certain truths
the day was a friday amplified. it was all expectation, all hope. it meant that something long, something you had to suffer through, was over. i went to vons and bought four 24 packs of Pabst for 8.79 each and nick and i cleaned up the kitchen with CNN on in the background. we were having a party, a party we had planned since the summer, since before we had a house to envision it happening in.
the debates went so well. the entire auditorium of annenberg was in agreement, there was no question. we went to la barca and had margaritas that night, because we could sense that we were on the lip of a great and vast thing, and we were celebrating prematurely because we were sure. we were so sure. he would win because he was better, and smarter. because he had ideas that were carefully and eloquently articulated, and because he was fighting hard, he was on our side. he got it, he was trying to fix it.
(the day after the party, as andy and i were sitting on the edge of my bed, my with my toothbrush hanging out of my mouth, paula zahn repeated what he said in his concession, that he wished he could put his arms around all of his supporters. a tiny sob escaped from my frothy mouth. andy turned off the TV and i went into the bathroom to spit.)
we had grandiose ideas about what we would do if he lost. or if he won. we would take to the streets, we would do like the kids did in spain and start an uprising by text messaging everyone we knew. we would walk across LA, and we would make enough noise that everyone would come out of their homes and join us. we would be a force, we would be unstoppable and we would be OK, because we would be doing something, and we would be doing it together, with other people who refused to believe it was happening. if he won, we said, we'd take off all our clothes and recreate the blurry scenes in "the weather underground." we'd do things that deserved to be done because this deserved to happen, to us and to the whole nation, whether the rest of them wanted to believe it or not.
but when bush got florida, and ryan soleberg on his laptop, crouched over it like he was trying to start a fire, said it wasnt looking good, a shiny sharp needle penetrated this bubble we had created, and suddenly the idea of marching or yelling or rioting or text messaging everyone in LA seemed exhausting, even more defeating than doing nothing at all. this wasnt romantic- this was us, going out not with a bang but with a whimper. i kept walking up to people and asking them what were we going to do. gordon, who had been the one i believed would start it even if no one else would, looked at me with a puzzle of a face- pieces confused, pieces sure, pieces sad, pieces angry. some were lined up perfectly and some didnt fit together, and he said "what do you want me to do?" with as much earnestness as he could muster. it was a beg, a plea, not a question. he needed me to tell him what to do as much as i needed for him to tell me what he was going to do. and in the end, we decided as we lay on bartley's leather comforter, the only thing we could do was turn off the TV and go to bed.
but nick was filming it, all night long. at first the camera was awkward, intrusive, and people kept glancing at it like it was an univited guest, or someone in an inappropriate outfit. but soon, it became a part of the party like anything or anyone else, and there was something about it that was keeping us afloat. there was something about the fact that this was being documented that made it seem more romantic, more valiant, more eternal. if we had this footage, if it showed the entrails of the night, then there was no limit, we realized the next day, to what it could become. thats what art should be right now, or at least what it can be- a weapon more devastating than a bomb. it cant erase the social programs that bush will destroy. this silly camera and the hours of tape of people crying, people questioning, people getting calls from across the nation, people hearing their mothers apologizing to them for the mess they seemed destined to inherit cant undo the supreme court seats that he will have the chance to fill, or the dirtiness of the words United States in the rest of the world right now. but it can survive, and if those things are going to happen no matter how much we protest or volunteer or petition or quit our jobs and work for move on, then its the only answer we have. what we produce, the documentation of the truth and the essence of what is happening now, in whatever form it may take, is valid.
no president can take away that right.
the debates went so well. the entire auditorium of annenberg was in agreement, there was no question. we went to la barca and had margaritas that night, because we could sense that we were on the lip of a great and vast thing, and we were celebrating prematurely because we were sure. we were so sure. he would win because he was better, and smarter. because he had ideas that were carefully and eloquently articulated, and because he was fighting hard, he was on our side. he got it, he was trying to fix it.
(the day after the party, as andy and i were sitting on the edge of my bed, my with my toothbrush hanging out of my mouth, paula zahn repeated what he said in his concession, that he wished he could put his arms around all of his supporters. a tiny sob escaped from my frothy mouth. andy turned off the TV and i went into the bathroom to spit.)
we had grandiose ideas about what we would do if he lost. or if he won. we would take to the streets, we would do like the kids did in spain and start an uprising by text messaging everyone we knew. we would walk across LA, and we would make enough noise that everyone would come out of their homes and join us. we would be a force, we would be unstoppable and we would be OK, because we would be doing something, and we would be doing it together, with other people who refused to believe it was happening. if he won, we said, we'd take off all our clothes and recreate the blurry scenes in "the weather underground." we'd do things that deserved to be done because this deserved to happen, to us and to the whole nation, whether the rest of them wanted to believe it or not.
but when bush got florida, and ryan soleberg on his laptop, crouched over it like he was trying to start a fire, said it wasnt looking good, a shiny sharp needle penetrated this bubble we had created, and suddenly the idea of marching or yelling or rioting or text messaging everyone in LA seemed exhausting, even more defeating than doing nothing at all. this wasnt romantic- this was us, going out not with a bang but with a whimper. i kept walking up to people and asking them what were we going to do. gordon, who had been the one i believed would start it even if no one else would, looked at me with a puzzle of a face- pieces confused, pieces sure, pieces sad, pieces angry. some were lined up perfectly and some didnt fit together, and he said "what do you want me to do?" with as much earnestness as he could muster. it was a beg, a plea, not a question. he needed me to tell him what to do as much as i needed for him to tell me what he was going to do. and in the end, we decided as we lay on bartley's leather comforter, the only thing we could do was turn off the TV and go to bed.
but nick was filming it, all night long. at first the camera was awkward, intrusive, and people kept glancing at it like it was an univited guest, or someone in an inappropriate outfit. but soon, it became a part of the party like anything or anyone else, and there was something about it that was keeping us afloat. there was something about the fact that this was being documented that made it seem more romantic, more valiant, more eternal. if we had this footage, if it showed the entrails of the night, then there was no limit, we realized the next day, to what it could become. thats what art should be right now, or at least what it can be- a weapon more devastating than a bomb. it cant erase the social programs that bush will destroy. this silly camera and the hours of tape of people crying, people questioning, people getting calls from across the nation, people hearing their mothers apologizing to them for the mess they seemed destined to inherit cant undo the supreme court seats that he will have the chance to fill, or the dirtiness of the words United States in the rest of the world right now. but it can survive, and if those things are going to happen no matter how much we protest or volunteer or petition or quit our jobs and work for move on, then its the only answer we have. what we produce, the documentation of the truth and the essence of what is happening now, in whatever form it may take, is valid.
no president can take away that right.
posted by Jessica Baxter | 8:27 PM
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