The Pelosi-Reid Plan to Abolish America

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Not long ago, President George Bush the Second did Senate and House leaders Harry Reid and Nancy Pelosi the biggest favor of their Congressional lives by vetoing the Democrat Iraq War funding proposal – first, in pretending to differ significantly with the Democrats, and, second, in preventing any War funding going forth, for the moment.  

The President’s main complaint was that the plan provided a poor set of teeth to keep biting into Iraq and sucking out the rest of its oil.  

In vetoing the Pelosi-Reid-Obama-Clinton-establishment Iraq War Plan, the President announced, “I am not accustomed to being at a loss for fangs.”  

He seemed concerned that the mere regular full set of teeth offered to him by Congress would not be enough to satisfy his thirst, bottomless as it is. 

No matter. Pelosi and Reid readily returned to the rest of their plan for controlling Iraq – popularly known as the PR Plan.  

They vowed, “We will work with the President in whatever way we can.” They meant the statement to be totally ambiguous, but unfortunately for them, upon uttering it, the official pair instantly collapsed to the ground, apparently for lack of some vital measure of blood and bone, as well as some bizarre overabundance of scales, claws, and oozing oil. 

“Defunding the war immediately is totally impossible,” uttered Pelosi and Reid in unison while slithering across the ground, sliming their way back to their Gang of Democrats. The Republican Gang applauded silently from the side.  

 “It seems clear now,” one observer remarked, “that the Democrat and Republican parties are gone – if parties they ever were – and are replaced by gangs. Official suite gangs.” Oddly, no one was heard to contradict him. Within hours, a person we can only identify as Deep Source delivered to us the following rather striking internal document. We have rarely seen a government document quite as internal as this, and we must confess, as good members of the press, we hope to see very few more like it. “The 10 Point PR Plan (For Internal Consumption Only)”: 

First, Pretend that you intend to end the War against Iraq. Second, Propose a full War budget with deceptive clauses so that it seems like you may soon end the occupation that you in no real way will, at all. Third, Write the plan so that the President will veto it, so that it looks like the Dems and Reps actually disagree on something substantial. Fourth, After the President’s veto, pretend again to throw sand in the gears of the War Machine when in fact you are keeping it fully oiled, fully fueled, and fully going. Fifth, Once again, submit a proposal to fully fund the War. Of course, pretend the opposite. Claim you are managing the War better, toward withdrawal, and speak often of a deep appreciation for “the troops” as they are sent to kill and be killed. Sixth, Scarcely ever refer to the corporate contractors who are making a killing in Iraq. And never mind that these are not really “private” contractors but corporate contractors operating in the public domain by way of huge amounts of public money, operating outside of much if any direct public control and oversight – the better for Congress to throw the money and will of the people at corporate command. Pretend to voters that this is “the best of all possible worlds” no matter what the facts and your conscience may or may not tell you – or might tell you if you had one. Best to believe in what you are doing, after all, if possible, regardless. Seventh, As the years pass, carry Right along with the War under the new President(s) of the United States, all the while claiming to be in the process of ending it – just a few more benchmarks, slaughters, necessary bribes and expropriations – repeat indefinitely. Eighth, Continue on and on. Rotate US forces, large and small, in and out of various other regions ripe for ordering and extraction, all around the world – as investors desire, or public relations demand. Continue to internally strip mine the US and the people of whatever wealth can be found and had, per tradition, any rhetoric to the contrary. Ninth, Explain that you do what you do on behalf of “the troops” in the interests of “America” – and the world. Lie when necessary – it’s your job we’re talking here – if at all unconvinced of the grand necessity of what is going on. Tenth, Live in infamy. Like it or not, this goes with the territory. It’s an unfair world for everyone, but we may take comfort in knowing that things are the best they can possibly be, at this point and time in our careers. 

There it is. The Pelosi-Reid Plan, the internal face at least. Like we said, we hope never to see another document like it, and we continue to take steps to ensure that we don’t. We are rededicating all our employees, no matter their personal views, toward this end – Deep Source or no Deep Source. 

Meanwhile, 20,000,000 human rights groups have come out against the PR plan. Every indication, however, is that the Pelosi-Reid Gang intends to fight for their right to dictate the funds and shape of the War, rather than continue to allow President Bush and the Republicans to take all the credit.  

Pelosi and Reid responded to the groups: “We believe in human rights, but who is going to pay for our next round of campaign ads? We speak to human rights concerns, so we expect to be left alone to act on our needs. Oh – and the troops. Unlike some people, we don’t forget them, of course. They do as they are told in dying for our right of re-election, which is far more than can be said for the human rights community – far more. So lighten up. Line up with us behind the flag. There’s a War on. Get used to it. We have. It’s the very least we can do. The very least. Thank you all.” 

Pelosi and Reid were last seen slithering through D.C. 

Thus far, there has been scant further response from the 20,000,000 human rights groups. Conventional wisdom believes they have been rendered speechless. Others suggest they are mobilizing to act. Meanwhile, one group notes, “The PR Plan feeds the flames. Thanks to the fire lit by half a trillion US tax dollars – Iraq burns.”

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[This “Plan to Abolish America” series of satires consists of slightly revised pieces posted in advance of the coming “Petraeus Report” on Iraq. The series began with The Petraeus Plan to Abolish Iraq, and will likely end with the same Plan.]

The Defense of Senator Sam Washburn

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Whatever U.S. Senator Sam Washburn had done in Vietnam, whatever that was and however he thought about it or avoided it now, he felt he had acted as he had because the individual leaders and the powerful organizations that shaped the US system of rule had made it possible, allowed it, encouraged it, demanded it. Any massacre Sam may have been involved in was no uncommon occurrence – and so those massacres, as with the overall slaughter of millions in Vietnam, mostly civilians, were the responsibility ultimately and primarily of the dominant political and economic establishment, the War Parties, not the scared and frenzied soldiers on the ground.

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Glory

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Early one Saturday morning, a couple months after the start of the ground invasion of Iraq, former Army pilot Jim Fielder poured a cup of coffee, lit a cigarette and sat down with a newspaper at the kitchen table. He soon came across an article about the death of his cousin, Aaron Thompson.

Jim read closely, then sat back in his chair, and stared at his burned out cigarette.

He was killing himself he knew, smoking these things. It would have to stop. It could not stop soon enough.

But he reached for the pack, lit another, sipped his coffee, and reread the article.

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Ganoga

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See opening of the unpublished short novel, Ganoga (PDF). Below, a published excerpt of Ganoga - “Spring Brook” in the Tallgrass Writers Guild anthology, Earth Beneath, Sky Beyond:

 

Spring Brook

 

Spring Brook they call this place. You cannot recall having heard of it before they welcomed you here.

A six-year-old child dances flowers toward you with more grace than a ballerina – she says, Don’t cry. Please stop. You did not know you were. You suspect the little one is, once was, and always has been your best friend, but you do not know much about that either.

You nod and attempt to smile as you take the flowers and say, I’ll be right over here, and walk aimless into woods, past beech, past maple, past ash. You sit behind a hemlock tree. Its soft green evergreen needles tickle your neck and you rest on cool earth and put the entire world, sweet six-year-olds and all, most deliberately at your back.

It fills your head – this strange feeling that you have traveled through time to arrive at Spring Brook. Whether you have been transported forward or back is unclear.

Everything is different here. Even the air. Fairly froths, it does, the air, fragrant with forest.

Timeless dwellings crouch old, or supermodern – hand-mortared walls of fieldstone, wide south facing solariums glass-bubbled and crystalline perfect.

Trees tower, broad of girth, old and young.

You expect to find poverty everywhere among the rolling fields and meadows but find it nowhere. The people are rich – intellectually, spiritually, bodily, emotionally, morally, materially, ecologically – the truth strikes you like a sunbeam lasered direct in the pupil – it is so obvious, once you learn to look with non-biased, non-gluttonous, non-TV-scarred eyes.

Gardens everywhere – all shapes and sizes bursting with abundance, well cared for, yet somehow the residents are not slaves to the soil, more apprentices to leisure, lovers in work, so caught up in their projects arts hobbies various social fests in organized disorganized endeavors, quiet gatherings.

Some are fond of simply wandering off by themselves. They go for days, picking berries taking shelter beneath evergreens or in the well-stocked cabins sporadically placed, as in the forests of the Scandinavian countries.

This is not Scandinavia, this is another nook in a corner of the world – watershed after watershed of protected hidden earth, lush rugged plateau, so different from the rest of what you remember that it might as well be of another time, a place altogether alien to what has come to be known as civilization.

 

°

 

The six-year-old finds you. The child is dancing flowers, has taken up the flower dance for life. The flower dance is the child’s destiny. The little one pauses in full bloom, extends both arms, short and knobby, holding out a flower. For you, the child sings, a flower, for you.

A violet, it looks, pointed purple. You take it, stick it behind your ear. The six-year-old twirls beneath your taking, feet hopping, crude circles carved by budding limbs. You name the child Violet.

Come, Violet sings, fingers held out to yours. You hook on to the child who leads you to a path that winds from the meadow into surrounding hills and mountains, and in this moment you trust the little one to know where you are going.

You are led through maple trees, following scant trails dipping winding ascending mostly. Onwards upwards. At a crest, the ridge breaks and the plateau gapes into further valley, inhabited, forest trimmed around pockets of garden, pools of water, modest fieldstone houses.

Jubilation. The people’s laughter shakes the air. Their chatter, too, though they are too far, too far. Violet hops up and down, up and down, prancing all about. Look! Look! Look! the child sings. See! See! See! She throws up her arms and twirls. Home! Home! Home!

Home is beautiful.

Your knees melt and place you gently on a boulder. Violet clambers onto your lap and makes a nest there in the afternoon. You sit with the child, somewhere beyond the weather and time, beyond day and night, beyond summer and all seasons.

Violet falls asleep.

Dusk dims the valley. It is the hour to return, to get to where you know you will find a role in the fields and shops, the studies and centers. It does not matter that you have as yet small skill for the offering. You are drawn to the marketplace the lumberyard the cafés and salons to the camaraderie the root-picking the discussions the flesh and mind work the group animalism the mental activism everyone the limbs nerves of some larger creature joints enmeshed and moving electric – a common being.

Violet squirms and sleeps. You rise with the child. The ground is soft and warm as you walk down into valley.

Violet yawns, stretching arms beyond your careful grip – little toes jouncing from your gait.

Still half asleep the child says, I can walk.

This is fine, you reply.

Violet looks about, then sings, This is the way home.

This is the way, you echo.

And tomorrow we’ll find some more trails.

Every one, you tell her. We’ll find them all, eventually.

In time you approach a house where a person who may or may not be Violet’s parent watches your careful descent and takes the child from your arms.

You kiss the sleepy little head and the adult kisses you on the cheek and you are led inside the house where you wonder if it would be proper to so greet all those gathered.

And so it is.

 

°

 

You build modest houses of fieldstone. Many new arrivals always. You make it your duty to introduce them one by one to the child who dances flowers, this sprite who frolics free with all the other children of the woods, all the other creatures who love to dance the flower dance.

You sink these moments to the root of your memory. This is what you wish to do. It is not all easy but worthwhile, and so this, you remind yourself when need be, is what you want to do. You want to live full and be the brook.

Spring Brook they call this place, the land of the brook, clear and full flowing, bright of sun and flowers and dance.

The water runs inside you now. Welcome home.

 
Unpublished excerpts of Ganoga:

V.  Arrival

One day in swamp arrived Cambria.

Swam in unannounced, old friend. Sworled in and sat there on my bunk when I returned to yurt with an afternoon bucket of blueberries clasped in hand.

A talking deer sitting on the woodstove would have surprised me less.

Bone-lipped, I felt, pre-reptilian, monster of marsh.

Long since, I had built floating blockades over the waterpath into thicket, planted dense shrubbery small trees on large rafts, handmade from logs limbs soil and rope tied in place with wooden spikes fixed beneath, hanging nearly to swamp floor, and from time to time when I wish to entirely secure my retreat I unloose the impeding rafts at jagged intervals and block the waterpath by re-fastening hidden sunken ropes and clamps, spreading foliage and debris over the edges to cover seams. I designed the waterpath and flora floats in such a way that even someone who has gone down the path a time or two might not recall the true way among the blocked maze, might not detect the irregular rafts of impenetrable vegetation camouflaged in place. No one can swim beneath the bottom-spiked floats, nor glide through to yurt. Not that anyone might try. Not until Cambria, who came through with the path open.

There she drips on my blankets having swum up the waterpath flopped upon land lurched onto steps pushed through the door finally slithering leaping onto the bed still breathing somehow mutant gills become mutant lungs.

Bucket of berries sudden amulet of safety I clasp while searching for the tell-tale marks, sea-bred slits behind her ears. Fish woman. Might have known she would fin forth and find me out.

No lamps are lit that night.

At dark I put a sleeping bag on the floor, and there Cambria sleeps foreboding while I lie awake in sable chasm and twice get up and open the door to the world to sit on steps wooden sturdy broad. Cambria sleeps moss-covered. A few days I figure a week at most then she will go, slithering out in the manner by which she must have slithered in – flip-flopping down from yurt gills pronounced and gasping. Strong leap into water, and flit away.

What if she turns me in?

High treason to escape the peopled world.

In swamp moments I rarely ponder beyond this symbiotic aquatic realm. Always was always is and ever shall be. Cambria is not of the swamp though she respires here for the moment making a good act of it – forehead glistening, face glinting, slick scales, as if she were just any old invertebrate moon-basted drifted ashore innocuous, as if she were as one with swampforest. As if she were home.

 

VII.  Dawn

Morning pierces memory, step from dream. Cambria stirs wakes. Hunger in eyes. Hunger of hunter. And I know just what the prey.

Berries of blue.

We board the canoe, wend out from thicket, the waterpath maze a tunnel-like labyrinth to the world. Water-hugged branches. Chins down, we use oars to push-pull along the winding way.

At the hidden mouth giant hemlock limbs scrape the bow our backs as the canoe glides naked upon silver swamp sun sudden. Inside out our skin turns to absorb celestial glow.

Cambria throaty scratch at soft water softer sky. A planet apart. Open seas. Clear pools black-bottomed, moss-bottomed. Dark ridges rimming and distant.

South and east at the edge of the Allegheny plateau less than a mile away land plunges then rolls and glides far below, the forest rippling on to the Susquehanna’s main stem, the winding river we drift above and some miles beside.

The world is more magical afloat, as now in canoe of thin-skinned metal, a bare layer of chill between us and clear dark water, the earth unstable beneath, forests as far as the eye can see, sun blooming low at the planet’s edge where it is extra easy to feel transported to a land beyond.

A lone heron bursts up from shore and flies east to horizon.

Climbing mist.

Indeterminate lines separate water from shore.

Bump an island, push back out.

Cambria dips an oar into water with an effective grace that signals familiarity.

We skim through faint vapors, light curls, slipping beneath nine nests, home of the blue herons, dead stalk trees. Assume permission and pass as the sun blooms, a billion bright yellows oranges pressed cataclysmic, reflecting across riffles, gold petals squeezed to their nuclear essence, igniting showering earth.

In the bushes, a coyote perhaps, or a deer, or bear, a great big eight hundred pound black bear – one of several elements in swamp against which we stand no chance if ever it decides to challenge.

I ponder mist-obscured bushes across water and feel that Cambria and I have time in infinite pools, plenty of days nights years to go crazy, come clean, live whole, love full, heal as one – time enough to learn and grow together, arcing up like twined vines to heights neither of us know we might need to attain.

The Petraeus Plan to Abolish America and Iraq

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General David Petraeus, current commander of the US occupation of Iraq, reported today, in what he terms a “nuanced” account, that exactly one half of Iraq is “shot to hell” but that the other half is “just fine and dandy” — give or take a few disagreeable conditions which Iraqis will just have to get used to, like massive truck bombs, car bombs, Air Force assaults, general firefights, and other slaughter.

Apparently given the “no go” is the remarkably popular suggestion of US troops that members of Congress and the Bush Administration (who have caused, allowed, or funded even a single day of the war) be required during every government recess and half of all other work days to drive bright yellow Volkswagen Bugs around the most dangerous roads in Iraq to find and defuse Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs). Reportedly General Petraeus initially considered the plan, then shelved it, for now, as being too dependent on government employees for work that could otherwise, PR considerations aside, be outsourced to the tens of thousands of lucky corporate hires currently overruning Iraq. Petraeus again characterized his decision as “nuanced.” He foolly believes he is doing the right thing. Thus far, it must be said, there has been no independent confirmation of the “nuance” that Petraeus is executing in Iraq — but the real situation seems clear. As Petraeus noted, “Iraq is going to have to learn…to live with…sensational attacks.” To the General, “living” is apparently a rather unsensational, “nuanced” thing.

The Pentagon and major media confirm the much desired “nuance” of the Petraeus account and efforts, and say Petraeus would know how to win Iraq if anyone does (which, off the record, sources deep in the Pentagon are said to doubt, utterly, actually), and that Petraeus is just the man for the job, having survived full frontal live-fire gunshot during training in 1991, before being operated on by former surgeon and current warhawk Senator Bill Frist. “Petraeus is the man” the Pentagon says — after all, here is a guy who survived a parachute malfunction a mere few years ago, suffering only a broken pelvis. If this guy doesn’t know how to survive disaster, who does? (Well, of course, there’s that plucky 78 year-old Texas lawyer who the (full of) Vice President Dick Cheney shot in the heart and face while drinking beer and hunting little fowl in Texas last year — but that’s another story.)

Former embedded reporters confirm, Petraeus is the man who repeatedly asked them before and after the 2003 thunder run into Baghdad, “Tell me where this ends.” At the moment, it seems clear, it ends where it all began with President Bush, Congress, the Military Industrial Complex, and now General Petraeus – all of whom claim to be directed by “the troops” who, it is said, keep asking for more funds than the current half a trillion US tax dollars so they can keep going on “Living the Dream!” — slaughtering and being slaughtered in balmy Iraq.

Meanwhile, reportedly, chants of “General Betraeus, General Betraeus” have been heard echoing from all across Iraq and the US, apparently by US soldiers and citizens alike who have yet to see the wisdom in the General’s “nuance.”

Military Families Against The War and other dissident groups, it is reported, have drawn a line in the sand. They claim, “Rearranging Generalships in Iraq is like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic – after it sunk.” Anti-militancy groups have been heard to wonder, even while marching forth, “When in the hell is everyone going to get a grip and do what ought to be done? Out now. Reparations. Slash the military budget. Praise the sane and take a pass on the ‘nuance’.”

“‘Resign’ is not in my vocabulary,” General Petraeus has been heard to remark, categorically. Though in the future, ”book deal” may be. Whatever the future. If.

At last word, General Petraeus has not recently been shot in the chest, nor broken his hip, nor been blown into bloody little pieces by an IED, and, by all nuanced accounts, is still alive – as is the United States’ little ”Forever War” in Iraq, and elsewhere.

___________________________
[This "Plan to Abolish America" series of satires consists of slightly revised pieces and will run in advance of the coming "Petraeus Report" on Iraq. The series begins here with The Petraeus Plan to Abolish America and Iraq, and will likely end with the same Plan.]

Terminal Menace

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Terminal Menace

We need to keep very quiet on this one.

We Terminators are not supposed to mention it, but I feel it is simply too frightening to omit, this crackpot idea of youth liberation as a means to counter ageism – the insane anti-social idea that youth are somehow discriminated against by their elders.

These rancid concepts simply boggle the mind, especially when one considers the enormous sacrifices we loyal consumers and dedicated Terminators make day in and day out on behalf of our youth.

Ageism! These crazy youth would have us believe we are actually beheading them.

I cannot stress strongly enough that – parents take heed – the disease of youth lib is highly contagious, always leaves deep scars, and is frequently fatal.

I swear I don’t know where such poisonous filth comes from, or how it infects the minds of certain youth – often the kind who eat no meat and like to carry around miniature potted flowers, as if to show how delicate they are.

The nerve.

It may seem ugly at first, but a few crushed flowers here and there can spare many young lives from the abyss of the irrational and the all but unspeakable diseases of unstable subversive ideas such as ageism and youth lib.

Such words are simply incomprehensible, in my opinion, and could not have been outlawed soon enough.

On the Homefront

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There is no “natural” progression to any war. Too much depends on who makes what happen when, including what happens on the “homefront”. Certain crucial aspects of the US invasion and occupation are essentially as well understood as they will ever be. Of course one can’t predict the future, but one can document and dramatize the well known past, including the recent past. For example, nothing can ever make the US invasion and occupation less immoral and illegal that it was known to be before and upon launching it. Look at Israel in the occupied territories – they are still killing and dying there decades after invading. It is well known, to those who want to know, the nature of those decades then and now. Things could have progressed differently, as they might or might not in the future. The idea of waiting 50 years or 100 years or whatever it may be, or even two decades, or two years to write about something that is essentially knowable as it happens, and therefore able to be dramatized immediately, is pointless. German leaders after World War II were hanged for what the US leaders have done in invading and occupying Iraq. Nothing that happens in the future can change that reality. That is no small reality that ought to have been dramatized long since, and has been a bit.

Grace Paley, Writer and Activist

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by Margalit Fox 

A self-described ‘somewhat combative pacifist and cooperative anarchist,’ Ms. Paley was a lifelong advocate of liberal social causes. During Vietnam, she was jailed several times for antiwar protests; in later years, she lobbied for women’s rights, against nuclear proliferation and, most recently, against the war in Iraq. For decades, she was a familiar presence on lower Sixth Avenue, near her Greenwich Village home, smiling broadly, gum cracking, leaflets in hand.

Organizing to Future

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from Environmental Crisis and Despair, by Bill Fletcher

When Rosa Luxemburg suggested that the future was one of “socialism or barbarism” there was a tendency by many people-even in the midst of World War I-to view this as hyperbole. As it turns out, it was rather prescient. This warning through juxtaposition is critical but not enough. Understanding that we must turn away from barbarism-in whatever form-and toward socialism and the end of capitalist exploitation is a critical awareness but it must be translated into organization and action…. 

…it is important to dream. By dreaming I mean to suggest that we consider possibilities for the future that improve the human condition. Being a science fiction fan and a Star Trek devotee I always remember a scene from the film Star Trek: First Contact. Captain Piccard, having traveled back (from the 24th century) to the middle of the 21st century, is speaking with a scientist from that era. She asks how much the starship Enterprise cost to build. His response was quite interesting. In effect he said, the economics of the 24th century are quite different from yours. For us the acquisition of wealth is no longer the driving force of our existence. We seek to better ourselves. It is that notion that must work itself into our everyday realities and serve as the inspiration for action.

From a ZNet sustainer commentary:  http://www.zmag.org

Graham Greene and The Quiet American

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China Hand notes

Contrary to the president’s assertion, the central lesson of Greene’s book is not that Pyle’s (read Bush’s) courage, energy, and idealism were betrayed by the lazy, ignoble disdain of lesser men (read Democrats) for a multi-decade crusade on behalf of Vietnamese (read Iraqi) freedom.

Greene’s powerfully-argued theme is that Pyle sacrificed the moral high ground, doomed his venture at its inception, and sowed the seeds of his own destruction by orchestrating a terrorist bombing in a profoundly misguided and indecent attempt to advance a foolish, unrealistic, and catastrophic political agenda.

Crime Fiction and Society

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by Megan Lane:

“Crime fiction can show you something about a society and a character that’s incredibly deep, whereas so-called literary fiction is about linguistic pyrotechnics. That’s why I’ve always been a fan of this type of writing.”

Publishers, too, believe there is a lot more mileage in the genre. “Like a Greek myth, there’s an awful lot writers can do with good crime stories,” says Ms Wisdom.

“We like harmony and shape, and that’s what a good crime novel gives you – a lovely story arc with a beginning, middle and end – and a morally acceptable outcome, which a lot of post-modern literature will not give you. It can also give you humour, absolute horror, romance, a puzzle. Crime fiction is only going to get bigger.”

For good crime fiction, see Mainstay Press.

Iraq war and the Venice film festival

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Mike Collett-White (Reuters):

Two movies about the Iraq war and its impact on Americans back home are among 22 competition entries at the Venice Film Festival this year, lending political weight to a cinema showcase laden with Hollywood productions.

Paul Haggis’ “In the Valley of Elah”, starring Tommy Lee Jones, Charlize Theron and Susan Sarandon, is the eagerly anticipated film based on the real-life murder of a young soldier who returned to the United States from Iraq.

It is up against Brian De Palma’s “Redacted”, which tells the story of a U.S. army unit that persecutes an Iraqi family and also examines the way media cover the conflict.

Robert Fisk, on Iraq, Telling It Like It Is

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Reads like a novel though is sheerly the facts on the ground. Laden with irony, tells it like it is: “The Iraqis don’t deserve us. So we betray them…”

Gunter Grass – Peeling the Onion

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Life Sentences  The US Tour of Gunter Grass

by David Streitfield

Streitfield’s article doesn’t seem to me to be a very sympathetic or understanding portrait but holds some interest.

George Bush and The Quiet American

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What about the war novel in which the road to Hell is paved with bad intentions? 

Frank James wonders why would Bush cite The Quiet American?

In his speech at the Veterans of Foreign Wars convention in Kansas City, President Bush summoned up the Alden Pyle CIA agent character of Graham Greene’s classic Vietnam novel “The Quiet American” which is essentially a contemplation on the road to hell being paved with good intentions.

I’m not sure he really wanted to go there or why his speechwriters would take him there.

Percy Shelley and Mammonart

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Upton Sinclair put forth a much more judicious view of the writing of Percy Shelley than is to be found in the rather breathless hysteria of Adam Kirsch’s psycho-dramatic portrait in the New Yorker. 

Sinclair discussed Shelley in a chapter of Mammonart:

“Shelley was one among the sons of Rousseau who did not falter and turn back to feudalism, Catholicism, or mysticism of any sort. He fixed his eyes upon the future, and never wavered for a moment. He attacked class privilege, not merely political, but industrial; and so he is the coming poet of labor.”

The “poet of labor” it goes without saying won’t be found in the pages of the New Yorker. Nor, of course, the counterpart critic. Too bad because it would be far more enlightening and useful to have the views of a critic like Sinclair on Shelley side-by-side with the views of a critic like Kirsch.

Sinclair had to self publish Mammonart. Kirsch’s review is sponsored by corporate money, per usual.

Mammonart chapter on Shelley here.

Hocus Potus by Malcolm MacPherson

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 Malcolm MacPherson writing about his Iraq War novel Hocus Potus:

When I returned from Iraq, I thought of nothing but the absurdity of that hubristic enterprise, run by people who acted superior to us mortals. The civilians in charge struck me as dishonest and incompetent, detached from the reality of what was happening over their guarded gates. Their highest calling was their ambition. They didn’t have a clue. So they bumbled. They stumbled. They lied and dissembled. In the process, they became cartoon characters.

Phineas Finn – Trollope

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What the Pols Should Read - Ken Emerson 

When asked by the Associated Press to name the last novel they had read, many of our umpteen presidential candidates responded predictably with thrillers by the likes of Grisham or Patterson (James or Richard North). Sen. John McCain’s choice of bedside reading was the most intriguing. Did Hemingway’s “A Farewell to Arms” give him second thoughts about the war in Iraq?

If it were up to me to assign the pols summer reading, I’d put “Phineas Finn” at the head of the list. The second of Anthony Trollope’s six “Palliser” novels chronicling political life in Victorian England, “Phineas Finn” is the outstanding volume in an outstanding series and can be enjoyed independently of its companions. Weighing in at more than 700 pages, it can’t be polished off during a quick flight from D.C. to Des Moines, but England’s greatest 19th-century political novel is instructive and illuminating to this day.

Acting Up for Peace

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by Gina Shaffer

“When… at what point will you say no to this war?  We have chosen to say with the gift of our liberty, if necessary our lives: the violence stops here, the death stops here, the suppression of the truth stops here, this war stops here.”

Faced with the prospect of a prison sentence for burning draft records in protest against the Vietnam War, Daniel Berrigan, a Catholic priest and pioneering figure in the peace movement, uttered the words above in a Maryland courtroom in 1968.

On Saturday night, nearly 40 years later, the same words spewed passionately from the lips of actor Martin Sheen, who portrayed Berrigan in a benefit performance of “The Trial of the Catonsville Nine” at the Kirk Douglas Theatre in Culver City, California.  Proceeds from the event will go to the Actors’ Gang, a Culver City-based theater company, and Office of the Americas, a Los Angeles-based nonprofit organization focused on promoting social justice and peace internationally.

Other prominent actors, including Tim Robbins, Beau Bridges, Keith Carradine, Mike Farrell, Camryn Manheim, and Sandra Oh joined Sheen in a staged reading of the play, which Berrigan wrote based on transcripts from the trial that followed the nationally renowned demonstration.   Berrigan, his brother, Philip, also a priest at the time, and seven other Catholics participated in the May 17, 1968 protest at a Selective Service office in Catonsville , Maryland.

With their plea to just “let people live,” as defendant John Hogan stated during the trial, the Catonsville activists questioned the morality of the Vietnam War.  They burned 378 draft cards with napalm to call attention to the deaths of American soldiers and Vietnamese civilians.

The Iraq War and the Failed Literary Establishment

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In a Guardian books blog entry, The President of the National Book Critics Circle, John Freeman, writes - 

“…when it comes to the arena in which novelists can have the most impact – their art – this generation (with the notable exception of Gary Shteyngart and his Absurdistan has been rather silent about the Bush years, so blisteringly described by Olbermann.

“Part of this – I think – has to do with the difficulty so many novelists, let alone Americans at large, had in absorbing 9/11. The trauma, the anger and the loss of that event have sucked up all the imaginative oxygen in the room.

“Six years after the attacks, the novel-based responses to that day – including Don DeLillo’s The Falling Man – continue to trickle in. But no one is writing about rendition or torture or trumped up fears.”

Actually a few – ignored – fiction authors are “writing about rendition or torture or trumped up fears” especially as tied-in to the subsequent far more devastating related Iraq War and the US corporate-state government in general. And while it’s easily accurate that enough authors are failing to write enough of this sort of fiction, it’s also easily accurate that the literary establishment is failing to solicit such work and that reviewers are failing to review quality novels that do get written in this regard. Thus, reviewers and publishers effectively discourage such work from being written in the first place. Who in the establishment will have much or anything to do with it? Here it is – waiting to be reviewed – the sort of thing that is also willing to be solicited: see Iraq War Fiction.

The movie industry, for the good or the bad, seems to be catching on. But publishing? And book reviewing?

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