It isn’t always sunny in Philadelphia. I arrived in the rain-drenched city Friday, inaugural morning, fleeing the nation’s capital for the inaugural weekend. Determined to avoid the masses arriving for Trump’s coronation, I wangled an invitation from my cousin, a resident of the city for decades.
Philadelphia is 140 miles north of DC, a two-hour forty minute train ride away. My journey started Friday morning. I hailed a shared Uber to Union Station, a Beaux-Arts masterpiece of a train station on Capital Hill.
There were three other Uber passengers, a coed on her way to a merchandising booth on the National Mall. There was a couple, around my age, in DC from Georgia, who chattered about Washington’s miserable traffic, how expensive the city is, the extraordinary security percautions, but mainly, their giddy excitement over witnessing “history.”
Before the Georgia couple came aboard, Jackie, the young woman, confided that she doesn’t support Trump but needed the money working the booth provides. When the Georgians joined us the conversation turned to the inaugural.
Georgia man says proudly, in a drawl that makes me look for the honey dripping from his chin, “I read two-hundred thousand bikers are on their way to D.C.”
I snorted. I couldn’t help it. I could help it. I didn’t. I said softly, “That’s fake news. The pictures in the “Bikers for Trump” story were taken in 2005 at the annual Rolling Thunder event every Memorial Day.”
His well-articulated response was, “I read it on my Fox News App.”
I have to find compassion for people who actually believe DJT is their savior. Despite my overwhelming doubts. If I do not find compassion, I will be miserable and angry for the next four years.
If you follow this blog you may have noticed my lack of posts recently. It is not for lack of writing. I’ve been writing up a storm, whatever that means. I’ve been focused on my fiction, for the first time since long before I started the blog last July.
Re-working old stories, starting a new one, reacquainting myself with characters I’ve not seen in ages, revisiting places I’ve never been, enmeshed in stories not rooted in my journey.
Writing fiction feels great. Writing my blog feels great too. The blog is exhausting, in different ways than fiction. I characterize it as being “inside my head.” It is exhausting to continuously remind myself to be honest on these pages, to let down my guard, and nonchalantly expose my vulnerabilities.
So I’ve taken a break from being inside my head and focused on creating fictional universes. And it feels great, despite my twinges of guilt for neglecting the followers of this blog.
I am committed to balancing both inside my head writing and fiction, so with hope, I’ll be back soon, perhaps posting twice a week.
Until then, stay in touch. Connect.
P.S. I guess if you squint, this relates…