Month: February 2003

Well, I’ll be Duct

I wonder if all the people rushing out to buy duct tape and plastic sheeting are the children and grandchildren of those folks who paid thousands of dollars to build bomb shelters in their backyards in the 50’s.

As a former CBR officer trained in Fort McClellan, I think that trying to protect yourself from chemical or biological attacks with duct tape is one of the most ridiculous ideas I’ve heard lately, and there are plenty of ridiculous ideas coming out of Washington DC these days.

Do you think there could be any connection between the increased beating of war drums trying to generate enthusiasm for America’s upcoming invasion of Iraq and the high alert the Bush administration has placed the nation on?

When people are scared enough that there is a run on plastic sheeting and duct tape, you know they’re scared enough to want to go after Sadam and Bin Laden, don’t you? What better way to drum up support for a war than to tell people that they’re in imminent danger.

While it’s probably prudent to always have an emergency kit available, I would argue that you are in less danger from a terrorist attack than you are from a possible chemical spill from an industrial plant, a derailed train, or an over-turned truck.

Flash, It is a Washingtonian Thing

Judging from an article in today’s Seattle Times, Shelly Powers and I were right in assuming that the phrase “load of hooey” must be a Washingtonian thing.

While reading the Seattle Times sports page I encountered the term. There had been rumors that Simpson’s pitching career was in jeapordy, but “According to Simpson, this was a load of hooey.”

Considering that the article’s audience is sports fans, the writer must have assumed that the average person would be familiar with the term.

Have you considered taking up a career in sports writing, Shelley?

So that’s Why They Invented TV

After working from 8:30 to 5:30 with a quick ten-minute lunch break for the second day in a row, I suddenly remember why they invented television.

After staring at a computer screen and entering names and numbers into tax forms for nine hours straight, I find it almost painful to sit in front of the computer at home and try to think clearly enough to write something meaningful here.

When you simply want to veg, there’s not much better than a meaningless television program. Re-runs of “The 70’s Show” are precisely what’s needed to pass the time until I can respectably crawl into bed in order to get ready for another day tomorrow. Now I know why Leslie finds it easier to fall asleep in front of the television than to go to bed.

Looking from this perspective, it’s no wonder that I still have poetry books that I bought ten years ago sitting on the shelf waiting to be read. It takes far more effort and far more concentration to read a book of poetry than I’m able to muster up after a day like this.

Luckily the February tax rush is nearly over as most of those who know they are getting a refund have probably already gotten their taxes done. We’re completely booked this week, but things will probably start slowing down for awhile until the end of March when all those who owe money will decided that can wait no longer.

On the positive side, at least I’m too tired to follow the Bush adminstrations attempts to justify our upcoming invasion of Iraq. Perhaps the whole war will be over with before tax season ends and I will never be fully aware of it, which is probably for the best since at my age it’s not wise to live constantly with anger and frustration.

The best part of this job, though, is that it will only last for a limited time, and when it ends I will once again appreciate early retirement as much as it should be appreciated. Unfortunately, when things are going well it’s far too easy to take that for granted and forget what it took to get there.

Sowing the Seeds of Despair

“At The Sky’s Edge,” the title poem of Bei Dao’s work, and “Sower” seem fairly representative of the poems in“Forms of Distance," the first section of At the Sky’s Edge.

Perhaps “At The Sky’s Edge” is the most representative because it contains both the sense of despair and of silent acceptance that is found throughout this section of the book:

AT THE SKY’S EDGE

love among the mountains

eternity, that patience of the earth
simplifies our human sounds
one arctic-thin cry
from deep antiquity until now

rest, weary traveler
a wounded ear’s
already laid your dignity bare
one arctic-thin cry

The startling contrast between the silent mountains that form the sky and the “artic-thin cry from deep antiquity” that seems to symbolize man’s existence emphasizes the paradox of man’s existence. For man is always seeking eternity, always trying to connect with the “patience of the earth,” while simultaneously trying to overcome this sense of despair that haunts his very existence. Why desire to live forever when life is such misery?

While “At the Sky’s Edge” seems to capture that sense of eternity that pervades much of Chinese poetry, “Sower” seems much more topical. It’s hard to read this poem and not think of what is presently happening in our society:

SOWER

a sower walks into the great hall
it’s war out there, he says
and you awash in emptiness
you’ve sworn off your duty to sound the alarm
I’ve come in the name of fields
it’s war out there

I walk out from that great hail
all four directions a boundless harvest scene
I start planning for war
performing death
and the crops I burn
send up the wolf-smoke of warning fires

but something haunts me furiously:
he’s sowing seed across marble floors

Perhaps Bush’s strategy is to outwait those who oppose war with Iraq. Congress’ approval of his invasion of Iraq seems to have passed ages ago, doesn’t it? How long can you protest before being overwhelmed by a sense of despair, “awash in emptiness?”

Considering the number of wars America has fought in the last fifty years, how many wars can you oppose before you decide that you must live your own life, must give up sounding the alarm. How many times can you cry “wolf” before others no longer believe you?

What is gained from burning crops? There’s something deeply ominous in “I start planning for war/ performing death/ and the crops I burn.” How does one “perform” death? Is it a ritual or a conscious act? Can anything good come from “sowing seed across marble floors?” Aren’t seeds spread on such infertile ground doomed to die, or are they the seeds of despair, seeds that will bear a bountiful crop? Will the “Grim Reaper” come to harvest this crop?