Fairy Tales at Christmas
Words are how we understand and communicate. They come from our minds and go out into the world. They always have a desired effect, but sometimes the desire is unknown, a secret, until even after the words are uttered. They have a magic, especially when written, leaving a trace of something unseen. The path of thoughts, they seem to have a life of their own that comes from some hidden place, an underworld that is inaccessible to ordinary minds full of the clutter that comes with daily life and the ephemeral that will constantly disappear into nothing.
Words can be cheap. They're for sale. They can have no honor. Not like the fallen snow that is always, eternally, pure. The snow on a Saturday morning in my backyard covers up the defects of the rotten world until it melts into a slushy pile of dirt. Ironically, the purest words, the most honorable, the priceless ones are the ones that call out the pretense of the fallen snow.
Words paint a picture. They shape our minds and lead to action. They count, they tell, and they hurt us all when they are false. This is the greatest gift of a leader, to shape what we hear and the way we use words to impact the world, whether words of chief executives or ordinary people trying to survive, trying to live up to some version of a shared dream.
Anyway, I'm thinking of Trump cutting food stamps and the message that sends and the way he has prepped for this cruelty by shaping the words of our public discourse over the years of his administration. It's not even in the news much, just a few stories about the Snap program cuts, but happy times America. What's cruel is good for us.
Ironically again, it's at times like these that the words that mimic the snow stink the most, and the purest, stinkiest words become ever more valuable. It's times like these that poets become heroes. That's why this Christmas season I want to suggest a listen to Shane MacGowan, a saintly poser for sure, but his songs, like Dylan's, like Janis Joplin's, will live forever because they are the ammunition we need at the darkest hour. They are written in the trance of the artist who has nothing left to lose and that's why they are not for sale.
Words can be cheap. They're for sale. They can have no honor. Not like the fallen snow that is always, eternally, pure. The snow on a Saturday morning in my backyard covers up the defects of the rotten world until it melts into a slushy pile of dirt. Ironically, the purest words, the most honorable, the priceless ones are the ones that call out the pretense of the fallen snow.
Words paint a picture. They shape our minds and lead to action. They count, they tell, and they hurt us all when they are false. This is the greatest gift of a leader, to shape what we hear and the way we use words to impact the world, whether words of chief executives or ordinary people trying to survive, trying to live up to some version of a shared dream.
Anyway, I'm thinking of Trump cutting food stamps and the message that sends and the way he has prepped for this cruelty by shaping the words of our public discourse over the years of his administration. It's not even in the news much, just a few stories about the Snap program cuts, but happy times America. What's cruel is good for us.
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