Twilight of Empire

A civil war may be brewing, but as we are reminded in the gospel of St. Henry, two hundred pounds is always two hundred pounds and when you commit to using your body to move that weight there isn't room for existential dread.

The relative calm between November and now gave me a false sense of security. Seeing throngs of rioters overtake the Capitol in defiance of law and the very notion of civil society was shocking, yet somehow simultaneously totally expected.

The skies are clear. I have exhaled all the way. My fists are unclenching and the tightness in my chest is disappearing as I inhale. And now, the work begins.

I can't escape the notion that no matter who sits in the White House in 2021 that there will be enough anger, fear, uncertainty, and doubt to make the next 4 years fractious, precarious, and dangerous. So, a lot like the last four years. Only more so.

Psychic noise buzzes around the edges of an uncertain future. Looking to the past doesn't feel particularly instructive. There are no maps for these territories.

I am never sure what time it is. I am never sure if I am where I am supposed to be or if I am running late. It's an appropriate state to be in on the night before the 2020 election.

This is the first time in my political life that I have been worried about either potential outcome. I can't escape the feeling that dark days ahead no matter who wins the horse race.

The craziest thing about this crazy-ass year is the fact that reality has become stupider, not stranger, than fiction.