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That Wasn’t Politics

October 11, 2016

And frankly, at age 77, I don’t have life to waste on the ego of a 70-yr-old pampered playboy with severe personality disorders.

But I have to do this, because this novel isn’t quite over, and America is like a large cave, 30,000 BCE, where many families have suddenly shown up to take shelter from the storm.

That was politics only in the widest sense of humans trying to survive by holding together a minimal civil society. Some think there’s possibility for permanent community here, some have not learned, or have forgotten, what that would be.

I woke up angry this morning. I had slept well and long, then I had two dreams (which I’ll add, today, to the dream pages), then I woke up, rolled back the covers, and started to sit up, and my brain spoke directly: “That wasn’t politics.” And as I dressed: “That was an attempt, by three ‘lion tamers,’ to manage a caged big cat, an enraged predator who wanted blood. It would not sit on its stool. It paced. It lashed out. It approached one tamer from behind. A guest questioner managed to calm it long enough that one tamer could throw it a tidbit of food, and then the show was over, it gathered its mate and cubs, and slunk away.

But it’s still here in the cave.

Trump wanted satisfaction, and he went for it in the way he got it in the video tape, he preyed upon women. This time he was being denied and he put on his display of mightiness. He showed how much he could fukk things up.

If that was politics, it was the sexual politics of male dominance in the cave, escaping into its fantasy of unrestrained penile self-indulgence.

After the debate, and yesterday, I drafted several pages that were more distanced (who wants to go near that man?). I’ll add them to the narrative today. But first I’d better get some coffee.

I’ll still be angry, though.

  1. Anybody else waking up at 4 a.m. with nightmares?

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