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.

“The comment may sound a bit whimsical, but it’s literally true that the leading cause of death on death row is old age.”

— Ronald M. George, the chief justice of the California Supreme Court.

I don’t know which is more interesting, that I knew that what Justice George says is true, or that I did not previously know his name.

WINDING PAPA’S CLOCK

If I were sitting on the red brick hearth

where my Grandma held me on her lap

in 1962, I could watch the old mulberry

recede into another dawn of valley fog.

I used to stand on that hearth and Papa

would let me wind his clock. Ten half

turns, more or less, clockwise for

the chimes and counter for the drive.

I talk to Grandma on the phone.

The tree is putting on new leaves

in all this sun, incessant rain.

Papa’s chair with slow electric lift is gone

from its place in the living room.

She visits him daily, says the nurses are

decent, but the clock has run down.

Kyle Kimberlin

April, 1998

This post is in response to this one on AllThatArises.

I saw on NBC evening news tonight that Tweeners, consumers between the age of 8 and 12, have become an alert driving force of the American economy. They are very aware of products and almost viscerally influenced by the media.

This is where the anti-war message needs to be directed. It’s too late for those any older; they’re already caught by the threads of their obdurate shrouds. The great wood-chipper of US has them, sure enough. But the young ones … not yet for them the coffins.

Maybe we can get SpongeBob to carry the message: If you don’t convince your parents to stop the war, you’re next. Same as it ever was.

Ludwig van Beethoven was born on this day in 1770, and every year I remember this in some way, if only by a passing thought. Tonight, I’m listening to the Choral Symphony.

To me, Beethoven was one of the greatest geniuses ever, up there with Shakespeare and Mozart. But the man’s life absolutely sucked. He began going deaf around the age of 30, and by 32 he knew it was serious, progressive and incurable. He fell in love several times, but never knew the happiness of an enduring relationship. He lived in a time when being an artist meant being a plaything of assholes, not a star like today. He struggled to create, efforts to adopt the son of his dead brother became a torment, he became completely deaf and died at age 57.

Yet Beethoven wrote works of great passion, drama and joy. The world would be so much smaller and darker without his music. Happy birthday, Ludwig!

I don’t see how it can be so difficult to do this on the internets: [Sigh.] I have someone that I’m trying to stalk, and I can’t seem to find her. I’ve tried Google, phone and e-mail searches, alumni and reunion sites, maiden name search; everything I can get to without coughing up any money. I thought the Net was supposed to make it really easy (and free) to do just about anything of questionable motive and arguable turpitude. I can’t say I’m a happy little cyber denizen.

Well, it’s not stalking per se. It’s just that I used to know this person. We were friends and grew apart, I suppose. I haven’t talked to her in over five years. I don’t know how to reach her, don’t know if she’d appreciate hearing from me. Sometimes people just move on, you know? But it would be nice to have a phone number or something, even if I decided – as I probably would – that it would be best to let sleeping dogs lie.

It’s no good trying to keep up old friendships. It’s painful for both sides. The fact is, one grows out of people, and the only thing is to face it.

– W. Somerset Maugham

It’s very difficult for a single man and a single woman to be friends and just friends year after year. We were friends for about 10 years. That’s a growing apart best understood by the principles of plate tectonics, but apart we are. And it has troubled me. So every now and then I reach out into the troubled irritation of electrons that preoccupies my solitude, and hope for a still small voice willing to reply. So far, the answer is a chill and starlit wind.

Writing is a solitary occupation. Family, friends, and society are the natural enemies of the writer. He must be alone, uninterrupted, and slightly savage if he is to sustain and complete an undertaking.

– Jessamyn West

I don’t know about this; I’ve got some pretty old and dear friends. I’ve never been willing to trade one for a poem or a story. And I love my family. Which probably explains why I’m a writer of far more talent than accomplishment. So it goes.

Today is Erik’s birthday, so don’t forget to visit him at All That Arises and buy a round or something.

Happy Day, buddy!

So Dad and I took his new model airplane – with remote control and four little propellers – to the park to fly it. He had another one, but this one is brand new.

click to embiggen

It made three short flights and crashed, snapping its styrofoam body in half. It lay there on the outfield grass in two pieces and he picked it up and did not cry. I wanted to do that for him, not for his hundred dollars but for the time spent in careful assembly, aligning the props, and for all the decades spent in countdown to flight that fell to disappointment. I guess if he’s not too old for such grief, sadly I am. But he deserved to see it soar.