24 November 2016

Perils of climate change could swamp coastal real estate happy thanksgiving.

Taking action, the time will be soon.

First by listening very carefully. Watching for any sign of movement, any sign of breath. Waiting carefully, but not too long.

Then ready to spring into the fray.

Today will be an unremarkable day. Take a shower, feed the horses, walk the dogs. Catch up on the drawings I've put off, try to finish up some things. I haven't felt like being funny or smart or drawing much since the election, although that's exactly the upside down response of what would be productive.

The bad orange man, his glow's starting to emanate from the east to the west. We're not blinded by it yet, it's just stinging eye flashes so far, but enough to warrant thoughts of brexiting, thoughts of bunkers, thoughts of hibernating in a damp goose pen tree down by the darkest part of the creek, where the hill's the steepest and not too many people venture down into where no wifi signal could ever reach to broadcast another ugly headline about Syria or Alt-rights or frozen pipeline protestors.

Problem being, he's surrounding himself with a growing army of soon to be oompa loompas with their own voices and beliefs, some definitely stronger and more vile than orange man's quest to just be the biggest dick in the pantaloons and keep his empire of towers growing at the fastest rate he can. He's got the mic now, to drive the bus in any direction that strikes his fancy, like a cattle prod taser taking out each and every animal in the endless procession into the slaughter hall.

Thankful on this day for all that's right, like in a leftish way, rainbows shooting out of mouths way, not an alt-way. Thankful for our sun here, that isn't orange, that's bright enough to dry up the mud and let us walk down to the creek for a while, where we can't get the cel signal, where no news can reach us, where we can have a moment to regroup before we climb back up.

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