The letters below, printed in their entirety, made me laugh. Apparently the Star & Sickle is good for more than nothing.
The lost elms
You're in the car. The landscape turns foreign. You can't place what's missing; the mind has no room for sheer absence.
On Pascal Avenue, four stumps sit like enormous fungi, ashamed. More on St. Clair, at the rise of the hill. More everywhere.
The amputations evoke memories of the first wave of loss -- years ago. Tears, always, and loneliness, still, for our elms. How can we sleep for thinking of the empty spaces? How do we breathe, deep and slow, minus their hovering?
Suzanne Swanson, St. Paul.
Stumps that sit like enormous fungi, what the hell does that mean? Are we talking big mushrooms?
‘Tears, always, and loneliness, still, for our elms. How can we sleep for thinking of the empty spaces? How do we breathe, deep and slow, minus their hovering?”
Am I to believe that this hyper-emotional woman is actually lonely for a freaking tree and that she suffers insomnia and breathing difficulty because it was removed?
The lost elms
You're in the car. The landscape turns foreign. You can't place what's missing; the mind has no room for sheer absence.
On Pascal Avenue, four stumps sit like enormous fungi, ashamed. More on St. Clair, at the rise of the hill. More everywhere.
The amputations evoke memories of the first wave of loss -- years ago. Tears, always, and loneliness, still, for our elms. How can we sleep for thinking of the empty spaces? How do we breathe, deep and slow, minus their hovering?
Suzanne Swanson, St. Paul.
Stumps that sit like enormous fungi, what the hell does that mean? Are we talking big mushrooms?
‘Tears, always, and loneliness, still, for our elms. How can we sleep for thinking of the empty spaces? How do we breathe, deep and slow, minus their hovering?”
Am I to believe that this hyper-emotional woman is actually lonely for a freaking tree and that she suffers insomnia and breathing difficulty because it was removed?
Just a guess, but I'm betting the Kerry Edwards and Wellstone! signs still adorn her front yard and that her husband - if she has one - wears the skirts in the family.
Next!
What to worry about
Worrying about Social Security in the year 2050? How absurd. The way we're burning up the planet and its resources, we'll be lucky to last the rest of this decade. In 2050 our worries will likely be super storms with 200-mile-per-hour winds and hailstones the size of basketballs.
Don Johnson, Minneapolis.
Hey, Don, suicide is an option. Not that I advocate it, but with your doomsday attitude, we’d all be better off if you whacked yourself and stop burning up all those resources you’re so damned worried about. Leave a little more for me, if you know what I mean.
Personally, I’d love winds of 200mph. I’d slap on the old in-line skates and, just like when I was a kid, nail a sheet between two wooden dowels, catch the wind and ride it for all it’s worth.
Too bad Suzanne and Don will miss it. The first will be writing lousy prose while the second sits in his bunker trying to decide between cyanide and arsenic.
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