In the matter of the Federal District Court corruption trial of Virginia's most recent ex-Governor and his wife, the element of conspiracy has been frontally rebutted by assertions, now quite famous, of no love lost between the conspirators. Infamous as a gladiatorial net of indiscriminate suspicion, a conspiracy indictment deserves all the opprobrium it can get, for incrimina-tion without acts; and the affections, as we've tried to suggest, are the last business of the law. On the other hand, Jon Stewart, long suspected of lurking about the perimeter of this most Gordian of all of repression's knots, clove it paradoxically, with something of an idiot savant's epitaph, "You don't have to be in love to be corrupt."
That said, you need to have acquiesced in each other's darling little stocking stuffers, to be deemed to have known they come to you from a common source. And this seems very much to define the source in question here, a quite splendidly gothic construction out of the wildest dreams of Huckleberry Finn. We are not, dear Readers, threatening the domain of taste in the transcripts before us. A white leather coat, a 5-lb Rolex, do not the Pleiades excite. But there is innocence born in all of us. I gave my mother once a sap-phire bracelet at La Côte Basque, and she kissed the captain for it. Not that he didn't deserve it.
The evidence, presented in these proceedings, supports the Southern fratboy gotcha to a T. Observing serial indelicacy of judgment as we may, we find that the laws of the Commonwealth extend a reverence toward the Office of Governor with which no petty crackpot can compete: he [sic] is insulated from avarice by law, if not by nature. He may suck all the Sazeracs he likes, and Louis Treize in the bargain, on the premise, very frankly, that he is likely to be richer'n death as it is. Jefferson, the first Governor, could turn only to Washington with envy, but that man inherited several counties, and his wife brought him the whole Potomac watershed in dower, and still they couldn't hire a decent architect.
In short, foundation law portrays a fine opinion of who may vote and whom he'll [sic] select. Mind you, no one anticipated this exact Governor's educator, Jerry Falwell, or had any inkling of Fox News, where nothing ever needs to be true. All the more reason to marvel, then, at least for a moment, in the spectacle of a definition of the Office, which anticipates hypocrisy in such elevated flight that the world might see only the soaring radiance of shattered principles.
Yet this is the only story, actually, to claim position here, not the squalid, emetic distractions the defendants' attorneys conspired to thrust before the People of the Com- monwealth. And all of this as free entertainment, too, given their confidence that there is no case. There is a greater humiliation, as Jefferson certainly knew, than subjecting the People to the shameful affront of begging them to be excused for years and years of indignity, at best, for lack of conjugal felicity. Who hasn't given that one a whirl, on an off weekend; and 48 solid months of neglectfulness, it has been said, deserve a consolation.
Now the People's little, ancient, natural principles are desecrated as pretenses of antiquity, expectations pitched too high for Falwellian contrition, Foxed fabrication. The People are blamed by these attorneys for believing, silly fools, in values uncongenial to alligator tears. And it's true. There isn't a crime inscribed in their statutes, for such loathing of the public trust; and there shouldn't be. It would be a tyranny over the mind of man, which Jefferson so presciently detested, and it would moot the prospect, as well as the living reality of trust. These attorneys, these officers of the Court, are openly soliciting a jury of Virginians to betray themselves.
Even if this tactic should succeed today - as it might, given our storied resistance to Federal embarrassment, our denying flair for splitting phantom hairs - there is, always, History. Who could want to say, this had happened? Clio only knows the virtues, she can not summon them. Can those who govern as if trust were dead, really take it with them, against the likelihood of a Virginian's being born, any moment?
Is it possible that our mentors at The Washington Postnow deem it safe,in Olivier's famous use of the term to Dustin Hoffman, to cast the unmistakably stern language of diplomacy in the President's news conference on Russia's intervention in the Ukraine, as simply too wussy for their outright bias for war? That this newspaper announces its demands, not on behalf of the aggrieved state, but in the Trumanesque invocation of every state, everywhere, is less not-able than its reluctance to state its unexamined motive: American hegemony. The editors occupy a defunct thrillset of degenerate recklessness; and they insinuate, humanity is to blame.
Who survived the passage of conception, only to be de- livered to a planet torment- ed by that delusion?
One tear not yet large enough to spill, upwelling at the corner of an eye, may delve with a root of salt inside the tongue, and shimmer of it thrown among the stars go lightyears. Deeper art thou far beyond all shimmer in thy fathom, Father, O thou mindless, in the furthering of thy judgment.
I learned the concept of moment with this device, which struck my father's putts in all the years I knew him: to be still, really still, and defer to the neutral disposi- tion of the stroke. To this day I am struck by the shimmering fairness and persistent intimacy of that gorgeous game. I do not wonder how ingenious, countless tests it draws one to engage, inspire the trust to be accepted. I wonder how one might meet all of them that way, and I know the presence of my father. Brooks Haxton Uproar Antiphonies to Psalms Poems: One Tear op. cit. Telephone view, Laurent