Dark and stormy night

I might have to check out of the news for a while, given my expectation that Donald Trump will announce his own Trump the Bounty Hunter effort to recapture “El Chapo” Guzman, the likelihood that the Harper Lee publication story will grow more sordid and the inevitable media frenzy ensuing from The New Yorker report that much of the Pacific Northwest could soon be underwater “toast.”

This is more news than I can take. With the onset of El Niño, it’s already been a rough couple of weeks.

You see, my house turns into a Shakespearean venue on rainy season nights. There are no curtains and the electrical flashes illuminate entire rooms. The thunder booms like Stanley Kubrick is in charge of the kettle drums. Cooper, an animal shelter refugee whose life as stray probably began in similar circumstances, pants and paces and hides in whatever dark corner he can find. I stare at an imagined skull in my aging hand, wondering where all the gambols, songs and “flashes of merriment” have gone.

 Any port in a thunderstorm

Any port in a thunderstorm

I feel sorry for my partner Cooper. But his misery reminds me that I was even sorrier for a girlfriend and her daughter on a rainy season night years ago, gamely but damply sitting through a chilly deluge at the open-air Santa Fe opera house, plastic ponchos and bulky wool socks, retrieved from the truck at intermission, covering summery print dresses and  sandaled feet. Boot socks, like earthy evening gloves, might also have sheathed four blue hands.


Operatic clouds

Opera provided two of the brighter notes in news in the last couple of weeks: The New Mexican reported that the Santa Fe Opera has added more bathrooms; and my friend Larry Calloway relayed that a fellow named Derrick Wang had the smarts to write an opera about the friendship of Antonin Scalia and Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

But I am afraid it is not enough.

I am fearful of a TV special featuring a bellicose billionaire presidential candidate swapping his tie for a gold chain and going mano y mano with a short but exceedingly murderous drug lord. The Pacific Northwest is home to friends and family members. And I just don’t know what to think about Harper Lee and Atticus Finch.

Recently on dreamranch:

Breakfast with Scalia

You’re own your own, Trump

Just shoot me

2 thoughts on “News and opera from earlier monsoons

  1. Tom Sharpe says:

    I keep wondering what Lee’s editor told her after reading the Watchman manuscript. “Well, I like it, but could you make your father a crusading idealist rather than a simple-minded bigot?”

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