I haven’t been publishing much in this latter half of the year now dying. You could be wondering why.
Of course, I certainly wouldn’t be the first to walk these fabled streets of Paris with words sticking in my head rather than flowing onto some handy foolscap.
Still, I would hope you would be wondering – if only because I’m one of those hearts whose cockles warm when someone says, “O, Good to see you; I’d hoped you weren’t sick!”
You may be thinking – even Karine, even she – may be thinking, “Surely, Nervous-Nelly-Tracy-wacy is all upsetty-wetty, what with the election of you-know-who.” (The other day I saw her unexpectedly, unsteady on her high-high heels, picking her way down the steps of the Opéra Garnier – that would be just after three pieces by Jiri Kylian.).
Also, she might think, I’m put off the public pen by the disheartening prospect of more political boobery blowing in on me from the Gallic, or, even, Teutonic, political territories. But, as Richard Nixon and his aides famously added to every bright idea, that would be wrong.
Karine would be wrong. (Her high-heels are no joke, especially if it’s slippery. She almost missed her step as I watched, too far away to catch her arm! Boy, what a disaster that might have been; she loves dancing so, a limp of any sort would devastate the woman. I’ve always loved her thin, muscly, almost stringy arms, her tough made-for-work hands – she might very well have really hurt her back as I looked on.).
Certainly, none of this can explain nonpublication, can it?
As long as I’m still out of Hell and can know it, neither that American man of the little winkle and disinflatable ego, nor that exceptionally coarse Madame Marine Lepen of the République française nor the oddly-but appropriately-named Frau Frauke Petry of the Bundesdeutschesrepublik have dominion over me or my imagination.
The rhetorical pitchforks of these political demons break no bones, you see, and, even if, here-below, seem is so often be in waiting, their sulfurous words are no brimstone; there is a diabolic reek, however.
Also, remember, I am a philosopher; Voltaire is my tinhorn god. I therefore expect very little from a species that, among other inexpressibly dumb things, destroys the bees that ensure its vital food crops and smugly congratulates itself on abolishing slavery among its own kind instead of asking itself what sort of species would invent it.
Count on it, the relatively small crowd of political cretins presently taking up considerably media space do not occupy even a tiny fraction of my waking-up thoughts, believe me.
I don’t wake up wailing because you-know-who’s election is a moral and political disaster whether he’s just a particularly wrong’un or an ordinary imbecile.
It is surely bad that from here forward, any namby-pamby objection one may have to cruelty or cruelty-based systems can be blown off with a careless wave:
“O! Stop your infernal worrying, Tracylein. Once he’s in office he’ll drop all this foolish hater stuff as surely as he’ll shave off the toothbrush mustache. He’s just talking to his base.”
His base? His base? His base, Friedrich?
For just a moment, consider that American office-and-emolument seeker as a human being rather than a mere political cartoon. What sort of human being – can you tell me? – wants to curry favor with a base who needs to be fed a diet of paranoia, anger and hatred?
Bad, too, is it that the booby belligerence – the lyin’, dissin’, flictin’ – of the new “movement” has become the general political mode. I really do fear that this loose, bad-tempered pushing and shoving, may actually bring about the Turner-Diary-like fantasies of confrontation that underpin so much of the politics of you-know-who’s boob base.
Why not? America has had a civil war and contrary to what we’re always trying to tell ourselves, a lot of the popular passion for it was based on paranoia about the “Slave Power”. Just because ending slavery was a good thing doesn’t mean the means of doing should thrill me or you.
I’d have preferred a vote in the House after reasoned debate and an agrarian program distributing 40-acres and a mule to ex-slaves. I’m sure many of my political friends would say they would’ve too. Yet, I hear very little of re-reading Thoreau, studying King’s campaigns or rationally determining what circumstances merit putting one’s precious body-self on the line. I hear a great many things which it seems to me are just opportunities to gain bully points through booby belligerence…
The absolute worst thing about the whole vile mess was actually pushed right into my snout the other day and in an entirely unexpected way. And this, the worst of all things that might upset me enough not to publish, has not, as might suppose a certain female person whom I suppose is even now nervously tressing up her frizzy hair in her princessly tower, the while pretending her stubborn refus is firmness of cosmological purpose or some such…