A Saving Grace.

News isn’t news anymore. Instead, it’s buffoonery. Absurd. Ridiculous stuff. That doesn’t make sense. We have a court jester. As president.  And that’s so strange. So odd. That it gets the majority of news coverage. More for entertainment value. Than news value. All the publicity benefits Trump. Plays right into his hands. That’s why he became president. He became a media star. While the world goes to Hell. I liked the way we covered the news. Fifty years ago. Times have changed, No more objectivity. Distortions. Lies. Coming from every direction. I appeal to the gods. To help us. We’ll believe anything these days. Trump is worse than Hitler. The Germans went awry. Now it’s America’s turn.  The good news. The Germans eventually found their way. At the moment. I’m proud to have German heritage. A Saving Grace. --Jim Broede

I can't do it alone.

I am to accept life. For what it is. Not what I wish it to be.  Does that sound right? No, it doesn’t. I am to work for change. That is fair to one and all. Sounds like an impossible task. But that’s my duty.  My assignment. As a living human being. With a soul. Where do I begin? Where do I find the necessary stamina? I already feel overwhelmed. And frightened. My inclination. Is to go to bed. And fall asleep. To get rested. To lose consciousness. Or to enter a dream world. To ask questions. And to seek answers. I need help. Divine intervention. I can’t do it alone.  --Jim Broede

We are the idealists.

I have anxiety attacks. For no apparent reason. Or so it seems. I assume. That there must be a reason. For everything. But I’m too dumb. Or too fearful. To probe diligently. For what’s going on. Fortunately, I’m able to avoid. Going into full-fledged panic attacks. I don’t hyperventilate. Like my mother did.  Instead, I look for ways to divert my mind. For instance, that’s what I’m doing now. Writing. Writing. Writing. About what I am feeling. Apprehension. Anxiety. Maybe I am fearful. Of losing control. Over my life. Of dying. Of being no more.  And I try to relieve my anxiety. By convincing myself. That would be all right. Yes. To return to where I came from.  To nothingness. Which, in a sense, would be relief. Isn’t that what the suicide prone want? Relief. From living. That’s the course that my father took. When he was 38. He wanted out.  From the world in which he was born.  Without his consent. Therefore, my father took full control. He opted out. He learned that we are given a choice. Live or die.  Some of us choose to live. Even if it’s an excruciating experience. We are willing to put up. With the discomfort and perils of living. Maybe because we are afraid to die.  Or because we expect better times to come. We are the idealists. Who believe in a bright and radiant future. --Jim Broede