The euphoria at feeling like we've finally gotten out from under the oppression of the last eight years of being ashamed of ourselves and our country. The outrage in the midst of that victory, that so-called 'Christians' could spend millions of dollars to 'protect' their institutions by denying recognition to a whole segment of society. My first physical exam in over a decade, and the growing realisation that not only am I not immortal, I have entered into middle age.
This has been what I used to euphemistically call 'an experientially-dense week.'
I have kept my head down for the past year and change for many reasons -- my creative energy has been at a low ebb, I have been wary of speaking out politically in a society that seems obsessed with wiretapping and privacy invasion, and I have felt that I didn't have much to add to a world in which every dingbat with an opinion has a blog. I'm also wrestling with the question of how much of my writing/data to keep on other people's servers (my mail has lived on Google's servers for over a year now, and I'm still not sure how I feel about that), and how much time I have to devote to my own personal computing infrastructure. Being my own sysadmin used to be fun; now it feels entirely too much like work.
There's also some perfectionism involved -- I didn't want to clutter my livejournal with memes and LOLcats and 'trivia,' but I'm beginning to realise that writing for livejournal is a very, very different thing from writing for publication, even when it's self-publication. It seemed obvious to me at one time that there are some things I write that should be hosted on my own hardware, and some that belonged out where my friends could see it easily, and I think I had some vain hope that RSS/Atom aggregation was going to save the day. But re-inventing infrastructure is so very 1990. And perhaps most important of all, it doesn't matter what you're using to publish if there isn't any content.
So I am punting the infrastructure question by the simple expedient of copy-and-paste, and folks who read me on LJ can comment there, and folks who have subscribed to Dragons and Elegance can comment there, and we'll take it as it comes. Because, after all, if I'm the only one reading this stuff, it makes no difference whatsoever. But if you have an opinion, please, share it and be welcome.
Every period of writing activity starts with a single post. This one may not be polished, or even particularly coherent, but it means I showed up to the page. Or at least to the Emacs buffer.
Be excellent and loving to one another, my friends. We've got a lot of work in front of us, but we don't have to do it alone.
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5am, Monday 30 May 1988, Sheremetyevo Aiport, 20 km outside Moscow, USSR.
The grueling 16-hour flight from new York was finally over; my butt
was still vibrating. My 79-year-old grandmother had made it through
with surprising aplomb and energy, but she was still exhausted. We
disembarked from the Aeroflot 747 and emerged into an eerie silence;
the plane was the first one to land that morning, and the airport was
very nearly deserted. An empty airport is a very different thing
acoustically from a full one, to hear the echoes of your footsteps in
an airport is deeply wrong in a way I am not sure I can explain. We
descended a long, dim corridor towards the ominous-sounding Passport
Control. No one spoke, and I wondered why, thinking perhaps they were
too tired, too drained from the long journey. And then I saw them --
a line of about a dozen fresh-faced Soviet youth, standing at some
approximation of parade rest, not looking particularly hostile or
particlarly welcoming, with that blank expression that speaks volumes
to those who have seen it, as some of my companions had, on a thousand
borders all over the world. And each youth was holding an automatic
rifle in an easy two-handed grip, very carefully not pointing it at
anyone. It wasn't until after I had the thought, "Dear God, they could
kill us all from that position; no one in the corridor would survive,"
that I realised they were in uniform. That was the moment when I
realised how lucky I was, how safe my world had been to have never
seen this before.
3pm, Friday 5 November 2004, 12th Street BART Station, Oakland, California, USA.
The group of policemen were gossiping loudly, in that
hail-fellow-well-met sort of way that tells you that they've never
been told to keep their voices down in their lives. They were
standing to one side of the entrance to the station; there were six of
them. Two armed in the way one is used to seeing transit cops --
flashlight on one belt hook, automatic pistol on the other side. The
other four -- how can I describe them? I don't know guns well enough
to tell you a maker or model, but I know these were fully-automatic
rifles, the next thing to a personal machine gun. One of them
adjusted his rifle on its strap, and though the muzzle never pointed
at me, I found myself abruptly imagining what it would feel like to
look down the barrel of it. I had seen the individual men in fatigues
carrying these things at airports since 9/11, of course. But they
tended to travel singly, or in pairs at most. Seeing four of them
together, with their weapons casually slung, as if it were nothing
that they could simply pull a little piece of metal and hold it down
and everyone in this bustling plaza would either take a bullet or run
screaming for their lives. And I knew in my head that I should be
grateful that these were familiar American good-ol'-boys rather than
silent, unreadable, unmistakably Slavic young men. But that didn't
stop my heart from breaking.
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America, who was most beloved of nations! See how she is cast down,
and rends her garments at the faithlessness of her usurpers!
Boys in uniform, her precious children, sent to kill and die in lands
far from home; who will teach them the way, show them the reflection
in the stranger's eye, instruct them in the language of Brotherhood?
Where is her mercy, her love? Twisted, perverted, made to serve that
hideous beast, Mammon.
Children perish in her streets, starving, orphaned, alone -- where is
her bounty, her endless love and generosity? Plundered, attacked,
destroyed by the usurper and his minions.
Death have they sown, and death shall they reap; see how she weeps at
their abuse of her companions, so that none dare come to her aid.
Electrodes and boxes, forever denying their kinship with the Other;
she weeps as her flesh is stained by this, her depraved guardian's
barbarity.
Faithless pretender! Hypocrite! Mouthing his prayers as he mocks the
Law, serving none but himself and that great Beast, the Deceiver and
False Prophet!
Greatness is in her soul, her eyes still a shining beacon to the
nations. Her fidelity is of legend; her friendship a glorious gift.
But she is despised by those most sworn to protect her, and is undone.
Heaven knows the hearts of those who transgress; nor shall they escape
punishment. Things unseen will be seen; deeds done in the darkness
shall be revealed in the light.
Israel, O Israel! Hearken to the words of the Lord your God: "THOU
SHALT NOT KILL!" The Law is the Law, and God is God!
Jerusalem, your children are suffering! Put away your swords; no more
children made motherless, fatherless, lifeless! Listen to their cries
and hear the voice of God!
Killing in the name of God is not righteousness; it is blasphemy! She
hears the lamentations of the widows, the orphans, the maimed, the
dying, and the sound will not leave her ears.
Love shines in her eyes; but he has forgotten her love, and goes to
make the war plans. She weeps to be broken and abused so, abandoned,
rebuffed.
None dare to resist the transgressions of wicked men, even as they
take more tribute, and fill their coffers with the blood of children.
None dare assist her, alone, her virtue vanquished and her skirts
torn. Where are her friends now?
O friends of America! Arise, resist! Deliver her from the clutches of
this Beast and his ministers! Show her your love, your fidelity,
your steadfastness! Bring her children home and care for them. Obey the
Law of the Lord your God!
Peace is denied her; her armies are broken, one by one, and her
children lament. Strife and murder mark her days; her nights are
filled with sorrow.
Quick is the poison he feeds her; he takes her blood and her treasure
and feeds her on his lies. She looks in vain for aid; her faithful
companions have deserted her, and she is surrounded by enemies.
Remember the widow, the orphan, the stranger: these you are commanded
to protect. Hear the shouts and cries of the prisoners; their
warnings are for you.
She calls out to the nations: "Help me! Deliver me before I am driven
mad by sorrow!" But their hearts are hardened; they see his actions
and call them hers. And thus he defeats her a little more each day,
the poison doing its deadly, corrosive work.
The usurper dares speak the name of the the Lord your God, but he
knows nothing, obeys nothing, believes nothing. He dismisses the Law,
sends this holy land's sons to do senseless murder, and is deaf to
their cries upon their return, beaten and battered and maimed.
Unite, and obey the Lord your God! Be not deceived by these
hypocrites, charlatans, deceivers! Obey the Law, love one another,
care for the old, the infirm, the stranger, the lost. Show your
reverence to the Lord your God in how you treat all souls.
Vision is given to him who will see; the Lord delights not in
cruelty, in mayhem, in destruction. Build your groves, care for
your flocks, look to each other and to your Lord for help and
comfort. Save this precious land from division and destruction;
embrace your neighbour as one of your own kin.
Weep for the children, of all the tribes, a thousand lives
betrayed for false piety and pride. Return, America, away
from endless war. Your children need you; they are crying and hungry.
Xenos, the stranger. Remember the Law: protect the stranger.
He is far from home and helpless; the Lord your God entrusts his
safety to you.
You are indeed His beloved children; return to the fold now,
and care for your holy land, for she is bleeding, wounded by the
usurper's poisoned dagger. The time for playing with toy swords
is past. Leave vengeance to Him who has claimed it; keep the fields
and tend to the dying.
Zealotry in obedience is full of wonders: the stranger is your
brother. You are, as Cain was, your brother's keeper.
The Lord your God has commanded you: Thou shalt not kill.
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America is a country that needs war to sustain its economy and hate to nourish its pride.
-- Ed Turner, the only black faculty member at UC Davis, April 5, 1968.
Less than three months after George W. Bush was inaugurated in 2001, I lost my job and the only hope I ever had of achieveing the so-called American Dream. The past three and a half years have been hard-scrabble, punctuated by periods where I couldn't afford to go to the doctor because I was uninsured, where I have abandoned physical therapy because it I couldn't afford it, leading to what may well be a lifelong impairment, where savings that was intended to go for the down payment on a house was instead committed to keeping my family fed and housed, and the one windfall from the Clinton years swallowed up by the very same tax code that gave billons of dollars in tax cuts to people far wealthier than I. Not only am I not better off now than I was four years ago, I very much doubt that I will ever be able to make up the difference. I have gone from being able to support my family of four single-handedly and comfortably to watching all of the adults in my household take $10-or-less jobs in an effort to keep the house over our heads.
I fully expect another four years of this treatment to defeat me utterly -- I quite literally do not expect to survive it. This is not to say that I will not fight, with all of my heart and soul. For my family, my friends, my loved ones, I must do that much -- but I am breaking inside, and I can feel it. I can no longer afford to be ill, but I am pushing my body to the point where it is clearly communicating to me that it will ot take much more.
That sound you hear is yet another formerly-middle-class American falling through the cracks. There will be more of me, as the social safety net frays and disintegrates, and sooner or later, long before you expect it, one of them will be you.
This is what happens when you elect people with no conscience, no empathy, no ability to put themselves in another's shoes. You get imperialism and hubris and policies made up of flights of fantasy with no conception of their human costs.
America will remain at war in Iraq to sustain its economy, to enrich the defence contractors and the ruling cabal's cronies. And oh, the pride. Down with the queers! Down with the Muslims! Down with those filthy peace activists! America for Americans! And we will tell you who the real Americans are. And you will hate who we tell you to hate. And you will be proud to hate them.
Ed Turner died in the early 1970's, after a long and tortured struggle with the culture of which he never quite managed to be a part. I do not intend to follow the same path. But I feel, tonight, more than I have ever felt in my life, the truth of the words he spoke on the day after the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King.
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the spirit of the people
the spirit of the people
the spirit of the people
the rhythm has begun ...
old men with their protocol
lead us off to war
sometimes we don't even know
what we're fighting for
marching to the beat of their drum
leaders we no longer trust
told too many lies
the promises they made to us
were never realised
hear me now the chant has begun
nowhere left to turn
no-one left to turn to
voices raised in anger
they don't have the answer
our whole world's in danger
oil slicks on the ebbing tide
progress out of hand
blind men choke on swallowed pride
heads down in the sand
don't wanna see the damage they've done
trees destroyed by acid rain
falling from the skies
when our children place the blame
who will tell them why
hear me now the chant has begun
why is love so rare
all this talk of warfare
voices raised in anger
they don't have an answer
pass the word along
we can wait no longer
too much blind destruction
follow love's instructions
now the chant has begun
(chant)
make your choice there's no escape
add your voice, the chant has begun
-- Level 42, The Chant Has Begun, 1986.
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