Sunday seems as good a day as any,
don't you suppose, to ponder the
problem of the eerily metabolic
propensity of this political year,
for shoveling forth execrable data.
Just as an innocent observer of the
passing scene senses an aperture of
daylight, a new cascade of nausea
reaches one in headlines, declaring
the latest in revolting misconduct,
from the most incurably treacher-
ous mendicants for one's favor, in
the best of circumstances. Throw in
the gathering incidence of massacre,
add the ongoing orgy of ambition in
the media, and a simple smile, when
published, can be read as a symptom
of bipolarity, or of lewd denial.
Yes, these are the rituals which ab-
sorb our betters, but they tireless-
ly enlist one in them. In life, an
observance of dental hygiene reminds
a normal man of his entitlement to
his own senses; and despite an ad-
mittedly constructive downside to
this gainful indulgence of ritual,
when it's over he enjoys the sensa-
tion of release which is the hall-
mark of responsible conduct. He can
allow his waistband to ride where
it may; with a conscience so clear,
he's his own time left for morning.
Oh Rokehope is a pleasant place
If the fause thieves would let it be
Ford Madox Ford
The Last Post
Epigraph from a
Border ballad
1928
Vintage Books, 1979©
