CULTIVATING LIBERALISM
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Weekend Bloggerback
Best of Blogs Round-Up: Monday, February 27, 2006

Non-disclaimer: We're liberal to the core, but we include in this daily blog review the political, the social, the cultural and the undefinable from the left, the right, the in-between from all over the globe. And we're suckers for good writing regardless of ideology. Clicking the link will take you to the original post.

Featured Blog I: Almost Fiction
Imagine, and Not the Song

You. Alone.
You go for a walk.
Then you decide this ain’t a good idea at all. Everybody got somebody, holding hands. You heart feel like it crying blood. Even them couples arguing make you yearn. At least they together, they gon make up.
You go home. Alone.
The house biting you, them walls closing in on you.
You make a li’l soup, eat, wash up.
Silence.
You switch on the tv to hear a li’l noise. Not a good idea. A romance show on. Everywhere you switch, all you seeing is couples, look, even the toothpaste ad got couples.
You crawl in you bed, sleep.
3 a.m. you wake up. Can’t go back to sleep, the early morning chill set in, no body to warm you. Read the rest at Guyana...

Featured Blogger II: Black History Mush
When Even African-American History Month Is About Bush

Everywhere we look these days, we get glimpses into the terrifying narcissism of the Bush administration and of the President himself. Tomorrow the Rude Pundit will deal with the White House's own review of its Katrina response (preview: hey, surprise, surprise, they need to do shit differently). And, really, you can go look at any White House speech and, even in the most obviously not-about-you situations, Bush makes it all about him. Take, for instance, yesterday's "celebration" of African American History Month, just in time for the last couple of days of February.

After the usual blah-di-fuckin' blah intros, filled with anxiety-inducing tics and winks that are part and parcel of any Bush performance, the President stated the obvious, "Generations of African Americans have added to the unique character of our society. Our nation is stronger and more hopeful as a result of those contributions." Then he listed a bunch of black people who everyone's heard of, reminding us, one presumes, that Dizzy Gillespie, Jackie Robinson, and Thurgood Marshall were, indeed, black.

And then, done with the obligatory here's-some-Negroes-you-should-know educational section of the address, Bush moved on to, the Rude Pundit shits you not, all the crap he's done to make life better fer the black people. Said the President, "The reason I worked so hard for the No Child Left Behind Act is because I believe that every child can learn, and I refuse to accept a school system that doesn't teach every child," spinning the program's poor at best, destructive at worst, record into a positive.

Speaking of children, Bush generally speaks to audiences as if they're a bunch of diaper-soiling toddlers who need it all explained clearly and repeatedly, and, of course, that takes on added laugh value when it's a mostly black audience and Bush says something like, "One way to ensure the promise of America reaches all of our citizens is to encourage ownership. We want people owning something. One way to help people realize their dreams is to encourage African Americans to own their own businesses" before touting the "successes" of his Small Business Adminstration.

And in the ultimate we-whities-are-just-like-you-darkies moment, Bush thanked the "many African Americans who are defending our ideals as members of the United States Armed Forces."

How bizarre it must have been for the gathered audience, including that noted friend of the black people, Dick Cheney, listening to the history of African Americans reduced to a list of mostly entertainers and the achievements of George W. Bush. But, then again, the President's attitude toward the whole event is perhaps best summarized by his closing remarks. For after the citations for the President's Volunteer Service Awards were read, Bush ended, no, not gracefully, not with words for peace and justice and equality to triumph, but with the resolve of a man who wants to watch women's curling on the Olympics, saying, "That's it. Thanks for coming. God bless. Appreciate you all." Done and done with the Negroes until next February demands his attention.

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THE DAILY JOURNAL VANPOEM
 

As One Put Naked Into a Cigarette Boat

Continue chiding, since it's part of the new aesthetic,
and parcel to our coming home, as if
we'd disappeared into the burning bush
that calls to those who sit vacantly in parlors
awaiting a fate freighted with song and dance.
I stroll while staring and raging
with difficulty at the stubborn sky.

On my honor I step a little distance
from behind the curtain, only to disappear
the moment no birds sing, which occurs frequently.
Leaves dustier than furniture, the sound
of sleeping grating through the cosmos,
my footstool, my only talisman.
It's been real, arguing on your behalf.
Gray cobweb shadow, falling, floundering,
finding a place to not be shy and think
boldly about the oldness of beauty, a place
to rest its weary insubstantial head.

It may be that I stand on the threshold
of the checkout line, unsure of what
to be impulsive about, which momentous emptiness
to spontaneously identify my alienation with,
what kind of languor to slide into

before being reduced to grubbing for credentials,
locked in that tumid late-afternoon skin,
effervescing in its sea of dreams.
And all the things hearkening back to it,
the boat ride to breaker beach
there at the end of one world
where it paid to rage at the stammering waves
that kicked and screamed solely for my benefit,
staged objections to the inexorable fact of me.

Look: I've installed a turnstile in my kitchen,
so your picture-postcard of desolation has no power over me.
In this doggy-dog world land is made motionless
and the broads are standing on the wharves
with some of that sipping whisky on those silver trays,
which we'd be a bear to pass up. You speak
of the old gods who've washed up on shore,
but I don't see them, don't hear their hue and cry,
though their maze awaits us, will amaze us.
Here, let me get this little rock out of my damn shoe.
Then we can talk about paddling off to parts unknown.

 
Van Foreman
 
 

 


 

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