By Marcus Amaker and Marjory Wentworth
Though Charleston is a shrine to the past,
where every alleyway and weather-worn road
tells the story of a city resurrected;
time is never standing still.
Running beneath the surface
are fault lines of our own making,
reshaping memory brick by brick.
Hours crumble in the soil at Hampton Park,
where horses ran laps for sport,
and Union soldiers were laid to rest,
honored as “Martyrs of the Race Course.”
Now, a statue of Denmark Vesey stands
in this place named for a confederate general,
as flowers bloom among the ruins.
This year, we’ve done laps around despair;
we’ve grown tired of running in circles
so we stepped off the track and began to walk.
As the earth shifts beneath our feet,
we move forward together. Our hearts
unhinged, guide us toward a city
remade by love, into a future
that our past could never have imagined,
beginning today.
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Guess what I did all day Wednesday? If you guessed "coughed," you would be right. I was still nervous about driving because the cough is a little less frequent but at this point is giving me cramps because it's so intense. Niece worked most of the day and I ended up taking a nap in the middle of the afternoon because non-drowsy cough medicine doesn't work nearly as well as non-non-drowsy cough medicine. The only real excitement in my day was Designated Survivor, which wasn't that exciting though it was better than the season premiere (so many women, so many men rescuing them).
We've been watching Inspector Morse reruns on Wednesday nights but I have to admit that I find it really misogynistic. This week, a woman slept with her husband's boss after the boss threatened to block the husband's promotion if she didn't, and when the husband found out, he chased her threatening to kill her until she fell down the stairs and died, and Morse felt sorry for the husband because the evil boss ruined his marriage -- nothing about the fact that the husband was directly responsible for his wife's death! Here are some photos from the Renaissance faire:
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