Politics and Anger

As the title implies, I intended for this little spooge session to be all about the elections.

Oops

I just can't seem to bring myself to get engaged in the political process. Hillary promises whatever the current audience seems to want to hear, Obama promises nothing really (Although he sounds wonderful when he does it) and John McCain promises (although not in so many words) that my children will join the fate of their parents and fight in Iraq, Afghanistan or some other third world place that doesn't like Americans.

Its hard to get excited about the process when its just that - a process to see which set of empty promises we will follow into the next phase of the WOT (war on terror). Fortunately, the rest of America is focused on the really important issues like Brittany's visitation rights and why Wal~Mart is bad.

Its a wonder the Vagina Monologues every made it big.

I have however channeled my rage and I'm coming along nicely with my writing. I just finished another screenplay and am madly working on a novel about breast cancer. My mother in-law is a survivor and her sister is in treatment now so it has been a good place to focus the anger. A friend told me I was "Whack" for writing love stories but I did remind him that everybody dies in the end so its in perfect keeping with everything else in our lives right now.

BTW - What the F*&$ does whack mean?


I am also finding that my anger is harder to find these days. I read the Iraqi bloggers and find myself crushed by their misery and uplifted by how they manage to go on. I think the difference is the economy of scale. I have lost the girl I once knew but am slowly finding the one I have now. She is still beautiful, alive, and little bits of her poke out when I least expect it. They have lost friends and families, neighborhoods and cities, they live in fear every day yet they find time to laugh at the silly things their mothers say when the power comes on.

I wonder if they hate me because I am Amis or if they are as curious about me as I am about them. Strangely, the only friend from Iraq that my wife thinks about every day is the Iraqi surgeon who kept her sane when the madness swirled around her. You would think that I would be concerned when she calls his name in her sleep but I'm not. He was a light in the darkness and I am thankful for a man who kept a light shining in the darkest of places. I would write his name and say thank you or try to find him but I dare not. Life is a delicate thing and I would hate to be the butterfly.

Today's ramble is done and I feel better for it. As it goes, I am writing uncontrollably lately so perhaps more will soon follow.