the Spectacle on the Sand

The man walks onto the sand. He carries an impudent, red cape. His clothing is extravagant to draw all eyes. He is the opposite of invisible. Nearby is an angry bull pawing at the sand. The man enrages the bull with dramatic gestures of the long cape. As the beast charges him it is dazzled and confused by the cape. Veronica after veronica, the mad bull charges the cape to find it has missed the smaller, frail man. The audience cheers the man. To a man such as I, this seems not prudent. It seems suicidally arrogant and foolish. But the man and those before him have a remarkably successful record.

The crowd cheers ‘¡Olé!’


The beast grows more reckless and enraged. The beast is intent only on the death of the man. The exhaustion, and rage dull the beast. The man must maintain concentration. Another charge, another veronica.

The crowd cheers ‘¡Olé!’

Unnoticed by the beast, the team mates of the man are working in virtual invisibility to the beast and the mass of the audience both.

The crowd cheers ‘¡Olé!’

The man is Donald Trump.

The beast is a small leviathan made of the Left, the media, and internationalists.

The cape is the sparkling mass of statements made before audiences and on Twitter.

The spectacle is riveting, but will end in blood and mess one way or the other.

A boring man, I prefer orderly progress to such spectacle. I prefer the fantasy of free men working together to make a better world. Alas, the small leviathan has put itself above the nation. When elections go one way, the leviathan of the Fabian Ratchets allow it. When elections go the other way, the leviathan interposes its large unthinking mass. The leviathan has made itself invulnerable to the general will. When one party rules, it is coddled. When the other rules, the beast snorts and paws the ground. The beast has made the rule of the people its broken puppet as it wishes to break the man with the cape. I care not for this spectacle. I fear it has become necessary. If the man loses, democracy is wounded. If the man wins, he may be either Cincinnatus or Marius.If this goes on the choice may be between Marius and Sulla.

It is, I think, too early for Caesar.

I find myself shouting ‘¡Olé!’

Cromwell or Charles.

Lafayette or Marat.

Another charge.

Another veronica.

The crowd cheers ‘¡Olé!’

There will be blood on the sand soon. The beast has more power and speed. The man is as frail as Pascal’s reed.

Bet on the man.

The crowd cheers ‘¡Olé!



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