November 13, 2016
November 6, 2016
Baby, bawling. Head half-hidden by the hood of an old-fashioned perambulator. Hard to tell whether that’s a bonnet on its head, or a helmet of flaxen hair.
Closing the door of the sweetshop behind him, the boisterous child is suddenly cowed – all but bowled over. So much to choose from, so many decisions to make, so high the shelves; and how on earth do I climb up there? Turning around for advice, the ‘child’ reveals himself as a wizened old man.
And on Main Street, coast-to-coast protests after the presidential election result was declared….
Unlike Hillary’s, Trump supporters wouldn’t know how to make individually hand-written placards which nonetheless retain enough regularity to remain respectable.
Trump supporters might not know how to write lines as good as this: respect my existence or expect my resistance.
Trump supporters don’t seem to have such a highly developed sense of entitlement. If voting patterns had been reversed so that their candidate won the popular vote but not the electoral college, would they be out on the streets insisting that Clinton cannot enter the White House because she is ‘Not My President’?
Plump Trump supporters don’t know how to be Divine; they are merely fat.
Flashback to before the election….
Many who said they would be voting for Trump, also said they did not think he was fit to be president. In one poll (for what it’s worth), two-thirds of sort-of Trump supporters went on to contradict themselves in this way.
To paraphrase: rather the Monkey Man than being made a monkey of; again. Not bad from the Middle America that doesn’t know how to do irony; allegedly.
No doubt there were other factors involved, some of them unsavoury. But there is already enough here to suggest it is their consciousness that needs addressing, rather than dumb-ass stupidity.
Alveoli of swelling smoke: people in the region round Mosul are glad-ioli, learning to breathe again after ISIS retreats; but it’s a rasping hard coming they have of it.
Oilfields burning: skies overcast by black cotton wool; horizons hidden. Meanwhile many women are lifting the veil from over their eyes.
Coming again to the wider world. But who comes for them, if not in nihilism? No point in denial-ism: here in the West we’ve got nothing for you.
Too busy this election season, chasing swirls of brown leaves spotted with age; and at the same time throwing petrol on the bonfire of our vanities.