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Call me Obama. Some years ago –never mind how long precisely– having a lot of money to waste, and nothing particular to interest me around, I thought I would sail about a little in the sharkish waters of politics. It is a way I have of driving off the depression and regulating the economic condition of my brothers.

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly election day in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily watching CNN without even realizing that the world is full of coffins, and that bringing up the rear of every candidate I meet is far from what I dream of; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong decoction of Senecca and the Stoics to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically shaking people's hands--then, I account it high time to get back to work as soon as I can. This is my substitute for playing golf and procrastinating. With a philosophical flourish Hillary throws herself upon her husband’s sword like Monica on a cigar; I quietly talk to the people. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their pedigree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the media with me.

There now is your insular city of Manhattan, belted round by crushed buildings as Bagdad neighbourhoods --commerce surrounds it with her turf. Right and left, bankers rip you of all your money. Its extreme downtown is a mess, where that now noble hole was once a monument to the freedom of trade, and cooled down by bloodless terrorists, who a few hours previous were out of sight of our holy land. Look at the crowds of dumb gazers there. Aren’t they worshipping the wrong idol ?

But look! here come more crowds of unwanted foreigners, pacing the streets hoping to realize the American Dream, and not knowing they are bound for a dive. Nothing will content them but the greediest limit of their hands. Tell me, doesn’t the magnetic virtue of the dollar attract them thither?

Once more. Say you are in a country of low moral principles and high esteem. Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there penniless by some sort of water gate.

But here is an artist. She desires to paint you the dreamiest, shadiest, quietest, most enchanting bit of romantic future. What is the chief argument she employs? There stand her hollow trunk, as if a hermit and a crucifix were in charge of fund raising; and here sleeps her husband, and there sleep her cattle; and up from yonder campaign office goes a sleepy smoke. Are you really going to bet anything on such a wreck ?

And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the clear water, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all media and newsrooms. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of ambition; and this is the key to it all.

Now, when I say that I am in the habit of going to the street whenever I begin to grow hazy about the eyes, and begin to be over conscious of my skin, I do not mean to have it inferred that I ever go outside as a looser. For to go as a looser you must needs have an empty wallet, and an empty wallet is a sure path to failure.

No, I never go outside as a looser; nor, though I am something of a mixture, do I ever get in public but as a Commodore, or a Captain with a Book. When I campaign, I go as a trained orator, right before the mike, plumbed down into my expensive shoes, aloft there under the democratic mast-heads. I won’t abandon the glory and distinction of such an office to those who don’t deserve it. For my part, I abominate all toils, trials, and tribulations of every kind whatsoever. It is quite as much as I can do to take care of myself, without taking care of loose ships, barques, brigs, schooners, and what not.

What if some old hunks of a President orders me to get a broom and sweep down all the mess he has made around the world? What does that indignity amount to, weighed, I mean, in the scales of the New Testament? Who ain't a slave? Tell me that. We’re all slaves, unless you come of an old established family in the land, the Van Rensselaers, or Randolphs, or Hardicanutes or Clintons.

Well, then, however the old President may order me about -however Republicans may thump and punch me about, I have the satisfaction of knowing what is right; that everybody else is one way or other served in much the same way- either in a physical or metaphysical point of view, that is; and so the universal thump is passed round, and all hands should rub each other's shoulder-blades, and be content.

Again, I always go to conventions as a winner, because people make a point of paying me for my trouble, whereas they never pay others a single dime that I ever heard of. And there is all the difference in the world between paying and being paid. The act of paying is perhaps the most uncomfortable infliction that the two orchard thieves entailed upon us. But BEING PAID, what will compare with it? The urbane activity with which a candidate receives money is really marvellous, considering that he so earnestly believe money to be the indispensable condition of his success, and that on no account can an unmonied candidate win the race. Ah! how cheerfully some consign themselves to perdition!

Finally, I always campaign as a winner, because I get full of fresh air and the soles of my shoes prove I’m a serious contender for Presidency. But as everybody knows, in politics, head winds are far more prevalent than winds from astern (that is, if you never violate the Pythagorean maxim), so for the most part the candidate on the back seat gets his atmosphere at second hand from the candidate on the forefront. She thinks she breathes it first; but not so. In much the same way do the commonalty lead their leaders in many other things, at the same time that the leaders little suspect it.

I should now take it into my head to run for presidency; this the invisible policy maker of the Fates, –or perhaps the Archangel Michelle– who has the constant surveillance of me, and secretly dogs me, and influences me in some unaccountable way- she can better answer than any one else. And, doubtless, my going on this campaign, form part of the grand programme of Providence that was drawn up a long time ago. It comes in as a sort of brief interlude and solo between my more extensive performances. I take it that this part of the bill must run something like this:

"GRAND CONTESTED ELECTION FOR THE PRESIDENCY OF THE UNITED STATES."

"WINNING CAMPAIGN BY ONE OBAMA."

"DIRTY BATTLES IN ALL CAUCUSES."

Chief among these motives are the overwhelming idea of the great White Power itself. Such a portentous and mysterious monster rouses all my curiosity. Then the wild and distant nations where the undeliverable, nameless perils of this White Power may be exerted; these, with all the attending marvels of a thousand Mesopotamian sights and sounds, help to sway me to my wish. With some women, perhaps, such things would not be inducements; but as for me, I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things powerful. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts. Not ignoring what is good, I am quick to perceive a horror, and could still be social with it — if only they would let me– since it is but well to be on friendly terms with all the inmates of the filthy earth we lodge in.

By reason of these things, then, my candidacy is most welcome; the great flood-gates of the voting booths are open, and in the wild conceits that sway me to my purpose, two and two there float into my inmost soul, endless processions of voters, and, mid most of them all, one grand hooded phantom, like a Hillary in despair.

© Nick Palffy – 2008

Un petit article édifiant sur Kindle, le nouveau gadget-lecteur-de-livres-électronique d'Amazon.com. Orwellien.

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Evdokia � Photos

"L'art, ça peut être sauvage?"

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