Into the West

It had been years since I travelled the Tioga and I had forgotten how many miles and how long it would take to get over the Sierra to Yosemite Valley. It took a very long time; the drive made bearable only by magnificent glacier-carved scenery. At the highest elevation of the trip the ancient glaciers stood many hundreds of feet higher than the roadbed.
All about me were bald, bare granite domes and mounds with preserved glacial polished surfaces that had not yet exfoliated. Large boulders lay planted in seemingly inexplicable locations...abandoned in place by the glacial advance or retreat. Called "erratics", they give witness to the inexorable force of glacial flow. Many of these boulders were larger than a house.

With several stops, it took two hours to drive to Yosemite Valley. The shadows were long when I turned onto the road at the western end of the valley. I had no idea where I would spend the night, though I hoped that I might be fortunate enough to find a room at the Ahwahnee Hotel....a vain hope as it turned out......