“These great Cronos swallowed as each came forth from the womb to his mother’s knees with this intent, that no other of the proud sons of Heaven should hold the kingly office amongst the deathless gods.”

Every day is a new offense, a fresh hell to wake up to. Even though this image is of Peter Paul Rubens’s, Saturn devouring his son, from 1636/38, almost 400 years ago, it depicts a timeless truth from the eighth century BCE poet Hesiod, namely, the lack of restraint the wealthy and powerful think is their right in the treatment of those who are weaker than themselves, as they attack anyone and everyone, even their own, their twisted souls deem in their own minds to be a threat to their wealth and power. Following the Gatsby celebration in a certain resort in Florida with all the tacky glitter and feathers and tasteless glamour, the gleeful cruelty, promiscuity, and misogyny (yes the three go together like a monstrous antithesis to Hesiod’s three Charites), in the face of the enormous pain they are inflicting, grinding the bitter grist of their moldy bread for the masses, barely concealed beneath the flow of grapes, the gently tongued roe of sturgeon, the sweet icing of cake smeared across botoxed lips and powdered pasty cheeks, a greedy agenda with all the spite they can muster, snarling contempt for the weak rather than serving the people, this is an apropos metaphor for the foul monsters who are now ruling over us. The glitter is what they show each other as they pretend in roles to convince themselves that’s who they are. This terrifying mythic truth, this, deep down to the quick of their wretched souls, this acid sludge that pumps through their veins, is who they really are. They prove it with their actions.