I was born in November, in a night so cold I cannot imagine to happen again in this or any November to come. Storms are more common nowadays. I like storms however, though I know it’s not always without damage. But this overwhelming power always makes me feel excited. It’s a phenomenon forcing everyone to show respect. I call it the ultimate intimidating force. Not to be questioned, doubted or challenged. It’s the kind of natural dominance not many of us have. Respect needs to be earned, which is a good thing in most cases.
Some remarkable persons pretend to be like a storm, overpowering others with all kinds of behaviour, words and acts. One of the most recent examples of a wannabe storm even made it to President of the United States as we all know. Donald Trump, the new Messiah and Saviour thinks he has the power to not be questioned and challenged and can do as he likes. Being Donald Trump, in his view, is being a Super Storm that will intimidate everyone. And yes it will for a while. But storms end, always. And it’s only AFTER the storm the real power has to be shown. The ability to reconstruct what has been deconstructed or even destructed badly. To bow a head in shame or regret when the storm clearly was too destructive. To know regeneration is needed after brutal force, instead of intolerance creating explosive area’s that will suffer from not being granted their space to recover, survive, live and love.
The Trump dominance is not a natural dominance, it’s an abuse of power and lack of respect for being given so much power. Donald Trumps force I never will take as genuine for that reason. For me he is a fake storm, a greedy mechanism empowering nationalistic sentiments. The input Trump gives to (white, male) supremacy, could very well cause a storm even he cannot control anymore. Simply because people never will give up when intolerance is their opponent. This essential need to be accepted is a much stronger force than Twittermania, Trumpmania and White (House) Mania will ever be able to generate.
November Storms, let them come . . .
But by all means remember they are not endless.
Ruthless for sure, but we are stronger than fears inside of us.
Fears in the end will give us the wings to fly to a higher level of insight and wisdom.
Because fears are not made to conquer, they are made to be conquered.
So, let’s sing another song, shall we?
Sing Another Song, Boys
(Let’s sing another song, boys, this one has grown old and bitter.)
Ah his fingernails, I see they’re broken,
his ships they’re all on fire.
The moneylender’s lovely little daughter
ah, she’s eaten, she’s eaten with desire.
She spies him through the glasses
from the pawnshops of her wicked father.
She hails him with a microphone
that some poor singer, just like me, had to leave her.
She tempts him with a clarinet,
she waves a Nazi dagger.
She finds him lying in a heap;
she wants to be his woman.
He says, “Yes, I might go to sleep
but kindly leave, leave the future,
leave it open.”
He stands where it is steep,
oh I guess he thinks that he’s the very first one,
his hand upon his leather belt now
like it was the wheel of some big ocean liner.
And she will learn to touch herself so well
as all the sails burn down like paper.
And he has lit the chain
of his famous cigarillo.
Ah, they’ll never, they’ll never ever reach the moon,
at least not the one that we’re after;
it’s floating broken on the open sea, look out there, my friends,
and it carries no survivors.
But lets leave these lovers wondering
why they cannot have each other,
and let’s sing another song, boys,
this one has grown old and bitter.