Love In The Age Of Climate Change - Sex While The World Burns

Bobby Barcroft and Marge Phillips were in love - a thrilling, young, romantic love that knew no bounds.  It had come out of the blue - conferees gathered to hear the Rev. Aloysius J. Piedmont speak on climate change.  Bob had come from Americans For Social Justice and Marge from Front Line Women of America, both non-profit organizations dedicated to progressive reform.  

They were so-called 'Big Tent' organizations, those which welcomed all comers regardless of cause.  It was the idea of progressive reform that united the diverse group of environmentalists, feminists, and transgender activists. Despite the sobering lessons of history, there is such a thing as progress.  With serious intent, dedication, and hard work, a better world can be realized. 

Bobby and Marge held hands during the inaugural speech of Brother Piedmont, kissed each other when he had finished, and made glorious love in an Anacostia youth hostel that night.  Anacostia, deep in the heart of the Washington ghetto, was indeed a curious place for a love affair - for any affair for that matter - yet the lovers were happy living in blackness, a spiritual communing which gave personal value and meaning to their academic interests.  The noise of gunfire, the barred windows and triple-locked doors, the stoop culture of dope and malt liquor, bling, and booty were all part of the experience. 

They took the subway to the conference at the Northwest Hilton every morning, scrubbed and polished, ready for colloquies on green earth politics, the social equilibrium of clean energy, and socialist alternatives to agricultural exploitation.

It was a heady affair, global in design, attendance, and scope; and they lunched with former Angolan rebels, Chadian clerics, and French deconstructionists. The conference particularly suited their eclectic progressive roots. Climate change, they heard, was the bi-product of capitalism, a discredited economic system which served to keep anti-reformist oligarchs in power - the same white men responsible for America's virulent misogyny and homophobia. 

This confluence of causes and ideals was almost epiphanic in scope.  It raised each issue, often congested with fact and figures, the ups and downs of employment, water quality, and atmospheric chemistry, with passion.  The science, now settled, could give way to commitment. The climate, women, gays and transgenders, and black and brown people were substantial, undeniable truths. 

So this and other conferences were like the raves of the 90s, high-octane, happy social affairs where class, education, background, and breeding were left at the door.  The collective was what mattered, a socialist commune, a high-spirited kibbutz. 

It stirred sexual desire. It was like the civil rights movement where the danger, the anticipation, and the mission peeled off individuals into couples. Sexual euphoria was an expression of the Freedom Riders political passion.  One fueled the other.  Civil rights was sexual. 

And so it was in the days of Big Tent progressivism - it was always sexual.  There was no way that if by day young reformers could be riled with political passion and eagerness, they could lie seriously in bed at night.  Passion was a fungible, transferrable quality. 

The Anacostia streets provided the backdrop for their lovemaking. The sounds of violence excited them, the slamming of doors and the gunfire were for them.  They did not want the night to end. 

If only their lives could be a series of political raves without end. Rocket fuel, Ayahuasca, coke sex forever. 

Of course no colloquium or conference made any difference to social change.  How could they when they were no more than powerful sexual stimulants, vibrators, intercourse that lasted day and night? 

Such purpose never ever really mattered.  It was always about the marches, the protests, the togetherness.  The smell of sex was everywhere on the Mall, raunchy and irresistible. The protesters never bathed.  It was all unwashed. 

Bobby and Marge ended up with other people. That too was a foregone conclusion.  Love the one you're with wasn't just the meme of the Sixties. 

Which is why progressivism - or at least this particular brand of it - will disappear.  Conservatism which is bound to replace it has none of its sweaty sexuality.  MAGA and the Deep State are too angry to fuck; and while Donald Trump is all glitz, glamour, and runway lights, it all doesn't parse for his constituents.  So the next round of political exuberance will be all sequins and face paint with nothing happening between the sheets. 

As much as progressivism is a hectoring nuisance to those outside The Movement, it is an unforgettable joyride for those in it.