That's because they believe in nothing. They have no passion about anything. And they thus assume that everyone else suffers from the same emptiness of character and ossified cynicism that plagues them. And all of their punditry and analysis and political strategizing flows from this corrupt root.
Not only do they believe in nothing, they think that a Belief in Nothing is a mark of sophistication and wisdom. Those who believe in things too much -- who display political passion or who take their convictions and ideals seriously (Feingold, Howard Dean) -- are either naive or, worse, are the crazy, irrational, loudmouth masses and radicals who disrupt the elevated, measured world of the high-level, dispassionate Beltway sophisticates (James Carville, David Broder, Fred Hiatt). They are interested in, even obsessed with, every aspect of the political process except for deeply held political beliefs -- the only part that really matters or that has any real worth. (Read the whole post.)
When I heard about the coming war,
The occupation of Iraq,
I dug up a beautiful rock from my yard, a buried wish.
I picked it up out of the dirt,
Polished it vigorously
And held it up toward the bright midday sun.
I then observed the star
Rudely abandon my offering
And round up the clouds; his cheerless band of thieves.
I asked him why he was not pleased,
Wasn’t the rock pretty enough?
He just wrinkled his mug and stepped behind the haze.
I was hurt, but more determined,
I knew that war would incinerate the children;
Iraq’s pristine treasures hunkered down in trembling.
So I dug up another rock and another.
I dug until my fingers bled.
I dug at a furious pace; time was not on my side.
Soon I had three hundred rocks,
And no feeling in my hands.
Again I offered them to the veiled and sneering sun.
Again the superlative star mocked me,
And the clouds scoffed
Then commenced to spit upon my pleading expression.
So I dug and dug and dug.
I was a madman, digging up grass and flowers.
And, as I dug, the hovering mob threw down their noise.
Lightening struck now,
Yet I was determined to find the perfect stone,
I was digging for all the marbles; the kit and caboodle!
And, “CLANK”, there it was, a door.
A beautiful and brilliantly shining silver door;
A most curious thing to find buried beneath the yard.
The sun peaked through
Inquisitive of this amazing find,
Even the clouds ceased their scoffing and gathered near.
I banged the shovel down upon it
And a massive echo rumbled deep.
The blood from my hands dripped upon the silver frame.
I looked now to the sun,
“Is this magnificence enough?”
But before he could answer there came a thunderous knock…
© 2007 mrp/thepoetryman
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