The fear. The loathing. The dread. Call it what you will but I think I’ve caught it.
I can feel the icy fingers closing around my head far more often than I want to admit. My voice, once strong and unwavering has reverted back to that of a scared and confused youth. I no longer know what I want or who I am. Maybe I’m losing my mind. Or maybe it’s just the times I’m living in. This city is living in the throes of an occupation and by extension I think it’s screwing with my brain waves in unforseen ways.
I took a stroll through midtown last night. I missed the chance to be part of the gigantic protest on Sunday as I was visiting with friends and family back in my former life. The media did a so-so job of covering it, but some of those I know in the real give their own pictures and experiences, which has helped somewhat to offset my sense of civic guilt. Still, that thread of the dread lingered, so the next best thing I could think of doing would be for to catch a glimpse of the scourge that has wrapped this city in it’s bony fingers.
Every corner I passed from Grand Central on Lexington was was patrolled by at least two officers. Black SUVs and patrol cars lined the sides of the streets. Half of the street was closed for official use only. Flashing lights and sirens abounded in all directions. Fortress New York in all it’s glory, ladies and gentlemen.
On the sidewalks, every third person seemed to wear that damning laminate around their neck, proclaiming them to be somehow associated with this despicable farce of a convention. They strolled about without a care in the world — the city belong to them as far as they were concerned. Screw the fact that by the end of this exercise in insanity the city is going to wind up spending more than it’ll make. First a national deficit inflation, now the republicans are driving up the city’s own beleaguered budget woes. Thanks a lot.
At the Avenue of the Americas was the biggest sign of the reality gap. Traffic had been closed down to about one lane and the sides of the streets were lined with a mix of people both with and against the convention. From my view, it looked like the anti’s outnumbered the pros by about 2 to 1. Of course, the scene was quite calm but the underlying tension was there. All that would be needed was a simple catalyst to come driving by in a motorcade to set the protesters ablaze with rage and venom.
I was ready to wretch just from the stifling amount of oversized limos I saw — at least one for every cab that passed by and three for every bus I saw. Like some perverted premiere gala, filled with those too important to deal with the little folk. Hell, could they even tell there were people outside through those windows tinted blacker than death itself? Does that fact that 1,700 people (and counting) have been arrested and thrown into unsanitary holding cells even register with them inside those plush and gaudy Hummer limos? Can’t they see the way the populous abhors their presence? Maybe they’re blinded by the fantasy scene they’ve woven for themselves inside Madison Square Garden.
And what did I do when I got home, after willingly subjecting myself to those who’s ideology turns my stomach and blisters my soul? I turned on the convention to listen to the speeches and yell at my television in disgust. I must be a masochist. Either that, or it’s the events of the world that are making me that way.
The fear. The loathing. The dread. Call it what you will but I think I’ve caught it.
Tags: Politics