Itapos;s cool outside this morning, not quite wintry,�decidedly autumnal.� Thanksgiving weather weapos;d call it as kids, or still do, I think.� Or was it Christmas weather?� I canapos;t remember.� For most Americans�it augurs the coming of the holidays, the prospect of snow, or in Texas simply the end of the oppressive�cowapos;s-mouth summer. �It also reminds me of California in May, the good part of California, the part where people go to see the ocean, the proper ocean, where they sit in silence, the thoughtful and ruminating, not the dingy mushroom-people strewn about in�the sand, mushrooms marinating in their own insecure vanity, mushrooms that think they are in fungi heaven and will never leave.� And, because they are mushrooms,�they will never leave, because that is not what mushrooms do.� It also reminds me of Croatia, which Croatians donapos;t call Croatia but Hrvatska, which sounds nothing like Croatia and makes me wonder where we got that name from.� But whatever you call it, call it beautiful because it is; though Iapos;ve never been there, I have it on good authority, the authority of people who actually know what their own country is called.
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But there is no ocean here - which is not a worthwhile trade-off for having no beach-bathers, to be honest - and neither will there be a Thanksgiving, in the strictest sense at least.� But because there is very little humidity here, even the slightest sign of a flagging sun makes my internment seem irrelevant,�as I am now�free�to exist out of doors, cheap government doors that probably cost five-thousand dollars each.� The other night in Baghdad I played my guitar and sang in a matchbox concrete bunker for an hour at midnight.� Like a wolf like that.� In one of those understood but inexplicable ironies, I was celebrating the silence by breaking it - adorning it, I prefer to say - with music.� Like an elevator like that.
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In fact, it was without a little surprise that I realized upon my return that I had not listened to my iPod once the entire four-day trip back; that was how much I clung to the silence, starved for it after two frenetic weeks of�deafening stimulation.� Walking back from the laundry today I smiled at the thought of being back in the sequestered silence, back in the meditative stillness of my facilitated existence here, a gift that, while imperfect,�serves to compliment the�blessing of�fruitful (if frenzied) fellowship that comes so rarely now.� It reminds me of the Chekhov play�The Seagull except that in it everyone hates each other but is afraid to be left alone.��So maybe itapos;s the opposite of that, Iapos;m not sure.� Yeah, it must be, because I love people deeply - or try to - but I�like (I wonapos;t say prefer)�to be left alone, for the most part.
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It also reminds me of the time Lorna and I wrote childrenapos;s stories together one morning in her flat in Aberdeen, I sitting on the brown leather sofa, she in the window box awash with a frigid, distilled�sunlight, not knowing - or not caring - that my eyes were on her more than my own paper.� She wrote about a little girl who had gotten separated from her parents at a carnival and had to be helped by a policeman.� I wrote about a little�girl who would sit in the window box writing stories when she felt lonely, or when her parents fought.� She would escape onto paper, in an airplane to the Andes, solving mysteries, becoming important.
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Who writes childrenapos;s stories these days anyway?� Talk show hosts?��Washed-up politicos?� Shriners?� Avon ladies?� Lorna saw J.K. Rowling lifting money�from an ATM in Edinburgh and said she was casually well-dressed.� I saw Mike Wallace on Marthaapos;s Vineyard and he was just an old guy walking.� Maybe weapos;re all washed-up nothings, although Iapos;d rather be a casually well-dressed something, even if I do hate cash machines.� Theyapos;re so proletariat.� Or what if we woke up tomorrow and there were no grapes.� Or Liquid Drain-o.� Or apostrophes.� Life is so fraught with distresses
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Speaking of politicos, Sarah Palin said yesterday that America is the greatest source of good in the world.� Why would a Christian say that?� Maybe because she wants to serve Joe Six-Pack instead of Jesus.� Besides, I donapos;t think the Blessed Virgin ever wore lipstick or incited riots, which is what everyone says is going to happen because the Republicans are so whipped up from watching FoxNews all day.� One woman stood up and called Obama an Arab; when McCain tried to set her straight he was booed.� Yes, booed.� People clearly want to believe whatever they want and not be told otherwise.� Iapos;m afraid of those people because they have conviction, but the wrong kind, the KKK kind, the McCarthy kind, the Reign of Terror kind.� Those are the people that crucified our Lord.
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God help us all.
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