Glenn Beck Is Right; But Christians, What Do You Believe?

A few moments ago, while driving in my car on my way to and from chores, I heard radio and TV talk personality, Glenn Beck, urge his listeners: Please, do not take Iran's president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad lightly -- do not dismiss him! Mr. Beck's language was not only urgent, it was dire, spiritually dire. His tone was apocalyptic; he freely admitted that he was talking even in spiritual terms, terms that transcend earthly politics.

Perhaps I heard too much, but I don't think so.

Mr. Beck further described how he felt while watching Mr. Ahmadinejad deliver his speech last night to the UN General Assembly: he felt he was listening to pure evil, evil of the most deceptive and capricious kind, and it made him literally tremble.

Christians might want to take note of what Mr. Beck seems to be implying, namely, that if Mr. Ahmadinejad is not the anti-Christ, or perhaps the false prophet promoting the beast described in St. John's "Revelation," then he comes awfully close. Of course, I cannot confirm what Mr. Ahmadinejad said in last night's speech; I've yet to read the transcript. But let me simply quote from Mr. Ahmadinejad's speech to the General Assembly delivered last year; permit me to quote his last few sentences, which end in prayer:

"He [god] commands His creatures to enjoin one another to righteousness and virtue and not to sin and transgression. All Divine prophets from the Prophet Adam (peace be upon him) to the Prophet Moses (peace be upon him), to the Prophet Jesus Christ (peace be upon him), to the Prophet Mohammad (peace be upon him), have all called humanity to monotheism, justice, brotherhood, love and compassion. Is it not possible to build a better world based on monotheism, justice, love and respect for the rights of human beings, and thereby transform animosities into friendship?

"I emphatically declare that today's world, more than ever before, longs for just and righteous people with love for all humanity; and above all longs for the perfect righteous human being and the real savior who has been promised to all peoples and who will establish justice, peace and brotherhood on the planet.

"O, Almighty God, all men and women are your creatures and you have ordained their guidance and salvation. Bestow upon humanity that thirsts for justice, the perfect human being promised to all by you, and make us among his followers and among those who strive for his return and his cause."[emphasis mine]

Interesting, no? Here we have a president of an important nation, praying before the General Assembly of the United Nations, imploring "God" to "bestow" upon us all the "perfect human being" who will "establish justice, peace and brotherhood on the planet."

Dear reader, what do you think? And my Christian friends, I ask you: Who is this "real" savior, the savior for whom Mr. Ahmadinejad eagerly awaits, if Jesus Christ is not the real one at all?

Peace.

BG

PS. I expended a few words on this whole thing in the not-so-distant past in this essay.

©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

Myth And Columbia

It is not a black-and-white issue for me. I wish it was; no doubt it began as one.

When I first heard (last week?) that Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad was to speak at Columbia University yesterday, I was in high dudgeon. Immediately I decried Columbia president Lee Bollinger's decision to permit the man even to visit Columbia's campus. 'How can these things be?' I asked myself, incredulous at such indecency.

But now I am somewhat ambivalent. I applaud Mr. Bollinger for taking a hard-line stand with Mr. Ahmadinejad; I am glad that he called the Iranian president a 'petty and cruel dictator.' Or am I?

Yes, it is good to confront and debate ideas and policies. Yes, it is noble to challenge the zeitgeist; to take a moral stand in the face of evil. But there are dangers, very subtle dangers, in taking the 'higher road.' Two such dangers come to mind this morning.

The first is to confuse calling a guest at an American university a "petty dictator" significant or even courageous. On one level it is plainly bad manners. On another level it is the sort of spoken deed that is really a boast and conceit: look at us confront! look at us fight! look at us inquire, challenge, decry! (We must also not forget that other great conceit: look at how tolerant we are! see how open-minded we can be! look at the depth of our understanding!)

Is Lee Bollinger really a fighter? Is he really courageous? Yes, of course he is. At the very least, he is willing to speak in a manner that might offend supporters of the Iranian president who live, work and study in the west, particularly on the west side of Manhattan. But is insulting a guest in one's own parlor anything like a bold confrontation, particularly when the guest expects it, even desires it? What about Mr. Bollinger traveling to Tehran to berate the Iranian president? What about him standing in Mr. Ahmadinejad's own parlor and pompously declaring his Iranian host "uneducated"?

What I am ultimately saying is that I fear some Americans think the country has now "dealt" with Mr. Ahmadinejad, that we have torn off his mask, shown him to the world as an ego-maniacal simpleton, and sent him on his way, duly chastised, duly warned. We have faced evil, confronted it, stared it down; we have shown evil and ignorance the face of goodness and knowledge.

But we have done no such thing at all.

Secondly, we have ineluctably fallen prey to a new mythology: The Iranian president came to America in peace, but the peacemaker was mocked, abused, ridiculed! He came with an olive branch, but he will leave having been scourged with that very symbol of peace! The fodder for propaganda is perhaps now even more abundant than ever. Had Mr. Ahmadinejad been kept at a safe distance, his propaganda could only reach so far. But now he has proof -- soundbites and vidclips -- that America is a capricious host, a divided and unfriendly place, full of spies (he called one reporter a CIA interrogator), dripping with sarcasm, antagonistic towards peace. He is that peace; his is a peaceful nation.

How sad, even tragic -- or so the chorus will sing -- that America -- and its Jewish constituency, no doubt -- should have rejected a 'noble' man bringing such a noble, gentle peace.

©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

On God Or No God

You may not agree with it, but I can't help but think you will find Avery Cardinal Dulles' essay, "God and Evolution," very engaging reading. It's too bad that it is not in book form; it would be nice to explore the ideas presented therein more completely. Read the whole thing (in other words, don't quit). Let me know what you think.

Blessings!

Gnade

On Paying Attention: Maureen Dowd, Welcome Back

As some of you know, The New York Times at 12:00 am (EST) today, discontinued its "TimesSelect" service, a subscription service providing access to a lot of NYT on-line features, including access to the Times' well-known columnists. The news of the program's cancellation means at least one thing: I am SO happy. Gratitude knows no bounds in my household this morning.

Today's column by Maureen Dowd is a perfect example of intellectual barrenness masquerading as intellectual fecundity. Ms. Dowd has proven -- again? -- that it matters not what you know; what matters is the style with which you present what you clearly don't know. And what Ms. Dowd clearly does not know is the news in her own newspaper.

In Alan (Not Atlas) Shrugged, Ms. Dowd gives us a list of several men who slinked away from the public eye only -- in a "fashion" -- to slink back. Her list includes O.J. Simpson, Donald Rumsfeld, Larry Craig and -- curiously -- former Fed chair, Alan Greenspan.

Consider what Ms. Dowd says of Mr. Greenspan:

Even though he rubber-stamped W.’s tax cuts, Alan Greenspan is now upbraiding the president and vice president for profligate spending and putting politics ahead of sound economics.…

Irrational exuberance, indeed. [emphasis added]

Surely we cannot deny Ms. Dowd her success at being the NYT's equivalent of the popular high school girl cheered -- not for her academic prowess -- but for her aptitude at gossip. For surely this is pure gossip; perhaps it's even the very antithesis of polemics. How did Ms. Dowd not know the facts as reported in her own paper?

Read this from the New York Times, March 2001:

Mr. Greenspan's support for a tax cut and his warnings about runaway spending have given Republicans a lift as they seek to push Mr. Bush's plan. [emphasis added]

Those of us who remember Mr. Greenspan's testimony on Capitol Hill regarding the Bush tax cuts recall that he did not offer his support to those cuts without also issuing stern warnings about spending: to Greenspan, the Bush cuts would only have the desired effects if Washington scaled back spending on all levels.

How did Ms. Dowd not know this? The answer is simple, really. Perhaps it can best be expressed in what could be the NYT's new motto: We know so you don't have to.

And note that Ms. Dowd avers that Mr. Greenspan "rubber-stamped" George W. Bush's tax cuts. The use of this tired verb -- intended to imply that Greenspan and his peers were little more than automatons in the Bush regime -- is used with such facility that one would be right to point out that those who use it do so automatically, even robotically. Plus, has Alan Greenspan ever rubber-stamped anything in his career?

In the end, perhaps the most important point in all this is that Ms. Dowd does not really know her Ayn Rand. After all, Atlas IS shrugging. Surely Steve Fossett's disappearance proves this, no?

©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

Speaking In Parables

[After reading Friedrich Nietzsche's Beyond Good and Evil earlier this summer, I wrote the following short story.]

Julie Cannon was a theology student with a cause: she wanted to live a life of gratitude. And she was walking through Harvard Square at a pace that meant she set out to prove it. But she also wanted to live a life worthy of those who called themselves followers of Christ, even if it meant acting crazy from time to time.

“I don’t understand why you should have a problem with this, Thomas. You’re the one who is always telling me about how grateful you are. Weren't you boasting about your grateful spirit just the other day? Why can’t I do this my way?”

“I am not saying you can’t do it your way, you little imp. I am telling you that it is just sort of weird.”

Thomas Lesser, too, was a theology student. He and Julie were second-year students at Harvard Divinity School. Today he found himself curiously furious with her: she was gorgeous and wildly desirable (he had attempted to ask Julie out several times, but failed for want of courage); she was his closest female friend in Cambridge, and yet here she was with thank-you notes to, well, whatever, and she was fixed on her task -- without affect -- in a way that perplexed him to no end and, for the first time since they met nearly two years ago, he did not know how to take her.

“Are you telling me,” Thomas said, trying to restrain his incredulity and nascent anger, “that you have thirteen more cards to hand out, and that we have twenty more things to thank beyond that? Really, two is enough already. One for the trees by Church Street, and one for the bench by All Creeds…I am down with that. But I had no idea you had a whole day of this planned.”

“What? Are you not thankful, too?” asked Julie, her voice slightly crimped by shortness of breath.

“I am, Jules, but –“

“buuuuuuttt, what? You do have a problem, don’t you, and yet you won’t come out and say it. Oops! Too late. We are here. Come!”

Thomas - reluctantly - followed his Beatrice into Algiers, a place he knew Julie adored. He adored it too, perhaps because he knew it was so dear to Julie. He looked straight overhead as he walked in: He loved the vaulted ceilings of this café, and he loved all its nooks and crannies. The smell of roasting coffee beans blasted his nose.

“No, no, I am not here to order anything,” Julie said to the barista. She took a moment to sigh deeply, to catch her breath and gather her wits for an important task. “I merely want to thank the espresso machine. No, uh, what? … no, no. I was wondering if I could have a minute with your espresso machine. As you know, I LOVE the espresso here, and, well, I was just thinking last night that I needed to ‘overflow with thanksgiving.’ So I want to thank the espresso machine, and even the coffee beans, for giving me so much pleasure.”

Thomas dropped his gaze to the group of baristas gathering behind the counter. He could feel himself shifting from foot to foot and shaking his head ever so slightly. And he could feel blood rush to his face. Here we are, Thomas thought, and everybody here knows we are div students; we sit here for hours – Julie, me, Chad, Liam, Valli – talking God and exegesis and Greek, and now Julie has the temerity to ask if she could speak to a machine…she wants to thank it.

He could see from the baristas' faces that they were befuddled, and yet were too tolerant of so familiar a face, and a face so beautiful.

One undergrad - known by Thomas and Julie merely as Rafe - spoke up, his face broad with a knowing smile.

“Sure, Julie. Come behind the counter and have at it.”

Rafe looked at his colleagues and then at Thomas. He gave them a little smile and a quick shrug as if to say, “What can I do?”

Julie squeezed through the gap between countertops and walked up to the copper-plated espresso machine. She nodded before it, touched it lovingly – she’s caressing it, Thomas noted – and then said something no one could hear. She was behind the counter for no more than sixty seconds. But to Thomas it was a minute too long.

“Well, that was kind of you all,” Julie said as she made her way toward the door. “But I am wondering if you could give the coffee roaster this little card. It’s a thank-you note.”

The only barista to speak spoke again.

“But we all roast the beans, Julie,” Rafe said, looking at each of his colleagues. In unison, each barista nodded his head in agreement.

“I know that, you goofs. I want you to give the note to the actual roaster, the actual machine. You know, the big one you have out back.” Julie tilted her head back, inhaled deeply through her nose, and then raised a hand for dramatic effect. “I can smell it now. Ahhh!”

Julie handed the card to Rafe who, along with his fellow baristas, stood dumbfounded.

"I don’t... what? Uh..."

Thomas, unable to contain either his impatience or his blushing, spoke to Rafe as Julie turned to go.

“Just…please. Humor her. She has a fistful of thank you notes to THINGS! And she has her whole day planned around this happy little idea of thanking things for…for their… thingness…or…whatever!”

Julie turned as Thomas approached exasperation. She looked at him quizzically. “You do think I’m crazy, don’t you? Well, you’ve not seen anything yet! Come!”

At that, Julie flew down the stairs. Thomas muttered something toward the young men behind the counter, but he knew they could not hear him. He dropped his head and followed Julie.

But once outside, Julie immediately stopped. Quickly, she knelt on the sidewalk and lowered her face: Thomas thought of Muslim prayer. She’s doing salat, and she’s prostrate in the first sajdah!

“Thank you sidewalk!” shouted Julie.

“Julie, please!” Thomas shouted, concerned that someone might think she was mocking Islam. He moved toward her head to block pedestrians from crashing into her. But as suddenly as she had knelt, she was up and walking toward the corner.

“You remember last month when Pim, my cat, was lost?” she asked, shouting over her shoulder, her pace suddenly brisk and direct. “Well, I had put up posters around the Square urging people to be on the lookout. So there is a pole I have to see.”

After ten strides Julie stopped abruptly, with Thomas nearly crashing into her.

“Here it is.”

Thomas, now so perplexed that he could not hide his anger, looked around.

“Here’s what?!” he shouted.

Julie looked at him with a look of pain.

“Here’s what?” Thomas asked, the tone and volume of his voice lowered to levels approaching courtesy. “I see nothing here.”

“Yes, but I do,” Julie continued without so much as a pause in enthusiasm, “and I am glad I do. This pole, right here, was where I put one of Pim’s posters! Thank you, thank you, my dear pole. Oh! And look! The FedEx box. I use that box! Thank you, box!”

Thomas was appalled. What has happened to her? What am I doing here? He watched as Julie wrapped her arms around the metal box, as best she could. She’s hugging it! And now she’s up again!

“Look! A curb! You know, there have been many times I've leapt onto a curb to avoid getting hit by a taxi or some crazy cyclist. I have even used this curb. Thank you curb! And look! A picture of a dog! I had a dog once. Thank you, picture! Thank you, dogs! And look at – thank you sky, thank you clouds! And –“

“Julie Cannon!” Thomas knew he could shout loud, but was surprised he could shout that loud. Rage was settling in. “What the hell is going on here? If you think I’m spending my day while you traipse through Cambridge thanking things, then you are out of your freaking mind! I would be out of my mind to follow you – I have THINGS TO DO!”

Suddenly, Julie’s whole face changed. Her frenzy seemed to abate at Thomas’ words. She smiled softly, her eyes full of understanding. She walked slowly up to him, her eyes pouring into his. She stopped close to him, reaching out a hand to caress his arm.

“Tom, Tom. Let’s go back to Algiers. There is something I want to tell you.”

“More things to thank, Julie? No thanks. I’ve got things to do?”

“Come, Tom. Give me just a few minutes. I promise, no more thanking things. Not that I should stop on account of your anger, but I will stop on account of your embarrassment. So, you think it crazy of me to do all this. Why?”

Tom looked skyward, rolled his eyes and tilted his head to the right, and then brought his gaze back down to Julie. “Because you don’t thank things, Julie, you thank people, sentient, animate people."

“Hmm,” cooed Julie. “Come, coffee’s on me. Twenty minutes, tops!”

With a tug of her hands and a knee-buckling smile, Julie was able to get Thomas to walk a few steps, open a door, order a latte and sit in the downstairs corner of Algiers. Julie had made a joke with the baristas upon entering, saying something about “playing nutty and all.”

“Plain and simple, Thomas. Do you want to know what this was all about?”

Thomas looked unsure.

“I guess. I mean, only if it makes sense and does not bore me to tears, or piss me off," he answered. "And I guess I don’t want some sort of tragic news, like that you have a brain tumor and just days to live or something equally dreadful.”

Julie looked down at the coffee cup in her hands. She seemed to Thomas to be weighing what he had just said; there was a look of grave concern that passed over her face. But then that look passed with a brilliant smile. Thomas’ momentary anxiety slipped from him like snow on a metal roof in spring.

“Dearest Tom. You have to know me better by now…I’d never drop something tragic on you in this manner, nor would I ever be so gauche as to harass you for no good reason. I mean, I don’t think you’ve ever found me boring. Lord knows I’ve never had a dull moment with you.”

Thomas could feel himself blush. He squirmed in his seat, sat upright, and put both hands around his coffee mug. He did not want to give too much away.

Julie looked out the window and said, “You’ve got to know that I was very troubled during Religious Epistemology last week. You know, when you and Dr. Urns were talking atheism? I mean, the whole Nietzsche section has been fascinating."

Julie withdrew her gaze from the window. She looked right into Thomas's eyes.

"Don’t get me wrong, that crazy atheist makes me think. But when you agreed with Urns, that you even admitted you recently became an atheist – well, I guess I am fine with that sort of statement if it is meant as a confession of doubt, because we all have doubts – but when you, well, when you agreed with him that you could be an atheist and live a meaningful life, one filled with gratitude and joy, well, it really felt empty to me, so hol—“

“But Julie, it is my choice to – “

Thomas stopped himself. He could feel that he was somehow blindsided here; something was coming and yet he could neither see it nor control its effect. Yes, it was true what Julie was saying; in fact, he was like probably too many div-students – he had become an atheist studying for “ministry.” Yes, this was a change for him, since he came from a United Church of Christ background, one with an evangelical flavor (at least while his old youth pastor worked at his family's church during his commuting days at Brompton Prep). And he knew in his heart that it was wrong not to have told Julie this until he announced it in class to Dr. Urns, who was also an atheist. For Julie was devout: she had more faith, even certainty, than anyone he had ever met.

“I’m sorry, “ he said. “Go on.”

Julie continued.

“It all just felt hollow and contrived. So what I did today was try to show you the absurdity of your position. Forgive me for pointing this out, but you pointed out the absurdity of your position. You JUST scolded me outside by declaring - with the conviction of a true believer - that it was absurd to thank things. And my point was to show you exactly that – that it is impossible to live a life of thanks and gratitude as an atheist, for the atheist can only thank things. There is no person, no ‘sentience,’ to steal your word, to be grateful to.”

Thomas could feel heat pour into his face. He knew he had been caught in a…seeming?…contradiction, one that he had created, and yet he could not just concede. How could he? He had been adamant in his opinions with Dr. Urns; he had enjoyed connecting with the professor so fully and uniquely. And now he could feel all that sentiment slip away as so much nothing.

“Well, I suppose I could be thankful to the universe," Thomas offered with conciliation in his tone, "though you would counter that it, too, is a mere thing. So perhaps I could say that I am grateful for having been born, that I am glad my parents met and decided to have me.”

“But you know full well your parents made no such decision," Julie rejoined. "At best, they chose to have a baby, but they had no choice who you would be. Besides, who are they grateful to for their existence -- their parents? Well, what about the first parents? Who are they grateful to? Plus, as you know, most atheism is entirely mechanical in its ontology: this is all a machine and no one really has any choice at all ... your parents, then, had no choice in even meeting, let alone having a child. Think eternal recurrence, for that Nietzschean belief is rooted entirely in determinism. I mean, if we ain’t got choice, then we can’t thank each other for anything. Oh, sure we can say we are thankful for beauty or health or wealth or Brahms or brie or this coffee. But we don't thank the gift, we thank the giver. So either we thank God for these gifts -- God being at least a conscious, willing, sentient Being -- or we have nothing to thank at all.”

Thomas felt stumped, though he held on to the suspicion that Julie’s argument had to be superficial and fallacious. He knew she was right – absolutely right – about one thing: He had said what he said, and he had felt it, too. It was absurd to thank things. It was absurd to be grateful to inanimate objects or even creatures who had no choice being what they were. And he could feel the power of Julie’s challenge, that it was impossible to be a grateful atheist in the sense he had used it with Dr. Urns. 'Yes, he said so enthusiastically to Urns, 'I can live a life filled with as much gratitude as any Christian’s.' And now he knew he couldn’t defend that sort of position at all. But he knew he had to say something.

"I can always thank you, for bringing me here, for allowing me the privilege of your beauty and friendship and even this insight, can't I? I mean, I can always thank people? So I can live a life of gratitude, no?"

Thomas couldn't say more. He had admitted too much -- "the privilege of your beauty" was too revealing. Besides, there was something hollow -- just as Julie had said -- to the position he was attempting to defend: he was still thanking things, and he knew it to be futile. But he quickly forgot himself as he looked into Julie's eyes.

"'So, the 'privilege of your beauty,' eh?" Julie said, her eyes full of love and joy. "Don't you know, Thomas, that I can't help myself at all?"

©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

Atheism On Negation In Tuscany

[Note: Since I attempted to be clever in this essay by using double-negatives, I ended up confusing myself and making a mistake. The mistake -- failing to create a double negative where needed -- has been corrected. If some of you read this and said, "What the-?", well, now you just have to say, "Huh?"]

I turned to the atheist next to me and asked if he ever thought in anything other than negation. He said he did not.

I've decided that an essay on atheism is all wrong. There are starting points that offend my pretensions, everyone being smarter than I. Irrespective of my ever-maturing idiocy, I've convinced myself that the starting point for a theist is always a positive - God. I've even noticed that the starting point for a theist is a positive predicate - God is. In contrast, the atheist is forever chained to negation; the atheist can only say that God is not, or that there is no God. The atheist cannot, however, tell you what is; there is no affirmation offered that is not mere subjective whim, mere preference or pet-interest.

But if the atheist is right, my theism is really the denial, the negation. Yet I protest that I do not know what it is I am negating: I assert there is something rather than nothing. I am not saying -- am I? -- that God is not non-existent, nor am I negating some principle common to atheism. Perhaps I must content myself with being a non-atheist, with atheism, of course, being some form of positive position. I can't deny then that my non-atheism is an abuse of the positive positions of atheism, those jolly positions I often hear described as bursting with "alacrity" and optimism and liberty. (Indeed, I really can't deny that I am thoroughly abusive of these notions.)

All this the wind tells me is so much nonsense. I hear squirrels chattering more sanity, even when cats wait nearby. The atheist cannot tell me what is but only what isn't. An atheist's negation of my affirmation of theism is a bit like zero telling 1 that multiplication is a fantasy. And it is fantasy, if you embrace nothing. But the atheist recoils at this, shouting, I don't embrace nothing! If one listens for but a moment one hears what the atheist so passionately and earnestly embraces -- beauty, truth, love, progress, posterity, science. In fact the atheist, being incredibly zealous for his ideals, won't take long to dispel the annoying rumors of nihilism preventing him from enjoying his favorite peace. But point out to him that his creed is filled with ideals that hold no objective compulsion -- that his ideals are unique to him and his subjectivity -- and you will hear more bluster than a creationist sacked by a gang of Darwinists. Then add to the punch the obvious -- that if all truth is subjective and theism is one of those subjectively held truths (in a godless world) -- it thus follows that one man's atheism is no advantage over another's theism. If there is nothing but negation and subjectivism; if there is nothing absolute, then what can an atheist say to that man who knows there is no God and yet to spite the very universe believes in God anyway, comforted and compelled in his theism by the atheist's primary convictions, e.g. all truth is subjective and headed for oblivion? Why should an atheist enamored of subjectivism care at all that there are Christians, or other subjective theists, in a world rushing toward the void? We all share the same fate -- annihilation. Then what could possibly induce an atheist to expend one moment decrying theism when nothing he can offer and nothing he believes can save anything?

How odd that the zeros should care so much.

But, as I said, I am the dope in this room. Outside the door? The waiting, crushing abyss.

Peace.

©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

Ground Null Set: A Memorial Poem

We know the date well. We know the hour, even if this morning it passed on the very edge of dulled nerves. Anxiety is a phone call, a FoxNews alert, a broadcast interruption, that drags the heart toward the basement, where people and dreams were crushed in the old inertia that shook a runway in Boston, or a turnstile in Maine.

Today is also Tuesday, just like then.

In honor of this day, I post a poem I wrote nearly a year after 9/11. I have many 9/11 poems; this one addresses the pain of being a survivor.

We can't forget those who were left behind. They are many.

new york times in ridgewood, nj

the milk has turned bad in the frigidaire
your start to the day, cold, shaped in glass
the english muffins, green, wet and matted
in the plastic bag clipped tight, moldy mass

dirty socks, draped over the rim of jogging
shoes, stiff, and I’ll be damned if I pick them
up for you, or the ladder on the house, leaning
like a tower, windows dirty from inside fogging

the mailbox overdue, fully gestated, delivery
to be induced, or they will
force a caesarean, though i think miscarriage
or abortion and of the NYTs bundled on the path
you won't carry in your arms, though

the press has pressed itself against the patio
doors and through the phone lines and traipsed
into your favorite part of the yard, at night
talking about all of you - like friends - on the radio

while i sleep vertically, looking over where you slept
(the perfect mattress we jumped on in Mattress World
from the ledge of our dreams where hope was kept
and the weight of your arms around my waist, curled)

my feet anchored against attacks on the upper parts
of my fatiguing structure, swaying breathing
the injury like a spear in the side bleeding glass
and i fight not to collapse in a heap of fallen hearts

lights on in the night, all night, doggy-dog licking
the wounds on the back of the kitchen door
whining search for a walksy through the once present ever
after, the battery dead in the hallway clock unticking

i hung up on what you last spoke, and on the white house
and every other dismembered voice
best wishes still on the answering machine blinking
winking thinking shrinking sinking;
sinking;
sinking

8.07.02
©Bill Gnade/Contratimes 2007. All Rights Reserved.

On Media: More Fun With Face Time

Since my first installment of Fun With Face Time was fairly well-received (thanks for the emails), and since I promised photographs from my time with Democratic presidential candidate Bill Richardson (governor of New Mexico), I thought I'd offer Part II, though with some modifications (of Part I).

Brady, a dear soul and friend of Contratimes living in faraway Switzerland, asked if I could post images and invite readers to submit their own headlines. I think that is a capital idea. So I will post the very first image I took (ever) of Gov. Richardson when he visited Peterborough, NH on August 24, 2007. Remember that I have a thesis in mind when I take these pictures: a picture creates an impression, and all of these candidates for president sorely want to impress (and control their image). Without question the media play an important hand in forming our opinions about a person running for office; how we see these folks in photographs, and how those photos are connected to headlines, captions and stories, help frame our thoughts about a candidate. (If you read Part I, and the link provided therein, you'll get a clearer sense of my intent. And no, my intent is not to make any candidate look bad.)

So, here is the very first picture of Bill Richardson I took when I arrived -- late!! -- for his speech (which was on CSPAN, by the way. Did you see me? Well, some folks did.).


OK. Now, write your headlines!!

Peace.

BG

©Bill Gnade/Contratimes 2007. All Rights Reserved.

In Awe Of Nature: Let Osprey

Today's photograph ran across the entire top of the front page of yesterday's Keene Sentinel, New Hampshire's oldest daily newspaper.

If you are into birds of prey, I think you'll like the following image. It's a bit static (the bird is not doing anything unusual or interesting), but it is a decent shot of an intense bird on the wing.

Peace.

BG




PS. Click on image for a larger view.

On Media: Fun With Face Time

I have discussed this sort of thing before in my series of critical essays, The New York Times Drug Dealers. And now that we (Americans) are once again in the midst of the many great campaigns for the White House, I thought Contratimes readers might find today's post dealing with image not only different, but rather fun. Who knows?

Trust me when I say that all presidential campaigns are obsessed with one thing: image management. In the media-rich culture in which we live, news editors and photographers serve as midwives, delivering the fresh images each campaign hopes to use to nurture voter interest in their candidates. Irrespective of feigned "balance" in much image obstetrics, hardly a single journalist covering these campaigns is without partisan interest. Everyone, it seems, has a special interest.

Recently I attended a John Edwards event. I showed up with my photo gear; though I was dressed in yard-work rags, my cameras and lenses suggested to many in attendance that I was "media," despite the fact that I was and am merely an interested voter (I only shoot for myself now). My motives and status aside, the Edwards handlers continuously flagged me down: Who are you shooting for? Are you with the press? There's a ladder over there for a better view. At these events, such questions and advice come forth freely and in torrents -- image control is balanced with the highest possible visibility: show our candidate and show him (or her) well.

But as I shared in the essay to which I linked above, not everyone in the media is content with showing a candidate in the best light. I will allow you to explore that more philosophical dimension on your own. Today I merely want to treat you to the impressions created by a frame, a lens and a shutter curtain.

JOHN EDWARDS IN PETERBOROUGH, NH, AUG 23, 2007

When Mr. Edwards finally arrived at his meet-and-greet in a park at the confluence of the Contoocook and Nubanusit rivers in downtown Peterborough, I looked for a vantage that would give me a decent background for the presidential candidate. I wanted color; I wanted people, or signs, or a flag, or a lot or little of each. Indeed, I was able to find a flag, the one flag that was there; luckily, there was also a hint of racial diversity -- one black man and one hispanic woman -- standing in the crowd gathered beneath the Stars-and-Stripes. Unbeknownst to that small sample, they were backdrop; they did not know that I would edit and frame the scene -- a 360-degree world and ampitheater in the round -- to such a narrow slice. I wanted to convey patriotism (as did the handlers who hung the flag); I also wanted to show that Edwards was supported by a racially diverse crowd in what is considered lily-white New Hampshire. All this despite the fact that there was probably only one black man at the event, which boasted close to 500 supporters.

Unfortunately, the light was variable, often drab and low. Thus my lens and aperture choices resulted in very shallow depth-of-field: my backdrop, colorful as it is, is too blurred out to convey all that I was hoping.

Now, the fun. You'll see that John Edwards can look handsome, noble, good, kind, gentle. An editor might even pen a suitable headline: "Edwards Comfortable In NH". This picture proves that he's got the confidence and the looks to be president:


Not bad, really. Edwards looks fresh, solid, straight.

Of course, I could submit this image to an editor's desk:


The depth-of-field is a little better, though I don't like that Edwards' right hand is off-frame and that the flag has moved in the breeze. But surely he looks stronger and more assertive in this frame than in the one previous. Perhaps a headline writer could riff off the image: Edwards Unveils Bold Initiative In NH; Edwards Turns Tough On Campaign Trail; Edwards Determined In NH.

Of course, there are other impressions one can leave. The next picture gives us a sense of the whiff: Edwards' nose seems to have picked up a foul odor. How about "Edwards Smells Defeat In NH Primary"? (This image doesn't really work; it doesn't convey enough voter interest, as one person in the background is obviously interested in something other than John Edwards.)


Perhaps the following photograph lends itself to this headline: "Edwards Concerned Over Shrinking NH Poll Numbers". Perhaps.


But I could emphasize this sense of "My-advantage-over-Richardson-is-really-really-small" even more with an aggressive crop of the original frame.


Then there's the headline, "Edwards Soft-Pitches Plans On Iraq, Terror, Katrina":


When I look at the next image, surely I can believe this: "Edwards to NH's Poor: I Won't Leave You"; or, "Edwards To The Jobless: Help Is On The Way; or "Edwards Speaks To The Second America: I FEEL YOUR PAIN."


Personally, I find that, despite Edwards' strong left hand in the following image, his face suggests weakness, softness. There's even a pleading aspect to his countenance. No doubt it's a perfect facial expression should I want to imply such weakness, such need.


Maybe in a week or two we'll see this headline above the following image: "Edwards Feels The Heat: Moderate Dems Turning Elsewhere."


And just note how the next image could be used, especially since it is so close and tight, almost intimate: "Edwards Cool And In Control: Looking Good In NH."


Lastly, think what fun it would be to read this headline: "Singing A New Tune: Edwards' Croons, Women Voters Swoon."


I doubt this is the sort of image "Edwards in '08!" supporters wish to see. But I sure can hear him sing.

Look for my Bill Richardson images next time.

Peace.

BG

©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
Permission required for use of any and all photos posted herein.