Who is Prepared to be President? Nobody
By Richard ReevesArticle HERE
On...Culture, Politics, Films, Books, Baseball, and anything else that strikes my fancy.
Michelle Obama's speech was solid, but not a home run. First impression: She is so beautiful. Beautifully dressed, beautifully groomed, confident, smiling, a compelling person. But her speech seemed to me more the speech of a candidate, and not a candidate's spouse. It was full of problems and issues. I continue to be of the Dennis Thatcher School of Political Spouses: Let the candidate do the seriousness of the issues, you do the excellence of the candidate. This is old fashioned but nonetheless I think still applicable. It has made Laura Bush (with a few forays into relatively anodyne policy questions) the most popular First Lady in modern American political history. Another problem with the Michelle speech. In order to paint both her professional life and her husband's, and in order to communicate what she feels is his singular compassion, she had to paint an America that is darker, sadder, grimmer, than most Americans experience their country to be. And this of course is an incomplete picture, an incorrectly weighted picture. Sadness and struggle are part of life, but so are guts and verve and achievement and success and hardiness and…triumph. Democrats always get this wrong. Republicans get it wrong too, but in a different way.
Democrats in the end speak most of, and seem to hold the most sympathy for, the beset-upon single mother without medical coverage for her children, and the soldier back from the war who needs more help with post-traumatic stress disorder. They express the most sympathy for the needy, the yearning, the marginalized and unwell. For those, in short, who need more help from the government, meaning from the government's treasury, meaning the money got from taxpayers.
Who happen, also, to be a generally beset-upon group.
Democrats show little expressed sympathy for those who work to make the money the government taxes to help the beset-upon mother and the soldier and the kids. They express little sympathy for the middle-aged woman who owns a small dry cleaner and employs six people and is, actually, day to day, stressed and depressed from the burden of state, local and federal taxes, and regulations, and lawsuits, and meetings with the accountant, and complaints as to insufficient or incorrect efforts to meet guidelines regarding various employee/employer rules and regulations. At Republican conventions they express sympathy for this woman, as they do for those who are entrepreneurial, who start businesses and create jobs and build things. Republicans have, that is, sympathy for taxpayers. But they don't dwell all that much, or show much expressed sympathy for, the sick mother with the uninsured kids, and the soldier with the shot nerves.
Neither party ever gets it quite right, the balance between the taxed and the needy, the suffering of one sort and the suffering of another. You might say that in this both parties are equally cold and equally warm, only to two different classes of citizens.
Basic Peggy Noonan info HERE: You'll probably be shocked by how many of Reagan's great speeches were hers
Babel
We surround ourselves in mythical worlds—the dreams of others, long dead. They shroud our barbarity—the essence of pain and violence and lust that cores our evolution. We play games concocted by dreamers—that assuage our boredom—that give us respite from the tug of war and death and heartbreak. Each new generation of dreamers pulls on these flights of fancy as they do clothes—shields to shelter us from the drudge of years. Some dream of new fashion, new armor, others of burning it all down—taking us back to the substance of our lives—to the base realm of humans as apes—bent on creation and destruction—a cycle of environmental metaphysics—manipulation of destiny and passion and words.
Rarely do we ask, why? Why should this all continue? Why do we love layers of falsehoods and joyous deceptions? Because they keep us warm at night and during the long hours of day. If not, we would certainly kill each other until the fields were awash in bones and ash. All this because we are floating the perfect distance from the sun. Because we tell ourselves we have purpose—that we have logic—that we can create theorems and rhythms and piece together an understand of why. That we matter.
It seduces us and drives us forward. Because we need to paste mud over our broken hearts. Because we lust for the unattainable. Because we hallucinate over love we can never have—objects and titles we think will give us ecstasy—a higher plane of being. We make idols to worship—fragile ones made of powdered glass and wisps of straw. We build them higher and higher, our own personalized towers of Babel—lifted onto pedestals and positioned behind glass—dreams made to fall, to crumble, to bury, and to be forgotten.
We are cowards of flesh and marrow. We are creatures of lies and perversions.
Because we dare not live any other way.
IX.
Mince the bodies. Pop. Pop. Pop.
Torsos and heads.
Hands and limbs.
Die. Kill.
Mold yourself in the dirt.
Under the tank treads.
Fall in upon the game.
There, a smart knock of skulls.
Now’s the time. Pop. Pop. Pop.
It’s time. It’s time.
Stand tall in face of death.
Hurl fists. Pump up chests.
Smell the burning fire.
Fall in upon the grave.
X.
A rat crept softly through the vegetation.
A wasteland. Smog and smoke.
A winter evening, burning coke.
Beyond the eyelids is the fire
Can you taste it? Can you hear it?
The flash of Russian death. (Of death by fire.)
Crowded trenches. Bodies deep.
The heirs of empire.
Clogged with blood and promises.
So many a forgotten daughter.
Throats long for baptism water.
XI.
Listen to letters.
Hold that cross tight.
Pictures in backpacks.
Lovers in dreams.
Breasts and legs and lips.
Warmth they never knew.
Lost in the shuddering bodies of comrades.
Dying eyes. Bloody mouths.
To wives. And girlfriends.
To nights in another world.
The peace of the sheets.