The Fall of Ron DeSantis
Lost in the light above South Texas, behind the long stem of an offering to the heavens and of an effort to sow a vineyard in the sky, is a downpour of debris. Lost in the shadow of this beautiful failure is the sound of human error. The difference between the two is the difference between the power of SpaceX and the poverty of Twitter Spaces, as one represents the vision of Elon Musk and the other—an audio platform—proves that Ron DeSantis has no vision, thus confirming that the 46th governor of Florida should not be the 47th president of the United States.
DeSantis should not run for anything.
He doesn’t understand that light and liberty go together, or that the Founders’ devotion to natural law complements the shapes found in nature.
He doesn’t recognize the shape of an arch, or that the Gateway Arch is an opening to the West and the Liberty Bell Arch an opening in the West.
He doesn’t see how the arch in one man’s library lights a path to the Main Reading Room of the nation’s library, enshrining the memory of Thomas Jefferson and the rights of man forever.
Lost on DeSantis is the light inside the Congressional Reading Room, where orange is the color of excellence and seven colors represent the spectrum of light.
Blind to all other visible colors, DeSantis focuses on the orange lights—the auroral arcs—above Mar-a-Lago instead.
Against this backdrop, across the width of one man’s island mansion, DeSantis is a minor player on a major stage.
In this setting, standing small on the sea-to-lake grounds of extravagance, DeSantis is a closet Nick Carraway—a graduate of New Haven—about whom the accusation of being a politician is just.
Here the comparison ends, as DeSantis has no eye for ceremony and no sense of history.
Before the shapes that define history, from the arch of freedom to the arches that form a dome, to the globes that surround the light from above, DeSantis is blind.
Before the example of a political warrior, from the closing of the New Frontier to the passing of the torch and the lighting of the eternal flame, DeSantis is a nobody.
Before the only president born in Illinois, and the only president born in Hawaii with a historical marker in Illinois, DeSantis is a bad actor and a boring politician.
No words can make DeSantis a leader, or convince voters that he speaks so well that they should march.
Ineffective and unimportant, or less effective and important than he admits, DeSantis is the bland, unimaginative expression of pride.
By any other name, he would be the same.
But one name describes him best: Mickey Mouse.
The name is aspirational, as DeSantis has no Magic Kingdom or team of Imagineers, and no likeness in the Hall of Presidents.
His campaign is the sham and whimper of the hollow man, with no dreams to dare or deeds to do, ending in a struggle for nothing.
Victory is the first thing DeSantis wants, and the last thing he inspires.