The picnic table v

  a fury of yeah, we were attacked. 

  The arroyo quiet, early morning, sun stuffed into a velvety coolness quite the opposite of it's late day blare. 

  "What kind of art do you do?" 

  "Sort of, uh, not sure how to phrase it really. Someone called it Applied Community Arts." 

  "There's no money and very little food here.  Realistically." 

  "I still write and document life.  Other peoples'.  I don't really, I'm not like 

  "A real artist?" 

  "Yeah.  I've been being very philosophical and into critical thinking and governance in a, um, kind of wild environment." 

  "Maybe this would be a good fit." 

  A wirey dog ran by panting hard.  "Guy calls that one Toilet Brush." 

  "Gross." 

  "Can't change anything." 

  "The war and all?" 

  "People are going to do what they do." 

  "There are some others here now who said they might pitch in to a literary magazine or some kind of something.  Could be interesting." 

  "At least something to do besides war." 

  "Yeah." 

  Time, no time.  The exact opposite of regimental.  Fifty shades of gray, so one hundred and two shades of caring and tending to.  Adjustments in the build up to striking back. 

  Clawing for Catholicity or some semblance of moral footing.  Out past even the discernment of friend or enemy in glances and ignoring. 

"You can't have your ass on

  two horses at the same time." She said with all the weight of being a child survivor of World War II but the admonition came light as air because it was advice to someone else. 

  "Not like I'm holding up the line," the writer snapped back.  And it was true that the "crisis" had Godsmacked the whole financially co-dependent world into the righteous-enough-to-proceed (pay to play) and the cast offs.  A young person just deciding college or other path was being pressure-forced to decide what to do with your life that was a muck of entwined with world. 

  That so many had been directly involved with sudden warfare and grown up quickly in some ways wasn't somehow magically solving the crunch crisis of who should do what next.  The most qualified had kept cover or been exposed as the Cold War dissipated into diplomacy and striving to be pensioners-some-day career professionals.  The latest baby boomers were gaining in Academic and professional acumen.  And the warriors who'd come together as allies were re-entering global workforce. 

  "Make up your mind." 

  "About my life?" 

  "No.  Dummy.  At least about an appetizer." 

  "Maybe some fiction for a bit." 

  "And for your main course?" 

  "Have your lawyer call my lawyer," men's conversation rose over "take aways". 

  "Sorry chica, gonna have to skip to the special Hungarian dessert and more strong black coffee." 

  Two other sometimes special correspondents slid into the small table seats.  A hand squeeze for a goodbye without tears.  "What's that supposed to mean?" One answered for the other, "War correspondents don't die, they just fade away." 

  "Want coffee or tea or something?" 

  The underground on the late afternoon sidewalk spilling from place to place was getting louder.  "They're going to pay us to escort them back to Europe." 

  "Who is? I thought 

  "Our boyfriends!" 

  A toast of coffee and air-raised imagined drinks.  And the two went out the back way to the train station. 

Unpenned, the women

  were still "crazed".  Seven were crawling and making animal sounds.  One did so, but was faking.  She'd stayed awake.  And somehow had managed to contort her body so the cattle prod didn't stun her into shock.  She'd been around the world as a Correspondent covering combat. 

  Men in dirty farm work clothes and grocery shirts had been deputized for the manhunt.  One headbutted the finally lasso'd hunted man, accused criminal.  Another withdrew a pistol from oilfield jeans waistband and pointed it at the ground.  "You got ten seconds to respond to the Sheriff's question." The hunted man spit but the broken teeth bits had already been swallowed, so just backy-colored juice and blood spewed from his black hole mouth.  "You just used up the ten." The man shot the man in the foot.  Hunted man didn't flinch. 

  Some of the women went into law enforcement and justice theory.  Either by marriage or solo.  

  The instance of change to life, sudden violence, forced people to grapple with questions of human nature; conduct of self vs. navigating others with different character/values/lifestyles; faith in a world where reality can and does change. 

  For my generation witnessing that phase of people pulsing between a safe world and a violent world allowed a peek into the cracks in Establishment.  And started us pondering voids, lack, resilience, tumult, and faith.  

  It wasn't long before people started creative grappling too.  An at-first awkward effort to express healing and permanently "broken" and measures of caring and involvement, Post-Apocalyptic literature marked an intellectual processing of a world that is everything all at once.  And, heroics or no, still existing as it all plays out. 

  "We're okay."  One girl texted back to a far away parent.  "This is what we are doing right now," she said allowed to the others.  They'd all survived being outdoors in the hurricane.  A man smacked the water with a rafting paddle.  "Need attention?" A woman asked.  He chuckled.  "Trying to wake my brain up without coffee."  A heron silently sailed overhead.  "It's a sign!" Someone shouted. 

  "Awake now?" 

  "Of what?" 

 

Support Local

 

Really good chicken biskets! 

At Nantahala General up slope in the Gorge area.

"Keep working," the TSA worker urged.

  Because it matters! 

  Because we care about our beloved Country. 

  Because other countries need to do the same. 

  Because other countries don't need our jobs, our money.  The freedom to work is the most precious gift of "capitalism"/ a sane, persevering world of humanity. 

  Because we need to survive our places, and peoples! 

  Hearing that on the radio today totally inspired a productive Friday in my world.  Thank you.

"It's going to take," the microphone

  screeched; "US." The young woman wasn't expecting a respectful quiet.  People were listening.  She pulled facts and figures of world problems out of the tumult that had crescendo'd around graduation time.  She addressed grandparents dying, no money for basic quality of life, a society seemingly divorced from God, and didn't bully when she said it again.  "It's going to take us." 

  The next generation.  The youngest men and women of America.  Fresh faces, fresh ideas.  The way through gridlock.  The way to a future.  Not a stomping tantrum for "change" but an elbow grease and dig deep. 

  "Does us include me?" A pops asked the young woman after the address.  Some of his buddies asked, "What about me?" She nodded and mustered a smile.  "Not sure how exactly, but yes!" 

Dah Boot

  Another aspect of war and migration we were studying a long time ago at the University of Hartford was how, historically, especially post-WWII, Italy was kind of a big boot to people who would not (could not?) stop being "criminal".  Instead of processing criminals they'd get booted and they'd roam the world making trouble.  And also team up with others, people and cultures where there was/is a more natural blending of violence, black market, and militant groups who are seeking such players. 

  This flow of criminality is the basic problem with open borders and extreme danger during wartime.  Way more so than a national "racism" or a hypocritical version of democracy. 

  I wouldn't tell you, is basically saying, you wouldn't look in the underwear drawer for your dress shirt. 

  It's a war.  So a lot of information/talk goes into specific "files".  Really all members of associations, not just leadership, have to be on guard against being "scooped".  But life and death matters are even more carefully tended. 

Sirach 36

  'Bout the only thing civilians and non-operative digitalia can do.  Best thing people can do is pray, that's what Jesus said.  

I thought to eat, but no...it's time to plant those cold crops!

"When I feel bootifull,

  I want to make love." Click.  Off went the communications device.  The thickly foreign accent lingered throughout the PA system's airwaves. 

  "So you're saying there may be a window of time for us to get a delegation there?" A career politician asked an analyst of geopolitical situation.  A young person waiting to interview the people visiting the work camp in the Forest asked the politician a question over arms upholding perimeter around him. 

  "Are you not a Christian?"  The question was loud following the PA announcement and others tasked with protecting a safe zone for questions totally quieted. 

  "What does that have to do with anything?" The politician asked over the arm wall. 

  "Well, wouldn't you be afraid to go to a Communist country and get persecuted?" 

  Someone faked moving a microphone to the politician's side.  But before he could answer two people with a soil testing kit poked at each other and the woman said, "We are not dose kindof communistas." 

  "Are you from Koobah the politician asked?" 

  "We were," the man said.  "We escaped and moved to New York City and then Latin America." 

  Suddenly there was a loud knock on the door.  Some people squirmed away from it.  A taller person opened it.  Outside there was a normally tall man, head at knee height because carpenters were working on the front staircase.  "Who are you here for?" The door opener in camo clothing asked.  "I believe my wife may be inside.  She had a beauty appointment."