It’s my last visit to the Southwest in an official capacity, and I’ve left the place in ruins. Do you always have this effect?, W. asks, but I tell him it’s his fault, that if anyone wrecked everything, it was his fault. In truth, it’s the fault of people much more powerful than either of us, great wreckers, idiots who float to the top like scum and spoil it all for everyone. Why is the world run by such people?
For his part, W. led a great counterattack, it was like May ’68 all over again, W. said. He made a speech; he was admired, the floodgates opened and everyone spoke. It was like ’68!, says W., but of course it only meant he was singled out for special punishment. It’s madness, sheer madness, says W. Their incompetence! Their dishonesty! Flowcharts and piecharts and powerpoint slides can’t hide it, says W. As soon as you see a bullet point you know you might as well stab yourself in the neck.
Still, he couldn’t stand it any more, and he stoof up and spoke calmly and reasonably, but with great force, says W. He made an excellent case, the manager was worried. And he only opened the floodgates, says W., because, after his ovation, everyone started to speak. It was a great moment, though it meant absolutely nothing in the end, W. says.
We always said it, I point to W., that we succeeded at all was a monstrous aberration. It was a sign that everything was going wrong. Therefore W.’s elevation could only be the effect of a greater catastrophe. These are the end times, W. and I agree. Still, he got an ovation, says W., that was something. The floodgates opened, he says. Just like in ’68.
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