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TRUMP IS THE GRANDSTANDER AND SHOWMAN, NOT FBI COMEY

5/12/2017

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Isn't it amusing how Trump had called all the people he does not want in his Loyalty Circle, names? He has used: Liar, Puppet, Cry-Baby, Grandstander, Showboat, Rapist, Dumb, Drug-runner, Low energy, Stupid, Nasty, Penchant for Sexism, Dopey political pundit, Look at her face, Blood coming out of her everywhere!

He attacks anyone, in any role, who does not support his set of morals and leanings. He has a negative comment to all who do not embrace his penchant for lying to get what he wants in life.

I am left to wonder how many of these terms were used toward him by his own mother and father. I can hear his parents in his most basic and caustic behavior to anyone outside their family's warped Loyalty Circle. He gives what he has gotten in his life. He sows disdain and destruction for anyone who does not cozy up to him. He gives what he has gotten through his formative years in life. If you do not like me, I do not like you! TRANSLATION TO FBI COMEY: If you are investigating me without my hand controlling you, you are gone!

He even put down Pope Francis's comment that building a wall was wrong. No one rises above him in his circle... no one. Well, maybe Putin. Think about how he has praised Putin.

Why were so many voters bamboozled by him: Because Trump knows how to rally hate and dissent. It is how he was raised. He rallied the new civil war of us vs them. But now his voters are growing more silent. Many of the pro-Trump comments online are now Russian created BOTS or USA voters who can never admit to saying they were very wrong to vote for Trump.

Will Trump's voters continue to be fooled by the Pied Piper Putin and his Army of Bots? It seems too many Republicans in Congress are still fooled.

Congress must start OVERT actions against Trump before the cracks he fostered and festered in America becomes a wound that never heals. He has stepped over the line this week with not allowing America's reporters in the OVAL OFFICE when Russians and their photographers were welcomed. It is the fact that he axed Americans out that should be the burning concern for his voters. America First??? I don't think that is the case in Trump's world.

Final Question: What does Russia have on Trump?
Americans and the world wait for the full investigations to be revealed.

To anyone who read my previous post on Trump making Pre-Disaster Plans for his way of wiggling out: Read the letter he sent to Comey this week, where he stated that Comey told him three times he was not investigating him, This is how Trump sets up his escape route. It is yet another of his pre-disaster plans.

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SOLITARY TEA

5/1/2017

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I sipped strong, sugared tea. It was six o’clock on a May evening as I sat alone before a campfire pit. I was one of two occupied tents sites in the entire campground. I needed to be alone, and I could not afford a trip. Camping was my answer. My 50th birthday was a few weeks away, and I felt out of sorts, like my clothes were too tight in all the wrong places. I ate lentil soup for supper that I heated in its can. I loved the simplicity.

I sipped strong, sugared tea. I challenged my bladder for when I would snuggle down in to my sleeping bag. I had bought the bag ages ago, well-made with down fill. My back ached on Day 5 of mostly damp, rainy days. On some nights the rain came down so hard the tent wept. I had slept in my car the night before.

I sipped strong, sugared tea. I felt alone, or lonely or maybe just vacant. Or invisible to others as I had been while making attempts in friendships. Once, a person invited me for tea, but she forgot I was coming and wasn’t home. I waited nearly an hour before she suddenly showed, but then had no time for tea. I left with mixed feelings. But on this day of camping, my physical movements, my pen to paper reminded me that I was here, nowhere else. I was present and on time with myself. I wanted to strip off my clothes, every last stitch, and stroll through the camp to see if anyone noticed me. Not for shock, but to hear anyone say, ‘There, there she is, look it’s a person.’

I sipped strong, sugared tea. The wind had shifted and the smoke of the campfire felt like lemon juice in my eyes. A scented memory was delivered by my brain. My mother’s Pennsylvania sisters always brought her favorite Lebanon baloney during their New York summer visits in the 50’s and 60’s. A smoky-smelling, dark deli meat. A salty, spicy blend, with a bite of tang because it was cured-smoked for three days. The aroma was a part of my mother’s (misnomer) Pennsylvania Dutch roots. High in the Alps, was more accurate for this one genetic slice of her. All her sisters: Hilda, Ethel, Mary, Ora loved my mother, Verna. They’d also bring her one-piece cutlery, and pretzels in a tin as large as a clothes hamper. Or so it seemed; I loved those pretzels. It was the whole art of giving and sincere caring in those events that I missed, as I sat in the curls of smoke.

I sipped strong, sugared tea. I stared ten feet in front of me in to the ancient spruce woods that were dampened and darkened from last night’s thunderstorm. I never feared the power or sounds of storms, but felt comforted by them. This comfort-belief that I created within myself, was that during rains or thick fogs, those who had loved me but had passed over, could hear my thoughts.

I sipped strong, sugared tea. I had talked to my parents as the storm passed slowly overhead the evening before. It was a long and lovely talk on what they gave me for my walk in life. I felt their strength inside me. “Thank you,” I had said to the thunder, which along with the lightning seemed to blend with each thought that surfaced. “I’ll be okay.” The sky seemed to repeatedly light up in response to each one of my thoughts. I felt like a lightning rod, a receiver of love. I had started to cry, and the drops of rain pounded harder on the roof of my car, as if they had all gathered and thickened to answer me with an immense presence. The three of us cried together.

I sipped strong, sugared tea. My warm breath rose with wood smoke in the cooling air. Ocean sounds. Light winds. I placed another log on the fire. A bit of ash had floated in to my cup. Ash to ash, dust to dust. I swiped and absorbed a couple of tears on to my gray hoodie, and I smiled as I thought back on how the sun shone earlier from noon to almost sunset.

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Like you, I have many life experiences, but unlike many, I want to write about mine, and others, in poem and story. I have written non-fiction, creative non-fiction and fiction. Many published. These writings will serve as my legacy, and are my creations except for the postings on my GUEST PAGE. Would you like to be a GUEST WRITER? Contact me.

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