There's a "White Sale" going on in Iowa today. Politics sure does make strange bedfellows for those whose issues have problems and whose problems have issues. I used to worry about Depression for this country; now I worry about Desperation. Both, however, are reasons to stay in bed under covers.
The classic case of depression is darkness, usually in the form of clouds, that overtakes the need to act. It both invites acquiescence and renders resistance futile. In bed, the turn to the right is followed by a turn to the left, but without any real difference to the position. The sheets are pulled over the head to find peace, but suffer the suffocating absorption of self instead. You throw off the heat that produces no light, only to find yourself exposed to the day's cold calculations.
Like a bear, chose hibernation when the alternatives are not worth the effort. Tired of the Nutcracker, surrender to the dance of the bedsheets.
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If only Iowa would see its "White Sale" for what it is - an invitation to depression and bedrest. Then, what is primary for U.S. is not the Dream but the Sickness, and how best to deal with it. This is an expansionist nation that offers bi-polar democracy. Don't let anyone tell you that you can't find solace in a bed alone, in answer to a globally-manic tour de force.
Whether counting sheep or bed linen threads, the markets are closed in a depression. There's nothing to keep you from down-time in the winter of our discontent. "Just let me be" becomes demand as well as plea. The new day is long in coming so we have the time to rehearse the dance of the bedsheets.
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Desperation is another factor in being laid up in bed. Desperate for love and attention, not to mention money, questions the meaning of lawful remuneration for those who experience a hard day's night. There's a desperation for silence after the moans and groans of over-achievement. One is desperate especially for the blackout when there's dread of the opening bell. Perhaps desperation as well to know why so much money was spent to wear something to bed that probably will not stay on.
Tango, then, as you wrap yourself in the dance of the bedsheets. Claw and paw your way to satisfaction. Sink into the foam that both tells you and remembers who you are. Drift on waves of somnolence as you castaway your hold on a slippery foundation for the future.
The bed beckons the one most desperate or depressed with the dance of the bedsheets. The "White Sale" is really just a sideshow.
