State of the Union, or, I Have Seen the Face of Evil

I've never been so afraid for my country in all my life.

I'm watching President Bush delivering his State of the Union address. He explains how he's appreciated the criticism and input of both Democrats and Republicans. That Congress should speak freely ... it's part of Democracy. In the same breath, he says it's not useful to criticize the past, we must only look forward.

And looking forward, he says: "There is only one option."

I felt a chill go up my spine. I fee sick to my stomach.

There is only one option? So - it's OK to debate and criticize, as long as you realize there there is only one option - my option. To move forward, and then, he says, to support our troops in their efforts to finish the job - clearly a way to soften what was a harsh threat to Congress.

And Congress cheered.

There is no excuse for this. Mr. President, there are always options. There are many options. You need to hear them. You'll make your choice from among them, and you and we will have to live with that choice. But my country is a noisy, messy place, where people can argue, debate, choose to stomp their feet and stand their ground or to listen and find compromise. If I want to dwell in hindsight, I have every right to. If I want to point out your mistakes, I will. If I want to offer options, new ways to see our choices in the world -- or support people who have these views -- I will.

That's America.

I've never been scared of George Bush or Republicans in Congress before. I am now. He will clearly leave this country a worse place than it was before -- one where people are afraid to speak their minds, where freedom of speech is under increasing attack. Protect our country, but live with the debate. Argue, fight, and make your decisions, but never stop the voices.

You may not like the shouting, but that beautiful noise is much safer than the chilling silence ahead.

One Minute Stories

Not sure if anyone else likes them, but I do.

I've started a new blog. The concept: One new story posted every day that you can read in a minute: One Minute Stories.

The new blog combines some of the One Minute stories from this blog with new stuff cobbled together from whatever debris is floating around my mind at any given moment.

Click here to check it out.

Try, Try Again

Yet another One Minute Story

I held the flint in one hand, and the steel in the other. Clack, clack, clack.

Nary a spark.

I kneeled like a penitent over the tiny twig teepee stuffed with bark, wood shavings, leaves and pine needles. I closed my eyes. The sun was settling into a thick, rusty pink glow over the lake and the air turned colder, more solid, like you could bite it.

I opened my eyes and struck steel to flint. Sparks flew. Again and again. Clack, clack, clack.

Something rustled in the leaves above me, but I didn't look. Squirrel, probably.

Clack, clack, clack.

Sparks flew. One fell on a leaf and sent wisps of smoke from the kindling. The leaf dissolved from within, forming a ragged hole.

Clack, clack, clack.

More rustling in the trees, but I couldn't be bothered.

Something hit me in the head.

"Son of a bitch!" I said.

Acorn.

Clack, clack, clack.

Sparks flew with a vengeance, and a leaf caught fire. Small orange flames, billows of smoke. I blew gently on the kindling and the flames leapt up in thanks.

"Son of a bitch!"

Another acorn.

I laid carefully chosen sticks gently upon the teepee and watched the fire with deep satisfaction, like I'd just rescued a kid from drowning or something. I smiled and looked around for some sign of recognition.

It was completely dark now. The moon was high in the sky. Some thirty tents surrounded me, all zipped closed and dark. Cursing, I looked up to see a gray squirrel squatting on a low branch. I swear it was looking right at me. It held an acorn in its forepaws and must have had a half-dozen in its cheeks. I waved at it and then held my hands to warm them over the fire, and then I decided to...

"Son of a bitch!"

# # #

Kid's Stuff: A One Minute Story

A One-Minute Story (tm)

"G'mornin'," she said and I groaned.

"Hiya, angel," I said and stuffed my face back in my pillow.

"How'd you sleep?" she asked sweetly.

"Like a herd of sheep was marching on my head all night," I said into the pillow.

"Hmm," she purred. "Maybe we shouldn't have...you know."

I bolted upright, wrenching my back. "Maybe we should have," I growled.

She laughed. She always does that. Or, at least I imagined she always does that.

Anyway, she was already out of bed, sashaying into the bathroom. I watched her ... sashay. I listened to the toilet flush, and the water splashing in the sink. I listened to the soft thump of her feet on the floor. Then to silence. Then to the clatter of plastic and metal and a resounding crash of shattered glass, squeals of pain and shrieks of laughter. Then it stopped.

I raced to the bathroom and threw open the door. She sat, cross-legged, blood dripping from her arms and cheeks, amid the ruins of the shower door and the shards of the mirror, amid the clutter of toothbrushes, bars of soap, lipstick and makeup. She sat smiling, holding a small, squirming figure by the tail.

"Mouse," she said, unecessarily.

# # #

A Country Song (Annotated)

"Drivin' Down the Road"(1)

I was drivin' (2)
Down an old dirt road in the dark
Through a tunnel trees headin' nowhere
I was gettin' there fast (3)

I was layin'
In a field of grass diggin' my toes in the dirt (4)
Runnin' my hands 'cross your face,
Feelin' your curves like a blind man
Tryin' to remember your skin.

I was standin'
On a white sandy beach, ankle deep in the surf
Jeans rolled up, hands in my pockets
Like I was posin' for a postcard
Hopin' for a storm. (5)

Back at home now
Sittin' at my desk job (6)
Boss's words commandin':
'Get your head in the game.'
Wait'll they find out...
I'm gone. (7)

(1) Written by me.
(2) Note use of the apostrophe to replace the 'g' in my gerunds. That's how you can tell it's a country song.
(3) In song, all roads should lead to "nowhere" or "you". They should never lead to "work" or "the pharmacy".
(4) My wife took a picture of me like this. I looked cool. Or was it someone else?
(5) Use of visceral nature imagery gives lyrics a powerful edge, implying a certain musical fury that will no doubt come across on the pedal steel. Or should we add a synth?
(6) Use of "desk job" in song is risky. In the rock era, few if any serious lyrics have included core office features such as "desks," "copy machines," and "tech support." I believe I am on the cutting edge here.
(7) Yes, I am.