Mood:
surprisedTopic: "Horse Latitudes" (6)
Frodo is thinking about the end of summer, and how what is really trivial comes front and center. One of the Election Campaign Chairmen for George W. Bush, and a former Chairman of the GOP itself, came out of the closet today, and it made the news. On a whim, Frodo flipped the remote to every news channel he could, and surveyed the web locations of his favorites, and he found nary a mention of the President of the United States. Is he still up on the Cape? Is he en route to the City of Orleans? Or is he writing his political epitaph?
Wanda Sykes, a bizarre sort unto herself, said recently that the thing that she holds most dear about the Presidential Election of 2008 was the fact that for the first time in American History the winner was not an "old white guy." What concerns her now, she added, "is the fact that President Obama's hair is turning gray, and his skin is getting all wrinkly. He's becoming an old white guy right before our eyes."
Frodo remembers, and has commented on the fact, that being alone is often a treasure for those addicted to self-speech and course correction. Perhaps the President has found a way to take long strides along a city sidewalk wearing a funky hat and a Chicago Bears jersey while he smokes a cigarette and tries to remember what Sly Fox used to taste like. If he talks out loud he can probably rest assured that any casual passersby will pay him little mind, and cross the street.
At least that's what they do for Frodo.
It is well-documented that Abraham Lincoln is a model for the young President, and fitting it must be for another who suffered so under the pressure of his time to be the object of analysis by he who seeks answers to so many questions today. Hugely unpopular it apparently was for one to emancipate by proclamation, and widely misunderstood the other by the smoke, mirror, and intentional obfuscation of those who value something other than the common good. Through that analogy, he keeps his eye on the prize, if you will, and struggles to make now the when. His course is a good one, but the rough seas have fouled his engine, and rodents scramble down the halyard, into the darkness.
Frodo knows that to lament the mis-step makes the next footfall even more precarious. It is true, after all, that we are only granted a finite number to take us upon our chosen route. We know not how many that may be, for the count is different for each of us. It is also probable that there are facts now unknown, despite the clarity offered by constant flashes of information. That which we today know not, may change everything, real and perceived, when, and surely when will occur, it becomes true that perhaps peace afield comes home to roost or there comes an awareness of true complicity by simple-minded tasters of power.
Doris Day, was it not? Que sera, sera.
