Now is the Winter of our discontent, and like that long winter that shadowed the son of the Duke of York, our sun fails us, leaving too many stones in shadow, too many dark corners in which to hide a million great injustices.
All through the summer, we toiled in the heat of conscious thought; chanting and letter-writing. We streamed into streets with fists raised up, blotting out the sun, and there burned in me a feverish need to bear witness to both the crushing of the order, and this long-awaited resistance.
Yet now, in the light of morning, the only shadow cast is that of the looming, straight-legged headlines, one after another like a death march.
I don a sweater, furry socks, hurry back to the covers, soak my thoughts in lusty dreams that still lurk at the corners of my mind. It’s warm there; it’s territory I know.
But, here and there, in the cold light, embers glow. First, in the catchall headlines at the bottom of the screen. Then, rising to form a sisterhood of discontent that dominates the maelstrom. It appears this dark-ride attraction has faulty wiring after all!
Nearing the calendar’s longest day, I awaken to a firestorm of taking power back, and my toes warm at the image of my Silver Fox, pawing nervously through the Times, playing furtive pocket-pool in his pressed Friday denim.
One Objector put it best: “I’m glad it’s going slowly – you don’t deserve a bullet”
“for this defective comes by cause.”