Touch of Grey—Grateful Dead
Well, where have I been, fa God’s sake? You know what they say? When times get tough, the Jews get cleanin’ — at least those of us raised by borderline obsessive-compulsive moms. My New York pad had been suffering from nine months of neglect after blogging up a storm for our gal, Hillary. My cleaning strategy (or was it a tactic?) fell under the rubric of build it and they will come, for all you clients who might have unknowingly been demagnetized by the New York film of white dust that seems to settle on everything in my little flat, despite air purifier. And there’s something about wiping the slate clean during the Jewish New Year that compelled me to also clean the space around me. So am I next to godliness now? Hard to say, God only knows.
Like many of my Confluence sisters and brothers, I imagine I’ve been suffering from an influx of fluctuating moods and diminishing incomes, having dedicated so much to our PUMA cause. Yes, as has been told repeatedly, we’ve been putting out fires all year. Just when we thought we’d found each smoking gun of Obama’s dirty dealings and his trail of broken promises that would put his campaign out to pasture and reward Hillary with her rightful place of stellar leadership, we would be surprised by the MSM, Dem leadership, and general populace’s silence. So we’ve been running this relay race, and frankly, we’re tired. Our team members have carried the baton when any one of us could not. Some of us have felt beaten down by hitting our heads against the wall with cries of illegality and the smarmy tactics and associations of the Obama campaign. Frankly, I’ve cited so many instances that I’m numb, so if you want a reference, just look at almost any post on my blog or that of any one of my blogroll links.
So what kind of horse am I to stop before the race is over? I’m not really stopping, I’m just refueling, and that means refocusing and looking for work. Blogging, as I have found, is almost like having a job, it just doesn’t pay the cash. After all, to do it right, one must read other blogs, comments, stay up on the news, have an opinion, gather audio/visual accompaniment, cite supporting resources, links, and articles.
What blogging has gotten us is that our PUMA protest voice has made a huge difference in forcing the truth into the media, which has largely obfuscated its purpose as keepers of the Fourth Estate. In one example, after all of our yammering, finally the ACORN improprieties in voter registration are coming to light in thirteen states of the union. Most of us are lifelong Liberals who refused to give in to the philosophy of “by any means necessary.” Reference to those words by Malcolm X were woven in as code during the primaries against Hillary and now against McCain.
When Obama says in grandiose speeches that people are trying to “hoodwink and bamboozle you,” he’s speaking in code. And most knife-twisting of all, the chief hoodwinking bamboozler is calling the kettle black or white if you’re John Lewis. Those words by Malcolm X are part of the “by any means” philosophy, which gets to the heart of why we feel so angry and hurt by his campaign. We are fundamentally against this way of being in the world and see this MO permeate every level of Obama’s opportunistic campaign at each step of the way — from the trail of broken promises to his associations with shady characters, from ACORN to his Fannie and Freddie on-the-take, and how he stepped on the heads of those who helped him rise to power. We’re frustrated because when we or the McCain campaign point out these things, we/they are called haters and racists in the most vile, stringent terms. We are called haters by a campaign and its followers who have threatened, shouted us down, made it unsafe to wear normal campaign gear, carry or post signs, speak out. We are called names by a campaign that has used people within their governmental capacity to stifle free speech. Why?
Saddest of all is that we are like the wandering Jews. Welcome, people, to my world. We have no home. My thousands of friends, colleagues, and acquaintances, people I’ve known for my entire adult life, going on forty years, think that I’m a pariah. I don’t talk about my views with them, as I’m usually met with a barrage of hatred toward the candidates I believe in or am placing my hope in to counteract Nobama. So, basically, I don’t go there. I just write to get out the word. I write to you and for myself as an outlet, and because I cannot stay silent. You are my new community, my solace, my rock, my connection to the reality I see — the reality that so many of my counterparts don’t see. It’s as if the truth before their eyes is invisible.
Remember “Yertle the Turtle” by Dr. Seuss? Obama is like Yertle in his unbridled ego and hubris, fake seal, O-plane, fake Greek columns. His attitude is cloaked in the language of noblesse oblige, but instead of by birthright, he will use the power he has garnered to re-distribute the wealth to the less fortunate. And the people, the other lowly turtles in the land, afraid or deluded, they will obey:
My throne shall be higher!” his royal voice thundered,
“So pile up more turtles! I want ’bout two hundred!”
“Turtles! More turtles!” he bellowed and brayed.
And the turtles ‘way down in the pond were afraid.
They trembled. They shook. But they came. They obeyed.
From all over the pond, they came swimming by dozens.
Whole families of turtles, with uncles and cousins.
And all of them stepped on the head of poor Mack.
One after another, they climbed up the stack.
Then Yertle the Turtle was perched up so high,
He could see forty miles from his throne in the sky!
So, as we say, we don’t really have a horse in this race. Again, as in prior elections, we are forced to choose between the lesser of two evils. We are forced to turn a blind eye toward a Yertle who has stepped on the heads of the people. But WE are like Mack. When Yertle the Turtle could not bear to see the moon rise higher in the sky than he himself, he ordered more turtles onto the pile, but poor Mack, suffering under the burden of the millions who followed their king, he did the most simple, natural thing, and brought the tyrant down:
But, as Yertle, the Turtle King, lifted his hand
And started to order and give the command,
That plain little turtle below in the stack,
That plain little turtle whose name was just Mack,
Decided he’d taken enough. And he had.
And that plain little lad got a bit mad.
And that plain little Mack did a plain little thing.
And his burp shook the throne of the king!
And Yertle the Turtle, the king of the trees,
The king of the air and the birds and the bees,
The king of a house and a cow and a mule…
Well, that was the end of the Turtle King’s rule!
For Yertle, the King of all Sala-ma-Sond,
Fell off his high throne and fell Plunk! in the pond!
So, all you wanderers who feel you have no home except for that of your fellow bloggers and protesters, YOU, WE will survive. We will continue to do what comes naturally, to put one foot in front of the other, and just burp.