George Bush wakes at 5:00 AM every day. He stares at himself in the mirror and remembers his father’s courageous speech on the dangers of colon cancer for men in his family. George Bush used to wear funny socks, but he’s not allowed anymore. A habit ingratiates itself, so even when at home, in the safety of his bedroom (which is lined with lead and has several different escape routes in the event of nuclear or biological warfare; hawkish planes scour the skies), he wears silk pajamas and green socks and houndstooth slippers. He pats his jowls—sleepy, rosy self—then puts on gym clothes and imagines tapping Barney’s brow (pat pat). The body cannot be ignored; physical decay trumps consciousness, social harmonies, power as exerted both by military and cultural institutions; reality does not give a damn; if he does not spend 30 minutes on the elliptical he’ll feel terrible; the nation-state would actually collapse if he failed to exercise. Because he’s on the move, he has to run. The president jogs behind a golf cart while chased by shadowy figures around the water hazard. The president is always under surveillance. Monarchs of the past were trapped in social rituals their entire lives. They were taught how to lift which knife or fork, they knew the proper honorifics and could recite the poetry of He Zhizhang out of a pagoda. Stepping off the green, George Bush pulls a towel down his face, ostensibly to wick the sweat away; the cotton pile everts his lower lip; he pouts like an ape. George Bush must be aware that this is ridiculous? That he has privately rendered himself as the zoomorphism of his worst political satire? I, George. Though he’s called it less and less. Fresh and pink out the shower. When he wears a tie, he likes it tight—a reminder of mortality. He is debriefed over coffee and toast among leather binders, loose pages, the hands of staff. He could someday ask to name a single room of the White House, maybe after Laura. He is asked for a decision, please! He fleeces his synapses for the maximally correct response. George Bush sits at the inflection of our entire political apparatus, so he is treated puppet-like, yet totally in charge. It was just past 8:00 AM; it was pleasant now, but the midday sun in Florida could be brutal. If George Bush is a symptom of his times, what times are those? As he’s pressed into a car, he notes the humidity has made the air begin to glow. Over a quarter million people died in the Iraq War, but if now the country’s a democracy, do we care? Every day he puts one foot in front of the other. But someday, George, we’ll have to talk about it. When asked about his future, he professes a desire to sleep. But we have been stuck in a quagmire for 25 years, could you help us out, George? I am asking on behalf of the nation. George had vivid dreams; in many of them he flew. Can we psychoanalyze a president? If you’d like it, George, we can put it to a vote. It is best not to anthropomorphize the inner workings of the state.
Legacy
George Bush wakes at 5:00 AM every day. [...]
