An Origin Story:
NOVEMBER NINTH WAS, I THINK, A BAD DAY
for those of us with abstract thought and/or morals.
For over a month, I had planned to start a Medium blog on that day, the ninth, for three, fool-proof reasons.
- I love the number nine. It's not my favorite, you know, but nine is a good number.
- To have a deadline within the name of the blog would bind my work to some force of time.*
- I missed September Ninth (9/9) and, given 1. and 2., November Ninth was the next best date.
*Did not work.
Anyway, dread filled me for weeks before the election, and then the electors voted, and then I, unprepared, exploded.
Here's that explosion:
dear friend, hear me.
There’s a certain type of fear that millennials feel — the type that settles in the back like a sprain in one’s spine, the type that churns, burns, and turns sternums to sponge.
This fear is awareness, this fear is anticipation, this fear is the acute dread that we face in knowing that we will inherit a world far-combusted.
We have no voice, we have no party, we had no choice and now, a putrid excuse of a man will enflame the world on a whim.
What can we do, but know that nothing has changed?
SENATORS AND PRESIDENTS HAVE CLIMBED SO HIGH WITH PAIN ENOUGH, NOT BECAUSE THEY THINK THE PLACE SPECIALLY AGREEABLE, BUT AS AN APOLOGY FOR REAL WORTH, AND TO VINDICATE THEIR MANHOOD IN OUR EYES.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON, IN “POLITICS”, 1844
As an apology for real worth, said the preacher with the oldest tongue. One hundred and seventy-two years is a speck of dust in the chronology of empires and armageddons in the world. And here, at a day, we cower.
Nothing has changed. Not the politician, the gimmick empowered. Not the elder, selfish in his fear of death. And not the youth, livid, impotent, and hapless in plight.
We know this now. We know that we, like the Romans and the Greeks and the Persians before them, each suspended in the magic of their time — even we are bound to cycles that transcend progress, that render change untenable. But, remember, Rome didn’t fall in a day.
So what’s next? What do we do with this cycle of dread? How do we wake on this day, the ninth, and face the mark of time unrelenting?
We stay. We find our voice. We face them, and we fight.
That shiver you feel—it's the simmer of war.
But dear friend, hear me: Morality, too, has had its victors in time.
This flagship piece, a melodrama written between votes 140 and 266, was the first excision of thoughts in a then-pending sequence of excisions.
Then-pending because of those two inescapable things: sloth and lacked-conviction.
But follow @theninth — I'll post again one day?
Or don't. We can still be friends.