It's a matter of a few short weeks now till the tenth anniversary of 9-11, and we know now, after the Breivik affair, that there can be loners "out there" who are silently simmering and plotting some strange and daring deed of high revenge on their enemies.
My memories of 9-11 are as vivid now as they would be if it had been this morning that Muslims savages attacked us. Now, though, I am aware of the why. I think others too are aware, and I wonder, will they, could they, must they too, like Breivik, turn inward and destroy when the hour comes round at last for some rough beast to slouch foward? I would not be surprised if, only if not, some daemonic force rises from obscurity and unleashes fire and hell on the forces of those who force us to do our deeds against the savages of Islam. Ideally, our military will be that obscure force to invade Mecca and destroy the nation and its defenders to a man.
I think that is more likely than that some home-grown Breivik will rise from the mists of mourning to random slaughter. That's what I think, and I wish them well.
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Showing posts with label 9-11. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 9-11. Show all posts
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Friday, October 15, 2010
Mine is a most peaceable disposition
I have a poster of Spiderman. I remember this cartoon character from my childhood. Then, as a boy, like now as a man, I was proud of my country, proud to be American. New York Yankees and Spiderman, my dog and me. The world was right. But of course things change, and we see the world differently. I change, but I'm still the same kid at heart, I like to think so. But the nation? The World? Maybe we all see things differently now.
"Mine is a most peaceable disposition. My wishes are: a humble cottage with a thatched roof, but a good bed, good food, the freshest milk and butter, flowers before my window, and a few fine trees before my door; and if God wants to make my happiness complete, He will grant me the joy of seeing some six or seven of my enemies hanging from those trees. Before their death I shall, moved in my heart, forgive them all the harm they did me in my lifetime. One must, it is true, forgive ones enemies-- but not before they have been hanged.
Heinrich Heine, "Gedanken und Einfalle"
Friday, February 12, 2010
When a cowboy shoots his horse
The things I didn't know as a boy! The things I could never have imagined or understood had I been told. I do love ageing, over time by the day and the hour and the minute unfolding in horror and pain as I learn about this brutal and cruel life. This is not what I expected when I was aware enough to formulate an idea of my expectations, like three or four or so, when I assumed that I would be a cowboy. Being a grown man; being a cowboy: being one and the same. I didn't understand then, and can only look on in misery today as I see a generation of young men shooting their horses.
Yeah, a cowboy can weep when he has to shoot his horse. Another cowboy understands the deep grief of a cowboy who has to shoot his horse, and another would walk away while a cowboy did it. It's a private thing. It's what a man must sometimes do. Then he lives.
Ya wonder why cowboys drink?
I had to shoot my dog when I was a boy. Back then I didn't know that men hurt just as badly as boys. You'd never see it show. And who would ever look? As a boy I didn't know that a man who had to shoot his horse would crumble inside and still not shed a tear in the public world of men. It's a terrible thing to see a man having to shoot his horse. But there are things far worse.
I saw last evening a generation of young men who shot their horses, young men who didn't even blink. I had to turn away and hide my face from the crowd.
I've killed things small and middlin' and big, and things and other things. Some of that killing shames me. I sit sometimes with old men who whisper that they've shot their horses, and I see them drift away into terrible memories hardly mellowed by the decades, sometimes tears welling up in their eyes, me heading off to get coffee or to look at something over there for a minute. It's a hard thing to see a man hanging up his saddle, knowing he'll never ride again. That time will come for me too if I don't die first. I've had to shoot my horses a few times in this bitter life. But I dragged my saddle onward and continued-- till now, at least.
I see men who have never reflexively shot a low-lying snake, never inveigled a cut-throat trout from a rapid river, never felled a wary beast by stealth. I see men who've never lied to a woman because they're too busy being honest about themselves, who can't sit for a time with woman-herself. Men who wantonly shot their horses.
I have met and known myriad good men who have never been cowboys. I've known good men who never held a horse or sat in a saddle. Those are men strong, brave, proud, and true. I am blessed in this life. But now I look on those men and see that I could, at this time, hang my saddle on the wall and sit with men who've never ridden the ragged canyons, the wild plains, and the snowy peaks. These are good men, and I might sit with them and gaze melancholy at my hanging, my oiled saddle, my shiny boots, my clean pants and dry shirt, my spotless hat, my rifle buried in a closet with my spurs in a saddlebag under an old worn-out blanket, the smell of which makes me tremble. I could sit with old men awaiting my turn at boccie. Some good men. But boccie boys? They shot their horses in the corral. The stench staggers me. The sight makes me gag. The knowing of it nearly brings me to my knees. I see boys who shot their horses, pot-bellied boys who prance and lisp, who wag their butts and giggle at sullen, clownish girls. I hear the crack of revolvers in the night, the shrieks of dying horses, their high agonies of betrayal piercing the dark and empty skies.
Yea, though I ride through the labyrinthine valley under a shadow of death, I will shun no grief: for my horse art with me; my saddle and reins they comfort me. There is preparest a rocky mesa before me in the presence of mine enemies: they anointest my eyes and my face with blood; my cracked lips runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the land of hardship for ever.
Yeah, a cowboy can weep when he has to shoot his horse. Another cowboy understands the deep grief of a cowboy who has to shoot his horse, and another would walk away while a cowboy did it. It's a private thing. It's what a man must sometimes do. Then he lives.
Ya wonder why cowboys drink?
I had to shoot my dog when I was a boy. Back then I didn't know that men hurt just as badly as boys. You'd never see it show. And who would ever look? As a boy I didn't know that a man who had to shoot his horse would crumble inside and still not shed a tear in the public world of men. It's a terrible thing to see a man having to shoot his horse. But there are things far worse.
I saw last evening a generation of young men who shot their horses, young men who didn't even blink. I had to turn away and hide my face from the crowd.
I've killed things small and middlin' and big, and things and other things. Some of that killing shames me. I sit sometimes with old men who whisper that they've shot their horses, and I see them drift away into terrible memories hardly mellowed by the decades, sometimes tears welling up in their eyes, me heading off to get coffee or to look at something over there for a minute. It's a hard thing to see a man hanging up his saddle, knowing he'll never ride again. That time will come for me too if I don't die first. I've had to shoot my horses a few times in this bitter life. But I dragged my saddle onward and continued-- till now, at least.
I see men who have never reflexively shot a low-lying snake, never inveigled a cut-throat trout from a rapid river, never felled a wary beast by stealth. I see men who've never lied to a woman because they're too busy being honest about themselves, who can't sit for a time with woman-herself. Men who wantonly shot their horses.
I have met and known myriad good men who have never been cowboys. I've known good men who never held a horse or sat in a saddle. Those are men strong, brave, proud, and true. I am blessed in this life. But now I look on those men and see that I could, at this time, hang my saddle on the wall and sit with men who've never ridden the ragged canyons, the wild plains, and the snowy peaks. These are good men, and I might sit with them and gaze melancholy at my hanging, my oiled saddle, my shiny boots, my clean pants and dry shirt, my spotless hat, my rifle buried in a closet with my spurs in a saddlebag under an old worn-out blanket, the smell of which makes me tremble. I could sit with old men awaiting my turn at boccie. Some good men. But boccie boys? They shot their horses in the corral. The stench staggers me. The sight makes me gag. The knowing of it nearly brings me to my knees. I see boys who shot their horses, pot-bellied boys who prance and lisp, who wag their butts and giggle at sullen, clownish girls. I hear the crack of revolvers in the night, the shrieks of dying horses, their high agonies of betrayal piercing the dark and empty skies.
Yea, though I ride through the labyrinthine valley under a shadow of death, I will shun no grief: for my horse art with me; my saddle and reins they comfort me. There is preparest a rocky mesa before me in the presence of mine enemies: they anointest my eyes and my face with blood; my cracked lips runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the land of hardship for ever.
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
Jihad: I want to paint it black.
I'll go to my grave with images of the World Trade Center towers exploding and burning and billowing, people jumping to their deaths, the buildings themselves collapsing into burning ruin. I'll go to my death thinking about those people murdered. I'll go to my death laughing if I see those responsible for such a monstrous mayhem paid back a bit. And I'll be collapsing from laughter unto death if I can help the scene a little myself, grinding a bit of jihadi-world to dirty dust, the bastards. When I see Islam in its manifold evil I get sick that I ain't destroying it on the spot, a black spot on the muddy ground. When I see a mosque door, I want to paint it black.
Black as death.
I want to paint it black.
Folks like me? Ya see, we got a sense of humour. Muslims painted it black.
How about a magic trick?
Black as death.
I want to paint it black.
Folks like me? Ya see, we got a sense of humour. Muslims painted it black.
How about a magic trick?
Monday, April 27, 2009
Turning and Turning in a Widening Gyre...
There are some events that leave a permanent mark on the man, 9-11 being one for many of us. One needn't have been there, been involved in any physical way, to be marked by the event. Nor does it have to resonate with past experience in any visceral way to have left a mark on the mind for the duration. But imagine you were there, in New York City on the morning of 9-11 when the jihad came back to America is a big way. I was elsewhere that day, but because of the attacks on our nation and our people that day, the horror and the hatred live in my soul as deeply as anything does. Islam on that day and due to that event created at least one eternal enemy. Though I was not there in the city, to this moment the sound of any approaching aeroplane brings back to my mind the murder of our people on 9-11. I will never forget and I will never forgive. I'm likely not the only one. One would guess that many like me still live in New York City right now.
But things have changed in the nation since that transformative day. We have a new president. Some like him. Some will probably think it just right that he portray an image of greatness in the land. Please refer to the story below for more details.
Larrey Anderson, 'Air Force One Photo-op Terrifies New Yorkers," American Thinker. April 27, 2009
com/blog/2009/04/air_force_one_photoop_terrifie.html
"[T]he White House Military Office wanted to update its file photo of the president's plane near the Statue of Liberty."
What matters to these people?
But things have changed in the nation since that transformative day. We have a new president. Some like him. Some will probably think it just right that he portray an image of greatness in the land. Please refer to the story below for more details.
Larrey Anderson, 'Air Force One Photo-op Terrifies New Yorkers," American Thinker. April 27, 2009
The current administration has no shame … and no concern for New Yorkers. Air Force One, accompanied by an F-16 fighter plane, buzzed NYC and the Statue of Liberty because, the White House says, it wanted to update the photo file for Air Force One.
Only problem is, the Obama administration forgot to tell New York’s citizens in advance that Air Force One would be buzzing the city. According to MSNBC:
http://www.americanthinker.
It wasn't an attack, or even a drill -- it was a government-sponsored photo op.
The Pentagon did tell local authorities about the startling fly-over that sent a Boeing 747 and a F-16 fighter screaming over New York's scarred skyline, but officials said they couldn't share the information with the public. They couldn't even share the information with the mayor.
Mayor Bloomberg said he was "furious" and criticized both the feds and his own administration for failing to issue a simple warning to the public in a city that is still somewhat traumatized by the 9/11 terrorist attacks.
An official from the Obama administration said the White House Military Office wanted to update its file photo of the president's plane near the Statue of Liberty.
"[T]he White House Military Office wanted to update its file photo of the president's plane near the Statue of Liberty."
What matters to these people?
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