Part 1: Divine Chaos Derived from Divine Order
So. More stuff from my archives. I found a stash of words from 2007, and the two pieces which follow this preamble are a part of that parcel. More to come, as this blog takes on more unruliness. It is already sticking its tongue out at my efforts to impose some sort of organizational order by way of topic, category, subcategory, page, etc. to the developing sprawl and tangle of words here. That’s as it should be.
The written word by my lights needs to be true, and representative of the author, and nothing is more true or representative of me than thoughts which careen from topic to topic, and stumble into the river of life over and over again. A crisscrossing path takes me from one side of that river to the other on rambling, far flung excursions out into the mountains and woods and deserts of human experience.
While I’m out there I pick up things and put them in my backpack; a rock, a leaf, a handful of sand. I come back, falling into the river yet again, not paying attention to where I’m going while watching a cloud, or calculating the seasonal angle of the sun, or observing two geese flying together in invisible synchronicity and a third, behind, speeding to catch up with the formation. Perhaps later it will become an avian aerodynamic metaphor for the trinity, the lagging bird a partial and imperfect representative of my own wandering holy spirit, which I will try to leverage into a page somewhere.
I clamber out of the river and dump the contents of my backpack, now a mash of material soaked in the water of the river. I spread it out to dry upon the page, and sort it into words.
It’s a thing that happens over and over again in my life, and in my mind, too. It’s divine chaos derived from divine order. If you know that, I reckon that’s enough to understand what it is I do with words.
As far as my “style” goes, well that vexing, verbose, garrulous and seemingly pompous and arrogant aspect of my words will have to be covered, if ever, in a later post. Sufficient unto the day is the evil hereof.
And so, onward. The virtues of the geezer are extolled by a fellow known as the Rant Writer in this first piece.
Aging in America
Conventional ignorance about oldsters in America tends to deliver us geezers and near-geezers to a box, the societal equivalent of training wheels for our very first coffin. We’ve either made it, or we haven’t. We’re smugly snug or desolate and desperate. We live in gated golf communities and languish casually, or we are worn threadbare and languish tragically. We drive restored classics and are shod by Nike, or we drive sleds and beaters and wear Wal-Mart sneakers.
When Dennis Hopper’s untalented but eminently recognizable head sounds the clarion call to not go gentle from our flat screen plasma or fish-bowl-faced Magnavox, some of us pump our fists and go skydiving in Kathmandu, and some fall into despair and self-loathing. In many precincts we’re characterized as a bunch of used-up, useless doddering loonies, and the best we can hope for is to have arrived in this state with a wad of cash, which is the conventional ticket to the easy greased slide into old age and eventual disappearance.
Well, it’s all a bunch of horse manure. There’s a whole universe around us, and we have gained much more than the returns on our fiscal balance sheet. The planet harboring the strut and angst of capitalism gained or lost may suck with a lot of gravity, but it’s a small place. Humanity lives in a cosmic nova, vibrant and dangerous and beautiful and chancy, a place where black-hole hells and starry heavens mark the waypoints of our careening, sojourning souls.
Some don’t see it, some won’t see it. Many do. And the longer they’ve been here, the more they know about it. Their old age is hard-earned capital, rich in experience and wisdom, and you can find them living richly everywhere.
In this second piece the Rant Writer observes a manifestation of the principle that evil is often unaware of its own nature, an insight driven home like a nail into this writer’s skull by the political administration of George W. “Shrub” Bush.
Habeas Corpus: We Have a Corpse
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 4, 2007
Good news. Impeachment isn’t necessary anymore. The god-awful worm that gnaws incessantly upon democratic principles in the brain of incompetent bureaucrats has managed to suspend habeas corpus for certain individuals, with happy collateral developments.
Now John Q. Public can place President George W. Bush and his Vice President Dick under citizen’s arrest for suspicion of violating the US Anti-Terrorist Act and remand them to Guantanamo Bay, where they can be held without benefit of habeas corpus until it is determined whether they aided and abetted the cause of international terrorism by incompetent, knuckle-headed acts which exponentially increased the numbers of terrorists and ticked-off Americans.
It will take years, of course. It will be hard, humiliating, debasing and detrimental, but in the end we will have the truth. Or we won’t. But we can do it. In the words of Molly Ivins, “The premise is easily understood: If the government can take away one person’s rights, it can take away everyone’s.” The current state of law allows Guantanamo for the G’ster and his Cheney of command. I rest my case, yonder.
In case you think habeas corpus means something like “we have a corpse,” or “we will have a corpse,” it doesn’t, even though it is sure to apply in this case sooner or later. It means an accuser has to produce a reasonable body of evidence in a timely manner or the accused is free to go. It’s the way things work in freedom-based countries based on stuff like, oh say—the Constitution of the USA.
So what part of “suspension of habeas corpus” don’t you understand, “Shrub”?