NASA Image of the Day

Sunday, January 22, 2012

Interesting Times

We live in interesting times. Whether or not this is viewed as curse or continuing challenge, perhaps, is in the eye of the observer, but passivity is likely the harbinger of nothing but itself, even in surmise.

Progressive, or pensive? Like all artists, observing by what means, and just how, we reflect our own "growth" is often the best, and most accurate, gauge of our opinion of ourselves, and just what it is we are "seeking" as human beings. And politics is often the modern arena by which we measure skill in the management of a nation, and its peoples.

In the United States, fresh from the smarting wounds of a still-protected-deep-within-itself Camelot wish buffeted by the viciousness of extreme, a hopeful nation has drawn in on itself, somewhat, its genuine and ardent wishes deeply scarred by the manipulation of a political extreme that thinks nothing of robbing pensioners on a fixed income, and treating the need for a basic surety of care like a luxury, trumpeting "proper spending", while the highest echelons mock the determination of a helmsman to fix the economic ills of a country by trusting first in corporate ethics as a fulcrum of democratic stability, even as it skims from the very people it was charged to help, by awarding million dollar bonuses to itself, after moaning about the implosion of its own systemic bulwarks. Alas, they could not be fired. They can, however, be monitored by the financial watchdog in place on every board where bailout moneys stabilized an industry, and will answer to them, on behalf of the voice of a nation which hammered the stones in place, and aim to keep them there - million dollar bonuses be damned.

The helmsman? What is sniffed at as "cool, aloof demeanour" is something the rag-like oafs straggling just out of reach of actual journalistic debate abhor: dignity, and an absence of the penchant to be manipulated like a performing seal, or taking more than a passing politicial interest in the interestedly detached "Al Jolson" perspective of a man of intelligence: a family man, with the contemplative nature that speaks of policy, and one who is learning very quickly about the vacuous nature of a sometimes vicious need for "newsotainment". Having been schooled in the ways of political and financial political extremes, the picture is very clear, indeed:their agenda has always been, and will always be, the same. Cultivating a culture of xenophobia and fear of the unknown, it taps into the very political extremism and culture of disparity it has created, erasing any legacy of international diplomacy - excepting a very few, who see beyond, and have always known, and comforted, in the midst of the devastation always caused by its reactionary, volatile, obsessed extremes. It sees enemies everywhere, and where there are none, any voice which speaks of concern and debate becomes one. It self-perpetuates.

There are comments of "massive ego", where there is only the discipline always required of leadership, and the drawing in, measured response, and intelligent solutions which also involve compassion - or, at least, a quiet demand for respect for earned trust, in spite of the inculcating culture of fear, and a refusal to be sucked into the gaping vortex of "finding the latest scapegoat" which, by default, is anyone who might wish to actually SUCCEED at something. Like Hitler, misery must find, and punish, someone - as long as it isn't one's self, and the more convenient, and visible, the supposed perpetrator, the more likely the real culprits - the same ones who insisted upon, offered up, and then gouged out the proffered repairs to the foundation - then resume their snickering positions in the safe confines of the latest run for the "eye of newt, perfect hair" image of itself.

The rest of us struggle with bedhead, staying ahead of the machinations, and a somewhat grim, but wiser, surety that these bastards will stop at nothing to widen the gap, stepping over the latest homeless with the easy stride of someone used to kicking things out of the way - even if it's the guy who taught you about stealing from the local candy store, by marching you back there and returning it to the merchant, who then made you shovel his front walk for a week, in reparation. You sure showed those little peons! They won't even get a nurse, when the day is done....unless she's volunteer, or some other person you don't have to "waste" money paying. .....One can only hope you get them as caregivers, one day, so you understand that working double shifts somewhere else can sometimes cause...yes....ERRORS. Meanwhile, they continue to do their best, equally determined that you won't kill their actual concern, and they won't kill you.....much as they might like to, as an easy solution, frankly. That would be too much like you.

Fresh from the "101" of extremist financial marksmanship, shining moments possibilities safely armoured against all manner of ills, including the penchant for behavioural antics and, some say, actual personality that suggests leadership - scoundrel and all - which we hate to love, and love to hate, simaltaneously, because it suggests that we can all, be, sometimes imperfect, as long as we can "still do the job", we are reminded that to be human is to learn, sometimes, about what is always a reliable roadmarker: the surety of greed.

And Canada? Canada has, at its helm, , it's true, a Tory....but it has, too, amidst the sea of blue, a conscience, and a consideration, and a steadiness carefully coached in "just the right touch" of Stones-playing piano to titillate the bluehairs, and, at least, a willingness to consult and discuss which speaks of a shift AWAY from extremism, and a quiet, very genuine, desire to consider the blatant, awkward, arrogant cultural errors of its past interactions with itself, towards a different, albeit, cautious sense of curiousity about the morrow.....

Unfortunately, it looks a lot like today, and for those needing a promise of betterment, after earnest striving, and the shouldering of financial woes imposed by its extremes, even as the opportunity to remove it through effort is removed, (along with working class democracy"), it does nothing to improve, or provide, anything to discuss, other than "Change. "

Moneypenny would be least before they ditch her, too. All those jars, grubby hands, and rolling papers.....sigh. And you have to COUNT them....!

Monday, January 16, 2012

Part 21: Looking back

....the cat padded around the corner, stopped, and sat down, staring after the hooker. No free meal.

Suddenly, it shook itself, its fur fanning out around it like a shock of sable elegance, the thick added layer like a Viking armour against the cold of the dilapidated wash of evening sky. It licked its paw where it had smashed against the side of the dumpster, trying to escape.

Padding over to the curb, it peered, interestedly, at the open grate of a sewer. Suddenly watchful, it lowered its haunches into a sitting position.....and waited.

Part 20:Exchange of Views

The motorcycle rumbled to an abrupt stop as the light flashed red in warning.

Alert to the deserted, unkempt silence filled only by blowing trash and the moan of wind whipping around the chipped corners, the rider lifted his head, shifting the backpack awkwardly. An object rolled out into the street, unnoticed, falling from the hole in the backpack with a plop, onto the surface of the cracked asphalt. It bounced a few times, before rolling into the gutter beside the curb. The rider, ramming the gear impatiently, as the engine stalled, gunned off into the distance.


The woman thought nothing of it, as she bent to pick up the object in the gutter, unwrapping the small tube with unexpected delight, like a small child at Christmas. Pulling off the tube cover, she rolled up the stick carefully, standing on the sidewalk, and swiped at her mouth with the back of her other hand, before cleaning off a smeared window front with the elbow of her coat, as she applied the splash of colour to her lips.

The gash of bright purple startled her, as she stared at herself in the window. The face looked frozen, ghost-like, like a corpse. She looked at the side of the tube.

"Do me", she read out loud. She frowned, shoving the tube into her purse, pulled down her very tight, very short, polyester leopard skin skirt further over her hips, gave a small shiver, and ignored it, fluffing her hair out defiantly, like a boxer, throwing out her chin, and laying a languid hand on her hip, before resuming her stroll. There was no one in sight.

"Yah, right. Fifty short and I get a new lipstick. Must have me an angel...." The hooker rolled her eyes, walking forward. She did not see the shadow behind her, lurking closer.


Saturday, January 7, 2012

Save your life: Read this blogpage

Read this page:

King Making

I used to dream about being an Ambassador,
So that one day, like Madeline Albright, I could look at all of my pins,
And think of all the miles, and all the smiles, and all the earnest words,
And regard them as the very finest of jewels, in my mind and memory, like the
Lives of the people whose gentle clasps, affixed like hands over my heart,
Spurred me on to a new day.

Alas, mine was a humbler task, earnest though I was, in making those
Greater Moments more flawless, and void of concern or alarm.
Each brief hour of peacefilled word was a ribbon of Comfort in the
Cabinet of races won, and I, blowing hard, ignoring the
Performance opportunities for the
Greatest Stars, enjoyed my secret treasures,
Though the rest days of rollicking notes, when the work week was done
Presented a different Face - a more mischievious one -
Singing our troubled thoughts away.

And yet, those Dear Faces, to me,
are still the Crown for
Every King I may have