Plague Journal, Nothing But Image
Today is the day after July the 4th, Independence Day.
I joined family members to view a parade spectacle. Many community groups in town published their presence by a float, a marching band, or by some unusual vehicle, (cement mixer, etc.) The parade was pure entertainment. Free candy for the children at the curb. I think “entertainment” is the exact concept for expressing the essence of this time of 2021, of here in Midwest America. We are most eager “to entertain” and be entertained. All is image, the impression, the emotional hook… Festooned with red, white and blue bunting we march on, –toward the dustbin of history…
“Follow me, follow me, I’m the pied piper,” implores nearly every politician on the pixelated media stage who aspires for office. To the citizen comes the invitation by direct mail, showing up as a shiny brochure from one of two parties, or a political PAC, lobbying organization — “contribute now, we need your check to avoid the apocalypse…”
If you are a Black citizen, or are a individual of color, especially if female living in a red state, there is a chance that you’ve lived catastrophe as long as you can remember.
Independence day was concluded by viewing a fireworks display. The grand finale was accompanied by a splendid rendition of The Battle Hymn of the Republic, composed during the “War of Rebellion,” our failed attempt to turn away from slavery in these United States. The words were penned by Julia Ward Howe on November 18, 1861, “the fighting man’s song” according to Howe. Verse 3 is a sufficient sample:
As ye deal with my condemners so with you my grace shall deal
Let the hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel
His truth is marching on
“Fiery gospel writ in steel,” indeed! The parade marches on… A toxic concoction, the patriotic brew, an admixture of religion and duty-to-country, the deity’s sanction for the sacrifice of others, — something to which we are addicted.
When the country falls into chaos, patriotism is born.
— excerpt, Tao Te Ching by Lao Tsu, trans. by Stephen Mitchell, vs. 18
