AMERICA'S ELEGY?

A series of essays....

"THE SCREAM" BY EDVARD MUNCH

                   Courtesy of www.EdvardMunch.org

....as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E. Hughes

AMERICA’S ELEGY?

For: The Administration of Donald John Trump

This is where the underlying sound builds into

a familiar cadence, grows slowly, gently pulsing,

and millions sway in union, in dignity and truth,

to celebrate a death, a new life, or both along their path.

This is where we hear the subtle sound vibrating in our ears

as the sunset bursts with shades of orange and red

and the air has turned to blood pulsing, pulsing,

indicative of a roiling wave of light that changes colors.

This is where the haunting beat picks up the pace

and the people begin to march to a different drummer.

This is where the skies return to a distinct shade of blue,

hearts shift their heavy loads and become softer, lighter.

This is where the people decide to honor life once again,

bring in hope and sunlight instead of fear and hate

and say ‘rest in peace’ to a situation meant to harm us—

living the way our forefathers called on us to understand life.

CAPTAIN AMERICA WANTS YOU TO VOTE!

                                     Courtesy of brodiehbrockie

The rain has dissipated. Listening to the occasional ‘ping’ of the droplets that fall on the roof from the variety of golden leaves hovering over our ‘Little Cottage’ is all that remains of the recent deluge. Waking-up to the heavy sounds of rainfall an hour ago, in the dark, chilly, early morning shadows, required me to snuggle into my makeshift robe (an oversized, gray, cotton shirt), collect my i-Pad, and move to my favorite writing spot. The clock above the fireplace has recently ‘bonged’ its five-thirty alarm.

Many of us have been giving some serious thought about the current world we live in and reflecting on what has been, is, and what could be in store for our future, depending upon which shade of wave might be hitting us next Tuesday.

Need I wonder at all why shivers run down my arms as I sit here in my repurposed space, stacked stone fireplace a gaping black hole across the room, screaming at me in the early morning hours? Entering the mind of Edvard Munch, the Norwegian Expressionist artist, born in 1863 and died in 1944, this early in the day can be very frightening. It might set a less desired tone for the coming weekend. I don’t want that to happen. Sunday marks my day of birth...so many years ago now that time seems to be overlapping itself, like the curtains at the center when closed; like the grandchild’s eyes that resemble my own and hold the secrets of the universe in their bottomless depths.

I recall researching Munch and the multiple versions of his popular work, The Scream, for a story I wrote several years ago. The death of his Mother when he was five, the death of his sister when Munch was thirteen, and the emotional loss and support by his Father who fell into a deep depression following his own great losses, Munch defined in his most iconic work how we see ourselves today, wracked with anxiety and uncertainty, often plagued by our own internal fear and doubt.

"My fear of life is necessary to me, as is my illness," he once wrote. "Without anxiety and illness, I am a ship without a rudder....My sufferings are part of my self and my art. They are indistinguishable from me, and their destruction would destroy my art."

Why is it impossible for me to relinquish the hold that this sad yet extremely brilliant man has on me? So often tragic circumstances that happen at the most vulnerable moments of our lives can set the precedent that shapes our future and makes us who we are as adults. Munch seemed to think so. If fear of life is necessary for some people to feel alive and productive, so be it. Do not drag me down into the blackish depths of despair along with you. I have much better things to accomplish during my few, short years here on earth and there is, quite simply, no time for nonsense! Celebrating yet another year of life makes one more aware of the truth.

WHAT IS A 'SPECIAL DAY'
WITHOUT IRISH FLOWERS?

I recall a time as a young writer when I believed that my best work was written under the dark cloud of sorrow and pain. Happiness was a stumbling block when it came to being a creative person. Really? Was a wayward college professor of mine going through a bad divorce or something? Soon after college I discovered that, in a sense, this philosophy would become truth as I happily married at twenty-two and we began our family soon afterward. My writing became fifth or sixth in line of importance. Fortunately, I wrote in my daily journals and kept-up with my travel notes, all of which have become so important to me today!

Within the past two years many people have discovered or, at least, become much more aware of the hatred, intolerance, and racist attitudes thrust upon us by others; even among the people we work with or live nearby and thought we knew so well. That’s quite disturbing when you think about it. All of the anger, hate, fear, and raw emotions have surfaced because there is no longer a governor on these human machines, holding them back or keeping them reined-in within this current political climate.

Then again, just maybe...we need to know where we stand, where others stand, especially when it comes down to how we treat and respect other human beings! 

I do hear the sounds of the people today! I hear a low, underlying sound that continues to build into a familiar cadence, growing slowly, gently pulsating, yet rising, rising to the surface with each breath that is taken and every speech that is spoken and every march that is stepped in order to unify us and retain our basic rights. It was brought to life as a small-scale dirge, a mournful song honoring the death of ‘stupidity and greediness’ and has grown into a movement carried along by the flow of peace and the rhythms of a giant wave crashing headlong into a crimson wall of hatred and separation.

My hope and belief is that Munch’s painting of a sexless, twisted, fetal-faced creature, with mouth and eyes opened wide in a shriek of horror will not haunt me any longer. My dreams will become softer, lighter, and less wracked with anxiety and uncertainty. Such Joy! Such Peace!

And, if I am good, if I am very, very fortunate, and if all Americans eighteen and older take advantage of their precious obligation to vote on Tuesday, November 6....then, I will receive two of the most precious gifts possible this year,  for my Special Day....the gift of Common Sense and the gift of Love. Who could ask for anything more? 

Vote on Tuesday if you haven’t already via early voting or absentee ballot. Vote as if your life depended upon it.....and, it does! VOTE...!

I want to wake-up on Wednesday morning smiling, observe older couples holding hands in the park, watch people laugh with one another in the local market, and...see all of us giving someone else a helping hand when needed. Together we can make all of this happen again!

Copyright © 2018 by Jacqueline E. Hughes

All rights reserved

HEATHER.....AN ANGEL IN DARK TIMES

 A series of essays.....

~MICHAEL CAVNA TELLS US THAT HEATHER'S FAVORITE COLOR WAS VIOLET~
A SIMPLE NOTE THAT OFFERS A PRIVATE LOOK INTO
THE LIFE OF HEATHER HEYER

.....as seen through my eyes!

By: Jacqueline E. Hughes

I've noticed that each time I connect with my Facebook Timeline and scroll down reading everything I can, an interesting thing happens that I have absolutely no control over. You may have experienced this, as well. 

At first, I am concentrating so diligently on each post that I'm oblivious to it. Then the broiling inner emotions make me feel physically ill and I can feel my facial expressions taking on an unusual life of their own. It takes me a while to even begin to understand what's going on. But, when I do, I can feel my face twisting and contorting, my lips begin to pucker and purse, and my eyes crinkle and squint as my forehead wrinkles like the loose skin of a wrinkly Pug puppy. 

~WRINKLY PUG PUPPY~

This, as I understand it, is not acting; this is reacting. I am responding, frame by frame, to the content and extent of the information that has been presented to me and in such a way that my acknowledgement of this information adopts its own style. My emotions are captured, dare I say, possessed, by the most egregious and flagrant violations of human rights and decency that our country has recently experienced. If you don't count the early morning hours of November, 9, 2016, that is.

Heather Heyer.

As if I were watching an M. Night Shyamalan movie, the Indian American film director known for making movies with contemporary supernatural plots and surprise endings, firmly entrenched within my own set of fear and fascination, I become impervious to my surroundings. My attention is focused on the next move on the screen, a black shadow flickering in the upper left-hand corner, the dark, dense feeling in the pit of my stomach, and (once again) my facial expressions as my brain takes in the multiple nuances chronicled in each scene. A pronounced squint becomes my preferred mask-like face for the next hour and a half.

This is, precisely, my reaction to the posts on Facebook from the past several days! If truth be told, within the past year or more.

How does it begin? Will it ever end or, at least, be contained enough to not be as blatantly and brazenly splashed before our eyes like acidic liquid the deep, crimson color of blood? Hatred...unrestrained by a sense of shame; rudely bold, and justified by many while they tout the uniform (white polo shirts and khaki pants) and carry a burning torch in the day or night. 

HER BEAUTIFUL FACE.....!

Hate is a word we teach our children not to use. Hate is an emotion that, if allowed to control us, has the power to turn us inside out as if our internal organs were exposed and we begin to associate the natural beauty and goodness of our world as a 'punch in the gut.' Hatemongers misinterpret the love of family and friends as reprehensible behavior and disassociate themselves from them with the need for a more tangible cause; one that justifies the sense of power bursting forth like molten lava from deep within their darkening souls.

Heather Heyer.

While under the influence of hate, they seek other haters because hate in large quantities helps to substantiate their cause. While strengthening their beliefs and affording themselves more power and more intense reasons to hate, the haters find safety in numbers; justified by the comfort of an administration that clings to them as life supports within a churning sea of dissolution and destruction of the 'law of the land' as we know it.

Even writing about hate right now has gotten to me and I feel my face contorting into 'facial yoga' expressions that I usually reserve for driving alone in the car, protected by the thought that what happens in the car stays in the car. Silly me. Vestiges of 'The Scream' painted by Edvard Munch begin to dissolve before me as I, too, feel a whiff of melancholy while sitting here thinking about his accompanying poem, "I remained behind - Shivering with Anxiety - and feeling the infinite Scream in Nature." Edvard Munch

'THE SCREAM'
"FEELING THE INFINITE SCREAM IN NATURE"

Her beautiful face, from childhood to maturity, a face that projects being deeply loved by her parents, friends, and coworkers alike, flashes before me so often that it's as though I've watched her grow up before my very eyes! Heather Heyer. Post after post after post recalls a very strong, very opinionated young woman who “made known that she was all about equality," according to Alfred Wilson, her boss at the law firm where she worked. Before she was cut down by hate, she was helping people through bankruptcy and telling them, "It's going to be okay."

Heather Heyer could be my own daughter, my friend, the girl next door. For each of her thirty-two years on this earth, I thank her that many times over and over for holding the goodness in life to a higher standard than the sadness of hatred and strife. For this alone, Heather is a hero. Little did she know that she would be making the ultimate sacrifice for all that she believed in and held so dear to her heart by
giving her own life towards the justification of equality and compassion.

As I type her name again, Heather Heyer, not wishing to forget it...ever, I am becoming more conscious of my emotions. The inevitable tears are welling up, rising to the surface, ready to flow. My facial expressions soften, become more relaxed this time, and my breathing is deeper, more sustained. 

Repeating her name, Heather Heyer, out loud is calming. Her kindness, sweetness, and caring for others is like an invisible salve spreading across the earth; angel wings floating above the weak and the wretched, the loving and kind spirited, alike. I don't know what Heather's voice sounds like and, I, more than likely, never will. But, I do know this for certain...when we close our eyes and feel the love, experience the hope, and hear the voice of comfort, we will know it is Heather's and she is telling us not to worry, it's going to be okay!

REMEMBERING YOU....ALWAYS, HEATHER HEYER!
WITH OUR LOVE, AMERICA!!!

Copyright © 2017 by Jacqueline E. Hughes

All rights reserved