For Faith
All but Death, can be Adjusted --
Dynasties repaired --
Systems -- settled in their Sockets --
Citadels -- dissolved --
Wastes of Lives -- resown with Colors
By Succeeding Springs--
Death -- unto itself -- Exception --
Is exempt from Change --
Emily Dickinson, poem 749
Well, it seems the coprophagous GOP is backing Trump's election fraud scam. The usual suspects have, apparently, decided that it pays to stick to the ass their heads are already shoved into, and hope for the best. And fuck the United States of America.
"The ends justify the means. A nice homily, he thought, which allowed him to do almost anything. It brought to mind the rationale of Ivan Karamazov: without God, everything is permissible."
Robert Silverberg Master of Life and Death novel, 1957
Earlier today, Joe Biden won the election. Trump may still kill us all, but if we make it to January twentieth, we have a chance. Yay us.
As I write this, near midnight on the fifth, the presidential election has not yet been called, though Biden has the edge.
I admit to near inconsolable sadness late Tuesday and into Wednesday. I never expected a blowout, but the incredible closeness of the race fills me with despair for our nation and world. That so many have witnessed so much corruption, hate and near psychopathy from Trump, and still cast their ballots for him leads me to wonder if the name we've given our species could, possibly, be ironic. I see little evidence of sapience in us, tonight.
And, yes, the title of this post refers to the ancient Chinese curse. I think I finally understand it.
I intend to publish a series of essays in the coming days that, added together will be a manifesto of sorts. That justifies the note. The apology comes from the fact that circumstances may not give me the luxury of deeply editing drafts of these essays. They may be a bit choppy and even abrupt.
