The colossus of morose

I read this on Will Self’s blogsite and laughed until I saw myself in my own unglamorous threads before my iBook: “When she asked me if I wore anything special to write in, I replied: “An orange jumpsuit modeled on those of the Guantánamo detainees, with ’24-Hour Emergency Writer’ blazoned between the shoulder blades.”

Jesus, I’m sick of the razzmatazz of this election. Weary from the showgirl quality of it all. The dazzling lights and the judicious peek show, the off-the-shoulder quips and the exposing of some big juicy lie to suck on. The informed and the not-so-informed voters think they are clothing the new emperor, but all you have to do is see that it’s the moguls who own the U.S. economy, the cow wranglers of the stock exchange, and the corporate savages who’ll scalp anyone for their unfair share that are making the emperor’s cloths in their sweatshops.

You can tell a man or a woman by his or her threads. And the nominees are all wearing favors, their whole raiment is stitched with favors.

Where did it all go wrong? Where did the politician armed with nothing but convictions get replaced with the one whose pleasure dome is erected by the rich and influential?

How can the electorate believe their vote counts when the sweaty palm of big business is slapping deals on the raw and the cooked? Are most voters blissfully ignorant of all of this, so tucked away in their “American Dream” that they can’t see the pillow smothering them?

Look at Bill Gates. Given millions to both Obama and Clinton.

It’s like the wealthy and the elite are playing their own little card game, placing their bets and upping the ante to see which one of the greedy bastards is going to win. And we, the voters, roll over and play cute.

Is this the new face of politics then?

What we need to do is to knock over this privileged game at our expense, rise up and refuse to cast our votes until the system is changed.

Let’s get back to basics. Let’s put all of humanity first and not just a chosen few.

Let’s get excited about a politician who has no agenda besides the one to better people’s lives. Instead of glorifying our leaders we need to start looking for inspiration first. If a person can aspire us to whatever it may be, then he or she should have our vote. Otherwise, let’s not even waste our time and obliterate them out of consciousness. We need to be inspired to something more than just policies; inspire us to a human possibility.

America, the Land of Showtime.

And I like to get entertained as much as the next man, but up to a point. There’s nothing serious anymore, there’s nothing for someone to believe in because it’s all just one long reality show where everyone is a star and everyone’s interests are in the limelight.

And the “I care about you” card is pretty Hallmark. Sounds like something an ingratiating family member would say. People who care about other people never say this, they show it. I just don’t buy it from Obama even though I hope he wins.

It’s like we have our own “Vinegar Tasters,” that allegorical painting of Buddha, Lao-tse, and Confucius. Three politicians around the the vinegar vat. One says its too bitter, the other says it’s too sour, and the third’s siphoning it off to poison the other two.

Politicians come and go like death and the fool in that old clock when the big hour is struck.

Basically, I’ve got to get on with my life otherwise that clock’s going to chime for me and I don’t want to cry back, you startled me!

Thank my heavenly stars, though, that I have something to believe in: my family, my writing, friends, books, music, poetry, and the big explosion of living that happens around us every day and is called life.

Which reminds me I need to read Henry Miller’s The Air-Conditioned Nightmare.

Miller could whine, sure, but what writer doesn’t? If they’re not whining in their books they’re whining about not having enough money or enough inspiration, intense imagining, invention, and a long period alone in a room.

But he just as earnestly turned his big shells on himself, too, made craters of his life so that he could crawl across No Man’s Land. Except he made his sex into one of the heroes. I think he was having a good old go at Freud, though.

His best work is The Colossus of Maroussi and Big Sur. I think he touches on some earth-shattering insight in those books and there’s a lyrical quality to them for a time and a place and his family, too, especially his kids in Big Sur. And a good bit of smut.

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