Parler games . . .

 Dear you,

Did your grandparents’ have a parlor?  My grands, on my Mom’s side, did.  The room fascinated me, plush oriental rug, ebony furniture, oil paintings of famous women from the Bible (no, not creepy paintings, these were warm and romantic in style, the femmes were gorgeous and appealing), and felt-covered game tables.  This was the room for chats with guests and family card games, and when guests were gone and games over, it was the perfect place to revel in solitude.  Part casino, part temple, the parlor appealed to my pagan nature, mixing the sacred and the profane in such an obvious and slightly erotic way.  I hadn’t thought about that room in years, until now.

Meet Parler, a riff on the French “to speak”. (Parlar, I believe.)  Everyone is yakking about Parler, a very Trumpy version of Twitter.  Since Twitter has been placing alerts on lies, this is where the MAGAs now meet and P-tweet.  Curious, I searched Twitter for posts that hash-tagged this new site; I wanted to see if the rumors were true, see if the Parler people were as insane as I’ve heard, beyond red, beyond Trumpy, actually kind of Hitlery.  The Parler related tweeters I scanned were busy ALL CAPS yelling about the usual topics, the “stolen election”, “liberal takeovers”, and of course the “civil war” which, by the way, they seem to be really looking forward too.  And oh my god, their profiles.  Across the board, they love “god”, kids, country, guns, hunting, Donald, and whiteness!  I was fascinated, experiencing that can’t-not-look-at-the-car-crash thing.  I spent at least thirty minutes going down this rabbit hole and emerged slightly exhausted.

It was noisy down there.  Lots of screaming.  Lots of rage. 

I wanted to be anywhere but there.   I wanted to return to my memorable, actual parlor, listen to civilized people speak, play games that don’t require bullets (or animal targets), and revel in solitude.  Then, I looked for advice, the kind only poets can give.  And I found this; the poet Ha Jin, “A Center”:

You must hold your quiet center,

Where you do what only you can do.

If others call you a maniac or a fool,

Just let them wag their tongues.

If some praise your perseverance,

Don’t feel too happy about it ---

Only solitude is a lasting friend.

You must hold your distant center.

Don’t move even if earth and heaven

Quake.

If others think you are insignificant,

That’s because you haven’t held on long

Enough.

As long as you stay put year after year,

Eventually you will find a world

Beginning to revolve around you.

I hope during this noisy time, you are all holding on to your center.   Return to your parlor (not Parler).  Revel in solitude.

Love,

Joyce