I once authored a proto-blog in the BI (Before Internet) epoch, an ante-deluvian moment on the cyber-scale of time. I was based in a rambling bayou city situated in a large, hidebound, arrière-garde, rump-facing state of the sector of the South that doesn’t want you to mess with it — perhaps you can divine the locale.
I called my site “Nick Mansfield’s Branded Fictions.” It was brassy with outspoken presumption and unearned “creative” strutfulness.
I recall holding forth in Branded Fictions on some retrospective event held in the area concerning the Nixon administration. At the event a woman said, “I just can’t feel that President Nixon did anything wrong.” Young “Nick” waxed bold with ironic shock and awe that the lady’s *feelings* were the seat of her conclusion rather than, say, the *thinking* part of her head.
I read (past tense) today that a holder of elected office declared, “I can only say this, he’s such an outstanding man, it’s very hard for me to imagine that anything happened.” The happening hard to imagine is alleged attempted rape.
Now as then, only more so, I’m brought to realize how prominent is the role played by feelings and imagination in our contemplation of crime and morality at the privileged level. Politics assumes its place beside poetry, fiction and the lively arts when it takes these mystical leaps.
[Copyright (c) 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.]