Moves

Well, I had thought I should be writing something about Bobby, but it didn’t seem at all right to be commemorating such an obscenity, in any way at all. The cortege in that previous post spoke well enough, as did he, to other times and places.

Nor do I have the words yet for Obama’s win. That I would never have thought it possible, until I saw his words, watched while he did indeed build his campaign from the ground up. Casually wresting power from K Street flacks and corporate wingmen, under their radar and all across Web 2.0.

It feels generational, but not the way the micro-wonks would believe, it’s not about age or gender or level of education. Or at least not always or mostly. I suppose, at its simple best, it reflects a willingness to suspend one’s cynicism, anger, defeat. To be able to notice that there’s not a whit of opportunism or sham or fear anywhere there.

And, speaking as a girl and notching the level of discourse way, way down, you can also see it, and I always look for it, in how comfortable he is in his bones, his skin. That has always been the money shot for me, the sign and signal, that a gentleman is who he is, knows it and is just fine with it.