...only one thing that I know how to do well/ And I've often been told that you only can do/ What you know how to do well/ And that's be you/ Be what you're like/ Be like yourself....
Opening Day at the 2005 Maryland Renaissance Festival was so filled with technical difficulties and costume changes that I felt I hardly saw the audience at all; unfulfilling, to say the least.
Shattered glass greeted me inside my front door. The still life photograph that d. and I had created at Artscape this year had fallen. The shards of splintered glass had a melancholy beauty against the blue background, and I was nearly sad to sweep them up.
Saturday night, the show went wll, even better than it had on Friday night. Fucking CityPaper never reviewed it. Bastards.
Sunday's weather threatened, but began to clear as we drove in. The varigated clouds created an amazingly textural depth of skyscape.
All equipment problems had been addressed, if not completely resolved, and the day began smoothly. I was just starting to feel the love when it was time to leave for the Sunday matinee. It was at this point that I got word that the cast party was being moved from nearly family-friendly poolside to the interior of a bar I hate.
You'd have thought it would be difficult to be cross while riding topless to eighties tunes.
The matinee was smooth, and strike was brief. That Girl brought my children to me. They'd finished their day at Faire, the lucky beggars. I was not up for dragging them to a bar after Opening Weekend, so I declined to attend. "You'll be with people you love," Coco cajoled.
Who would that be?
"Hello, your castmates? The people you've been working with?"
Ah. Did you get the impression I loved them, then?
She was visibly peeved, and stomped off with a "Fine!" that meant she was anything but, but by that time, exhausted from the weekend and upset about my offspring being only just barely tolerated, I was in the Don't Care Zone, and thus imperturbable. We had a nice time at home in front of the television.
Fleecy fog fails entirely to conceal the horrifying transformation of a home from the dismal shade of candy pink to the equally dismal shade of tarp blue.
Glass from the broken window of a stolen car crunches beneath my feet.
Now, as promised, To Politics.
The problem as I see it is that each one of our options for an elected official has been purchased by somebody or multiple somebodies. As far as I know (clue me in if you know differently) there is no mandate of disclosure as to what companies have contributed to which candidates and by how much.
We can overthrow our elected officials every four years- even every two- but until we know who is in whose pocket and elect accordingly, it will not be our agendas that are addressed.
It isn't our politicians, bless their scheming power-hungry hearts, who are running the country. It's Big Business that's in charge, hiring the Marketing Machine to make us want things, buying advertising space to show us the things they've chosen to make us want, then selling them to us at pre-determined prices in pre-determined retail outlets, and using their unholy profits to contribute to every politician who agrees to support their interests. We cannot get rid of these people, even if we discover who they are. As long as we are willing to be led like lambs to Wal-Mart, we are tacitly participating in our own subjugation.
Let us be clear: I am not against Capitalism. What I am against is subscribing to the self-delusion that Common Man's participation in the Political Machine will somehow make a difference. Which is not to say that we should not participate, just that we ought keep in mind that we can't know much about a candidate based on media sound-bytes. Even if we investigate a candidate's history (and honestly, how many people do? Do you? I don't. I have a family to look after) this tells us nothing about the sort of decisions this person will make as an elected official.
Now, factor in the people surrounding Your Favorite Frontrunner, such as campaign manager, speechwriter, financial advisor, brother-in-law, Secretary of Defense, Attorney General, and you now have, not Candidate, but Candidate Soup.
Even paying attention to debates, press conferences or live flesh-pressing events is of little help. Perhaps you forget (and it is hoped that you will) but I promise you the candidates never do: these are performances, where they portray the characters they hope you'd like to elect.
Politics is performance art, funded by powerful coorportations with profit-minded agendas.
Go ahead. Cast your vote for whoever's lies sound best to you. But realize that you're whistling in the dark and hoping for the best.
(Whistling In The Dark; They Might Be Giants)