Monday, April 23, 2018

To the victors go the spoils

The satire and spirituality employed here is beyond the ken of any Trump voter. And I say this not to gloat or to condemn, but merely as a flat fact to point out that there are no Donald Trump supporters reading this. It is possible that one or two could drift in from the Internet, but there is a difference between reading and looking at the words, a big difference I sometimes disquietingly encounter in my journeyman travels of the Internet and whenever I pick up a copy of Finnegan's Wake.

That said, as reprehensible, mentally ill, and disturbed as is the current President, we must offer credit where credit is due. And when a tiny ray of hope shines out of the Koreas,  even though we might hate to do it, it is only just and fair to say that somehow this is, at least partly, a triumph of Donald Trump, though it be nestled among so many of his failures.

Why am I sensitive to this? Why, against my inclinations, am I scrupulous in sounding this correction? It is because I fall prey to the very same device. I too am victimized in this approach. For whatever just complaints one might have about this blog, a negativity and dismissiveness haunts my success here, and robs me of the full credit clerkmanifesto deserves.

When you cut your finger, put a band-aid on it, then later read a post or two from clerkmanifesto and soon find your cut is healing up do you say to yourself "Wow, that blog healed me."?

You should.

When you find a dollar bill, when someone smiles at you, when you buy some fruit at the store and it is particularly good, I deserve some of the credit for that. After all, I have written about these and so much more. I write about all things and so don't I affect all things? I contribute to sunshine, the color of blooming flowers, the smell of autumn leaves, and the kindness of strangers. I am largely responsible for the quality of music, good luck, and the fact that your house didn't burn down. I'm pretty sure the taste of lavender is a product of my writing, at least partly, I mean, it stands to reason. I mentioned lavender, didn't I? I make clouds puffy and evocative. I make good dreams and the seasons change. Crescent moons are a result of what I write, admittedly only partially, but then what is a crescent moon other than part of a moon anyway? I assist water in flowing and I soften the edges of night. I prevent the end of the world and cheese shortages and a painful kidney ailment that you would have probably suffered had you not read this.

So thank goodness you read this!

And maybe, just a little, thank me. I mean, just as a suggestion.

And I'm not saying I'm wholly responsible for these things, but they happen, and here I am. Which is pretty conclusive. One must admit that it's hard not to see these connections. Nevertheless people turn their heads away. The newspapers refuse to site me over and over again. The Internet natters on incessantly about it's nonsense and rarely, almost never, turns your head towards me. And the President of the United States, in all his foolish self absorption, has never once said: 

"Not everything that is great about America is due to the writing of Feldenstein Calypso, but surely a lot of it is."

Which is unfair. 

So unfair.

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