Since my return from the Cape and my high school class 30th reunion my time has been occupied with first, a sinus infection that made me physically dizzy for many days; secondly, my Grandmother landing in the hospital - she is now in rehab for 2-3 weeks and is doing well; thirdly, a muscle spasm in my upper back that has had me occupied with trying to get the pain under control and the spot healed up so I can get out of the house (I've been indoors for the past four days)and into the sunshine that is just pouring out of the sky this afternoon, but I am still a bit woozy from the muscle relaxant and will have to forgo any driving for the afternoon which means I have to call my sister and help my nephew with his paper via the telephone and email. (SIGH!!) But then, so my life seems to progress during times of stress or when I am taking classes, which is just a more interesting sort of stress.
Taking drugs for muscle pain does have its advantages. Last night my boyfriend and I got into a minor "pun off," which we enjoy doing now and again. It started when I told him that the amount of catnip he had put onto the local scratchy box had turned the area into a den of in'nip'uity, and ended with my telling him that our (very sweet) old (former) Tom kitty, Bootsie, goes a little wild whenever he gets his paws on too much of the "green stuff" and it usually ends up in his trying to tempt our youngest kitty, Mottle, into his den of innipuity to look at his retchings (stealth barfs). We called it a draw, agreeing our thinking was a little too fuzzy when we introduced the "one good gag after another" aspect. Anyone with multiple cats will know exactly what we are talking about and the uninitiated will just have to figure it out on their own.
It did not seem like a full two weeks since I had last posted on my blog, but then, I have been busy. The paper I have due this weekend should be a very interesting one to read for and to write, I only hope it is legible and coherant enough to pass muster.
I have several more poems I am hoping to post here within the next few days so, if you have enjoyed reading any of my stuff, there is now a little something to look forward to over the weekend.
I hope all is going well for any reading these words.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Friday, October 13, 2006
Autumnal Rhapsodies
The sky was so blue and clear this morning, the trees so bright in their Autumn robes, that I had to write something about it, if only for commemorative purposes. The jungle of our backyard seems to stay the same from day to day yet, if you take the time to study things a little, the vitality of the place becomes rapidly evident. Unfortunately, some of that vitality sometimes finds its way into the house and the spider that looked like it was thinking of hitching a ride on my nightgown could not have realized the mortal peril it was in had it made such an attempt.
At least it did not try to climb into my bowl of hot cereal. I try not to squash the spiders I encounter in the house as it is my constant hope that they will somehow help alleviate the book-eating beetle and clothes-eating moth problem we cannot seem to get ahead of right now. The only time anything of an insect nature gets mashed is when it crawls upon my person and tickles me enough to give me the heebie-jeebies. At that point actions become instinctual and the squashing that results is reflexive in nature, as is the shudder and loud squeals of dread and chagrin that issue forth from my normally quiet, self-contained self. I am fine with most insect life as long as it does not come into direct contact with any part of me.
As I glance out the window, which is presently almost wholly obscured by my boyfriend's monstrous mosquito plants, I can see the bright light of the sun glancing off of the reds and yellows of the Autumn day. It is a day with a distinct sparkle in the air. It is as if all of Nature is getting ready to dance in celebration of the Harvest and the coming of the beauty of Winter; the blight and discomfort of that impending season having been forgotten over the Spring and Summer months.
It is difficult to express adequately the depth of joy I feel in my heart at experiencing such days as this. The light, the beauty, the color, the breath-taking joy that can be Autumn in New England is unmatched by any other place or climate, latitude or longitude, temperate, equatorial, or whatever the case may be. New England's Autumn is sparkle and joy; laughter in the breezes and incredible, frightening, awe-inspiring beauty in the stronger winds that roar through the thinning tree tops causing even the mighty oaks and chestnuts to bow before the might, majesty and strength that is Nature in this small corner of creation.
I wonder if the wind has any memory of having roared freely over the oceans, unhindered as it chose whichever path it desired, before it made landfall and was suddenly impeded by trees and hills, buildings and roadways. I wonder if the roaring through the tops of the trees reminds it of its flight over the crests of enormous, breaking waves and through the chill of open waters, always moving toward the inexorably approaching horizon of coastline that defines humanity's limits yet expresses its limitless possibilities, much as the wind itself is limitless and free.
Standing in the wind along the Atlantic shoreline there is the tangy taste of salt on the fingertips of the wind that blows inland, but here, far from the beaches that line the eastern edge of the country, the salt is only a memory by the time the winds reach our backyard, yet in them I can still smell, still taste the salt of the ocean where these winds that blow find their naissance. It is not quite all gone until the moment of the winds demise across some flat, grey place of pavement with no vestige of nature from which the wind may renew its life and move on. That final swirl of sand and dirt, half-hearted and weak, signals the death of the wind, unable to find its way back to Nature, back to the seas, back to its cradle of birth.
The wind is the original Phoenix, though. Despite all of our attempts to subdue it, to destroy its heart, the wind always rises again, out of its own ashes and laughing, soars the skies once more carrying leaves and color and joy to the very ends of the earth before it dives off of the beaches and back into its glory across the waters of oceans and time. Such is Autumn in New England.
To have been born of those who chose to initially inhabit these areas is, I think, to have within the heart and soul a place where the spirit of the wind dwells; where the voice of the wind is recognized and responded to always in the affirmative. It is to know always that some part of you is standing on a bluff by the open waters of the ocean watching the wind and waves dance together. It is knowing the feel of the dance, the smell of salt and seaweed carried on the winds swirling hemline, the indefinable excitement and joy of standing in the path of that wind, defying its might and strength. It is knowing that you have New England and all of its beauties deeply entrenched in your very being and that even the power and will of the wind cannot rip it from you. Autumn is a wonderful time of year.
At least it did not try to climb into my bowl of hot cereal. I try not to squash the spiders I encounter in the house as it is my constant hope that they will somehow help alleviate the book-eating beetle and clothes-eating moth problem we cannot seem to get ahead of right now. The only time anything of an insect nature gets mashed is when it crawls upon my person and tickles me enough to give me the heebie-jeebies. At that point actions become instinctual and the squashing that results is reflexive in nature, as is the shudder and loud squeals of dread and chagrin that issue forth from my normally quiet, self-contained self. I am fine with most insect life as long as it does not come into direct contact with any part of me.
As I glance out the window, which is presently almost wholly obscured by my boyfriend's monstrous mosquito plants, I can see the bright light of the sun glancing off of the reds and yellows of the Autumn day. It is a day with a distinct sparkle in the air. It is as if all of Nature is getting ready to dance in celebration of the Harvest and the coming of the beauty of Winter; the blight and discomfort of that impending season having been forgotten over the Spring and Summer months.
It is difficult to express adequately the depth of joy I feel in my heart at experiencing such days as this. The light, the beauty, the color, the breath-taking joy that can be Autumn in New England is unmatched by any other place or climate, latitude or longitude, temperate, equatorial, or whatever the case may be. New England's Autumn is sparkle and joy; laughter in the breezes and incredible, frightening, awe-inspiring beauty in the stronger winds that roar through the thinning tree tops causing even the mighty oaks and chestnuts to bow before the might, majesty and strength that is Nature in this small corner of creation.
I wonder if the wind has any memory of having roared freely over the oceans, unhindered as it chose whichever path it desired, before it made landfall and was suddenly impeded by trees and hills, buildings and roadways. I wonder if the roaring through the tops of the trees reminds it of its flight over the crests of enormous, breaking waves and through the chill of open waters, always moving toward the inexorably approaching horizon of coastline that defines humanity's limits yet expresses its limitless possibilities, much as the wind itself is limitless and free.
Standing in the wind along the Atlantic shoreline there is the tangy taste of salt on the fingertips of the wind that blows inland, but here, far from the beaches that line the eastern edge of the country, the salt is only a memory by the time the winds reach our backyard, yet in them I can still smell, still taste the salt of the ocean where these winds that blow find their naissance. It is not quite all gone until the moment of the winds demise across some flat, grey place of pavement with no vestige of nature from which the wind may renew its life and move on. That final swirl of sand and dirt, half-hearted and weak, signals the death of the wind, unable to find its way back to Nature, back to the seas, back to its cradle of birth.
The wind is the original Phoenix, though. Despite all of our attempts to subdue it, to destroy its heart, the wind always rises again, out of its own ashes and laughing, soars the skies once more carrying leaves and color and joy to the very ends of the earth before it dives off of the beaches and back into its glory across the waters of oceans and time. Such is Autumn in New England.
To have been born of those who chose to initially inhabit these areas is, I think, to have within the heart and soul a place where the spirit of the wind dwells; where the voice of the wind is recognized and responded to always in the affirmative. It is to know always that some part of you is standing on a bluff by the open waters of the ocean watching the wind and waves dance together. It is knowing the feel of the dance, the smell of salt and seaweed carried on the winds swirling hemline, the indefinable excitement and joy of standing in the path of that wind, defying its might and strength. It is knowing that you have New England and all of its beauties deeply entrenched in your very being and that even the power and will of the wind cannot rip it from you. Autumn is a wonderful time of year.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Writing: A Love/Hate Relationship
It is difficult to admit, especially after all of the words and poems I have produced, but there are times writing isn't too much fun; like right now, for instance. It is almost 3AM, I am still recovering from my one day jaunt to the Cape so muscles are still stiff and sore, and I would like nothing better than to be in the middle of a REM cycle right now, but I am writing instead. It does not happen too often and is really quite a random occurrence, so I suppose we will all survive it, but it can be a too well disguised blessing when it does come down to this - sleep or write? Why can't it ever be eat or write? At least then losing weight might be a little simpler.
Since I mentioned my one day trip to Cape Cod I may as well tell you that it was for one of the events planned as a part of my high school class's thirtieth reunion - that's "30," by the way - and, while it was fun and I would do it again in a heartbeat, there is now a price to be paid in hours of recovery from having braved the wrath of the gods and traipsing around the Cape as if I was still a girl of only forty, or so. It has been many, many years since that I have walked down the main street of Chatham or visited my grandmother's grave. I would also have enjoyed the effort put into the walk on Main Street if the store I wanted to go to had taken the sole credit card I now carry with me but, all is still well.
It really struck me with a force I had never felt before just how different the Cape is from other parts of Massachusetts. It was as I was approaching the head of the Cape - I crested a hill and suddenly I was surrounded by sky. I could still see the pine trees but suddenly I was looking over the tops of them and there was limitless blue with little white clouds in it all around me. The far side of the hill, which I now consider the actual "beginning" of Cape Cod, was almost like sliding down a sand dune into another, more isolated world.
It was not until I was on the Cape Proper that I felt the suctioning of my thoughts and writing ideas, in fact not until I reached Eastham, but that is not unusual and I suspect is the result of all of the desperate wanna-be-a-writer types who have flocked there over the years. They are written-out and have created a sponge-like atmosphere that only delays a person in their writing rather than depriving them of their abilities to write, but the sense of loss was strong enough that I almost wanted to turn around and head home that very moment. If I had, though, I would not have more stories to tell later on about seeing friends after thirty years and talking to them for hours over good food and the relaxed camaraderie that is one of the true blessings of being almost fifty years old.
(untitled)
(- dedicated to Pam S. who has a sense of humor)
Hello again,
Is it really you?
We've changed so much
It's a different view.
But you look so good
Through my bifocaled eyes
I did not guess
It was not you
But someone else
Wearing a "you" disguise.
Ah, the blessings of the onset of potential senility! Now maybe I can get back to sleep.
Since I mentioned my one day trip to Cape Cod I may as well tell you that it was for one of the events planned as a part of my high school class's thirtieth reunion - that's "30," by the way - and, while it was fun and I would do it again in a heartbeat, there is now a price to be paid in hours of recovery from having braved the wrath of the gods and traipsing around the Cape as if I was still a girl of only forty, or so. It has been many, many years since that I have walked down the main street of Chatham or visited my grandmother's grave. I would also have enjoyed the effort put into the walk on Main Street if the store I wanted to go to had taken the sole credit card I now carry with me but, all is still well.
It really struck me with a force I had never felt before just how different the Cape is from other parts of Massachusetts. It was as I was approaching the head of the Cape - I crested a hill and suddenly I was surrounded by sky. I could still see the pine trees but suddenly I was looking over the tops of them and there was limitless blue with little white clouds in it all around me. The far side of the hill, which I now consider the actual "beginning" of Cape Cod, was almost like sliding down a sand dune into another, more isolated world.
It was not until I was on the Cape Proper that I felt the suctioning of my thoughts and writing ideas, in fact not until I reached Eastham, but that is not unusual and I suspect is the result of all of the desperate wanna-be-a-writer types who have flocked there over the years. They are written-out and have created a sponge-like atmosphere that only delays a person in their writing rather than depriving them of their abilities to write, but the sense of loss was strong enough that I almost wanted to turn around and head home that very moment. If I had, though, I would not have more stories to tell later on about seeing friends after thirty years and talking to them for hours over good food and the relaxed camaraderie that is one of the true blessings of being almost fifty years old.
(untitled)
(- dedicated to Pam S. who has a sense of humor)
Hello again,
Is it really you?
We've changed so much
It's a different view.
But you look so good
Through my bifocaled eyes
I did not guess
It was not you
But someone else
Wearing a "you" disguise.
Ah, the blessings of the onset of potential senility! Now maybe I can get back to sleep.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Memories and Other Tricks Your Mind Plays On You
My mind has always had a propensity for abbreviating distances. I will recall one landmark and, in my mind, place it almost directly next to another landmark on the path I am taking but often they are several miles apart. I realized I had done this when I first wrote about the old cemetary on the Cape where my grandmother, aunt, great-grandfather, and several cousins are buried. My mind had placed the cemetary and my elderly cousin's former house almost next door to one another when there is quite a fair space between the two. Although the old cemetary is within the narrowest part of the Cape you cannot see the marsh that used to be an inlet from the cemetary. However, if you continue down the Cape to the aforementioned house, the inlet now salt marsh is almost directly across the street. Because the two are so closely related to one another in my thoughts my mind decided to give them an apparent physical proximity as well. This tendency has, on occasion, made for some interesting road trips and/or directions given to other people (to whom I apologize profusely!). This is only one of a vast repetoire of tricks and misdirections my mind has played repeatedly on me. You will notice, I am sure, that I have endowed my mind with a life and conscience seperate and distinct from the "real me" and that is quite deliberate. I find it preferable to having to face the fact that I am becoming a dottier old so and so with each passing decade (I just couldn't write the word "year" in there) despite my best efforts to prevent the encroachment of my becoming a "character" as I age.
Another little thing my mind does, although much milder than the first trick, is to waft a memory into my consciousness in such a way it is as if I am remembering a dream or ghost of some kind. It feels as if what I am recalling can not possibly exist in corporeal reality even though I am certain it does. It may be because the last time I drove past a particular place was at night or in odd weather or, perhaps, because I was so busy paying attention to something else, I only received a brief glimpse, a fleeting impression, of whatever it was that seems like some sort of mind ghost now, as I passed the place. This happened to me today as I arrived on the lower part of the Cape, just below Orleans. A vague memory resurfaced of a house I used to drive past whenever I went from Wellfleet toward Provincetown. I am sure if I had gone further down the mid-Cape highway today, I would have seen that very same house, perched by the side of the highway, standing where it has been for perhaps the past hundred years, or so. But my mind breathed the memory of it back to me cloaked in the veil of a distant, misty dream and that left me shaking my head in order to clear the overly vigorous growth of cobwebs that occur at such times.
Today was also the day of my high school 30th reunion party. It was wonderful seeing so many of my former classmates again. For me the reality of the party was very much as I had hoped it would be, so I have no disappointments to report. It seems that a full heart can be just full enough to make for a very good sort of evening without too much maudlin reminiscence or overt sentimentality. So much was right about tonight for me I cannot think of one critical comment to make just to give a patina of reality to the event. I hope our 40th reunion is even better.
Another little thing my mind does, although much milder than the first trick, is to waft a memory into my consciousness in such a way it is as if I am remembering a dream or ghost of some kind. It feels as if what I am recalling can not possibly exist in corporeal reality even though I am certain it does. It may be because the last time I drove past a particular place was at night or in odd weather or, perhaps, because I was so busy paying attention to something else, I only received a brief glimpse, a fleeting impression, of whatever it was that seems like some sort of mind ghost now, as I passed the place. This happened to me today as I arrived on the lower part of the Cape, just below Orleans. A vague memory resurfaced of a house I used to drive past whenever I went from Wellfleet toward Provincetown. I am sure if I had gone further down the mid-Cape highway today, I would have seen that very same house, perched by the side of the highway, standing where it has been for perhaps the past hundred years, or so. But my mind breathed the memory of it back to me cloaked in the veil of a distant, misty dream and that left me shaking my head in order to clear the overly vigorous growth of cobwebs that occur at such times.
Today was also the day of my high school 30th reunion party. It was wonderful seeing so many of my former classmates again. For me the reality of the party was very much as I had hoped it would be, so I have no disappointments to report. It seems that a full heart can be just full enough to make for a very good sort of evening without too much maudlin reminiscence or overt sentimentality. So much was right about tonight for me I cannot think of one critical comment to make just to give a patina of reality to the event. I hope our 40th reunion is even better.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Tell Satan I said He Could Go To Hell
To Emily
Sweet, blonde and blue-eyed,
She was the apple
Of her parents’ eyes.
She was also
The vague and sickening
Dream
Of a murderer,
A molester
Of violent mean.
When will the pain
Of that terrible day
Dissipate finally;
Go permanently away?
“Never,” is the cry of the winds
Through time.
Emily’s face,
Her beauty, her grace,
Must never die,
Her heart shall survive
In the kindness
Her family has asked
To be done in her name.
Though this was a moment
Of unsought fame,
Emily’s face and Emily’s name
Burn forever,
A flame of pain
And suffering.
The loss of a laugh,
A hug, a tear,
A daughter’s life torn
From her parents’ arms
And hearts.
A living fear engrosses
All of those who remain,
But Emily’s heart cries out
For a triumph through this pain
And suffering, she would have it unbind
Our hearts in acts
Generous and
Randomly kind.
Ten Little Girls All In a Row
Ten small girls
In a quivering line
At the head of the class
But this was not
What the madman wanted
So he shot them
One by one
Then killed himself
Blood and death
All over the place
Five little girls died
Have gone before
While five more stand
Waiting hand in hand with Death
Who will win this struggle?
Five are still alive
But will they survive; live to smile again?
The other five are with God today
Placed in the lap of
Mother Earth
They will spend Eternity
Snuggled together in the
Heart of God
Forever safe
From blood and madmen
Forever safe from fear
Another family mourns
And does not understand
What took hold of their father
He was not “that sort” of man
Forgiveness has been given
Although mothers will be looking
For children home from school for years to come
He took those girls from their loving homes
And left his own children none
There is grief in the United States these past two weeks. Though not enough to completely distract us from war and duplicitous politics and politicians. Is it any wonder there is still a death penalty anywhere on this planet? Is it any wonder people are learning to live in fear and that it is exactly what politicians and big business moguls want for us? Fear makes large crowds easier to control and allows corruption on a national level to flourish just as violently as the insanity of three vicious madmen (I include the fifteen-year-old here, too) who targeted little girls, young women, and non-violent unarmed men. They took the cowards way out of life and left devastation and heartbreak in their wake. In my book they have no names. The Amish community has set an example that should really make all of us think about what we believe and how we choose to practice those beliefs. If the New Testament scriptures are correct about "the meek shall inherit the earth" I think the Amish are by far in the lead in any race of that sort. Their example of forgiveness in the face of the unforgiveable is more of a blessing to this world than any of us may now realize. With violence and hatred proliferating at every turn and daddies going crazy and shooting little girls the Amish have given us hope through their grief and the intensely painful loss of several of their young, beautiful daughters. My heart is with all of the parents and families who were deprived of their loved ones so horribly these past two weeks. My tears are not only for all of them, but also for myself, this world, and the heart of God, which surely must be breaking.
Sweet, blonde and blue-eyed,
She was the apple
Of her parents’ eyes.
She was also
The vague and sickening
Dream
Of a murderer,
A molester
Of violent mean.
When will the pain
Of that terrible day
Dissipate finally;
Go permanently away?
“Never,” is the cry of the winds
Through time.
Emily’s face,
Her beauty, her grace,
Must never die,
Her heart shall survive
In the kindness
Her family has asked
To be done in her name.
Though this was a moment
Of unsought fame,
Emily’s face and Emily’s name
Burn forever,
A flame of pain
And suffering.
The loss of a laugh,
A hug, a tear,
A daughter’s life torn
From her parents’ arms
And hearts.
A living fear engrosses
All of those who remain,
But Emily’s heart cries out
For a triumph through this pain
And suffering, she would have it unbind
Our hearts in acts
Generous and
Randomly kind.
Ten Little Girls All In a Row
Ten small girls
In a quivering line
At the head of the class
But this was not
What the madman wanted
So he shot them
One by one
Then killed himself
Blood and death
All over the place
Five little girls died
Have gone before
While five more stand
Waiting hand in hand with Death
Who will win this struggle?
Five are still alive
But will they survive; live to smile again?
The other five are with God today
Placed in the lap of
Mother Earth
They will spend Eternity
Snuggled together in the
Heart of God
Forever safe
From blood and madmen
Forever safe from fear
Another family mourns
And does not understand
What took hold of their father
He was not “that sort” of man
Forgiveness has been given
Although mothers will be looking
For children home from school for years to come
He took those girls from their loving homes
And left his own children none
There is grief in the United States these past two weeks. Though not enough to completely distract us from war and duplicitous politics and politicians. Is it any wonder there is still a death penalty anywhere on this planet? Is it any wonder people are learning to live in fear and that it is exactly what politicians and big business moguls want for us? Fear makes large crowds easier to control and allows corruption on a national level to flourish just as violently as the insanity of three vicious madmen (I include the fifteen-year-old here, too) who targeted little girls, young women, and non-violent unarmed men. They took the cowards way out of life and left devastation and heartbreak in their wake. In my book they have no names. The Amish community has set an example that should really make all of us think about what we believe and how we choose to practice those beliefs. If the New Testament scriptures are correct about "the meek shall inherit the earth" I think the Amish are by far in the lead in any race of that sort. Their example of forgiveness in the face of the unforgiveable is more of a blessing to this world than any of us may now realize. With violence and hatred proliferating at every turn and daddies going crazy and shooting little girls the Amish have given us hope through their grief and the intensely painful loss of several of their young, beautiful daughters. My heart is with all of the parents and families who were deprived of their loved ones so horribly these past two weeks. My tears are not only for all of them, but also for myself, this world, and the heart of God, which surely must be breaking.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Busy, Busy, Busy
I finally decided to take some time and return to my blog. Between trying to help my nephew with a paper, reading all of the articles for my masters course, keeping up with friends and other people, news, writing, my boyfriend and our cats, etc., I have let this slide for several days. Back to work!
There is so much to write about it feels as if my mind is backed up with all sorts of stuff. There is all of the terrible violence that has been happening in schools and the death of that poor 16-year-old girl, Emily Keyes. There has been all of the bombings and deaths in Iraq and the trial of that pathetic clown, Saddam Hussein. Also, the political maneuverings of Bush and company tend to keep me in a fairly constant state of righteous indignation. There are the more personal concerns about finances, deadlines for classwork, getting together with friends, housekeeping that desperately needs tending to, cats with medical problems and treatment schedules, more articles to read for class, and the list could go on and on but I am stopping it here. At least that has helped a little with the brain clog.
It is difficult to check the news and to be confronted with a photograph of a very sweet girl who is dead at the hands of someone who's sole aim in life was, apparently, to make himself as absolutely worthless as possible. It was not an accident that took her life, nor was it a person one might reasonably defend as "disturbed." The person who shot and killed Emily was a worthless creep, a pervert by his own choice, too lazy to give a damn about anyone except himself and his desire to screw young girls who, sensibly, would never have willingly wanted to have anything to do with him. The true tragedy is the loss of a younger person who was on her way to making a positive mark upon this world that seems so pathetically lacking right now. We all needed Emily to grow up and become a part of adult society but, instead, she is dead and we must all deal with the immediate and future consequences of that tragic loss. I cannot even imagine what her family is going through right now.
Another real tragedy is that all of the shootings stateside and bombings in the Middle East serve to distract attention from what Bush and his minions are up to politically. They rejoice when stuff like this occurs because they can move their plans to trash the United States up another notch. It gives them a screen behind which they can hide as they "reinterpret" (read that as "manipulate") the meaning of the Constitution to suit their ends rather than to allow the greatness it truly stands for to permiate their souls. They are the most reprehensible bunch of users and hypocrites to have ever come along in U.S. politics to date. I cannot begin to express the true depth of my contempt and loathing for such behavior or for such attitudes. I can only hope and pray that there will be a next election and that they will be, somehow, firmly and soundly rousted from their positions of control. It is the great tragedy of American politics that individuals such as these are able to gain that much power in the first place. I will always vote against them but what is actually needed is a revolution of thought; a major change in the way "we the people" carry out our political processes and definitely a new interpretation of the Constitution that keeps the true spirit of that document and its words alive while turning politics back into the "of the people, by the people, and for the people" process it was meant to be in the first place. It is not a battle that can be won with guns and violence any longer. It is a battle for hearts and minds that needs to be waged by every thinking, feeling person of conscience. The present crew do not have consciences, they have agendas and connections, blind trusts that are far from legally blind and the power to keep a lot of what they do under the hood and out of sight of the people they are supposed to serve but who are left out of all of their considerations and machinations except to be thought of in terms of being pests or necessary baggage, at best. Their arrogance and determination to trash every possible thing that could prevent their actions and choices of direction is only increasing and they are becoming fatter with their own sense of power each day. America is their piggybank and they are gouging out every penny and dime they possibly can before they throw the rest of us away. They are a curse to our country and a stain upon the documents and precepts they are supposed to be holding in trust for the American people. I wish there were a milder way to phrase these things, but there is not.
At least there is a little "comic" relief in reading about the trial of Saddam Hussein. He is the most pathetic soul upon this earth at the moment. I also feel strongly he is the primary reason we are in Iraq right now. I really wonder what kinds of wheelings and dealings went on between Bush and his family's compatriots in the oil business in order to oust Hussein from his degraded and perverted throne and I wonder how many others besides the Bin Ladens, the Bushes, and the Saudis were in on the deal. That must have been one very interesting meeting. Saddam is either dead or on his way to being declared irretrievably insane, I am not sure which yet, although I suppose they could let him go provided they all are convinced he has been properly castrated and subdued. We'll have to wait and see. Ah, the joys of world and local politics!
I wish my more personal list could be made nearly as interesting as the rest of what I have tried to discuss, but it is not, so I will not say anymore about it here.
May any and all who stop by this humble blog have a truly good day filled with the more normal sort of things like families and satisfaction from jobs, children, beloved pets, chores accomplished, etc.
There is so much to write about it feels as if my mind is backed up with all sorts of stuff. There is all of the terrible violence that has been happening in schools and the death of that poor 16-year-old girl, Emily Keyes. There has been all of the bombings and deaths in Iraq and the trial of that pathetic clown, Saddam Hussein. Also, the political maneuverings of Bush and company tend to keep me in a fairly constant state of righteous indignation. There are the more personal concerns about finances, deadlines for classwork, getting together with friends, housekeeping that desperately needs tending to, cats with medical problems and treatment schedules, more articles to read for class, and the list could go on and on but I am stopping it here. At least that has helped a little with the brain clog.
It is difficult to check the news and to be confronted with a photograph of a very sweet girl who is dead at the hands of someone who's sole aim in life was, apparently, to make himself as absolutely worthless as possible. It was not an accident that took her life, nor was it a person one might reasonably defend as "disturbed." The person who shot and killed Emily was a worthless creep, a pervert by his own choice, too lazy to give a damn about anyone except himself and his desire to screw young girls who, sensibly, would never have willingly wanted to have anything to do with him. The true tragedy is the loss of a younger person who was on her way to making a positive mark upon this world that seems so pathetically lacking right now. We all needed Emily to grow up and become a part of adult society but, instead, she is dead and we must all deal with the immediate and future consequences of that tragic loss. I cannot even imagine what her family is going through right now.
Another real tragedy is that all of the shootings stateside and bombings in the Middle East serve to distract attention from what Bush and his minions are up to politically. They rejoice when stuff like this occurs because they can move their plans to trash the United States up another notch. It gives them a screen behind which they can hide as they "reinterpret" (read that as "manipulate") the meaning of the Constitution to suit their ends rather than to allow the greatness it truly stands for to permiate their souls. They are the most reprehensible bunch of users and hypocrites to have ever come along in U.S. politics to date. I cannot begin to express the true depth of my contempt and loathing for such behavior or for such attitudes. I can only hope and pray that there will be a next election and that they will be, somehow, firmly and soundly rousted from their positions of control. It is the great tragedy of American politics that individuals such as these are able to gain that much power in the first place. I will always vote against them but what is actually needed is a revolution of thought; a major change in the way "we the people" carry out our political processes and definitely a new interpretation of the Constitution that keeps the true spirit of that document and its words alive while turning politics back into the "of the people, by the people, and for the people" process it was meant to be in the first place. It is not a battle that can be won with guns and violence any longer. It is a battle for hearts and minds that needs to be waged by every thinking, feeling person of conscience. The present crew do not have consciences, they have agendas and connections, blind trusts that are far from legally blind and the power to keep a lot of what they do under the hood and out of sight of the people they are supposed to serve but who are left out of all of their considerations and machinations except to be thought of in terms of being pests or necessary baggage, at best. Their arrogance and determination to trash every possible thing that could prevent their actions and choices of direction is only increasing and they are becoming fatter with their own sense of power each day. America is their piggybank and they are gouging out every penny and dime they possibly can before they throw the rest of us away. They are a curse to our country and a stain upon the documents and precepts they are supposed to be holding in trust for the American people. I wish there were a milder way to phrase these things, but there is not.
At least there is a little "comic" relief in reading about the trial of Saddam Hussein. He is the most pathetic soul upon this earth at the moment. I also feel strongly he is the primary reason we are in Iraq right now. I really wonder what kinds of wheelings and dealings went on between Bush and his family's compatriots in the oil business in order to oust Hussein from his degraded and perverted throne and I wonder how many others besides the Bin Ladens, the Bushes, and the Saudis were in on the deal. That must have been one very interesting meeting. Saddam is either dead or on his way to being declared irretrievably insane, I am not sure which yet, although I suppose they could let him go provided they all are convinced he has been properly castrated and subdued. We'll have to wait and see. Ah, the joys of world and local politics!
I wish my more personal list could be made nearly as interesting as the rest of what I have tried to discuss, but it is not, so I will not say anymore about it here.
May any and all who stop by this humble blog have a truly good day filled with the more normal sort of things like families and satisfaction from jobs, children, beloved pets, chores accomplished, etc.
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