It’s a sad situation when so many people are rooting for your collapse, your failure. Your political demise. But the sadness has a shelf life, since the person in question has made it so easy to wish him ill. He’s practically forced us to hate him, which, apparently, he also loves to do. Governing? Not so much.

It’s been such a maddening stretch of unnecessary angst, brought on by a man child who reportedly likes winning, who appreciates gold leaf and marble and all things glitzy and superficial. He’s an angry, small, hollow man, gutted in his formative years, seasoned in the ways of manipulation and indifference, seemingly incapable of feeling anything but pity for himself. And he’s been elected for a SECOND time to the highest office in the land.

He’ll go to his grave, if he ever dies, thinking he was wonderful and rich and powerful. Or maybe he’ll know, deep down, that he wasn’t all that great, and a few people will reluctantly go to his funeral. Much will be made of his controversial existence. Certain select bootlickers and ass kissers might try to spin the ugliness by saying that his intent all along was to force the country to take a good, long look at itself. But most of us will know that he was merely in it for himself. An aberration, a useless coward.

Meanwhile, Roberts and Miller and Thiel and the rest will be wondering who the next front man, the next puppet, is going to be.

We’ve been watching our four local grandchildren all week, and I think after our son and daughter-in-law return from a well-deserved stay at Disney World, my wife and I will be coming home to at least a day of just hanging out, and maybe savoring the peace and quiet.

I love our grandkids dearly, but it’s been a reminder that there is wisdom in that saying about having children when you’re young. It’s been a mix of momentary chaos and quiet time, of catching the school bus, of reading books and working on craft projects and playing with blocks and taking the dog out and making sure homework gets done and getting everyone ready for bed.

In the midst of an average day, when civil play can turn into a conflagration in a matter of seconds, when mealtime is a series of negotiations mixed with plea deals, it’s nice to know that, come Saturday, we can get up, make breakfast, take our meds, and just chill for a bit.

Regardless of what Donald Trump spews, there is a climate crisis that is careening toward a tipping point. People might treat it like some sort of exciting show, something that’ll make life interesting—more rain, stronger winds, meaner storms, insanely high temperatures, all the while ignoring the fact that the earth is trying to tell us something. Others may buy outright into the whole hideous hoax and smokescreen.

People may be hungry for anything that makes life less boring…

Until boring is replaced by Oh no… and folks realize, too late, that the tree huggers were on to something.

It’s impressive, in a perverse sort of way—how much crap Trump needs to keep track of, stay ahead of. One could think that it takes up most of his day, time that would be better spent actually governing, taking care of the country’s legitimate business instead of his own.

Now Trump is insisting on releasing the Epstein files, which must mean he feels comfortable with the efforts the FBI put in redacting the pages and erasing any place where his name showed up. He’ll lie to us and emerge smelling like a rose. Again.

I had a wild dream just before I got up this morning. As is often the case, the setting was at a church, though outdoors this time, on a sidewalk, and apparently there’s a meeting planned—some sort of church council meeting.

I’m the chairperson, and the committee is made up of way too many people, mostly family members, along with Tiger Woods and Sarah Paulson, for some reason. It’s a crazy, unruly session that never comes to order. People keep coming and going, there are young children present, my sister-in-law has to get up and take phone calls, since she is an actual bishop of a synod. People are tending to other business, while I sit there in no particular hurry, waiting for things to magically calm down and come to order.

There must be 70 or 80 people, maybe more, on this committee—unwieldy at best—and I’ve come to see it as the latest in a series of dreams that are actually commentaries on what’s happening in real life: disorganization, ineffectiveness, no sense of purpose. I’m either unwilling or incapable of bringing things to order, of taking control and actually leading.

In other dreams, I’m totally unprepared for a Sunday morning worship service—no sermon, improperly dressed, a roomful of people milling about, waiting for the service to begin. Meanwhile, I’m just wingin’ it, out to lunch, and the feeling I’m left with as I awaken is one of relief that it’s just a dream. But the questions linger: Why do I keep having such dreams, since I’m four years retired? What am I supposed to be learning? Is there a message in them that I haven’t yet uncovered? Or are they merely commentary on what’s actually unfolding in my waking life?

I think it might be that last thing.