We argue about flowers
We raise our voices
and the flowers stand
proudly in the withering light
From a great distance
they softly whisper hush
We don’t really care about flowers
This is just steam from the engine
that drives the great shafts
of our darkness
A wonderful machine
covered with flowers
~KK*
“Mr. Hussein told his interrogator on one occasion that a principal reason for invading [Kuwait] was his belief that he needed to keep his army occupied. … He distrusted what his restive officer corps might do if they were not otherwise distracted.”
He attacked Kuwait because his army was bored and he was afraid of a coup d’etat? Well, I have to admit that Bush’s reasons for attacking Iraq – oil and revenge for trying to kill Bush’s daddy – were better than that. These guys are all crazy.
Metaphor has a movie recommendation for you today:
The Secret Window, starring Johnny Depp, John Turturro, Maria Bello, and Timothy Hutton. It just came out on DVD on 6/22.
* Cool camera work – some really interesting panning shots.
* Depp was good – everybody in it was good. And unlike some movies based on Stephen King’s writing, it doesn’t suffer from a huge cast of characters you can’t keep straight.
* The story was very tight. Some great twists and turns.
* Very nice mood setting; sets and scenery are nearly perfect.
* Good pace. I don’t remember yelling and the screen, “Can we move the plot please?” which I frequently do with movies.
So, go rent it.
The FBI is warning public officials about possible explosive floating material — booby-trapped boyant stuff. They sent out the warning, despite the fact that there’s “no intelligence terrorists are planning to or want to do this.” It’s just hypothetical. Like a certain presidency.
But hey, it could happen. You ever eat a couplethree chilidogs, have a few brewskis and jump in the ol’ hot tub? You’re ground zero, Baby.
Dear Ol’ Dad.
Today was my Dad’s birthday. Happy day, Dad!
He never reads my blog. That’s OK. Nobody in my family reads it. …
Anyway, today was his day and we went to The Olive Garden for lunch, because when you’re at the Olive Garden you’re family. Our waiter was like an annoying cousin, but only in the sense that he was trying awfully hard. Speaking of which I gave dad a card with a dog on it that looked like our Stella, who died four years ago. I thought it would be heartwarming, but maybe it was just troubling. Trying too hard. [sigh]
If at first you don’t succeed, it’s probably time for a nap.
But I digress. I just wanted to point out that my Dad’s a great guy. See all those powerlines in the background of his photo? Of course you don’t, I photoshopped them out. But they were there. And Dad was a lineman for over 3 decades. Scary job, kids. Hard farkin work. Thanks Dad. Love ya.
A little orphaned bit of something, a passing feeling, to share:
On the horizon through the heat
mirages rising from the half-melted
asphalt, I see the first peaks.
I have feared these dark mountains
since childhood, and in a moment
I am climbing the foothills.
A moment more
and there is snow among the trees.
~Kyle
9/29/2001
Catfish: Mama said there’d be days like this.
Tonight I’m listening to Dead Can Dance, Spiritchaser. Thanks Linda!
I’m posting this tonight for Joe.
THE RIGHT THING
Let others probe the mystery if they can.
Time-harried prisoners of Shall and Will-
The right thing happens to the happy man.
The bird flies out, the bird flies back again;
The hill becomes the valley, and is still;
Let others delve that mystery if they can.
God bless the roots! -Body and soul are one
The small become the great, the great the small;
The right thing happens to the happy man.
Child of the dark, he can out leap the sun,
His being single, and that being all:
The right thing happens to the happy man.
Or he sits still, a solid figure when
The self-destructive shake the common wall;
Takes to himself what mystery he can,
And, praising change as the slow night comes on,
Wills what he would, surrendering his will
Till mystery is no more: No more he can.
The right thing happens to the happy man.
~Theodore Roethke
I’ve got a little personal project going on. I keep a journal. I have for many years. I thought it might be cool to gradually put it on computer, make it searchable. That way, when somebody says, “What year was it we all went to Gilroy for the famous garlic festival therein, and Uncle Kyle had that bad gas all the way home?” I’ll be able to find it.
I’ve started with my current journal, which goes back five years. There are more in the closet, going back maybe another ten. So far, I’ve typed in May through June of 1999.
What I’ve learned so far is that I’m not much different, in terms of my discernable emotional life, than I was then. This isn’t good news. I need to lighten up.
The garlic festival begins July 23, and runs for three days. In the mean time, there’s Santa Barbara’s annual Solstice. Maybe I’ll go as a guy who didn’t just stumble out of a Chekov play.
Mattie Stepanek, Poet, Advocate, Dies
“Despite his condition, Stepanek was upbeat, saying he didn’t fear death. His work was full of life, a quest for peace, hope and the inner voice he called a ‘heartsong.'”
“It’s our inner beauty, our message, the songs in our hearts. My life mission is to spread peace to the world.”
What a fine poet. Such a wonderful vision of purpose. This boy’s death is a loss to all of us, a gain to none but heaven.
Hey, do you all think I should apply for credentials to the Democratic National Convention? I could blog from there about nothing in particular, which is what I expect will be going on. So it would be right up my alley, don’t you think?
Anyway, other bloggers will be covering the events, so I’ll just stay here and drink coffee and watch the show. Hope none of you are disappointed.
Metaphor 