Tomorrow We Dance To Freedom






A Mixture of Anger and Regret

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How do you tell the family leaving their home that all is well? Do they care whether the stock market rose 260 plus points today or that a media parrot proclaimed that the Occupy Movement is dead. Their world is shattered, with a husband who's been out of work for almost two years, a college aged son hoping to attend school by the first of the year but realizing - no income, doesn't translate into tuition payments.

All the members of this representative family that has fallen hard from a secure middle-class lifestyle into abject poverty realize that this is a game-changer, a hard-liquor stiff drink moment - tightly pressed lips acknowledge that there is no future, only survival; a cruel world ruled by moneychangers.

The television screen on their last night before this morning of auto-living painted a sharply dressed anchor women and her bright toothed smiling associate buffoon babbling on about the treats at the local fair and other assorted feel-goodies. Spooning out an equal cup of cooked rice, a single hot-dog each, no lettuce or green vegetable for that was sacrificed long ago, the family watches in hopeless wonder as the talking heads 'happytize' their restless prey.

After a generous dose of this cotton-candy blue-sky joy juice even dad, the generally hardnosed realist of the family is a tiny bit anesthetized. Grabbing his turbo juice of late he reclines in his worn-out frayed chair, like his country that also lives on borrowed time, his mouthful of yellowing teeth let the harsh liquid slide past.

The road outside roars with rough bursts from adapted mufflers, trucks surge past on an evening drained in a reddish-orange sky. Not much hope floating around on a dead breeze of choked smoke that comes from the factory across the brown field. Scheduled to close by next week, another victim of the cheap labor surge, a China manufacturing craze, an Indian superior intellect - perception is truly a bitch.

His job went up long ago in one of those long smoke entrails billowing out of those smokestacks. After next week all ten factories that were the economic backbone of this small community will be silent. Grass and weeds will sway in the breeze. Cracked pavement, broken dreams, a general deterioration will engulf lives and property.

Oh well, no need to fret about a place that will eventually fade to oblivion. His place, his family's memories all that tied them to this tiny dirt pile will blow out beyond the prairie.

Not much time to consider this oft repeated extinction.

Will the fifteen-year-old car export them between roadside rest stops? How long it will be able to roll down the bridle pavement is anyone's guess. No money remains, credit cards are tapped out, the change cup on the sink is empty; they're at the crumbling edge. After selling whatever they can scrape up for their junk they'll be off on their journey to backwater desolation.

Tallying up an eternity of lobbyist riding politicians a collage of names move past a weary mind, faces lose focus. All were eating away at the country like termites - not seen aside from the occasional stray coming up for air.

A tidal wave of pain - a scream from upstairs - a mixture of anger and regret has already taken its first victim.