A winter’s day, in a deep and dark December . . .

I am alone. Gazing from my window to the streets below, on a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow. On the computer screen behind me, the Internets have observed that GOP Congressman Duncan Hunter wants to nuke Iran, Teabaggers are getting into the Christmas spirit by denouncing Pope Francis as a notorious Marxist, and Martin Bashir has been burned at the stake for telling the truth.

But it’s not all bad news, the bells of Wall Street are ringing with tidings of great joy, the stock market is at 16,000 and the patriotic task of redistributing the wealth from the middle class to the richest families in America will soon be fully achieved.

While the politicians in Washington have been jack-hammering austerity down our throats, the rich have been building walls, a fortress deep and mighty that none may penetrate. It didn’t cost them a thing. We paid for their fortress, and sequesters and government shutdowns are the thanks we get for it.

I’ve searched the sky, but if the Star of Bethlehem is still up there I haven’t been able to see it. The Three Wise Men are living under a bridge now, the shepherds have all been deported, there’s no room at the inn for anyone and the last manger got turned into a Dollar Store. Yeah. It’s dark. Coast to coast.

We’ve been divided and conquered. Most Americans have withdrawn into their own struggle for survival, they’re too beaten down to reach out to others, others are too beaten down to reach out to them, they have no strength left for friendship, friendship causes pain and they already have more pain than they can handle with more on the way.

Hope is sleeping in their memory. They haven’t completely forgotten what it is, they haven’t completely forgotten what it felt like, they haven’t completely forgotten that people need each other, that we’re born into this world to help each other, that love is the only way out of this corporate capitalist darkness. But they won’t disturb the slumber of feelings that have died, if they never loved they never would have cried.

We used to be Americans, I don’t know what we should call ourselves now.

Don’t talk of love to the bankers and CEO’s who control this country. They’ve heard the word before. It means nothing to them. They are rocks of selfishness, islands of wealth in a sea of poverty. Don’t talk of love to conservatives, fear and hatred are all they feel as they cling to their rotting self-righteousness and howl that dehumanizing mantra they’re all so proud of . . .

I touch no one and no one touches me.

Just keep telling yourselves that, ask your pastors to give a sermon about it, they should have no problem finding 3 or 4 hours worth of Jesus of Nazareth quotes supporting the sacred right of conservatives of every generation to be bitter, self-righteous, lying assholes. After all, it’s the foundational theme of the entire New Testament.

A winter’s day, in a deep and dark December, but I am no longer alone. Out my window, on the streets below, that freshly fallen silent shroud of snow is still there, but there are footprints of children on it. They’ll come of age in a country where conservatism is diagnosed as the disease it is, and the Single Payer healthcare system will cover the treatment costs of people with Conservative Dementia Syndrome until they’re deemed fit to reenter society.

Until then, it’s our job to disturb the slumber of feelings that have died, to reawaken love and caring and compassion in the hearts of the beaten down people all around us . . .