The first dootaloot.

     

     

     We were visiting.  As the gigantic operations of the world were being discussed, a lot of people had a pause.

"One of his wives has him cornered."

  "That's not legal in our army."  

  "He's mad." 

  "Oh, I bet." 

  "She's mad." 

  The required resources list was ripped in half and had floated to the floor.

  More people entered the room.  

  "No."  The tall man in a starched but silky suit, perfectly tailored, looked down at the short woman. 

  "But, but," she stumbled for the words that would be the lever.  "No.  I will not allow this."  She let her arm drop from reaching out to his.  Heels, stiff clicks on the old wood floor.  She knelt and picked up half of the sheet of paper.  "Is this ripped?" 

  The man moved away from the woman who'd stepped towards him when others had come into the room.  He moved slowly towards the piece of paper.  Translators and silent recorders memorizing everything just stood.  Like a leading man on a stage, all the hype and bigness of the TV'd man had dissipated.  This was a small man of flesh approaching a piece of paper supposed to change the tide of complete destruction.  As if in a fish bowl, eyes intensely focusing, psyche poised to do this. 

  A knock on the door.  A person dressed in casual, soft black clothes realized no one else was saying anything or making a move.  Opened the door.  More leaders and entourage entered the high ceiling'd room.  A man whispered to a translator.  Translator asked in English, "Are they still filming?"  

  "They need to shoot everyone alone in there too." 

  One woman pulled back a thin polyester cardigan and put her hand on the gun holstered there.  A man saw her and wagged his finger.  "Not actually shoot." She tilted her head to contemplate that.  The man held up arms and hands like a cameraman filming.  "They say same?" The woman asked in English.  "Sì señora." 

 

"I'm not satisfied

  with where you put that." Was what came out of his mouth.

  The bulldozers and cranes were still the only sounds elsewise.  

  A translator said what he said.  This was triple verified.  "What does he mean?"  Was what came out of his mouth.  

  The two men communicating was most like the metaphoric elements being thrown at each other.  Except both men had the same God.  

  The one's face frozen in shock, then wailing, then his God forcing him to comport himself walked a few steps over to monitors on a cart.  The small squares and dots had stopped moving on the center screen.  Some of the heart monitoring was still functioning.  Some of the arcs and peaks had flatlined.  He turned the volumes up.  "You knew." He said to the man without looking at him.  He told the translator, "You tell him I know he knew."  

  Something of the sunscorching light stark against the freezing cold proved veil rent. 

  There is one, lips moved slow and expressive to tell.  Two ambulance drivers were bleeding from the ears, but pulled toward the pile of rubble.  The small hand was twitching.

The berets were hatless.

  "We're in the basement Sir." 

  An Army professional took the phone from him.  We could see that because of a medical scope relay throughout the building. 

  The Civilian Strategy team had finished presentation.  The moderator allowed each person to place the typed notes in an open leather portfolio. 

  "I'm not gonna bumrush him," Madeline assured.  "But, he can't keep my folder."

 

     By the time we got to Durham it was too dark to distinguish forms from background.  We'd have to wait to do the piece.  This allowed us an evening to think about how best to tell the amazing story of local people choosing NOT to make a war of everything. 

  "He'd said that?" 

  "That it's a war on everything?" 

  "Like everything everything?" 

  "I don't think it's what he meant." 

  "He said it." A woman took a posture that was akin to issuing orders.  People in the group place stood and began to leave. 

  "Wait." Another woman said.  Some left anyway.  Some slowed to hear why wait.  But the facts of the situation were so outrageous to normal there was no way to just plop out "the evolving" without answering a ton of questions.  And the questions didn't come in a ton at first. 

  "Did you see it?"  Late into the night two people were debating what was seen in the binoculars and camera lens. 

  "It's like the building looks closer in that.  Is the zoom-on?" 

  "Brother I do not know." 

  Just miles away as the crow flies...

  "It's like the mecca of venues!"  

  "It's also a historic site." 

  "The stadium?" 

  "Yeah, this whole area was

  "They're ready for us." 

  "Did you explain we're not barging in?" 

  "Yes," said the man with the briefcase.  "And the response was that they're not barricaded." 

  A cellphone rang.  "Hello." 

  "We're six on this call." 

  "Okay.  Who first?  Please say your name before you talk so the Conference call recorder can take good notes." 

  "Cool, cool.  My name is Sara and I'm one of the Representatives from another State shtuck here in this beautiful State but needing to get home." 

  "And this is David.  I'm in-between-jobs, but was on some sort of Local Tourism committee meeting-sort-of-thing when

  "Flights got grounded people.  And this is Sam.  Sam Mulligan.  I was working at one of the airports and got brought on a bus to this place." 

  "We'll find him," fell on ears deaf to anything but shock and horror.  "We have every Intelligence Agency in the world here now." 

  "And these," another man motioned for a cart to be wheeled closer.  Binders and folders and files and reams of paper.  "What is all this?" 

  "Apparently there are Private Eyes and Programs also interested in helping.  These are presentations."  The remnant of "government" took this also into account.

  Outside the sun shone equally on all parts of the city, but for the black dot.  The shadow.  A blot.  Modern technology's "octopus ink". 

  "At home we call it Shamu.  Like a whale in popular fiction."  A leadership youth group was being sequestered near a history of the old city tour.  "It's all poppycock," an older woman was straightening the shoulders of a young man's shirt.  "What is ma?" 

  "Whatever They tell you." 

     "Don't fight the resistance, figure it out," the weathered-rough-again hand was put over the youth's with the handsaw.  The board being cut was caught on the lip of a bucket of mud, so pinching the cut together.  The hand over, guiding, was to prevent another fit of frustration slowing down the work.  The youth looked at the man.  Feels funny, a man touching another man, I know.  Eyes looked to the problem-trail.  "The board is caught!" The youth realized out loud.  But the mentor was already flipping through sheets of schedule.

  "He doesn't care." 

  "He cares." 

  Another youth, tall and solid, lowered his eyes, made a barely perceptible whimper.  "This is hard mameer." 

  "It is boppy.  It's hard on everyone." 

  Large panels for movies and "TV" were carried in with sheets of drywall.  "There's no plywood chief.  The other team needs it today." 

  Children who had never seen television roused low-energy selves from nap blankets and yoga mats.  A woman spoke in Arabic.  She was lifted by her elbows and held back against a wall until several people could vouch for what was said. 

  "She said it's here." 

  "She meant the Idiot Box." 

  "It will take us some time," a Contractor who'd helped deliver the supplies to discuss bidjob told the room of family.

  Back home and in parts of Europe the race was on.  "To what??!??"  A blinded person asked for a typist being censo/ured. 

  The facts were proving, for a lot of reasons.  

  "To help people get settled.  Follow suit.  Eliminate dangers." 

  "Christ!  My parents are duct-taping the neighbors grandbabies into a closet!  I gotta go.  Ciao bellas," a middle aged woman blew kisses and quickly donned "grown up" clothes for getting across Town.

The note was

  in a glass bottle on a nightstand screwed to the floor.  The flower was a Gardenia and smelled like just one of the ingredients in a famous princess perfume. 

     Our consensus is to 

                  disengage.

  Manifesto? 

  Maybe a declaration. 

  Who left it behind? 

  Eyes fell on the worn turf carpet.  "The definitive Republicans on the inter-team geopolitical strategy exercise behind the military exercises." 

  "Their boat left," a woman stood on the edge of the pier, arms crossed, long wool coat, and said in thick Brooklynese.  She chomped on her Wrigley's some.  Smelled her magazine-perfumed wrist. 

  What do we have to do now?  To the suggestion of an order.

  "All we have to do is let go..."  

  And let God? 

  Okay, but 

  I can't 

  "Easy!" A white-uniformed sailor let go of a silk rope.  Bottles of champagne were thrown out of the cabin at the yacht beside.

     Bon voyage

     Good LUCK 

     Adios amigos 

     Godspeed

  People looked at the kid that said that.  

  "Who are you sweetie?" A woman dressed to the nines sat on a lower bunk beside the child and asked.  "And more importantly, " another fancy-haired, well-dressed woman sat on his or her other side, "Why would he say that particular saying?" 

  They'd done it hundreds of times.  Been promised their families left behind would be given money.  They picked up scraps of papers with Pakistani, Lebanese, etc. scrawled on it.  Hopped and were pulled aboard recycled jets with cargo doors cut into the sides.  Lazily flown over structures like oil rigging sprawled all over Syria.

  Had been trained to memorize. 

  Memorize? 

  The landscape.  From above. 

  Some of the girls were pulling a wounded out of a dolphin carcass.  The jetskier lingered and loped in another practice run of letting go of controlling the thing by self.  "Looking good girl!!" A wave tipped the thing over.  Raft pulled up beside.  "You drowning?" 

  "Not chet.  Cold tho." 

  "They call it iced-in." 

  "They do?" 

  "Cha?" 

  "Already tangled." 

  Lifeguards blew whistles.  

  In the pool.  In the pool.  In the pool.  An Olympiad was pulled out of general population. 

  "WHY IN THE POOL?!" A little kid talked out of temper tantrum again demanded to know.  His mother, "My husband can't even swim." 

  "It's a way to avoid impact injury." 

  "Like what?" 

  "GET IN THE POOL!!!!!!" 

  "Like shattered bones." 

"Don't shoot," the Commander

  of Commanders ordered.  There were two of the same famous people in front of what people were calling "zombies".  

  The wire sparked to life, Hold fire.

  "Why is their a cow in the kitchen?" 

  "Oh you know how sons are.

  "Bringing home the beef

  "Please Emma.  Mother can't handle these kinds öf discussions." 

  "Speak for yourself boy." 

  "Why are all those people outside in this temperature?" 

  "Is she gonna take her face off or anything?" 

  People took the cups of tea. 

  Find out who each and everyone is first to "Shall I send them away?" 

     "They weren't zombies," we were able to tell many years later when the State-to-State roads were shut down for a little time.  "Who were they?" A tired-eye kid looking for a parent asked. 

     "Well, mostly people who couldn't get to a County with a warming center.  See, had it been summer, nobody woulda noticed bunch of people who lost body parts in the Services and working for Private and, and 

     "FARMING, SOWSI GOT DEEF TOO." A skinny man in working pants took off a boot and showed no toes.  Whoa, the kid said to another kid.  "We gotta use this money to go to the thrift shop." 

     "Is that your mama Sweetie?" 

     I couldn't breathe in or out.  I opened my Go Pro eye and looked at feet, behind chainlink fence and barbed wire in "X"s to reinforce "the prisoners" from escaping.  I looked up into my mother's face.  She mouthed, I'm alright.  I choked on whatever all sicknesses I'd acquired searching for her.

"That's ironic"

  "This is that day.  That's ironic day."  

  "I thought they were our friends." 

  She didn't say anything.  

  The space "beneath the floorboards" wasn't cramped.  Spider webby in spots but crouching against the main wall of the tunnel seemed a popular pastime.  People would pass by, some would stop and rest.  

  Nobody sleeps in a war even when a person is asleep.  Eyes fly open at sounds, movements.  We'd compromised on position, best, for resting.  A standing fetal position.  That way the blood will just

  Sssssshhhhhhht

  It's not really gross to talk about it anymore.  Was said more quietly. 

Hand waving us back, back.  We'd only made it ten feet or so.  "That's ironic," the videographer said as he revealed the not charged gas tank of the battery on the thing.  "I'll use another thing," he pulled "a slim" from his pocket.  "It'll be in eight minutes," the slim told the time too.  

  "Maybe that woman was being friendly by moving us on."  

  "That was no woman." 

  ZeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaarRAH, fuuuzch, dust. 

  "Building must be connected." 

  "It's all connected." 

  "Cha.  Especially here.  So obviously cement and sand just barely sprung out of the desert.  I mean, look, those ibeams don't even go all across the expanse." 

  "That's ironic." 

  BadaBadaBadazeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaarRAH

  "Pretend." 

  "That the beams weren't cut to fall on us?" 

  "They should have sent the humanoids." 

  "On this one?" 

  "Seems like a different tour." 

  "Than upstairs?" 

  "What was it like?" 

  "Pretend?" 

  Silence.  Broken only by intensifying impact.

  "Pretend."  

     "Where'd you get the cash?" She showed it and crammed it.  Away.  The man took out a wad of six different currencies.  "And this," he pulled the pistol out of the small of his back.  "I hate sleeping that way."  She snorted and huuuuuuumphed.  "At least you slept." 

  "You paid him to let you sleep?!" 

  "I assure you we did not sleep." 

  Summer crickets winding down the season of normal summer. 

  "He's my husband." 

  "That one?" I dart-eyed him looking back over my shoulder. 

  "No.  Some other one." 

  "You didn't sleep did you?" 

  "I always sleep.  In God's big hand." 

  "That may change because it has to."  

  "Sometimes ours aren't there.  Overseas." 

  "God's big hand doesn't change.  Although you people do." 

  "You're done then?" 

  "I didn't say that." 

 "I won't ever say that.  God borned me me." 

  "Tell me about here."  

  "They got some issues."  

  "Remember those robots they stole from the Conventions?" 

  "No.  I try not to remember anything." 

  "I'm not like you." 

  A pebble landed in front of freshly medicated feet in boots. 

  "Anyway." 

  "Well, they all claimed they didn't steal them.  Just cleaned up after the richie riches left.  You know how some of them talk.  Like the world's just about rich and poor. 

  "It is 

  "It is and it isn't 

  "Bob said that's what Saray-evo is all about

  "What it's become 

  "Llewan agrees, that's why 

  "God's not about money 

  "Will you just shut up?!" 

 People sprawled around in the darkness actually communicating.  Until.  Signal's going away in three, two, one.  The open palm came to a closed fist.

"If you ain't got no money,

  Take your broke ass home." The queen was losing her flambouancy by the eighteenth bar night.  

  "Whoooo are yoooo?"  A girly-mahn mechanic-type got off a barstool to ask.  Dwarfed by the man in heels.  A man who'd stayed sitting on another barstool tipped his cowboy hat.  The bartender poured him two two-fingers.  

  "Uh, ah, er," throat clearing 

  "We're called the Transforce," a bubbly muscle-y girl in a bomber jacket stepped between them.  She held the clipboard close to her chest and got a glove off and the pen tucked into the clipboard and reached a hand out.  A dainty handshake.  "Who are you?" The queen reached over her shoulders and tried to take the clipboard.  But the girl clutched it and said, "What I mean is, er, ah, 

  An olive drab coat came in.  "Don't worry," he held up both hands, unarmed, "It's a peacekeeping mission.  I'm just here as Recorder." 

  The cowboy lowered the brim of his hat and left the money on the bar.  

  "Hi." Another hand extended to shake.  Not accepted.  "We go around to see if anybody just hanging out, uh" a look at the flow chart, "Has any health care needs." 

The reasons we apologize.

  "Because of Plato?" 

  "Socrates?" 

  Oriana blinked at the sight of people gathered around her like children.  "Surprised to see us?" 

  She furrowed and unfurrowed her brow.  Re-looked at the typed "The reasons we apologize."  Shook her head no.  Said, "No." People looked at each other.  Bruises with salve; stitched cuts; head bandages; knee braces; ankle boots..."We learned to doctor ourselves too," Throw-Up Girl smiled bright whitely.  "Mostly." She took a hand out of her pocket and the arm dangled badly at the elbow.  People giggled and made shocked sounds.  One woman said, Gross. 

  Oriana put her hands like she was still a nun on her lap on top of our papers regarding how much we'd learned as people learning interdisciplinary.

  "I'm sorry."  Her invisible tears got caught in her throat.  "But none of us can go." 

  A military surplus truck's horn honked.  

  "MARIE!!!!!"  Someone said the name of the first.

     One of our first tasks was to let people know:  We're a Republic.  Even us American International Journalists.  And as such we respect you.  But, this Country's rule (that's law and order) is not "consensus".  

     This was sometimes explained as people were reaching for shotguns to let us know:  They'd decided differently.  

     Then local jurisdiction people worked with National Guard to pocket a "property".  Deeds had to be checked.  Minors had to choose.  Taxes paid needed to be confirmed.  Outstanding warrants?  Locked briefcases handcuffed to arms had to be exchanged. 

  Ayup, we were back to being peacekeepers, Academics, and Regulars.  As had happened to the Philippines in World War II, flashpoints and mergers, had friends: strangers; interesting: boring; and every situation life or death in the choices us Americans make. 

"I would say that's coming from Vegas,

  but, I'm all turned around."  The woman's cheeks turned rosey.  She turned her upper body slightly and vomited into a lunch sack.  She neatly wiped her mouth with a tightly folded napkin.  "I get car sick," she re-blushed.  

  "You came on a horse."  Another woman said. 

  "Oh.  Did I?"  She looked out the window.  "Where is it?" 

  A cellphone rang.  Hands searched self's pockets.  Opened it and closed it.  Rang again.  Hands answered and hung it up.  Hands handed it off.  It rang again.  Guy said, "I'm shy." Woman handed it to a younger guy.  Guy answered it without saying anything and just listened.  Hung it up.  "Who is it?" 

  "Just breathing." 

  "With kind of a wheeze." 

  "Someone's going to have to explain this." 

  "Which this?" 

 

  "I'm a writer.  I might be able to help."  

  "I was but I got ghosted." 

  "Not that I know what the means." 

  "Me either." 

  "I do but I can't tell you." 

  "You'd have to kill us?"  A woman pulled a gun from a pocket, started pointing it at people.  Take a seat.

  "Okay," A known-director-type put his hands up and thrust his pelvis at the woman with the gun.  "Wallet's in my pocket."  

  "I'm not sitting down just because she said to," another guy said.  

  "Yeah, she's kinda short.  I think we can take her out."  

  "Yeah, but I've got the gun." 

  "Can I use it?" 

  "On herself of course."  

  The man with the hands up and pelvis thrusted wiggled his leg to shuffle his foot forward.  "Don't come any closer," the woman said.  "Did it move?"  People looked at each other.  "Did my foot move?" 

  After a full ten seconds of silence someone stood up and moved closer to the man but didn't touch him.  Ran a fabric-coated wrist up and down the legs of the man.  "It's beeping near the pocket," he told a little tape recorder.  

  "Explains the hospital gowns." 

"Somebody nuked," the

  middle-ager sweating bullets heard on the earphones. 

  "GGGGRRRREEEAAAAT, tah," red-faced, old soul youth exhaled, "WE FAILED." Arms in the air reaching for God's help crane-smacked into thighs.  

  Lemme listen lemme listen

  The wires cheney'd up to a man's head looked like a tumbleweed packratted.  For purpose.  Whether they know it or not the packrats do what they do for purpose the real Scooby Doo Diane had explained.  Made sense.  The warfare word had leaked.  People and robots were blowing up peoples' RVs and trailers.  The out-of-work scientists.  Semi-truck full of scraps and parts and servers and body parts were convoying this way and that.  We had to sort the flows of trade and travel.  Punctually.  Efficiently.  With no money, no plastic, no food, no water.  Dodging fallout--radiation and exploding planes, sats, and balls of shrapnel.  Some shoved off platforms craned and SUCKED UP BY THE HOLES IN THE OZONE, QUIT WRITING, IT'S A FUCKING TELEGRAM

     Some of the people were brilliant mind types.  Escaped, survived the other world wars.  Living testaments, living history.  Some of the bodies had been in nursing homes and something had harvested their organs.  

  "Spleen's gone; otherwise just sleeping."

  "Grab that one and let's go."

  The Science women wouldn't, couldn't just stop observing and taking notes.  Instant notification.  Racing to stop the exchanges.  One lover held the binoculars in front of Diane's eyes, the other's husband turned her by the shoulders.  "See that rumble cloud of dust..." 

Some "good advice"

 from Jackie Greene and Bill Plympton

Stellar Writing

 Here's a link to an exceptional expository multi-media article about space, NASA, and US gov't. 

  I love that "the writing" is so clear that even if you couldn't "see" graphics you'd learn stuff.

Bartnik rules, as we used

  to say in the Old School.  Check out this innovation...

  Brought to us all the way from Europe through Interesting Engineering

Watch: YouTuber builds talking robot head that answers like Greek philosopher Aristotle

The creation features 3D-printed eyes, a glowing LED mouth, and a local AI brain that answers philosophical questions in real time.

BySujita Sinha

Nov 11, 2025 03:59 AM EST

A huge mitten'd hand

  passed the ball of twine.  Other hands bereft of one glove, cracking and bleeding, red bleached, hairs on knuckles...

  BRING IT IN 

  A truck with a wooden basket brought a fresh load of pine boughs.  

  Every kind of kid held on to two bags each of bows. 

  "Lipstick and rouge," a man spit bacca juice and growled. 

  A woman broke from the wreath-making table and stood close in front of him.  "Please.  For the kids." 

He looked over her at the innocents.  His weathered lips mouthed that. 

  "We were so close," the words sounded like they did in Syria, there around the barrel fire.  

     "Hang on, hang on," 

     "Give me nocs." 

     "Who dat?" 

     Peering through the black smoke figures came into focus.  "OH MY GOD.  THAT'S W AND THE RAGAMUFFINS!!" 

     Each had on a mix of outfits.  Oily coveralls and a hawaiin shirt;  two different kinds of boots;  half suit, half hunting cammo; missing a piece of clothing;  ripped sleeves;  two carried another with a leg held on with a fishing boot.

      "Make friends," a short woman in uniform stepped on a Muscles' head who was hanging on one side of steel platform disconnected from the other side.  She put her flat heels back on when she crossed the great divide and held out a hand to shake our Administrator's hand.  W had started to extend his to shake hers but fixed his hair when she was shaking the other guy's.  "Get 'em up to speed," an Israeli team leader ordered to her.  He took off a coal oven glove to shake hands in a welcoming fashion. 

     Before the welcome got awkward another woman in uniform stepped forward and reported, "We're having some issues identifying the dead, Sir."  

     "Oil Rigger," a giant of a kid held out his hand to the hanging man.  

     "Would you shake the man's hand dear?" 

     A woman in a hotel bathrobe stepped forward, unfolded her arms, and put her tiny hand near his but he shook his head nooooo.  And he extended it further but not all the way. 

    A kicked in metal door squeaked open and in came ladies all dressed up fancy. 

  "I can't let go," the Muscle re-white-knuckled the rung of step ladder welded some to the platform.  The woman in the bathrobe knelt and palm pounded the tops of his hands.  

  "Let me get that out of the way for y'all," a little lady bent slightly towards a coil of wires.  Attachès started to come towards the ladies from a different direction.

     "Reminds me of what our Mom used to do to my pillow." 

     One farm girl said listlessly, "It does?" 

     "Yah, sort of."  Kids moved themselves into age order without being obvious that someone had taught us to do that.  Made a ring of friendship.  

     Some work gloves were tossed into an impromptu "pile".  The Papa handed the mama a sack of apples leftover from visiting the working farm where they make the milk for school.  "What'd she do to your pillow?" 

     "Yeah, that could sound kinda gross if you don't finish the story."  A medium height boy blushed and said in a newly deep voice.  

     "Only if you can," a Heidi-type held up a limp wrist in a pointing to the sky move.  

     "Right.  Those stupid old satellites listening to everything under the sun." 

     A guy with a three foot beard who'd played an old-fashioned bass at the cafe the night before put sunglasses on.  "Wadn't such when we were young." 

     "No ZeeZee?!  Like you remember."  A young skinny guy slapped a piece of copy paper with TOPS written on it in black marker.  Another guy giggled.  "Not, not," his giggle turned into a snorting cantankerous trying to say but I'm laughing too hard, someone smacked a sign on his back.  It stuck onto his jean jacket on account of the last scrap of "duck tape".  "An ass man," people made shocked faces and giggled hard.

     "Well, we were doing school and Church and Services and chores and I still didn't want to go to sleep at the end of a day." 

     A pocket rang.  "Hello." Someone answered.  "More stoooorie," a little kid shoved another.  "I don't know Sir.  Let me check," the man covered the pocket phone with a calloused hand, and asked, "Is there a Mike here?"  

     A kid drew in a breath and eyes grew wide.  He pulled the shoulder of a mom close and covered a whisper in her ear; Should I say I am one?  

     The mom was also a Coordinator so she showed she was reaching into an inner coat pocket to get the laminated answer book.

"Look, it wasn't the first time."

  A media person's mouth dropped open.  A riding crop was used to lift his lower jaw.  "I can't make it smile," the stern little woman said. 

     Since yesterday or maybe another day, low voices weren't arguing. 

     "We'll access the records."  Suited men and women who traveled everywhere in a pack in case we have to break out into formation assured.  

     The long and short is that in some places in the world "bloodsport" still occurs.  It was not the first time a dismembered body had been left at an embassy.

     Everyone in the area had to stay in the area while the crime was investigated.  There were young couples on their way to places, there was some media people, there were locals and officials coming and going.  Going if they were a part of what unfolds as a human chain of problem solving.

     The horse riders were Saudis.  An ongoing love story.  People, like all of us, dealing with modernization and warring, always warring everyone, always warring.  "Do you think the dead person was involved in the warring?"  The man asked was taking it hard.  That there was a dismembered person like in the old days.  

     "It's male," a young Israeli guy came bounding over the cobblestones to find his date from the night before among the group staying put.  Both blushed.  "Glad it wasn't you," he said.  "Might have been but Gammie called so I didn't go back out."  

  At different times our Country's departments share Academics and writing style.  One benefit is that teams can address common issues.  Here's a link to a good example article.https://interestingengineering.com/military/russia-ups-uav-warfare-game

      (i)The World Turned Upside Down(i) as seminal work was a shock and disappointment to people who would've rather curl up and read what the young adults would be facing politically. 

     Military commanders and directors of this, that, and the other thing were cornering wild horses and automatons alike.  "No time for reading where you're going."  A to-be-shadowed flung it into a pile of (i)would've read its(i). 

  Dooooooozght.  The body barely jerked and slumped down against the compound wall he'd been guarding.  Doooooooozght.  Another body did the same.  The wall's bloodstain record a pinprick size in the big picture hurricane.  A tank rolled to a stop.  Person with the gun aimed it up and down pausing only long enough to identify people in windows.  Revolutionary Guard formed into groups from out of the shadows.  Sounds of feet running.  Thunking into furniture.  Doors flapping open into more walls.  

  Then quiet.

  Hours, minutes, months collapse into folded. 

     It's not a movie.  The unscrolled assignment sheet was only the size of a palm.  But it had been typed.  The bimedial chores were all grim that day.  "And we have to get this one out of here," the huge-ly muscled women each stood on the side of a "director-du-jour".  The three turned as one to leave.  A foot hit the shell, one woman stumbled just a bit.  A hand reached out of the abiayah to steady.  The other woman had also reached out, but with a pistol in hand. 

  A breathy vocal sound sucked in came out "Guuuuun" 

The last munition

found at the site was placed on a nightstand beside a bed where no one had slept.  The person checking boxes on a form glanced at it and re-buried self in the forms.  The remarkably similar looking person started to leave the room.  "What do you want me to do with it?" 

     "Make art out of it for all I care." 

     The foot-and-a-half bomb had been cored like an apple and was again just a shell.  

I could hear his footsteps

  tramping up the spiral staircase.  But only every other or maybe every few.  "It's a HOWLER," he called back down, loud but not yelling.  Never yelling.  The wood and metal door was unlocked.  Eyes on the set of keys on an embroidery hoop size gold ring on the inside.  "YOU'VE GOT TO UNLOCK THE TOP LOCK." 

    "I CAN'T LET GO OF THE LINE.  IT'S THE SLIVER!!!!"  Outside the now carwash blurry window a lightning bolt had struck the power lines on a platform in the lake.  The wind was whipping the transponder on the top of the lookout and pulling the last of the line through the hole.  Closer and closer to gone.  

  "What sliver?  What are you talking about?  Open the door." 

  "I can't let go.  They're taping the show in the U.K. or somewhere over there."  

  "What show?" He started pounding on the door.  He yelled, "BRING ME THE EXTRA KEYS!!!" 

     Hours before one of the blondes had come galloping on a horse up the mountain to tell:  It's the bad Ukrainians behind me!!!!!!  

     The middle agers were nonplussed.  One asked, "How do know they're not Russians?"  Others looked at him.  One shrugged and plopped a sugar cube into his tea, "Or aliens?" 

     "ALIENS, yes." The blonde's mouth dropped open at no action.  Then she crossed her arms and tapped a cowboy boot on the slate floor.  "Oh.  We better get busy." 

  One of the women touched a man's forearm and he bent his head towards the table.  She whispered to him.  She left her hand on his arm and patted it.  "Okay.  Just in case." 

  The team tiredly went back to work.  "Uh, we're working on a show about ah kah-nights that get stuck in a timewarp." One of the lead guys let a woman explain.  "Cha.  They're stuck as time travelers." 

  "Come on we'll give you a tour." 

  Knight swords and armor was propped and standing in an airy main room.  Various paints were gathered onto a table.  "Too strong for cardboard mostly, but works on some of this junk."  A cross-armed man indicated props scattered about the room. 

  "Press the stone at the bottom of the staircase.  That's fun.  I'm going back to bed." 

     She snatched the "love letter".  "How dare you.  Do you even know how many things are on their minds at that age?!"  It was big sister battles to the max.  She crumpled the letter in one hand trying to strangle distraction.  She shoved it in a kitchen drawer.  Wiped her hands on a Mother's Apron and called around the doorless entryway into the TV room.  "You guys gonna get ready to go soon?" 

  Groans and throat clearing and a snort to clear a mold'd nose.  "What's the game plan Big Sis?" The smallest boyman came into the kitchen first.  "Okay, well, nobody showered so you all can." 

  "We're not showering." Came a voice from the other room. 

  "Not showering?" 

  "Yah, let 'em get a whiff of dah crud." 

  "Crud?" 

  Another appeared in the doorway scratching everything and stretching and yawning.  "Do you know what we were working on this week?" Nobody answered.  "Or has it been two weeks?" 

  "Like five.  That would've been two and a half paychecks." 

  "What were you working on?" 

  "Has it been that long?" The rabbi asked.  His head covered in a sweatshirt and socks, cleaned.  "You loook like a big fuckin' rabbit." A big deep sigh. 

  "Am I allowed to say?" 

  "No, it's top secret moron." 

  "Is it?" 

  "Cha.  Now I will have to kill you." 

  He tried to dodge the oncoming head noogie and rammed his head into the doorway. 

  "You should stop that." 

  "But they won't." 

  "And you shouldn't wear such tight jeans.  You could damage your" 

  "Who's she?" 

  "Talking about our nuts Roscoe.  Prolly an Upper."  The rabbi threw a sock at each of them, the Muscle and the Giant. 

  "Look at that.  There's a Most Interesting Man in the World contest on TV.  Or do you enter via the TV?  I wouldn't know I'm sooooo boring." 

  "HAaagh, When are your women coming for you?" 

  "That one prolly doesn't have a voomahn.  He's a girly-mahn."  He looked hard at the smallest. 

  "Just because someone's musically inclined and smart and creative doesn't mean they're gay." 

  "What'd he buy a skirt for?" 

  "It's a sarong.  Very sexy in some parts of the world," he passed me the fork but she snatched it from me and put it in a different drawer.  We both chomped on celery sticks all cut perfectly symetrical like the carrot sticks and potato sticks. 

  "Is there a store that sells such stuff?  Sexy stuff?" 

  "No, we were at a fashion show." He took the rolled-up fabric out of his back pocket.  "It could be anything you want it to be." 

  "Like a Superhero cape?" 

  "Or a headscarf." 

  "I wouldn't put that thing on my head after it was on your ass." 

  Someone threw it at the rabbi.  He unrolled it.  "It's soft." He contemplated it, then asked, "Do you wear underwear with it?" 

  "Some do, some don't," a middle-ager sleeping on the sofa said. 

  "He'll tell me." 

  "Helps to sleep with them." 

  "Eeeewwah.  You're my shrink." 

  "Tell you what?" 

  "What have they been working on?" 

  He sat up but held his bright white socks off the floor until he reached for his neat little pile of man things.  Shoes, belt, and "Where's my wallet?  Oh dear Lord." The rabbi waved it at him.  "Can't trust anyone these days," he said as he put his shoes on.  "Ripping apart an asylum." 

  "Is that a thesis title?" A dark haired woman blending in with the floor under an afghan asked. 

  "Oh dear Lord.  Am I not safe from you anywhere?" The shrink asked over the sofa. 

  "Literally?" The apron'd woman untied the apron.  "That sounds cooler than pretending to be my mother." 

  More people came down from upstairs.  A brilliant blonde who announced, "I'm ready."  No one said anything.  "To leave PT.  And, I know what I want to do with my life." 

  A man and a woman holding hands tightly sat on a grand ottoman in front of the rabbi.  They held onto each other's hands and she said, "We're ready for Couples' Therapy." He stayed looking at their hands clutching onto each other.  "Is this true?" The rabbi asked.  

  "We can't go anywhere.  But it's great that you're ready." 

  The man suddenly removed his hands from the clutching.  "Why'd you do that?" The woman asked.  "I don't know." He started wiping his hands off on his sweater.  The sweater was sagged long like it had hung on the back of a chair for a long time. 

  "But you said," the blonde shook her head neat and curt, "Wait.  Why not?" 

  "What do you mean can't?" The dark haired woman got off the floor and slung the afghan onto the back of the sofa.  The back of the shrink's hair blew up in the air and fell back into place.  "It does that because I can't remember when I last had a shower," he said to my watching everything. 

  "Do you know?" The blonde asked me.  I knew her to be a senior in the Communications stuff so I couldn't lie.  "Yes." 

  The roomfull of people looked at me.  I blew out my shyness in a terse breath.  And could smell the cigarette I'd smoked.  "It has to do with how Towns keep functioning when people go off to war and to serve in the National Guard." 

  "Really?" 

  "I think so.  That's my cursory understanding but," I looked at my husband, "We were on a bit of a honeymoon, and I'm behind in the articles." 

  "Let me make a phone call." 

  "Did you say husband?" She grabbed my ringless hand then threw it back at me. 

  "It's fine," the smallest man was looking down the front of his pants.  The rabbi got up and looked down in there too.  He dropped the wallet into the open travel belt/purse. 

  "It has to do with function.  So like Finance people can fill in for each other and teachers can do Administrative and stuff." 

  The blonde came back.  Closing a cellphone she said, "It's just a temporary stop."  The darkhaired woman lit a cigarette.  "Can you do that outside? I'm still experiencing some respatory symptoms."  The dark haired woman felt along the wall for a door she'd come in. 

  "Say that again," the woman was clutching and twisting her own hands.  The man was shaking his head noooooo.  

  The woman put the apron over her shoulder and reached into the smallest man's pants and snatched the rings.  "Is this real?" She held the diamond engagement ring up to the yellowing lightbulb. 

  "God's brought us together," the rabbi said.  And he looked around the room astonished.  "Like he did in the forest."  

  What it's like, warring hotspots

  This is why strategists are not just "political strategists" in the 21st century and why world leaders have always a dual role as citizen and commander. 

     A shift in what we're hearing from leaders...Recently informing teams, NATO

     Tons of reading. 

     Carpentry, painting. 

  Here's a link to the famous Mergoat Magazine.  Not sure you can find hard copy at East Town's (Knoxville) Book Eddy.  But you can find lots of priceless reads there. 

     Space . com

"She's in a trench."

     The minor journalist shoved the microphone in through the arms lifting a wounded.  "How much did you get paid?" He asked.  The wounded soldier grimaced.  "It ain't about money kid.  It's about saving each others' lives at this point." He had to have immediate IV switch before being wheeled off.  A woman smacked the face of the kid who'd asked the question. The little tape recorder fell to the ground. 

    Two Marines looked at each other.  One said, "We gotta do something."  The other said, "We do.  Now." 

     They started a perimeter with a friendly-funky dance step that fell into a bit of a march and catch their guns. 

     "That's not what I heard," the woman who'd smacked the cub reporter was holding the little tape recorder out to the blurry face crying.  "What do you mean mother?" A priestly looking man asked as he took the tape recorder.  On the whole time.  "That wasn't," the chopper blades sliced at the air, "The question on the relay." 

     The woman burst into tears.  Her hands shook like she was on earthquaking ground.  Then her shoulders.  "All I heard," body trembling, "Wah, was, Can you call my mother?  And, I answered, "I can't.  She's in a trench."  Her body shook her swaying and her knees buckled.  The priestly man caught her.

     "What was the Muscles' first word?" 

     The cafe was emptying of people but for a few of us starting over.  

     "Protein."  I looked at him and remembered.  "What was my number two?" He asked in perfect English with an accent so thick it kept the old world and the new world connected.  "It was dobie," another woman said.  "All he wanted at the end of a work day.  The dobie." 

     "No strangers to dirt and grime and whatever this is," yet another woman held her long skirt up revealing a stripe of oil and perfectly fitting shitkickers.  A man with stout, yellowed glasses covered his shocking! mouth look and wagged his finger.  She dropped the skirt.  

     Everybody under different directives had the conversations seeming a little awkward.

     "Indominable spirits."  

     "The wild horses?" 

     "Resiliance." 

     "Are our intellectual parents proud?" 

     "I know your real parents are.  And a lot of Thanksgiving plans are coming true." 

     "Much coming to fruition, yes." 

     "Why is there moany on de table?" 

     "That's for you guys." 

     A tiny woman plucked it up and stuck it in the front middle of her bra.  Another woman's hands dove for it.  Smacking hand contest and the dollar, dollar bills fell on the floor.  "Joo peoples are so ugly when you act dat way." 

     A woman turned on heel.  "Did you just caawl me a Jew?" 

     "Why is there money on the floor?" A small man woke up in an armchair and asked. 

     "Did you see that?" 

     "I just woke up." 

     "He's budgeting wipes!" One of the women pointed a finger but turned herself in a 360 so as to not accuse a he. 

     "Somebody take the money." 

     "What's wipes?" 

     "THEY'RE HERE!!!!" 

     "OH MY GOD.  My parents??" 

     "NO.  The Middle Agers.  Stecoah Mel's in the lead!" 

     "I heard that," came across somebody's fully cranked earbud.  "And I AM NOT a middle ager.  Yet."  

She came through the cafe door.  "But you've got one in here." 

     People looked at the walls and floor and furniture not each other. 

"Send him to Yammie's," one woman in solid tights and ankle boots and skirt and sweater said to a Coordinator.  

     "Which one?" 

     "I'm not spending any more money!" The grandpa barked.  The woman jumped.  

     "But the boy needs a haircut."  

     "Vhere is das boy?" 

     The woman looked at the ground.  A pair of feet stepped forward.  The grandpa looked at thw ground where the woman was looking.  The front of the feet waved Breakfast Club style.  The man and woman's eyes looked up the legs, and up the torso, and up into the boy's face.  "Daht's no boy, mama, daht's a giant."  

     "Is this the one we've been feeding?" The woman asked a man with a clipboard. 

     The man nodded. 

     "Orphan or exchange student?" 

     When we were younger (Gen X) everything was a battle anyway, so getting battle-ready was priming political animals and warriors.  

     Competition was fierce.  For good jobs, better vehicles and living conditions, and mates. 

     One day after we'd splattered the just slightly older and more qualified candidates for command in the ranks of various organizations with black walnut tire juice stuck in the piles of tires needing to be sorted, a really ranking woman sat us down for a "time out".  "Y'all are in deep shit.  And you can stay there for all I care." 

     "What'd we do?" 

     "Dry cleaning bills for one thing."  She pulled a little list from a shirt pocket.  "And, and, giving away strategy secrets."  We looked at each other, shocked.  Had a teenage girl pow wow and elected one of ourselves to ask, "How did we do that?" 

     "How could you not know since all the teams have covered strategy?"  The person who'd asked the question turned and mouthed Did we?  

     "And who told the grapevine community and neighborhood her husband is a Knight?" 

Across town...

     "A war criminal?" 

     "No way."

     "Way."

     "What is that pile of shit in the front yard?" 

     Whispering hoarse-ly.  What did you peoples do last night?  Not much.  A band.  And, uh, a scavenger hunt.  And, uh, is he talking about my car?  Because that's not really my car.  Oh no? Hidey boy.  Who's is it? 

 

     "By whom then shall men's deeds be judged?  Surely by those who have due authority, and the care of their souls, which had been given officially by rule and ordaining of Holy Church, or else privately and spiritually through the special urge from the Holy Ghost in perfect love.  Each one must be careful not to presume to blame and condemn other men's faults unless he feels truly moved within by the Holy Ghost.  Otherwise he might very well be completely mistaken.  So take care: judge yourself if you like, you and God, and your spiritual father.  Leave the others well alone." -- from The Cloud of Unknowing, written during the time of the Black Plague

     Suddenly what had been chaotic traffic all flowed into the same direction.  "What just happened Oriana?" 

     She was obsessing over the angle of an outwardly opening door in a doorway.  Diplomatic cars raced behind honking beater-cars.  

     "A Fatwah." 

     Not just politics.  Some of it tied to territory made it really like a Civil War back when.  Moderate votes really really matter now.  And, consultants.  We can't ignore what is undermined by this.

     Because democratic socialism is anti-Republic.  Tied to actual place and people.  Voted, so not just programs.  More of a checkmate where it's happened.

     Justices and the military are under extreme pressure in such times.

     Political nightmare landscape.  It's why Hamas was able to October 7th.

     "How do you think us Cubans felt?"  One older lady asked.  She had a bit of cake frosting on her lip and a grand-daughter wiped her lip.  "STOP THAT!" She smacked his hand away.  "I'm not drooling yet," she told everyone close to her. 

     "Or the French?" Another even slightly older woman asked. 

     "Were they affected by partying louses bossing everyone around as government?" 

     "Especially by the effeminate ones," she raised her eyebrows and plucked a cracker with tuna on it from the platter.  "Protein," an EMS person identified the foodstuff.  "That's good for you." 

     "What, do you think I was born yesterday?  I KNOW WHAT'S GOOD FOR ME." 

     "Damn straight.  Me too," an older middle ager said and drained her red wine cup.  She smiled big, all red lipstick and purple teeth. 

     "You kids are cleared," a woman in uniform with a clipboard licked her finger of a swipe of cake frosting.  "Who ate all the cake?" 

     "Whhhyyyy?" 

     "I might have to check sugar levels." 

     "Nobody!" 

     "Yeah, I'll drink to that.  Nobody ate the cake." 

     "That's who they'll let eat cake now.  Nobody but themselves.  You watch." 

     "Be quiet, I'm reading," the naptaker hushed the room.

      "I want to be a scholar like that" had led to small groups of women meeting to discuss how that might happen.  One group was a mix of religion: Judeo-Christian, political persuasion, and generation.  This allowed for more than HELLO, I'M SO-and-so...these are my checkboxes...and you all know what my values are...conversations.

     Complaining of cramps was spoken of a young woman gone to lay down and nap.  

     "Why do we complain about something that happens over and over?" 

     "My husband calls that Squeaky Wheel Syndrome." 

     "Mine just gets me what I need." 

     "He does?" 

     "Yah." 

     "Everything?" 

     "Chocolate, wine, and pads." 

     "Why complain about the pain that brings the miracles?" 

     "Miracles?" 

     The woman was getting dark circles under her eyes from the physical and emotional stresses of war.  She poked at the air with a spatula of cake batter and warned, "Survival of the generations is a miracle." 

     Another woman looked up from a Bible.  "I found it.  I couldn't recall which Psalm it was so I've been re-reading the whole book." 

     "Will you look at it with us?" A Rabbi was asked. 

     "I can but I know everyone here is capable of reading and understanding God's Word." The vote of confidence settled everyone.  Some took out their own Bibles from various styles of bags, in various styles of covers.  "Yours matches your sweater," someone noted.  "Yeah, I'm pretty matchy-matchy." 

     "I can't afford all that designer stuff," one woman said of a hand-drawn, graffiti'd cardboard cover.  "That is so cool," one young person said as three went to sit down near her.  "Can I hold it?" 

     "Sure." 

     "It's been tense," the woman said. 

     "In the Psalms?" 

     "Yes.  In the Psalms.  But also as a multi-national mom and teacher.  And now with the spectre of even more war on the horizon..." 

     "I've been having the worst dreams." 

     "Do you think it's just spectre?" 

     "I'm not really sure." 

     "I don't think anyone is." 

     "Factors?" 

     "Lots of moving parts." 

     "And people at the mercy of others." 

     "And, and, and." 

     "You want we should avoid this topic?" 

     "The specifics yes." 

     "Someone actually criticized someone for having a warrior spirit the other day in a weekly planner review."  Eyes looked at, looked down, looked inward thinking on criticisms given the atmosphere.  "And I thought, well I thought a lot of things, but mostly I thought of young people." 

     "Not tough skins, not fully formed in their opinions, not confident in us..." 

     "Not true." 

     "Yes, true.  And why would they be with the world as unsettled as it is?" 

     "I hate settled," One said. 

     "You're an adventurer, that's to be expected." 

     "I just hate that settled means far away," another woman said. 

     "With our own lives.  That's not to hate."  

     "Give me the baby," said the woman baking the cake.  A woman with a baby on her lap got up and brought the little one towards the kitchen area.  She was waved away.  "Naw, not that one." 

     "Not this one?" She looked around for other babies. 

     "The baby Jesus.  We need to put him in the cake." 

     "Have you lost your mind?" 

     "Yes.  More than once.  It's a tradition.  It's for my friend." 

     "Not for us?  You're making a cake in my kitchen that we don't get to eat?" 

     "I didn't say that." 

     "What Psalm is it?  I'm going to have to get going.  I told you that." She had indeed left her coat on. 

     "I usually read the ones before it and after it too." 

     "Context." 

     "Yeah.  Better sense." 

     "137." 

     "One thirty seven?" 

     Some people wrote that down.  Some opened to it. No one recited it off the top of the head. 

     "Give me the Jesus." 

     "Do you think this will just cascade into total war?" 

     "Like going to hell in a handbasket?" 

     "Read the Book." 

     "By degrees.  All things happen by degrees." 

     "Like my cake if I can get Jesus into it." 

     "It's in that coat pocket," someone said at the pile of winterwear. 

     "Better a Jesus than a file," the answer to a quiet why?

     

     "How could this Psalm writer be so angry?" The question hung in the room like an arrow shot at an apple.

Article about an application of "fluidic logic"

     One part of the training included shadowing Security detail.  Since flights all over the world were delayed a bunch of us tagged along to a large complex hotel.  Observing each other and analysis of strengths and weaknesses was helping sort us into "best fit". 

     "It's still off-off-Broadway," a woman was chewing gum and touting.  A more crispily dressed woman held out her hand in front of her.  "Not making any money yet.  Didn't you hear me say off-off?!" 

     "The gum Simone.  Give it." 

     The woman took it from her palm and stuck it on the inside of the wastebasket's side.  "That way they have your DNA." 

     A wall of monitors showed key points from airports and train stations to the hotel's lobbies, hallways, and service areas as a panel.  Everything seemed orderly.  "Ever seen violence?"  Someone asked the Monitoring person.  The person's eyes rolled and mouth made many contortions before settling into speaking.  "What kind of question is that? This is Vegas honey.  What isn't violent here?"  

     "How do you deal with that?  Personally?" 

     "Can we skip the psychoanalysis Ladies?"  A man with folded arms unfolded his arms to ask.  His suit coat arms were well-wrinkled at the folded-arm posture points. 

     "It's a valid question." Someone advocated. 

     "I go horseback riding." The Monitoring person said while dialing a zoom-in on one of the screens showing vending machines. 

     "That's a lot of dials," another man moved closer and photographed the controls above and looking out from the seated person.  Said, "In our State we're working to recruit youth to apprenticeships doing this kind of work.  Such photos might help populate brochures." 

     The Monitoring person put a hand in front of the lens while moving out of the way.  "But, let's do this," got up while photographer held camera away and to the floor.  Moved levers to black out the screens and bring up a panel of TV.

 Early November 2025, Some travel news

Oh good, you're here!

     I ran towards her to give her a hug.  She threw down the handle of the roll-on luggage and took a Kung-Fu stance.  "You're all wet.  Oh my God.  Where'd you come from?" 

     She looked over both my shoulders.  "You alone?"

     "Sort of."  

     "We need to drag the seat out of the lake." 

     "The seat?" 

     A man walked forward from the shadows binoculars still pressed against his eyes.  Her phone rang.  She raised a foot and made her arms into the swooping crane pose.  "Would you get that?" 

     "The phone?" 

     "The phone." Her head nodded in the direction of the ringing pocket. 

     "You want me to answer it?" 

     "Open it put it up here," she tried to look in the direction of her ear.  "I've never seen you with flat hair," the man said.  "Open it, open it." 

     "The flight?  The flight was great.  Oh, cab's here.  Curbside service."  She jutted her head at me and mouthed done.  

     Headlights coming from a road behind her.  Crashing through the woods voices and more people.  SHE CAME OUT OF A MIG, a guy in a hunting suit and neon gloves thrust the section of newspaper identifying military equipment towards me.  

     "Now that's a scholar," another man's voice said.  The hunters shone flashlights all around.  The light fell on a silent, standing still row of vehicles.

 2025, a scholarly take on some current issues

Mock debates

     "Knock it off you two," the red-headed woman warned my mother and her father.  But they didn't.  One would move the salt and pepper shaker and place it, then the other would re-place it.  "It goes where I put it," Sherry told the youngests, a girl and a boy, trying to keep up with loyalties and just do what I says in a roomful of "all different kinds of people". 

     "They're the competitive type." 

     "I'm not.  I'm bored." 

     "Sorry the world's not entertaining enough for you smart types." A quiet sigh.  "Sorry I just said that." 

     "There's all kinds of smarts.  Really everybody's 'smart'." 

     "Of the alpha males in your age category..." A watch to see where eyes went.  "Yeah?" An unbroken eye contact.  "Who would you 'vote' for?"

     "Why'd you put vote in air quotes?" 

     "I seen y'all do that on," she did it again, "'buzzwords'," she said buzzwords like one might say missiles or drones.  

     "Busswords are not talking points.  That's all I know," a blondish lady sat at the table. 

     "That guy J.D. had some good points in the pre-mock debate.  But he's shy." 

     A girl looked up from a book she was reading.  At all of us.  "I hate that people are already talking about people like they're racehorses." 

     A dad made a horseface.  My mother told a bit of a story about how people used to get my Dad to talk like that horse Mr. Ed.  "Do it Dad," a youngest demanded. 

     "Anybody here running for anything?" A woman with a clipboard jokingly asked as the table seemed to stop her body from pace of schedule.  "Sit." A media Republican told her.  She did.  "What are you drinking?"  No answer.  A mom poked her arm.  Said, "She needs Orange juice and water."  

     "How'd you know?" 

     "She's getting lazy skin." 

     "Lazy skin?" 

     "Did you tan when you were younger?" Someone asked while someone else went to request Orange juice.

     "Excuse me, I need you all to submit to another drug test." 

     Some groans and sleeves rolled up to show bruises from being poked and sampled and genetically identified.  Whole room so lots of time to chit chat.

     "One of the observations our doctors," a woman was still speaking as our table's conversation ebbed and flowed, "And medical technicians found led to some discoveries." 

     "Oh I bet," a man said while still cutting up his meat.

     "It's about drugs.  You might want to cover your child's ears Karen." 

     "Did somebody call me?" A woman glanced around the room. 

     "Ow," an elderly lady griped loudly. 

  Chairs were pushed back from tables and many people went to her.  

  It seemed like hours and hours later when someone declared the war's on everything.  And someone else loading guns explained, that's because everything is weaponized.  

     "So.  That's what that drug does to peoples" brains?" 

     "Makes 'em like lemmings.  That's why the State's enemies are so eager to get it into the Country." 

     "And why it's especially prevalent in those...what did that guy call those?" 

     "What?" People were reading stacks of reports. 

     "The cities.  What did they call them?" 

     "Sanctuary cities." 

     "Thank you." 

 

"I'm not talking to you."

     "I'm not talking to you," she said and pulled hard on the sheet of plywood.

     "Whhhhyyyy?" 

     "We can start with you blowing up our collective home." 

     "Did I hit it?" The tanker asked. 

     The woman blew out a breath and shook her head. 

     She moved through the exposed tunnel about twenty feet to a spot that had already been patched with bullet-proof glass.  This was maybe three hundred yards from where we'd been photographing the many, many footprints in the sand. 

     "What do you want for dinner?" He dropped in and his breath was hot in the dampness so little steam puffs.  "DON'T!!" She turned the top of her body towards him and held up the traffic cop STOP handsign.  "Why can't I come with you?" 

     "Because." 

     "Because why?" 

     "Because I love you." 

     The man's shoulders slumped.  "Then don't go again." 

     The artist was dancing with herself.  Though she had a tissue-paper man attached to her soft worn shoes.  "He martyr'd," the woman said.  She seemed in a trance.  Observing women said she'd be like that for hours.  Dancing with the ghost of her loved one. 

     A passed section of a religious book made its way to me.  "Where did this come from?" 

     "Same place we did." 

     We'd been so many places and my head was so full of scenes and happenings I couldn't really place where I'd left the book.

     "Listen to this," I read from the section.  It seemed apt.  (i)Culture of disdain, culture of deception, culture of disconnection...(i).  

     "Someone's called it 'cancel culture'." 

     "Like what they do to women here." 

     The clouds of dust in the sandy expanse on the border out past kibbutz and bodega seemed the material proof of their existence.  But you could let your eyes gaze and let go of what we knew, about religious difference, about politics turning into violence, and people hating people, and just pretend...(i)pretend it's just sand(i). 

     "It's really about anti-forgiveness, cancel-ing someone.  That's really at the crux." 

     "Because Jesus was about that." Another woman took a tiny Bible out of a skirt pocket.  

     "Yeah and match this up with submitting to Islam." I read more.  (i)A coldness in feeling towards each other; and in our dealings; isolation and disconnection; shame driving people inward; bullying driving them downward; hatred driving them backward.(i). "People have really been put through it.  And then the weight of war," five or six of us looked at each other in the natural light. 

     "But we don't say hell on earth," one said.  "That's defeatist." 

     "Okay then." 

     "Some days just suck," another said as the section of book was snatched and sat on.

     "Deals were not made to be broken," two men, one white, one black had been stripped to their underwear, beaten, and were reciting.  Under gunfire they were remembering what they'd been told to tell "the real nations".  The UN vehicle out front of the commandeered and occupied checkpoint had bullet holes in it before some strays hit it again.  "Just take them in," the sand rover's commander ordered. 

     Hundreds of thousands footprints in the sand had led the crime investigators to the location.  

"That's pretty, but...

     A woman nondescript in appearance held the wastebasket forward.  "But I worked on it all night."  She didn't really look at it and said, "That's pretty but, put it in here." She shoved the wastebasket closer to the student's report. 

     "And by a girl no less," she practically spit the words towards an almost ceiling-tall man with arms folded across his chest.  

     "The trip's ovah," the once funny commedianne lifted a tired head off an elbow on the desk hand and informed us.  She let her head fall on arms collapsing into desk nap.  She really snored as passports that had been stolen and lost were matched to mug shots and paperwork and means to pay.  

     "I had a sponsor." 

     She didn't say anything.  Pointed at the TOTAL OWED.  Copies: $10.24  "Take a seat," she ordered.

      "Actually the senator from New York is under arrest," an official told a media hound.  The particular hound had been sent from a "foreign paper" to get a scoop.  "There's the

     "Scoop

     "House.  Arrest.  It's a routine process," the Senator stood and said while he was folding his reading glasses.

     "It's for his own protection," an attache-type explained to the blinks and stares of a rapidly gathering crowd. 

     "From the Republicans?" Someone asked. 

     "Ah, someone who appreciates the stakes of this political game." 

     More security appeared in the hotel lobby and a sharply dressed woman folded her hands as the senator had.  "Save it," she ordered.  "A judge will give you your turn." 

     The Senator sat back down in the chair. 

     "Probably all the fines," a saavy scholar told multiple translators in regards a lateness of diplomats to help with the European crisis. 

     A woman in blocky heels stood the baby up and pulled a diaper snug.  "See," she was wrapping up a prepatory mini-talking-to, "At that point, it is not just your own pile of doo-doo that the rest of us have to deal with." 

     "Thinking about a career in politics?" A hansome man leaned-in towards her and asked.  "Hardly," the woman said and handed him the dirty diaper.  "Flight's here," the man said and turned to put the diaper in the trash.  "Is it?" The woman asked.  She'd laid the baby back down and was putting it into a sleeper.  "They're so helpless without us," she stared at the baby staring at the world of its immediate environs.  Then she told the man, "Take this grocery bag and put all those dirty diapers in it.  No reason this place should smell like a nursery." 

     As the handcuffs were being put on the Senator said to the attache-type, "Find out if the government is still shut down?" 

    The woman took her hands out of her pants pockets revealing a cellphone.  She hit a speed dial button and the Senator's pocket started ringing.