Former President George W. Bush.
I like how that sounds. I like looking over at the counter in the sidebar and seeing it set to zeroes all across; the symbolism is succinct and sublime.
I like our new president. I like that he has qualities that one might naturally associate with the presidency, the highest office of the land: he is intelligent, dignified, poised, well-spoken. Eight years of being quite certain that I--hell, that my cat--was smarter than the leader of my country was disconcerting to say the least. I want my elected officials to be smarter, wiser, better-educated than I am: that's why they're the leaders! It appears that we have that again, now. The bus is no longer careening madly down the road, slamming into things while the ostensible driver sits panic-stricken in his seat, the steering wheel detached and clutched in his hands, a look of baffled horror on his face. Someone else has put the wheel back in place and will attempt to get the bus back under control before too many more things get run over. The passengers, hostages to fortune all, can breathe a bit easier now.
President Barack H. Obama.
I like how that sounds even better.
As I write this, the Bush countdown meter in the left sidebar is at 0 days, 10 hours, 16 minutes, and assorted seconds. Isn't it beautiful? Certainly the clean-up will be ghastly and long, but it's enough for now just to know that a dark and damaging era is finally coming to an end.
Auf wiedersehen, Goodbye...
Barring those with suicidal ideation as a feature of a mental illness, why would anyone think that?
The neighborhood Southern Baptist Church has a lighted electronic marquee sign, and they change the message on it daily. This morning’s genuinely brought me up short. It read:
My life will be so much better…after I die.
Cast me as intolerant, but that seems so incredibly wrongheaded as to border on pathological. Or, as I yelped in my early-morning brainfog, “That’s just crazy-talk!” The illogic is stunning in its own right, but it goes deeper than that. Of course your life won’t improve upon death, because you’ll no longer have a life. You may or may not have an afterlife, but lacking any empirical evidence one way or the other I wouldn’t go putting all my eggs in that potentially nonexistent basket, either.
Mulder: Do you believe in an afterlife, Scully?
Scully: I’d settle for a life in this one.
(Excelsius Dei, episode 2:11)
I freely admit that I have no concept of the kind of worldview that advocates such a total denigration of human existence, while on the other hand allegedly championing the value of “life.” It looks, to this outsider at least, as though the only “life” to be valued is that which remains in a foetal state, or that which is dependent on machinery to keep it going; the healthy, independent human organism should be dead to the world, so to speak, and longing only for the next world–which one fervently hopes will be a pleasant place, but may not be. My brain hurts just trying to wrap around this.
All right, yes, I know; I’m a big ol’ heathen and just don’t get it. If I had a dime for every time someone, pagan or otherwise, had told me I didn’t get something I’d have no worries for this life or any potential others. Maybe I get it and don’t want it. The life I’m living now–this one, right here, on planet Earth in the 21st century–is the only life I’m absolutely assured of having. Everything else is just conjecture. I’m not enough of a gambler to risk the bird in the hand for the (theoretical) one in the (also theoretical) bush.
My life will be so much better…when I start to fully live it.
I've been spending most of my time at LiveJournal lately; visit me there if you like.
Also, a message to rethuglicans and christofascist conservative types: PRESIDENT-ELECT OBAMA FTW. That is all.
(Yes, I'll be back to proper blogging here eventually. Promise.)
The season of the witch is upon us!
This Palin woman looks to be a cross between the stereotypical sexy librarian/schoolmarm and Dolores Umbridge. I think I can hear Van Halen's "Hot For Teacher" playing in the background. This campaign is just surreal.
The thing I liked best about John Kerry was that he wasn't George Bush.
The thing I like best about Barack Obama is that he is Barack Obama.
(I want to believe.)
Ever since Moonlighting, the refrain has gone something like this: "Oh, ----- and ----- should never have gotten together! The chemistry was totally gone after that!" The perception seems to be that once two people hit the sheets, that's it; the chemistry dies, the sweet slow burn of sexual tension dissipates like morning mist, and there's nothing left for the
voyeurs fans except watching the pre-consummation reruns and sighing for the good old days. It's accepted as gospel, somehow, but I think that, like most gospels, it's fantastically skewed.
Where does this idea come from? Damned if I know; it seems as wrongheaded and weird to me as the idea that a woman is tainted by her sexual encounters while a man is enhanced by his. Maybe it comes from the same kind of warped underlying ideology. People seem only to want possibility; actuality is perhaps a little too real, a little too mundane. Fantasies work best if they remain in the realm of the unattained or the unattainable (or, to quote a song that I hadn't heard or thought of since about 1987, love rusts when it rains on romance). Missed-it-by-that-much hallway encounters and doppelganger kisses on circa-1939 ghost ships are OK, but Scully giggling in bed over Mulder's scratchy beard is maybe a little too close to home, a little too much like real life for some--maybe even most--fans to bear. They want it epic; they want it big; they want it not to resemble what goes on in their own life, if only so they can project themselves away from that life and into something else for a moment or so. I understand it; but I don't need it in that way. Maybe that means I'm happy? Able not only to have what I want, but want what I've got? Maybe.
UST* is great; but RST* is definitely good, too.
All that said, there is something unutterably lovely about the idea, at least, of the First Time; there can be only one, and if in reality those first times are usually marked by awkward fumblings and doubts and fears and self-recriminations, then in our fantasies we want to see all those things burned away so that the beauty and mystery and wonder of the thing can shine through. I'll be the first to admit that it's more fun not only to read but to write initiations as opposed to continuations--though I'm personally inclined to realify them up a bit with complications. I'm just perverse that way. These days it seems no one knows how to do the continuation anymore, not in fiction and not in reality. As someone who's been with the same person for nearly 14 years now, I realize that I'm in a statistical minority, but I also think it gives me this different perspective, and the understanding that the thrill doesn't necessarily go, and the chemistry can remain intact, and despite what bullshit you might have been fed, things can remain hot for a very long time. An old well-tended hearth fire with a thick bed of embers can burn more brightly and more powerfully than one that's been freshly-struck. If you were wondering.
My real-life marriage and the fictional partnership of Mulder and Scully have lasted about the same length of time, so I had no problem whatsoever with seeing the characters in a domestic interior. It still worked for me, if only because I have ample evidence that such things can and do really happen. My credibility was not strained. Unfortunately my ability to focus on this topic any further is being strained by the fact that my malfunctioning PC is driving me insane AND some ditz in a nearby aisle has got out the nail polish and the chemical stench is giving me a neurological condition; but I think you get where I'm going with all this!
(UST = Unresolved Sexual Tension; RST = Resolved Sexual Tension. And yes, I AM a complete geek.)