Caligula

 August 12, 2025

Part of each day is the tamping down of political fury. Trump is of course the worst, but there are also the police and ICE and the slow murder of UNCA and the strangulation by the Right of all things generous and upright. Marksmen hide in the tall grass, taking aim at anything that flies. I’m almost explicit in my belief that Trump should be eliminated by any means necessary. I ask myself, then, if I would do it.  The surprising answer is “probably not.’ I could simply lack courage, or the fortitude to face the consequences, but also I doubt the simple capacity to do so. What cannot be imagined can probably not be done. With the gun in my hand and my finger on the trigger I’d be thinking, “This is really not for me.”  I don’t understand why he is alive. There are plenty who CAN imagine such a thing. His own guard killed Caligula.

Came home from errands yesterday evening, preparing to go to my meeting at Grace Covenant. Two police cars blocked a lane of Lakeshore, edged up onto my grass. “What the hell?” I wondered. Parked, went inside, found two police officers standing in my living room.

“Who the fuck are you?” one barked, hand on pistol.

“Who the fuck are YOU?” was my retort. He pointed to his badge.

“Do you have a warrant?

“The door was open.”

“The door was unlocked. It was not open.”

“ID. Now.”

I made clear that this was my house and they were not going to see ID. Two more cops had been poking around in the garden. I saw them pass the living room windows. I feared they would come in, but they didn’t. Things looked tense, as the cops wouldn’t tell me who or what they were looking for before I showed them ID, and they were not going to see ID as long as he moon stood in the sky. Finally one looked down at the desk, at a stack of mail with my name on it. He read the name and said “Is that you?” It would have been stupid to answer anything but yes. The other one said, “That’s not good enough. You’re going to show us ID or we’ll take you downtown and ID you.”  That this was not going to happen was so obvious I didn’t bother to respond. Finally the less stupid of them said, “We’re looking for Stewart. Do you know Stewart?” In fact I bought the house from a man named Stewart–eleven years ago-- but I was in no mood to assist them in any way, so I said, “no.” He asked if he could have one of the envelopes with my name on it. I thought of all the ways I might regret that, but there was nothing on the envelope that is not public knowledge, so I removed the contents and gave him the envelope. They were probably determined not to leave empty-handed. Though leave they did. One even fondled the great scarlet hibiscus bloom by the stairs as he left. 

Did not make it to the meeting.