He, Trump, Asteroid

some wisdom from a comment thread at SST

“What is hateful is not rebellion but the despotism which induces the rebellion; what is hateful are not rebels but the men, who, having the enjoyment of power, do not discharge the duties of power; they are the men who, having the power to redress wrongs, refuse to listen to the petitioners that are sent to them; they are the men who, when they are asked for a loaf, give a stone.” – Wilfrid Laurier (Canadian PM 1896-1911)

Trump has chosen his moment, whether by accident or design, almost perfectly. He’s riding a wave of people who do not trust a goddamn word out of the mouths of the press or politicians, because they feel they’ve been betrayed, over and over by those same institutions. Watching the powers that be criticize Trump is like watching someone punch smoke. You cannot attack if you cannot connect, you cannot connect if you have no credibility with the people you’re trying to convince, and all their thrashing serves to to is spread the smoke around.

As for where it all fits in the grand scheme of things; maybe I’m just cynical, but I think that there’s something profoundly enjoyable in imagining yourself at the end of the world, or on the precipice of catastrophe. Clinton will just be Obama with more dead people in the middle east and less goodwill from the left. Trump will be a president with no support from his own party. Not so much a lame duck as a duck that’s being basted with hoisin sauce on a rotisserie somewhere. As for the Hitler comparisons floating around: a few followers scuffling with protestors does not a Sturmabteilung make. All said I’d answer Yeats* with Eliot: “Not with a bang, but a whimper.” Grimgrin @ SST 05 March 2016 at 04:17 AM

* THE SECOND COMING

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again but now I know
That thirty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

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