Why did professional producers of high standing put their innocent candidate in this humble stage set? Oh, I know! (hand raises, I wiggle in my seat. Damn, why won’t the teacher call on me? Too eager. Shit.)
They want us to see her as a vulnerable maiden rather that the power munching Medusa that lives in her dark heart.
The Elements of Archetypal Femininity
The Dark. Yin is the Dark side of the Swirling Taijji Ball.
The Smaller Size. The maiden is a young girl, not fully developed.
The Coffee Cups. She lives in a domestic place, with cups, and they are black cups.
The Large Clothing. Once again, a conceit to make our maiden small, as previously stated, plus humble. This maiden wears the grey tones of her granny, the crones’ colors. “OH, poor small maiden with only her granny’s hand me downs.” We shall vote for her so she can live in the castle and be happy.
Partnership. What would a small Maiden be without a large Hero at her side? No worries, tribalists, see her smile at him? Nice. He is non threatening.
When Kamala speaks, I cringe. I’m not being mean. It really hurts my nerve endings. She makes a fingernails on the blackboard sounds with her larynx. I cringe as my shoulders reach my ears. My nervous system is a barometer for emotional content. 20% of people are Highly Sensitive People and many of us are liberal, feminine, yin, motherish, bleeding heart, meddling, tattling Karens. Did I hurt your feelings because I said my feelings out loud?
When the tough love gets going, the tough lover reads a self help book and listens to a wider genre of story tellers. Stretch that mind, for gods’ sake! I have taken upon myself to hear different and opposite stories since the advent of cancel culture and government censorship. I have found that people say other things different from my ideas and their ideas are not wrong.
Back to the baby thing. When babies cry, wimmin look around for them. Where is it? Am I its mother? We don’t know, but we feel the pressure. We are wired to find the infant and soothe the little critter. Sound is a language on its own, wordless and soul shifting, sound makes action happen and the sound of a whining infant causes ladies to investigate and defend, dammit!
When the babies cry in the market, what is the first thing you think? Is something like, “Shut that thing up!”? I think so. And not because you are a bad person, no. You want it to be in peace. Shut it up really means, “Let the sad creature be in peace, please. Hold it. Feed it. Love on it.” We don’t like the whining sorrows of infants because that sound hurts us in our guts. It reminds us that we are a hair’s length from interminable pain, all the time. Jolly!
It was a chore to listen to the debate between Kamala and the aged Trump, who has seen better days. My ASMR tendencies direct me away from many jarring experiences, delicate flower that I am, in late bloom these days, but as my flowery elder-self gathers more understanding of the vessel that I inhabit, I have learned that this sound-catching skill of mine is quite informative.
The Voice of Helplessness
I don’t know what you have heard, but many people speak of Kamala’s whining tone of voice. It is a tired sound that issues from her throat; a slow thing. It begs. It implores. It comes from the dark, rising up through the neck, and out her nose, like a wheezing, exhausted plea for air.
It came to me during the debate. Her voice had the tone of a whining, uncomforted infant calling out to a nurturer. It says, “pleeeese come heeeeer I’m so scared and lonely.” Her voice sounds tired and thready, like she’s been out in the wilds for so long and now she can barely squeeze out another pleading sound.
What is going on with this aching sound I hear? Oh, could it be the sound of a distressed baby? Waaaah. Owwww. That’s what my vessel resonated when I heard Kamala speak. My body wanted to comfort this sound, to make it stop. But why?
Her sounds were like a baby crying in Walmart. It drew my maternal instincts up into my own throat where it stuck like a sandpaper golf ball. It caused my sympathetic instrument (my body) to react as if called by a tiny siren baby from a lonely island who was in truth, a succubus, luring me into her lair. “Come get me, susceptible liberal lady! Aaaah!”
Yes! I got it. When I get an “aha” it’s always such a revelation, but after all the years driving this flesh bus, the surprises still show up, daily. A sandpaper golf ball? Anxiety?
Now here’s the rub, and I am expert at burying the lead. Someone help me please! Perhaps a pill. Perchance a dream. No the lead is still at the bottom. Read on, dear reader.
As a former bleeding heart liberal who has spent her entire life defending underdogs of all stripes, myself included, I have turned the corner into an alternate perspective, in which the current so-called liberals are not so liberal any more, but they still respond to the call of the baby voice. They still rush to rescue the whaling infants of the world, the helpless and small, not noticing that the “victims” are actually wolves in sheep’s clothing, masquerading as NGOs. The endless streams of emails designed to elicit my former compassion are evidence to the fact. Fuck your dolphins and polar bears. (I only say that because 95 cents of every dollar we send to these leeches goes to a fat cat in a corvette or a large boat.)
The fat cats market my angst back at you and me, encouraging intelligent adults, as we are, to praise the lady who refused to let an innocent man off death row when DNA evidence proved him so. A high court had to force her to behave lawfully. The lady who arrested parents when their kids didn’t show up to school, and chuckled about it. The word-salad queen chanting imbecilic mantras of forgetting and letting go. The lady in charge of adding at least ten million illegal humuns through our southern border, possibly per year since her tenure as Border Czar three and half years ago. It’s a wonderful thing.
The Sacred Border Ritual
These undocumented persons enter through water, as if an international baptism takes place. After baptism, they crawl through the barbwire corridor, like ancient shamanic ceremonies of rebirth. It’s an exciting transition time. Like a birth! They camp out for a while in local residences and habitats, where happy innkeepers welcome their strange languages and odd habits. How quaint!
Then the sacrament of confirmation is performed at the border DMV. They receive a driver’s license, with an automatic voter registration benefit. It has a cute name… The Motor Voter Law. Adorable.
Lucky. Just think of it. It fills us natives with pride as strangers are included in the choices we make at the voting booths of our land. No problem, because our choices go unnoticed by the upper crust. Why should they? After all, the uppers know what is right, and all is right with them. Their boats are free of barnacles. Their four door freezers are filled with salmon and chocolate ice cream from around the world. Lucky.
While old men and dogs lie on the sidewalks with nowhere to go, the lucky license-holder/foreign-voters get rooms in hotels. Lucky. Jackpot. “Me vote Mr Biden.”
The lady who ran for president four years ago, who had no support, is appointed, stamped and approved by The Party. The lady that no one liked for three and half years as VP is now the anointed lady, and I do mean anointed, because no one voted her into the nominee slot. The party bosses slid her into that slot and pushed her records deep down into the Memory Hole that we all have heard of but seem to forget exists every ten minutes or so.
When will the Memory Hole burst? How long will that sack hold before it explodes like the glutton in Monty Python’s “The Meaning of Life”? Burp!
She’s making those sounds again. All the liberal ladies will go to that innocent lady and tend to her, because, well, can’t you hear her moan! Because regardless of her record, the baby is just an innocent baby. Don’t judge. Listen to that sad sound she makes. Aww. She’s so small. Look at those tiny hands. A miracle!
Don’t leave out the Other Side. No. Both candidates will bring us war. They have said so in plain English. I was hoping that Trump was a real option for a couple of deluded months, with Bobby Kennedy and Tulsi Gabbard on his side, but who knows? Trump had a cabinet of Bond villains in his last tenure at the top. I can understand how a Leo rising man would protect his honor with preening advisors when the half of Americans were bashing him hard. Hard. Very hard.
Finally, I cannot understand how respectable people can be murder cheerleaders. Even Bobby, who wants our health restored with unpoisoned food and properly tested medicines, is cheerleading the Gaza murderthon.
As I write this, Anthony Blinken, our unelected acting president is waging war with Russia. Evidently being unelected is the new Democracy.
As the sun sets on that sad debate, and our impossible leadership choices, I can only encourage you to do what I learned in a 1950s schoolhouse. When The Bomb drops. Get under your desk and kiss your ass goodbye. You’ll be fine.