It is getting to feel like March. Clouds of Grackle uncertain of their destination crossing the sky from East to West then back again. And there's always a posse of Dove at this time of year who include in their number one who is apparently disgruntled, insists upon randomly lunging at other Doves, and when all lined up on the electric wire he or she keeps a good eighteen inches of aloof distance from the others. Call him a maverick, a word which outside of the Political Class means a Lost Cow, or perhaps if a person really needs to be rugged in the cowboy hat sense, call him a Lost Steer, or maybe a Lost Ox, or just think in terms of some kind of Bovine who's gone rogue and pissing off his Tribal Elders. Fun to watch.
Don't know very much about other opinions, but my own view following the Nevada
Caucus is that Democracy is a wonderfully refreshing thing for tool making
creatures who lay claim to the phrases "self aware" and "language using." So
interesting how quickly a ruling class, what some prefer to call the elites
because it's an apparently corrector word, lose touch with the rest of us as
they go about deciding what's right for us all, telling us who we are and then
assuming their definition is a correct one. Sadly in the process they take
on a sort of splendid isolation in which they increasingly have a hallowed being
that often begins to look more like a geriatric and gated paranoia than
something that might be fun to belong to or remotely real. The revolt, if ever
there is such a thing, generally is a vigorous turning of the Compost Pile
before ever it can be thought of as something new or even a tiny bit perfect.