"Under certain circumstances, profanity provides relief denied even to prayer." -- Mark Twain
Mark Twain also observed that familiarity breeds contempt and children. And I suppose this is as good an explanation as any for why I am in a bad mood this year and why my vote this November will go to a delightful little mix of Democrats, Greens and, yes, Republicans.
Yeah, that’s right. Republicans. So sue me. I’m as entitled to the franchise as that percentage of Americans who demonstrate weekly to Jay Leno and other inquiring minds that they cannot find Greenland on the map or name the prime minister of England. Some of them actually vote, too, ya know.
So be afraid. Be very afraid of the nation that produces idiots like us. But don’t tell me that you’re horrified that I’d vote for a Republican. I’ve met the Democrats. I’ve spent the greater part of last year shaking their hands and going to their meetings. I know whereof I speak.
Okay. I guess I have to stop here and confess my bias. My candidate in the presidential primaries lost. Resoundingly. Completely. Thoroughly. Irrefutably. Unequivocally. Overwhelmingly. Irrevocably. Inarguably.
But I lack sufficient objectivity at this point to declare whether or not I’m a sore loser. I’ll report, you decide.
Time was, I was a yellow-dog Democrat, but that was then. This is 2004, the year of the bruising Democratic presidential primary. In January. In Iowa. After which, it was pretty much over.
Time was, I enjoyed a good political discussion. But something has changed this year. Encountering people talking politics, even people I agree with, is a sure-fire mood destroyer for me these days. When I hear Democrats talking about politics (read: electing Democrats), my head wants to explode; my teeth hurt; I want to scream and run. I don’t know why, but I just get irritated any more by the whole thing. I’m sick and tired of hearing about how bad the Republicans are and why Bush must go. These types of conversations are irritating and predictable to me. My surliness attracts notice. I offend people. I am not eager to register new voters. Something must be wrong with me. “But, I’m just so concerned about what Bush is doing to this country.” Oh, please. Not again.
Perhaps I have Bush fatigue. So much to protest. So little me.
The fun is gone. These are grim times. But the kvetching has gotten predictable. The same monotonous conversations are repeated, ad infinitem. I’m tired of hearing it all. I want it to be November 3rd. I want this election to be over. I want to move on to the next phase. Whatever that is.
My high school English teacher, a regional writer and essayist, wrote a piece some years ago for the local paper on the subject of belief. I liked it enough to clip it out and keep it in my wallet, which got stolen a few months later. I didn’t miss the $2 cash, and the credit cards were easy enough to cancel, but I do miss that clipping. My poor recollection of it is this. He began by admiring the strength of conviction with which Baptists, for example, believe the Bible is literally true, and the certainty of the born again that Heaven exists and is theirs. How free from doubt believers are, safely tucked inside their cocoons of certainty. He then confessed that he shared no such convictions, that he had doubts about everything and always compulsively looked for the other side of any argument. He concluded by observing that since his cat didn’t seem to be plagued by questions about life and afterlife, he saw no reason why he should be, either, and would be satisfied with the here and now, if that is all there is.
And I agree with that. If now is all there is and all we can be sure of, then I’ll take that, and be content. I am grateful that I was spared a religious upbringing, for this means I am not rebelling against anything, and I am not at all conflicted about not believing. I can’t honestly say these days that I believe in much, and I know I trust much less. I’ve also observed that I’m no more and no less confused, unhappy and ignorant than most of the people I meet, including the believers.
I cast a mean-eyed glance over at the dog, who wants out, as I ponder these ramblings, begun to try to figure out why talk of politics puts me in a mean mood. How did this turn into a recollection about an essay on belief? After reading this for the 4th or 5th time, a glimmer of truth begins to reveal itself: I am a sore loser.
What I did last year, that I don’t typically do, was believe.
