Author: Lucy Moore

Playing at a Theater Near You

Lucy Moore

Operation Epic Fury. Yes, whether we signed up for it or not, that is what we are getting in behemoth amounts. This code name for our assault on Teheran (and beyond) led me to google past military operation code names, wondering if there could be a trend toward the lunatic.

Before WWII military operations were given names of colors. Although you might read something into “red” or “blue” these days, back then colors were relatively simple, safe choices. Germany apparently was the first to get creative with operation code names, and once WWII was underway, the US and Britain were quick to follow suit. Always ready with advice, Churchill wrote an internal memorandum on the subject:

“Operations in which large numbers of men may lose their lives ought not to be described by code words which imply a boastful or overconfident sentiment…They ought not to be names of a frivolous character…the world is wide, and intelligent thought will readily supply an unlimited number of well-sounding names which do not suggest the character of the operation or disparage it in any way…. and do not enable some widow or mother to say that her son was killed in an operation called ‘Bunnyhug’ or ‘Ballyhoo.’” https://www.scribd.com/document/361856420/Winston-Churchill-on-Naming-Covert-Operations#from

Operation Torch covered the Allied invasion of French North Africa in 1942, and two years later the Normandy invasion was named Operation Overlord. I imagine that Churchill grunted approval of the code names, although I’m not sure either one was any solace to the mother of a dead son.

The Vietnam war gave us Operation Ranch Hand, such an innocent, wholesome name for a particularly cruel and cynical operation that sprayed agent orange and other herbicides all over Vietnam and parts of Laos and Cambodia for ten years, 1961-1971. The goal was to deprive the enemy of food and vegetative cover; the collateral damage included generations of birth defects and cancer on all sides. Four US presidents shared leadership in the Vietnam war: Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson and Nixon. Below is the poster for Operation Ranch Hand, blaspheming an American icon.  Churchill would have scowled.

Operation Ranch Hand poster: Only you can prevent a forest

Vietnam also hosted the oddly poetic Operation Rolling Thunder, a sustained aerial bombardment against North Vietnam (1965–1968), and Operation Linebacker II, a massive bombing campaign in 1972 intended to force a peace agreement. I would ask, how did that work out, and is there a lesson? But no one in power is interested in answering so I won’t bother. As for the code names, they might pass Churchill’s test.

“Fury” first appeared in Ronald Reagan’s  Operation Urgent Fury, the invasion of the island nation of Grenada at dawn on 25 October 1983. Within days there was a military occupation, and general elections were held before the end of 1984. The operation lived up to the urgent part of its code name: it happened fast. The fury part was a pitifully weak version of what was to come.  

George H.W. Bush’s  Operation Just Cause went after Panama’s de facto ruler General Manuel Noriega in December 1989 on charges of racketeering and drug trafficking. Within six weeks Noriega surrendered, another quickie, and a new ruler was elected. I can’t help but think “Just Cause” was “just ‘cause we felt like it.” 

And we were just getting warmed up. Here come the big three in the Middle East:  

Operation Desert Storm in 1991, under George H. W. again, was the combat phase of the Gulf War supposedly to liberate Kuwait but in reality to secure oil. A+ for code name: it was in the desert and it was a s*** storm.  

 Operation Enduring Freedom, the post 9-11 war in Afghanistan 2001-2014, covered terms of both George W. Bush and Barack Obama. I give this code name an F.  Whatever it was, it didn’t endure and it wasn’t freedom. 

Operation Iraqi Freedom, from 2003–2010, was again a grab for oil, disguised as a liberation and a protection of the US from weapons of mass destruction, which were as fanciful as the freedom which was promised. Again, hosted by Bush and Obama, code name gets a C- for getting the geography (Iraq) right.

And now (drum roll)…. let’s look at what’s showing on the big screen today: two fantastic titles! Operation Pacific Viper came out last year and is still playing in the Pacific and Caribbean theaters, and Operation Epic Fury, just opened last weekend to horrified crowds in Iran… coming soon to a theater near you in neighboring countries.

Yes, we finally hit the bullseye. These operation code names are perfect. Our leadership is full of poisonous venom, a hideous, soulless viper, striking with great precision on random targets.  And his fury is epic, driven by his fragile, greedy and desperate ego, ready and able to consume everything in his path.

Churchill would be disgusted. I know I am.

Winston Churchill, 1942, with cigar and victory sign
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Staying Afloat

Lucy Moore

I found this picture and it struck a chord. I am stand-up paddling far off the Kona Coast in Hawaii in the early 2000s.  It was a calming, meditative experience and I always felt transported – as I was in fact! – to a different world, where all I heard was the rhythmic slap of waves under the board and all I saw was a gray blue, sometimes sparkling, expanse all the way to the horizon. I took to SUP immediately, rarely falling, riding the undulating surface, bent knees, ready to absorb whatever peaks and valleys lay ahead. I loved it and whenever we visited the Big Island, we went out – me on the board, Roberto in a kayak.  

It was dangerous, given the life teeming below me that could have upset me at best and eaten me at worst. Dolphins are a favorite food of sharks, and apparently a paddle board seen from below, silhouetted against the sky, looks just like a dolphin, if you are a shark. I am a cautious person in unfamiliar settings, and I can’t imagine now what drove, or lured, me out there. Maybe the simplicity, the isolation, being alone, a tiny speck in the immense, awesome ocean. I had faith – in what I can’t say — that I would survive, and if not it would have been worth it.

It is now 2026, well into the second year of an egomaniacal dictator’s second term as US president. I don’t know what will become of this country. Huge damage has been done already, and authoritarianism is a reality. I am fighting as best I can, protesting, writing, organizing, supporting youth-run initiatives, and sending money in many directions.

Fear and hopelessness are the administration’s most deadly weapons.

I refuse to go there. Yes, there are life-threatening monsters swimming in my waters, ready to capsize me, take a bite out of me. But I can rise above, grip the board with my toes, bend my knees to ride the next wave, breathe deep and focus on the horizon. There is beauty, calm, and strength to be found if we rise above the chaos and panic. And if we look around at others — on paddle boards or rafts, in kayaks or rowboats, or whatever you need to keep yourself afloat – the view is fantastic! There is an ocean of community, an ocean full of hope. Sure, you will tumble into the fear, sink below into the darkness. But if you can scramble up to the surface, there will likely be a hand to help you climb back onto your board.

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The Girl in the Princess Skirt

Lucy Moore

I was at our local independent bookstore, looking for a perfect card for a special friend. As I slowly twirled the card rack, I heard an excited little voice.

““Look, mommy, mommy – Santa card!”

She was maybe 3, in a sparkly princess skirt, blue puffy jacket, pink tights and snow boots and she was pointing at a card near the bottom of the rack. I stopped twirling.

Her mom, who was leaning against a wall of books, had a remarkably calm voice. “Yes, my love, that’s Santa.” The girl reached for the card and pulled it out of the rack. The mother stooped down, “My love, can you give me the card? We need to put it back.” The girl hesitated. “I know it’s hard, my love, but this card belongs to the bookstore. We need to put it back.“ She gave up the card with a little pout. “That’s a good girl. You’re so grown up.”

“I want Santa,” she said in a small, hopeless voice, staring at the card.  

“I know, my love, it’s frustrating, isn’t it? Here, do you want some tea? It’s not too hot.” The girl shook her head at the paper cup and the mother did some more “my loves” and some more understanding talk about how hard it is to wait for grandpa, and how later they would go to the children’s museum, and how grown up the little girl was, and then just as I was about to give up on the card rack and save myself from one more “my love,” the girl filled her lungs and howled, a long, exhausted, primal howl. She gasped at the end for breath and began sobbing.

My throat tightened, my eyes burned. The howl was so compelling, so heart-felt, so universal. I felt she was howling for me, for all of us who struggle to carry on, do normal things, in a world that seems so insane, so cruel, so doomed.  I was just trying to buy the right card for a friend. The girl was just trying to be a normal little girl, excited at the sight of Santa. Her mother, heroically, was trying to be a calm, compassionate, reassuring mom, teaching her daughter how to be a good citizen and a caring person. But we all knew, underneath it all, that there is something seriously, perhaps terminally, wrong with this country and that pretending we are in a normal world is fantasy. The little girl in the princess skirt howled the truth.

I’m not saying we should forget normal things and start building a bomb shelter or move to Portugal.  And I’m not saying that we should stop being loving and supportive of those around us. The number of “my loves” made me squirm, but the mother was doing everything she could to comfort her child, to make her feel safe and understood, and that is a good thing. My life is filled with kind, supportive friends and family telling me I am a good citizen and valuable human being, and I really appreciate it. But the little girl got it right. No amount of “my loves” or cups of tea is going to make it ok. In this moment, it seems we are all going to hell in a hand-basket and sometimes – like in the middle of a bookstore — there is nothing to do but howl.

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History Lesson for Stephen Miller: Letter #5

Lucy Moore

November 26, 2025

Dear Stephen –

It’s been a while since I wrote. There was Halloween and I knew that you, the patron saint of the horrid and the ghastly, would be super busy getting ready. And then I got diagnosed with Macular Degeneration and decided that I had more important things to do with my eyes than write to someone who probably doesn’t even read my letters, let alone take my advice.

But here I am, once again trying to wake you up from that toxic, demented slumber you seem to operate in. What inspired me was the Ken Burns PBS series “The American Revolution,” especially the last episode. All the episodes were excellent although the battle parts got kind of repetitive, the red dots move this way, the blue dots move that way, they clash and leave hundreds dead or moaning and move on to spill huge amounts of blood all over another beautiful piece of eastern landscape. But I stuck with it, because I just had to find out how it ended, which was pretty amazing. I took the following 5 lessons away that are useful for us today and might help us get out of the pickle you have put us in.

If only it had been this simple…. all I learned in school was Washington crossed the Delaware and we won.
  • You don’t have to win, you just have to not lose. The point is that you just have to keep going, get up after a loss and plod on to the next battle. Figure out a way to stay alive through the frigid winter when you have nothing but torn trousers, and a ragged shirt and you’ve resorted to boiling your shoes for dinner. Keep writing letters to your wife not knowing if she will ever read them, or if when she does you will already be dead. Tell her to remember to feed the chickens unless she’s already eaten them, and to take apart that shed for firewood to keep warm, and to tell the children that he loves them. Remember, this is your land (well, sort of, if you don’t count everyone who was on it before you came), and you are not going anywhere. Just hang on.
  • Women don’t get off easy:  If you are at home waiting for this hell to be over, you do your wifely and motherly duties as well as you can. And if you are unlucky the battles will come to you, and you will be responsible for hustling out to the body-strewn field as soon as the armies have moved on. There you sort the dead from the living, tend the wounded, bury the dead with as much dignity as possible, and carry survivors to your home where you try to nurse them back to fight another day. All this while trying to keep a roof overhead and food on the table for your children. Those hungry, frightened children are your best hope for a bright future because when you are gone – and it may be sooner rather than later — it will be up to them to keep not losing.  A few women turned their backs on this grueling role, traded their dresses for a shabby uniform and went to war. I get that.  
  • You neighbor is not the enemy.  The vast majority of battles were fought between all-American neighbors, loyalists (pro England) and rebels (anti England). If it weren’t for England, you could have had a nice potluck, or a barbecue, a few pints of ale, watched the children frolic in the meadow and enjoyed yourselves. Don’t let the enemy tear you apart. Keep talking to each other, decide what’s really important, and stick to it. We need to store up a lot of food so we can all eat this winter. OK! We need to pool our money and hire a school teacher. OK! There were some communities of Quakers and others who just didn’t want to be in the fight, didn’t want to turn on their neighbors or go to war. They wanted to live their lives peacefully and wait for the madness to end. Whether they ended up under a king, or under something else didn’t really matter to them. But that was not acceptable, and many lost their homes, businesses and land, or their lives, because they would not take a side.
  • If you were there first, too bad.  The real losers in the revolution were the Native Americans, who desperately tried to figure out which side was going to do them the least harm. They were fighting for homelands that had been already gobbled up, or were next on the menu. Different tribes made different choices, meaning that they killed great numbers of each other, particularly tragic for a population destined for extermination. Both the agreement to ally with France and the Treaty of Paris in 1783 to end the war with England ignored the existence of the many tribal communities west of the Allegheny mountains, granting to America the right to those lands all the way to the Mississippi River. Thus began the westward expansion which trampled the rights of, or just killed, the original citizens of the continent.
  • Do not let a despot take over. The Constitution is sacred and as long as we all agree on that this experiment might work. But the last message of the series is “Beware.” The framers of the Constitution warned that the republic – made up of all the people described above– is vulnerable to a despot, a tyrant, a charismatic lunatic. Yes, this wonderful mix of people does not always move in the right direction. Just as we turned on our neighbors in the late 1700s, we can do that again, demonizing the other to the point of violence and insanity. And on that fertile ground, an ill-intentioned, egomaniac could fan the flames and create chaos and panic. Ignoring the constitution and the authority of the carefully crafted three branches of government, this evil-doer could seize power. Such was the worry of those crafters of the Constitution, may they rest in peace… which is probably hard when they are rolling over in their graves as we speak.

Well, Stephen, on that ominous note, I remind you that mischief is afoot in the land. May you have the Thanksgiving that you deserve.

Sincerely,

Lucy

Map showing the Treaty of Paris agreement between England and the United States, 1783.
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Last Night I Sat on My Cat

Lucy Moore
Benny

It had been a hard day and the comfy TV-watching chair awaited. As I came in for a landing, the usually smooth touchdown erupted in a writhing yowl. I leapt up and Benny fled for safety. He is a solid black cat, not even one white whisker. For those of us with Macular Degeneration (AMD) dark things have a way of disappearing, losing their form and features, sometimes swallowed by a black hole.  A friend’s mother, who has AMD, feared her daughter would face the same diagnosis. “Just promise me,” she warned, “never get a pet that is the same color as your floor.”  I understand and am grateful for our beige carpet and red tile. I can see Benny – or is it my black backpack? – anyway I see that there is a black featureless object in my path and can avoid it.

It has been an adventure these past few months as I adjust to the sudden onset of AMD in one eye. The physical challenge is obvious. Vision in the affected eye is compromised; there is the loss of some depth perception, sensitivity to light, the swallowing of dark objects. Lines of type tend to wobble slightly. The good news is that I am still able to do everything I want, just with a little more effort and a greater degree of caution. I am at my desktop, behind the wheel (in the daytime), on the walking trail outside the house, meeting friends for lunch, even facilitating now and then. I know that time is probably limited for some of those things, but this is an exercise in uncertainty, a challenge to live in the present. My blog “The Future You,” https://lucymoore.com/the-future-you/ offered the reassurance that whatever challenges lie ahead will be handled by a “future you,” and that the “present you” needs only to deal with the present. Worrying “what will I do if….when….?” Is not the job of the present me. She needs to be sharp, take care of the business of today, be responsible about doctor appointments, avoid smoke, protect eyes from the sun, and be a big girl when it’s time for the monthly injection in the eyeball, which is not as awful as it sounds.

The work of this adjustment is as much mental as it is physical. I have great admiration for my brain as it works to interpret the new, scrambled messages from the eyes. Just think, for many, many decades they have been a well-oiled machine. Message from eyes to brain: cat curled up on chair. Message from brain to body: do not sit on a cat. Yowling catastrophe avoided. Now the message from eyes is “all clear, take a seat.” The brain believes it and I sit. But daily I can feel the brain struggling to re-interpret these unreliable messages.

“The eyes tell me there’s a black blob on the floor,” says the brain to Lucy. “But we can do better than that! It’s probably Benny the cat or your backpack. Unlikely it’s a heap of coal or a pool of black lava” Or, as the fluid in my eye shifted one day and produced a distinct warp in the adobe wall outside the window, my brain was on the job. “Don’t fall for it, Lucy. The eye is tricking us again. The adobe wall is still straight. Not to worry.”

If you are still with me on this rather fantastical trip, this will amaze you. My current good eye, unaffected by MD to date, has for years been the “bad eye.” It has a “wrinkle” of the macula, meaning that when I looked out of that eye there was no such thing as a straight line. It was as if Salvador Dali did a very light paint job over everything I saw. It didn’t bother me because my brain quickly learned not to take seriously the wavy messages from that eye, and to rely on the “good eye.” But now, that once good eye is the one that has gone rogue and is urging me to sit on my cat. The eye we relied on for the truth has betrayed us. So what is the brain to do?

Quite logically, my brain has turned to the eye with the wrinkle, the Dali eye, and said, “Buckle up, my friend! Your partner over there has gone off the deep end, sucking black cats into black holes, warping the adobe wall. You are now in charge of vision on this aircraft!”

Of course, I’m only dimly aware of this change in the cockpit. I look out of both eyes and take my brain’s readout for what I see and carry on.  Every once in a while I cover one eye to see what each is seeing today. And early on in this journey I noticed that the Dali effect was fading. The door jamb, the edge of a picture frame, the window sill were less wavy than before. The brain was interpreting the message from the eye with the wrinkle, making corrections, straightening out those curves to keep this aircraft aloft.

Now I know it is impossible to undo the wrinkle without elaborate surgery. The warp in the vision is still there. My eye is still delivering that warped message…. But the brain, my beautiful brain, is smoothing out my flight, telling me that those lines are nearly straight. How can this be? It is a mystery and I’m grateful. And I’m sure there will be more mysteries ahead as my brain and I travel this uncharted territory.

Look at center dot with one eye. If it looks like this, relax.
If you see this, call your eye doctor

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Why can’t you be fun like Elon?

Lucy Moore

Letter to Stephen Miller #4

October 6, 2025

Dear Stephen –

I know it’s been a while since I’ve written. I hate to say it, but it was more fun to write to Elon. He was more outgoing, more colorful, and I’m afraid you fall short in both those categories. You might take a lesson from Elon and give me something to work with. For instance, Elon wore his small son on his shoulders like a scarf and walked through low doorways – that was exciting! He sold the silliest-looking trucks that made me want to bake cookies every time I saw one. Do you see what I mean? You offer nothing but sullen evilness. Your remarks at the recent memorial service were pompous and boring, although I did perk up when you said “We are the storm!” It’s a good line, but incomplete. You left out the “s – – t” word.

good old days with Elon

But I will soldier on, and report on my five good things this week. Just because I don’t report every week, don’t think I’m not churning them out, cuz I am!

  • I was at a lovely event yesterday.  Clear blue sky, warm but with a cool fall breeze, leaves turning. It was a fundraiser for a gubernatorial candidate you would hate. Just imagine in your worst nightmare a candidate that is everything you are trying to tear down. Yep, that’s her and she’s fantastic.
  • I lobbied for state funding to fill the void after you emptied the bank accounts for our rural and tribal public radio stations. The bill passed, so you see we are not helpless out here, and we certainly are not heartless.
  • I continue to work with local immigrant rights groups that prefer to remain nameless. This is distressing to me. You spread fear like a virus.  Good thing I’ve got immunity. You’ll never shut me up.
  • I volunteered at a food distribution site. You should try that sometime. They are the most wonderful, hardworking people, and we always have fun. I go home feeling 10 years younger, which is great cuz that gives me 10 more years to fight you.
  •  And finally, I’m going to count writing this letter as a good thing because it really gets my juices flowing. No, it’s not quite the fun that Elon was, but you do bring out the snarky in me, and that always motivates me to plunge into another week of good things.

So, Stephen, I hope to see you out in public a little more so we can all get to know you better. And hiding indoors doesn’t help that sallow look. Don’t you think a dose of sunshine would do you good … unless, oh no!  How insensitive of me. As a strong supporter of DEI, I mean no harm to any group, including the vampire class.

Til next time, have a nice day…or night,

Lucy

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The Future You

Lucy Moore

Imagine you are six years old and your mother is sick. You can tell from the talk of adults around you that it is very, very serious. Your mother might never get better. She might die. This was the experience of a friend, who remembers in those dark days being terrified of what might happen. She confided in her aunt that she was afraid because she didn’t know what would happen in the future. She was only six. How could she survive if her mother never got better, or even died?  The aunt told the little girl that she didn’t need to worry about the future. She just needed to take care of herself now and live each day as it came along. “You won’t have to deal with the future — whatever it is. That will be the job of the Future You. She will be older and she will know what to do. The Present You only has to deal with what is happening now.”  And I imagine she suggested that her niece draw a picture for her mom, or give her mom a kiss, or some appropriate action for her six-year-old self. 

I found this story very moving at a personal level, and also applicable at a political level. I am weary of hearing “What are we going to do if he cancels the election in 2028?” “What if the food supply runs out?” “What if the market collapses and there’s a giant depression?” “What if a rogue nation – like us! – sets off a nuclear war?”  

I want to say that those problems will be handled by our Future Selves. Today, we need to do the best we can to resist and not capitulate, fight fear and have hope, support one another and continue to do as much good as we can. That’s a big job for our Present Selves. The more we fret about the what if’s and the when’s the less we can do right now. And, of course, it’s a great idea to take some action that is going to help if and when some of these fears bear fruit.  Support the local farmers market, register voters, know your rights and be ready to exercise them, diversify your portfolio and if you can, give some of it away, build your community strong and hopeful.

We can’t know the future. Many are shocked by where we find ourselves today: a failing democracy, a heartless and mindless leadership, unconstitutional, criminal acts by those in power. Most of us never imagined we would be where we are today. Why would we think we can imagine what the future holds?  Our future selves will find out and, if we have laid good groundwork today, they will be able to move forward with courage and wisdom.

Each of us has different talents, energy, and resources to contribute; and each of carries different risks and vulnerabilities that may limit what we can do. But we’re all capable of feeling like that little six-year-old, frightened and helpless in the face of a scary future. Remember, you’re just responsible for today. That Future You will handle the future. Just do what you can — write a letter, visit a neighbor in need, take a walk and breathe deep, plant something edible, pet your cat, send money to the animal shelter, the food bank, civil rights organizations…. or, like your six-year-old self, draw a picture and kiss a loved one.

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Letter to Stephen Miller #3

Lucy Moore

August 21, 2025

Dear Stephen:

If you ever run into Elon please don’t say anything about our correspondence. He doesn’t like to admit it, but he is a very jealous person, and I wouldn’t want to cause any conflict between the two of you. After all, he has cookie shee– uh, cars — to sell and you have puppet strings to pull. The future of our economy and our country rests in your four hands and you mustn’t get distracted by personal pettiness. You must keep your eyes on the prize… not sure what it is… maybe two front row seats in hell?

But I digress. It has been a busy week and I hope you will appreciate the 5-things-I-did because you are my current inspiration. I have your picture on my desk and I’m really grateful for your satanic look. It is a great motivator.

  • A group of us met on zoom to exchange acts of resistance. You wouldn’t believe how creative and energetic a bunch of irate citizens can be. I know you think we are all White ex-hippies, over 90 and needing a nap.  (Yes, I hang on every word you speak in public, hoping to get a glimpse of humanity. No such luck today when you let the sun shine on you (be careful!) and spoke at Union Station. But enough about you.) We do the usual things – marches, zoom trainings, phone calls, donations – but we are also thinking outside the box. How about a billboard on the interstate between two major cities?  They’re not as expensive as you might think, and the possibilities are endless. I’m pushing for a picture of you dangling your orange puppet with some line like “where did I put the scissors?”
  • There’s a fantastic podcast called “Down to Earth: Planet to Plate.” The host interviews people promoting regenerative agriculture and healthy food production (that may be new to you since all your days are spent behind that black curtain, and I can’t imagine what you eat… Cheetos Flamin’ Hot, deviled eggs with El Diablo sauce, red hots candy and a big slice of devil’s food cake? No wonder you have a pallid look.) But back to the podcast, it really is excellent – informative, inspiring, full of good ideas for resistance. I listened to one by a Montana rancher which made my mouth water for one of his healthy, happy cows. (I bet you thought we were all vegans, too.)
  • I helped a Navajo rug weaver sell at the country’s biggest Native American arts market last weekend. It was so rejuvenating to spend time surrounded by beautiful weavings and watch people’s faces soften as they stepped out of the heat – both weather and politics – and opened up to the wonder of an artist’s work. These weavers use the same traditional looms of their ancestors, card and spin their wool, dye it with native plants. I find it comforting to know that a practice can survive hundreds, even a thousand, years, rooted in a community that is committed to place and culture. Whatever evil you cook up, Navajo weavers will be there, working the loom, decades – no centuries —  after your schemes are dead and gone.
  • I picked up a dog-eared copy of the Constitution at a used bookstore. Looked as if the previous owner frantically searched the pages for a way to save the country before tossing it into the give-away box. But that didn’t discourage me. I am working my way through it, and am struck by Article 3, Section 3:

Treason against the United States, shall consist only in levying War against them, or in adhering to their Enemies, giving them Aid and Comfort. No Person shall be convicted of Treason unless on the Testimony of two Witnesses to the same overt Act, or on Confession in open Court.        

I think consorting with Putin, clearly an enemy of the country, is treason, and certainly there are a lot of witnesses. The lovefest in Alaska, red carpet and all, qualifies, and I’m sure he received significant “aid and comfort” from Trump. I suggest, Stephen, that you pick up a copy of the Constitution somewhere. I’ll point out sections of interest for you so you don’t have to read the whole thing.

  • Finally, I want to recognize that you, too, have been busy doing (way more than 5) things this week. Your output and impact may be greater than mine, but we are growing in strength and someday, there we will be, all ages, genders, shapes and colors, angry and ready for a fight. Every outrage you utter just makes us stronger.

In the meantime, here’s hoping you take a few days off and give us all a break. The volcano on the island of Hawaii is lovely this time year – infernal heat, rising sulfur. I think you’d enjoy it.

Have a nice day!

Lucy

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Letter #2 to Stephen

Lucy Moore

Dear Mr. Miller:

It’s me again. Lucy.

June picnic on the White House lawn. Are you having fun yet?

The more I get to know you, the more intriguing you are. A real man of mystery, which ordinarily I find very attractive, but in your case… not so much. My first question is why you hide in the shadows. We all know that you are the one pulling the strings, making that witless, orange puppet sign one evil Executive Order after another. Why not step out from behind that curtain, take your bows as puppet-master and let us all marvel at your sleazy cleverness?  Ah, but maybe you are self-conscious? I’m not the only one who thinks you have an uncanny resemblance to the devil. Putting the fear of Satan in people wherever you go might have given you some kind of complex and driven you to the Dark Side. I wish I could help, but all I can think of is a lot of therapy (maybe electroshock), or extensive cosmetic surgery, or a one-way ticket to Transylvania. (Maybe that’s insensitive of me – stereotyping Transylvania, which I understand is a beautiful region of Romania with no more werewolves and vampires than anywhere else.)

But I digress! The purpose of my letter, as always, is to report my works of resistance this week.

  • I spent the afternoon with Senator Cory Booker. He is an amazing person, so full of humanity, compassion, optimism, and energy. I have always admired him, and it was thrilling to hear him speak. I have been suffering from anxiety about the state of the country, but I left the event lighter and more hopeful. His message was that even the smallest action can have a big impact. Don’t be paralyzed because you can’t fix it all, just do some small thing today, and another thing tomorrow, and together we can overcome. You’ve probably met Senator Booker. Weren’t you impressed…or maybe to be in the presence of that much goodness was a bit much.
  • I took an online training in how to support the immigrant community especially when confronted by ICE or other law enforcement. It was excellent, all about the rights of citizens and non-citizens, how to act in the presence of an arrest, what to say and do. At one point the trainer asked the audience of 1,400+ from all over the country what aspect of the organizing process they were attracted to – action, recruitment, training, reflection. Although I am a reflective person and as a mediator help people reflect on peaceful options to a conflict, I surprised myself by immediately hitting the “action” button. Next time you peek through that hole in your curtain you might see me out there raising hell.
  • I spent the evening with a friend whose mental health is fragile. She is on the edge because of the impact your puppet is having on her friends and relatives who are dependent on the VA and Medicaid. Her anger at you and your pals is in danger of consuming her and is already affecting her physical health. I tried to support her, let her vent, and give her some hope. It wasn’t easy, and when I came home, I took a few plates out of my chipped plate collection and smashed them on the patio. I remember muttering “take that, Mr. Miller.” It is hard to stay sane and healthy these days.
  •  I gave money to a small nonprofit that asks to remain anonymous for fear that you will put them in your whack-a-mole sites. It makes me very sad to see good people who are doing good things living in fear, hiding in the shadows. I can see why you hide in the shadows. We’ve already noted your unfortunate face and the evil you are doing. But these people should be proud and receiving accolades for their work, not cowering hoping they won’t be noticed.
  • And finally, I am very pleased to add my “Letters to Mr. Miller” to my list of 5-things-I-did this week. You can’t imagine the pleasure they give my many followers. And bringing a smile, a chuckle to someone who may be feeling powerless and abused by you, makes me proud.

OK, that’s a pretty good list, huh? Hope you’re impressed. It would mean so much to hear from you. I would treasure a letter and would treat it with great disrespect.

Have a nice day!

Sincerely

Lucy

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My New Elon

Lucy Moore

TO: Stephen Miller, The White House

Dear Mr. Miller:

Since Elon left me to go sell more cookie sheets on wheels, I have been without a pen pal. I thought Elon and I had a solid relationship – I wrote him the five awesome things I did each week to strengthen the resistance, and he… well, let’s say it was a little one-sided. I never heard from him. Maybe I should have taken a hint? But, I admit I was infatuated. Anyway, now I find myself needing a new relationship. Please don’t think this is just “rebound.” I have had my eye on you for some time. And when I asked myself, “Who is as powerful, destructive, and arrogant as Elon?” you topped the list.

I’m not assuming a first name basis, Mr.Miller, as I had with Elon, but am hoping that our relationship might flourish with time, and that you might even respond to me at some point. That would be such a boost to my morale, which has been pretty low lately. I continue to do at least 5 good things each week, but without someone to brag to, well, it’s just not as much fun.

So, please accept my “5-things” report for the week of July 21. I send it with great hope that you will see it and hate it.

  • I acquired 100 “Know Your Rights” cards, in English and in Spanish. I have a few in my car, in my purse, in my pocket, and wherever I go, I’m on the lookout for someone who might be targeted by ICE. You might want to alert your troops that their victims may not be quite so cooperative.
  • I helped fill 75 bags of groceries for needy people in my community. Cans of corn, tuna, soup, pork and beans; packages of noodles, cheese, tortillas; and fresh produce, too. And guess what I dropped in last, on the top of each bag? Yup, the Know Your Rights card.
  • I contributed money to a local art school that will lose a big chunk of funding thanks to the legacy of my ex, Elon. Art is good therapy for stress, which is the main complaint among my peers. Oh, and come to think of it, artists have made great revolutionaries throughout history, haven’t they?
  • I went to a fundraiser for an excellent candidate who is running for governor. The place was packed, the snacks were good, the mood jubilant, and the candidate’s speech was fiery and passionate. The drinks flowed, and so did the money. I had a great time. I’m lucky to live in a blue state where the future looks promising and where we support a woman’s right to choose and justice for immigrants, and where we still talk freely about inclusion and diversity and equity. Yes, we even say “DEI” in public, often adding the “+”. Sometimes the White House seems very far away, which is a good thing.
  • I did some weeding of my bookshelves and took an armful of books to three Little Libraries that needed filling. I figure the more people reading a book, the fewer people doom-scrolling lies. I wonder if you read much? I know you’re busy but at least take a look at the Constitution. You could read one Article before you go to bed, and then you could share what you learned with your colleagues. You could even start a book club.

But forgive me, I am being too forward for a “first date.” I really hope that this relationship works. I find since Elon left me, I have really suffered with no outlet for my “snarkasm.” I’m crossing my fingers that you’re my man!

Have a nice day!

Lucy

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