Twenty-four hours to go and America is flexing and muttering to herself, spraying curses, shuffle stepping, arguing with unseen foes, sweating, farting, contemplating ancient enmities, and making haste to the fight club basement on this Dia de Muertos.
Downtown smelled like Home Depot today. Every contractor the merchants could obtain was humping sheets off trucks, putting them up as fast as they could…lest Hurricane Trump make landfall tomorrow.
Left unmentioned is who exactly all these preparations are for, or why….the people who no one is allowed to criticize or raise a hand against, even in self-defense. No one is willing to admit publically Trump might actually win, but so many of us behave as though he already has, not fearing the outcome as much as the refusal of others to accept it.
Welcome to Plywood City.
2020: Rushing headlong now are we toward a conclusion half of us will dread. A snap trap four years in the making. There can be no happy ending, though there may be a divorce. Too many of us have made friendships contingent upon the outcome. We tolerate each other just so long as we consider the current ugliness to be transitory. November will correct/affirm the wisdom/insanity of our neighbors. I knew it all along! They really are that bad/sensible. That settles it. Let the celebration/vilification begin.
I suspect the underlying facts will prove secondary. Dow 30,000, full employment, USMCA, handshakes at the DMZ, the Supreme Court, the public option, Iran, a looming recession, all background noise.
This is about who we are. You can believe in the nation-state or you can believe in a borderless world. Either the people are sovereign or corporations are. Either we are sovereign or the media is. Either your vote counts or it is nullified by the administrative state.
America is closely divided, horrifyingly so, on matters only a short time ago not under question.
We’ve reached a point in Los Angeles where we are no longer telling the truth about ourselves to ourselves, so we unfriend our neighbors instead. We threaten to turn each other into memes.
Politics until recently was played between the 40-yard lines. Claims of catastrophe if the other side prevailed were generally bullshit. Beneath the hyperbole on cable news, an undertow of bipartisan consensus held: on Wall Street rescue packages, trade with China, techno-utopianism, deficit spending, the forever war in Afghanistan. Not this time. The competing claims are too irreconcilable.
So how to share space with each other after the shock of discovery? We can start by practicing good manners now. That begins with listening well.
If I had the gift of clairvoyance, would it manifest as manic depression, as it did for Kirsten Dunst in Melancholia?
Seeing the row of lollipopped ficus trees in Runyon under a brooding sky evoked memories of the film and its distinct visual motif.
We are headed for some kind of Civil War II for no better reason than half of us desire it so badly. One path is shorter, the other longer, but they both lead to the same destination.
It is as though another blue planet, previously hiding behind the sun, has quietly appeared, growing a little larger by the day, insensible to prayer.