LIKE WATCHING A BLACK WIDOW SPIDER

LIKE WATCHING A BLACK WIDOW SPIDER

I fear and loathe spiders—yet I’m mesmerized by them, drawn somehow by their very repugnance. 

From the first, Trump has held for me that same kind of strange magnetism, a similar brand of weird appeal. As though I can’t believe he’s real, that he’s actually doing what he’s doing. I want to turn away, but I can’t. When I open a newspaper, I see the word TRUMP,  and I read it.

The Los Angeles Times must be similarly, morbidly fascinated; the man appears on page after page.

What is there about his candidacy?  We all know it’s unreal, not remotely possible. He’s about as qualified as my three-year-old grandson, who has never found a wall he won’t climb, a barrier too strong to keep him out. And once in awhile he says something really perceptive. If he gave it a moment’s thought, he, too, might aspire to be president.

Yet there’s Trump, surrounded by crowds . . . real, adult, speaking people, reasonable enough looking, all of them hot on his trail, drawn to a magic presidency which will never exist.  If they gave him a moment’s in-depth thought, they’d see the same impossibility, the same set of failures the rest of us see. 

You wonder—how many defeats would it take to convince them?  Is it not enough that the Trump airline is gone, the Trump steaks and vodka likewise, his university now sued out of existence, four of his casinos dissolved in bankruptcy, two former wives abandoned . . .   

And how about the absurdity of his goals?  An endless wall between two countries that can’t and won’t pay for it, eleven million immigrants jerked from their homes, (how?) foreign prisoners water boarded—“and worse”—(already refuted by the head of the CIA), while the king, with his magic wand, provides jobs for everyone. 

Really?  

I doubt any of us have ever, in our lifetimes, witnessed a presidential candidacy without a single achievable goal, a campaign based solely on two attributes: Nerve and ego.   

In the beginning, he appeared to be another Hitler. One newspaper called him “The Furor.” Now he seems not quite so lofty, more bizarre than menacing. 

Of course I’m fascinated. I’ll keep watching the spider until someone, or several someones, finally squashes it.  

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My mom was unusual, but nothing like this man.  "The Tail on My Mother's Kite" is available on my website: Maralys.com.  Or through Amazon. Try it--you'll like it.