Multivoice poem: three fronts related to the GWOT

Intense: three battlegrounds, three stories, one event tying them all together
1. Sweat dripped down the interior of his damn clothes.
2. Sweat dropped from his brow as he stared at endless letters on the screen.
3. A bead of sweat swam down the darkened shoulder of the Marine.

1. Why must I wear these shameful rags, if only to fit in, he thought… it is a necessary disguise for the attack.
2. This is it, he thought, the reason he had become an analyst: to stop the terrorists who killed his mother.
3. Why the hell did he answer the call of patriotism from within him, why did he listen to that recruitment poster, he thought — who was this war protecting? He had enrolled after the terrorist attack; how could he be so naïve?

1. Was everything in place? He hoped so. The attack was soon.
2. He saw the sign, the attack is near; he raced to the office of his superior.
3. Another roadside bomb, another brother killed – more innocents too.

1. He fantasized more: Soon he would be in heaven, these infidels one and all burning in the flames of their own damnation.
2. The proof was in front of him, but no one would listen; arrogant national security bureaucrats cannot be reasoned with.
3. After the spike of adrenaline everyone must have felt, he slowed the vehicle down.

1. His brothers looked like they were soon to begin the operation.
2. He kicked the glass door, it did not break, but his toe hurt like hell, he didn’t know whether that was good or bad — there were more important things than a screwed toe about to happen.
3. Bullets rained upon the convoy, death followed in their trail.

1. A prayer was said; and then the attack began.
2. An hour later breaking news flashed across the television screen: terrorist attack.
3. War is a machine of death, killing those around you — killing those you know, and those you don’t. He was one of the lucky ones though. But why was he lucky? If only there were more.

American rationality, RIP

Throughout this month, I will be posting excerpts of my lengthy paper "The War on Terror and the Fire Paradox", as mentioned in this post. Here is one such excerpt...

This is a mock obituary lamenting the loss of sense in America. However, as blogged about here, there seems to be more of a loss of sense in those who take part in politics; the general population in America is fairly politically apathetic, and are actually gaining rationality in some instances. However political intelligence is not up too much.

I must have a fancy for fake or fictional obituaries — a while back I mourned the loss of habeas corpus with a song.

Obituary
In memoriam: American rationality
Born ?, died 11 September 2001 in Washington DC, United States. Rationality, RIP.

In between the Cold War — when so-called communists were threatened and persecuted under a blanket of pseudo-security and patriotism by the government — and the 'war on terror', America enjoyed a relatively good dose of rationality. Whenever wartime came around, the government's ears perked up; the powers and freedoms of the people dumbed down.

Whenever those in the corridors of American power declared some type of war against a largely undefined enemy for the sake of some undeclared goal, rationality was on the scene, defending sense and sensibility — and freedom. Rationality stood for that freedom, and she was violently attacked by politicians who's only duty was to themselves and their false premises for their actions.

Why was she persecuted so? Rationality allowed people to think clearly, even about hyped-up matters. Special interests, inflamed causes, strong powers limiting freedom, lies, and especially fear were her worst enemies. She hated the 'us against them', 'with us or against us' mentality that often surrounded her, but fought until the end for the principles that defined her. Her friends — some of which died, in part, when she did — remember her hopes for governmental transparency, her clear, fluid, logic, and the spirit of common sense she carried with her wherever she went.

Rationality was the ultimate patriot; she stood up for her country, even if that meant standing up against her countrymen. The George W. Bush administration is suspected of her murder. International Islamic extremist terrorists are wanted in connection of conspiracy of her murder. No matter how hard they try, however, she will live on.

Terrorism, and often the fallout of terrorism, is the enemy of rationality. Fear presents as an adversary of rationality. At the time of her death, she was uttering the lyrics of "Won't Get Fooled Again" by The Who, and fighting, intellectually of course, the hordes of ignorant pawns praying for her demise. Rationality was and is like a phoenix. She may die out, but some day she will come back. Let's hope that day comes soon.

Short story: "Something about Mary"

See also my previously posted original short story, "Sanctum". Here is a short story I just wrote today:



"Something about Mary"

Mary was waiting for destiny. Maybe it already came and left. She twirled around the drink in her hand. The stem of the martini glass, dangling between her index and middle fingers, felt as smooth as the as the dark bar counter — and cool to the touch. He was standing there, talking to the woman in red. How could he move on so fast… how could he just forget me? These questions Mary asked herself. Destiny never came; Mary's former love never again looked at her. She walked the road of the anybody, the everybody. She forgot she was a somebody, an individual, a person. Saturated in society's expectations — of marriage, of love, of wealth; becoming a gray in the poles of black and white. Forgetting about the past, not caring about the future. Mary lived a life not even fit for a looter of happiness. She drank herself to death; drove drunk and the police didn't care, oblivious to the legal violation as long as her top buttons were undone. Countless messages left on the answering machine of alleged friends and supposed family. No answer, no call back. Mary sat there, wallowing in her self-hating delusions, waiting for even one call or one buzz; just waiting for a sign that someone, anybody, gave a damn about her being. She died eleven flips of her floral monthly calendar after that day at the bar, aged thirty-two. Nobody cared.



Technorati Tags: short story, story, work, in perspective, clearthought, fiction, drama, blog, blogging, blogger, story, weblog, sanctum, something about mary, writing