I sometimes feel guilt about mocking the worldview of conservatives. They are barren and small-minded and their anguish is so outward directed that it paints itself, cruelly, on our world in manner that is nothing but destructive. They’re a different species.
The environment they choose to cultivate themselves has destroyed them, Golum-like, and in turn tries to destroy us.
Alternately, I look selfishly at those I admire–and what I try to be–and see what we could be: wonder, excitement, possibility. The jolt-of-surprise in what everything everything has to offer. Those conservatives (“them”) I’m sure have passions; yet the passions they have that affect their acts toward others are nihilist-adjacent. Their passions are hate.
And their non-imagination.
They lack any infant possibility of abstract imagination and thought. Metaphor is far beyond their ken; all expression is. just. as. it. is. The lack of artistic consumption or ambition is testament. The Ron Swanson quote exists for a reason (“Metaphors? I hate metaphors. That’s why my favorite book is Moby Dick. No frufu symbolism, just a good simple tale about a man who hates an animal.”) and completely envelopes the explanation that there are no conservative humorists. Abstract thought is imprecise. blech
Is my pessimism-and-anger at their pessimism-and-anger some sort of pot and kettle situation? I want Trump’s followers listed and numbered and remembered and punished (carve a “T” in their foreheads a la Inglourious Basterds). Mark their names. Am I a McCarthy-ite? Look at reviled immigrants or minorities. If they were to be angry at those that perpetuate the injustice of their treatment, is it hypocritical? Are the Nuremberg trials reallly the same as a rigged court in fascist Italy?
These are sincere questions. But I know the answers.
