Friday, December 15, 2006

Something Wicked This Way Comes: Open, Locks, Whoever Knocks!

The tragic impulse in Macbeth launches into warp speed in ACT III. Duncan is long dead; Malcolm has bolted to England; Donalbain to Ireland. Macbeth realized he had to off Banquo, so he hires three thugs to do the deed. And he places servants—spies—in peoples’ houses. The Lady makes excuses for her man when, at a dinner, the ghost of Banquo looms only to scare the shit out of Macbeth. She wants the on-lookers to think one thing, when, in fact, something else is going on. Hecate, the goddess witch, appears and scolds her hags for their prophecies for Macbeth. Even the supernatural falls victim to the tragic impulse, which thunders vehemently toward more chaos, more corruption, more death, and more evil.

The tragic impulse in the Bush administration has escalated recently. Papa Bush and the paleo-conservative world of Republican diplomacy are symbolically dead. While Papa bolted to Florida to deliver a tribute to the favorite son, Jeb, Chimpy snubbed and smeared the council of elders—the Iraq study group. Scared shitless by the Papa Bush ghost, the W. posse realized they must off Baker III, consigliore extraordinaire, so they dispatched the echo chamber thugs to do the deed. While there has long been spying in Americans’ houses, we just don’t know whose houses and why because the NSA program still remains a “cloak & dagger” topic. The Lady made the lamest excuse of them all, blaming the media for Chimpy’s lower-than-Nixon approval ratings. Sadly, while Senator Johnson had a stroke, the political soothsayers speculated about the balance of power, who will actually run in 2008, and what we will hear in the change of course message Chimpy has postponed yet again to next year. The tragic impulse gains vigorous momentum as more chaos, more corruption—word has it that Abramoff is squealing like a pig in jail, more death, and more evil become abundantly apparent. Seeing George H.W. Bush cry was not only ample evidence enough, but, moreover, a haunting omen that something wicked this way may come, so bolt the locks to whatever knocks.

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