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Turn Your Back on the Democrats in Charlotte

Our leaders are mass murderers. It is not appropriate to protest to them. A protest is a complaint. You do not complain to a murderer and say, “Now don’t you do that again.” Nor do you ask him to save your behind. Would you vote for Hannibal Lecter if he had a good health plan? They are not only murderous, they are also insane. The wars could not have succeeded. There is no plan to their actions, no real hope of retaining hegemony through force. The launch wars without purpose, and pursue them with vigorous incoherence. They lose them all. Nor can they build. American can-do is do-do. They are too inept, simply too stupid. Vicious, insane, stupid, and paralysed, the American elite has come to the end of its rule. If others go along with their blind stumble, the end will be nuclear war, and if others wake up and don’t go along, their rule will end. For war with Iran, with the fifth fleet as sitting ducks, will be nuclear war, and power exists only because the population is in the habit of going along. But some habits are just plain bad habits. Some are very, very bad.

It would be far more devastating, politically, if there were no protest, none, at the Democratic Convention. Turn your back on it. That would reveal it as the dog and pony show it is. Far better would be a thousand counter conventions held at multiple locations, namely, all the homeless encampments in the country. Ignore the mass media. They can’t even write decent bullshit any more. They are spinning so much you have to assume they all have poles up their asses. Give no interviews, make no comments about the looming catastrophe. If forced to discuss some public figure look nonplussed and answer, “Isn’t he in some kind of dog and pony show?” They are all irrelevant. Those in power cannot do what is minimally necessary.

The choice is not between left and right, but whether humans, at the end, embrace life or death. The end of American elite rule is certain, but it will not save us. We are doomed in any case. Anybody finding it a little warmer than it used to be? If you think Obama has a kill list you should see Mother Nature’s. A nuclear war would leave the planet, devoid of humans at last, devastated. But in any case, forces are gathering that will soon make the planet human free, but not, hopefully, devoid of life. That is all we can work for, the continuation of life in other forms. We, ourselves, will be fossils.

Sine the USA is a dead man walking, I offer an alternative to the insufferable participation in the upcoming pointless staged abortion of a presidential election. A slow caravan, consisting, originally, of myself alone and a flash disk containing a vast store of original plays, poems, screenplays, invocations, and what not, will set out east to west in a leisurely trek across the country. We will not have a wild send-off to the cheers of adoring crowds. After eluding the paparazzi we will take to the road, having heeded, ahead of time, Mother Nature’s eviction notice. This caravan will be called The Rolling Thunder Revival Company. On the way I hope to meet others I find able in some way to join in this trip. They will have to be desperate souls to embrace such a Quixotic venture. Of course all souls are now desperate, but few are ready to admit it. The show is already blocked out and ready to go. The purpose of what I hope will be a spiritual tsumani, will be to form a traveling theater while already traveling. All I will ask of anyone who joins is everything. There will, no doubt, be few takers, especially since I will have to fall in love with them first.

Avoiding big cities we will seek out some of the derelict remnants of the USA, the homeless, those stranded in former thriving towns, other footloose survivors. Most will be already lost. But from them will come the desperate souls who will join our troupe, people who are not thinking about tomorrow. And there too we will offer our tales. To these wayfaring strangers of the avant guard of the lost, our theater will be luminous. They will be entertained. They will laugh and weep. They will see the souls they sold or lost. They will see how savage comedy can be. They will know that there is little real hope left for human beings, except that we might choose our own end, and that this was what human life has always been about, choosing our own end. The question is only with what dignity we shall tip our hats and go.

Perhaps this company can grow and split, and so become the seed of what is to follow, but that is for others to decide, and is of no matter. For whatever is to follow will be brief. This endgame will certainly produce a checkmate for the human side. The only question is how well we play.

As the audience departs we will distribute clown noses to ease the burden of those who choose to continue in their American lives. And so we will give birth to the Clown Nose Party which will end our American misery with derision, not force, and so preserve us from nuclear war, our one gift to life to come. Or it won’t.

Michael Doliner is a writer. His can be reached through his blog Swinging the Possum .

 

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Michael Doliner studied with Hannah Arendt at the University of Chicago and has taught at Valparaiso University and Ithaca College.

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