Sometimes you sit in a chair which someone else has just left, and feel the warmth they left behind. You pick up a sweater from the bed and find it warm; the dog has been sleeping there.

This afternoon, lying on the sofa, I closed a book and left it on my chest a while. I pondered the chapter I’d just read, looked at the Christmas tree, and checked the insides of my eyelids for light leaks. When I picked up the book again, I was surprised to find that it was warm. It was warm from the warmth of me. Imagine that.

I suppose this phenomenon has always part been of my life; maybe others have felt the heat that I’ve left behind in a chair. I’ve never given it much thought. I mean I don’t consider myself warm like other people. It’s bizarre to think that someone would take comfort in a chair I left behind, unless I did so anonymously.

I think of myself as neither hot nor cold, but as a moon in the neutral ambient radiation of spacetime. I am not measured in decrees Fahrenheit, in sound or silence, words or innocence of paper, not in mass or texture or even in weight, but in energy – 100 ergs per gram of irradiated whatever. I put this here and that there and sit back, as the equator pitches more or less to the arc of the bland, indifferent sun. So I’m IO or Ariel. A placekeeper, an orb to keep the pretty cosmic mobile, hung for an infant’s bassinet, just for a moment spinning true.

Keeping Things Whole

In a field

I am the absence

of field.

This is

always the case.

Wherever I am

I am what is missing.

When I walk

I part the air

and always

the air moves in

to fill the spaces

where my body’s been.

We all have reasons

for moving.

I move

to keep things whole.

— Mark Strand

It’s terrible. An unbelievable, heartbreaking loss of life.

Here’s an animation of the waves.

If you read one long, serious, beautifully written book this winter, make it Toward the End of Time by John Updike. I finished it this evening, having chewed through it, like a hungry and purposeful mouse gnawing into a bank vault, these part couple of months. I was richly rewarded. Updike probes his way through male sensuality, botany, cosmology, eschatology and even ontology like a man in love with his memories, like a writer in love with words.

Sssh. Did you hear it whisper past? Was that Christmas?

There was a giant ring around the moon tonight, so tomorrow maybe it will rain. And it will be the day after Christmas. Can there be another day in the year that so crisply defines the way Time drains through our fingers like rain?

Thou hast nor youth nor age

But as it were an after dinner sleep

Dreaming of both.

I did a little work on my novel today. I’m rewriting a chapter which starts by describing how my youngest character, 8-year-old Bo, carries his favorite possessions around in an orange knapsack. It requires me to really try to think back to childhood: What was precious to us a third of a century ago?

There are some things that Bo doesn’t want to get dirty or worn out. He leaves them aside from his travels. Some get to go, but only with due precautions. Some – like his sprung slinky and his GI Joe – are rugged enough for off road deployment.

I’m fishing for ideas. Well, really I’d just like to talk about it. What was precious to you when you were little? What did you love? What does that love mean to you now?

I’ll post about this again, after I hopefully get a few comments.

Well here we are, in the pines in the pines. My folks and I are visiting my brother and his family in the wooded foothills of the Northern California. We’ll be here for Christmas. It’s good to be with family.

Checking the news, I see that Rumsfeld has paid a surprise visit to Iraq. His message: Merry Christmas, Endeavor to Persevere. OK, since we can’t seem to broker a cessation of stupidities on the part of the Bushies for the duration of the holiday, I’m going to declare – for the sake only of my sanity – a suspension of cynicism. I can’t keep up with it, and you gotta admit it takes big rum balls to face those guys in the midst of all this sad chaos and abject failure. So Merry Christmas to Rummie and Bushy; Merry Christmas, one and all. Try not to choke on the goose, you turkeys.

I tried to post a couple of Calvin & Hobbes cartoons, like Pete did on his blog. But my main column is too narrow – it screws up the blog – and I don’t have the energy or inclination to wade into html at 1am to fix it. If I shrink the picture files, they suck. So here’s one and here’s another. Enjoy.

In the important interest of another perspective on Donald Rumsfeld, check out this post at JustinLogan.com.

This doesn’t speak to the assertion, which I’ve read elsewhere, that Rumsfeld and Cheney pulled the same pro-corporate, fascistic, pro-cold war crap during the Ford administration. But it’s an interesting way of looking at him anyway.

Regular readers may be wondering why I’ve taken a break from my anti-war blog, only to bring more anti-war thoughts here to metaphor. I’m wondering the same thing myself. Maybe I have more to say about that misbegotten conflict than I thought.

I’ve had a few e-mails about the photo currently in the sidebar. Yep, that’s me on the right, looking a bit daft or at least nonplussed. And my little brother Joe on the left, looking simply happy. Don’t know the guy in the middle. … I’m kidding, it’s Santa Claus!

That was December 1967. Ho ho ho.

I have to say that I’m really touched by the warm fondness between George Bush and Donald Rumsfeld. In fact, I was in the bank, staring at the cheesy red and gold balls on their Christmas tree, and I thought how special it is to find that depth of affection between our national leaders in time of crisis and chaos. And to be assured by the president of Mr. Rumsfeld’s love of the troops, warmed me like eggnog. I hope they can have a group hug and head out to the air force base to watch the boys and girls come home.

Please have snow and mistletoe

and presents under the tree.

I’ll be home for Christmas

if only in your dreams.

Here’s a story about a GI about to be shipped out to Iraq, losing custody of his son to his ex-wife. I’m sorry for his troubles, truly, but look at what he says about it:

“This is a big slap in the face,” Wertz said. “I’m defending the country, and right behind my back, they’re taking things from me.”

Before this man gets on the plane, somebody needs to square him away with the truth: he’s not going over there to defend America. He’s going to enforce American foreign policy. Iraq was never a threat to America, and certainly we don’t need to be defended from Iraq now. There weren’t any WMD, and Saddam Hussein said several times that he had none. He made no threatening moves towards America.

Somehow, American Newspeak has come to call any action by the Military a defense of our country. That’s simply stupid, and apart from giving disingenuous credit to our present armed forces, it demeans the service of those that went before them, fought and died when America and its allies really were at risk.

I am absolutely not suggesting that this reality lessens the service and sacrifice of our people in harm’s way, their families and loved ones. They deserve all our respect for doing their duty. I hope to God that none of them comes back to the cold scorn shown to too many soldiers back from Vietnam. I just think that the Truth deserves respect too. For example, if we forget that this was a war of choice – in which neither the method nor the timing were forced on the president — how can history record that our troops were sent into battle without proper armor and before any real plans for counter-insurgency, nation-building and exit were developed?

There may be some who say that some of the people we’re fighting are Al Queda terrorists. Right. They came for the fight we started with their neighbors. There was no reason to attack Iraq to fight Al Queda. Over 100,000 Iraqis are dead; many times more than the terrorists we were supposedly after. Does anybody really think that 1300 Americans would have died if we went after a few thousand Al Queda? Plus, the war in Iraq has done wonders for their recruitment. Not so great for ours.

These misconceptions help no one, least of all the troops, and they hurt everyone, most of all the next generation of “defenders.” … Pray for peace.

Those of us who may be receiving a letter of condolence from SecDef Rumsfeld will be pleased to note that henceforth he’s signing them himself, not using a machine for the task. It seems a lot of grieving families of young people who gave the last full measure of devotion to validate lies were offended by the automated missives. God, I despise that man.