The stress of political theater
I’m trying to will the stress from my body. One breath at a time, I picture the weight of pent-up rage cascading from the top of my head, like sweat or tears, and soaking into the ground below.
It’s not really working as well as I had hoped.
But I don’t have to tell you. All of the days in the decade of this year have been a trial of some sort. We aren’t all working from the same evidence or relying on worthy advocates.
Most days, I visit the kitchen and stand in front of the coffeemaker. A stream of foamy liquid splutters into an awaiting cup with enough force to shake me, albeit momentarily, from my doldrums. It is my third vacation of the day.
I need it to bolster myself in my travels through the dining room, which seems to be the connecting hub through which one must travel to reach any other domestic destination.
Lately, it has proven to be an epic journey that one might not realize presents impediments. First among them is a laundry basket. It contains a heaping pile of mystery. Its contents could be dirty, or it could be clean. Or it could be some combination of the two. Unattended piles tend to attract additions that may or may not belong.
On this day, I have left the house. In a snowstorm, no less. I can’t remember the last time I whiteknuckled my way through a wintery mix, but doctor’s appointments are precious enough to keep, despite the physical risks.
Even if I never leave the car, which is often the case now as I wait for my father, who is inside with his cellphone set to speaker.
It takes a while before the doctor makes his way to the exam room.
As I linger in my mobile waiting room, the impeachment hearings are playing out. I listen in.
I’ve missed the beginning, but the person talking now assures us that what preceded was impressive and well done.
He’s being cynical, though. His point being it was too good.
As he stomps around his points, which seem to have neither order nor relevance, I understand. Nothing he says really matters. There will be no defense because defiance is enough.
Standing on a hill and yelling about its beacon is the stock phrase.
One side is certainly all theater. And not the Tony Award-winning kind. Maybe it takes one to know others.
I struggle with the passive tense, I think because it leaves the tangle of my thoughts intact for someone else to interpret.
But I’m finding it less and less likely that people like Marjorie Taylor Greene are using the passive tense by accident. When she said: “I was allowed to believe things that weren’t true,” - she wasn’t mincing words.
Change that tense and you might understand the truth she holds dear: I am allowed to believe things that aren’t true. I am allowed to perpetuate this to my advantage.
These are the words that frees her. and hamstrings us.
The actions of the conservative movement, perhaps today more than ever, shows they are content with lies and the political theater they’ve staged to perpetuate them.
I hope it’s not something we’ll just have to get used to …
Like the call that breaks into this regularly scheduled programming. I answer it just in time to hear a door open and a voice greets my father, who introduces me by holding out his phone.
“I apologize that I won’t be seeing you right now.”