It's only rock and roil

I should be in top spirits. I haven't had a chemical fix in ten days past my deadline; I'm on a chemical holiday, authorized by my doctor. But I am not, was not, good. It's politics not economics that's roiling the nation and I'm part of the roil.

We are enjoying prosperity, thanks again to a Democrat (better minds than mine have said Bill Clinton's boom was, for complex reasons, bogus, but there's no denying Fat Years). And though IMHO if dudes thought William Jefferson had swag they must feel that way, and more, about Barack Hussein. C'est la négritude. Sexy, sure, especially in French. In both romance and bromance modes. Negritude is desirable, enviable. But that thinking is too damn French. No need to deconstruct: Cat has it. Still, old mythopoetic notions of blackness persist (mine about swag is one, probably ignorant) and many are not good. I don't need to list them: They're ugly; at best, some are amusing in a sick way, and at worst they lead to terrible acts. The racist discourse is having a day -- it could be much worse, I know.

Nothing lasts. That beautiful inaugural that blended elegant showbiz with pure elegance, that brought out rock-star classical artists, like Joshua Bell and Yo-Yo Ma, and a real poet, Elizabeth Alexander, because rock-star poets can be banal, though in all fairness, they give more entertainment; that is a memory this inaugural will be the negation of. The Obamas were not old bluebloods, but they were not Vegas. It's over. A fearful new time begins. 

La culpa la tiene el totí. Blame it on the blackbird. Blame him for what? All I can think of is: blame him for being black, the only aspect of his person over which he has no agency. No matter how I turn it around I can come up with no other reason for the overwhelming majority of his opposition. Brother. I thought those attitudes had changed from my generation down, but no. The dark soul of white folk can open like a Black Hole and shit happens. Trump happens.

And it happens to me because I live in his times and his country. I'm no revolutionary, even if in the sixties I was swept by the times and joined the revolushun'. Ha! Now I'm too old, and I can't follow in Bertrand Russell's footsteps and march in my old age because I have no appetite for politics, never did except in that dazzling moment of youth, and even then I was a skeptic. All I can do is sit back and watch.

Maybe, I've been thinking lately, that is what will lift me out of my blues. This may not be worth living, but it's certainly worth watching. A big-scale telenovela as reality TV. It may be terrifying but it won't be boring. Así empieza lo malo, to quote Javier Marías, translating Hamlet, where, though almost everyone winds up dead, is one hell of a play.