Needless to say my cocktail hour to luncheon jibe was not particularly successful in generating a life-long cartel of trusted DC sources. No matter where I went, or whom I spoke with, the same core lot came up on the wheel dancing the marionettes. Eventually, I decided my goal in life was to find one decent, honest, brave, independent free-thinking elected by the people (and not special interests) public servant. All hail testy positive news!
Hiding in this guy/gal’s leaky boat’s backwash I would concentrate my story lines around such an unique individual. You know the end of the non-epic tale. Three brutal winters pouring bland lattes over icy bushes in chic Georgetown while smooching and munching inside overheated red, blue, and no pink parlor politics the road never attempted – came to a hellacious halt. I exhausted myself and several pairs of Italian high heels and second hand cocktail dresses. My return on a self-inflicted fart finding forensic was nada (nothing).
Trudging the hallows of the unholy capitol and related orifices and troughs not one elected public servant popped up sans a dirty oil burnt crust and/or layers of peeling corporate veneer. IT was then I decided to take a long summer Cheasapeake sail and consider the meaning of America gone cuckoo. None noticed or seemed to give a crap.
Shortly, thereafter, I made a career tack toward an Earth-filled reality with few consequences – politically or socially. I started doing image marketing for a maritime museum (The Hamptons, NY) which somehow led to becoming a landscape designer active in local politics and finally – designing, building, and owning (God knows why) operating the first organic espresso house in NY. Going small is beautiful, planting pretties for birdies, and making magic with organic dirt and tasty fair trade coffee seemed viable. It was a happy time alternative to trying to jump over mega monuments in American politics.
Beyond the snooze news, today, I sense what I flick out into the ethers makes contact yet not much spark. Strange of late is how taking a loquacious stand for freedom is applauded by an expanding group of unrelated Arabs and Egyptians, Egyptologists, Himalayan birders, a couple of far fetched Canadians, and a five finger handful of retired Americans. Who knew my quest would go international, global, or mostly MENA?
Any engaging audience in my home country has not dwindled. Rather, it has vanished as folks are busy tending IRAs or backyard chickens and front yard veggie gardens. Much of the effluent pumping out as political social commentary (I peruse while munching on mangoes) is awful tweak, sh*tty-written, and boring as doing a broad reach in the doldrums (sailor talk).
When I keyboard, Never Give Up, Never Give In, I am elbowing my own third eye? Did I find an honest politician? Yes, a keeper. I married the classy brilliant angler lawyer dude and now am proud to be his surviving widow.
Somedays, not all days, I know Capt. Arthur Esq. (and/or his legacy of service above self) releases me from an emotional dungeon festooned with midnight chats with my muse. I keep hearing Arthur standing at the wheel of the Sea ‘N Aye Dog calmly offering, “Stay the course, Bon. Keep your eyes on the horizon. A safe harbor is near.” Hoopoe, my muse, lights the way by making me laugh like thrusters on the bow of a boat.
Surrounded by God’s jungle, fantastic green and Pacific views with two sleepy dogs, constant buzzing and bird tweets, and mucho monkeys there is time to write with zip zero interruptions. I burped and bitched this for eons, “When will I get to write what I want?”
Ya know the one, be careful what you wish for, eh?