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In times of old, The Furies protected Mother Right. If a mother (or any woman) was harmed, The Furies swooped down and took their vengeance. They were one of the last vestiges of a world that existed before the patriarchy. When we feel righteous anger, it is The Furies who are calling out to us to make what is wrong right again.
Sunday, October 31, 2004
Happy Hallows and the Weeping Woman
As you may have noticed, I haven't been writing many political pieces. I've been frayed by watching the fray. And shocked. I don't want Bush to win, but I'm not out in the streets trying to prevent people from voting. I want as many people as possible voting, so that we can truly see what the people of our country are like. Yet the Republicans are ripping up ballots, intimidating people, and challenging new registrations. They don't want people to vote. It is common wisdom that more people voting means victory for the Democrats; less people voting is good for the Republicans. I've heard that all my life. Now I'm hearing that people in the Republican party are saying they only care about one vote count: the Supreme Court. I don't want this to be the way our country goes now. I don't want each election tied up in the partisan courts so that our votes really don't count. It needs to be a landslide—a landslide for Kerry.
I've been trying to spend as much time in the forest as possible; although with all the rain, that's been a bit difficult. Falling Creek is so beautiful now. I came around one corner where the Earth slopes for a few hundred feet and I saw gold. "I've found treasure," I whispered to Mario. It looked as though a giant had tossed coins up into the air and they remained there, frozen for a few moments before shapechanging into stilled birds and then leaves again.
Water pours over the falls now: white and dirty green. Rain, rain, and more rain. This morning, the Gorge cliffs had snow. It looked as though someone had poured cream on the tops of the slopes. This seems early for snow.
After Falling Creek today, we drove to Maryhill Museum for their Day of the Dead celebration. Someone had put together a moving and beautiful ancestor altar. Then the artist of a retablo on display explained her art. She was raised in California but her father was from Los Angeles. They had a grotto in the back yard to the Madonna with corn growing all around it—for the corn maiden. As she spoke, I sat there trying not to cry. I don't know why I was crying. For once I was grateful for my allergies—since everyone would think that was why my nose and eyes were running.
When I was a child, I often passed out when I cried. I cried so hard that I couldn't catch my breath and boom! I was on the floor unconscious. My father said it started when I was about two—I think that was around the time we lived in Texas. I was a very sensitive child. My parents called these episodes "fits" and took me to the doctors. They didn't know what to do. If I started to cry, my dad would take me by the arms and shake me angrily, trying to get me to stop crying. Well, that just scared me, so I cried more. When I passed out, I would come to, gasping, after they threw a glass of cold water in my face. After one of these traumatizing episodes, my mother knelt beside me and said, "Daddy is just worried; that's why he gets so angry." I nodded and was grateful she told me this. It explained so much that I hadn't understood. Why is Daddy so angry with me when I'm the one gasping for breath? Now I knew: he covered up with fear with anger. (Something his daughter does to this day.)
Now as an adult, I rarely cry. If I do, I often feel like I can't breathe. My asthma gets aggravated; my nose swells even worse. It ain't pretty and it ain't fun. Yet, some days, like today, the tears just come.
I thought of all this while we listened to a Mariachi band—eleven musicians.
Three storytellers came on after them. They told a Spanish ghost story and did a Flamenco dance. Then one of the storytellers pretended she was La Llorona, crying (from off stage), "O hijos mios!" When she finally came into the room, the other storyteller said, "Are these your children?" "No," she said, looking at us. "And I know I didn't have this many." Then they went on to another story without telling the La Llorona tale. It was amusing, but the story of La Llorona (the Weeping Woman) is not amusing—which is probably why they didn't tell the story. La Llorona supposedly killed her children when her lover got married to someone else. (She may have gotten a bad rap. I won't go into depth about it now, because I intend to write more about her later, maybe this winter.)
We drove home in the sunshine and got back just as the children started arriving on our doorstep. I also had four phone messages, which is never a good sign. Last time I had four messages was 9/11. My mother is in the hospital. The details are hers and are private but needless to say it is quite distressing. As soon as I got off the phone with one of my sisters, I stepped outside and two deer stood on our front lawn, watching me. They didn't run; they watched me. A doe and a fawn, probably. I whispered, "All that noise is just the kids. You're OK." I thought of my mother and me. She has had such a difficult life. I wondered if she ever had a time when she felt free and happy—and healthy.
After a bit, the deer tiptoed away. Or so it seemed.
I came into the house and read an email from a friend. He was forwarding a letter from his friend. The letter was all about how this friend of his, this woman, who had not voted before because we live in such a corrupt system that she couldn't participate. She went on for paragraph after paragraph saying how terrible both candidates were but she was going to vote anyway. I couldn't tell who she was voting for. My friend thought her letter was amazing and inspiring. It just pissed me off. So I wrote this back to him:
"Sorry, D*****. Given what has happened to our country, it is difficult for me not to feel anger toward people like your friend who have been so disengaged. Voting is something men and women fought and died for. I'm glad she's finally stepping up—unless, of course, she's voting for Nader—it seemed a bit vague. Medea Benjamin and Daniel Ellsberg recently spoke in Portland and they said they were voting for Kerry, even though they had both supported Nader last time. And people in the audience were giving them a hard time. Ellsberg said something along the lines that Liberals are such purists. He said it's nice to hold onto your ideals but you should look at what you're actually accomplishing. For instance, and this is me now, these people who say they can't stomach voting for Kerry, and I say, OK, look at what the result will be then: you'll be voting for Bush. And for people like your friend who say they just can't be a part of this horrible system. Well, then I say it will remain this horrible system as long as people decide to sit it out. The right-wing decided they weren't going to sit it out and they've essentially taken over our government. Maybe I'll feel more compassionate toward your friend and others like her on Wednesday. Right now, I hold them partially responsible for the mess we're in now."
I wonder how I'll feel about that letter tomorrow.
I hope we will all be celebrating soon. If you don't hear from me, it's just because I hurt my arm again and it's difficult to type.
Take care.
May You Celebrate in Beauty. 0 comments
Thursday, October 28, 2004
Laugh and Protect
And for some of you fans out there: Here's the old American Medical Association sign for choking, and here's the new one.
As I slipped my ballot in the ballot box the other day, I looked at the (Republican) auditor, smiled, and said, "Vote early...and vote often."
KERRY IN A LANDSLIDE!
May You Giggle in Beauty! 0 comments
Pumpkin Artiste
Reading Tea Leaves
Did you see the lunar eclipse (POPUP) last night? It was absolutely spectacular! It got a deep dark bloody red—interesting because coincidentally it was the Blood Moon. I also noticed that as the shadow fell over the moon, it seemed more three dimensional than it usually does where it was still lit. Later, after about 9:30 p.m., when the shadow was gone, the night was so bright with moonlight. We watched it from the shores of the Columbia River for a few minutes, but mostly we stood on the toxic lawn at the elementary school. At one point, a falling star streaked across the sky just above the moon. I made a personal wish, and I wished for peace on Earth. (You never know what'll work.) I danced, chanted, made wishes, talked to the Invisibles (and Visibles when Mario was with me). All in all, it was a lovely night.
If you haven't looked at the Loo Wit webcam lately, you might want to. The link is on the right hand side of this weblog.) She is steaming up a storm. It was a lovely sight as the sun was setting last night. Modern technology sometimes is astonishing and amusing. I emailed my friend Kevin in Hawaii to look at the webcam to see the sunset. Later he emailed back to say he'd missed it but I might want to look after the moon was up because it had been grand the night before. So I looked, and it was spectacular under the full moon—a bit fuzzy, but still, it was the middle of the night! So my friend emailed me to look at a volcano in my backyard that he was watching from his home in Hawaii. Sometimes it's just amazing.
Then I went to sleep and had bloody horrible nightmares. Good times. I figure it's just the brain clearing things out.
May You Walk in Beauty! 0 comments
Wednesday, October 27, 2004
Eminem's Mosh
Soldier Stories
I think I may have already posted Robert J. Acosta's interview, but here it is again, just in case. Here are more stories. 0 comments
Blood Moon
In some cultures, eclipses are considered auspicious times. One is encouraged to either be still and mindful during the eclipses or, at least, engage in actions which are healing and helpful because whatever a person does during the eclipse is magnified in the coming months. (I believe this is a Buddhist belief, but I can’t put my hand on a source right this minute.) In ancient Peru, they believed the Jaguar or Serpent swallowed the Moon or Sun during an eclipse.
Mari Susan Selby in We’Moon 2002 writes, “Eclipses demonstrate deep processes of transformation. They crack open doors to our true selves. We can use the alignment of sun, moon and earth as a great ally in our own process of deep transformation.” In We’Moon 1993 Selby wrote, “Eclipses bring us in touch with our dark side: fears, wild woman selves, emotional patterns, animal natures.” I like that. I’m going to be dancin’ and howlin’ tonight.
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On the Side of...Fascists
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
Holy Crap!
Here's a story a friend of mine who used to be Republican told me. (Now think back to the days when being on "opposite sides of the aisle" did not make you enemies. My college roommate was a Republican.) Anyway, this friend, who is a librarian in Oregon, was being taunted by a patron as she was leaving the building. An elderly man was telling her that Kerry was a liar and a cheat who didn't deserve his medals. My friend said, "You're saying Kerry didn't bleed enough for his medals?" "Exactly," the man said. "So are you are also then saying that all those World War II veterans who got purple hearts didn't bleed enough for their medals either? Because Kerry didn't give himself the medals, an independent nonpolitical group gave them to him!" That stopped the man, so my friend went on to say, "I was a Republican for a long time, but I would never vote for George W. Bush. He's a criminal!" And she walked away.
I voted. I filled out my ballot, and it's sitting on my stairs. I'm not confident about turning it in because the county auditor is a Republican who is also the campaign manager for one of the candidates for commissioner. (The county auditor is an elected post.) That seems like quite a conflict of interest. However, I talked to someone else in the county who is also an elected official (of a different party), who said not to worry because since it is a partisan office the auditor is obligated to support his party's activities outside of work. I trust her. But it still seems odd. Why are they elected offices?
Here's an interesting article. The writer urges us to chill out about the polls. (I pay absolutely no heed to them. Kerry in a landslide!) Since 1976, 86% of the undecided voters have gone with the challenger. So there you have it.
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Monday, October 25, 2004
The Truth
By the way, did you hear Rehnquist just went into the hospital(POPUPS) for thyroid cancer? This is it, folks. If he quits or dies and Bush is in office, it is all over. Roe v. Wade is gone. Women in this country will once again lose control over their own bodies. Just imagine that for a moment....
Now go out there and vote, and make certain everyone you know votes. 0 comments
A Plan
What's the difference between the Vietnam War and the Iraq War?
Bush had a plan to get out of the Vietnam War.
Bada boom.
Seen on a postcard:
Jesus was my copilot...but we crashed so I had to eat him.
Here's another:
Speaker one: Knock, knock
Speaker two: Who's there?
Speaker one: Control freak.
Speaker one: Now you say 'control freak who?'
And the world spins on.... 0 comments
Sunday, October 24, 2004
Foundling
The Foundling
In the time before the dam, on the day his wife died, Richard stumbled into the jungle he hated. He had to get away from his daughter’s whimpering, her cries like those of some unknown bird living in the forest beyond the banks of the Tocantins River. The day they finished the dam could not come soon enough for him: then they would flood the rainforest. The jungle. The place where the beasts played and the cries of children turned into butterfly songs. He had brought his wife here, to to this place he hated, and she had died. Yet he fell into the jungle to flee the cries of his daughter.
The forest blurred through his tears. The noises, smells, and touch of things against his skin startled him. He tried to fall back out again, into the civilization he was trying to build on the banks of that Brazilian river, but he could not find his way out. Suddenly, he heard the cries of another child. Or the screams of a monkey? He followed the sound until he reached a clump of ferns. He leaned over and found a naked baby boy supported just above the ground by the soft green fingers of the ferns.
Without thinking, he took the baby from the ferns and held him up. Bubbles popped from the baby’s lips as he smiled. Off to his side, Richard glimpsed movement. He turned from the boy. Was that woman resting against a nearby tree, her chin on her chest, her hand touching the smooth black tree trunk? Richard blinked. No, only a shadow passing by or the sun trying to find a hole in the canopy.
“Something for my Lena,” he said, holding the boy above his head. “To keep her company.” And then he walked away from the ferns and the shadow woman by the tree and found his way out of the forest and into the house where his wife had died.
Richard put the boy in the crib with his daughter, Lena. She stopped crying and stared at the brown baby next to her. Then she laughed and reached her tiny fingers out to touch his hand. Richard went back to work, away from the forest, to forget his wife, and left Lena with the boy and the woman Katy from Tucurui.
The boy, who was called Cauffee by Richard because he was brown, and the girl, Lena, who was as white as the inside of a coconut, grew together and loved each other very much. When Richard wasn’t looking, they went into the forest together and became shadows. They listened to the sighs of the cats and mimicked the monkeys overhead. Sometimes they slithered across low branches hissing like snakes. They were children of the forest even as Richard helped build the dam to destroy it.
And Richard hardly noticed as his daughter grew taller and more like his dead wife. When the dam was finished, he watched the forest die as the water poured over it. The stench of death filled his wife’s house. The children cried. Richard took them and Katy to the next place along the river, and Lena and Cauffee laughed, quietly, because they had the forest once again. During the day, Richard went to his offices at Eletronorte Brazil to build another dam.
One day, Lena and Cauffee walked along the banks of the river holding hands, and Lena said, “I will never ever leave you.”
“And I will never leave you,” Cauffee said. He leaned down until his lips touched hers.
Lena smiled as the air dried his kiss from her mouth.
Katy saw the kiss and was disturbed. Though she loved both children, she believed Cauffee should live in the forest with his own people. Later she told Richard about the kiss.
“Cauffee cannot live here any longer,” Richard said to Lena. He stood by the mantel where no fireplace had ever been built. He straightened his tie and smiled at his pretty daughter. Someday he would be rid of this jungle and he would take her home where everything was not so close to the earth. Lena sat on the floor. The white dress she wore was pulled up around her legs as she moved the pieces of some game around on the floor.
“What do you mean ‘away’?” Lena asked. “This is his home.”
“He is not one of us,” Richard said. “He should be with his own people.”
“Who are my people?” Cauffee stood in the entrance to the living room.
Richard wondered when Cauffee had gotten so tall. He was no longer a boy.
“You could work on the dam,” Richard said. “I can find you a job. I should have done it long ago. But you’ve always been such a comfort to Lena. You aren’t really children any longer, however. You, Cauffee, are part of the jungle. Lena is not.”
Cauffee and Lena glanced at each other. They spoke to each other without words. It had never bothered Richard before, but it did now. They had created a world of their own, and he had only just noticed he didn’t belong.
And this boy—man?—had kissed his daughter. He had seen him kiss her before. A child kissing a child. It was different now. Cauffee was a man from the jungle. Maybe it was calling to him. The jungle. It had taken Richard’s wife. Given her some kind of fever that modern science could not cure.
Lena looked at her father. “I will never leave him.”
Richard laughed. “You are a child,” he said. “You don’t know what you’ll never do. I said I would never come to this place and I did. Then I said I would never stay, and here I am.” Lena stared at him. “Well,” he said, shrugging. “We will speak of this later.”
He started to leave the house and then stopped and came back to the living room where Cauffee and Lena now sat together on the floor, their heads close, speaking without talking. “I don’t want you in the jungle, Lena. It’s too dangerous.”
After Richard left them, Lena and Cauffee went outside and into the jungle, away from the manicured play town that Eletronorte had created for the workers while the dam was being built. They ran until they reached a patch of moss and there they lay.
“I have loved you since I first saw you,” Lena said. “You are in my heart and mind. I will never leave you.”
“And I have loved you even before your father took me from my mother,” he said. He kissed her lips.
Then, as they often did in the forest, they took off their clothes and let the air and moss stroke their bodies. This time, they pressed their skins against each other. As they twined themselves around one another, the cats breathed in their signs and the monkeys talked quietly in the trees.
Katy had seen Cauffee and Lena go into the forest. She ran after Richard and brought him home. Richard called to several men to follow him and he stepped into the jungle again for the first time since he had brought Cauffee out of it. The shadows slid across his body. They made him dizzy.
Cauffee and Lena heard the men approaching.
“I’ll never forsake you,” Lena said.
“Nor I you,” Cauffee said. And they moved closer together.
“Then you must become a snake and I the butterfly on your forehead,” Lena said.
Richard called out to his daughter, and the jungle answered him. The snake slipped up a tree while a white butterfly rested on his back. Some beast roared from within the forest. Richard felt his heart race. His blood pound. What was Cauffee doing with his daughter? How could he have been so stupid to bring the beast out of the jungle? Into his home.
Richard turned from the snake and butterfly and followed the men out of the jungle. He waited for the pair at his house. When the men had gone, Cauffee moved inside Lena, and she in him, touching his heart with her butterfly wings.
Lena’s father made Cauffee move to the village. Cauffee did not understand the people there, and he cried for Lena. She whimpered, too, reminding Richard of the day his wife died. He looked out into the night and listened to the jungle noises. Soon the forest would be gone. Then he and Lena would leave.
“Daddy?” Lena stood in the doorway, her eyes wet with tears. She looked so much like his wife. Her voice. Skin. His wife had had skin so white. Like linen that has never been worn. Touched. Then the jungle had touched her. Killed her.
Lena picked a leaf out of her hair and said, “I thought he was like a son to you.”
“He cannot be my son any longer,” Lena,” Richard said. “You are a child still. You don’t understand. He is different from us.”
“Being away from him is like having my heart torn in half, Daddy,” she said. “I love you, but I cannot live without my heart.”
Richard thought of Cauffee’s hand on Lena’s white skin. He looked out at the dark. “I hate it here,” he said. “I don’t know why I stayed.” He looked back at his daughter. “He cannot have you.”
Lena went to her room again and listened to Cauffee’s cries brought to her by the other forest animals. In the morning, after Richard had gone to work, Lena dropped a white powder into Katy’s coffee and waited for the woman to fall to sleep. Then she ran into the jungle. She ran until one of the shadows moved away from the trees to run with her.
“I will never forsake you,” Lena said.
Cauffee stopped and took her into his arms, kissed her forehead, and said, “Nor I you.”
They walked until they tired, and then the trees closed about them while they slept and opened when they made love. The birds dropped berries into their laps for them to eat. Near nightfall, they heard the sound of men. Lena’s father called for her. He was crying. No, the forest had changed the sound. He was screaming.
“We will never forsake each other,” Lena said. “You must become like a bush, and I will become your flower.”
The shadows slipped around them, and it was almost dark when Richard came upon the bush with one pink flower growing from it like a beacon.
“My God,” he said. “It’s dark and I’m going to be here alone in this jungle.” He sat next to the bush and began to cry. “I will be left alone, without my wife or daughter. Both taken by the jungle.” The two men with him pointed into the grayness.
“There’s a place just beyond where we can stay,” one said. “We won’t be alone.”
Richard shook his head, they didn’t understand, and then he stood and left the bush and flower behind as he followed the men further into the jungle.
He slept apart form the others, the jungle noises in his ears, creeping into his blood, and he dreamed of Lena, her skin like the feathers on a swan, her dress falling from her until she was standing naked, holding her arms out to him.
He awakened to blackness and cursed the jungle for his dream. He would find his daughter and take her from this place. When he slept again, he dreams of the snake and the butterfly. The shadows slipped away until the snake became the bush and the butterfly the pink flower.
As dawn came and her father slept, Lena lay next to Cauffee and felt him stir against her, coming alive, awake, moving into her, kissing her face and breast. She laughed and the forest echoed her laugh and stroked her bare back.
“I will never forsake you,” she said.
“Nor I you,” he said.
Richard awakened suddenly. The bush and the flower. He moved quickly through the forest, knowing it now as he had not known it before. He thought of his dead wife and the shadow woman who had slept while he took her child. Or had the woman been a part of his imagination? Maybe Cauffee was part of his imagination, too. Perhaps all of the jungle—the world, this day—was part of his imagination.
They heard him coming.
Richard stopped where he knew the bush had been. In its place was a small pond with a tiny white bird swimming on it.
He knelt by the edge of the pond. “You can’t have her,” he said. “I will quench my thirst with you.” He put his lips on the water. The bird flew up and away and then Cauffee was next to Richard, his hands on his hips, his legs spread apart.
“You will destroy your own daughter,” Cauffee said.
Richard wiped his hand across his lips and drops of water fell into the pond. “I only want her back,” he said.
“We will never leave each other,” Cauffee said, “or this jungle.
“But I will drown it,” Richard said, “and you will die if you stay.”
“We will find another place,” Cauffee answered.
“You cannot have her,” Richard said, and he looked within himself, where the jungle beat, where it had always been, and he found the brightly colored shadows of himself. He dove toward the pond, a small silver fish now, his gills shining like rainbows in the dappled sunlight.
A dragonfly kissed the surface of the water that became Lena again. She smiled and took Cauffee’s hand. Where the pond had been, the fish twitched on the wet dirt.
“He doesn’t know how to come back,” Cauffee said.
Lena picked up the fish and began running, flying across the canopy with the monkeys and insects. The birds carried her part way, the butterflies the rest of the way. The fish flapped against Lena’s skin. Then, before her father died, Lena reached the dam of her childhood and dropped him into the reservoir. The fish slipped through the scum, became a flash of light in Lena’s eyes, and then was gone.
“I will never forsake, you, “Lena said when she was by Cauffee’s side again.
“Nor I you,” Cauffee said.
They held hands and walked deep into the forest. There they lived happily together for many years, becoming shadows and whispers other people mistook for snakes or butterflies or the sighs of cats. 0 comments
Saturday, October 23, 2004
More Proof Election Was Stolen
Thursday, October 21, 2004
Bushies Calling Robertson Liar?
Camel Jockeys
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Wednesday, October 20, 2004
Writing a Story
First, I started writing the story on a yellow pad, which I usually do. Generally as I get going, I start writing so fast that I can't read my own writing so then I go to the computer and start writing there. This first bit below is what I wrote on the yellow pad. The strike-throughs are what I crossed out as I went.
Mata dangled her fingers in the black water that flowed beneath their stilled houseboat. The water was cool and warm and spread throughout the forest
Suddenly, the water stirred
The water was stained red. Like the blood she saw leaking from a dead caiman yesterday, dark and sticky.
Then I typed it up—making some changes as I typed it—read it again, then did some more editing. Some of the changes were factual. I learned the water was more red than black where I set the story. Some were spelling errors. Most of the deletions were made to help the pacing. You can go slowly with a novel, but in a short story, you can't weigh it down with too many descriptions.
Mata dangled her fingers in the reddish water that flowed beneath her grandmother's wooden houseboat. The water was cool and warm at the same time.
Part of the water was sunset-colored pink now.
This morning I made a few more changes—including a spelling error I didn't notice the first four times through the story. See if you can find it. I'll let this sit for several days, and then I'll look at it again and do some more rewriting.
Mata dangled her fingers in the lukewarm reddish water that flowed beneath her grandmother's wooden houseboat. A green dragonfly flew close to Mata's face, probably eying an errant insect in the white orchid Mata had snatched from the water as it floated by and which now decorated her hair. The river stirred slightly. Mata's heartbeat quickened as it always did when the pink dolphins neared. She knew she she should take her hand out of the Solimoes before something took her hand, but she remained as still as the half-moon that hung in the pale blue sky above her head like the shuttered eye of a lizard.
Part of the water was sunset pink now. Bubbles floated up around the pink, like the fizz on the champagne her uncle Jaco had brought home after his divorce last year. 0 comments
Where Are the Posts?
Monday, October 18, 2004
Jon Stewart on Crossfire
Not Up To Spar
This piece in The New York Times is a must read. (POPUPS and registration required, but it's worth it.) Please pass it on. It's by Ron Suskind and he says, "Bruce Bartlett, a domestic policy adviser to Ronald Reagan and a treasury official for the first President Bush, told me recently that 'if Bush wins, there will be a civil war in the Republican Party starting on Nov. 3.'" What I find most interesting (and scary) about the article is that Suskind shows, once again, the rather messianic nature of this presidency.
I'm sure you've heard by now about the supply platoon that wouldn't go on a mission because they thought it was suicidal. At first the story wasn't getting much play, but now it's getting picked up. A general in Baghdad says they'll "study protection for supply vehicles." Hmmm. My dad was in the Air Force, so I asked him if a soldier didn't have a right to say no to a mission like that; they weren't refusing to rescue a soldier in need or go on a military mission. They refused to take contaminated fuel somewhere without protection. My father said (something like), "No, you pretty much have to do what they say or they can accuse you of treason and things like that. But if you're tried for war crimes, you can't say your superiors made you do." I said, "So it's a bad deal all around." About then Mario mumbled from his position on the couch where he was watching the 'roided up baseball players in Boston, "If it wasn't for the lousy pay I'd get out of this chicken shit outfit."
I've been telling everyone they need to read 1984 now (and again). Or for the first time. You will be appalled, amazed, enthralled, scared shitless. Here's a piece by John Nichols who points out some of the Orwellians bizarreness of this campaign. And speaking of Sinclair trying to influence the outcome of this election by forcing stations to air an anti-Kerry film, tens of thousands of people called Sinclair stations protesting their plan. We'll see if it makes a difference, but good for you all for calling!
By the way, FOX is trying to fire the woman who is accusing O'Reilly of sexual harassment. They have no shame, do they?
I'm sure you've probably heard about the Republican-minded company who is registering people to vote—only they throw out the Democratic registrations. I heard one of their employees saying this on the news. Apparently the employee didn't realize this is highly ILLEGAL. Pisses me off. So if you registered with anyone on the street and haven't gotten your voter's registration card, call your county clerk and/or secretary of state offices.
The New York Times has endorsed Kerry, as has The Oregonian and the Seattle P-I. Putin is endorsing Bush. He shouldn't be endorsing anyone—unless it's in his own country. Tacky SOB. His endorsement should give some American citizens pause. He's not exactly a denizen of free speech, democracy, etc. I think world leaders should be quiet until our elections are all over. I don't think our president should be endorsing any of their candidates, either. (Or bombing their countries either...but I digress.)
OK. That's enough.
Kerry in a landslide!
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Married to a Poet
About twenty people besides ourselves gathered in the gallery of the library on a dark rainy Sunday afternoon. Poet Dave Johnson and I were Mario's opening act. Dave began the reading with some great poems evoking the awe and angst of his childhood in Oregon and then later his struggles with illness as he got older. It was interesting that when his poems were about his medical situation, he spoke of the person in the poem in third person—as if it were someone else.
I read my essay "Coyote Whispers" which was published on the Journal of Mythic Arts site. Then it was time for the star: Mario. Everyone cheered and clapped as he began his set. His poems are so simple and complex, imaginative and ordinary. He is basically a shy man who does not relish attention, normally, but he had a good time. He was an outstanding performer, letting his words speak for themselves—as it were. The audience loved it. I was glad to see him get his due. He's so talented. One of the biggest hits was his poem "When I Was," which also happens to be published in the Journal of Mythic Arts. It reads outloud really well—you should try it. 0 comments
Friday, October 15, 2004
Fahrenheit 451
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Operation Truth
Operation Truth is airing this great ad. If only everyone in the country could see it. They need some moula if you can afford it to get the ad out.
Operation Truth is a "non-profit, non-partisan organization that seeks to educate the American public about the truth of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan from the perspective of the troops who have experienced them first-hand."
They look like a good outfit.
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The Yuck Factor
From the Christian Left
Writing in the National Catholic Reporter, Pat Marrin concluded his article by saying, "Without a change in national policy, the circle of death will widen exponentially. When it touches more of us personally, perhaps then we will protest. If only we could anticipate that need now, activate our efforts on behalf of others, pay attention before we find ourselves and our loved ones in their shoes."
Amen to that, Mr. Marrin.
Thanks for the link, Claudia. (Claudia's subject line in her letter to me was "from the Christian left." I like knowing there is such a thing!)
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Wednesday, October 13, 2004
Napping
Watched the debate. I thought Kerry did very well. No lapses at all. He could have gone after Bush more, but he didn't. Bush made too many weird noises, but he did all right, too, I thought. We listened to the talking heads after the debate, just for a few minutes. Dan Rather kept saying how boring the debate had been. I didn't think it was boring. In fact, I was glad they talked about how polarized this country has become. I long for the old days, I gotta tell ya, which is so useless. Like trying to photograph dreams.
Speaking of which. I dreamed I returned to a hotel I had been to before...in another dream. Yes indeed. In the first dream, which I had years ago, the hotel was in Paris. This time it was in London. Still, it was the same unremarkable hotel. Have no idea what that means.
I'm going to sleep.
I shall endeavor to return soon, refreshed and well. 0 comments
Tuesday, October 12, 2004
It's Code, My Friends
Media Emergency!
As a liberal/progressive, you are probably confused by much of what has happened. You've known there were conservatives out there, you knew there were people who were waiting for the rapture, who believed abortion was murder. You knew this, but you thought, "That's their prerogative. I don't want to legislate anything so they have to believe the way I believe, think the way I think, do as I do. This is America. They are entitled to their beliefs." BUT THEY DO NOT THINK THAT WAY. They believe we are murderers and heretics and evil. They want to legislate what we believe and what we think and what we do. WE MUST WAKE UP AND HEAR THE TRUTH. Come on, tricksters. We can do it.
As I told you before, Sinclair Broadcasting is going to force their stations to broadcast an anti-Kerry movie. Sinclair Broadcasting has free access to the airwaves. For that privilege, they must do public good. They are not allowed to try to influence our elections. Let them know what you think! I'm posting the Moveon.org information on the subject below with links where you can respond.
Dear MoveOn member,
We have a media emergency. Sinclair Broadcast Group is now instructing their 62 local stations, many in battleground states, to preempt regular programming to air a Kerry smear piece two weeks before the election. This unprecedented move would be direct electioneering by a corporate media giant—and against federal election law.
Sinclair is apparently willing to take this risk to their business because this is an election that hangs in the balance. It's our job to make them understand exactly the risk they face, if they choose to pursue partisanship rather than a broadcaster's duty to the public or even their own business interests.
One of the key things we can do today is put pressure on each of the local stations, which have a responsibility by law to serve their community interests. Can you make a call, right now, to your local station? You can look up your local station here.
SinclairWatch.org is a new site maintained by our friends at Free Press. Free Press is also encouraging citizens to pledge to fight Sinclair stations' license renewals, if Sinclair follows through with using their stations for electioneering. Real local opposition to license renewal will be taken very seriously. If you don't have a station in your area, the site makes it easy for you to file a complaint with the FCC and contact Sinclair's headquarters. Just click the link above to get started.
Please let us know you called here.
Besides the complaints that will surely be filed through the FEC and FCC, Sinclair will certainly hear from advertisers who face being implicated in this scheme and stockholders who face losing value in their investments in Sinclair.
Here's a link to an article in the Washington Post, which gives the details of this story.
Thanks for everything you do.
Sincerely,
Noah T. Winer
MoveOn.org
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Sunday, October 10, 2004
Aliens
I’ve tried to convince other people to write down their lives. Living history is fascinating and important. Things have changed so quickly in our life times. Our descendants needs to know how we lived. However, I understand the reticence: I haven't written my own memoirs!
I love to read memoirs. I think everyone has an interesting story—if it's told the right way. It's about impressions; it's about what memories of events shape a person. I like memoirs better than biographies because it's more about memory than it is about facts. It's a recitation of feelings, flashes of colors, tastes, scents. I asked Mario if I could write parts of his story, and he agreed. I might do a lot of essays, I might never do another one. But I started with what you'll read below. As always with these things, this is first draft. It could change completely as time goes on. If I were to put this piece in a book about Mario, it probably would be the forward or prologue. See what you think.
Aliens
This is the story he heard from the beginning, although he does not remember when it was first told to him. It was always a part of his life, a creation story of his very own, where his mother and father were major figures but he was the result. It did not make him feel special or superior. Sometimes he was embarrassed when his parents told new friends about his beginning years. The listeners were always amazed and enthralled. He did not understand why. Nearly every immigrant in his parents’ circle of friends had a similar “escape” story. His story was not special. For one thing, he didn’t do anything in it. He was only a baby. For another thing, it was just their story. Didn’t everyone have one?
It began in 1956 and went something like this: His mother, Agica Dragicevic, was a 17 year old girl who wanted adventure she could not find on a farm not far from a Croatian village. So she left with her sister and brother-in-law. They walked across the mountains to get to Italy. He never asked which mountains, or what town she had lived in, or if she had told her mother ahead of time she was leaving. Did her mother cry? Did her father try to stop her? Or were they glad their daughters were escaping? His parents always called it that: escape. They escaped Yugoslavia. At the Italian border, the guards asked her why she was escaping from Yugoslavia. She couldn’t say she hated farm life and wanted something different. She said, “I am fleeing communism.”
“I didn’t even know what communism was,” she said when she told the tale, “but I knew what I had to say.” So they let her in, and she went to a refugee camp on the west coast of Italy near Naples.
His father, Ilija Milosevic, was a 26 year old bachelor, a policeman, in a town in Serbian Yugoslavia. He was a loyal communist, as anyone would be in his position. One night when he was out at a bar with friends, someone said, “Ilija, when are you getting married?” He said, “I will never get married as long as Tito is in power.” Since Tito was an unelected dictator with no plans to relinquish power, Mr. Milosevic was essentially saying, “Never.” But someone listening—a rival after his job perhaps—reported his comment to the party and Ilija was jailed and held “pending investigation.”
He sat in jail for three months, staring out the window at an orchard in the near distance. The longer he was held, the more he began thinking about communism and Tito and the unfairness of his situation. When they finally let him out—because they found nothing they could charge him with—he was no longer a loyal communist. “They said they were for the people,” he said. “But that wasn’t true.”
He decided to escape Yugoslavia. Several friends agreed to go with him. It would be easy. They would get into a boat and row across the Adriatic Sea to Italy and find safe harbor there. Once they got to the shore, however, the other men looked at the small boat and the sea; they couldn’t really see the water in the darkness but they could imagine its vastness as they listened to it lapping against the shore—eating up the shore really—just like it could eat up them. They all walked away. Except Ilija.
Disgusted, 6’6” Ilija Milosevic climbed into the boat and rowed across the Adriatic Sea alone.
Mr. Milosevic rowed across the Adriatic Sea alone.
When the Italian authorities asked why he was escaping Yugoslavia, he said he was fleeing communism. He ended up in the same refugee camp with Agica Dragicevic. They met. He never heard how his parents met or what they liked about each other. He only knew that the teenager was soon pregnant, and his father answered a call for railroad workers in Canada. Ilija shipped out while Agica stayed behind in the refugee camp, where the walls were made of sheets, she had no privacy, and she was a single pregnant woman.
A rich Italian family offered to adopt Agica and her baby. Agica refused. She had the baby in a small Italian hospital. She was very sick afterward and could not care for the baby boy. When she finally got better and the nurses took her to him, he was dirty, soiled, and obviously uncared for. He cried all the time. She was furious. She got her baby and took him back to the camp—where he continued to cry.
He was baptized at a nearby Catholic Church. Ilija had written to Agica when he reached British Columbia and told her that if the baby was a boy, she should name him Nenad, after a Serbian hero; if it was a girl, he didn’t care what she named her. The priest said Nenad was a pagan name, so Agica needed to pick a Christian name, too It was St. Mary’s day, the priest said, so you could call him Mario. Agica agreed, and the baby boy was baptized Nenad Mario Dragicevic.
In the camp again, Nenad continued to cry. Soon no one would watch while Agica was gone.
“It was so hard,” Agica told him. “Once, I threw you down on the bed and said, it’s you or me. You better stop.”
When the boy was 14 months old—and still crying—the other refugees took up a collection and got Agica a berth on a ship going to Halifax in Canada. She didn’t know exactly where Ilija was, but she was going to find him. She only knew the name of the mine in Ontario where he now worked: Denison Mines.
Mother and child got on the ship and headed for Canada. He doesn’t know if his mother was afraid or excited. She was still a teenager, an unwed Catholic girl with a baby without a father. She was determined to find Ilija and marry him. When Nenad and Agica arrived in Halifax harbor, she stood along the railing with Nenad on her hip, looking out at her new country. It was cold, January or February, but she wanted to see the new world. In one hand she held a small purse with her papers and money inside. As she looked around, Nenad grabbed her purse and threw it into the bay.
“I almost threw you in after it, let me tell you,” she said.
She stood in front of immigration with no papers, no money, and a screaming 14 month old child. All she could say was “Denison, Denison.”
The story gets a bit fuzzy here. Did she bully the authorities into letting her in? Back then, Canada wanted immigrants, so they probably weren’t as strict about having the proper papers. Did she give the names of family members? He didn’t really know. Some nuns at a convent in Montreal took them in for a time and cared for them. She still remembers those nuns with affection. The story picks up again when she somehow convinced a cab driver to take her to Elliot Lake, where Denison Mines were. It was a long drive on a cold dark winter night. At the gates where the taxi stopped, Agica kept repeating Ilija’s name until the guard went to the barracks and got him.
“I thought I left them in Italy,” Ilija Milosevic said, shaking his head and smiling. “And there she was. No woman was allowed!”
The story blurs again. He knows his father said, “This country is not like we thought it would be. It is very hard. You have to work very hard.”
They had escaped from a communist country where everything had been provided for them. Once in a a free country they had expected everything would be better but still free. They were wrong.
Ilija did not want Agica and the baby with him, or could not have them with him, so she went to stay with a sister and her husband who lived in Port Arthur. They did not want her in the house or want anything to do with her because she was an unwed mother and the father was Serbian, an enemy to the Croatians.
Agica went back to the father of her child and told him they were his responsibility, and he had to marry her. It did not matter that they would be a mixed marriage and their families would disown them. He had to do the right thing.
So he did.
“It wasn’t easy,” she said, shaking her head. “It was very hard.”
Nenad remembers none of this adventure. He never asked for details: What was it like in Italy? Yugoslavia? What did you do as a policeman? What are our relatives like? What did you feel like as you escaped? How long did it take? What was the camp like?
It wasn’t that kind of tale. It was whole as it was, without the need for details: three aliens, going from country to country until they found a kind of home. It was a story the three of them shared, the story that set them apart from everyone else. The story that always made him feel like a stranger in a strange land.
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Americans Should Care
More on Nobel Winner
Undue Influence
Saturday, October 09, 2004
Jesus: Soft on Terror
Some Election (Crazy) Wisdom
I'm sure you've heard how the Bushies are trying to spin the fact that there were no WMD in Iraq. This spoof isn't far off the mark, which is scary.
Two things the candidates are not talking about that I think people care about: the environment and our civil liberties. Kerry should have Robert Kennedy jr. as his environmental advisor. I hope at the next debate he goes after Bush on this issue. Here's a Grist guide about the elections and the environment. He's not going after Bush about the abuse of our civil liberties either (and I include women's reproductive rights in this). He needs to detail specific cases of abuses by Ashcroft. AlterNet has some great articles about this issue.
Here's a site where non-Americans can vote in the elections. A couple of days before the "real" election, they'll publish the results.
It is pouring down pissing rain. They're worried about a lahar (mud flow) on Loo Wit because of the rain. The mountain seems to have settled down—although if you listen to the experts, it's sometimes difficult to tell what's up. It's either going to blow big, according to one expert; or it's going to go back to sleep or keep erupting steam, according to other experts. I understand that they don't really know, and I appreciate it when they just say that.
It's the middle of the night. Can't sleep. My body is sore. I had a run-in with a truck. We were in Portland today and a parked truck decided to come out into traffic when we were stopped at a light right next to it. We beeped and beeped and the truck got closer—there was no place we could go—and the truck was about to squash me and perhaps get me kilt. I did the only sensible thing. In the little space still left I jumped out of the car and began beating on the truck. Then I cursed out the driver. Asshole scared the shit out of me. When my safety is threatened or compromised, I run on pure adrenalin. If I'd had a knife or a hammer or some kind of weapon, I'm not convinced I wouldn't have harmed that truck in some way. Not the driver. But the truck. After we went on our way again and my body started to absorb the adrenalin, my hand and arm started to throb. It hurt for hours, and I now have a small goose egg on my arm. Not the smartest thing I've ever done.
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Friday, October 08, 2004
Who Won Friday Debate?
Environmentalist Wins Nobel Peace Prize
According to Reuters, the head of the Nobel Committee said, "Peace on earth depends on our ability to secure our living environment."
Maathai has been working to protect what is left of the forests in Africa. She and the other members of her environmental group have planted 30 million trees.
Congratulations, Wangari Maathai. Perhaps the people on this beautiful planet will start to realize that their survival depends upon the survival of the biosphere.
Blessed be!
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No Link Between Saddam and 9/11
THERE IS ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY NO LINK BETWEEN SADDAM HUSSEIN AND 9/11.THERE IS ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY NO LINK BETWEEN SADDAM HUSSEIN AND 9/11.THERE IS ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY NO LINK BETWEEN SADDAM HUSSEIN AND 9/11.THERE IS ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY NO LINK BETWEEN SADDAM HUSSEIN AND 9/11.THERE IS ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY NO LINK BETWEEN SADDAM HUSSEIN AND 9/11.THERE IS ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY NO LINK BETWEEN SADDAM HUSSEIN AND 9/11.THERE IS ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY NO LINK BETWEEN SADDAM HUSSEIN AND 9/11.THERE IS ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY NO LINK BETWEEN SADDAM HUSSEIN AND 9/11.THERE IS ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY NO LINK BETWEEN SADDAM HUSSEIN AND 9/11.THERE IS ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY NO LINK BETWEEN SADDAM HUSSEIN AND 9/11.THERE IS ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY NO LINK BETWEEN SADDAM HUSSEIN AND 9/11.THERE IS ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY NO LINK BETWEEN SADDAM HUSSEIN AND 9/11.THERE IS ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY NO LINK BETWEEN SADDAM HUSSEIN AND 9/11.THERE IS ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY NO LINK BETWEEN SADDAM HUSSEIN AND 9/11.THERE IS ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY NO LINK BETWEEN SADDAM HUSSEIN AND 9/11.THERE IS ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY NO LINK BETWEEN SADDAM HUSSEIN AND 9/11.THERE IS ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY NO LINK BETWEEN SADDAM HUSSEIN AND 9/11.THERE IS ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY NO LINK BETWEEN SADDAM HUSSEIN AND 9/11.THERE IS ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY NO LINK BETWEEN SADDAM HUSSEIN AND 9/11.THERE IS ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY NO LINK BETWEEN SADDAM HUSSEIN AND 9/11.THERE IS ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY NO LINK BETWEEN SADDAM HUSSEIN AND 9/11.
Got it? 0 comments
Annie is a Goddess
Annie is a goddess. Sting is not. I've never been a big fan of his music. We long ago nicknamed his song "Every breath you take" as the stalking song. But I've admired some of the causes he's supported, and the name of the tour is the Sacred Love Tour, after all. Well, when it was Sting's time, lights were flashing everywhere. I had to cover my eyes. In the back of the set were these huge screens, which we couldn't see that well because we were to the left of the stage in the nosebleed section. (Neither singer really acknowledged or turned to either side. They primarily played to those right in front of them, which was weird—our money was just as good, thank you very much.) Anyway, before Sting started singing "Sacred Love," he asked if we were all feeling sexy because he was and it was time for a little Victoria Secret. I'm thinking, what was that? A plug for their lingerie? That's tacky. Now, I'm not a prude by any stretch. I believe in sacred erotic wonderful love and sex and all that crap. I wasn't feeling particularly sexy but if Sting was, more power to him. So he starts singing "Sacred Love" about 45 minutes into his set. On the huge screens behind him played a film of 20-something women mostly dressed in their underwear stripping. No 20-something men stripping. No men period. Just pure sexual objectification of these young women. None of them looked like they were having a good time, by the way. They stripped the way models walk down the runways: looking sullen and bored. Frankly, I thought Sting was better than that. He's been married for a long time to a seemingly strong outspoken woman. It's difficult for me to imagine she would have been OK with the strip show. The teenage boy with his girlfriend sitting next to us looked embarrassed and his girlfriend looked extremely uncomfortable. We had planned on leaving soon anyway, so we took that opportunity to get up and leave. I guess Sting is no feminist.
I wished we had left before he came on. On the way back to the car, we rode the MAX. It was filled with teenagers. Full. It went along fine for a few minutes and then it stopped. And the doors wouldn't open. We were trapped on this closed train. We saw the driver get up and LEAVE. I'm not good in confined places. (Is anyone?) I was shorter than just about everyone. One of the kids said, "Someone got shot." Another one said, "Don't say that." Finally at the front of the car we saw people getting off, so we hurried up there and stepped out into the fresh air and walked the rest of the way back to the car.
I wished I was humming Annie's tunes as we walked, but Sting was stuck in my head. In fact I dreamed I was sleeping at a Sting concert.
But this morning, I'm listening to Annie. She is a goddess. 0 comments
Thursday, October 07, 2004
Trying, trying, tried...
In the meantime, it's raining outside. Loo Wit has calmed down. She might even be finished for now. I've been awake about half the night, same thing yesterday. Don't want to start this again. I am trying to relax and not let this election get to me, but it is difficult. It's the only thing anyone talks about, and it's about the only thing I think about. Mario and I were trying to figure out how these people took over our country. I think after all those awful years of Reagan and Bush, we all kind of relaxed when Clinton came to office. We were tired of fighting and wanted some down time. The neocons and right-wingers took advantage of that and swooped in; thus the coup d'etat.
I hope you've been watching The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. His bit about the vp debate was priceless. Also, I've been watching Link TV lately. They have some great shows on it, including Amy Goodman.
This is about the fourth time I've tried to write and post this. The computer has frozen or crashed or something each time. I'm too tired and irritated to rewrite everything I just wrote. I'm sure you've all heard that Paul Bremer told told a group that the U.S. never had enough troops in Iraq. He later said the comments were meant to be private. Uh-huh. I'm sure you also know by now that despite Cheney’s nasty little dig at the debates about never meeting Edwards before, he has indeed meet Edwards at least twice. (He also gave the wrong web address for a nonpartisan group; instead he gave the URL for George Soros, the anti-Bush billionaire!)
You also know by now that there is absolutely no evidence that Saddam had any WMD. Despite all this evidence, the Bushies refuse to admit their mistake and Kerry refuses to say let's get the hell out of there. Every day the slaughter in Iraq gets worse. I just watched a few minutes of Crossfire, and one of the Bushies said that Iraqi is a hotbed for terrorists. Thank goodness Paul Begala said, "Yeah, now it is." He's usually pretty good at not letting the Bushies get away with their crap—although I think Al Franken is probably the best of them all. He interrupts people and doesn't let them go on and on with their propaganda. I think that's a good thing.
Well, now it's warm and sunny out. I suppose I should get dressed and see what the day holds...before it's over.
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Wednesday, October 06, 2004
Rebutting Cheney "Misleads"
Moveon PAC wrote, "Again and again, Cheney tried to mislead the public about the war in Iraq and our economic problems here at home. He even claimed that he’d never met Edwards before when he had, in public, twice. But John Edwards wouldn't let him get away with it: when Cheney tried once again to link al Qaeda and 9/11, Edwards said, 'Mr. Vice President, you are still not being straight with the American people,' and explained that there was absolutely no connection."
They suggest we write letters to the editor of our local newspapers rebutting the lies, and they've made it really easy to do online. They write, "The tens of thousands of letters MoveOn members wrote after the first presidential debate made a real impact on the post-debate environment. Our letter-to-the-editor tool makes it easy to find your local newspaper and submit a letter online—it just takes a couple of minutes. Write a letter now here."
Here's a good piece that dissects the debate if you need some rebuttal points for arguments with friends or family.
Here's some talking points from Moveon PAC:
"CHENEY'S MISLEAD: 'I have not suggested there's a connection between Iraq and 9/11.'
"THE TRUTH: As the Washington Post reports today, Cheney has repeatedly insinuated and 'strongly suggested' that Saddam Hussein was behind the attacks on September 11th. And in its fact check column today, the Boston Globe says, 'Cheney has consistently asserted strong prewar links between Saddam Hussein and Al Qaeda, even after the 9/11 Commission definitively concluded that there had not been a collaborative relationship between the two.'
"CHENEY'S MISLEAD: '900,000 small businesses will be hit' by the Kerry-Edwards plan to roll back tax cuts for people in the top income bracket.
"THE TRUTH: As the Washington Post writes this morning: 'This is misleading. Under Cheney's definition, a small business is any taxpayer who includes some income from a small business investment, partnership, limited liability corporation or trust. By that definition, every partner at a huge accounting firm or at the largest law firm would represent small businesses. According to IRS data, a tiny fraction of small business 'S-corporations' earn enough profits to be in the top two tax brackets. Most are in the bottom two brackets.'
"CHENEY'S MISLEAD: 'We have added 1.7 million jobs to the economy.'
"THE TRUTH: On November 2nd, George Bush will be the first president in 70 years to lose jobs. There will be about a million fewer jobs than there were when Bush took office—and about 7 million fewer than Bush's own post-9/11 estimate. Cheney's using fuzzy math: 1.7 million jobs have been added, but millions more have been lost.
"CHENEY'S MISLEAD: 'The first time I ever met you was when you walked on the stage tonight.'
"THE TRUTH: This one-liner was one of Cheney's best zingers of the night, but even it isn't true: Cheney and Edwards have met in public at least twice. They met when Edwards escorted Elizabeth Dole to be sworn in by Cheney as Senator and at the National Prayer Breakfast. At the Breakfast, he even called Edwards out by name, starting his remarks with the words, 'Thank you very much. Congressman Watts, Senator Edwards, friends from across America and distinguished visitors to our country from all over the world, Lynne and I are honored to be with you all this morning.' You can actually watch video of the two of them shaking hands here."
Let's get goin'! We can do it. The Bush days in office are numbered.
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27 Days to Go
There are just four more weeks until Americans go to the polls. TrueMajority members committed to justice, compassion, sustainability and international cooperation can help others like us get registered and get to the polls. Because turnout is what this year’s election will be all about (see this great NY Times article ). This election will come down to people like us making democracy work.
Here’s a menu of things you can do. Some are really easy, while others take more effort, but any of these will help swell the vote by people who share your values:
Register to Vote
Make sure to register yourself, your family and your friends to vote. Check here to see if you can still register.
Vote by Mail
Twenty states allow Vote by Mail so you can be sure that your vote gets counted and not worry about problems arising on Election Day preventing you from getting to the polls. And with your vote in the bank, you’ll be free on Election Day to help get out the vote.
Help Get Out the Vote
Local grassroots groups across the country have built sophisticated operations to help registered voters get to the polls, and to get their votes counted. To find a get-out-the-vote group where you live, click here: www.ElectionMatch.org. To volunteer for the nationwide Election Protection effort and make sure citizens actually are allowed to cast ballots at their polling places, click here.
Donate to a Progressive Organization
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With great hope,
Darcy Scott-Martin
TrueMajority
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Dreams Are Made of This...
After the debates, I got dressed in my little black cocktail dress with a black jacket and walked down to the library for the 25th Artists of the Gorge reception. It was dark as I walked the few blocks by myself to the library. I looked up at the sky. Feathery clouds spread out over the indigo sky, like gauze covering a giant bruise. Dry leaves skittered across the sidewalk and street—a sound everyone recognizes as belonging to autumn. The wind stirred the leaves in the trees I walked under.
Just before going inside the library, I put on a choker of red beads, metal balls, and skulls carved from bones. (The metal in the necklace makes me itch after a few minutes—another indication I am really a fairy—so I usually can't wear it for long. But it is beautiful and brings some color to my all black ensemble. I’m such a fashion horse.) I breathed deeply as I reached for the door. I hadn't socialized in weeks. I hoped no one would put the evil eye on me tonight. I went inside.
The library was already full of artists and guests eating from the several tables overflowing with food. Anna Fiasca played the harp. In the back room, the staff was congratulating the new librarian. The system had announced they had offered her the job only a few hours earlier. I hugged her, then wandered around until I found Mario. He was still working, so I went downstairs to the gallery. The room was packed with people, all taller than moi. Still, I wandered around looking at the art. I had come down to the gallery earlier in the day when it was empty, so I had gotten to see everything before.
The juror's award was a watercolor—it always is. It was nearly always the same artist, too. He needed the money, so that was all right. He's a friend of Mario's who is afraid of me. I do my best to play the Trickster whenever we're in a conversation together; as you can imagine, he avoids me. He's extremely self-involved. (Yes, more than I am.) His biggest complaint is that he has too many friends, and they take up too much of his time. When he says shit like that, I want to slap him. "Look around! If that's your biggest complaint get down on your knees and fucking kiss the ground!" I want to scream.
Tonight I looked around the room, and thought there were too many watercolors.