Women's better health, and the continuing upward climb of the American Negro across the nation's workplaces, schools and communities, among other sundry assorted items. In the interim, does it not seem business as usual, this continual swerve, such as "#thestruggle", as we put bags of money into holes in our own walls, and the weather wearily trudges along, alternating between sweat and frost like so many hummingbird-heart schoolgirls.
Or, as it were, in the "entitlement" conversation: the better health of the American Negro and the diminuatives amongst all of us, and of them, I stand on the edge and look, inward, towards the very core of the struggle, though my eyesight fails to permeate the inner layers, and I see, perhaps, but complaints, rather than a "street-level reality". A clutch in my guts as I purse to pull and struggle at the halter, but such as it is, nothing is uncommon, I suppose, as in nothing that has not vexed anyone else.
Which is usually much more than enough to turn upward the toes of any good man.
Asking him of the plight of women, he would agree, without substance I think, being essentially a vapor among the throng that may or may not support various birthing privileges or abortion access guised under an umbrella of various other services, and the wolves they were tossed towards don't advance, but wait for the diminuatives to rush unto them. And its the same intonation as to talking of gas prices or the weather, one would think, the concerns from outside that circle, and the vessels of trade, the wares of commerce and industry, and all that.
The optimistic upward climb, that as success and status increases, beguiling Fox News, the climber's altruism responds inversely. As if to say, "I don't listen to Donald", and he had 180 million subscribers, or something thereabout, people listening to the person the outwardly claim they don't listen to, just a sort of Sissyphus orbital to pull them down into a more helpful position, I would say, just like jigsaw puzzle pieces in a little cardboard box. With ever the promise of daylight at the end of the tunnel, unless one of the select unwanted and inconvenient few, "chosen".
Sissyphus pushed, not that he was accomplishing a simple task, but think, not that the item would be uplifted, but that both would be upon the precipice ultimately, and further more, most of his existence, the item, left alone, would have crushed him to death. So he pushed, and the philosopher is distracted so by the futility of the thing, but what of the social meaning, or the utilitarian meaning, other than just spending time, pulling frozen peas and carrots from a freezer, to a chef, and then, after those are finished, to turn around again and get more.
If Sissyphus is a lost cause, then aren't we all?
I mopped the floor, and it was similar seeming futility, that some wizard or pyrotechnic would make a robot to do the job more efficiently, but it was that same compounding continuum of human use that was my boulder to struggle with, that done once was not final at all. Five days a week it would be done, over and over, a few stray footprints being as the boulder on the mountain.
