Under Oath

Free writing

In the wake of Mr. Comey’s testimony on Thursday, my political-awareness-barometer hit an all time spike. The night before, I read and reread his prepared remarks in their original PDF format, crafting various haikus to highlight the more absurdist moments. It’s nice to envision Comey sitting with his laptop open on his lap, facing a Word document with the potential to topple a precarious, quite clearly vicarious administration. Maybe he fixed himself a nice, stiff drink or a hot pot of coffee.

When he first sat down before the committee, I thought maybe he would cry. Certainly not out of fear, but something immense percolated underneath his sternness. His eyes darted rapidly in a barely perceivable way.

“They will be back,” he told us. He was sure of it.

Of all the bombshells, one stood out like a dead bird of paradise in a reopened coal mine. In all their discussions, Trump didn’t bother to ask Comey about the Russian cyber attack against the country he is currently leading. He was far too concerned with the hooker-laced dossier to notice. This omission goes beyond neglect. The only viable conclusions remain that the President did not care that the U.S. had been attacked because (1) such things generally fail to concern him, or (2) he was an active participant in said attack, thus needed no breakdown of events from intelligence officials. Either of these options is dismal at best.

Whatever the outcome, at least we can derive a little peace from the persistent nature of truth, and the good will of some, resisting burial. I do still firmly believe in an impending uncovering of a grand truth. Maybe not the whole truth, but enough truth. Nixon later expressed regret that he didn’t destroy the tapes. Perhaps Trump has already taken the initiative that Nixon did not.

The scope of this upheaval, however, stands alone in the annals of American political tradition. There should certainly be sufficient evidence soon to move beyond political theater into the realm of prosecution and impeachment. I’m almost sure of it.

 

 

 

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Roy Peter Clark Saves the Day (Again).

Free writing

A consequence of extreme inaction, I recently sought the guidance of a psychiatrist to recalibrate my mind. I left with a new label: Adult ADHD. The medication is of enormous help most days. A trained apathy toward reading had slowly evolved post-graduation. An uncertain future was neglected because it was too inexcusable to stomach. I sought the approval of men, one man in particular, who indulged too heavily in provocative arguments. I often lost my train of thought. Writing, a singular joy in dark times, became a task scheduled for another day. The basic mechanisms of reflection and critical analysis were rendered costly wastes of time. I took to drowning out the impenetrable walls of incoming information, news briefs, Senate hearings, etc. via YouTube videos, clippings of a whole story that’s too big to print. I forgot to reach inside myself for answers.

The time for action is upon us, heavy and persistent. Every wasted hour feels like a year of my intellectual life. It’s time to turn my powers toward the necessary work that must be done. Research is vital. Hip hop is helpful. Grateful citizens engage and their work is consecrated. Consciousness shouldn’t be an obligation. Heritage isn’t hermetically sealed. Your actions are no footnote. The chapters lie haphazardly before the splendor of my genetic fingerprint. Who plays the long-awaited grace note in amorous reprieve? She sits tensely unabated. Just who is this girl when she’s at home? An unlit fuse? No. Too simple. Perhaps a cantankerous headline will reveal it. Maybe the ceiling will give and nature will reclaim it all. Unlikely. The foundations resist all manner of flood and fire. Our institutions align everything in their wake as if by magnetism. What creation of man is enough to cause an upheaval?

I arrive late to the dock searching for suspicious curios and cases. Everything is already unpacked or at least rifled through. I strain my vision for a point of focus. What am I really trying to say? I am not taken by surprise. This here is a blessed treaty with myself. Unphased ducklings spread their candor over their moment when it comes. Seasoned sentimentalists question cartels over milk, honey, and heat rash. The district attorneys change the locks on their desk. Church attendance sharply decreases or increases, based on the quality of the communion wafers. What value is placed upon the verifiable in our nature? Which impulses, improperly stoked, eliminate the action potentials which unite us in shared understanding? America is not an impatient child, asking its mother to cut the line. It’s not easy for us to hear the word “no.” We learn to swallow our missteps and own up to those we have wronged. Our progress is not a footnote. It is our pulse.