27 August 2012

Election



I’m disappointed in this 2012 presidential election season. I shake my head and press mute and what I see is dulling. I seek clarity. It’s the clarity not dulled by slashing ads and talking television heads and learned print opiners or reflexive proclamations from loved ones and friends and colleagues. I’m one human being and I cast one vote. I need help.
What are reasonable boundaries, terms, for my vote? I turn to the Book of Common Prayer for reasonable framing: see Prayer 18, For the Country, under Prayers for National Life found on page 820.
God has blest America with good land for our heritage.
·      We humbly pray for
Honorable industry
Sound learning
Pure manners
·      Save us from
Violence
Discord
Confusion
Pride
Arrogance
·      Defend our Liberty.
·      Fashion one united people from the multitudes brought here from many clans and tongues.
·      Endue with the spirit of Wisdom those whom we entrust with the authority of government.
·      In time of prosperity fill our hearts with thankfulness.
·      In time of trouble fill our hearts with courage and determination.
Do these terms add substance to what I think and how I feel? I ask myself has President Obama labored to fulfill these terms? Do the terms deepen my understanding of the challenger? I ask my self will Mitt Romney work to fulfill these terms? Here my answer is framed by my intuition or my sense. Is substance added to what I sense and how I feel from what he presents me with?

03 August 2012

Gun Culture


I’m mowing a yard. I look up into an AR-15’s muzzle. A man is carrying it to his truck. He’s above me, pointing it at me. He doesn’t mean to. He doesn’t mean anything. He’s not thinking. He’s just behavin’ like, well, what in the world, carrying an assault rifle is just - normal. It's gun culture. His muzzle, not 10-yards from me, is pointed at me while he walks right at me.
I recently fired an AR-15 for the first time. It was fun. I liked it. I was empowered. I do not like the AR-15 pointed at me. But this narrative is, well, a narrative.
“Point it up!” He stops, squares on me, stares; his weapon pointed right down on me. I'm lookin’ up into his barrel push-mowing towards him. The bits in my teeth. I’m adrenalized. Aurora, CO is two days past, and it’s a good day to die.
“Point it up!” I point to the sky. “Point it up,” I yell again. I put my back to him and move and mow. Now I turn back. He's squared up on me, eyes pinning me, and he starts pointing up too, yammerin’. I don’t hear. I’m wearin’ earplugs. I don't wannah hear this close cropped red haired, van dyked, white tee-d and shorts, 5’8”, 200-lb., fat-bellied dickie-dude, stoopid-fuhkin-mahn yammerin’. Seems I’ve offended him - - while hes carrying his loaded 30-mag assault rifle pointing at my face. Gun culture.  “Point it up,” I scream.
I mow and move; put my back to him. Im hot and I am afraid. It’s a good day to die. I move and mow off. I write down his license plate. He drives his windows-tinted-out bobcat-paw-sticker-on-the-Chevy-1500-truck-bumper off. In a moment another car drives up in his driveway. I mow and move. A woman comes out of the house and walks her white poodle. Poodle lifts its leg and pees. Woman holding her leash smiles at me. I look at her. I ignore the smiling-she while I knock on my customer’s door. I ask Darlene about her neighbors. They’re a husband and wife, no children. She says, They’re high school teachers.