Like a for-real-and-for-sure actual storm of shit? Like coated in sidewise spray of fine shit shit storm? Like heavy driving sheets of liquid shit driven through my clothes into every nook, every cranny, every fold, every pore of my body? Like being in a Einstein-Podolsky-Rosen argument of a shit storm, so that I am forever non-locally entangled with atomized shit particles no matter how far away in the universe I become separated from them?
Well, I was, and not surprisingly I was downwind of a shithole during the shit storm, so that explains that.
I'm not unique, I'll betcha. It doesn't take much to be in a shit storm nowadays, for that matter throughout recorded history and before. Ever since the domestication of animals, ever since man put stone upon stone and called himself civilized.
So, I was driving west on 198 heading towards Interstate 5 eventually to go to San Francisco. It was during a California monsoon, and this instance was pretty much a tropical storm with heavy winds and leaden fiercely scudding clouds. At first it was just a misty kind of rain, but then it got heavy, and the wind is jostling and nudging my car between the lane lines, and then I noticed that it smelled like shit.
Being from Indiana, I immediately identified it as cow shit. Not pig shit, not chicken shit, not horse shit, all smells I am familiar with, but cow shit. And not dairy cow shit either, but feed lot shit. I'd smelled this kind of shit before driving through Amarillo, TX, which has a big feed lot. So I knew what I was driving through.
And wouldn't you know it. I had to stop to pee, and so I had to get out in it at a gas station, and when I did that is when the heavens opened up and pretty much covered me in the powerful deliquesced mélange of bovine fecality. I don't think fecality is a word but fuck it.
At the time I was disgusted but now, being pretty much folded into the peasant class, and almost one of the Doomed, this doesn't bother me all that much. I'm not quite a peasant, not quite. True, my skills are pretty much gone. I couldn't do a partial differential equation if my life depended on it. I couldn't code up an app under life-threatening conditions either. But the way I'm seeing things? All these technocratic elites that think they are indispensable are just one neural net project away from my situation.
I'm going through a little existential crisis right now. My art career - despite getting stuff in shows - is pretty much in the shitter, with lots of unwanted art rotting away in closets and storage rooms. The good thing about the art career gamble is I've developed some new skills, like welding and fabricating, which pretty much puts me as a sturdy yeoman in the peasant class.
But classes and categories are fluid things, not static, not fixed and stationary, but dynamic and alive. Like swirling eddies in a shit storm, which brings us to the value of shit, and classes, and categories, and, yes, things in Washington DC.
Mr. Reade was right and wrong about one thing. The dung was far more valuable than the proclamations of the Senate, and the mandates of Caesars.
"Rome lived on its principal till ruin stared it in the face. Industry is the only true source of wealth, and there was no industry in Rome. By day the Ostia road was crowded with carts and muleteers, carrying to the great city silks and spices of the East, the marble of Asia Minor, the timber of Atlas, the grain of Africa and Egypt; and the carts brought out nothing but loads of dung. That was their return cargo" - Winwood Reade, The Martyrdom of Man
Dung, of course, is a powerful commodity. Not only just as fertilizer, but for the longest time the source of the dearest component of gun powder. Dung gives you salt peter. Salt peter gives you gun powder. And gun powder gives you one form of power. Not the only form mind you, but a very easily understandable and easily exercisable form.
But the exercise of power is an industry, just not a particularly beneficial industry for those not in power. The governing classes profit and maintain their positions - but only so long as things go well. Ah, but the minute shit hits the fan? Not so well, not so valuable a set of skills. Mendacity and venality can only work for you in an environment of luxurious plenty. Ask any parasite.
As a sturdy yeoman, I'm figure actually well placed if shit ever hits the fan. I got skills. I won't end up in the brothel, or not right away. Not like the governing elites, who are good at fawning, and posturing, and the types of criminality that DC is now famous for.
And so, to Trump. See? I'm tying it all together. Bullshit. Classes. Elites. What about Trump? In my view, Trump is being set up as a patsy. A willing patsy, who thinks he can turn the tables, but still a patsy of the Deep State.
Does this mean Trump is a buffoon? Well, yes, and no. He's not stupid. If Trump were as shallow, vain, vapid and inconsequential as he presents himself, Fred Trump would have smothered him with a pillow in his youth. No, Donald learned at Fred's knee, and knows exactly how to fuck people over. Trump is intimately familiar with the exercise of criminality that we have all come to expect from DC.
Which makes him a good candidate for public service in this, our current US of A. But it still means Trump is a patsy. If elected, Trump will be placed in the feedlot, be made to produce valuable dung, and when the appropriate time comes, be led to the slaughter house. Finally some egalitarianism.
When it's your turn in line for the stun hammer, maybe you'll be able to say Hi to the Donald!