Here I sit, not fifty miles from the site of tomorrow’s inaugural ceremonies. I have a place to stay in the District. I have a plan on how to get in and out and what to do with my car. And yet here I sit having made a decision. Here I sit wracked with indecision.
The historian in me is screaming at me to go; to witness history, to be a part of the gathering, to absorb the experience. After all I’ve just come off of five months of experience-gathering. How the hell can I consciously choose to miss out on an opportunity like this?
The rational side of me tells me to go with my first instinct: it’s going to be a hell of a mess down there tomorrow. I’ve been to an inauguration, I mostly remember being cold, hungry and wet. I don’t remember it being a transcendental experience. I don’t remember being excited about making inaugural attendances a regular thing.
The emotional side of me tells me that I don’t want to be around people celebrating an occasion that I believe deserves deep mourning. Nor do I want to drag down those who do think it an occasion for celebration. I believe that tomorrow is the end of the experiment called “The United States of America” as it was envisioned by the Founders and constructed in the Constitution. Since I also believe that this failed experiment has been the greatest force for good in human history it makes me deeply depressed to see it set on the road to Soviet style government and ultimate ruin.
And the historian screams back, “Damn your emotions, man! Be objective! Be an observer and recorder and damn all your bellyaching!”
But I can’t do that. Not yet. Maybe someday. But not today. Or tomorrow.
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