It is perhaps unsurprising that the only Democratic presidential candidate seemingly in touch with the cosmos between her ears sounds like the lovechild of Jim Morrison and Gloria Steinem.
Marianne Williamson is indeed “eccentric.” Which, in Britain, is a charitable adjective bestowed upon the unhinged yet endearing. Those friends whom you regard as utterly mental. But a fun, puckish mental.
Williamson, in her psychedelic splendor, might have entranced Americans and Brits alike with her zany New Ageism, but she, at least, is vaguely in communion with the vapors issuing from her mouth.
She is a “character.” Another Britishism for “batshit,” usually reserved for old and clinging friends with whom you’ve ceased to share anything in common, a strange glue attaching loyalty.
One such character and friend of mine once dunked his penis into the helpless pint of a patron of a bougie gastropub in which neither of us was thenceforth welcome. The ensuing pandemonium was diffused with that adjectival social antidote: “Oh, never mind him. He is a character.”
At least characters are amusing. Nobody on either Democratic debate stage earned that title. Except Williamson.
But the moonbeam acquiesced to the rising star. Senator Kamala Harris (D-Calif.) last week adulterated frontrunner Joe Biden’s allegedly insurmountable lead, now running just two clicks behind.
This shouldn’t be surprising. The former vice president is the only candidate with any real chance of beating President Trump. Harris’s erudite and wolfish performance put paid to any inevitability of candidate Biden.
Anyone with a modicum of sense knows that Biden is not a racist. His opposition to forced busing in the early 1970s meant nothing while he served eight years as second in command to the first black president.
But the accusation is the conviction. Within identity politics, any prosecution of the “other” is not subject to scrutiny or sense. Surely, the swooning Democratic Party base knows this. And doesn’t care. Biden is an old white male, and those strange creatures are on the Democrats’ endangered species list.
Since 2016, the Democratic base has lathered itself into a hissing lava, dreaming up new transgressions and new oppressors. They want more than to just beat Trump. They want him unpersoned. His record expunged. His supporters banished. Impossible though that may be, the modern progressive roams a comforting yet disfigured reality.
That explains the Democrats’ violent leftward lurch. Each candidate implored in vain to out-liberal the other. They cannot just beat Donald Trump. They must disembowel him. And he or she holding the scalpel must represent every whim of the social-justice Left that now propels the Democratic Party.
Such mercurous madness might mollify the frothy-furious Antifa base. But most Americans are not onboard.
Perhaps this disconnection is summed up in one image. Each Democratic candidate with their hand lofted proudly upward when asked whether they would extend healthcare to illegal immigrants. Almost two-thirds of Americans disagree.
Another noisome proposal is the support concerning reparations for the descendants of slaves, another extreme notion which finds under one-quarter of Americans nodding their heads.
Then there’s the Democrats’ increasingly transparent support of de facto open borders, with many on stage suggesting to effectively legalize illegal immigration. Again, few Americans agree with such an extreme.
Democrats have learned precisely nothing from 2016. Yes, voters are enthralled with populism. And for good reason. But they’re not crying out for the petri-dish fantasies of the hardest left, of the brahmins of Berkeley.
Economic populism plays well. But that is as radical a surf as most Americans want to wade. The Democratic candidates have mistaken Twitter for Tulsa.
Which is why Kamala Harris is rising, and will continue to rise. Though, only a brash fool would this early make a sound prediction: Joe Biden won’t be the nominee. And Donald Trump will be president until 2024.
Because, in the progressive version of reality, there can be no final victory. Identity politics, like its cousin self-pity, consumes all except itself. They don’t want to win. To finally cauterize their obsession would stanch the supply that courses their veins.
And this madness is apparent to all who watch with curiosity from the safety of the bleachers. Many Americans may not approve of President Trump’s personal bombast, but they’d much prefer his relative sanity than Democratic struggle sessions and cultural jihad.
So, the tranquil of mind should at least enjoy this glorious hey rube. You can even add a spiritual spice to the ever bubbling hellbroth.
By donating just $1 to Marianne Williamson’s campaign, you can help ensure her relative sanity enlightens the next Democratic presidential debate stage. It might not help you live forever (as her bestseller claims) or transcend this fatuous spiritual plane, but it will be vivifying. After all, she is a character.
If that prospect is not worth a dollar, then I’m not sure what is.