Displacement over there and what it means to me over here
On a scale of one to ten, the top of the heat is like time. It is really a six.
It’s a six to me. I love to, every now and then, write about the six.
Watching death on my six means whatever it means to the one that sees, hears, or speaks it. It is supposed to mean watch yourself, be careful, or I’ve got your back, just like in the movies.
I was just a teen passing into adulthood and watched the death on the news at six o’clock, saw the grief of family neighbors and friends, dropping tears over flowers, flags, and caskets from
Vietnam years forward to Desert Storm, Afghanistan, Iraq and locations silenced at their six o’clock, on or not on, the news.
Yes, one must watch one’s six, or someone else’s. For me, it is keeping the peace without sacrificing human rights or freedoms.
The horror of ignoring the six is the act of watching the popping haze of bombs, fires, buzzing rivers and streams of piercing bullets whiz by. Space-age advanced war by an artificially designed smart button. No remix, no reset, restart, redo, or renew. War action has no subscription.
Seeing the hollowed-out cauldrons of someone’s apartment and home. Millions of children running, crying for grandma, daddy, momma, looking for safety, hot tea, bread, butter, a hug… a spot on the floor with a blanket to sleep.. and single-parent families grow from the loss of one parent joining the resistance, gone away; with hopes of coming home again.
How dare, I watch people on multi-devices, on digital out-of-this-world networks, running to survive. Helplessness is deeply felt, as one is, just staring, just watching from far away.
War is not entertainment. A human died today. If it was let us say, one’s aunt. “Oh my God, please accept my condolences. Can I do something for you? Anything… just let me know..”
Gotta do something … send money, goods, and supplies… send an SOS to the allies. The president is not biding the time, giving peace a chance against the bloody “whim of greed and war.”
Long before me, the great-great-grandparents free, or not, thought the civil bloody war was enough and wanted no more fractures, death and economic destruction. Never come again was the want.
My great, great uncles thought World War I taught the lesson of no more. My great uncles and grandparents buckled down, again for World War II, the greatest generation saving itself and the world from imploding itself, agreeing to play checkers, chess and dominoes, while playing hopscotch around the world under the halo of the ozone layer, another type of explosion waiting to happen in its own time to yet come.
Surviving non-wars, icy cold wars, lines of demarcation, peace treaties, and funded 20-year interventions against nation free entities of terrorism many threatening isms.
And, here we are again, pushing face to face with a brutish bear, usurping an arsenal of peace against what the President calls the whim of war by a power out of control. Certainly, their in-house check and balance Central Committee has failed. Am I watching a replay of the novel and movie of “The Man, who would be King,” in the nyetive (yeah, I made it up), negative…?
And now one cries sitting and watching someone else’s six o’clock while they fight and die. How cold is that! Shame on that. Can we get peace with a pushback to Putin-ing back to horseback riding and being serene.
Postscript: homeless refugees and the indigenous homeless are one and the same. How their situations occur is moot. The terminology is different… but, it is all the same.
100,000 immigrants from Ukraine are coming our way, while we are planning to do that, let’s do a wrap around and create housing and homes for those already in need of housing for all, especially the homeless, already living in the Cold War of exposure with no money or political clout. This is a good time to end homelessness for whatever reason. There are many buildings available for conversion and owners and businesses need special tax write-offs. We should start right here in Washington, D.C. Welcome to America.