The State of Things

July in Alabama. Hot. Every window covered in condensation, like living in a greenhouse, but the greenhouse is outside and in this house is the only cool respite in the world.

Emma cuts down kudzu and digs up the roots of the bamboo thorns, fighting back the jungle. I know that to do this deed correctly I have to add poison to her regimen, and that poison is evil in itself, manufactured by a corporation willing to trade off the health of the world for profit. So I put it off, and the kudzu regains its ground daily.

Every day, I drive in my air conditioned car to an air conditioned office, and listen on the radio to news stories which include flesh-eating bacteria in the Gulf waters, and e.coli in the rivers, lakes, and streams. The rain overwhelms the sewage systems and the sewage runs into the waters. The heat just nurtures the bacteria to its lovely festering rage. My facebook feed overflows with friends splashing in lakes, zipping in boats, paddling in the Gulf, happy selfies of wide smiles and tanned skin, pronouncing, “I Love Summer!” and “My Happy Place!”

Donald Trump is representing the United States of America at the G20 Summit and that hovers over everything, a great black cloud of evil and stupidity cloaking the entire planet. Soon the super-wealthy will have everything they ever wanted at the expense of the planet, the people, our souls.

But back to July in Alabama. Listening to the world outside right now I hear birds, a trilling song rising up and down, a low hum of traffic, more birds now answering. If I write at night I will describe a loud chorus of cicadas.

This is the state of things. I am 53 years old, working full time in a somewhat rewarding job which is high on the time demand, balancing the needs of my aging father, the grandchildren, the daughters, the husband, the dogs, and of course myself in a tiny space of a few hours a day, just like all the other women who reach this strange place. It is easiest to tend to the needs of others, their needs so clear. But my own? My body screams for tending, gaining weight at an alarming rate, as if in sheer protest to my schedule. The house is chaotic underneath the surface, and the yard is creeping toward jungle by the minute. The outside of the house, the wood, is threatening to rot under the dampness and heat of the summer. My car is filthy, still carrying the sands of the beach trip 9 months ago. What of my yearning to write? Buried, and stifled under wasted hours of exhausted games of Words with Friends, Facebook flipping, and sometimes just staring into space.

I can’t say what will become of this. It’s just where I am now.