ANNOTATED IMAGERY for a NERVOUS AGE

PHOTOS & TEXT by Douglas John Imbrogno

I TAKE A MOMENT’S COMFORT from the following truth. Tangerines that burst like small, sweet supernovas in one’s mouth; chrysanthemums the color of a choir of canaries; and angled sunlight bolting through 93 million miles of outer space to uplift my April West Virginia morning will be here long after the not-so-Christian names of Donald T., Marco R., Pete H., JD, and their whole un-merry band of firebombers trying to torch the American Constitution are curse-words in history books to come.

ON MY DECK THIS WEEK, as the four Artemis astronauts left Earth behind in their rear-view cameras, I looked up to spend a few moments with the Moon, which we lifelong Moonians require for our mental health. In the next instant, an ancient thrill — long forgotten, yet familiar — poured head to toes through my body. It was a straight shot of wonder from boyhood days, when being a Moon-bound astronaut was my first career goal. With Artemis rocketing that way, humankind is outward bound once more. Not to land, since this is a pas-de-deux with Earth’s esteemed, poetic satellite and not a reunion with the lunar soil. Not yet. But, boy, it was nice to look up at night skies and know that out there, up there, we are a spacefaring race again.

YOU WOULD HAVE TO HUNKER in a dank, isolated media cave — as millions of Americans choose to do in willing subservience— not to have seen Trump’s ‘crazy bastards’ Easter tweet about Iran and the tsunami of outrage that followed. These included calls, even from right-wing Republicans, to finally ring down his circus freakshow government with a 25th Amendment removal from office. Trump’s TACO self (Trump Always Chickens Out) prevailed yesterday with a two-week Iran ceasefire. Yet let us memorialize his crazed ‘Truth,’ as it crossed a Rubicon of public psychopathy. I spent part of Easter Sunday crafting and posting the above image. It says something about this debauched moment in American history that one might be called to do something like that on an Easter afternoon. It is good news indeed that Donnie’s Inner TACO won out. Let us also delight in the fact this insult-spewing, nickname-awarding, cruelty farmer hates his own well-deserved nickname: ‘TACO’ Trump? Iran Ceasefire Revives Nickname Trump Loathes | New York Magazine, April 7, 2026

‘SWALLOWTAILING’ | CLICK TO VIEW | From the Winged-Things Bureau of WestVirginiaVille.substack.com | April2026

IN HONOR OF HUMANS flying to the moon this week, above is an older flying machine in action. I caught this glimpse of a swallowtail butterfly while airing out my overclocked brain this week at a local park in my end of West Virginia. Not being the lepidopterist sort, I later identified this fly-by visitor via Google Image search, which is magical technology (even if they’re probably passing my searches on to the NSA, revealing me to have flight tendencies). I am glad to report there is a site called ‘ButterflyBoogie.com,’ where I learn that this fluttery being is part of the Papilionidae family, which includes North America’s biggest butterfly — the giant swallowtail — with a wingspan of up to 5.5 inches, and which deserves a more striking name. Like, say, the ‘Mega-Buttterfly’ or the ‘Ginormous Swallowtail.’ I also find that the name ‘swallowtail’ comes from the tail projections on its lower hindwings resembling the forked tails of barn swallows. In simpler, more layperson terms: Butterflies Rule.

WHAT MEDICINE DO YOU TAKE to return to your better, saner self in treating the worst of T.T.S. (Trump Trauma Syndrome)? I mean those symptoms caused by the latest breaking-news outrages from Washington, D.C., which turn you into a spittle-flecked, profanity-spewing, ‘Hey-man-revolutionary-tribunals-are-a-GREAT-idea!’, non compos mentis hysteric. (Speaking from some experience, here …) For me, composing, rehearsing, performing, and recording music with like-spirited, seasoned musicians is essential to my equilibrium. I have shared music videos in this space before from our ‘eclectic, electric, folk-chamber ensemble’ THROUGH THE TREES, including a recent music video cover of ‘Wild Horses,’ which brings me delight every time I re-hear its sweet harmonies and re-watch its high-spirited galloping equines. (It’s okay to love your own work, especially your best and most buoyant teamwork.)

So, an update from Trees headquarters. Our viola/violin master-in-training, Ray Garnett, is now expanding his already notable chops and repertoire studying viola at West Virginia University, which limits his ability to gig. So, fellow Tree Jim Probst (lap dulcimer) and myself (lead vocals and guitar with more instruments to come) have spun off a side project called THE UNDERSTORY. And, yes, that is a forest-oriented inside homage to our main band name. If you have a few minutes, below is a rehearsal recording of Jim and I playing one of the most sublime tunes in the folk-traditional canon, ‘Scarborough Faire.’ Be gentle with us: this is part of an occasional sharing of music drafts not perfectly recorded and mastered (with even a cough included). In this case, it is a living room recording to iPhone via via a small Audigo recorder, then slightly tweaked in Garageband. This may be only the third time Jim and I ever played the tune through. We look forward to nailing a studio version, yet this has its rough-hewn charms. (For more from The Trees and The Understory, free subscribe to our YouTube Channel or official band website.)

I PASSED THE HOUSE OF some deeply introverted neighbors the other day, a troubled place where a duo of young folk have grown up for years within a fractured family and disordered, soiled surroundings. In a rare chance encounter, I told one of these fledglings — now on the lip of manhood — that my door is always open to him. “Okay,” he said and disappeared inside where they spend much of their days, weeks, and years. I passed their place the other day and a white dogwood was in picture-perfect bloom on their lawn. Set against an April-blue West Virginia sky, this was enlivening enough. Looking closer, I see a robin mom has built a nest into a crook of branches. Baby robins incoming soon. May these fledglings and all those behind closed doors grow, shake out their wings, and find their way into open skies.

Support this billionaire-free, independent web journal by donating a $5 cup of coffee of support (or a few cups!) at my support page — point your camera phone at the QR code below or click to: coff.ee/douglasjohnimbrogno. Subscribe to receive new WestVirginiaVille posts in your e-mail box.