Rhapsode

Victor Davis Hanson has written an utterly damning analysis of Obama. One of his points is that Obama is a mere rhapsode, a reciter -- Hanson cites Plato's Ion (available free on Kindle or the Gutenberg Project), which I have just gone back and read. (A little slow, but okay. Socrates is a man I would have liked to argue with, back when I liked to argue. He makes assumptions in the premises of his syllogisms that I would question.)

As I say, damning. And I've said before, O got elected for one reason only -- not his race, white-ish, or is it blackish? -- well, black, by declaration and against any loyalty to the people who actually raised him, you know, rather than abandoning him. Not because of his shrewdness or craftiness or innate political cunning. Not because Big Lib was behind him, that snapping hydra of media and unions and entrenched interests and other loppable heads if only there were a hero among us. No. O got elected by the gullible country girl called America because of his sweet sweet talk.

Two speeches, specifically.

So this is what occurred to me, just now. Who ever before has gained so much from so little? Two speeches, masterfully delivered, poetry actually, rhapsodic indeed, inspired and imbuing the enraptured throngs with, with, well, inspiration, with enthusiasm. Inspiration: to be possessed by a spirit. Enthused. To be indwelt by theos, god.

If such a thing were possible, this would be it: Obama sold his soul for two speeches, which ushered him to the Presidency of the United States. Not magic beans ... or rather, yes, truly magic beans, were there such things. It may be happenstance ... a perfect storm of empty oratory and a profoundly unthinking electorate. But that's almost always the case, an unthinking electorate, and empty oratory. There is no actual need in this case for Satan to be actively involved. Native stupidity answers almost every question, and a smooth sand-dancer like O had only to sway his hips a little bit and we all just spread ourselves wide-open for the penetration.

You must pardon my imagery. I did some heavy static holds earlier this week and I'm all hyper sexual.

This smirking punk is president. Shame on you, America. You are so stupid you deserve what you get ... knocked up and abandoned. And who is there to save you from yourself? Hope you've enjoyed your pottage, and that roasted goose, you know, the one you killed for the golden eggs ... and, uh, how's that golden touch working out for you, now that you've destroyed your little child? -- and Pied Pipers, and poisoned apples, and any other fairy tales about bad bargains.

Who will save us? What gallant horseman will ride in and slay this slight dragon? What kinsman, what father will step forward and defend his ravished fallen daughter? Gingritch? Romney? Some other? Please. It may be that idols are broken and the pieces lost in the dust, all so that we may see how great dust is, made, as it is, by God. That may be. But this idol has yet to be broken, and in any case even unworthy kings cast long shadows, and in falling bring much destruction.

Ah well.

I am no longer surprised that I am alive. Does this mean I have given up? How long will I wait before I find the comfort of meaningful small talk? -- not even banter, just the sounds we make that stand in for touching. Between silence and noise there is a third choice. God has never been alone, and he has a compulsion to create. We are made to be the same way. We might dream that we are strangers, then wake to remember our love for each other. Or I might dream of you, imagine a life complete, only to fall awake and find myself still alone.

So much for soul-selling, and sex.

J