Trimming the Ritual Fat

 

True freedom would be to do away with this convention called ‘borders.’ But then, I’m afraid, the casualty would be justice. Alas, we leave our borders up in faith that we’ll find this phantom, justice, somewhere among us.

Taxed for existing. Fined for dying. I trust that a statesman will one day come who will find a way to tax those who do not exist, as well.

The State often demands monetary payment for an ideological reward. One fee grants you ‘safer streets.’ One premium grants you ‘better education.’ One bill grants you ‘better national security.’ If only they could stick to the one tangible thing they offer in exchange for money—a nice coffin. But then, even this, I don’t really get a chance to see either.

It is quite appropriate today that the electoral voting system would grant us leaders who act as symbols of ‘hope’ and ‘change’ rather than their agents. After all, the Electoral College is merely a symbol as well.

A ‘symbol of hope’ or an ‘agent of hope,’—So long as ‘hope’ is the common denominator, the people don’t care which of the two they wind up with.

Bloated vocabulary is a refuge to tautology.

Constant recitation, repeated phrases, mimetically solidified beliefs transferred through intonations of voice and gestures of the hand, interpretation of the words of dignitaries and foundational texts, manias of crowd-emotion and group-think at public rallies sparked by a few words cushioned in all the unquestioned sentiments of The Party—Does this not all belong to the ministry of The State?

That there are only two forces at play in the country, that there is always a little conservativism in the heart of the liberal and always a little liberalism in the heart of a conservative, that the powers oscillate in a never ending cycle and that either a Democrat or a Republican will always be in charge, even though these two categories rest so adjacent to one another that the lines sometimes blur—this is the one Manichean heresy that America will allow into her good faith in mammon.

Men who love their nation perfectly well are often accused of being ‘unpatriotic.’ I suppose this is only a few syllables shy of what they really are. ‘Trimmers of ritual fat.’