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.

Listening From Afar

The photo of this moose appeared on page 1 of the local daily yester- day under the banner, "All Ears." It was a perfect title. And it remains a perfect title for how I feel about returning to this blog after a significant hiatus: I want to listen. 

Perhaps you have something to say. Anything?

Peace.

Bill Gnade

(see related moose story at In The Pantry)

On Politics: When The Man Deceives: A Video For Destruction (Part 1)

A couple of weeks ago, during a conversation I was having with someone I love, I completely caved in: I crumbled under peer pressure. It is not the sort of thing I confess lightly; there is an element of shame to it all. But confess it I must, because I was lying, not only to my interlocutor, but to myself. 

The topic was Mr. Al Gore. I had made the point that Mr. Gore has built something of a mythology around his life's work: he has pointed out dangers that threaten us all, and yet he, blithely and blindly, is part of those very dangers. If Al Gore warns us of global warming, he does so from the Cannes Film Festival, the yacht-littered theater orgy of the world's richest and most indulgent polluters. If he warns us of corporate control of information, he does so without telling us that he sits† on the boards of Google and CurrentTV, both of which "control" more information in an hour than Rupert Murdoch "controls" in a month or perhaps even in a decade. And if he warns us of the great threat that unreason has on our culture, he does so in a manner that can only be described as fallacious. 

In short, Mr. Gore is a dangerous man. 

But it was exactly that assertion which I denied. I had made a fairly decent case about Mr. Gore's hypocrisy without once referring to his negative and harmful influence on the culture at large; but those listening to me construed that I was averring that Mr. Gore was a man capable of doing much harm. Alas, as quickly as a cocksure disciple slinking past an accuser in a Jerusalem street, I denounced my own convictions. 

Surely, there is no pride in such cowardice. 

Mr. Gore, 1992, Waxing Eloquent About Saddam Hussein

Contratimes readers will know that I have spent much time pointing out that the current war in Iraq is not four-and-a-half years old. It is at least 16 years old. There has not been one second since Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait that the United States has not been in political and military strife with Iraq. Moreover, easily forgotten is that it was the Clinton administration that ramped up sanctions and military operations against Saddam Hussein from 1992 through January 2001 (when Messrs. Clinton and Gore left Washington). Lastly, it was during the Clinton administration, and due to Mr. Clinton's perceived abuses of Iraq, that Osama bin Laden issued his infamous 1998 fatwa, the one that led to the 9/11 atrocities. And the media, by and large, are silent about these issues: the media, nearly all of whom are, to some degree, Clinton fans and Gore idolizers, will not permit themselves to see what they helped create.

Now comes an incredible video from YouTube (originally broadcast on C-Span). The time is September 1992. Mr. Gore is the Democratic nominee for vice president; he's on the campaign trail. The video captures him at his pedantic, professorial, condescending best. But what is the topic? That's right: George H. W. Bush, Bush the First, was NOT TAKING SADDAM HUSSEIN SERIOUSLY ENOUGH. Bush the First was capitulating; Bush was weak and duplicitous; Bush was trying to appease a terrorist.

Of course, Al Gore and Bill Clinton would be tough and bold; they would sanction and subdue Saddam Hussein; they would finish the job that should have been completed in the First Gulf War.

In other words, Bill Clinton and Al Gore would stir up a hornet's nest.

I beg you: Watch the video yourself, and then write to me of my cowardly denials. And then write to the world, and tell them that you do not know Al Gore. 

Peace.

†Google is not merely a search engine: Google is also GMAIL, Google News, Blogger and YouTube. Mr. Gore also serves the board of Apple Inc.

©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved. 

Note to readers

There are some technical problems here that have made it very difficult for me to post. Also, I am sure some of you notice the extremely slow loading time of this site; I do not, yet, understand why this is happening.

Sorry for the inconvenience.

Oh, and happy Father's Day.

Gnade

Rosie Sheen Sheehan

Rosie O'Donnell's view has been obscured by the top brass at ABC, and now she will have to find a different vista from which she can divine truth, and dispense her happy bromides. Curiously, a Rosie cohort, Charlie Sheen, is apparently seeing some sort of light at the end of his nose: He admits he might be wrong about the conspiracy-laden 9/11 film, "Loose Change." The good news is that he might have doubts; the bad news is that Rosie, who has also touted the film, has not had such doubts. Change comes slow, no doubt, and change, like wits, can even sometimes come loose.

Stepping into the news to eclipse all this is Cindy Sheehan, the indefatigable anti-war protester who has, apparently, finally tired out. She is heading back to California to reconnect with her remaining children. News has it that she is selling her land (Camp Casey, named for her fallen son) near President Bush's ranch in Crawford, Texas.

It is hard not to pity Ms. Sheehan. Her own words (found here in her "resignation letter"), which are very much worth reading, are filled with pain. Perhaps the most telling line is the one about her son, who died -- freely -- while serving the American armed forces in Iraq. Ms. Sheehan writes simply, "I failed my boy and that hurts the most." [emphasis mine]

Ms. Sheehan has admitted something to us all in her resignation letter posted at The Daily Kos. She has admitted that the most painful thing is not the Iraq War or partisan duplicity or partisan betrayal. The most painful thing is not even the death of her son. The most painful thing is that she feels she let him down by buying "into the [American] system."

One can only grieve for Ms. Sheehan, for it seems she has not yet had the chance to really grieve. Her cause, her passion, and her many minions kept her, or so I believe, from truly addressing her deepest sorrows. Today, she is finally returning to California to try to restore relations with her surviving children, to try to regain the things she has lost. But what things are those, one might ask, if not the very things that are most valued in the system known as America?

If I was a friend of Ms. Sheehan's and I received a letter from her like the one she posted at The Daily Kos, I would be concerned that my friend was contemplating suicide. I am not her friend, and yet I am still concerned. For it is clear that she feels she failed. If her greatest pain comes when she considers that her failures led to her son's death, then she is not really blaming America or war or Iraq or Democrats or Republicans or even Casey for his death, she's blaming herself.

That is too much for any mother to bear.

Ms. Sheehan strikes me as exhausted and disoriented. Someone needs to get her home, hide her from the world, and give her lots of silence. She should stay away from TVs and radios and newspapers and the Internet; she should be given lots of love, hot tea, and pampering. She needs a long holiday from the world and, perhaps most importantly, her own persona needs to be exorcized. Her resignation letter proves that she teeters on the edge of sanity. Her words are those of a martyred messiah, a snubbed prophet. She sees things better than the rest of us; she knows more than America. That sort of inflated sense of self is not healthy. It is the very stuff of craziness. It is the sound of exhaustion, of collapse.

May God give her the healing and peace she seeks. Let us all pray.

Peace to you.

©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

(A related Contratimes essay, "Weapons of Miss Direction", which addresses Ms. Sheehan's quasi-gnosticism, can be found here.)

Faithless In Fashion

It all might be due to the easy trendiness of atheism these days, with Christopher Hitchens and Richard Dawkins recently dominating certain booklists with their seemingly trenchant criticisms of all things theological. How else to explain my sudden and shocking waking in the deep dark of last night with the following statement breaking sweet dreams' synapses in the core of my normally happy brain?

If there is no God, then I hate this universe.

What could the oracle mean?

©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

[Addendum, 5.26.07: Since this post has inspired a decent discussion on atheism in the comments thread, I think it relevant to refer readers to my essay, "The Existence of God: A Letter To Christopher Hitchens," dated September 20, 2006. I believe it is essential reading for any serious inquiry into the existence of God. I am not suggesting that it is a prerequisite for joining the discussion here. ALSO, I think it should be noted that Luke Buckham, who comments frequently at Contratimes, is more than a mere internet friend. Luke and I know each other in the real world; we have had numerous face-to-face, heart-to-heart discussions, some over beer, some over burritos, and some while standing in a dry river bed. Hence, Luke and I might write here (and elsewhere) to each other differently than we might write to other correspondents. And, though I know we try to avoid doing so, we may occasionally make references to things NOT SAID in online conversations.

Lastly, I think it's only polite (and balanced) to refer readers to Luke's essay against theism posted at Luke's website, "O Machine." The title of his polemic is "SHARP WORDS, part 1: Are you an atheist?" Thanks. BG]

AnAlogy Gore-alogy: Fun With Al

As a preview to Al Gore's forthcoming book, The Assault On Reason (see my essay here), I thought it would be fun to see how readers complete the following sentence:

Al Gore writing about reason is like _______________.

OR, readers could finish this sentence:

Al Gore lecturing us about the assault on reason is a bit like ________________.

(For a few examples, you can look at the end of my essay posted Saturday, May 19, 2007.)

Invite your friends! Pass the word.

Blessings and blissings!

©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

Reason Is Not So Fooled: Al Gore's New Book

I am back, and I am mad as fire ants on skin. Actually, I am merely back.

Let me ask you a few questions. If I write a book entitled Freedom From Hate: Rejecting intolerance, bigotry and prejudice, and the psycho-social constructs that protect them, wouldn't you expect me to be free of hate, intolerance, bigotry, and the psycho-social constructs that protect them? If I write a book called Loosed At Last: Self-delivery from addiction, would it be imprudent of you to ask whether I was the one photographed last week puking with Christopher Hitchens outside Circa Tabac?º What if I pen the best-selling Regular As Sunrise: 10 sure steps to overcoming diarrhea? Would it be proper of you to presume that I did not write that fine book while sitting at a desk in my bathroom?

Just asking.
_______________

If the writer of Ecclesiastes is correct, that there is a season for everything under the sun, then there is a time for scoffing, for sarcasm. A friend of mine once said that she could not embrace Christianity because there was not a single reference in the whole Bible to God laughing. One wonders what she meant: the Bible has several references to God laughing at idols, scoffing at vanities, mocking false and phony gods. In other words, there is a time for scoffing, and the time is now.

You may have already garnered from my many essays about Al Gore that I am incurably Algore-aphobic. I am very discomforted by the over-crowding inside Al Gore's head. But that is the least of my phobias. I am much more phobic that Al Gore is presenting himself to the world as deity.

Surely you have heard that Mr. Gore is about to release a new book called (I am not making this up), The Assault on Reason. No, this is not autobiography, nor is it a confession or tell-all foisted upon the world to generate sympathy for his reckless rhetoric, his own sins of the mind. Those of us paying attention find just a hint of delight, an almost arthritic mirth, in the irony of it all: Al Gore is going to pontificate on the world's flight from reason. We giggle, but with some pain: our joints rattle and grind, joints battered by years if not decades of twists and sprains and hyper-extensions earned while fighting the fallaciousness of mass hysteria, even mass opinion.

Let us recall for the moment that Al Gore's film, An Inconvenient Truth, is from credits-to-Oscar one long fallacy: the film unrelentingly confuses or, if not confuses, conflates correlation and causality in an almost insouciant non causa pro causa polemic. Of course, this is not to suggest that the conclusion is right or wrong; Mr. Gore may be infallibly correct in his conclusion that humans† are killing the planet and that the need for green living is of moral imperative. But his method is utterly irrational. His method is an assault on reason. Even his appeals to "most scientists" or "scientific consensus" are fallacious, as is his appeal to experts; both are fallacies, the former, the fallacy argumentum ad populum (or consensus gentium, the appeal to majorities), the latter, the appeal to authority.

In 1987, I had the pleasure of hanging out with Al Gore at a house party held on the edges of a tiny New Hampshire town. He was just beginning his bid for the White House; the twenty or so folks gathered in the kitchen and living room were remarkably interested in his words. But they were not sufficiently interested to give him the Democratic nomination in 1988, nor were they overly awed by him. My impression then (vague as it is now), was that the only person sufficiently awed by Mr. Gore was Mr. Gore himself.

Alas, I find he has not changed at all over the last 20 years. I also find that his current fans are giving him a pass. But since I am not a fan (nor am I at all current), he does not pass my way without receiving a jeer and a tomato (both the jeer and the tomato, by the way, are certified organic and totally carbon neutral; the jeer is also free-range). My incredulity slips into sarcasm at the idea: Mr. Gore has come to the rescue; he is going to enlighten us all to the true value and blissfulness of reason. He shall demonstrate logical perfection; he will rise above the profanum vulgus and model proper thinking. But one look at his unintentionally hilarious essay on economics from 2006 will give you a sense of Mr. Gore's vast skills in clear thinking. Perhaps my reference to that essay is unfair; perhaps lucidity is not one of reason's predicates. Perhaps muddied and abstruse prose is the crown jewel of reason. Perhaps.

The Gore Advantage

The advantage to writing a book called The Assault on Reason (TAR) is that the author instantly presents himself as the Most Reasonable Human. For surely the man who writes such a book could not be the most assaultive force on reason, could he? No, he could not. He can only be reason's protector, exemplar, purifier. He must be reason's very template.

And this is proven (I use the word the way Mr. Gore uses it) by TAR's description at Amazon. I would be remiss not to demand that you read it. Please! Go check out this most-reasonable description of this important bulwark against anti-rationalism. It is eye-opening: you will be aghast at your own benighted reasoning skills. A light will shine in your darkness, I am sure.

I just pray that the light shining in your darkness is not a bullet coursing through your incredulous head. I hope that, instead of inflicting any injury upon your lovely self, you will turn toward the light through derisive laughter. It is surely where and how I must turn. Laughter, for me, is the only reasonable alternative to suicide.* A high school friend of mine published next to his yearbook picture a veiled dig at the interminable laughter of a girl he thought he loved. He wrote, "Laughter is the air release of all one fears." But my friend was wrong. Laughter is not the release of all one fears. It is the release of all one hates. I either laugh at Al Gore or I kill myself; I either open my mouth and release my hatred or I open my cranium some other way in order to let out what I loathe. And I do loathe "Al Gore"; I hate him.ª But I do not hate Al Gore the man, the gentleman I met in 1987 or the man that holds his wife's heart. I do not hate the Al Gore loved by God. No, I hate Al Gore the commodity, the product. The merchandised. And the only passage to sanity I can find is one that demands -- for a season -- derision, mockery, scoffing, laughter. I laugh at Mr. Gore, at his absurd over-reaching.

(OK. Let me grant that there's nothing more irrational than for me to critique a book I have not yet read. I admit it is hard to read a book that is not yet even in print. But I am not sure it is unreasonable of me to make a wild prediction: In his new book, Mr. Gore is not going to be elucidating his many intellectual mistakes. Nor do I expect his book to consist of one long string of apologies. And I also do not expect Mr. Gore to admit that he is, of all people, quite eminently dis-qualified to write this book. This is a book that is, above all else, committed to promoting Al Gore.)

Al Gore's book is, like so many deeds and screeds of too many today, mere psychological projection. Mr. Gore is going to point out the sins of others not knowing (apparently) that such sins are his own. (I am reminded of what I wrote to Open Ide, a cowardly visitor to this site a few weeks ago.) And the only sins any one of us is truly expert in is the sins that are indeed our own. The Assault on Reason is a child's game of distraction: Look! What's that behind you?! Mr. Gore hopes you will ignore what is in front of your face, just so he can slink away, unchallenged, but nonetheless beloved for his commitment to "dialogue," to "reasoned conversation."

But Al Gore writing to us about reason is a bit like my lecturing Fabio on hair care. Al Gore promoting reason is not unlike Madonna promoting chastity. It's like Bill Maher telling the pope to cool down his opinions. It's a bit like Rosie O'Donnell advising Steven Wright on paradox, or Paula Abdul coaching Melinda Doolittle on how to be more vocally dynamic. It's a bit like George W. Bush giving tips to William Safire on how to pronounce nuclear (which, as we know, is just a variant spelling of unclear), or Eddie Van Halen telling André Segovia to be more subtle, or Anna Nicole Smith appearing at Fatima and urging women to remember her temperance.

In other words, Al Gore's book should be a failure before it even hits the editor's desk. Instead, it will be wildly successful.

Laugh your way to light. It's the season.

Peace and true mirth.

ºI mean this as a joke, of course. I do not know if that was Mr. Hitchens partying with me in Soho. But I do recall smashing rounds with a British atheist.

†Christianity has unflaggingly agreed with Mr. Gore since time immemorial, but with a twist. Humans are not going to destroy the planet. Humans already have destroyed the planet.

*I mean this facetiously, really.

ªMy hate is purely a rhetorical device.

©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

Better An Honest Grief

It is not writer's block. That sort of thing assumes a writer has something to say, to pass along. The metaphor implies obstruction of an otherwise glorious flow of verbiage; it implies a log jam interrupting the normal flow of a sure and powerful river.

What is it called when the river itself is empty, dried up? Writer's drought? What if there is nothing to block, no flow to impede? Or what if the writer's well is filled with dust? What do we call that?

I have nothing to say. At least, I feel like I have nothing to say. The Virginia Tech shootings were my last real reason to craft anything resembling an essay, a poem, something literary. How sad that I should only find a muse in grief. But is that even true? Did I find inspiration in sorrow and tragedy?

Perhaps. But today I've found something else in my gnawing gut; I've a belly full of disgust. I am sickened by the transitions. We humans, or most of us, seem to move from issue to issue, tragedy to tragedy, searching for smooth segues from bit to bit, from pod to pod (as news/documentary items are called on "Current TV"): We want something. We move from pod to pod like rats from switch to switch; we will electrocute ourselves for a new bit of bitter cheese. And I recoil at the thought that we are DONE with Virginia Tech, or Don Imus, or 9/11. That we have "moved on," emotionally, intellectually, spiritually. That we are hunting for the next big distraction, the next Beltway sniper or car chase or racial slur or outrageous political misstep. We look through blogs and news feeds; we grope about, snickering as we dismiss x and y and z; we take hold of A, and we write or film or opine in harried insistence that we have to say something, we have to move the debate, to push the national conversation. We must have A, we must shape it just so; and we shape it so we can have, as quickly as possible, B.

I walk through bookstores, I scroll through blogs and search engines; I sift through news pages and flip through YouTube clips or newsreels and I see nothing but words: words and words and words. We jam words into every void, every crevice. Windbag thinkers tell us that bad speech is fought with more speech; advertisers jam words into scoreboards and dashboards and every readable surface on the planet. We have so many words offered as answers we cannot see that words serve as cataracts to our eyes: we cannot make out the form of the questions that we ever even asked. There is just a dull, hazy light, double, triple vision: two moons in the night sky in our waning, aging light.

What is the solution to Don Imus' alleged racial slurs? Words. What is the solution to Seung-Hui Cho? More words. What to do with Iraq, Harry Reid, Rosie O'Donnell, Bill O'Reilly, Randi Rhodes, poverty? Words and more words. What is the solution to the estrangement of man's existence from his essence? Words. Declarative statements. No question marks.

My word.

Immediately after 9/11, TV networks went days and days without running any advertisements. Why? What purpose did that serve? Did it suggest that to hawk one's wares in sight of thousands of dead people was too tawdry, too decadent and heartless and rapacious and mercenary? How many dead people DOES it take for the networks to stop advertising, two, three? Why 5,000, 4,000, 3,000? What is the magic number necessary for a nation to stop and grieve properly? Who sets that number? What number tells us we can move on?

And how long must I wait before I can write about anything other than all that has preceded this moment? How long, really, do I have to forget the martyrdom of Peter or the destruction of Jerusalem or the Black Plague or the desolation of the American Indian or the savagery of the fur trade or the decapitation of infidels or the garroting of babies or gunshots in a classroom, before I can call myself au courant?

Yesterday I wept at a funeral for one of my dearest friends. Afterwards, as I approached my friend's now-empty house where a luncheon was to be held in her honor, I stopped to talk to Barbara, another friend who had moments earlier eulogized (so boldly, so elegantly) our dead friend. In the midst of our gentle, teary conversation, I said, "Better an honest grief than a dishonest joy." I shocked myself with the sentence, having no idea where it came from, or why exactly I had said it. But in a moment's pause both Barbara and I knew that it fit the moment perfectly; it was the very summation of her wonderful eulogy and what we were searching for on the shoulder of Lookout Hill Road.

Better an honest grief than a dishonest joy.

It is the sort of sentence one might find in Bartlett's, if only its author were noteworthy. It is also made up of mere words. It is more words, words that blind like tears, the cataracts of grief flowing over cheeks, pouring from the dulled eyes that search for a friend who is now a question mark.

Sometimes the only word we want to hear is not a word at all.

Peace.

©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

Watch Out For The Death Blow!

A simple truck driver did more than disturb -- and distort -- this morning's commute in Oakland, California. He dealt a fatal blow to those 9/11 conspiracy theorists who believe that fires in the World Trade Center could not have "melted" steel.

That such foolishness is contradicted by countless blacksmiths everyday does not stop such theorists' wild fantasies. But maybe James Mosqueda's close scrape with death will quench the flames burning in the hearts and minds of far too many souls who stubbornly refuse to believe the simple truth, namely, 9/11 happened exactly the way they saw it happen. When Mr. Mosqueda and his 8,600-gallon gasoline tanker crashed beneath an overpass in Oakland, the result was the undeniable melting of massive steel girders and the collapse of one of Oakland's vital thoroughfares.

Not that the steel actually melted; it just weakened enough to lose its strength and collapse after three hours of raging fury. Which is, of course, identical to the official statement regarding the WTC towers: the fires, along with the brutality of two planes traveling hundreds of miles an hour slicing through both buildings, weakened the structures enough to render them incapable of supporting their own weight.

But, as I said, we only needed to talk to a blacksmith about steel to come to conclusions the 9/11 theorists could not, in all their scientific inquiries, discover for themselves.

Perhaps we will now learn that Mr. Mosqueda wasn't driving at all; witnesses saw a grey-headed middle-aged man from Texas leap from the tanker into what looked like a Washington, D.C. motorcade. It is reported that three hours later, using a reconfigured cell-phone from inside Air Force One, some person called another phone at the Oakland underpass, which triggered a series of thermite bombs to detonate.

It's all just to throw the conspiracy theorists off the trail.

©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

My Name is ?

It is a simple judgment: I had enough of their not worshiping me. I could not take their idolatry; I abhorred their indifference to my glory. I stood in silence, I stood in scoffing silence scoffing, and they did not see me; they did not obey my laws. I said, "How long will you not notice me? How long will I not be the center of your attention, the life of your dead parties, the talk of the dining commons?" My patience has been tried, and your hearts have been hardened by youthful lusts, and licentious distractions, and jammed with gods and goddesses primped in all forms of promiscuity. How long shall I wait for you to humble yourselves; when shall you turn from your sinful days and trust funds and your Christian vacuity? What do I have to do with your perversions, your petty conversions, your pet conversations iced with gossip poured over lazy lips?

I wrote poetry. I wrote plays. I was an English major. I never said a word. And yet I was writing a story you could not read. My poems and plays made you uncomfortable; mere words made you fear. How much fear now? I send mail express -- Ismail Ax to NBC -- and yet I leave you with question marks. ? is my name and ? is my legacy. Today, in the grave you will desecrate, I laugh last, and my laugh lasts in your questions asked too late.

This is my grade, my passing grave. I have written something none of you could ever dare to write. Now you all have read it.

Note what I say as I enter your room, Professor: "Good morning! How are you?" It's the first time you heard that, no? I'll show you some irony. Hot irony. And now listen to this, and this, and that, and that, and that. And that!

You have emptied my heart's chambers. I empty them into yours, and yours empty in liquid-who-cares on the forensic details of your bookbag. I will be your god this hour, if it be the last thing I do. I know when the term ends. And so does this gun. You will worship in this moment, pronouncing my name in perfect punctuation.

©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

Cho Seung-Hui: Who Are We?

[Tonight (4.18.07) I amend this post with this preface because I see that a lot of people are seeking, searching, looking. Some of you, like me, may even be groping: How do I make sense of a ruthless massacre like the one that happened at the seemingly peaceful, bucolic Virginia Tech? I have spent much of my time since Monday morning wondering - with much fear - whether it is possible that there is no answer to the question. What if there is no reason at all?

I wonder, though, if we can permit ourselves to accept that the reason might be utterly simple, and singular in scope: Cho Seung-Hui created this all entirely on his own. This tragedy is not God's fault, nor is it the fault of college administrators, overly-cautious psychologists, timid law enforcement officials, or obtuse neighbors. This is something crafted by one person: A man willed something, and it came to pass.

Since I cannot promise any sort of answer here, I can at least direct you toward my own struggles with the problem of evil (see here). Though my struggle is admittedly one fought on Christian terms, I nonetheless believe my struggle can serve as a guide to those who find themselves doing battle in terms that are not one bit religious. My approach is actually more philosophical than theological, though both disciplines, I believe, have more to say about evil than any natural or social science which by definition precludes even the notion of evil.

But whatever you do or wherever you go, I bid you peace, comfort, and solace as you seek to find meaning in a world that shouts meaninglessness at us everyday. My belief is that what the world so often shouts is not at all true.]

You might have come here for comfort, for some understanding or trenchant analysis. I am sorry to disappoint. There is nothing this heart can really give.

_______________

The media, like the rest of us, chafe at the bit of real time. We want answers to simple questions, and we want them right now. We want to know why vision is always 20/20 when viewed in the Slow-motion Afterwards; and we want to know everything. We crave omniscience so we can explain; we crave explanations so we can console ourselves with pithy little phrases, like "isolated incident," "mental illness," "random violence," and "it can't happen to me."

While waiting for hard facts detailing the shootings at Virginia Tech, we are also tempted to ramble on about causes and solutions: We do not know the disease, but perhaps we can all chatter on about prevention. We do not know the problems, but let us posit some answers. This is our wont in the media, and in our consumption of media. And it is all so very entertaining: Let there be no dead air between breathy, vapid sound-bites for fear of losing viewers and listeners.

Of course, the big speculation -- THE BIG PROBLEM -- that filled much of the TV dead air between facts and figures delivered all too-slowly in the Virginia Tech shootings, is that the campus police and administrators are somehow to blame: The school should have been in lock-down immediately. You know what is being said -- we need a terrorist threat-level alarm system every time something bad happens (anywhere). That I have heard nary a word how a lock-down would not have helped is hardly surprising: we need answers, and we need to blame something.

(Think of the preposterousness of it all: VT should have locked down a 2600-acre campus -- over 4 square miles -- wherein 26,000 to 28,0o0 people work, live, study and stroll. Imagine the size of such an enterprise: taking a 2 mile by 2 mile urbanized area and containing it all within a protective blanket. Keene, NH, considered a city by New England standards, has 25,000 residents. Alas, we are hearing commentary suggesting that when Keene has a shooting within its borders, the entire city should be locked down. Instantly.

And then think of a methodical murderer with a plan: He will hide inside a building, wait for lock-down to be announced [he reads it on his own cellphone, perhaps]; he waits a few minutes to ensure that classes are underway and pedestrian flow into the building is low; he chains closed various exits; and then he begins his terror. Such a scenario gives one an immediate sense of how a lock-down actually creates a false sense of security; and how such false security lowers one's suspicions. Besides, the lock-down merely means that the shooter is now locked down with everyone else. He IS a VT student after all, and would be whisked toward protection like any other student.)

But we are all about finding something, ANY thing, to blame. The shooter himself apparently blamed "rich kids" and "debauchery" for his rage (and anyone paying attention to the zeitgeist over the last 30 years knows that rich kids are stereotyped by every sector of American culture). Some will blame video games. Some will blame guns. Others will blame race, or the isolation that too often comes of it.

The fact is that we all might be to blame. I replied to an email last night regarding the VT shootings that Americans -- and westerners in general -- no longer love their neighbors. Alas, we don't even know them. I will not enlarge upon that at this moment, but I will note this: An MSNBC reporter TODAY stood outside the Centreville, VA home of the 23-year-old shooter, and said that the neighborhood was clearly "middle class" (in contrast to a rich kid's neighborhood) and that, though neighbors had seen the shooter's family, none of the neighbors seemed to know a thing about the family (which had been living there for at least a dozen years). In fact, the reporter -- surprised, at least in tone -- shared that none of the neighbors seemed to know any of the others at all. And this in a middle class neighborhood where the very walls of each home were shared one house to the other.

In other words, the VT murderer was raised (mostly) in a tight-knit community of complete strangers.

Sounds like America. Sounds like the world.

There must be a simple explanation.

Peace.

©Bill Gnade 2007/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.

The Human Heart -- Who Can Understand It?