February 12, 2025: "Ecstasy," Good Mood, "Donald Trump Meets the Ghost of Abraham Lincoln in the LIncoln Bedroom"

Okay, I have to admit that I spend a good deal of time every day doom scrolling, intentionally looking for social media posts designed to piss me off or frighten me.  It doesn't take long to find the latest insanity being perpetrated by the Republicans and the South African immigrant.

Now don't get all judgmental.  I'm an intelligent person who knows to fact check everything I see on Facebook (since Mr. Zuckerberg no longer gives a shit about truth in any way).  When I see something truly outrageous, I investigate, as any person with any kind of IQ should do.  (Public Service Announcement for MAGA Republicans:  Donald Trump's posts to Truth Social do not constitute credible, non-biased information.)  The crazy thing is:  most of the time, these outrageous social media claims about the Republican Party's blatant disregard of the current Constitutional crisis taking place in the United States end up being absolutely true.  

So, I have to limit my intake of this insanity mindfully.  I even set timers for myself when I dive into Facebook.  Then, I look for videos and posts that make me laugh or feel good about the human race.  Believe it or not, they're still out there.  I choose joy over .  . . whatever it is the Republicans are doing.

Sharon Olds writes about happiness and pleasure . . . 

Ecstasy

by: Sharon Olds

As we made love for the third day,
cloudy and dark, as we did not stop
but went into it and into it and
did not hesitate and did not hold back we

rose through the air, until we were up above
timber line. The lake lay
icy and silver, the surface shirred,
reflecting nothing. The black rocks
lifted around it into the grainy
sepia air, the patches of snow
brilliant white, and even though we
did not know where we were, we could not
speak the language, we could hardly see, we
did not stop, rising with the black
rocks to the black hills, the black
mountains rising from the hills. Resting
on the crest of the mountains, one huge
cloud with scalloped edges of blazing
evening light, we did not turn back,
we stayed with it, even though we were
far beyond what we knew, we rose
into the grain of the cloud, even though we were
frightened, the air hollow, even though
nothing grew there, even though it is a
place from which no one has ever come back.

Yes, it is a hard picture Olds paints of sexual union with her significant other.  There's orgiastic pleasure, sure.  But there's also a precipice that Olds is standing on the edge of--one false step, and she and her lover will plunge into that "place from which no one has ever come back."

I spent some time with my friend, Jody, today.  She was in the library, leading a teen crafting class, and I was with her because I needed my spirits lifted, which is something at which she excels.  We laughed, commiserated, bitched about the current state of politics.  It was cathartic, and I found myself genuinely full of joy.  Jody has always had this superhuman power to drag me, kicking and screaming, from darkness into light.  Today was no different.  

So, I'm in a good mood tonight, because of Jody.  We both share the same fears and anxieties.  Yet, we also lift each other up, even in the most difficult of times.  We've seen each other through a lot of shit.   

Saint Marty wrote a poem tonight in honor of Abraham Lincoln's birthday, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

Today is the birthday of Abraham Lincoln, the sixteenth president of the United States.  Lincoln is said to have stated that "Those who deny freedom to others, deserve it not themselves."  For today's exercise, write a poem that includes someone or something being set free.  Example:  a zoo animal, a caged chicken, a tethered dog, a human being (either you or someone you know).

Donald Trump Meets

the Ghost of Abraham Lincoln

in the Lincoln Bedroom

by: Martin Achatz

Lincoln stands thin as a leaf 

of grass before Donald, stares

at him as if regarding the dead

at Gettysburg, face stricken

with sadness so deep a stone

would never find its bottom.

When Lincoln opens his mouth,

all Donald hears are cannons,

rebel whoops, four million slaves

groaning under the crack and slash

of four million whips.  Lincoln

gutters in the darkness like a firefly,

senses civil war in Donald's

limbs and organs--Sherman

marching through his bowels,

Lee charging his temples.

As Donald takes a deep breath,

opens his lips, Lincoln thinks

of that bullet his skull ate,

how it filled his head with

a universe of black blossoms,

spinning over an endless field,

souls lined up horizon to

horizon, free at last, hallelujah.

Donald blows Lincoln out 

like a birthday candle, without 

making a wish.  Lincoln hangs 

above his head like smoke above 

a battle that hasn't been fought.