Bullying and the massacre at VT

See link in header above for a terrific post from Nick of the North on bullying.

And it appears that all these massacres are about bullying and the resulting isolation. As a victim myself, I recall feeling those murderous thoughts, feeling the isolation and slashing my own wrist at fourteen as the fear of facing my tormentors would overcome me and my pleading for another sick day at home fell on deaf years.

We need to understand the Chos of the USA to get a handle on how each and every citizen is responsible for this abhorrent and sickening catastrophe, from the happy gun-peddlars to the disdain of his co-students who laughed at his accent and told him to go back to China - a country he had never been to, incidentally. And all this in front of the teacher who condoned the abusive behaviour by not speaking up.

How isolated and lonely was this young man? We cannot even imagine his state of mind.

And here are the words of another troubled young man whose rage also built up into a murderous crescendo.

Luke Woodham, the high school killer in Pearl, Miss., whose murder spree preceded Carneal's by two months, was even more explicit in his rebellion. Minutes before starting his schoolyard rampage, Woodham handed his manifesto to a friend, along with a will. "I am not insane," he wrote. "I am angry. I killed because people like me are mistreated every day. I did this to show society, push us and we will push back. ... All throughout my life, I was ridiculed, always beaten, always hated. Can you, society, truly blame me for what I do? Yes, you will. ... It was not a cry for attention, it was not a cry for help. It was a scream in sheer agony saying that if you can't pry your eyes open, if I can't do it through pacifism, if I can't show you through the displaying of intelligence, then I will do it with a bullet."

But I expect the same lack of self-examination as from 9/11 - a true opportunity is presented to understand and reflect and will be ignored by an increasingly aggressive and isolationist culture.

In the very near future, I can foresee universities being re-invented as armed camps with the only true beneficiary being the giant military industrial complex which includes the Glock/AK 47 et al manufacturers.

We are all barking mad.

The idiotic cult of the cowboy

And the unfortunate victims.

My heart grieves for the devastated families of these talented students and professors.

I read that you have to be the wizened age of 12 before you can legally buy a gun at the corner mom-and-pop gunshop in Virginia. Thank heavens they're not standard issue for toddlers who might not have the fine hand/eye co-ordination to pick off their play-date buddies which could result in a lot of collateral damage.

What on earth is wrong with these cowboys and their right to bear arms?

Like there are still frontiers to crash and injuns to massacre?

The Shrub re-iterates his Through The Looking Glass World by manfully stating every American has the right to bear the assault weapon of their choice but will be charged if they use it to commit a crime.

I step back a bit from these lunatic ravings and can't imagine them issuing even from the mouth of the poorest president of the poorest third world country.

And then I follow the trail of the bullet casings, ah now let me see, all the way to the NRA!! One of the greatest lobbies of all time. Financing what? Oh wild guess here, the Bush campaign!

Silly me.

Ghosts

Tis the morning when
They all line up
Like little tin soldiers
On a marble mantlepiece
Without a fire beneath.

One carries a book
And barely glances at me.
One has a real gun
And a real uniform
And marches away. Forever.

One is at my feet,
Sad and pleading
For one more chance
Just one, always one.
Until they piled too high.

One I loved too much
I crushed him hard
To my needy heart.
He couldn't breathe
He, of course, escaped.

One I didn't love enough,
I was too afraid you see.
He brought me joy
Encased in golden rapture
And I turned and walked away.

A Selective Culture of Life????

Bush Renews Call for 'Culture of Life'
AP - Fri, 13 Apr 2007 11:24:04 -0400 (EDT)
By ANN SANNER
President Bush, at the national Catholic prayer breakfast, stressed his opposition to easing restrictions on federally funded embryonic stem cell research, a reference to a bill he's threatened to veto.

"In our day there is a temptation to manipulate life in ways that do not respect the humanity of the person," Bush said Friday. "When that happens, the most vulnerable among us can be valued for their utility to others instead of their own inherent worth."

The Senate on Wednesday voted 63-34 to pass the measure that it hopes will lead to new medical treatments. The vote, however, fell short of a veto-proof margin needed to enact the law over Bush's objections. The House, which passed similar legislation earlier in the year, is expected to adopt the Senate's version in the weeks ahead.

"We must continue to work for a culture of life where the strong protect the weak and where we recognize in every human life the image of our creator," Bush said.

His brief speech also included a call to Congress to pass immigration reform, a prayer for U.S. troops serving abroad and praise for Catholic schools across America. Later Friday, Bush planned to meet with parochial education leaders and parents at the White House.

The prayer breakfast at a Washington hotel attracted religious leaders, members of Congress, Chief Justice John Roberts, Justice Samuel Alito and top government officials. After the president spoke, a female heckler shouted "War criminal! War criminal!" It was unclear whether the president heard her.

Bush, a Methodist, noted that this year's prayer breakfast occurred the Friday after Lent.

"You can eat your bacon in good conscience," he joked.

I have difficulty believing that this man can stand up and stay these things barefaced - with the blood of a quarter of a million (250,000) innocent, helpless Iraqi children on his hands. Does he see the image of God in these too? Or are they infidels?

Rage and frustration

Someone I love very much is trapped by her anger and I fear will stay there as it is by now familiar: warm and safe as the inside of a septic tank. Until the rot sets in and the infection too and she won't be able to breathe. And people can't be around her because of the stink. And I fear for her and for all of us who love but are but a helpless bystander to another's insanity. Loving detachment is the order of the day.

Fine Dining

A full plate.
Of many piles of sludge.
Going back and back.
Maybe to the Famine.

Going back and back
To foremothers
Who swallowed it
And brought it up

For you to pick at
With your sharp utensils
Over and over. Say it:
Four thousand days

And counting one more
Now. Gulp it down, girl
Clean your plate. De-bile,
De-louse, De-frown.

The Quality of Mercy

Forgiveness.

Though the word 'mercy' has a more comforting ring to it.
I was reading once again about the My Lai Massacre, the horrific murder of helpless women and children caught so cruelly in the Vietnam invasion. And I think of Darfur today and Rwanda and Iraq. All these innocents denied the chance of a life. And - if you believe as I believe that this is the only life we ever get and that Cloud God does not exist - that is a very serious thing. To lose one's only wild and precious life.

I got to thinking of the massacre of my forebears - my mother's forefathers and mothers. There was only one survivor - Philip O'Sullivan who was twelve years old and hid himself away on the Island of Dursey, the seat of the royal O'Sullivan Bearas. The story he told was appalling, all the little babies of the island were put on pikes and paraded throughout the island before their parents eyes and then everyone alive was butchered and thrown over the high cliffs to be dashed on the rocks below. My mother told me the story with passion and fire and always ended with "How can I ever forgive the British for slaughtering my family and for the terrible famine afterwards?"

Here's the story of Dursey:
Dursey Island lies at the south-west end of the Beara Peninsula. The island is separated from the mainland by a narrow stretch of water called Dursey Sound which has a very strong tidal activity. The water swirls in and is quite spectacular to watch. With only a few permanent winter time residents, the island is one of the quietest in Ireland area with no pubs, shops or restaurants. There is no accommodation on the island so unless you have prior arrangements or wish to camp, make it a day trip. Dursey Island, which is only 6.5km long and 1.5km wide, provides the tourist with some lovely walks and breathtaking views of the nearby West Cork coastline.

The island is about 15 miles from Castletownbere, but will take awhile to drive on the narrow roads. You’ll probably want to stop often to view the scenery along the way. Ireland’s only cable car was opened in 1969. It runs at about 250m above sea level, and the 250m trip takes about 6 minutes. The car can take up to six people at a time or one large animal. No cars allowed and you may have to share the ride with smaller animals. The cable car operates between 9 and 11am, 2:30 and 5:00pm, and 7 to 8pm. Different hours apply on alternate Sundays due to mass. Check locally for details.

The island appears to have been inhabited at least back to the bronze age judging from archaeological digs. Kilmichael church was built on the island built by monks from nearby Skellig, but little remains except stones now.
The inhabitants of the island suffered a massacre from the English under Queen Elizabeth in 1602 when many of the captured were thrown over the high cliffs on the island.

Dursey Island was home to Dermot O'Sullivan. He and his allies, the McSweenys, fought the English during the Desmond rebellion as well as the later Munster wars. Most of his sons were killed during the wars. He and his wife sought refuge in Coruna, Spain. He lived to be one hundred years old and he and his wife were buried at the Franciscan Monastary in Coruna.

Thirty years ago, after the collapse of the fishing industry, the government relocated the islanders to the mainland. The remains of the island's three villages can be explored, giving an insight into lives of the people at the time. The island is also well known for birdwatching and has many colonies of birds.

And I'm posting a picture too. A hallowed ground, much like Darfur and My Lai.
And we have to forgive, don't we? Otherwise it eats away at us and chews the very soul out of us. Even when it's a very personal story, like my family history or a more removed one like Darfur or Abu Ghraib. We are all affected by each act of cruelty. It tears the humanity away from us, if we let it.

Our higher selves must overcome the depravity of our lower. Mercy and forgiveness. Amen.

You shoulda known me then, me boy

You shoulda known me then me boy
With hair so long and a voice so grand
And the bluest eyes and the greatest legs
And wearing the skirts up the to the skies.

And a laugh that would fill your belly
And a hold on the world like a graprefruit
Squeezing every last drop out of it.
And not wasting time with sleeping.

And I’d talk you awake and I’d talk you asleep.
Round the clock. And then again too.
And with a few whiskeys I’d stand on the bar.
And show off my legs and my voice too.

And I was ready for just about anything.
A misfit in a small world of priests and nuns.
I knew there was much more to life
Beyond the stolid walls around Ireland.

And I took my chances and my luggage
And jumped over them with my long legs.
And bit off more than I could chew.
But oh the taste that was in them bites.

It was the freedom of my own rebellion.
There was no stopping me then.
I crowned myself the queen of everything.
Until the whiskey caught in my gullet.

And I choked for years on the vomit
Of the world I’d left behind me
And the bitter bile I’d found on the other side.
Life looks like that from the bottom of a bottle.

A remaining smidgin of vanity

Today was hair colouring day, I keep putting it off and hoping:

(a) the multicoloured hair of my youth returns
(b) a marvellous curly grey starts bursting through my scalp
or
(c)A silky swirl of white cascades softly down my back ready to be swept up into an elegant chignon.

Alas, none of these options have transpired so I am stuck with colouring my hair about every eight weeks. I really dislike the grizzledy grey/brown/blonde that my hair has turned in the life I have over the fence of sixty. Still very thick, my mother always said we each had enough for two heads and it is true. The hair gene manifests mainly through the female line. My father and his mother and his sisters had skinny sad hair and in my father's case it had just about vanished into a thin white circle of tonsure at the end.

None of the salons surrounding me are familiar with a non-chemical dye which is a frightening comment on the hair industry. Hairstylists believe in stripping and blasting every bit of old colour from the hair then applying bleaches and toxic colours to what's left after the first assault.Frightening. Any research shows that this type of arsenal on the head seeps through the skin and can cause brain tumours.

I buy my colouring in the local health store and it does a fine job. I go lighter than my own shade and at the end of the few painstaking hours it takes with a toothbrush I'm left with colouring that is quite natural.At least my doddery old eyes tell me so and that is good enough.

My little vanity, I have a few. Don't we all.

But surely there is room for an all natural hair salon in a city the size of Toronto?

Movies

God, I love movies, I always have. And write reviews on line and even published articles. And in the past couple of weeks I see clearly what some movies have become. Tripe masquerading as greatness, never more in evidence than in that gob-smacking win by Martin Scorcese for best picture for the regrettable and forgettable "The Departed". Awful bilge.

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0407887/usercomments-1447

And then I watch The Diary of Anne Frank for the umpteenth time and it still holds true, nearly fifty years later and the effects of the viewing linger on for a few days. Like all good movies.

Why doesn't Martin aspire, yet again, to something as good as Goodfellas?

Courtesans

What a lovely word. Evoking a woman so gorgeous that kings would give up their thrones. Wallis Simpson comes to mind. Madame Bouvary. Lillie Langtry. I was reminded of the word when I saw a picture of Victoria Beckham on the arm of her husband. These days it's a lot of work to be a successful courtesan. Victoria's breasts look like they are breastfeeding two bald headed midgets simultaneously. Guarded by a white picket satin fence. Her expression matches the supposition. And only she knows how often the surgeon's knife has inflated or deflated these mammaries. I ponder on the men who cop a feel of these sturdy units. They do not budge. Nailed to the rib cage, they stand erect even when she is horizontal. A man once told me he always knew the revolting feel of silicon and became instantly flaccid. And thought-shift, these over perked plastics could not perform their biological purpose of feeding an infant, could they?

Thoughts go to another famous courtesan. The Anna Nicole. Nailing herself a nonagenarian, billionaire wealthy of course. Courtesans are only for the wealthy (and sometimes for the huddled masses, see below) and are much admired and envied by the knuckle dragging portion of our society. (Question posed to Grade 8 students - both male and female - as to what they wanted to be when they grew up, answer: Famous).

You don't have to do anything you see, if you're an Anna Nicole or a Wallis or a Victoria. In the old days, skills were acquired in the Orient. Today, you just double d your breast size with the the help of a little money-grubbing plastic surgeon and reel in the catch. And sometimes, like Paris Hilton, you become a born-into-wealth courtesan to the afore-mentioned masses. The adulation of a mindless mannequin.

There is no one quite like the Christine Keeler of the sixties who brought down a government. And the art of good conversation evades our present day wannabes. One cringes to hear them interviewed on any topic. Unlike Marilyn Monroe, they will not be caught with a book or the hornrims with which to read it.

My all time favourite of this era is Camilla. For well over thirty years she kept the boy who will not be king entertained, flattered, sexed and nuzzling on her - real - breasts. And envying her tampax.

Now there's a courtesan.

My very own world

Around the man made lake, Lake Aquitane,
The dog and me. Me and the dog.
Her head down, snarfling a thousand smells.
My head up drinking the night sky of a thousand stars.
Both of us sprinkled in snow dust.

The worst of the winter-cold behind us now.
Maybe.
The worst of the winter of emotions
Faded to grey. For to-now.
Maybe.

We scamper around the lake.
The dog and me. Me and the dog.
Houses huddled in the distance. People huddled inside.
Captured in the blue light.
Captivated. Entranced by
Anna Nicole Smith and Britney bare-head.

We meet not another soul out there.
The dog and me. Me and the dog.
And that is perfection itself.
In my very own world.

It was like this......

She spent a lot of time with Saint Ignatius out in the garden, digging and planting it for a few years now. She'd go on about the kids and her ex-husband who married The Wan. She'd thought Ignatius had special powers, that he could intercede for her.

She'd bought that expensive Italian stuff once Fr. Ryan had told her the big news. The silver bottle was for the eyes, it took away the wrinkles. The gold bottle was for around the mouth. Made especially for smokers, she thought it said. There was no English translation. She'd heard it removed accordion lips. All she could do was hope. And of course pray to Saint Ignatius.

She told Ignatius to intercede again on her behalf to get rid of the wrinkles. The smoking kept her weight down. She would listen to the hunger grumbling away in her stomach, puffing on her cigarette as she leaned back on the stone bench to take a rest, looking up at Ignatius, flying in the sky he always was. Ignatius flying over the garden, over all her hard work. Over all the wild colours of it. As if he were admiring it too.

Fr. Ryan had said it was spectacular what she'd done with it all. She nursed the word for a few months. A month ago Fr. Ryan had said she'd the hands of an artist, an artist of God, as he came out through the French doors and held one of the trellised roses between his fingers before bending down and smelling it and smiling at her in that special way.

Afterwards she'd looked up at Ignatius and winked at him and said it was great to be appreciated. It was something her ex-husband had never done. Her time had come, maybe.

A week ago Fr. Ryan had said he'd something to tell her, it might be a shock. He took her elbow and sat beside her on the bench, Ignatius swooping in the air above them, drinking it all in.

I'm leaving the priesthood, Maggie, he said, I can't fulfil my vows anymore.

She found herself blushing, waiting, anticipating. She cleared her throat expectantly, ready to announce her feelings too.

But when he stood up in the silence, she looked up at him. He was blocking Ignatius.

Why Father? hope slip-jigged inside her. Her voice was huskily attractive to her own ears which was unintentional. That would be the cigarettes. Her belly held a spreading warmth.

The sins of the flesh, Maggie my dear, I'll have to say goodbye now. Tou're a good woman, a very good woman.

And he'd immersed her hand in both of his, blessed her and then bowed and left through the French doors.

You'll be in touch? she'd asked the closing door. But he didn't hear her. Of course he would be. That would go without saying.

She weeded the lily of the valley circle which was nestled in all the yellow and purple of the claspea.

So Ignatius, she sat on her haunches and looked upward.

You'll take all that to Himself, right? You'll do the interceding for me up there? It's been a week and he hasn't called me yet. It must take a while to leave the priesthood and get your affairs in order. But I'll be ready for him. I'll be waiting.

Heartbreak & Irish Bread.

It's a sick feeling. Like something green and slimy sitting in my stomach slithering long tentacles into my bowels. I can't see stuff right in front of my nose. Where's the big yellow bowl, I yell at the dog, it was right here under my nose, I took it down off the shelf and now it's gone. Look? Where is it? And I knock other stuff off the counter looking for it. And it's right there, after ten minutes I see it, the stupid thing, yawning its creamy shiny insides at me, teetering on the edge of the sink.

My reality is gone sideways on me, I keep trying to put it upright. Every bloody thing is an effort. I have a brunch tomorrow with a lot of people coming and I have to prep for it which is a very good thing as it keeps my mind off IT.

I make couscous and my Irish brown bread and my strata dish with eggs and ham, broccoli and cheese and bread and mustard. I made my hummus - which is very special as it has Irish chili sauce in it, and I make Irish crepes which have potato and onion and mushy peas stuffed inside. And IT pounds into my brain and pierces my heart from time to time.

Was it the bible, was it my father, it doesn't matter, who said there is nothing worse than an ungrateful child? And by that I don't mean an endless litany of thankyous but the disdain and the verbal abuse and the you've never done enough for me kind of thing that keeps getting thrown at me over and over again. Until my heart breaks yet one more time.

All I know is I did the best I could with what I had, I loved them dearly and too much it seems for the pain to be this great today.

The stories in my day

Like this.The long call from Dublin, my friend since we were five. Telling me of her daughter who left the husband and almost the baby too. Her other daughter swimming upwards from bi-polar to teach dance to the elderly.
And this
An email with a joke and a howonearthareyou from a friend in Hong Kong airport.
And this
A friend sharing the news of a wake for one of her friends, died of cancer, ten years younger than us. Gone just like that. Leaving smiles and an unborn grandchild.
And this
A friend grieving her husband's fresh drunkeness, her son's stillborn child. He blessed it and wrapped it and comforted his devastated wife.
And this
And over dinner with a friend, sharing our thoughts on the rage, The Secret, why the focus on money? It is so American. What happened to passion and purpose?
And this
And meeting a man from Sligo, an old old man on a stick who spoke of being expelled from every boarding school in Ireland and how, in disgust, his father wouldn't speak to him for months on end.
And this
And a caring email from a brother at the end of my day, telling me his story of a wonderful weekend in Mexico with love and laughter and a wild ballet of colours on a magnificent stage and I post a picture of it here.

Ordinary stories in an ordinary day. And how extraordinary it all is when I write it down.

Thinking of the gannets at Cape St. Mary's

The snow of winter piled up against the back door. Brave sparrows defy the ingenious squirrels who could crack Fort Knox if there was birdseed inside.

And the gannets of the summer come to mind. The millions of seabirds at the Cape. Outnumbering in hundreds of thousands the avid birdwatchers, outkeening the whir of the cameras. We are in a cathedral of birdcalls. The stained glass of the cliffs and ocean the backdrop of eternity. The crash of the waves like the pipes of a celestial organ. We are cowed and awed. What place do we have on this precipice?

My soul yearns to go back there.

To stand in reverential humility.

Struck by a phrase and holding it...

This happens more than I'm aware of. Some I just print off and place on my bulletin board - like this one from Ray Bradbury~

You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.

And from Orhan Pamuk~

The writer's secret is not inspiration - for it is never clear where that comes from - but stubbornness, endurance. The lovely Turkish expression 'to dig a well with a needle' seems to me to have been invented with writers in mind.

We sit at tables and desks with pen and with paper, with fancy notepads, with silver pencils and leatherbound journals purchased in Paris, with computers and typewriters, with fancy Maccy colouredy sleeked sci-fi-ish screens and wait for the muse, the magical one to touch us, to find the word, the letter, the phrase that will resonate underneath the story of the inner people we harbour and nurse through all the toils and troubles of our everyday lives with everyday jobs and everyday relationships.

How grand the passion, how passionate the grandness of our desires.

For that alone, this trudge along the earthly plane is worth every sling and arrow.

Clueless in Canada

I wish I knew how to link other bloggers that I admire to this site.
I wish I knew how to update my own website.
I wish I knew how to create another website.
I wish I could get my blog to look like the swishy other blogs out there.
I search and research.
I feel like a two year old.
I feel I should hire someone to sit with me and coach me seriously in these matters and not roll on the floor and laugh at me.
I do so many things and very well too.
I really know my way around knitting.
And tax returns.
And accounting.
And financial advice.
And business consulting.
And writing.
And piano playing.
And walking.
And art galleries.
And opera.
And movies.
And fighting for a better planet.
And the environment.
I guess I need some fine tuning on this aspect of the 'internets'.
And some patient saint to teach me.
I retain well.
I retain well stuff I'm interested in.
I retain well stuff I'm interested in and can utilize.

Sprawl

Posted this today to an article on urban sprawl at Alternet.
Redefining the 'Good Life'
[Report this comment] Posted by: wisewebwoman on Dec 14, 2006 9:22 AM

And this is what it's all about, right? When did we get it all so twisted and why? I know couples, empty-nesters, living in McMansions of 5 bathrooms. When did we ever think we would need all these space for two people? The word that comes to mind is obscene. A disease of 'more' has taken over the nation, fed by mass media corporate marketing and our incompetent governments who encourage the auto industry, sixteen lane highways running everywhere, lack of funding for urban enhancement, transit and off-the-grid self sustenance. Every time I see a Hummer I look at the driver in shock and awe at the overwhelming moronic instinct that tells him (and they are all 'hims') that this is OK, to drive this gas belching behemoth through a city street on his way to his McDrive in Suburbia to join others of his ilk.
Yes, I live in a small one bathroom in the city, affordable, I rent out half of it to a tenant and have bought some acreage, cheaply in the country and am investigating off the grid living out there for the coming crisis and it will be a crisis, the free sprawling ride is over, wake-up everyone and put plans in motion today. Turn off the TVs, get out in your communities and look around you, stand on a bridge overlooking a highway at oxymoronic 'rush-hour' and think of oil. Ending. Soon.

Gentle thoughts for an estranged child

And child of mine she stays, my baby of nearly thirty-seven who loved ironing and feeding the poor and drawing and writing and expounding on every theory with her encyclopaedic knowledge of just about everything. A fierce scrabble player, Harley Davidson rider, music lover, drum player. And on. She lives in Ireland and there shelives and loves well, I hope.
Written yesterday and emailed to her, my gorgeous, brilliant, Irish daughter.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Reflections on a Steam Iron

The steam from the iron
Threading the needle eye
Of the crack in
The laundry room window.

Floating upwards to the
Sky above and across
Four thousand miles of sea
And falling softly on

You
There.

Ironing too. Pressing
Cutting butter edges
Into soft cotton trousers
And razor creased sleeves on
To Goodwill linen shirts.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Disconnection

Disconnection

I was taught in early days
For the good of the whole
Give to the church.
And it would take care of Africa
And those pagan babies.

I was taught in middle days
Me first, live and let live.
I’ll take care of me
And you’ll take care of you
How neat. And end of story.

No and no and no
Is there such a thing
As loving detachment
From the pain of
A limbless child in Iraq.

From the frightened
Face of a teenage whore
On Jarvis Street.
From the smelly mound
Of a sleeping bag on a filthy grid.

I teach myself in elder days
That the child is me
The whore is me.
And I’m inside the fetid bag
Of my own blindness.