The snow prompted a poem worth sharing:
Roaring, screeching little pip-squeak snow blowers
stealing snow pleasures for commuting time.
Fathers send their children to do the work
we once knew as fun, and adults took pleasure
in a break from the everyday labors they knew.
Old farts, too proud to admit defeat, struggle
to recover an art created by nature and men.
Deafness, our ally, protects us with a stillness
that the young ones have never heard.
They must have another contrivance to hope for
Noise and clatter to goad them in a senseless quest
for reasons to make the future better than the past.
This just goes back to the whole idea of trading your time for wages so that you can keep the machine of the rich transferring wealth from those who produce it to those who don’t work because they can only be sated by power.
The powers of distraction are really in high gear in the past few days. People are getting too smart to swallow all the bull shit but still haven’t figured out that we feed their quest for power with a bad case of consumption.