It is one thing to be out of touch; it is another thing entirely to be losing your grip. When the touchstones of reality no longer guide your path, when the social milieu becomes a personal miasma, when delight and despair are reversed, when the heart and mind refuses to accept the elaborate rituals of passages and decisions our society has chosen for its governance–when you substitute your own imagination and playtime for the real thing and you think by prophecy your fate has been foretold–behold, you have arrived beside the popeyed, pride-filled, deeply narcissistic campaign of impossibility that excessively admires the borkor and sorcerer’s apprentice that is Ted Cruz.
I like sleights of hand. When I was young, I combed old library books for simple tricks that mended broken toothpicks and made coins disappear. But the rookie senator from Texas has turned politics into a dark art that overrides inner truth. Behind his unenduring actions and theatre is a mean legerdemain made worse by its smiles and placid pretense. He doesn’t convince us–he demands that we believe the impossible. He shows us the impossible. He is becoming unraveled.
It is not amazing, it is revealing. He is so narcissistic he has no room for Romney’s arrogance. He is so driven by power that he has to break things in order to assure himself of his will and rule. And in the final break (the outside reflects what is inside), he abandons the way back. He is lost in his own creation, a place of make believe he insists is real. The image of his children in matching uniforms of pink dresses that many of us call Sunday dresses color a world that is surreal.
He has helpers, fellow travelers. In South Carolina, his campaign robo-called voters, pointing to Trump’s support for furling the Confederate battle flag while the wounds of the Emanuel martyrs were still fresh. He did the one thing that only a man so desperate for power would do: he went out and found a cully to share the work of the politics of the bizarre.
Cruz’s chance to win the Republican nomination is slip sliding away, but he has “information not available to the mortal man.” So he is spell casting. He has picked a Vice President! Will an entire cabinet follow? Who will he name as Secretary of State? Who will be his picks for Defense, Homeland Security? Will he plan his inauguration before he reaches the convention in Cleveland, releasing its program and schedule of balls?
He has created his own shadow government within our political forum. He has established a government in a parallel reality. He now presents the first family at rallies. He ties himself to the nation’s cultural symbols of self-determination and optimism, but they are fetishes for his desires. He turned his campaign into a succession of deals, since he does not have the votes or delegates to win.
Will his supporters challenge the arena’s restriction on open carry, since Ohio is an open carry state? But that is ahead, now the question is how is it possible to be more absurd than Donald Trump?
Pick Carly Fiorina as your running mate and Vice-President.