It rolled in slowly, not in big waves, but in the way that the ocean creeps up on my set up at the beach as the tide comes in. I expect the ocean, I didn’t expect this.
I was probably busy scrolling Facebook or Instagram while it was all happening, and while I was as angry and indignant as everyone else, I was in denial. Ten years can’t be erased in such a disgraceful way. Oh, but they can. Beauty is no match for small men, in small towns, with big cars and houses. Beauty hangs by a thread, as always, waiting for the recognition that it is the result of real work, but waiting remains its fate. The actual players remained dignified and silent, refusing to justify a body of work that speaks for itself.
The woodwork released the hangers on, the advocates with Art as their mantra while their handmade paper signs and camera mugging gave them away as exactly what they are...those that can’t make, take.
I look at my Masterpiece, and see all that was created, and what was built by his hands on the promises of a snake oil salesman, well intended as that might have been. Dreams were dreamed, stories were conceived and brought to fruition for the greater good.
Some came for a moment, and some for most of the ride. Bridges were built, barriers came down, friendships were forged and one corner of the world was the recipient of a very special magic. The magic that comes from anything born of love.
Intentions aren’t always pure, so I watched and waited and was proven right, time and time again.
The world is better because of the work. The lives that were touched will feel the breeze of possibility in every idea as they swirl around. Some will grow legs, or simply remain fanciful wishes for something that is just out of reach. At least there are some dreamers left to dream.
Today I realized that I am grieving. Loss is hard. Watching a dream die is nearly fucking impossible.
Remember this, if you think you want to dream a big dream: those that can’t make, take.
...oh, and don’t even get me started on Donald Trump.
