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Fitness Fired Up: Give me hope, Joe Manchin

So I was at the gym this morning, in search of my missing thigh gap, when Give Me Hope, Joanna by Eddie Grant showed up in my playlist. It’s a great workout tune, it’s got a beat, you can dance to it. But I found myself substituting lyrics as I was listening to it.

Let me back up here a bit. Last week apparently “Squash the Progressives Week” on Twitter. I’m in favor of killing the bill if we can’t get key climate change policies and 12 weeks of paid family leave. (12 weeks is paltry compared to the 12 months + you get in other countries but I digress) The approved talking points were “if you keep demanding stuff that’s important to working women and people who live on this planet then you are for Purity Tests” and “let’s just take what we can so we can save Joe Biden’s presidency and the House”.

I realized I was just F}#^ing sick of hearing this. Listen up you holdover Obama consultants, do not try to intimidate me with that crap. I’m not having it anymore. And let me be clear here: I am very much opposed to the knit your own sandals crowd who rant about GMO foods, the transformative power of veganism and the dangers of nuclear power. Yep, I like nuclear power. So sue me.

Anyway, I thought to myself, how dare some asshole male Democrat (not even sure of that. I’m beginning to think consultants just follow the money) tell me, a former working mom that paid family leave is not that important. Are you effing kidding me?? Most of us had to scrape together our vacation days to stay home just a few weeks with our newborns and after that? Nada. You’re on your own. And childcare is expensive. It’s a good thing the pandemic broke the idea that you must be in the office to work productively.

There are hundreds of thousands of women in this country whose careers take a downturn when they have kids. Some of them just give up and stay home because they can’t resolve the issue of what you do with a fussy newborn when you can’t get quality childcare and you have a ton of student loans to pay back and mortgages etc etc. Just check out any Elizabeth Warren video prior to her becoming a senator.

We don’t have pensions anymore. We have 401ks. We have to pay a lot for health insurance, car insurance, college. I could go on. Go talk to a French Ex-pat for their opinion on American tax policy. You may be shocked to hear their perspective. The powers that be have done a very good job at keeping wages low for decades. And that’s all fine and dandy until a whole generation starts to retire with no disposable income while the younger generation can’t afford to buy their parents’ houses. There’s a recipe for disaster there.

There’s a reason why the New Deal programs were so successful. There’s a reason why Medicare is so popular. They’re not entitlements. They are deferred benefits and income that we have already paid for. But it’s hard to keep putting the burden for paying for absolutely everything on us if wages are essentially stagnant. And that goes for a lot of us well educated late boomers who lost our careers in the wake of the Great Recession. Wage stagnation affects all working people. All of us.

So, here I am looking at all these jerks on Twitter accusing me of purity tests and it suddenly occurred to me that the things that were left out of the bills were far from the purity test stuff. Nay, nay, they were the most important things and those that would cause the most pain to the powers that be. They are the things that could definitely make a significant difference in the lives of working Americans. Giving up on the most impactful policies in the bill would be playing right into our adversaries’ hands. They WANT us to feel helpless. Killing the bill, ironically, puts us back in control and shifts attention to the single holdout, what and who he represents and whether he really does want what’s best for his constituents. Shining a spotlight on Manchin will do wonders for Democratic Senate candidates in PA. They don’t really need Manchin’s help but by the end of 2022, he might very well need whoever wins Pat Toomey’s spot.

We are at the mercy of one man. Joe Manchin. He stands in the way of election bills, paid family leave, climate change initiatives, drug price controls for Medicare. You name it, he’s agin it. And the whole country is at his mercy. Democrats have a right to be furious. By taking a stand, I’m not so sure that it will kill Biden’s presidency or Democrats control of the House. It’s never been tried before and we do not despair because we don’t know the end of the story.

I was rewriting the lyrics of Give Me Hope, Johanna to Give Me Hope, Joe Manchin while I was on the treadmill.

“They got a system they call apartheid” became “they got a thing called the filibuster”

“Freedom Fighters” became “Black Lives Matter”.

“Durban and Transvaal” is “Texas and Washington”.

Where is Randy Rainbow when you need him or does he only do show tunes?

A Special Halloween Story–“The Sign-Painter and the Crystal Fishes”–Part 1

This is one of my favorite short stories ever. I think it is an absolute masterpiece. I first read it in a collection of short stories, and I had never heard of Marjorie Bowen, and I was amazed by how elegantly ornate and yet haunting and touching it is. It is not a horror story. It is closer to the genre of Fantasy, but it is not that, either. It has the style of a story written in the 19th Century, but it is more unique, I think. There is a vivid, dreamlike quality which only the best writers can effectively create without it seeming pretentious. Marjorie Bowen was a great writer, in my opinion, and this is her short story masterpiece. It is so unusual that the first time I read it, I thought that this must have been the second part of a story which was not in the collection, but I realized that there was not, and that Bowen had imagined a prequel to the events she portrays.

As you may know, I am a great fan of Marjorie Bowen, who I think was so talented, and more. In this story, which I think was written when she was 24, there is a is a sincerity and even innocence in her narrative and descriptions. It is very memorable, and I hope you will read it all the way through. It is somewhat lengthy, so I decided to separate it into four different posts here, so as not to have an individual page run very long It is certainly best read in one sitting, ideally if you are not distracted, as it creates a mood. It took me a long time to transcribe it, so I hope many of you will give it a try. It will not scare you! I have read some others in a somewhat similar style, but this story has intelligence, depth, and a special romantic quality to it.

Happy Halloween!



The house was built beside a river. In the evening, the sun would lie reflected in the dark water, a stain of red in between the thick shadows cast by the buildings, and there was the long ripple to dull crimson, shifting as the water rippled between the high houses.

Beneath the house was a long stake, hung at the bottom with stagnant green, white and dry at the top. A rotting boat that floated the tattered remains of crimson cushions was affixed to the stake by a fraying rope.Sometimes the boat was thrown against the post by the strong evil ripples, and there was a dismal creaking noise.

Opposite this house was a garden–a narrow strip of ground closed round by the blank, dark houses, and led up to from the water by a flight of narrow, crumbling steps.

Nothing grew in this garden but small, bright, rank grass, and a tree that bore white flowers.The house it belonged to was empty and shuttered; so was every house along the canal except for this one, at the top window of which Lucius Cranfield sat shivering in his mean red coat. He was biting his finger and looking out across the water at the tree with pale flowers knocking at the closed shutter beside it.

The room was bare and falling to decay. Cobwebs swung from the great beam in the roof, and in every corner a spider’s web was spun across the dirty plaster walls.

There was no glass in the windows, and the shutters swung loose on broken hinges. Now and again they creaked against the flat brick front of the house, and then Lucius Cranfield winced.

He held a round clear mirror in his hand, and sometimes he looked away from the solitary tree to glance into it. When he did so he beheld a pallid face surrounded by straight brown hair, lips that had once been beautiful, and blurred eyes veined with red like some curious stone.

As the red sun began to grow fainter in the water a step sounded on the rotting stairway, the useless door was pushed open, and Lord James Fontaine entered.

Slowly, and with a mincing step, he came across the dusty floor. He wore a dress of bright violet watered silk, his hair was rolled fantastically, and powdered such a pure white that his face looked sallow by contrast. To remedy this, he had painted his cheeks and his lips, and powdered his forehead and chin. But the impression made was not of a pink and fresh complexion, but a yellow countenance rouged. There were long pearls in his ears and under his left eye an enormous patch. His eyes slanted toward his nose, his nostrils curved upward, and his thin lips were smiling.

He carried a cane hung with blood-colored tassels, and his waistcoat was embroidered with green flowers, the hue of an emerald, and green flowers the tint of a pale sea.

“You paint signs, do you not?,” he said, and nodded.

“Yes, I paint signs,” answered the other. He looked away from Lord James, and across the darkening water to the lonely tree opposite. The sky above the deserted houses was turning cold wet grey. A flight of crows went past, hung for a moment round the chimney pots, and then flew on again.

“Will you design me a sign-board?” said Lord Janes, smiling. “Something noble and gay, for I have taken a new house in town.”

“My workshop is downstairs,” said Lucius Cranfield., without looking round. “Why did you come up?” He laid down the mirror and rubbed his cold fingers together.

“I rang and fhere was no answer, I knocked and there was no answer, so I pushed open the door and came up; why not?” Lord James regarded the sign-painter keenly and smiled again, and pressed the knob of his clouded cane against his chin.

“Oh, why not?” echoed Lucius Cranfield. “Only this is a poor place to come for a gay and noble sign.”

He turned his head now, and there was a curious twist on his colorless lips.

“But you have a very splendid painting swinging outside your front door,” said Lord James suavely. “Never did I see a fairer painting and brighter hues. Is it your work?” he questioned.

“Mine, yes,” assented the sign-painter drearily.

“Fashion me a sign-board such as that,” said Lord James.

Lucius Cranfield left off rubbing his hands together.

“The same subjects?” he asked.

The other lowered his lids.

“The subjects are curious,” he replied. “Where did you get them?”

“From life,” said the sign-painter, staring at the tattered veils of cobwebs fluttering from the broken window-frame. “From my life.”

The bright dark eyes of the visitor flickered from right to left. He moved a little nearer the window, where, despite the thickening twilight, his violet silk coat gleamed like the light on a sheet of water.

“You have had a strange life,” he remarked, sneering, “to cull from it such incidents.”

“What did you behold that was so extraordinary?” asked Lucius Cranfield.

“On one side there is a depicted a gallows. a man in a gay habit hanging on it and his face has some semblance to your own; the reverse bears the image of a fish, white, yet shot with all the colors…it is so skillfully executed that it looks as if it moved through the water….”

An expression of faint and troubled interest came over the sign-painter’s face.

“Have you seen such a fish?” he asked

Lord James’ features seemed to contract and sharpen.”Never,” he said hastily.

Lucas Cranfield rose, slowly and stiffly.

“There are two in the world,” he said, half to himself, “and before the end I shall find the other, and then everything will be mended and put straight.”

“Unless you lose your own token first,” remarked Lord James harshly.

“How did you know that I had one,?” asked the sign-painter sharply.

Lord James laughed.

“Oh, you’re gong mad, my fine friend. Do you not feel that you must be living alone in such a fashion in this old house?”

Lucius Cranfield dragged himself to a cupboard in the wall.

“How my limbs ache!” he muttered. “Mad?” A look of cunning spread over his features. “No, I shall not go mad while I have the one crystal fish, nor before I find the owner of the other.”

It was so dark they could barely see each other; but the nobleman’s dress still shone bright and cold in the gloom.

“Yes, it is enough to make a man go mad,” he remarked suavely, “to remember how rich and handsome you were once, with what fine clothes and furniture and friends…and then to remember how your father was hanged, and you were ruined, and all through the lies of your enemy… “

But my enemy died, too,” said Lucius Cranfield. He took a thick candle and a rusty tinder-box out of the cupboard.

“His son is alive,” replied Lord James.

A coarse yellow flame spurted acros the dust.

“I wish I had killed them both,” said the sign-painter, “but I could never find the son…How badly the candle burns!…”

He held the tinder to the cold box,and only a feeble tongue of fire sprang up.

“You are quite mad!” smiled Lord James. “You never killed either…and now that your blood is chilled with misery and weakened with evil days, you never will.”

The candle-flame strengthened and illumined the chamber. It showed Lord James holding his chin in a long white hand, and woke his diamonds into stars.

“Will you go downstairs and choose your design? said Lucius Cranfield, shivering. “Take care of the stairs.They are rather dusty.”

He shuffled to the door, and held aloft the light. It revealed the twisting stairway where the plaster hung cracked and dry on the walls, or bulged damp and green in patches as the damp had come through. The rafters were warped and bending, and in one spot a fan-shaped fungus had spread in a blotch of mottled orange.

Lord James came softly up behind the sign-painter and peered over the stairs.

“This is a mean place,” he said, smiling, “for a great gentleman to live in…and you were a great gentleman once, Mr. Cranfield.”

The other gave him a cunning look over his shoulder.

“When I find he owner of the fish, I shall be a great gentleman again, or kill my enemy–that is in the spell.”

They went downstairs slowly because of the rotting steps and uncertain light. Lord James rested his long fingers on the dusty balustrade.

“Do you not find the days long and dull here?” he asked.

The reply came unsteadily from the bowed red figure of the sign-painter.

‘No…I paint…and then I make umbrellas.”

“Umbrellas!” Lord James laughed unpleasantly.

“And parasols. Would you not like a parasol for your wife, James Fontaine?”

“Ah, you know me, it seems.”

“I know what you call yourself, ” said Lucius Cranfield. “And here is my studio. Will you look at the designs upon the wall?”

Lord James grinned and slipped delicately along the dark passage to the door indicated. It opened into a dark chamber the entire depth of the house. There were windows on either side: one way looking into the river, the other onto the street.

‘The Sign-Painter and the Crystal Fishes”–Part 2

Lucius Cranfield set the candle on a green bottle on the table, and pointed round the walls, where all manner of drawings on canvas, wood, or paper hung. They depicted horrible and fantastic things–mandrakes, dragons, curious shells and plants, monsters, and distorted flowers. In one corner were a number of parasols of silk and brocade, ruffled and frilled, having carved handles and ribboned sticks.

Lord James put up his glass and looked about him.

“Do you know who I am?” he said, speaking in an absorbed way. and keeping his back to Lucius Cranfield, who stood huddled together on the other side of the table, staring before him with dead-seeming eyes.

There was no answer, and Lord James laughed softly.

“You paint very well, Mr. Cranfield, but I must have something more cheerful than any of these”–he pointed his elegant cane at the designs. “That fish, now, that you have on your own sign, that is a beautiful thing.”

The sign-painter groaned and thrust his fingers into his untidy brown hair.

“I cannot paint that again,” he said.

“Sell me the sign, then.” Lord James spoke quickly.

“I cannot…it is hanging there that it may be seen…that whosoever holds the other fish may see it…and then…”

“How mad you are! cried Lord James.”What, then, even should one come who has the other fish?” His black eyes blinked sharply, and his lips twitched back from his teeth.

“Then I shall find my enemy. The witch said so…”

“But you may die first.”

“I cannot die till the spell is accomplished.” shivered Lucius Cranfield. “Nor can I lose the fish.”

Lord James put his hand to his waistcoat-pocket.

“Your light is very dim,” he remarked. “I do not see clearly, but I think I observe a violet-colored parasol–“

The other lifted his head.

“They are very interesting to make.”

“Will you show me that one?

Lucius Cranfield turned slowly towards the corner of the room.

“I began to work on that the night my father was hanged…as I sewed on the frills I thought of my enemies and how I hated them; and the night I killed one of them I finished it, carving the handle into the likeness of an ivory rose.”

“You have sinned also,” said Lord James, through his teeth. He took his hand from his pocket and put it behind his back.

“I have been a great sinner,” answered the sign-painter.

He took the purple parasol from the corner and shook out its shimmering silk furbelows.

“I will buy that.” Lord James leant against the table, close to the candle flaring in the green bottle. In its yellow light the brilliant color of his coat shone like a jewel.

“The parasol is not for sale,” said Lucius Cranfield sourly, gazing down on it. “Why do you not choose your design and go??

Now it was quite dark, both outside, beyond the windows, and in the corners of the long room. The waters sounded insistently as they lapped against the house. There was no moon but through a corner of the thick murky sky one stat flickered, and the sign-painter lifted his dimmed eyes from the candle-flame and looked at it.

“What do you see?” asked Lord James curiously. He came softly up behind the other.

“A star,” was the reply. “It is shining above the lonely white tree that is always knocking at the closed shutters…”

Lord James hand came round from behind his back.

“But one can never see them both at the same time, ” continued the sign-painter. “When the star comes out the tree is hidden, and only when the star sets…”

Lord James’s fine hand rose slowly and fell swiftly…

Lucius Cranfield sank on his face silently, and the flaring light of the unsnuffed candle flickered on the wet dagger as it glistened from between his shoulders.

Lord James stepped back and gazed with a long smile at his victim, who writhed an instant and then lay still on the dusty floor.

The sound of the water without seemed to increase his strength. The secret yet turbulent noise of it filled the chamber like a presence as Lord James turned over the body of the sign-painter and opened his red coat.

In an inner pocket he found it, wrapped in a piece of blue satin.

The crystal fish. It was of all colors, yet no color, translucent as water, holding like a bubble, all hues, finely wrought with fins and scales, cold to the hand, shining with a pure light of its own to the eye.

Lord James rose from his knees and put out the candle.

The river sounded so loud that he paused to listen to it. He thought he could distinguish the swish of oars and the clatter of them in the rowlocks.

He went to the window and looked out. By the glimmer of the star and the radiance of the fish in his hand he could discern that there was nobody on the river, only the deserted boat fastened to the rotting stake.

He smiled; the faint light was caught in his ribbons, his diamonds, his dark evil eyes. As he stared at the black row of water, the crystal fish began to writhe in his hand. It pushed and struggled, then leapt through his hand and plunged into the blackness of the river.

Lord James peered savagely at it, his smile changing to a grin of anger. But the fish had sunk like a bolt of iron, and thinking of the depth of the river Lord James was comforted.

He came back to the table. It was quite dark, but his eyes served him equally well day or night. He picked up his clouded cane with the crimson tassels, his black hat laced with gold, his vivid green cloak, he kissed his hand to the prone body of the sign-painter, and left the room. In a leisurely fashion, he walked down the passage, pushed open the crazy front door, and stepped out into the lonely street.

He looked up at the sign on which were painted the crystal fish and the man on the gallows; then he began to put on his gloves.

As he did so the violet parasol came to his mind. He turned back.

Softly he re-entered the long studio.The noise of the water had subsided to a mere murmur. Rats were running about the room and sitting on the body of Lucius Cranfield. He could see them despite the intense darkness,and he stepped delicately, to avoid their tails.

The violet parasol was on the floor near the dead man. He stooped to pick it up, and the rats squealed violently and showed their teeth.

Lord James nodded to them and left the house again with the parasol under his arm.


The garden sloped down along the straight high-road upon the side to which the house faced, and at the back ran the river which divided the pleasaunce and the meadows.

Separating the garden from the road was a prim box hedge, very high, very wide, and very old. Behind this grew the neat garden flowers, and beneath it the tangled weeds which edged the road.

Here sat Lord James on a milestone, playing Faro with a one-eyed gipsy.

The summer sunset sparkled on the red gables of the house and in the clothes of Lord James, which were of crimson and blue sarcenet branched with gold and silver.

The gipsy was young and ugly; he wore a green patch upon his eyeless socket, and now and then listened, keenly. to the sound of the church bells that came up from the valley, for the village ringers were practicing for Lord James’s wedding.

The two played silently. The red and black cards scattered over the close green grass shaded by the large wild-parsley flowers. Beside the milestone lay Lord James’ hat, stick, and cloak. His horse was fastened by a bridle to the stout branch of a laurel tree that bent over from the garden.

“The Sign-Painter and the Crystal Fishes”–Part 3

“You always win,” said the gipsy.

Lord James laughed, then coughed until he shook the powder off his face on to his cravat.

“Another game,” he said, and shuffled the cards.

At this a lady looked over the box hedge and gave them both a bitter frown.

Little bright pink and blue ribbons were threaded through her high-piled white curls, round her neck was a diamond necklace, and on the front of her black velvet bodice a long trail of jasmine was pinned. Her painted lips curled scornfully, and her azure eyes darkened as she started across and over the box hedge at Lord James.

He looked at her, waved his hand, and rose.

“You are late,” she remarked stiffly.

“I have been playing cards,” he answered. “May I present you to my friend?” He pointed to the gipsy.

“No,” she said,and turned her back.

The gipsy laughed silently. The sound of the bells swelled and receded in the golden evening.

“Take my horse to the stables.” Lord James grinned at the gipsy, and gathered up his cloak and hat from the grass.

“I hate those bells!” cried the lady peevishly.

“They will sing no more after tomorrow, my dear.”

Lord James came round the to the gate as he spoke, and entered the garden.

She gave him a side glance and pouted. Her enormous silk white hoop, draped with festoons of white roses, overswept the narrow garden path, and crushed the southernwood which edged it. Her hands rested on her black velvet panniers embroidered with gardens of crimson carnations. There was a moon-shaped patch on her bare throat and one like a star on her rouged cheek; beneath her short skirts showed her black buckle shoes and immensely high red heels. Her name was Serena Thornton.

“I have broken my parasol,” she said, looking at the gables of the house where the red-gold sunset rested. The violet-colored one you brought me.”

“It can be mended,” answered Lord James.

He came up to her, and they kissed.

“Yes,,” assented Serena.”I sent it to be mended today.”

He laughed.

‘There is no one here can mend a parasol like that. You must give it to me, Serena, and I will take it to town.”

They moved slowly along the gravel walk, he in front of her, since her hoop did not allow him to walk by her side.

It was a very pleasant garden. There were beds of pinks, of stocks, roses,, bushes of laurel, yew, and box, all intersected with little paths which crossed one another,and led towards the house.

“There is a man in the village,” said Lady Serena, “who is a maker of umbrellas. He came here yesterday.”

“Ah?” questioned Lord James. He looked back over his shoulder.

“I heard he was painting a new sign for “The Goat and Compasses,” and that he had made it a beautiful blue umbrella for the host, so I sent him my parasol.”

A slight greenish tinge, visible though he paint and powder, overspread Lord James’ s handsome face

“It was careless of you to break it, ” he said softly

Lady Serena lifted her shoulders.

“I could not help it. Should I tell you how it happened?”‘

They had reached a square plot of closed grass round which ran the box hedge and a low stone coping. In its center stood a prim fountain, and in its clear water swam the golden and ruby carp.

“Yes, tell me how it happened,” said Lord James. He pressed his handkerchief to his thin lips and looked up at the sunset.

“I wish they wold stop those bells!” cried Lady Serena.

‘They are practicing for our wedding tomorrow, my dear,” he smiled.

They could walk now side by side, she looking in front of her, and he looking at the sunset that was pale and bright, the color of soft gold. of pink coral, and of a dove’s wing above the gables of her house.

“I was walking by the river two days ago,” said Lady Serena, ” and I had in my hand the crystal fish. Do you remember, Lord James, that I showed it to you just before you left for town?”

“Yes, a foolish toy,” he answered.

“How pleasant the box smells!” murmured Lady Serena in a softer tone. “Well, I walked along the bank, thinking of you, and when I looked into the water, I saw another fish–it floated just as if it were swimming–and oh, it was like the one I held in my hand. Just as it neared me it became entangled in the water weeds…”

“This does not explain how you broke your parasol,” remarked Lord James.

“I drew the fish to land with it, my new parasol that your little black boy had just brought me–and I broke the handle.”

Lord James turned his pallid face towards her.

“Did you get the fish?”

“Yes. It is just like the one I have.” She pulled out a green ribbon from the white bag that hung on her arm, and at the end of it, dangled two fishes, cut and carved finely, holding a clear light, and filled with changing colors.

Lady Serena touched one with her scented forefinger “That is the one I found. See, it has a bright blood-like stain across the side.”

“So it has, said Lord James, putting up his glass. It is curious you should have found it. A witch gave you the other, did you not say?”

“Yes,” she answered half sullenly. “And she told me that the other was owned by my lover, and that he must live in misery till he found me. She turned the blue light of her eyes on her companion. You should have had it.” she said,and slipped the fishes back into her bag.

The afterglow was fading from the sky, and they turned towards the house.

“I won three thousand pounds at Faro last night, ” said Lord James, “and I have bought you some presents.”

And he thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out a string of amethysts.

“I dislike the color,” said Lady Serena, and put it aside.

“It is the color you wear,” he answered.

She took the necklace at this with a sudden laugh, and fastened it round her long, pale throat.

They reached the three shallow steps that led to the open door of the house, and passed side by side out of the sunset glow into the soft-hued gloom of the wide hall.

“The Sign-Painter and the Crystal Fishes”–Part 4

In the great banqueting-room a dinner of two covers was laid. The service was of gold and silver, the glasses twisted with milk- white lines. The table was laid with six tall candles painted with wreaths of pinks and forget-me-nots, and their light ran gleaming and faint over the white cloth.

“I am going to try on my wedding dress,” said Lady Serena. “Will you wait for me?”

‘It is unlucky to wear your wedding-dress before your wedding-day,” said Lord James.

But she left the chamber without a word or a smile.

The room opened by wide windows onto the terrace at the back that sloped down to the river, and the sound of the water throbbing between its banks seemed to grow in volume and to speak threateningly to Lord James as he sat at the table with the glass and silver glittering before him, and the heart-shaped candle-flames casting a flickering glow over his sickly face.

It was the same river, and he knew it. As the last flash of light faded from the heavens he saw the moon, a strong pearl color, rise above the trees, and a great sparkling reflection fell across the river, marking with lines of silver the turbulent eddies that chased one another down the stream.

After a while Lord James rose and walked swiftly to the window, and his eyes became wide and bright as he stroked his chin and gazed at the river.

When he turned round again, Lucius Cranfield stood in the doorway looking at him.

A spasm of fear contracted Lord James’s features, then he spoke evenly.

“Good evening,” he said.

“Good evening,” replied Lucius Cranfield, and he bowed. “I have brought back a parasol I have mended–a lady’s parasol, purple, with an ivory rose on the handle.”

Between them there was an ill-lit space of room and the bright table bearing the candles.They looked at each other, and Lord James’s face grew long and foxy.

“How much do I owe you, Mr. Cranfield?” he asked.

“A great deal,” said the sign-painter, shaking his head. “Oh a great deal.’

Smiling, he set the parasol against a chair. His eyes were no longer bloodshot nor his cheeks pallid. His hair was neatly dressed. He wore the same red suit, and between the shoulder-blades it had been slit and mended with stitchings of gold thread.

“How much?” repeated Lord James.

Lucius Cranfield laughed.

“I do not believe that you are alive at all,” sneered the other. rubbing his hands together. “How did you get away from the rats?”

“Do you not hear the river?” whispered the sign-painter. “It is the same river.”

Lord James came towards the table.

“I will pay you tomorrow for your work,” and he pointed to the mended parasol.

“That is no debt of yours,” answered Lucius Cranfield.” I did it for the lady of the house, Serena Thornton.”

“She is my betrothed,” said Lord James. And I will pay you tomorrow—“


And the sign-painter smiled and stepped nearer.

‘You lost the crystal fish,” murmured Lord James, biting his forefinger, and glancing round the dark, lonely room.

“But someone else has found it.”

The other gave a snarl of rage.

“No! It is at the bottom of the river!”

At that Lucius Cranfield leant forward and seized his enemy by the throat. Lord James shrieked, and they swayed together for a moment. But the sign-painter twisted the other’s head round on his shoulders and dropped him, a heap of gay clothes, on the waxed floor.

Then he began to sing, and turned to the open window.

The river was quiet now, flowing peacefully in between its banks, and Lucius Cranfield stepped out onto the terrace and walked towards its waters shining in the moonlight.

Almost before the last echo of his footsteps had died away in the silent room, Lady Serena Thornton entered, holding her dress up from her shoes

Her gown was white, all wreathed across the hoop with ropes of seed pearls, and laced across the bodice with diamonds. In her high head-dress floated two soft plumes fastened with clusters of pale roses Round her neck hung Lord James’s gift of amethysts.

She stood in the doorway, her painted lips parted, her dark blue eyes fixed on the body of her betrothed husband.

Presently she went up and looked at him. Then she sat down on the chair by the table–sat down, breathing heavily–with her right hand on the smooth satin of her bodice, and slow,strange, changes passing over her face.She glanced at the purple parasol, resting across the chair where Lord James should have sat, and then out at the distant river, that showed white as her bridal-dress where the moonlight caught its ripples. She heard the far-off singing of the sign-painter, and she sighed, closing her eyes.

The six candles burnt steadily, casting a rim of dark shadow round the table and the dead man on the floor, and glittering in the embroidered flowers in his gaudy coat and in the jewels of the woman at the table.

The black clock on the mantelshelf struck ten. The sound was echoed by the chimes from the village church.

Lady Serena Thornton rose and went upstairs, her wide hoops brushing the balustrade either side, her high heels tapping on the polished wood.

She entered her room and lit a little silver lamp on the dressing-table.

The chamber looked out upon the back; the window was open, and she could still see the river and hear Lucius Cranfield singng.

Slowly she took the feathers, ribbons and flowers out of her curls, and laid them on the tulip-wood table. Then she shook down her hair from its wire frame and brushed the powder out of it. She had almost forgotten what color it was–m reality a ruby golden-brown, like the tint of wallflowers.

She unlaced her bodice and flung aside her jewels. She stepped out of her hoop and took off her satin coat, staring at herself in the gilt oval mirror.

Then she washed her face free of paint and powder in her gold basin, and tied up her locks with a red ribbon. She cast off her long earrings, her bracelets, her rings, the necklace Lord James had given her. This slipped, like the glitter of purple water, through her fingers, and shone like a little heap of stars on her gleaming waxed floor.

She arrayed herself in a brown dress, plain and straight, and took the two fishes from her velvet bag to hang them round her neck.

Again she looked at herself. Who would have known her? Not Lord James himself, could he have risen from the floor in the solitary room below, and come up the wide stairs to gaze at her. Her face was utterly changed, he carriage different.

She blew out the lamp. A faint trail of smoke stained the moonlight that filled the room She listened and heard the river and the sign-painter singing. On her bosom the fishes throbbed and glowed, opal-colored and luminous.

Leaving the room lightly, softly, she descended through the dark to the dining room.

The six flower-wreathed candles still burnt steadily among the glass and silver. She glanced at Lord James sorrowfully, and picked up the mended parasol.

As she did so, the bells broke out in a volume of glad sound–the villagers practicing yet again for her wedding on the morrow.

Lady Serena Thornton smiled, and as Lucius Cranfield had done, and almost in his steps, went down the long room and through the open window on to the terrace. Slowly she walked towards the river, which she could see moving restlessly under the moonlight. The bells were very loud, but through them came the words of his song–

“The clouds were tangled in the trees–

They broke the boughs and spoiled the fruit;

The sleeper knows what the sleeper sees–

You play spades, and I follow suit!

The clouds came down, the drops of rain,

And woke the grass to blooms of fire;

The sleeper tore his dream in twain,

And sought for the cards in the bitter mire!”

The bells ceased suddenly. Lady Serena saw the dark figure of the sign-painter, standing at the edge of the water, his back to her.

“If I have won, ’tis little matter;

If I have lost, ’tis naught at all;

The wind will chill and the sun will flatter

And the damp earth fill the mouths of all.”

There was a boat before him, rocking on the urgent water, and as the lady came up the sign-painter stooped over it. Then he turned and saw her.

“Good even,” said Lady Serena. He took her hand and kissed her face. The sound of the river was heavily in their ears.

“I found your fish,” she whispered.

He nodded, and they entered the boat. It was lined with violet silk and scented with spices.

“The villagers will have practiced for nothing,” said Lady Serena.

Lucius Cranfield loosened the rope that held the boat fast. to a willow, and it began to drift down the stream towards the town.

We are going to a house where a tree with white flowers knocks for admittance on the shutters,” he said.

“I know,” she answered, “I know.”

She sat opposite to him, leaning back, and the light night wind blew apart her brown robe here and there on the gleam of the bright green petticoat beneath. Her yellow hair floated behind her, and the crystal fishes rose and fell with her breathing. Across her knees lay the purple parasol.

They looked at each other and smiled with parted lips. The boat sped swiftly under a high bank. treeless and full under the rays of the moon. Here, by a round stone, sat two figures playing cards.

Lucius Cranfield glanced up. The players turned white, grinning faces down towards the boat. They were the one-eyed gipsy and Lord James.

“Good night” nodded the sign-painter. I do not believe you are alive at all. Why, I can almost see through you!…”

“Do you know me?” mocked Lady Serena.

And the boat was swept away along the winding river.

Lord James listened to the sign-painter’s song that floated up from the dark water.

If I win, ’tis little matter;

If I lose, ’tis naught at all;

The wind will chill and the sun will flatter,

And the red earth stop the mouths of all.”

“They will never get there,” grinned Lord James. “I shall go down tomorrow and see the empty boat upside down, tossing outside the shuttered house.”

“There is no tomorrow for such as you,” leered the gipsy. “You had your neck broken an hour ago…presently we will go home…your deal.”

Lord James sighed, and a great cloud suddenly overspread the moon.

The gipsy began to sing in a harsh voice, and his eyes turned red in his head as he shuffled the cards.

“If I win,,’tis little matter;

If I lose, ’tis naught at all;

The wind will chill and the sun will flatter,

And the damp earth stop the mouths of all.”

Far away down the river the boat flashed for the last time in the moonlight, then was lost to sight under the shadow of the over-hanging trees.

Be bold and kill the bill

David Pakman describes what’s at stake:

The LAST thing we need is another idiotic Obamacare type program with so many frustrating holes and hoop jumping. Even the climate change section has been stripped out. It’s like America has opted out of the 21st century.

I’m pretty sure that working class people would prefer nothing than some stupid gutted bill that will linger for generations like the smell of a fetid dead animal and do nothing to improve their lives or the effects of climate change.

Do it right or just kill it. Make Manchin and Sinema the only Democrats who vote for it.

And may Joe Manchin develop an anaphylactic reaction to coal dust.

Return to Fitness

Sounds like a sequel, doesn’t it? it kind of is.

My foot finally feels better. I’m back to square one on the treadmill. I sprained my foot just about the time I started to include running in my workout. It’s going to be awhile before I can do that but I walked hills tonight for 2 miles.

I tried the peloton last week. The Bluetooth wasn’t working properly though so I couldn’t hear the instructor yelling at me and telling me how many quarter turns to do. That was fun. 🙄 Twenty minutes later, the beginner ride was finished and I was sucking air. But my foot was fine. Gotta get the gym dude to show me what magical incantation I need to use to get the sound of overly enthusiastic commands in my ears.

What do those guys live on anyway?

I read something in WaPo about how many of us are feeling schlubby after 18 months at home. Yep. And before I sprained my ankle, I was feeling like my metabolism was starting to return to normal. But in a couple months, I should feel sleek and energetic. It’s a goal.

This is about my cadence tonight:

Well, it was a women thing anyway

Thanks, Joe Manchin! We will continue to hold the distinction of being the only first world country where the stress of being a women at work is completely defined by the retrograde coal miners of West Virginia and their owners.

Hey, if anyone decides to primary Joe next year, give me a call. I’m in SWPA.

Basic life update

Hi everyone. I’m still here, still reading William’s excellent posts. Still paying attention to the news. But my other life is kind of taking over for the moment.

I did change jobs within the company. The change was a positive one. My skill set is definitely more suited to this position. It confirms that I’m more of a problem solver/motivator than a drone. (Not that there’s anything wrong with drones, it’s just not my thing, baby). It just feels more comfortable and parts of my brain are switched on again and feeling frisky. And that has had a positive effect on curbing my anxiety. I can start to deal with some other issues that have taken a backseat. The only thing I could wish for now is an increase in pay. Otherwise, I’m working with a feisty bunch of people, who I like, and I think I’m needed at the moment. So, it’s all good. Not as good as solving protein structures in a lab but definitely a very close second. Work is getting to be fun again.

Everyone should be so lucky.

I’m going to start paying attention to the almost constant barrage of John Fetterman for Senate texts I get everyday (btw, John, I have a recurring contribution to your campaign. It’s small but all I can afford right now.)

Anyway, thank you all for being the intelligent, informed and opinionated people you are. The country needs you. I’ll pop in if I have anything important to say. I’m starting to feel a post coming in about how support of paid leave and child care policies will be beneficial to household income and how men should support them but it’s still cooking in my brain along with the other work related things I’m dealing with. Let’s just say that I have to start adulting better now and that’s where my focus will be for at least another month.

Thank you all for coming to this blog in the liberal Oort belt and giving William support. You all deserve a call out and I intend to do it soon, especially to IBW who consistently connects us with top shelf blues on Friday nights.

Later, taters.

The Plot Against America Is Very Slowly Being Revealed

The whatever you want to call it at the Capitol on Jan 6, is now over ten months ago. Trump and other Republicans called it a nice event, lovely people, just a regular day. Some Republicans said it was not good, but we should put it behind us, and get to the business of suppressing votes and attacking Biden. They didn’t say all of the last part, the vote suppressing part, but that is what they meant.

There was an article a few weeks after the event, which stated that four former FBI officials said that there was no plot, just some people there causing some problems. Some of the media excitedly ran with this. I wonder if they were the FBI officials who said that they “found no clear link” between Trump and Russia, in the waning days of the 2016 campaign, when the New York Times was screaming with headlines about “new emails” which did not exist.

I and many others had said in the early days of 2017, as more was revealed, that this was the biggest story in many decades, but much of the media acted as if it was not very important. Did you know that Carl Bernstein said in 2016 that the Hillary email story was bigger than Watergate? Quite a stupid, irresponsible and despicable thing to say, but no one really called him on it. But the story of how Trump colluded and conspired with Russia to get himself elected in exchange for subservience to that country’s goals, never was more than a three-month or so lead story, even though there was a long Mueller investigation which didn’t interview Trump, or follow up with records. The biggest story of the century, the perversion of our electoral process, and the making of illicit deals with foreign enemy powers, was not too interesting to the media, not nearly as much as the emails, which they covered for a year and a half.

Now, we finally are learning from certain respected media, primarily the Washington Post, that what happened on January 6 was plotted and schemed by Trump, Giuliani, Bannon, Eastman, and others. The goals were deadly violence, chaos, and the invoking of the Insurrection Act, where Trump would seize martial power. Then there was the concurrent and related attempt to have Pence not certify the electoral vote; to have Jeffrey Clark get the Department of Justice to say that the vote count was unreliable, that different electors should be chosen. And then in the ensuing chaos, the Congress, on a state by state basis, should choose the winner, which would be Trump.

This was plotted and coordinated. According to two insurrection participant sources who very recently spoke to a reporter, there were many meetings between the insurrectionists and Trump people, planning how they were going to carry out the violence at the Capitol. Bannon, who loves to hear himself talk, and who thinks he is untouchable since Trump pardoned him for fraud, actually got on his podcast a day or two earlier, and said that “we are right above the target.” He knew exactly what was planed to happen. Trump said, “It will be wild.”

We have have previously heard bits and pieces of things; people speculating about how the mob knew which doors and windows were open; and I wondering why they were busily trying to open the drawers in Pelosi’s office. Just rampaging, trying to throw around things? I think not. I think that they were looking for specific items. I also think that they were trying to get the state vote certifications, but some smart people had kept them safe.

There was malevolent and specific purpose behind all of this. There were “sources close to Trump” telling the media that Trump had come to terms with his election defeat, but that was deliberate subterfuge, to hide what was going on, which was a concerted and planned attempt to overthrow the democracy of this country. It was the worst crime in American history, and we still don’t know nearly enough about it.

And what is the media doing? A few good reporters are assiduously following up. Nicolle Wallace covers it every day on her show. But most of the rest of the media remains focused on Biden’s poll numbers, Democrats in disarray, their usual staples.

The slowly revealed substantiation that a group of traitors were plotting to take over the country by subverting the electoral process, and inciting their followers to deadly violence against elected officials and Capitol police, does not seem to impress them much. Or maybe some of them want to divert from it.

How can we forget the daily, by the minute, focus on Hillary’s emails, over and over and over, as if it were the rosetta stone, which once unlocked, and deciphered, would reveal deep and dark secrets. about Hillary and her family, and the “A”-rated Clinton Foundation, But this story about the insurrection and what we are learning about its planning and goals, is mentioned only a bit on the news, mostly out of a chore-like sense of requirement, and then they move to something else. What else is there, what is even close to as important as a coup against American democracy, and the installation of a fascist state?

Do you note how demonstrative and determined Lynn Cheney and Adam Kinzinger, the two Republicans on the House Select Committee have been? Maybe as Republicans, they have access to more information about what went on, and how deep the treachery has been? And they know that if Kevin McCarthy or any of his colleagues take the Speakership, the investigation will be shut down.

What a tragedy for the country that would be. But it is what Republicans want. Not the truth, not the depth of what was plotted and who was involved. Just shut it down so that they can win, and keep winning. Can you imagine what the country would be like if these people were in charge? Not just the obvious terrible programs and laws. It would be a group of people bound together by a terrible crime, which must be covered up and buried, no matter what they have to do to achieve that. It is like a murder mystery novel in that sense. Or a saga about a crime family.

Ten months after the event, and we are only now learning the new information? Only a year until the midterm elections, and everyone will be out campaigning after July. The crime of the century becoming the cover-up of the century. Even worse than the Russian conspiracy cover-up, though that scarcely seemed possible.

The Committee is racing against time–unless the Democrats can hold the House.There is one party which wants the truth and the facts, and the other party which wants nobody to know but them “There are only two people who Putin pays, Trump and Rohrabacher,” said by Kevin McCarthy during the 2016 campaign. “We have to keep it to ourselves,” or words to that effect. This is a saga of Cops and Crooks. Government Agents and Mafia. But it is not an engrossing movie, it is real. And it is our country at stake.

And what does the media, the supposed guardians of our freedom of information, mostly do? Act like it’s just one of many stories, soon to be dwarfed by which party wins the Governor’s race in Virginia, what is happening at the border, will Republicans take over the House and Senate in a year? As if it is all a never-ending sports event, where first one team leads, and then the other; and the issue as to whether the referee or the league has fixed it, or is trying to kill one side’s players, is just another part of the box score, when actually it is the only part which ultimately matters.