Velociworld

The Scribbler

As I was taking my coffee this morning, admiring the foliage on the back deck, I noticed a rare visitor: one Argiope aurantia, also known as the Writing Spider, or the Scribbler. This moniker is due not to the markings on the little beastie, but to the intricate, alphabetine quality of the old girl's webs.

I should take her appearance as a portent of Good Things, that I will find the ability to write something, anything, of value. I believe there is a direct relationship between the fullness of one's soul and the desire to put fingertips to keyboard. Even as the well of the soul is dry, so does the inkwell of ideas empty for me. And my inkwell of late has been as encrusted and moistureless as a sclerotic old artery.

However, when one's country is being sucked into a maelstrom from which it may never recover, scribbling mewling complaints about it seems about as utile as complaining that the Corealis effect in this hemisphere is sucking us down counter-clockwise instead of clockwise. And about as mythic.

I reminesce with rue upon my gripings during the Clinton years. (Buggery in the bunkers? Midnight basketball? What the hell is this guy thinking?) I still believe the man coarsened and cheapened the office, but in orders of magnitude he was merely a silver-tongued rapscallion with an errant pecker. What a fool I was.

What we have now is a different thing altogether. As different as that Scribbler and the dangersome Brown Recluse. I am free to impute ill will and bad faith to my opponents in this arena, as they are with me. I consider bad faith to be preferable to rank stupidity at any rate, so it's not that demeaning a charge.

Does Obama operate in bad faith? Well, that would presuppose the existence of some faith system on the man's part to begin with. I believe he has none. Whatever demeaning, racist, and accusatory brand of Christianity he pretends to ascribe to is nothing to me, as I do not recognize the tenets of Christianity in any of it. As for bowing to a Saudi potentate, I am at liberty to presume he was actually bowing beyond the man, from Riyadh towards the general direction of Mecca. I believe the man and his cohort ascribe the worst of male fides to those who think as I do, and I merely return the presumption.

It is a strange man, with a strange mindset, who strives to run a nation state he obviously abhors. Even the worst of tyrants operate within a framework that attempts to rectify supposed grievances visited upon their fiefdom, and endeavor to return some measure of glory to the Fatherland, or the Motherland. Not this fellow. I have never heard him utter a single sentence signifying pride in his homeland, or admiration in our many sublime accomplishments. Even his own amour-propre has the stink of shame to it. Ultimately, I do not think he is even capable of having true pride in himself.

What is to be done? Nothing I'm capable of. Scribbling, I suppose, like the spider, whose runes and hieroglyphics are incomprehensible even to itself, and thus of no intrinsic value. Bitching, and moaning, into the wind. The saddest part, and the part most fraught with the peril of my disengagement, is that so many of my fellow citizens seem impervious to the threat, to the fact that we have elected a provocateur, a man predisposed from youth to unwind the strong bonds lashing our myriad culture together, intent on fashioning metaphysical nooses from the remnant strands.

I don't believe in nooses. Or pitchforks. Or torches. There was enough of that in my corner of the country before I was whelped. Likewise, the time of feathers and tar is behind us, for that is a shame tactic, and we live in a world without shame. The loyal opposition is no help: they brought us to this tear in the fabric of our civilization in the first place with their free-whoring ways and glib repudiation of their constituents.

Perhaps I should have smashed that spider; not all omens are favorable, after all. And spinning a fabric of such unfathomable despondency is normally considered poor form, if not self-destructive. Fortunately, they haven't re-introduced Prohibition, so there's the John Barelycorn approach to the tip of Maslow's hierarchy. Perhaps I should just go self-actualize myself, two fingers at a time.

Apocalypto!

Posted by Velociman at November 1, 2009 4:13 PM | TrackBack