Friday, March 21, 2003

Stocks are up. I'm still dirt poor. Gotta love this war, eh folks?

On a better note, there are still good books to be read. Currently on the plate: The Stone Diaries by Carol Shields; Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard.

But I suppose I shouldn't be too exultant.

They're already burning country CDs. Books can't be far behind.

Thursday, March 20, 2003

"To live in this world, you must be able / to do three things: / to love what is mortal; / to hold it / against your bones knowing / your own life depends on it; / and, when the time comes to let it go, / to let it go."

I am supposed to be cooking now. Sustenance before work. Poetry doesn't quite provide sustenance, I'm afraid. Though maybe it gives some warmth. It's cold in this house. My nose is cold. My hands are cold. I keep thinking of what it means to lose someone. To find something else.

I doubt that Dubyah has ever truly lost anything he cared for. He's a pretentious bastard and his money buys off anything he could claim to love. Though I doubt he loves much either. Other than power. And his daddy.

When this ends, I want them to send him all the pictures. The ones of the children next to their mangled parents. Or mangled themselves and howling like hurt animals - the way that human beings learn to cry when everything has been stripped away. I want them to show him these pictures. I don't want him to ever be able to close his eyes. And when he sweats out all the oil and money that their deaths won for him, I want them to ask: "Was it worth it? Was it worth it? Have you ever loved anything so much in this terrible world as the terror on their faces...and the power that it brought you?"
"When it's over, I want to say: all my life / I was a bride married to amazement. / I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms." - Mary Oliver