December 31, 2004

MERRY REVELERS

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Flower Arrangement and Photographs by Catherine King.

Four more views here.

Posted by Jerome at 08:50 PM | TrackBack

A Year's-End Sermon By Jim White

10 Miles To Go On A 9 Mile Road

They tell me miracles abound now more than ever, but I don't care.
They say it's better to be blessed than it is to be clever, but I don't care.
'Cause I got 10 miles to go on a 9 mile road, and it's a rocky rough road, but I don't care.

For life's nothing if not a blind rambling prayer,
you keep your head held high,
a'walking and a'talking 'til the power of Love deliver you there.
The power of Love deliver you there.

You don't get nothing for free, 'less of course you steal it,
at least that's what the people say.
The sad irony of Love is how so seldom you feel it,
yet it's all you dream about, night and day.
From the splinter in the hand,
to the thorn in the heart,
to the shotgun to the head,
you got no choice but to learn to glean solace from pain
or you'll end up cynical or dead.

Me, I got 10 miles to go on a 9 mile road and it's a rocky rough road, but I don't care.
For life's nothing if not a blind rambling prayer,
you keep your head held high,
a'walking and a'talking and a'talking and a'walking,
'til the power of Love deliver you there.
The power of Love deliver you...THERE!!!

Sometimes you throw yourself into the sea of faith,
and the sharks of doubt come and they devour you.
Other times you throw yourself into the sea of faith
only to find the treasure lost in the shipwreck inside of you!

There ain't no guarantees, none of that nonsense like on tv,
just gotta roll the dice, and take your lumps.
You're gonna get yourself knocked down, so better learn to stand back up,
for those who dwell on disaster let sorrow be their master.

Me, I got 10 miles to go on a 9 mile road and it's a rocky rough road, but I don't care.
'Cause life's nothing if not a blind rambling prayer,
you keep your head held high,
a'walking and a'talking 'til the power of Love deliver you there.
The power of Love deliver you there.
The power of Love deliver you there.

Copyright 2001 Luaka Bop, Inc.

[Also highly recommended: God Was Drunk When He Made Me.]

Posted by Jerome at 10:30 AM | TrackBack

December 29, 2004

Who Do The Sri Lankans Think They Are, Anyway -- Presbyterians?

by Jerome du Bois

Ten days ago Jeff Jarvis posted about religion in the public square, calling it "And God Rolled His Eyes." It ended up as a debate between he and Hugh Hewitt, with summaries and comments on other blogs, and the post expanded into three parts and hundreds of comments.

At the end of the first part, Jarvis writes:

Since I am getting links to this post from both Hugh and Glenn Reynolds and -- considering the topic -- there may be new readers here who haven't been subjected to my bio before. So, in the interest of transparency and context: I'm a Congregationalist (not of the UCC flavor but, yes, liberal); I'm co-head of my small church's board and I teach Sunday school and occasionally get wrangled into giving a sermon (to which I have subjected my blog readers). My smarter sister is a Presbyterian minister (I was raised Presbyterian). So I am a Christian and I do not feel under attack in America. I feel free in America -- and I am grateful to both God and the Constitution for it. [My emphasis.]

About forty comments into the first thread, I posted this one:

Jeff:

Could you please ask your smarter Presbyterian sister why her church doesn't want anything to do with Israel, and what Jesus might have thought about that?

Thanks. Merry Christmas.

Jerome du Bois

Now, compared to JJ and HH, I'm microblogospheric, but that doesn't change the question. And nobody said nothing about it. They all just rolled over it. So I brought it home to highlight it here -- for the Jews, to whom we all owe so much, if only we examined history.

I know I don't owe the Presbyterian Church jack shit. Did you know that the Presbyterian Church has chosen to divest its portfolio of investments in companies that have significant dealings with Israel? The main cat's paw is Caterpillar. (I predict the P.C. will be the first to find a way to formally canonize Rachel Corrie.)

Should we now expect to see photos and video of Presbyterian Church leaders chaining themselves to the giant front landing gears of the C-130s loading Caterpillars for Sri Lanka, even though the machines' only purpose is to turn chaos into order? I think not. That takes balls and ovaries, and these twits ain't got none. It's cold out there.

As for the Sri Lankan government idiots, they are forbidding 60 able-bodied men and women from helping them out because they are active Israeli Defense Force soldiers. They will allow the doctors and nurses in -- and all the medicine and other necessities, too, of course -- but don't they know that most of these doctors and nurses, and almost every other Israeli helping hand, is a former member of the IDF?

As Jesus said, "We are behaving like insects." No, wait, that was Douglas Coupland.

Jesus said, "Why are you people acting like such assholes?" No, wait, that was me.

One more time. Jesus said, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."

And I say, may the hammer of divine justice fall upon all who stay any honest helping hand extended toward the innocent, dead and alive.

[I haven't linked as I should, but I'm sick and angry, and this stuff is easy to Google. As Hieronymus Bosch, LA Police, said, "I'm sorry, it just seems to me that sometimes the whole world is a homicide victim."]

Posted by Jerome at 07:22 PM | TrackBack

The Several Stupidities Of Thomas Hirschhorn

Are you human,
Or a dud?
Are you human,
Or d'you make it up?
-- Alison Goldfrapp

by Jerome du Bois

Now, what I want are, facts:

1. Thomas Hirschhorn, 48 years old, is a Swiss artist, a self-identified leftist, with Swiss citizenship, born in Bern.

2. He has lived in Paris since 1986.

3. He objects to the political existence of Christoph Blocher, a 63-year-old Swiss politician and plastics billionaire, who lives in Switzerland.

4. Blocher opposes Switzerland's entry into the European Union.

5. Blocher, whose Swiss People's Party is the largest in the country, opposes unlimited immigration.

6. Blocher has been politically active since 1977, a dominant force since at least 1986 (to quote the BBC), but only last year received an official position as Minister for Justice and Police.

7. And it was only last year . . . Well, let Alan Riding of Monday's NYT report it, in an article called "Dissecting Democracy, Swiss Artist Stirs Debate:"

No one paid much heed last year when the Swiss artist Thomas Hirschhorn stopped showing his work in Switzerland to protest a right-wing populist's entry into the government.

Got that? The guy doesn't live there, hasn't for eighteen years, but he objects to one politician there, so he won't exhibit there anymore. So There. But that isn't enough for Hirschhorn. In fact, this was at least the second step in his campaign against Blocher.

8. Two years ago, from Paris, he managed to finagle (the equivalent of) $200,000 from Pro Helvetia, the foundation that oversees the Swiss Cultural Center in Paris, to mount his current exhibition on "home territory," so to speak. (Michel Ritter, director of the Center, helped him get the grant. Hirschhorn is not taking any money from the project.) So There again.

9. As a result, the Swiss legislature slashed $1.1 million from Pro Helvetia's almost $40 million budget. It was later restored.

10. Mr. Hirschhorn hates democracy, a concept he doesn't even understand, and he wants it to go down.

11. Despite his reputation as a socially-sensitive artist, responding empathetically with his environment, Mr. Hirschhorn is a self-loathing European, a ripe dhimmi.

Okay, those last two need to be established, so I will.

As part of the exhibition, which Riding characterizes as a "biting critique of Swiss democracy," there's a play based on "William Tell." In the play,

an actor impersonating a dog briefly raises his leg as he passes a poster of Mr. Blocher. In another scene, a man is ordered to vote, even to thrust his head into the ballot box, before he is seen "vomiting" white foam onto a chair using a spray can.

Oh, don't worry about the chair: it's covered with duct tape, as are all the chairs, and much else in the space. It took eight people three weeks to make that fecal-colored mess. The exhibition also

questions democracy, at one point presenting the actors as inmates in a mental hospital. "I don't know why some people die of hunger and other people throw away food," one says. "I don't understand why you wage war to make peace," says another.

These are paid adult actors reciting an adult script, remember, not ten-year-olds musing around a campfire. I can't see democracy shrinking before these statements.

The exhibition's poster

shows a naked Iraqi in Abu Ghraib prison before an armed American soldier accompanied by the slogan "I [heart] Democracy!"

Just the image to use for a critique of Switzerland, right? (Are we sure this guy isn't an American artist?) But think about it: how much attention would he get if the poster showed Blocher, or a Swiss flag, or anything Swiss? Ho-hum. So he whips out the latest sensation as a shortcut for attention, then tries to twist history into parallel:

They said I was suggesting Switzerland tortured people," Mr. Hirschhorn said. "In fact, I was drawing a parallel with William Tell, who rebelled against Austrian occupiers. My point is that democracy does not start and end in Switzerland. Does it make sense to have a lot of democracy in a tiny Swiss canton and not in Africa, Asia and Latin America? Democracy only makes sense if it's universal. That's why I ask, is it legitimate to torture in the name of democracy?

If anyone can make logical connections between the last three sentences, please comment or email me.

He's right about democracy not starting and ending in his home country, though he has an amazingly distorted view of Switzerland's importance:

It's the one [democracy] I know, and it is the one held up as a model to the rest of the world.

Sure, that's the first country that springs to my mind when I hear the word "democracy." Is this a European mindset? And this is what he thinks of his country:

One of Mr. Hirschhorn's metaphors involves tiny electric trains that travel through mountains covered in duct tape. "Swiss trains link the cantons, but they go round and round," he explained. "They link Switzerland to itself, but not to the world." Another construction shows tunnels carved through mountains. "We like to think we are geniuses with tunnels, just as we are geniuses with democracy," he said. "But it's not innate. It's a matter of need."

The final scene in the play perhaps best captures Mr. Hirschhorn's concerns about Swiss democracy. At the end of this "William Tell," recalling the creation of a democratic Switzerland seven centuries ago, the six actors sit on a sofa and chant, "We are free, we are free, we are free." They then curl up under a large poster of William Tell and fall asleep.

But wake up, there's a couple of points I want to make, using facts 2, 4, and 5 above. It's all about immigration, which, in Europe, means it's all about Muslims.

Mr. Hirschhorn insists that his target is not Mr. Blocher, but what he represents. "Blocher is not a dictator," he said, "but he legitimizes Swiss xenophobia, isolationism, nationalism; he legitimizes the feeling in Switzerland that all these foreigners want to come and take their money. He is a dangerous populist.

But what he calls xenophobia could be alert self-interest. What he calls nationalism could be pride in a stable, safe, free country. As for isolationism, such a notion is as silly as his train metaphor; if any country is connected to and aware of the world, it is Switzerland.

As for "populist," here Hirschhorn betrays his elitist leftism. He would rather have a command economy because you can't trust the collective judgments -- called "voting" -- of the unwashed masses. He thinks people are too stupid to determine their own destiny, and will still follow demagogues like obedient sheep. (Think Orange, Tommy boy.) I believe he's lived in France too long; some of their elites, like the newspaper columnists, bray the same stinking thinking.

Which brings me back to fact 2 -- He's lived in Paris since 1986 -- and claim 11:

"Despite his reputation as a socially-sensitive artist, responding empathetically with his environment, Mr. Hirschhorn is a self-loathing European, a ripe dhimmi."

All around him, every day in France, he can see the daunting results of the kind of immigration he's pushing for in Switzerland. In the case of France, all those foreigners did want to come and get their 1000 euros a month. And they did, and he lives in it every day. Three days ago Robert Spencer at Dhimmi Watch posted long sections from a Chicago Tribune article about the future of Islam in Europe:

"The French are scared," said Tair Abdelkader, 38, a regular at the tented mosque whose light blue eyes and ebony beard are the legacy of a French mother and Algerian father. "In 10 years, the Muslim community will be stronger and stronger, and French political culture must accept that."

By midcentury, at least one in five Europeans will be Muslim. That change is unlike other waves of immigration because it poses a more essential challenge: defining a modern Judeo-Christian-Islamic civilization. The West must decide how its laws and values will shape and be shaped by Islam.

Thomas Hirschhorn must be cool with all this. But when the Muslims run Europe, not only will he be out of a profession, as the new culture ministers laugh in scorn at his every proposal; he will be redefined as a lower form of human.

Duct tape won't help him then.

Posted by Jerome at 09:36 AM | TrackBack

December 27, 2004

The 56th Best of Me Symphony, with Camille Paglia

In the beginning was nature. -- Camille Paglia, Sexual Personae, first sentence.

by Jerome du Bois

Gary Cruse at the Owner's Manual has posted the latest Best of Me Symphony. He pairs each of the twenty entries with an appropriate quotation from Camille Paglia, my favorite writer by far, and one of this century's smartest people. I would like to add one more powerful passage of hers -- with a brief addendum -- in light of yesterday's gigantic earthquake and tsunami nightmare in East Asia.

I'll set the tone, about the true nature of Nature, with this pungent quote from Nietzsche, from Beyond Good and Evil:

"According to nature" you want to live? O you noble Stoics, what deceptive words these are! Imagine a being like nature, wasteful beyond measure, indifferent beyond measure, without purposes and consideration, without mercy and justice, fertile and desolate and uncertain at the same time; imagine indifference itself as a power -- how could you live according to this indifference! (p.15)

And here is Camille Paglia:

Everything is melting in nature. We think we see objects, but our eyes are slow and partial. Nature is blooming and withering in long puffy respirations, rising and falling in oceanic wave-motion. A mind that opened itself fully to nature without sentimental preconception would be glutted by nature's coarse materialism, its relentless superfluity. An apple tree laden with fruit: how peaceful, how picturesque. But remove the rosy filter of humanism from our gaze and look again. See nature spuming and frothing, its mad spermatic bubbles endlessly spilling out and smashing in that inhuman round of waste, rot and carnage. From the jammed glassy cells of sea roe to the feathery spores poured into the air from bursting green pods, nature is a festering hornet's nest of aggression and overkill. . . . Nature is the seething excess of being. (p.28)

Atlas shrugged yesterday, and tens of thousands died. But we humans, too, are part of nature; we, too, strain at the leash of life for more life, for better life. We don't just survive; we flourish.

And so another tectonic shift happened yesterday, in the Ukraine. The ground under Putin and the past is now shaking and uncertain, and another fifty million people begin to turn toward the West, and greater freedom and prosperity.

So let us mourn the dead, and then, afterward, celebrate the victory of the Orange Revolution.

Nothing can stop us, no matter how much the Earth rocks our world.

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December 24, 2004

The Gospel of Judas Thomas The Twin Of Jesus Of Nazareth

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The Twin, 2003. 30 x 48 inches. Acrylic and pen on Arches paper with collage.

by Jerome du Bois

This piece -- part of my "Not Only Words" series -- was inspired by the Gnostic gospel of Thomas, the legend (which I learned from Harold Bloom) about Jesus having a twin, and a ten-year immersion, long ago, as a born-again Christian. The I figures in this piece have been separately cut out and glued in two rows to the fuschia background, as you can see from this enlarged detail.

One version of the Gospel of Thomas says that

the Kingdom of God is within you and without you, not in buildings made of wood and stone. Split the wood and you'll find Me; lift the stone and I will be there.

I no longer believe that Jesus was God, but he was probably the best of us, and he summons the best within us.

And one of those things is courage -- the courage to laugh at death. Tomorrow, in the Christian story, a particularly cruel, thirty-three-year human arc begins, redeemed only if one believes in resurrection. If one doesn't . . .

In the very center of this piece I have printed, glyptically, in hot pink gel pen, this sentence, which is engraved on Marcel Duchamp's tombstone:

D'ailleurs, c'est toujours les autres qui meurent.

In English:

Besides, it's always the others who die.

The best laugh from the grave I've ever heard. We're all in this together.

As I've written elsewhere, I am the ultimate sucker: I believe in people. Not divine intervention or salvation. We must save each other.

We can.

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December 23, 2004

SHADES OF JOY

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Flower Arrangement and Photography by Catherine King.

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December 22, 2004

So Long, Steven Den Beste

by Jerome du Bois

Steven Den Beste, the long-essay genius who piloted USS Clueless for three years, has retired from blogging. David from Rishon-Rishon called my attention to comments Den Beste made on David's blog, responding to a post by Nelson Ascher. Ascher posted:

According to Glenn Reynolds, Instapundit: HOWARD OWENS has returned to the blogosphere. Who's next? Steven Den Beste?

and Den Beste weighed in on Rishon-Rishon comments. He explains with his usual pungency:

You can forget it. It's not going to happen. I've been suffering for years from a genetically-caused degenerative disease. For the last year or so, the only way I was able to continue posting was by taking increasing doses of very powerful stimulants. (Understand that they were palliative; there's no cure or treatment for the underlying disease, and no one knows what causes it. The only reason it's known to be genetic is because it is found in family lines. In my case it was my father's family.)

Those prescription drugs have serious side effects which I put up with in order to be able to keep writing for the site. But as that year went on, my enjoyment in writing for the site drained away.

It's entirely possible that there were thousands of satisfied readers who enjoyed what I wrote, but I never heard from most of them. 80% or more of my email consisted of kibitzing, criticism, and other forms of ankle-biting. "Ignore them" someone said, but that's easy for you to say. Ignoring one or two such letters isn't too hard. But when it goes on like that day after day, week after week, dozens of such letters each week, I reached the point where writing posts became a duty, something I had to force myself to do, not something I looked forward eagerly to doing. Instead of looking forward to the process of writing, I cringed about the negative email I was guaranteed to receive in response.

As to that purported majority who may have liked what I was writing, I did occasionally hear from them. Such letters usually begin like this: "I've been a reader of your site for a very long time, and have long enjoyed what you've written. But now I'm writing for the first time because I've found something I can criticize."

That's not helpful when it comes to encouragement.

Before you go read the rest, which you should, relfect with me, especially if you're a blogger, on the bolded part.

I know I should have commented more there. Hell, I didn't even have him on my miserable blogroll.

I think I need to comment more, as I sail around the blogosphere, especially when something rings my bell. It's the least I could do for this guy who taught me so much.

Posted by Jerome at 12:39 PM | Comments (5) | TrackBack

December 18, 2004

Marching Into The Radiant Future / A Grain Of Salt

by Jerome du Bois

Do you want to know who The Burning Man is? I'll tell you: The Burning Man is Viktor Yushchenko.

Coincidentally, a couple of days after I finished Martin Cruz Smith's stunning new novel, "Wolves Eat Dogs," Vienna confirmed that a Dioxin derivative -- TCDD, related to Agent Orange -- poisoned Ukrainian Presidential Candidate Viktor Yushchenko. I've been waiting but, so far, as far as I know, no blogger, literary or otherwise, has taken advantage of the multiple sad convergences offered by these two events to update some tragic truths, so I will. These are the tears of things.

It pivots on poison, and poisoning. In Mr. Smith's new novel, his incomparable protagonist, homicide investigator Arkady Renko, rides (on a motorcycle!) straight into the heart of radioactive Chornobyl (to use its Ukrainian spelling), to solve the murders of two Russian industrialists. Among his clues: grains of cesium chloride, which look just like grains of sodium chloride -- salt -- except that the former, if you step on a single tiny grain of it with your bare foot, or sprinkle one tiny grain on your pork chops, will kill you from the inside out in less than two months.

Do you know what happened at Chornobyl, dear reader? I know, I know, it was almost twenty years ago; I was very vague about it myself. This big world, our own preoccupations, distracted us. Now Mr. Smith reminds us, in two vignettes. These are fictional, of course, but you can look it up, and Mr. Smith is renowned, in his last six novels for sure, for accurate research. In the first excerpt, Ukrainian nuclear scientist Alex Gerasimov, drunk on samogon, a dangerous Evacuation Zone liquor, describes the "accident" itself:

April twenty-sixth, 1986. The setting: the control room of Reactor Four. the actors: a night shift of fifteen technicians and engineers conducting an experiment -- to see whether the reactor can restart itself if all external power for the machinery is cut off. The experiment has been performed before with safety systems on. This time they want to be more realistic. To defeat the safety system of a nuclear reactor, however, is no simple matter. It involves application. You have to disconnect the emergency core cooling system and close and lock the gate valves."

Alex walked rapidly back and forth, attending to imaginary switches.

"Turn off the automatic control, block the steam control, disable the pre-sets, switch off design protection and neutralize the emergency generators. Then start pulling graphite rods from the core by remote control. This is like riding a tiger, this is fun. There are a hundred and twenty rods in all, a minimum of thirty to be inserted at all times, because this was a Soviet reactor, a military model that was a little unstable at low efficiency, a fact that was, unfortunately, a State secret. Alas, the power plunged."

"When does this start to become funny?" Eva asked.

"It's already funny. It just gets funnier. Imagine the confusion of the technicians. The reactor efficiency is dropping through the floor, and the core is flooding with radioactive xenon and iodine and combustible hydrogen. And somehow they have lost count -- they have lost count! -- and pulled all but eighteen control rods from the core, twelve below the limit. All the same, there is one last disastrous step to take. They can replace the rods, turn on the safety systems and shut down the reactor. They have not yet turned off the turbine valves and started the actual experiment. They have not pushed the final button."

Alex mimicked hesitation.

"Let's pause and consider what is at stake. There is a monthly bonus. There is a May Day bonus. If they run the test successfully they will likely win promotions and awards. On the other hand, if they shut down the reactor, there would certainly be embarrassing questions asked and consequences felt. There it is, bonuses versus disaster. So, like good Soviets, they marched forward, hands over their balls."

Alex pushed the button.

"In a second the reactor coolant began to boil. The reactor hall started to pound. An engineer hit the panic switch for the control rods, but the rod channels in the reactor melted, the rods jammed, and superheated hydrogen blew off the roof, carrying reactor core, graphite, and burning tar into the sky. A black fireball stood over the building, and a blue beam of ionized light shot from the open core. Fifty tons of radioactive fuel flew up, equal to fifty Hiroshima bombs. But the farce continued. Cool heads in the control room refused to believe that they had done anything wrong. They sent a man down to check the core. He returned, his skin black from radiation, like a man who had seen the sun, to report that there was no core. Since this was not an acceptable report, they sacrificed a second man, who returned in the same fatal condition. Now, of course, the men in the control room faced their greatest test of all: the call to Moscow."

Alex picked up his glass of samogon.

"And what did our heroes say when Moscow asked, 'How is the reactor core?' They answered, 'The core is fine, not to worry, the core is completely intact.' Moscow is relieved. That's the punch line. 'Don't worry.' And here is my toast: 'To The Zone! Sooner or later, it will be everywhere!' Nobody's drinking?"

Oh, we're drinking, all right. Pass The Macallan, please. Ahem. That's better.

Later, Arkady has an erotic encounter with Dr. Eva Kazma, and afterward she recites this part of her dolorous history. Eva said:

"Every once in awhile I remember this thirteen-year-old girl parading on May Day with her idiotic smile. She's moved out of her village to Kiev to live with her aunt and uncle so she can go to a special school for dance; their standards are rigid, but she's been measured and weighed and has the right build. She has been selected to hold a banner that says, 'Marching into the Radiant Future!' She is so pleased the day is warm enough not to wear a coat. The young body is a wonder of growth, the division of cells produces virtually a new person. And on this day she will be a new person, because a haze comes over the sun, a breeze from Chornobyl. And so ends her days of dancing and begins her acquaintanceship with Soviet surgery." She touched the scar [on her throat]. "First the thyroid and then the tumors. That's how you know a true citizen of The Zone. We fuck without worries. I am a hollow woman; you can beat me like a drum. Still, once in a while, I remember this fatuous girl and am so ashamed of her stupidity that if I could go back in time with a gun, I would shoot her myself. When this feeling overcomes me, I go to the nearest hole or black house and hide. There are enough black houses that this is never a problem. Otherwise I have nothing to fear. Were you ambitious as a boy? What did you want to be?"

"When I was a boy, I wanted to be an astronomer and study the stars. Then someone informed me that I wasn't seeing the actual stars. I was seeing starlight generated thousands of years before. What I thought I was seeing was long since over, which rendered the exercise rather pointless. Of course, the same can be said about my profession now. I can't bring back the dead."

"And the injured?"

"Everybody's injured."

"Is that a promise?"

"It's the only thing I'm sure of."

I'm sure of a lot more things, but this is a tragic truth, isn't it? Probably a million Ukrainian citizens, mostly kids and teenagers, farmed out unsuccessfully over the Soviet Union after the accident, were poisoned, irradiated, sterilized, transmogrified! -- in the most callous manner imaginable: so that the Soviet May Day ceremonies would proceed smoothly.

The Russians allowed it to happen. And Putin's puppets visited a similar horror on Viktor Yushchenko: they allowed him to live in chronic pain, and with a deteriorating body, for the rest of his damaged life. Now he will burn, inside and out, as his organs fail, one by one. They may as well have salted him with cesium.

There's something particularly evil about using debilitating Dioxin, instead of lethal nicotine or ten dozen other untraceable drugs that would lay you down into the big sleep, to transmogrify a handsome man into what looks like a plague victim. Now, after reading "Wolves Eat Dogs," and seeing this brave man's ravaged face on television day after day, I will remember Chornobyl, and I will remember that one may smile and smile and be a villain, and slip some hell into your soup, or your drink, and change your life forever.

It could happen to you.

Posted by Jerome at 12:20 AM | TrackBack

December 17, 2004

BRUSHFIRE

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Flower Arrangement and Photograph by Catherine King.

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December 09, 2004

HIGH SHAG

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Flower Arrangement and Photography by Catherine King.

Posted by Jerome at 09:21 AM | TrackBack

December 06, 2004

BOUQUETIOUS

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Flower Arrangement and Photograph by Catherine King.

Posted by Jerome at 08:12 AM | TrackBack