Afterthoughts of Fear and Martians

essaysbysean.blogspot.com 

Headnote: This was to run last week, but was held back for breaking diplomatic news 

Hello Reader,

As for last week’s piece on Fear and War of the Worlds,

Got afterthoughts?

Afterthoughts

Poem

Afterthoughts

I suppose a home without love, but with “gaslighting” and a harsh hovering threat of criticism, would subject one’s brain to a “Fog,” just as Julie Metz labels Part One of her book Perfection. Key quote:

 (page 339) “(My new relationship) is nothing like my marriage with Henry. What we strive for is the kind and loving embrace that allows each of us to feel cherished, think clearly, and possibly make some decent choices.”

I can relate. For years I despaired that I must be magically more stupid than other people, not realizing I was in a brain-fog, within a harsh family of liars. 

Another quote I can relate to comes from after Julie becomes a widow, grappling with the horror of discovering her husband’s secret life, her brain in a tempest:

(page 231) “Now I understood why the single mothers I’d been hanging around with couldn’t get through school, find satisfying jobs, or carve out time for their private pursuits. We were all just trying to get through the day.”

Lest we forget: When a future president, Lieutenant John F. Kennedy, had his PT boat sunk by the Japanese in the dark, with sailors killed in action, after the motor fuel had created a fireball… he then had to swim all night, towing a man by holding a rope in his teeth, but luckily they found a desert island. Years later, in the White House, he would never let himself be photographed with his crutches—back pain from that night followed him all his life. 

(I think I’ve seen only one photo of President Kennedy with crutches, just as I’ve seen but one photo of President Roosevelt in his wheelchair) 

Poem

This poem takes place after the Martians are safely gone for good—praise the Lord—but the memory remains.

The Farm Abides

The farm was always here,

with perennial grass and chickens.

The Martians are gone, 

the farm abides.

I am standing in the farthest corner of the field.

I see a wide round puddle 

that shows the passing of a Tripod.

I remember that night lying in bed

wearing two pairs of sweat pants, 

a shirt, a sweater under a sweat top,

beneath good wool blankets,

freezing with fear, sleepless,

as the Martians advanced in the dark.

Tonight I will feel cozy with only two blankets.

I remember so often clicking my eyes open,

before I was even fully awake,

feeling dread.

Today is so good as I have warm hands,

dry feet, and a happy stomach.

Best of all, I can stand exposed in the wide open

by a broad puddle,

gazing carelessly at the horizon.

But I can’t kill chickens anymore.

Sean Crawford

July

Calgary

2019