Georgie One-note sang his tune last night and could not admit even a possibility of human fallability so I turned that dial on the radio and put on Combat Rock instead.

We are tired of the tune
"We must not relent"

He sounds like his father. "Got to... stay the course." Obviously we smashed Iraq up pretty good and can't leave until we pick up our mess but the complete confidence in the under-estimation of time and cost and number of troops seems ludicrous to me.

And what is this whole simpleton reasoning that we're fighting in Afghanistan and in Iraq because those "terrists hate freedom"? So we'll demonstrate what freedom is for them by occupying these countries? It's not even a good plot for a comic book; Captain America was able to come up with something better than, "because they're Commies and we hates them." Because they're them and we're us and we're right, damnit, that's just the way it is. Anyone who disagrees is a terrist.

...Plus they have natural resources we covet and strategic locations we can utilize and oh yeah bad guys live there.

And when our troops return from fighting with their missing legs and arms they'll stick them in unairconditioned hospitals in Georgia and say sorry we just don't seem to have the funds we promised for your education. But great job, soldier. You helped fight for freedom. We'll help you buy a big truck on credit.

What happened to the American dream? It was usurped, commercialized, commodified, fits nicely in an overpowered pickup with a monstrous white trailer headed over the mountain pass, destined for a weekend at the beach.

There is a dream here, somewhere, tucked away in our hearts. The words are at the base of the Statue of Liberty, written by Emma Lazarus:

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightening, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp! cries she
With silent lips. Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me.
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!


I'm not the only dreamer.


Last night I dreamt of a black and red snake inside my kitchen cupboards, and I reached in and caught it behind its head. It hissed and showed me its purple mouth and I opened the front door to toss it free. Where the neighbors house should have been stood the white cliffs of Dover, and I walked towards them with the snake writhing in my hand, curling around my wrist. I discovered the cliffs were paper mache, movie props erected with wooden beams and glue and paste and newspapers which I tried to read but couldn't get close enough, and I got there just as King Lear made his dive.

I awoke disoriented. The clock said three and a train whistled in the night.