Porthole

Red House

"I dreamed about being a caretaker in the Red House ... y'know the Western White House ... that sits on a bluff in Omaha. It's red because? Well... Nebraska... and I grew up in a red house and I was sick and Jill and Joe were coming back this week.

The real me? Okay... I think. Covid is killing us here in Montana and I'm at risk.

I had a nice house once with lovely gardens. I bought a dream house. I lost both. I sit here in my two room place and am grateful I'm not homeless, even though I resent not being able to travel.

Life has it's up and downs.

As for debt... I had to walk away from all my losses. Haven't had credit in 15 years. I do use a debit card and have saved enough to travel when I want. I was thinking of moving into a one bedroom place with only 5 stairs instead of 42. But... $$.

Getting rid of your bad-debt is a wise move. But be wary of money-pits."

And so I commented to Mighty today. She's dreaming of a new house while pragmatically paying down debt.

Maybe the Red House would be known as the Cardinal House? It's not as whacky an idea as it might seem. Omaha is very central and the Mid-West and Plains are many times ignored by the elites and uber-wealthy on both coasts who dismiss rural areas as they sit there on the 26th with turkey and stuffing oblivious of where their food comes from. They don't grow steaks on Wall Street.

In the Season of Covid we are facing problems with Main-Street-economics and Kitchen-Table-economics. Congress can't get its head out of its collective Ass; the president is missing-in-action (nicely quiet though); and Dakotans are refusing to wear masks and dying for their 'freedoms'.

In the meantime... Hurricane Iota is aimed at Nicaragua/Honduras (the same area devastated by Eta) and is a huge powerful rain-maker. Costa Rica had severe floods in Nicoya/Nandayure, Coto Brus and Perez Zeledon with Eta. This could be as bad or worse.

But not to worry as few in 'Murika give a flying **** about brown-skinned Central Americans, and covid only kills Old Timers and Boomers so how dare you make me wear a mask. It's the Devil's doing and so anti-Church-of-America [post-christian-gospel-of-prosperity] where we all hug and spit on each other on Sundays (just spit on Mondays) and afterwards lament 'I need to go to WalMart for the third time today'. Facts hurt my brain and I only have time for conspiracy theories and controlling vaginas that aren't mine. So why worry? Pizza Parlor has 2-for-1 and aren't you glad we invested in pharmaceuticals! You didn't? Too bad, Loser.

Bottom line... I wish I were elsewhere.

Not much has changed since I wrote this poem in 2017: "Not one iota" 

Not one iota

He won't pull off the mask he's worn since childhood,
the mist and mirrors mere camouflage,
for his childish fits, his golfing outfits.

He won't reveal the layers behind his lies.
They fit like corsets, dark, constraining;
he speaks in monosyllabic voice,
a juvie choice that never grew
like the belt around his belly.

Button his lips, cross his tees, un-gag his Xes!
Let loose the asses from his tottering cart!

Not one dot, one jot, not one iota...
dare to masquerade as his tiny heart.

© Kåre Enga [174.18] (6.avril.2017)

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