We have had enough recent rain in San Francisco to achieve a minor level of disorientation. Going to the row of shops that comprise my neighborhood’s center, Glen Park, reveals that ours is not just a cityscape but also a geology. Twin Peaks, the mountain looming above us, is eroding more quickly than usual, sending the occasional cascade of rocks and rubble down the gutters. As for the main road over the hill, well, it’s been closed for days. All roads lead to…home, I always say.

Yesterday virtually everyone in San Francisco was on the march. I seriously considered participating but decided to stay home and cheer the television. It’s hard to accept, but I am in a wheelchair and now into my 70s. And it didn’t seem safe to be doubly trapped, by both the wheelchair and the crowd. Meanwhile, I do what I can do educate myself about these, our changing times. Which thanks to the likes of The Guardian is entirely possible to do. Problem is, what is possible is not necessarily useful. I still hear jokes about German Jewish refugees wielding an English phrasebook and a 1939 map of London…just when street signs had been switched to thwart German invasion.

It’s not easy without street signs. So, one stumbles forward blindly. Without sight. But not without insight, let us say. Let us say anything, in this post-factual world. So let us say, and do, something positive. Like tuning into the Trumpian electorate, whenever possible. If ever possible. I admit to being very short on patience in this particular area. Still, massive change has a way of making one grow. Even at 70, which I thought was going to be the speed limit at this age. Although mine has already slowed down. Surely there is some inverse proportion at work here. By the time I am 80, driving will either elude me completely. Or I will be one of those old men who proceed at 15 mph in a 25 mph zone. Stay tuned. No, don’t.

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