From the end of Richard Cohen’s piece in the Washington Post: “A Hole in Which Hopes Are Buried.”
Little wonder Bush focuses on posterity. The present has to be painful. His embrace of incompetents, not to mention his own incompetence, is impossible to exaggerate. Rummy still runs the Pentagon. The only generals who have been penalized are those who spoke the truth. (They should get some sort of medal.) Victory in Iraq is now three years or so overdue and a bit over budget. Lives have been lost for no good reason — never mind the money — and now Bush suggests that his successor may still have to keep troops in Iraq. Those of us who once advocated this war are humbled. It’s not just that we grossly underestimated the enemy. We vastly overestimated the Bush administration.
This hallowed ground, this pitiless pit, has become Exhibit A on the inability of government to function. Plans get announced, news conferences held, breathtaking models shown of buildings reaching for the sky — and nothing happens. George Pataki, the governor of New York, supposedly fashions himself a presidential candidate, yet he cannot even get this development underway. He is at loggerheads with the site’s developer, and so nothing happens. In a city where developers are king — this is Donald Trump’s home town, after all — you can still go to Ground Zero and see zero. This is 16 acres of Katrina and all it taught us about feeble political leaders.
Maybe we should leave Ground Zero as it is. The imagination can provide a fitting memorial to those who died. “We dig a grave in the breezes,” Paul Celan wrote in his Holocaust poem “Death Fugue.” We can dig ours as deep as the World Trade Center once was tall. The ugly emptiness will remind us always to be wary of the grand schemes of politicians. They can’t build a building. They cannot capture a mass murderer. They cannot wage war in Iraq. This is their hole. It is, by dint of failure, George Bush’s presidential library. His proper legacy is a void.
——————
I wrote this poem decades ago, about a personal disaster. But speaking of Ground Zero, and thinking of Katrina….
Ground Zero
Where the hurrican hits hardest
there is not proof left
that a home once grew
in this forsaken place.
The ground cringes in shock,
disoriented in its stones —
the very heart of matter
consumed by an elemental peristalsis,
a raw cosmic mastication
of doorknobs and latches
and the wooden blocks of childhood.
Where time-worthy walls
once dared the night’s intrusion,
now the offal wind,
the excretion of stars,
the seminal sludge of infinity.
time lost and found
She refuses to go to her dentist appointment today. No way to convince her she should. So instead of sitting on a stool in the corner watching while she gets her cavities filled, I have some found time to blog.
I gave a friend the copy of Alice Hoffman’s Ice Queen that I had finished, wondering if he would be as taken with the heroine’s journey as I was. He responded: “I’ve finished The Ice Queen which I thought was a splendid read. Its mythic quality just kept drawing me in, so thoroughly intriguing me that I had to force myself to stop reading so I could absorb and enjoy (and sleep).”
For those who would distastefully dismiss the wisdom of the likes of myth-lovers such as Joseph Campbell and Sheldon Kopp, I suggest that literature that reflects cultural mythologies has been an inspiration to individuals as long as there have been individuals struggling to live satisfying lives. Hoffman is one contemporary writer who intuitively understands the power of myth.
Now, there are other writers out there whom I don’t know but who send me emails about their books. One of the recent notices came from the blogger, Grumpy Old Bookman. In February 2005, the Grumpy Old Bookman was listed by the Guardian as one of the top ten literary blogs worldwide. Well, MIchael Allen, that Grumpy guy, has written a novel that can be downloaded in PDF from the publisher’s site ; it’s scheduled for trade paperback publication later this year. According to Allen, this is what his novel, How and why Lisa’s Dad got to be famous is about:
Harry is a divorced man who has not been able to see his daughter Lisa since she was five years old. But Harry still loves Lisa more than anyone else in the world; and he worries about her future because she was born without a left foot. When Harry is offered the chance to win a million pounds for Lisa, by taking part in a reality-TV show, he immediately accepts. All he has to do is find a woman who is willing to risk her life for him – and he has just three months to do it
If another found hour or few find me, I’ll download and read Allen’s novel and let him know what I think.
Meanwhile, I’m thinking about the marvels of this age of science. This from here:
RESEARCHERS have grown complete urinary bladders in a laboratory and transplanted them into patients, improving their health and achieving the first cultivation of working replacements for failing solid human organs.
The “neo-bladders”, each one grown in a small laboratory container from a pinch of a patient’s own cells, have been working in seven young patients for an average of almost four years, says a report in the British journal The Lancet on Monday.
On the other side of the coin of marvels is our fearless leader, whose assinine actions are fueling the movement for his impeachment.
My current favorite is www.impeachthemotherfucker.com, from which you can get to lots of other related sites, like:
Impeach Bush Coalition
Impeach Bush Tattoo
Impeach Bush Yard Signs
and, most notably, the outlanding article in Harpers, The Case for Impeachment.
Now, there’s a myth in the making.
a tale of clay and shale
It’s a good thing that I enjoy challenges, because putting in a garden in this land of clay and shale is a major one. And before I can even begin, I had to wheel five barrows of fallen leaves off into the woods where the wind wouldn’t just blow them back. And lets not forget the plethera of shapes and sizes of stones, all part of the legacy of Mother Mountain.
Wheeling leaves, throwing stones, pick-axing clay and shale, raking rocks. Such was my day today in the early spring sunswept plot.
Now I have to figure out what the hell will grow here. There is a natural ground cover that I keep digging up from the edges of the property and transplanting closer to the house to cover up bare spots. I’m looking for stuff that grows naturally around here — the kinds of flowering vegetation for which clay are shale are not a challenge at all. Seems like a good place to start.
crash at 11:11
Just as I was about to press the button to open the DVD tray, I noticed the time on the display — 11:11.
I put the movie in and the time disappeared.
Crash! — a gorgeous mosaic of a movie that is actually about our fears of each other, set in the bright light of Los Angeles and the dark places in our hearts
The truth is, we don’t like each other very much, and the truth that “Crash” reckons with is that, in the safe enclosure of our cars, or our living rooms, we make easy assumptions and hard judgments about people we don’t really know.
it’s always the night
I’ve become a nightime nosher — an evening couch potato, keeping my mom company, watching tv, and sharing snacks. It’s become an out-of-control addiction. I can’t seem to stop the noshing. And my weight shows it.
And that’s not all. When I get online after she goes to bed, I buy things. Mostly clothes. After all, so many of mine seem to be shrinking.
I guess it all smacked me in the head when I started taking out my spring and summer clothes (it was 70 degrees here yesterday). Can’t get the zippers up. Tight around the arms. This is bad. Very bad.
So I get online late at night (of course) and search for appetite suppressants — something to make me not want to eat myself out of my whole wardrobe — to say nothing of my health.
That’s when I discovered there’s an actual name for what I have: It’s called Nightime Eating Syndrome. WTF! I, who for the first 40 years of her life couldn’t put on weight, now has an overeating disorder.
OK, I know. Appetite suppressants won’t solve the problem. I eat because there’s nothing better that I’m free to do at night. I’m addicted and I don’t know how to stop. I already take something for depression, so just fiddling with my seratonin is going to help. Maybe blogging it all will.
And there’s the second addiction: buying stuff. I Google “shoppers anonymous.” So, while I can buy this for my nighttime eating disorder, that would just feed my other addiction. Talk about a rock and a hard place.
Hmm. So, maybe if I get on my laptop while I sit with my mother as she watches television at night, then I can get on some shoppers anonymous and carb addicts sites and get some moral support. Maybe I can start a Nightime Eating Syndrome weblog.
And then I’ll just shift my addictions to whatever I can do on my laptop.
Days are OK. I keep busy. And the garden-planting season is almost here.
But it’s the night. It’s always the night.
one for the girls
I look out my rear window and all I can see is the monstrous cab of a bright and shiny red eighteen wheeler. He’s practically crawling up my spoiler. I’m in the left lane on a two-lane stretch of the Mass Pike. I’m driving back from a couple of nights helping out my daughter and the day is gloriously just spring.
I’m on cruise control, two car lengths behind the car in front of me — in front of which are a couple of big delivery trucks. To the right of us are an empty car-carrier and another truck. I can’t move into the right lane. I pump my brakes, but the monster cab is so close to my rear that he probably can’t see them. We all drive along that way for a while, the trucks setting the speed, the red monster cab threatening to gobble me up.
There’s finally an opening in the right lane, and we two cars take it. The trucks take off in front of us, passing each other in some kind of bizzare tag game as they disappear into the distance.
It’s so warm that I open my sun roof, loving the freedom of the road, radio station surfing to find some music that suits my mood. I settle on Country. It reminds me of my carefree adolescence hanging out with a bunch of guys who had a country western band. They taught me the only three guitar chords I know, the ones that suit just about every Everly Brothers tune — at least the ones that were popular during the 50s. As I continue my controlled cruising, I tap my foot to the simple rhythms of songs about old cars and lost loves and I sip at my bottle of cold Starbuck’s Mocha. Life is good.
And then it gets better. I zoom by (just a bit over the speed limit) the big bad bright red monster eighteen wheeler, along with three of the other trucks, pulled over to the side of the road by a blue light blinking police car. I’m tempted to beep or wave out my open sunroof; I opt for descretion. Then Martina McBride comes on with This One’s for the Girls, and by the time she gets around to singing the chorus for the second time, I’m singing it with her:
This one’s for the girls
Who’ve ever had a broken heart
Who’ve wished upon a shooting star
You’re beautiful the way you are
This one’s for the girls
Who love without holdin’ back
Who dream with everything they have
All around the world
Now both feet are tappin’. I’m dancin’ in my seat.
It’s a good day.
antics
i once heard the survivors
of a colony of ants
that had been partially
obliterated by a cow s foot
seriously debating
the intentions of the gods
towards their civilization
— archy the cockroach, from certain maxims of archy
As I went to type in this new entry, I noticed that my last entry was post #1111. Yup, I’ve been seeing a lot of it again lately. I’ve never been able to associate these “sightings” with any consistent aftermath. If you google 11:11 phenomenon you’ll get all kinds of theories that I could choose from, if I were so inclined. I still think it’s interesting that the first post I ever did on my going through spurts of seeing those numbers still generates comments from people who also keep noticing the numbers and wonder what it all means.
Ah, yes, what does it all mean? I guess that I hold to the position that it means what you want it to mean.
What does it mean that I’ve spent the last half-hour wrapping the terra cotta pot in which an ailing house plant of mine sits in a bunch of those microwavable hot packs. And then I covered all of that with a blanket. And then I dug up an old grow-light bulb and donated my desk lamp to the recovery effort. Ah, the antics some of us go through to help the struggle for survival.
And that’s why I’m heading back to my daughter’s on Monday to grandson-sit so that she can try to survive some dental surgery. It will only be a two-night stay — but enough time for some fun antics with the kid who makes me laugh.
Wanna bet I just happen to look at the dashboard clock at 11:11??
as I was crawling
through the holes in
a swiss cheese
the other
day it occurred to
me to wonder
what a swiss cheese
would think and after
cogitating for some
time i said to myself
if a swiss cheese
could think
it would think that
a swiss chesse
was the most important
thing in the world
just as everything that
can think at all
does think about itself
— the words of that seriously smart cockroach, archy
ADDENDUM: So, as I was driving around running errands today (Sunday) I stopped at one point to check the time on the clock in my car. Yup. 1:11.
shoes
she wants to sleep with her shoes on, afraid that someone will steal them. she hides dozens of pairs of shoes in her clothes hamper, so there’s nowhere to put her dirty clothes. you throw them on the floor in the shower.
she’s looking for the books you bought her — large print — hoping she’ll occupy herself reading. she occupies herself moving the books from place to place, hiding them so no one will steal them. when she can’t find them, she’s convinced that someone has.
you buy her wide width shoes that will not aggravate the hammertoe that she’s been aggravating for years. she insists on wearing her too-narrow but prettier shoes. in a few days, she’ll start limping, complaining that her toe hurts. aggravation aggravation.
you find the TV listings that you’ve been looking for all day in her underwear drawer. her eyeglasses are perpetually misplaced. you finally convince her to take off her shoes. she hides them and will accuse you tomorrow of taking them.
by bedtime, your head is splitting from aggravation. you go online and buy yourself a sexy pair of summer sandals — too expensive but somehow shoepremely satisfying.

as archy the cockroach says:
live so that you
can stick out your tongue
at the insurance doctor
ditto the “stick it” speech
I’m talking about the closing statement that Boston Legal’s Alan Shore made at the trial of a young woman who didn’t pay her taxes because she’s “embarrassed” by and objects to Bush’s war on the Iraqi people.
This is the part I love:
….And now it’s been discovered the executive branch has been conducting massive, illegal, domestic surveillance on its own citizens. You and me. And I at least consoled myself that finally, finally the American people will have had enough. Evidentally, we haven’t.
In fact, if the peole of this country have spoken, the message is we’re okaywith it all. Torture, warrantless search and seizure, illegal wiretappings, prison without a fair trial – or any trial – war on false pretenses. We, as a citizenry, are apparently not offended.
There are no demonstrations on college campuses. In fact, there’s no clear indication that young people seem to notice.
Well, Melissa Hughes noticed. Now, you might think, instead of withholding her taxes, she could have protested the old fashioned way. Made a placard and demonstrated at a Presidential or Vice-Presidential appearance, but we’ve lost the right to that as well. The Secret Service can now declare free speech zones to contain, control and, in effect, criminalize protest…..
[snip]
This, in the United States of America. This in the United States of America. Is Melissa Hughes the only one embarassed?….
With subtly intense acting, James Spader gives Alan Shore’s words a terrifying vibrancy that reading his words on paper can’t possible convey. If you missed the episode, you can hear and see it here; if you don’t have the technical ability to do so, go to the Boston Legal site and read the whole thing.
There aren’t very many television programs worth watching these days. Boston Legal is one of the very few — for its cleverly courageous writing, its pointedly peculiar characters, and a cast of actors that know how to make you believe.
________________________________
in the words of archy the cockroach:
now look at it
the human race never would
take my advice
and now just look at it
planning more wars which mean
more debts more trouble and still more wars
well if it wants to commit suicide
why should a little insect such as i
worry about it
a suicide is a person who has
considered his own case and decided
that he is worthless and who acts
as his own judge jury and executioner
and he probably knows better
than anyone else whether there is justice
in the verdict
i am sorry to see the human race go
for it was in some respects almost as interesting
as several species of insects
but if it wants to die off
I shall not worry about it
i shall merely conclude it knows what it wants
(from the lives and times of archy and mehitabel)
nozone
She gets in the “zone” as she works on her fabric art, she says, and all of a sudden six hours have gone by, she says, and it seems like a minute. My friend, who used to be an original quilter but for the past several years has been experimenting with other fabric art techniques, is working on a nude, she says.
We are having lunch, the bunch of us who have hung around together for more than 15 years. I have managed to get away for a day, and we sit around the table sharing tales of grandchildren (those of us who are fortunate to have any) and male partners (those of us who are fortunate to have any). We trash Bush and his whole regime, bemoan what’s happening to our country, discount Hillary as a contender, and decide that the next president will probably wind up being a moderate Republican. We all prefer a Democrat but agree that there’s no one who can win.
On the drive home, I yearn for a chance to rediscover my “zone.” I used to find it writing poetry, designing something out of fabric — sometimes clothes, sometimes what might or might not pass for art. Playing with beads and findings and talismans. Creating. Something. Hours and hours that felt like minutes. Filled with focus. In the Zone.
Now if I want to have those hours, I’d have to stay up all night. It used to be so simple.
My friends, those witchy women, are not at all simple. With each of us off on her own path, our daily lives are very different. What binds us is shared history, liberal politics, acceptance of our differences, fearlessness in the face of life’s challenges, and a shared understanding that things are never simple.
Molly Ivins found this quote in a recent obituary for George Gerbner, who headed the Annenberg School for Communication for 25 years: “Fearful people are more dependent, more easily manipulated and controlled, more susceptible to deceptively simple, strong, tough measures and hard-line postures. … They may accept and even welcome repression if it promises to relieve their insecurities.”
Molly Ivins is frequently featured on www.freepress.org, where this cartoon by Andrew Wahl also appears.

It was wonderful to hear about all of the anti-Iraq War protesters throughout the world this past weekend. We all need to keep reminding those fearful, insecure, simple souls who still believe the Bush propaganda, just what his war is costing. Here are some simple statistics:
Spent & approved to spend in Iraq $350 billion of US taxpayers’ money, plus another $120 billion requested in February 2006
Lost & Unaccounted for in Iraq $9 billion of US taxpayers’ money and $549.7 milion in spare parts shipped in 2004 to US contractors
Halliburton Overcharges and Questioned Costs Publicly Known to be Hidden by the Pentagon from Auditors $212 million
Troops Total 157,000, including 136,000 from the US, 8,500 from the UK, and 12,500 from all other nations (other than Iraq)
US Troop Casualities 2,290 US troops; 98% male.
89% non-officers; 76% active duty, 15% National Guard; 74% white, 10% African-American, 11% Latino. 22% killed by non-hostile causes. 52% of US casualties were under 25 years old. 69% were from the US Army.
Non-US Troop Casualties Total 204, with 101 from the UK.
US Troops Wounded 16,742, 20% of which are serious brain or spinal injuries (total excludes psychological injuries)
US Troops with Serious Mental Health Problems 30% of US troops develop serious mental health problems within 3 to 4 months of returning home
Journalists killed 61
Journalists killed by US Forces 14
Iraqi Military and Police Casualties 4,162
Iraqi Civilians Killed, Estimated 40,300 to 81,700
Iraqi Insurgents Killed, Roughly Estimated 53,470
Non-Iraqi Contractors and Civilian Workers Killed 365
Non-Iraqi Kidnapped 280, including 45 killed, 141 released, 3 escaped, 3 rescued and 88 status unknown.
US Military Helicopters Downed in Iraq 47 total, 26 by enemy fire
Daily insurgent attacks, Feb 2004 14
Daily insurgent attacks, July 2005 70
Daily insurgent attacks, January 2006 75
Trained Iraqi Troops Needed by July 2006 272,566
Trained Iraqi Troops, Per General Richard Meyers in March 2005 40,000
Trained Iraqi Troops, Per US Senator Joseph Biden in March 2005 4,000
Trained Iraqi Troops, Per US Ambassador to Iraq Zalmay Khalilzad in August 2005 “Not very large.”
Trained Iraqi Troops Able to Fight Without Major US Support, in February 2006 {/b}Zero
Iraqi Unemployment Rate 25 to 60%
Average Daily Hours Iraqi Homes Have Electricity 10.0
Average Daily Hours Baghdad Homes Have Electricity 5.2
Number of Iraqi Homes Connected to Sewer Systems 37%
Percentage of Iraqi HOme with Access to Piped Water 78%
Hepatitis Outbreaks 2002, 100; 2003, 170; 2004, 200.
World Bank Estimate of Iraq Reconstruction Costs $55.3 billion
Results of Poll Taken in Iraq in August 2005 by the British Ministry of Defense (Source: Brookings Institute)
Iraqis “strongly opposed to presence of coalition troops – 82%
Iraqis who believe Coalition forces are responsible for any improvement in security – less than 1%
Iraqis who feel less ecure because of the occupation – 67%
Iraqis who do not have confidence in multi-national forces – 72%
Iraqis who rarely have safe, clean water – 71%
Iraqis who never have enough electricity – 47%
_________________________
Well, my life might be lacking a Zone, but I’d rather lack one than live in a War one.
and then there’s this, from
certain maxims of archy
if you get gloomy just
take an hour off and sit
and think how
much better this world
is than hell
of course it won t cheer
you up much if
you expect to go there
—archy the cockroach