In the attempt to distract myself from the election and everything it may trigger, I went to the park. It was the first sunny day after what felt like three or four centuries of unrelenting rain, such was the mind-bending sensation of time during this thirty-third week of pandemic lockdown. The overnight temperature had dropped close to freezing and many of the plants were coated in a light frost. It was perfect running weather.
I voted yesterday, after Stephen -- on his way back from a walk -- texted me to say that the line, which all week had been wrapped around the block, was relatively short. By the time I got there, it had picked up a bit, but I waited less than thirty minutes, which is maybe not reasonable in an ideal world in which government leaders place some importance on voting and fund the agencies that manage the process, but still felt pretty good in the context of our less-than-ideal reality in which governments (even or especially in 'blue states' like New York) do not make it easy for anyone to vote.
In the park, surrounded by the ambivalent beauty of trees and flowers, it seemed plausible that Biden would win and begin the process of restoring some key elements of a democracy, including, most pressingly, voting rights and the redistribution of wealth. The internet and all of the fears it stokes about the various Trump armies -- lawyers and judges seeking to invalidate votes; thugs trying to intimidate voters -- felt far away. It seemed impossible that Trump had been elected in the first place, and yet I knew that, beyond the confines of the park, it was true. We were on the cusp of losing so much more. I felt worried about Trump winning, but I also worried about Biden. I feared Democratic complacency, the party's tendency to wilt and concede, to offer preemptive gestures of reconciliation or clemency.
INTERMISSION: 'After the Rain Before the Flood' by Death Culture @ Sea
For those whose video did not embed, here's the song and full DC@S Playlist.
Production Notes: I spent some time working to make the drums sound more 'human,' which can be done by changing the volume (or 'velocity') on each hit and moving it slightly (not too much!) off the beat to add more 'swing.' As I did this, I thought about a culture I once read about -- maybe the Incas? -- whose artists always introduced a flaw into their patterns because only God could be perfect. That music consists of patterns of notes is always made evident when you watch the parts of a song scroll across the software of an electronic phone; but, somehow, beyond the patterns, there's always the hope that these notes will add up to something 'more'; or maybe this magical element is found in the process of arranging the notes. In a way, we are all gods of the little universes we create.
I thought about how the park is perfect, too, in a way that exists within me -- in my ability to appreciate it -- and outside me, to the extent that it would be there even if I am not, which is a thought that's both frightening and comforting.
Most of all I thought about how, if we as a country make the right decision on Tuesday, we can once again believe that things can made more perfect, and that this perfection can touch all of our lives.
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