Because GW wasn't "perfect"

  Nor was "modern life" exactly like the Bible on its surface.  

  And, situations come up that don't automatically fit in a framework of simple Christianity. 

  Jesus praying in the garden before his death is a similar idea to think about. 

  In the winter of Valley Forge, George Washington was feeling like the idea of the nation was under the weight of harsh reality.  "It" seemed to be coming apart, in crisis, maybe even not what was supposed to be. 

  Jesus was understanding he'd been sold out, his ideas of love and forgiveness (that his Father had created him to teach as the better way) coming up against violence and eradication.  He knew at that time, his time on earth was coming to an end. 

  There's a thread of submission to Higher Power.  Allowing the Judeo-Christian God to lead the leader.  At least admitting, need a little help here, "I'm not God"; there's what seems to be and there is God's awesomeness (not always feel-good or instant).  

  The act of prayer. 

  Can happen for a lot of reasons--from gratitude to pleading, for strength to guidance, even "chastisement" or help me get this thing back on track, better in line with your will. 

  Prayer is an act of reflection and bonding even in the midst of "live action".  It connects people to the Creator and can be spiritual AND concrete.  It doesn't always look like hands folded and head bowed though those gestures have come to symbolize the notion of "talking with". 

  Intricacies arise when we consider "prayer" and the world being made up of many cultures.  

  For instance, bowing head to God, and, combining human action with religiosity.  

  Human interpretation of "God's will" can be very personalized, but it can also be ritualized and shared.  This gets into ideology.  And the mix of religion with other ideas about life can make for complex ideology. 

  I think, in many ways, it's not only the Judeo-Christian worldview that is often stripped down by "believers" to literally Biblical, based on, and... claims of because God made it so.

  And, there are many diverse groups using generic notions of "faith" and "power" to couple with existing traditions and fragments of more powerful. 

  Theocratic arguments.    

  Philosophical arguments.

  Political arguments. 

  Then in the Twentieth Century and beyond, so far, weaponry and technology in abundance.  More so than food and function. 

Forge that pain, forge that rage!

  She'd listened to all of us.  About thirty of us.  Then stood tall in all four foot, eight inches of herself and looked at the sky.  Then at us. 

  "Forge that pain, forge that rage!" 

  About the seventh or eighth time she said it, others started chanting it.  People started to move around, clumsy, stupified into pokes of hands into the air, foot pounds in the arroyo. 

  "What's going on?" A gingerly older man who used to decorate Macy's windows had come out of his house and asked. 

  "We're going to make a magazine!" 

  "FORGE THAT PAIN, FORGE THAT RAGE!" Some people started a Congo line. 

  "We're going to make music!" 

  Forge that pain!  Forge that rage! 

  "And I'm going to make something of THIS!" A woman held up a burlap bag emptied of its coffee beans. 

  "Forge that pain, forge that rage!" 

  Whoops and hollers.  "YES!  YES!" 

  "FORGE THAT PAIN, FORGE THAT RAGE!" 

"It's not for lack of trying."

  One person stood, rigid, arms crossed.  Others slumped on picnic table benches.  "The thing is in a rage!" 

  The silence wasn't smothering, more caressing. 

  "Think about it.  It makes sense." 

  "How so?  I can't think anymore." 

  "Well, people, some, became like the rebellious angels.  And they beefed up their weapons to destroy." 

  "I'm so tired of assholes." 

  "There's definite correlation between people changing the names of shit even though its the same old shit, and rebelling against God, against people trying to keep the peace." 

  "Did you read that one?" A slender, tiny hand pointed at MARX & SATAN.  "Cha.  You wanna?" 

  "Is it scary?" 

  "Well, yeah.  People lose the old-fashioned values.  Can't stand up to machine guns.  Not sure what people can do?" 

  "You think it will come here?" 

  "To say maybe, it's, is not upholding the Victory line of thought." 

  "I'll put all this in my head.  But I can't let it get me down." 

  Twenty-two years of war just under way.

After 9112001, points

  and counter-points in debate were the guardrails that delayed an automatic strike back.  The "talks" included a wide variety of people of the world.  The "talks" were street-level to academic, popular sentiment to policy-fortressing in the government.  

  Article after article posited the high wire over politics and culture in action. 

  "You cannot call it culture wars!" The voice boomed. 

  "I CAN CALL IT ANYTHING I WANT." 

  "That is true, yet NOT WISE." 

  Others stacked up behind each debater. 

  Still others streamed chunks of Internet into data collection. 

  "Someone else may." 

  "So?" 

  "So, perhaps I should do it first!" 

  "But if you put that terminology out there, YOU CAN'T CONTROL IT." 

  People were bringing bags and pocketfuls of rubble into the room. 

"Hands off and put your hate away!"

  One man ordered another man. 

  Uh-oh.  A friendly black man uttered.  I thought they were queer-folk. 

  The "Love In" loudspeaker fell silent after human hand stumbled to cover the microphone.  Speaking-language interpreters cautioned not to be alarmed.  Someone markered onto a posterboard, NEXT IS WALK AROUND AND LOOK AT LITERATURE.  "Before they burn it," a hipster remarked sarcastically. 

  "Who's your they?" Someone asked. 

  "I've been told not to talk specifics." The hipster used a lice comb to streak dye the wig attached to a slouch hat.  "We're going back up to D.C. after this." 

 "Don't forget the Virginia Humanities Council boxes." Those had been ducked and dashed in and out of vehicles on the way.  Scholars were agreeing to stay in "hot spots" to help keep peace, culturally.  

  There had been factors and explanations of why to stop protesting "war".  And a renewal of the role of true conscientious objector.  Also, a group of civilians more interested in protecting a military than dismantling some vague complex.  "We're all Americans here.  So, what do we need to do?" 

  "He thinks he trained him." 

  "What?" 

  "Yah," a real Belgian confirmed the hearsay or affirmed the hearsay. 

  "You're saying the boy, man, might've been brainwashed." It wasn't a question.  A person with military experience had upped his game by doing the extensive sensitivity training. 

"In or out?" Was how

  a bunch of us wound up as independents.  Cars loaded with people who were one-step more committing to special interests. 

  Some people were literally being pulled in more than one direction.  

  "Fine.  Go with the militants!" 

  "They're Catholics." 

  At first there was an intellectual propensity to blame all this on young people just out of school.  As if the detachment from outlines and delineated time periods caused a cultural meltdown like a Chernobyl or a Fukishima.  "ALL OF THIS WAS OBVIOUSLY HAPPENING," a young person called it out. 

  A scraggly man demanded the knife from his backpack being carried by his woman.  He nicked his forearm.  Let some blood bead up on the skin.  Grabbed a pizza box out of an open-topped garbage can.  Started to paint a sign. 

     Klannies & Creeps

He smeared a bloody arrow pointing up but really indicating "the woods". 

  "THIS IS A CITY." A young woman determined to keep singing called out. 

  "This is a park.  A PARK." 

  "Are you saying somebody hurt you?" 

  The scraggly man wiped his blood off the knife on his shorts.  He put it back in the backpack. 

  "Do you want someone to investigate in that bit of woods?" A Scottish comic asked. 

  "That's not funny." 

  "They're not Christian.  And not nationalists.  At least, not a contemporary nation of America."  The sign had drummed up hours of conversation and clamming ups.  The scraggly man had moved to the end of the parking area to smoke meth. 

  "What are they?" Faces with sincere questions. 

  "Thanks for coming by the way," a little sister told a big sister. 

  The big sister looked at the young people one at a time.  "Hate groups." 

  "Like that's not obvious." 

  "Not funny." 

  "I'm not to be funny all the time." 

 

Patch of Dirt

  "Nobody owns it."  One girl announced vehemently. 

  "Actually that's not true.  We all do." Said a guy. 

  "No rocks.  No sticks." Said the leader. 

  "What are we doing out here?" 

  "Where's yours?" 

  "My what?" 

  "You're patch of dirt?" 

  "Wherever I stand or sit." 

  "The nerve." 

  "Get away from me." 

  "Do we have to do this exercise?" 

  Everyone had left their stuff in a pile at the mouth of the campsite. 

Looking for...

  Turned out I wasn't the only college-aged kid who'd crammed my head with a fury of the world, soaked up as much fleeting but it existed, and cherished the coming-togethers that had happened.  I took my frantic self to my mom's workshop where she'd produced painting, sculpture, and poetry.  She was midstream on raising a housefull of teens with our Dad, and so, somewhat annoyed that the one that should have "launched" was smoking cigarettes on her porch and clearly-to-her uncertain about "the future". 

  "What's your through-line?" She glanced at a pile of research notes and writing.  "My what?" She went off to make dinner. 

  The actual world did not crumble when she did. 

  In the morning all the paperwork was in folders and a box.  The ashtray was in the yard away from the windows.  "Your father hates that smell.  Those killed his mother.  Your nana."  A cloud of smoke being brushed away but not hidden or gone.  "Nothing's matching up." 

  "What's your through-line?" 

"Everybody done playing everybody?"

  None of the new people answered.  Some were too weak; some, heads too scrambled from being leashed to mentors in the various arms of service. 

  "Good.  Because we don't do that.  We're the Forest Service people people." 

  Not one person quit the introductory training that year. 

"A pile of humpty dumptys?"

  "Yeah." 

  The artist woman's facial expression deflated into simplified.  She listened. 

  "Now everybody is disillusioned." 

  "So, the illusion is what's broken?!" 

  Young people still in shock looked at what the woman said like the words were physical things on the lawn. 

  "Some of us might be too." 

  "I get that, but no." 

  "What do you mean, no?" 

  "I don't accept that from you." She didn't point but met eyes.  "Or you.  Or you." She insisted across the space between seeing each other.