The current "wilsonian" presidency of the oligarchy, by the oligarchy, and for the oligarchy continues to go about the business of world conquest unabated by bothersome checks and balances. As any hierarchical organization knows, a monolithic top-down management structure is the most efficient way of manipulating other people to do what those at the top want done. Build an office complex. Extract minerals from public land. Make a war of conquest happen. Recent history demonstrates that successful managers silence, remove, or discredit anyone who disagrees with them. Discussion and debate are a waste of precious time that could be spent turning national forests and resource-rich countries into factories for making commodities that can be sold back to the lucky natives in free markets controlled by said managers. You got a problem with that?
Dissent = disloyalty = treason.
And it appears that the incredible money-making machine is succeeding in concentrating enough wealth in few enough hands to persuade a majority of the 535 members of Congress to help them pack the federal judiciary with like-minded authoritarian, racist, fundamentalist team players. How? Convince the people at the bottom of the pyramid that their material livelihood depends on giving more wealth and power to the wise imperialists at the top of the pyramid (economic argument). Convince the people with little time or inclination to analyze ideas that their value system is somehow threatened by other people with different ideas (religious argument). Convince everyone that they are physically endangered by strange people with strange names wearing strange clothes living in strange places far away (security argument). Then "starve the beast" by taking services from the many, giving the revenue back to the few, and continuing to feed the machine.
I realize this short rant leaves out a lot, and nothing is ever as simple as my immediate, angry spin. But occasionally I have an urgent need to connect the dots that line up a certain way, leading me to draw certain disturbing conclusions, despite the many other dots that may not fit the pattern. Please feel free to counter-spin.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Get over it
Or not.
It's one of those phrases that carries ultimate authority, as if it's everyone's obligation, at all times and in all situations, to "get over" whatever comes up. It's a trump card. Whatever it is that's bothering you, saying those magic words of transcendental tough-love is supposed to reduce the impact or import or stress or trauma of anything.
Lost an argment, cat, job, or election? Get over it! Insulted by a co-worker, friend, public official, or hardware store employee? Get over it! Still lamenting your treatment by your parents/siblings, your geometry teacher's success in convincing you to hate math, or the westward movement's extermination of native Americans? Get over it!
I'm sorry I'm not a Buddha. Just like the people who are quick to remind me of the futility of my reviewing life's big and little injustices, I really ought to take a deep breath and "move forward" rather than "dwell on the past." Did you every notice how the importance of moving forward and not dwelling on the past is voiced by persons caught violating House ethics rules, federal trade regulations, environmental protection laws, or the Geneva Conventions? Better yet, change your name to Altria and buy time on NPR, that'll make it all better (insert smiley face here).
Clearly I have some anger to work through here, and hey, what's a blog for? (Answer: one part critical manifesto, one part emotional catharsis, one part friendly news and notes, one part spiritual weather report.) But I keep coming back to the fact that not everything is to be gotten over. I was reminded May 4 that some events - not all - deserve to be remembered and rehashed and reinterpreted over and over again indefinitely. And I'll probably revisit this topic, too, because I'm not over it yet.
It's one of those phrases that carries ultimate authority, as if it's everyone's obligation, at all times and in all situations, to "get over" whatever comes up. It's a trump card. Whatever it is that's bothering you, saying those magic words of transcendental tough-love is supposed to reduce the impact or import or stress or trauma of anything.
Lost an argment, cat, job, or election? Get over it! Insulted by a co-worker, friend, public official, or hardware store employee? Get over it! Still lamenting your treatment by your parents/siblings, your geometry teacher's success in convincing you to hate math, or the westward movement's extermination of native Americans? Get over it!
I'm sorry I'm not a Buddha. Just like the people who are quick to remind me of the futility of my reviewing life's big and little injustices, I really ought to take a deep breath and "move forward" rather than "dwell on the past." Did you every notice how the importance of moving forward and not dwelling on the past is voiced by persons caught violating House ethics rules, federal trade regulations, environmental protection laws, or the Geneva Conventions? Better yet, change your name to Altria and buy time on NPR, that'll make it all better (insert smiley face here).
Clearly I have some anger to work through here, and hey, what's a blog for? (Answer: one part critical manifesto, one part emotional catharsis, one part friendly news and notes, one part spiritual weather report.) But I keep coming back to the fact that not everything is to be gotten over. I was reminded May 4 that some events - not all - deserve to be remembered and rehashed and reinterpreted over and over again indefinitely. And I'll probably revisit this topic, too, because I'm not over it yet.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Back to the garden
"Maybe it's the time of year, and maybe it's the time of man, and I don't know who I am, but life is for learning."*
No, definitely, it's the time of year. It hit me like a ton of bricks a couple of weeks ago. A few flowers started coming up out of the ground (I still can't believe they do that all by themselves! Evidence of intelligent design, or just botanical intelligence?), so I was wondering what would come back strong and what wouldn't. Then, of course, the weeds came back strong, because they're weeds. Which is my cue to leap into action, because of my nordic peasant blood, midwestern protestant upbringing, and control issues. So I've been steadfastly weeding beds on the weekend, filling the wheelbarrow with dandelions, maverick grass, and other pesky intruders, and dumping it on the compost to be of use someday. All part of the cycle. Build up, break down, move around.
"I'm goin' down to Yazger's farm, gonna join a rock and roll band, gonna get back to the land and set my soul free."*
What's really been fun is going to Local College's Equine Science facility (horse barn) out on Old 3C, loading up Hank the truck with year-old manure, and unloading the rich, dark stuff on the garden. This year's black-eyed susan, lavender, iris, beans, tomatoes, and peppers will be the beneficiaries of last year's horse feed. The immediate impact is satisfying, adding a layer of organic matter to the low mounded beds. And the long-term impact will be even better.
"I dreamed I saw the bombers flying shotgun in the sky, turning into butterflies above our nation."*
I'll give progress reports periodically as I recover from the repetitious movements of bending, lifting, and carrying. Pretty soon I need to get some veggies in the ground. Not being a grow-your-own-seedling gardener, I'll bring home some packets from the selection on the long tables at Local Nursery, plant the tomatoes a little too close together, as I always do, and start nurturing next year's batch of homemade salsa.
"We are stardust, we are golden, and we've got to get ourselves back to the garden."*
Me gusta el jardin!
*heartfelt cliches courtesy of Joni Mitchell
No, definitely, it's the time of year. It hit me like a ton of bricks a couple of weeks ago. A few flowers started coming up out of the ground (I still can't believe they do that all by themselves! Evidence of intelligent design, or just botanical intelligence?), so I was wondering what would come back strong and what wouldn't. Then, of course, the weeds came back strong, because they're weeds. Which is my cue to leap into action, because of my nordic peasant blood, midwestern protestant upbringing, and control issues. So I've been steadfastly weeding beds on the weekend, filling the wheelbarrow with dandelions, maverick grass, and other pesky intruders, and dumping it on the compost to be of use someday. All part of the cycle. Build up, break down, move around.
"I'm goin' down to Yazger's farm, gonna join a rock and roll band, gonna get back to the land and set my soul free."*
What's really been fun is going to Local College's Equine Science facility (horse barn) out on Old 3C, loading up Hank the truck with year-old manure, and unloading the rich, dark stuff on the garden. This year's black-eyed susan, lavender, iris, beans, tomatoes, and peppers will be the beneficiaries of last year's horse feed. The immediate impact is satisfying, adding a layer of organic matter to the low mounded beds. And the long-term impact will be even better.
"I dreamed I saw the bombers flying shotgun in the sky, turning into butterflies above our nation."*
I'll give progress reports periodically as I recover from the repetitious movements of bending, lifting, and carrying. Pretty soon I need to get some veggies in the ground. Not being a grow-your-own-seedling gardener, I'll bring home some packets from the selection on the long tables at Local Nursery, plant the tomatoes a little too close together, as I always do, and start nurturing next year's batch of homemade salsa.
"We are stardust, we are golden, and we've got to get ourselves back to the garden."*
Me gusta el jardin!
*heartfelt cliches courtesy of Joni Mitchell
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Building a Rhythm
The North Unitarian Universalist Drum Circle (NUUDC) LIVES! Hey, if we called it the North Unitarian Drum Ellipse, it would make a cooler pagan acronym. On the third monday in april, a bunch of people and a bunch of instruments gathered in the back room of the church in Lewis Center to make some noise.
It was a small group, about six adults and three kids to start, that expanded to 14 as folks drifted in during the next hour, across a wide range of ages of men, women, boys, girls, musicians and novices. We talked very little, although a couple of people really wanted to talk more, and started with very simple rhythms to see (hear) what developed. It was a lot of fun.
This week, on the third monday of may, we met for the second time, and not as many people showed up, as one might expect. Just Jerry was waiting with his plastic buckets when I got there, and Episcopal Dale arrived shortly thereafter with his collection of percussion instruments. Jackie and her two kids and their two friends showed up next, followed by Mary Ann and her husband Mark in the wheelchair. So we were a circle of ten this time, not bad for beginners.
The kids were all over the place, of course, trying out all the wood blocks, tambourines, snare drums, big Irish bass skins, triangles, claves, a tree-trunk slit drum, and what have you. The boys got into some violent drumming on an empty plastic milk jug. The girls were somewhat more focused. The adults mostly picked up on whatever rhythm the kids generated, and then it grew, changed, swelled and diminished improvisationally. Once or twice we really had something going that enveloped the whole room.
Can't wait till the third monday in june.
It was a small group, about six adults and three kids to start, that expanded to 14 as folks drifted in during the next hour, across a wide range of ages of men, women, boys, girls, musicians and novices. We talked very little, although a couple of people really wanted to talk more, and started with very simple rhythms to see (hear) what developed. It was a lot of fun.
This week, on the third monday of may, we met for the second time, and not as many people showed up, as one might expect. Just Jerry was waiting with his plastic buckets when I got there, and Episcopal Dale arrived shortly thereafter with his collection of percussion instruments. Jackie and her two kids and their two friends showed up next, followed by Mary Ann and her husband Mark in the wheelchair. So we were a circle of ten this time, not bad for beginners.
The kids were all over the place, of course, trying out all the wood blocks, tambourines, snare drums, big Irish bass skins, triangles, claves, a tree-trunk slit drum, and what have you. The boys got into some violent drumming on an empty plastic milk jug. The girls were somewhat more focused. The adults mostly picked up on whatever rhythm the kids generated, and then it grew, changed, swelled and diminished improvisationally. Once or twice we really had something going that enveloped the whole room.
Can't wait till the third monday in june.
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