Sex, Memory and Political Conventions...

Another four years, another season of national party conventions. Tonight, the Democrats begin.

I find I anticipate it all with an excitement that is in good part libidinal. Don't ask and I won't tell; but, indeed, I find myself reminiscing about unexpected and passionate consummations over the years that came about in a rhythm matching the turn of the political calendar: conventions, election nights, inauguration days; lusts roused at bars or cocktail parties, while discussing the players or just playing spectator myself to these primitive and potent American civic sacraments.

It's not a matter merely of the erotica of power. Put aside the officials, the politicians and the celebrities, and look instead to the indispensable supporting cast, the delegates on the floor. It is they who provoke profound and animal emotions, conflicted envy and desire and even contempt. Witnessing this spiritual transport, the deep engagement, the mystic credulity, the rapture of convicted belief, this community of purposeful madpeople, is necessarily to be fascinated, jealous and scornful all at once.

Yes, it is rightly said that the podium histrionics of modern conventions are choreographed, orchestrated, scripted to a fare-thee-well. But to emphasize that exclusively, and to dismiss the proceedings outright on that account, misses something quite crucial and poignant and provoking: the authentic romance of the choric lovers below. Absurd as lovers always are, undignified, aggravating, self-absorbed and yet indubitably alive, they bear testament to the prospect that all the world can be made new. We shall all be changed; and, if not, even the prospect of a November broken heart is fearlessly embraced.