Don’t Look For It; It’s Not There

There is only one subject to write about, you know.

angel-of-grief-public-domain1[935].jpg

If you are a writer searching for your next theme—particularly if you are a thoughtful woman or man who is feeling the gravity of current reality—you already know this: At this time, in this place, there is only one topic that is worth your attentions, your talents, and your efforts—being, this thing that is happening to our country. This terrible, diseased contamination overcoming our land. This malignancy, this foul corruption, this desecration … this thing that is unfolding before our eyes, and which we can do nothing to prevent.

Believe me, I keep trying to find other matters on which to write. Weather matters. Holiday matters. Matters concerning my adventures on Facebook or matters concerning being an old fart. But the truth is, next to this giant, depraved, black hole thing at the center of our distress, any and all other attempts to comment, amuse or even communicate is like spreading parsley sprigs on a huge, rotting, wormy, puss-oozing pork roast.

It may look a tad more pleasant with the garnish, but it ain’t gonna make the shit any more palatable.

Therefore, for those who come to Mr. Cope’s Cave this day, hoping to find something to divert your mind away from the crawling horror, tough luck. To divert your mind, I’d have to divert mine. And after two months of trying, I’ve given up.

Still, there are more than enough writers writing about what to expect from the encroaching dread. There is little, if anything, I could add to the deluge of warnings. And even if there were, the horde of savages swarming over our nation’s capitol are coming up with new outrages so rapidly that something worse is popping up even before it has been satisfactorily explained how bad the last fucking thing was. It’s an over-load—a blitzkrieg, if you will—of offensiveness.

So instead of more lamentations over what we will be seeing from the next resident of the White House, I thought it might be useful to consider what we won’t be seeing. But don’t feel too relieved. In many ways, what we won’t be seeing over the next four years is more disturbing, more horrifying, than what we will see. To this writer, it speaks to the true monstrosity of what we are in for.

  • We will never see Trump wipe a tear from his eye.

This would mean there is something that could move him profoundly—some event or circumstance, tragedy or triumph, capable of reaching a level of personal pain or personal joy deep within him.

Nor can we expect a tear out of him as a response to someone else’s pain or joy. No loss of life, no moment of musical transcendence, no shock to our national system or exaltation of our national character, nothing could ever put him into another man’s shoes. This would require of Trump something he is incapable of delivering. (And to make matters worse, the other man would never see his shoes again.)

  • We will never see him laugh warmly, or even smile warmly.

He will laugh, yes, and he will smile. But it won’t come from a foundation of warmth, benevolence, or generosity. It won’t even come from a sense of humor. That is yet another blessing our executive empty vessel has been deprived of—the gift of humor. And let us not confuse scorn, ridicule, derision and abuse with a sense of humor. All of which may be the most fundamental difference between a man like Trump, and decent human beings: The capacity for enjoyment without bringing pain to another person.

  • We will never see him comfort a bereaved mother, reassure a grieving family, give moral support to a confused child.

Such qualities as comfort, reassurance and moral support for others are not possible in a brain that only responds to one frequency. Nor can they be conveyed through Tweets and 3:00 AM tantrums.  For Trump to commiserate soul-to-soul, he would have to have a place to start. Has anyone seen any indication whatsoever that there is anything within him that even remotely resembles a soul?

  • We will never see him sing, we will never see him break into dance, we will never see him celebrate anything (with the exemption of himself) in any authentic or spontaneous way.

To a person like Trump, there is only one thing worthy of celebration, and we will be seeing a lot of that. A whole lot. But unless someone composes a song singing the praises of Donald Trump—in the most simple-minded of lyrics, of course—we will never learn if his range is tenor, baritone or basso.

And unless a critic of his dies and provides him with a grave to dance on, there will be no moves busted by this bloodless turd.

  • We will never hear him say he regrets doing something, or that wishes he’d done something differently.

Just as ethical and moral standards don’t apply to unethical, immoral people … just as conventional behavior doesn’t apply to those who are ashamed of nothing … just as heritage and tradition don’t apply to someone who has no regard for any legacy other than his own … so does self-doubt not apply to a man who operates on the assumption that if he did it, it must be right—no matter the outcome.

crying-296128684671337hW[937].jpg

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s