For the past three or four weeks I found myself in something of a protracted funk resulting in a case of writer’s block so profound I wondered if I had somehow become illiterate. Faithful readers will understand how troubling this was for me, given how prolific a blogger I’ve been since 2009. At Manly’ Republic I authored over 1,500 feature length posts and hundreds more during my tenure at CNJ and RightDirection. In that time, I offered my insights and opinions on just about every subject conceivable – from politics to science to cuisine to entertainment.
My best guess figures that if I assembled everything I wrote into book form, I could easily publish three or four sizable volumes at about 500 pages each. That’s a helluva lot of writing for such a short period of time and while I suppose one might say it’s an impressive accomplishment, the absence of remuneration for the effort leaves me less than sanguine about any putative success. The practical angel on my shoulder doesn’t hesitate to remind me that had I found another job in 2008 and continued working on my novel, my life would have taken an entirely different and possibly more lucrative course.
That’s when my heart shouts down the stupid angel and observes that were it not for my involvement in the Tea Party movement I would never have been present in Trenton, NJ on April 15, 2009 – the day I met the lovely and ever gracious Nicole, the focal point of my happiness in what has become an otherwise dreary existence – one overshadowed by dun grey clouds that are even now gathering in anticipation of what I suspect will be the worst social, political, economic and cultural storm in this nation’s history.
The political seas are churning and the winds of historical change are growing stronger and I can’t help but recall the words of Shakespeare: “By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.”
There. I’ve said what everyone is thinking but no one, apparently, has the courage to repeat. The sensitive and perspicacious observer can pick it up immediately and if you ever read Yeats’ The Second Coming you know immediately what I’m talking about:
Turn and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
In those days, “mere” meant “pure” and did not have the connotation it has today. Pure anarchy – be it in form of the so-called “Arab Spring” or the Occupy Movement has indeed been loosed upon the world and upon our nation. Some dark, ephemeral and numinously evil thing has recently been unleashed in our midst and is ushering in a blood-dimmed tide at a very dark hour for the human race. What it is, precisely, I cannot say with any empirical certainty, although I do know that it does not (yet) reside within any single person. I know only that it raises the hackles on the back of my neck and fills me with a dread I don’t think I’ve ever known.
It is hideous and it has come for no purpose other than destruction – at our own invitation, no less. Even as I write this I’m haunted by the jarring words of a Hyde Park Speaker’s Corner evangelist that found their way into Pete Townshend’s 1985 White City album:
We’re heading for the day of reckoning. I’m telling ya. It’s all building up to something…something that can only be redeemed with fire.
Make no mistake…something wicked has already this way come. And the day of reckoning isn’t too far behind.