Yesterday, thousands of people gathered in George Square, Glasgow, to protest Donald Trump's visit to Scotland. There were elderly people, small children, and all ages between, people of various nationalities and ethnic backgrounds. I was fortunate enough to be one of them.
The protest, which lasted for three hours, was entirely peaceful. There was a counter-protest of sorts early on — made of up four people — but the police, who were amiable and professional throughout, made sure they didn't cause any trouble.
In such a grim time, it was beautiful to see strangers talking to one another, confiding in one another, laughing together in generous anger.
Events in the British government since last night remind me of Agatha Christie's novel Ten Little Indians.
Fourteen years ago, I was living in a house on the edge of woods, on the edge of Chattanooga, Tennessee, between a sewage plant, an American Indian burial ground, and the state mental hospital.
Outside my house I saw a butterfly, the most radiant being I had ever seen — blue and black and ivory, incandescent. A friend later identified it as a spicebush swallowtail.
The lifetime of Papilio Troilous is, at most, about 14 days, so the one I met has been dead for many butterfly lifetimes.
I look at my email contacts list, and see the addresses of friends who are dead. I don't delete them, and I don't know why.
Night Exposures, the new poetry collection by Gerry Loose, has just been published. Here's what I said in my blurb for the cover:
In the poetry of Gerry Loose, medicine and sickness heal each other. His Dharma eye sees the unity of the relative and the absolute, the local and the cosmic, the personal and the political. He is an artist beyond category, and this may be his best book so far.