corrente

I'm not here. Oh, don't worry, my heart is still beating. I'm still alive. If I wasn't I couldn't be part of the culture of death. I suppose one could say that the only thing keeping me alive is the thought that were I to die, I would no longer be able to be a member in good standing of the culture of death. Or one could not. But be aware that only the living can create a culture of death. As far as we know. I think.

No, I haven't left my body, only where I usually abide. I'm now surrounded by white beaches skirted by lolling peacock green seas and gentle white surf that breaks like a gathered waist band on the sun-speckled sand,(I'm thinking of one of my favorite skirts when I was a blond cutie in high school and certain hunched-shouldered but self-consciously well-groomed, unbathed but heavily perfumed right-wing elites could not bear to admit I was smarter than they were); it's an island where breeze-bathed palm trees bend and sway to the seductive beat of the samba, where the people wear mahogany skins that make their teeth shine more brightly than ours, and flowers abound with the same generosity as the wide smiles of those mahogany natives. The canopy of sky above me is blue as a bruise...which might be God's way of reminding us we're not in heaven yet. Or...not.

Yes, I needed to escape. From politics, from religion, from the good fight. No, I'm not disappointed in my side, and I still love my country, but damnit, don't we have to admit that it was soooo much harder to end Terri's life than we thought it was going to be? All that great proceduralism empty of either content, ethics, or morality, seven years of an activist Judge with the perfect cover of being a Republican and not just a Baptist, but a Southern Baptist, and all those appellate Judges ready to back him up, and then out of nowhere, Randall Terry, Randall Terry? Randall Terry pops up out of nowhere, with a new haircut and better clothes, and every cable news channel is interviewing him as if he was like a regular human, and doesn't bother to notice that anyone not on our side isn't really a human, not in the sense that we are? So, I came here, where God's plenty and a madly expensive, rentable, weekend retreat on the beach would convince me that we're on the side of the angels. (And doesn't it just burn you to a crisp that we're not going to get any credit for making it possible for Terri to become one, to become beautiful again, freed from that awful body of hers, and that meaningless worthless life of hers.)

I won't ask you to forgive me, because I knew exactly what I was doing. April 1st was approaching, I was tired of being on my side, so I asked myself, what would Peggy Noonan do? And that's what I did.

Except here's the thing that's odd about all this. I thought I was channeling Peggy. But I keep feeling that I need to talk about Hillary in 08; every palm tree seems to be whispering in my ear that I have to remind everyone, in my own uniquely underhanded way, wherein seeming to praise Hillary, I'm showing the world what a lying, thieving bitch she is, in her very being that she is a lying, cold-hearted thieving, corrupt, unAmerican bitch. So, who's channeling whom?

Okay, I give up giving up.

While I make my way home, do yourself a favor and pay a visit immediately to THE HERETIK, who is celebrating April 1st in his own inimitable way, and don't stop with April one, keep on scrolling if you haven't visited in a couple of days; this guy's a regular tonic. Okay, that's all, I'm running to catch my plane....