At various points in my life, I have not gone with my gut. I have relied on my head exclusively. I am a good talker and so am able to construct rationales for most things and then press them hard enough so that those armed only with intuition are usually cowed into silence. Those voices usually include my own, that gentle inner voice that then stands back, shaking its head sadly, to watch with the rest for the fall out.
There was the job I took because it was a way out of a company I had ceased to like. I convinced myself that it would be a way to strengthen my experience in making television commercials, even if the commercials I’d be making may not be that great. After five months, I resigned. None of the twelve commercials I made in that time became a part of my show reel of work.
There are meals I’ve eaten, girls I’ve dated, clothes I’ve worn, words I’ve spoken, without attending the counsel of that part of me that says quietly, “Do your really mean this? Is this really a reflection of you? Or this just expedience, just a way of getting it done, an overly logical A connects to B connects to C sort of thing?”
A year ago, when Howard Dean seemed so thrilling, and then imploded, we looked around for a common sense solution. Kerry, the “war hero” couldn’t possibly be accused of lilly-livered-liberal-doveishness. The man had killed, for Cripes’ sake. Sure, he was opposed to lots of things I value. He voted for the war (he just did, folks) that I was marching against. He’s against gun control and gay marriage and does the whole Catholic thing and is married to a rich Republican and has that mechanical way of speaking that actually made Gore (Gore!) seem spontaneous and fluid. But, he was the one they told us was “electable” so don’t fall into the usual hair splitting trap that always kneecaps Democrats and get with the program. So I gave money and followed every squeak and fart of the campaign and filled myself with buckets of bile and loathing even though I was completely uninspired the whole time. I never felt that hair rising on the back of my neck feeling I had when Clinton talked about the place called hope, when politics was about uplifting, selfless commitment that brought tears to these reptilian eyes.No MLK, no JFK, no FDR, no Jimmy Stewart as Mr Smith goes to Washington.
The Bushies feel that knee-weakening sense of purpose. The rest of us just threw in our lots with hatred and nihilism. Our strategy was the same as the neo-cons going into Baghdad. Kill the fucker and we’ll worry about what to do later. All that matters is to destroy the enemy.
That’s not a liberal impulse and we’re not very good at it.
Now I look at the country I have adopted and think, “Why did I ever believe that my POV would be the same as the majority? I pride myself on being different, for fuck’s sake.” But most of all, why did I get so worked up about something I didn�t truly believe in? When will I learn that expediency never satisfies?
But what option was there? Dean? Nader? …Gephardt? Better yet to realize that true passion and inspiration comes rarely in mainstream politics. There are so many other causes to which one can attach oneself and breathe real fire.
I’m done with politics for a good while. I have taken Josh Marshall and wonkette and The Note off my list of browser favorites. I have decided to go to sleep reading Graham Greene’s The Heart of the Matter rather than watching CNN or Jon Stewart. I will spend my spare time not reading the Times’ website but doing what I really get pleasure out of: Drawing in 04, folks. That’s one issue I can readily cast my vote for.
Danny Gregory
Drawing, writing, what have you.
