Somewhere in their minds, the Republicans know they are worshipping filth. I think there’s little doubt that had Trump been impeached a third time, or had been convicted, or had explicitly announced his aim of instigating the Capitol insurrection, or had told Black people to go back to Africa, or Hispanics to go back to Mexico and lie in the gutter with flies circling about their sombreros, or had tried to shoot someone on 5th Avenue, or had announced on Fox News that Hillary went into politics because no whorehouse would take her, or had invited all women to get grabbed by the pussy, his adoration base (including his Congressional sycophants and gang members) would have been just as legion and twice as frenzied.
They know they worship toxic garbage. The more fecal, the brighter and more gleaming the gold fiberglass statue.
Setting politics aside, somewhere in their minds this should concern them.
That their spirit has become punk, that they’ve turned into their id, that the macho good-old-boy fart-joke jerk is their ideal. Not quite realizing they’ve gone this far, they have distilled out the last remnant of adult sensibility they might have tentatively possessed and are left with shit and lint.
Mitch McConnell has committed to voting for Trump in 2024. Can you see the meaning of this, that he has pledged loyalty to the purest avatar of miscreancy that psychological disease has produced?
We all, or nearly all of us have a core or kernel of unhealable injury in our psyche, from childhood, that should rail against life, shaking its fist at eternity because our potential was co-opted by our damaged parents. We do it outwardly, in crime or power or oratory or achievement. Or inwardly, in quiet desperation, in self-harm, in psychosomatic disease. But I’d say that most of us eventually prefer life, prefer our best. We give up protesting the crimes, our fate. We appreciate life.
Not these marchers and worshippers. They are still babies in the crib, screaming and soiling themselves. They shake their fists eternally. They think they have a hero. But actually, picture Donald Trump embracing them in their anger, in their need for a father. He cannot embrace anyone, because he needs to be held and there never has been and never will be anyone to do that. He doesn’t really want filth.
Neither do these
Republicans. Somewhere in their minds, they know they need love. They are crying.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Comments are welcome, but I'd suggest you first read "Feeling-centered therapy" and "Ocean and boat" for a basic introduction to my kind of theory and therapy.