The BBC's kidnapped Gaza correspondent has been freed!
BBC's Gaza Correspondent Released
Oh, how wonderful to be able to remove that banner!!!
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
Sunday, July 01, 2007
Vikings and Emperors
A replica of a Viking ship has set out to sail from Roskilde to Dublin.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, a hitherto unknown chamber has been discovered in the tomb complex of Qin Shihuang, first ruler of a united China.
Links
Viking Ship Sets Sail for Dublin
China Finds Secret Tomb Chamber
Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, a hitherto unknown chamber has been discovered in the tomb complex of Qin Shihuang, first ruler of a united China.
Links
Viking Ship Sets Sail for Dublin
China Finds Secret Tomb Chamber
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
I've just finished The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte. Believe it or not, I'd never read it before. Depressing, how many books I've never read. However, that number is now reduced by one.
For others who may not yet have read this dark, powerful novel: The title character is Helen Graham, a pretty, strong and selfreliant young woman, ostensibly a widow, who has moved into the largely ruinous Wildfell Hall with her young son and only one womanservant. She is surrounded by mystery and, soon, also by malicious gosip, in which the village's handsome young squire, proprietor of the Hall, figures promanently. Gilbert markham, a substantial farmer and landholder, falls reluctantly but inexorably in love with the inigmatic Mrs. Graham, but is baffled in his attempts to learn her history both by the lady herself and by his friend, Squire Fredrick Lawrence whom, in his jealousy and despair, he eventually attacks.
Mastering his anger at what he believes to be the perfidy of his beloved and his friend, Gilbert returns to the Hall to confront Helen. But, though she confirms her return of his love, she maintains that it must not be consumated or even allowed to flurish in their hearts. Finally driven to frenzy by Gilbert's persistance and lack of understanding, she thrusts a thick manuscript into his hands, and commands him to go.
The manuscript, with a few pages torn from the end, proves to be Helen's journal. In it she recounts her courtship by and marriage to one Arthur Huntingdon. Though her aunt, her guardian, remonstrates, Helen believes that she can discourage what is bad in Arthur and cultivate what is good. However, her life with him gradually becomes intolerable as his drinking, philandering and general Debauchery come to threaten the wellbeing of their young son. With the help of her brother, none other than Gilbert's friend Squire Lawrence, and her faithful attendent Rachel, Helen devises and carries out a desperate plan of escape. But, no sooner has she returned to Wildfell Hall, her childhood home before her father sent her away to live with her aunt and uncle following her mother's death, but village tongues start wagging. To add to her troubles, the handsome young cockscomb, Gilbert Markham, has attracted her attention...
Now understanding both her sorrows and her scruples, the broken hearted Gilbert avows his undying love, but at the same time agrees to honor Helens request that they part. Hurrying to Lawrence, he apologizes awkwardly but sincerely, and Lawrence welcomes the return of their friendship. But, shortly thereafter, Gilbert learns from a malicious former sweetheart that Helen has returned to Huntingdon. Lawrence confirms this, explaining that Huntingdon has sustained severe injuries in a riding accident and, since he is gravely ill, Helen has returned to nurse him. Through Helen's letters, which Lawrence freely shares with him, Gilbert learns of Huntingdon's final illness and death. Lawrence gives Gilbert no encouragement, and between this and his own well-meant but misplaced delicacy, his pride, and his tendency which he shares with even the best specimines of his sex to be a blockhead, Gilbert lets time slip past without trying to write to Helen, as she had asked he do at their last interview.
It is, of all people, the same malicious former sweetheart who saves Gilbert by laughingly informing him that the former tenant of Wildfell Hall is to be married in two days' time. Travelling to Grassdale Manner, Huntingdon's estate, with all possible speed, he finds that it is not Helen but Fredrick Lawrence who has just been married. Warmly congratulating his friend, Gilbert travels on to the aunt's home, where Helen is now staying. But, his hopes are finally dashed forever, as he thinks, when he learns from the conversation of his fellow coach passengers that Helen has inherited a substantial fortune from her uncle. In despair, he walks up and down in front of the park gates, knowing he must leave yet unable to do so. Thus it is that Helen finds him when she returns with little Arthur and her aunt. It is almost more than Helen can do to persuade him that she still wants to marry him, despite her newfound wealth. Eventually, however, he grasps the miraculous fact, and while he gains his heart's desire, she earns at last the quiet, happy life she deserves.
I didn't measure, but I should think Helen's narrative takes up at least half the text. And, a harrowing narrative it is, detailing her struggle to maintain her dignity and her child's safety and innoscence in the face of Huntingdon's decline from casual vice to confirmed, despairing evil. Helen does sometimes seem a trifle too good. Certainly, she quotes Scripture with disconcerting fluency. We must remember, however, that Anne Bronte was a clergyman's daughter. Also, perhaps, she wanted to underline the difference between Helen's simple yet deep and sustaining piety on the one hand and Huntingdon's rejection of both human and divine law on the other. Only occasionally was Helen's piety cloying or distracting. For the most part, I found her a strong, attractive and deeply sympathetic character.
Huntington is by no means as strong or memorable a character as Rochester or Heathcliff. He didn't strike me as being as strong a representative of evil as Gilbert is of good. Still, the contrast is stark enough. Gilbert's egotism is relatively harmless. He is well off, handsome and intelligent; but, if he is aware of these advantages, he is likewise aware of being petted and spoiled by both his mother and his sister and realizes that he may not be quite as fine a fellow as they fondly imagine. On the other hand, Huntington's selfishness, willfulness and popencity towards cruelty manifest even before his and Helen's marriage.
The way Bronte has set up the novel's structure leads the reader almost unconsciously to contrast Gilbert favorably with Huntington. That is, we meet Gilbert first, finding him sympathetic if somewhat exasperating, as young people are wont to be. We also see his and Helen's growing affection, and are able to contrast it readily with the relationship between Helen and Huntington. In other words, this reader at least was predisposed to find that Huntington suffered by comparison. Yet, I do not think this is an authorial trick but rather a deft manipulation of material. If Bronte had told the story in chronological order, beginning with Helen's meeting and falling in love with Huntington and concluding with her meeting and falling in love with Gilbert, some at least of the emotional force of both storylines would have been lessened. Both are strengthened by the mutual contrast.
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall is not summertime fluff, but rather more of a thoughtful winter's afternoon read. As brooding and powerful as Wuthering Heights, it is yet less clostraphobic and achieves brighter sunshine in the end.
Editions
Paperback
Unabridged Audio Cassette
For others who may not yet have read this dark, powerful novel: The title character is Helen Graham, a pretty, strong and selfreliant young woman, ostensibly a widow, who has moved into the largely ruinous Wildfell Hall with her young son and only one womanservant. She is surrounded by mystery and, soon, also by malicious gosip, in which the village's handsome young squire, proprietor of the Hall, figures promanently. Gilbert markham, a substantial farmer and landholder, falls reluctantly but inexorably in love with the inigmatic Mrs. Graham, but is baffled in his attempts to learn her history both by the lady herself and by his friend, Squire Fredrick Lawrence whom, in his jealousy and despair, he eventually attacks.
Mastering his anger at what he believes to be the perfidy of his beloved and his friend, Gilbert returns to the Hall to confront Helen. But, though she confirms her return of his love, she maintains that it must not be consumated or even allowed to flurish in their hearts. Finally driven to frenzy by Gilbert's persistance and lack of understanding, she thrusts a thick manuscript into his hands, and commands him to go.
The manuscript, with a few pages torn from the end, proves to be Helen's journal. In it she recounts her courtship by and marriage to one Arthur Huntingdon. Though her aunt, her guardian, remonstrates, Helen believes that she can discourage what is bad in Arthur and cultivate what is good. However, her life with him gradually becomes intolerable as his drinking, philandering and general Debauchery come to threaten the wellbeing of their young son. With the help of her brother, none other than Gilbert's friend Squire Lawrence, and her faithful attendent Rachel, Helen devises and carries out a desperate plan of escape. But, no sooner has she returned to Wildfell Hall, her childhood home before her father sent her away to live with her aunt and uncle following her mother's death, but village tongues start wagging. To add to her troubles, the handsome young cockscomb, Gilbert Markham, has attracted her attention...
Now understanding both her sorrows and her scruples, the broken hearted Gilbert avows his undying love, but at the same time agrees to honor Helens request that they part. Hurrying to Lawrence, he apologizes awkwardly but sincerely, and Lawrence welcomes the return of their friendship. But, shortly thereafter, Gilbert learns from a malicious former sweetheart that Helen has returned to Huntingdon. Lawrence confirms this, explaining that Huntingdon has sustained severe injuries in a riding accident and, since he is gravely ill, Helen has returned to nurse him. Through Helen's letters, which Lawrence freely shares with him, Gilbert learns of Huntingdon's final illness and death. Lawrence gives Gilbert no encouragement, and between this and his own well-meant but misplaced delicacy, his pride, and his tendency which he shares with even the best specimines of his sex to be a blockhead, Gilbert lets time slip past without trying to write to Helen, as she had asked he do at their last interview.
It is, of all people, the same malicious former sweetheart who saves Gilbert by laughingly informing him that the former tenant of Wildfell Hall is to be married in two days' time. Travelling to Grassdale Manner, Huntingdon's estate, with all possible speed, he finds that it is not Helen but Fredrick Lawrence who has just been married. Warmly congratulating his friend, Gilbert travels on to the aunt's home, where Helen is now staying. But, his hopes are finally dashed forever, as he thinks, when he learns from the conversation of his fellow coach passengers that Helen has inherited a substantial fortune from her uncle. In despair, he walks up and down in front of the park gates, knowing he must leave yet unable to do so. Thus it is that Helen finds him when she returns with little Arthur and her aunt. It is almost more than Helen can do to persuade him that she still wants to marry him, despite her newfound wealth. Eventually, however, he grasps the miraculous fact, and while he gains his heart's desire, she earns at last the quiet, happy life she deserves.
I didn't measure, but I should think Helen's narrative takes up at least half the text. And, a harrowing narrative it is, detailing her struggle to maintain her dignity and her child's safety and innoscence in the face of Huntingdon's decline from casual vice to confirmed, despairing evil. Helen does sometimes seem a trifle too good. Certainly, she quotes Scripture with disconcerting fluency. We must remember, however, that Anne Bronte was a clergyman's daughter. Also, perhaps, she wanted to underline the difference between Helen's simple yet deep and sustaining piety on the one hand and Huntingdon's rejection of both human and divine law on the other. Only occasionally was Helen's piety cloying or distracting. For the most part, I found her a strong, attractive and deeply sympathetic character.
Huntington is by no means as strong or memorable a character as Rochester or Heathcliff. He didn't strike me as being as strong a representative of evil as Gilbert is of good. Still, the contrast is stark enough. Gilbert's egotism is relatively harmless. He is well off, handsome and intelligent; but, if he is aware of these advantages, he is likewise aware of being petted and spoiled by both his mother and his sister and realizes that he may not be quite as fine a fellow as they fondly imagine. On the other hand, Huntington's selfishness, willfulness and popencity towards cruelty manifest even before his and Helen's marriage.
The way Bronte has set up the novel's structure leads the reader almost unconsciously to contrast Gilbert favorably with Huntington. That is, we meet Gilbert first, finding him sympathetic if somewhat exasperating, as young people are wont to be. We also see his and Helen's growing affection, and are able to contrast it readily with the relationship between Helen and Huntington. In other words, this reader at least was predisposed to find that Huntington suffered by comparison. Yet, I do not think this is an authorial trick but rather a deft manipulation of material. If Bronte had told the story in chronological order, beginning with Helen's meeting and falling in love with Huntington and concluding with her meeting and falling in love with Gilbert, some at least of the emotional force of both storylines would have been lessened. Both are strengthened by the mutual contrast.
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall is not summertime fluff, but rather more of a thoughtful winter's afternoon read. As brooding and powerful as Wuthering Heights, it is yet less clostraphobic and achieves brighter sunshine in the end.
Editions
Paperback
Unabridged Audio Cassette
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Hatshepsut, Greatest Ruling Queen of Egypt Finally Recovered from Mellennia's Obscurity
Sorry it's taken me so long to get this up. I spent the entire evening on an unrelated wild goose chase. Ooh, but I hate not being able to find what I'm looking for, especially in cyberspace!
Be that as it may, the discovery announced today is being hailed as the Egyptological find of the century. A mummy that has long been known but has languished, unidentified, was finally identified as the great (female) Eighteenth Dynasty pheroah Hatshepsut.
Herself a princess, Hatshepsut was married to Thutmose II. Upon his death, she became regent for her young stepson, Thutmose III. In time, however, she assumed the throne in her own right (some sources use the "U" word, "usurper"), ruling strongly and successfully for twenty years. When Thutmose III eventually deposed her, he took his revenge, and a terrible revenge it was by ancient Egyptian lights, by defacing all statues and monuments he could find that bore Hatshepsut's name or likeness. Thanks to his efforts, the greatest female ruler of Egypt long languished in obscurity. I'm very tired, and can't remember just now how she came to be rediscovered. I'll try to remember to look into the matter tomorrow.
Links
Find of Century for Egyptology
Hatshepsut (from Wickipedia)
Hatshetsut (from answers.com
Be that as it may, the discovery announced today is being hailed as the Egyptological find of the century. A mummy that has long been known but has languished, unidentified, was finally identified as the great (female) Eighteenth Dynasty pheroah Hatshepsut.
Herself a princess, Hatshepsut was married to Thutmose II. Upon his death, she became regent for her young stepson, Thutmose III. In time, however, she assumed the throne in her own right (some sources use the "U" word, "usurper"), ruling strongly and successfully for twenty years. When Thutmose III eventually deposed her, he took his revenge, and a terrible revenge it was by ancient Egyptian lights, by defacing all statues and monuments he could find that bore Hatshepsut's name or likeness. Thanks to his efforts, the greatest female ruler of Egypt long languished in obscurity. I'm very tired, and can't remember just now how she came to be rediscovered. I'll try to remember to look into the matter tomorrow.
Links
Find of Century for Egyptology
Hatshepsut (from Wickipedia)
Hatshetsut (from answers.com
Thursday, June 21, 2007
On Writing
The BBC's kidnapped Gaza correspondent, Alan Johnston, has been missing for one hundred and one days.
As part of their continuing coverage and efforts to keep Alan's plight before the eyes of the world, they have posted a piece he wrote about a year ago on the art of journalism. Reading it, I found myself repeatedly nodding my head and murmurring, "Yes, yes." For, though he was talking about radio reportage, Alan wrote a lovely, concise article on fiction writing as well. I highly recommend it to all here.
Click the title to go to Alan's article.
As part of their continuing coverage and efforts to keep Alan's plight before the eyes of the world, they have posted a piece he wrote about a year ago on the art of journalism. Reading it, I found myself repeatedly nodding my head and murmurring, "Yes, yes." For, though he was talking about radio reportage, Alan wrote a lovely, concise article on fiction writing as well. I highly recommend it to all here.
Click the title to go to Alan's article.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
Music
Crossposted at Disabled Americans for Democracy.
I've decided to learn to read braille music. To this end, I've bought, and am about halfway through, a book called who's Afraid of Braille Music?.
Naturally, I can read print music. But, even the largest of large print music is a struggle, while having music read to me to play and learn is, well, not particularly enjoyable. So, on a whim I bought the book and have been reading a little at a time. *shrug* It keeps me out of trouble.
The book itself is in braille - getting the print edition seemed a trifle counter intuitive - and the reading is going pretty well. Braille will never supplant audio in my life, but having access to a variety of media is helpful.
Feel free to discuss your own experiences with music, print or braille.
Thanks to Alan at Howard Empowered for the Wikipedia link.
I've decided to learn to read braille music. To this end, I've bought, and am about halfway through, a book called who's Afraid of Braille Music?.
Naturally, I can read print music. But, even the largest of large print music is a struggle, while having music read to me to play and learn is, well, not particularly enjoyable. So, on a whim I bought the book and have been reading a little at a time. *shrug* It keeps me out of trouble.
The book itself is in braille - getting the print edition seemed a trifle counter intuitive - and the reading is going pretty well. Braille will never supplant audio in my life, but having access to a variety of media is helpful.
Feel free to discuss your own experiences with music, print or braille.
Thanks to Alan at Howard Empowered for the Wikipedia link.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Al and Gwen
Earlier this evening, The News Hour interviewed Vice President Al Gore. Read the interview.
It's been a long time since I heard Mr. Gore. Of course, I remembered him as devastatingly intelligent, but I didn't remember him as so charming and engaging. What an all round great guy!
It's been a long time since I heard Mr. Gore. Of course, I remembered him as devastatingly intelligent, but I didn't remember him as so charming and engaging. What an all round great guy!
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Has Anyone Seen The Kettle?
Today the BBC has a story that would please Arthur Dent: Tea Healthier Drink than Water. Well, we knew that, right? *grin*
In a related story (from a few days ago), Blair Pines for Good Cup of Tea. The PM's finally got his priorities straight. LOL
In a related story (from a few days ago), Blair Pines for Good Cup of Tea. The PM's finally got his priorities straight. LOL
Monday, May 21, 2007
India Works to Shield Traditional Knowledge from Modern Copyrights
A new digital library in India is safeguarding ancient knowledge from patents, which can force royalty payments for knowledge that is common in that part of the world. NewsHour correspondent Fred de Sam Lazaro reports from New Delhi.
I found this fascinating, and most gratifying. It's about time people started fighting the modern propensity to copyright and pattent everything, whether they have a legitimate cause to do so or not, especially in the U.S.
This particular digital library program was brought on by several people claiming pattent rights on traditional Indian medicines and healing techniques. This seems to me only slightly less repugnant than pattenting new animals and plants. I hope the project flurishes.
Friday, May 18, 2007
History Pulitzer for Race and the Press
The 2007 winner of the Pulitzer Prize for History is The Race Beat. This evening, The News Hour aired a conversation with the book's authors, in which they discuss the role of the press in popularizing the cause of Civil Rights.
As with all News Hour Arts reportage, the segment is available only in RealAudio format.
As with all News Hour Arts reportage, the segment is available only in RealAudio format.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
India 'neglects' its historic heritage
As India celebrates the 150th anniversary of the first uprising against the British, the town where the first shot was fired by sepoy (soldier) Mangal Pandey is witnessing the gradual obliteration of its historical heritage.
Mangal Pandey fired the famous shot at a British officer on 29 March 1857 at the Barrackpore parade ground - now on the outskirts of Calcutta.
It was an action that stirred up a wave of rebellion in north India against the colonial power, and meant that Barrackpore would be a name always prominent in Indian history books.
But 150 years later, many of the sprawling bungalows and imposing structures from the colonial past have been completely swallowed by wild undergrowth.
I'm ambivalent about this. On the one hand, as a history buff, I naturally deplore neglect of historic sites. On the other hand, it seems to me that India has bigger problems and higher priorities than maintaining colonial era buildings. Parts of India are jungle, for Pete's sake! If these buildings are so all fired important, let britain maintain them.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
King Herod's ancient tomb 'found'
An Israeli archaeologist says he has found the tomb of King Herod, the ruler of Judea while it was under Roman administration in the first century BC.
After a search of more than 30 years, Ehud Netzer of the Hebrew University says he has located the tomb at Herodium, a site south of Jerusalem.
As exciting as this find is, I can't help but be reminded by it of the priceless archaeological treasures lost or destroyed forever by the current war and occupation in Iraq.
Friday, May 04, 2007
'Stunning' Nepal Buddha art find
Paintings of Buddha dating back at least to the 12th century have been discovered in a cave in a remote area of Nepal's north-central region.
Researchers made the find after being tipped off by a local sheep herder. They discovered a mural with 55 panels showing the story of Buddha's life.
The mural was uncovered in March, with the team using ice axes to break through a snow path to reach the cave.
The find was in the Mustang area, 250km (160 miles) north-west of Kathmandu.
Researchers made the find after being tipped off by a local sheep herder. They discovered a mural with 55 panels showing the story of Buddha's life.
The mural was uncovered in March, with the team using ice axes to break through a snow path to reach the cave.
The find was in the Mustang area, 250km (160 miles) north-west of Kathmandu.
Journalists jailed in Azerbaijan
Two journalists in the former Soviet republic of Azerbaijan have been jailed after publishing an article that some Muslims said insulted Islam.
Samir Sadaqatoglu and Rafiq Tagi, from Sanat newspaper, were sentenced to four and three years in prison respectively, for inciting religious hatred.
It is the latest in a series of jail sentences for journalists in energy-rich Azerbaijan.
Violence and reprisals, such as prison sentences, against journalists have been on the upswing for the past several months.
Related Links
Committee to Protect Journalists
Reporters Without Borders
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Gladiators' graveyard discovered
Scientists believe they have for the first time identified an ancient graveyard for gladiators.
Analysis of their bones and injuries has given new insight into how they lived, fought and died.
The remains were found at Ephesus in Turkey, a major city of the Roman world, BBC Timewatch reports.
Analysis of their bones and injuries has given new insight into how they lived, fought and died.
The remains were found at Ephesus in Turkey, a major city of the Roman world, BBC Timewatch reports.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Ancient Treasures of Gaza
A new exhibition showing off the archaeological riches of the Gaza Strip has just opened in the Swiss city of Geneva.
The exhibition, called "Gaza at the Crossroads of Civilisations", contains more than 500 artefacts dating back more than 5,000 years.
They reflect the diverse civilisations which at one time or another all spent time in Gaza.
Curators at Geneva's museum of art and history, which organised the exhibition, say Gaza's modern problems have so overshadowed its rich past that most people today are completely unaware that Gaza has any archaeological treasures at all.
The article discusses a project, supported by UNESCO, to build a Gaza museum, which would house these and other archaeological and cultural treasures. I think such a museum is a very bad idea. It would automatically, simply by vertue of its existence, become target No. 1 for the Israelis to bomb with their American-built planes and other armorment. As valuable as a museum of Gazan antiquities would be it, as so much else related to any sense of normalcy in Palestinian life, is held hostage until the mutual recognition by Israel and Palestine that the two states, the two peoples, exist and must live together in concord.
Link:
Gaza's ancient treasures revealed
Monday, November 13, 2006
Io Station (a work in progress)
Research Items
Moons
Periods of rotation for Io and Calisto
Periods of orbit for Io and Caalisto
Size (in km) of orbital paths for Io and Caalisto
Distance between the orbital paths of Io and Caalisto
What moons lie between Io and Calisto? Their orbital periods?
Is it necessary to travel only in the orbital plane, or could one go, as it were, above or below the orbital paths of intervening moons?
Do intervening moons have sufficient gravity to use any or all for gravity assist, depending on the distance between Io's and Calisto's orbital paths? Would this be necessary or desirable?
Communications
How would Io station and Calisto Station communicate? Radio, microwave transmission? Other forms of transmission?
What would the delay time be? Are the orbits far enough apart and large enough that the delay time would vary? What about when the two moons were on opposite sides of Jupiter?
When Io and Calisto are occulted with respect to each other, could transmission relays on other moons/space stations in Jovian orbit maintain uninterrupted communications?
Is it possible that delay times would be low enough to allow "normal" conversation between someone on IO Station and someone on Calisto Station, or someone in low orbit around Io and someone on Calisto?
What is the delay time from Io to Earth?
Intersystem Travel
How long would it take for a two seater, Ferrari-type spacecraft to get from Calisto to Io? How large would the differentials be with regard to relative orbital positions? Minutes? Hours? Days?
Some Answers
Io, 1.77 days, 422,000 km
Europa, 3.55 days, 671,000 km
Ganymede, 7.15 days, 1,070,000 km
Callisto, 16.69 days, 1,883,000 km
Thus the distance varies from 1,411,000 km to 2,255,000 km or 5 to 7.5 light
seconds. Round trip time, for answer to statement, varies from 10 to 15
seconds, uncomfortable but manageable for a conversation. Io zips around
Jupiter so quickly that every second day there might be a period of ten
minutes during which communication is impossible. The two intermediate moons
might block communications for a few minutes every so often, but this would
be only a brief inconvenience.
Io Station
Frank was dead; and, I knew who murdered him. Not the name of the person who had tampered with his suit so cleverly that no one except me so much as suspected that his blocked air feed was anything other than a tragic accident caused by human error, his own error. But, I knew whom his findings would damage and who, for that reason, had wanted him dead as soon as their spies discovered why he was really on Io Station, and whom he was really working for.
As for me, I could only trust that they didn't know he had given me the information. It was a pretty thin thread to hang a life on; and, if it weren't for the vital importance of that information and, more important by far to me, Frank's urgent appeal that I get it to the admiral, I wouldn't have cared about any threads. My Frank was dead, and without him I couldn't bear to go on living. But, he'd given me a job to do. If they murdered me once it was finished, that was okay by me. But, right now, I had to make them believe I was harmless.
That wasn't, actually, very difficult. The other crewmembers had never taken me seriously. A poet on Io Station? They all assumed, in their smug, insular fashion, that I couldn't be the chief engineer's intellectual equal. Their patronizing attitude towards me had infuriated him and hurt me. After all, our friends back in Green Belt understood that, though my Master's was in Creative Writing and my poetry had achieved a certain amount of success, including a Reisling Award, I was also an amateur cosmologist, well able to follow the broad outlines of planetary science and even some of the finer detail. Frank Lange was a planetary engineer, for Pete's sake! He wouldn't have married some nitwit who didn't know an asteroid from her ass. But, that was exactly what, to a person, the crew of the Io station thought I was.
Frank had come home fuming about three standard weeks after we arrived. "Do you know what that lousy SOB Stafford had the unmitigated gall to ask me?" he demanded, suit jacket forgotten, in one hand and dragging on the floor.
Stafford didn't concern me; but Frank's blood pressure did. So, I calmed him and settled him with a cold Coke before asking as blandly as possible, "So, what did Stafford ask you?"
Frank spluttered. "He asked me what we find to talk about. He asked me why I hadn't married someone more suitable. More suitable! Can you believe it? As if there's something wrong with me because my wife isn't a physicist, or astro-biologist, or whatever his timid little mouse of a wife is." He took a long, cooling drink.
"I am the only spouse who isn't a scientist, practicing or otherwise," I pointed out. "Have some soy pasta chips." He munched them absently. "Then too," I continued, reaching for a chip, "You - well, and I - seem to be the only people on the station who realize there's a world beyond NASA. We've been in the Greens' quarters, and the Kowalski's. Do you remember seeing one volume of Dickens, or Dovstoievski, or Cardinal Newman? Or even SF: McCaffrey or Le Guin or Kim Stanley Robinson? And no poetry, no history, no reading matter at all but technical monographs and journals." Frank agreed thoughtfully and got up to refill our glasses. "And, do you remember what Joanna Kowalski said when she saw all our books and CD's?"
His eyes flashed. "Yes," he growled. "She asked me why I had let you bring so much extra weight. 'After all, you're only going to be here three Earth years. She could have left all that junk in storage' Junk! Elliot Gould playing Bach and G.K. Chesterton are not junk! And so I informed her. But, she just gave me a pitying, condescending look, as though I were some besotted old fool."
"Well," I said mischievously, "you're not old, anyway." It took a moment, but he had laughed. And, it was that evening that we realized that we might turn their attitude to our advantage. As long as they thought I didn't understand his day-to-day work; then, if they discovered his true work, they certainly wouldn't think I could understand that. And therein lay hope. For I could channel information to Admiral Sing, or at least to my Brother, Stacy, who was his aid, without attracting suspicion or even attention.
It was soon after that that frank came up with the idea for the bracelet. It was a cheesy idea, which is why it appealed to us both. It was so totally brainless that no one would ever suspect its true purpose. Once in Greenbelt, while in bed with the flu and too weak and miserable even to read, I had paused my channel surfing on the Jewelry Channel to watch a demonstration of make-it-yourself jewelry in which you take an empty setting, of a pendent say, select the gem stone you wan too mount, and just snap it in. I'd told Frank about it, and we'd had a good laugh. But, I'd begun to think about it. Would it be possible to de-mount the stone if you got tired of it? And, did it have to be only one stone? To my amusement, Frank had become so intrigued that he actually bought a jewelry making kit. It included a bracelet. We'd never been bored enough to mount stones in the bracelet, but now he suggested that he could mount his data crystals in it. We'd give out that we'd decided to mount one stone for every month of our tour. Frank took it as a good omen that the bracelet contained mountings for thirty-six crystals. Since our colleagues on the station already thought me silly and eccentric, the bracelet caused little interest.
Frank had to work quickly, but undetected. If he was right, the Io station had a little more than half those thirty-six months. A previous whistle blower had been silenced by being thrown out of a helicopter without a parachute. Things like that happened to people who criticized the President's brother's construction company. That company had, surprise, surprise, been awarded a no-bid contract to build the Io station. And, if what Frank and his friends suspected was true, the failure would make Morton Thyicol's failure with Challenger's O rings and the failure of Columbia's heat shielding tiles look like church picnics.
Seventy people lived and worked in Io's habitat, a habitat which was built not on but in Haemus Mons. Admitedly, this mountain near the South Poll was not volcanic, to the best of our knowledge. Nonetheless Io, third out of Jupiter's satellites, orbited close enough to the giant planet to experience, among other things, tidal action and consequent internal heating so severe as to make this little world, barely larger than Luna, the most volcanic body in the known Solar System. Such atmosphere as it had was mostly sulfur dioxide, and the mean surface temperature was -143°C. I'd never bothered figuring out what that came to in Fahrenheit. It was undoubtedly below the survivable range for humans. And, if the unbreathable air or the cold didn't get you, Jupiter's radiation would. And yet, even a "minor" failure of the station's superstructure or systems would send seventy shirt sleeved or pajamad residents rushing for the space suit lockers.
We weren't allowed to keep our suits in our quarters. "Contamination," Rothstein had explained, the miasma of contempt thickening almost visibly with each syllable. "We can't risk contaminating Io with any, anything from our habitat, and we can't risk contaminating the hab, uh, habitat with anything from out on Io. So, everybody and every suit is thoroughly decontam, cleaned before going out and after coming back."
Bristling at his "I'm talking to a retarded three-year-old" tone, I managed to keep my own tone light and conversational. "Yes, I understand that. But, what if there's an emergency?" Rothstein glared. "Some sort of breach or failure of the hab in which we'd need to suit up fast?"
"Obviously, Mrs. Lange," he said, leaning all his considerable weight on the Mrs., "you don't understand anything about the construction or management of this station." He turned away. "There are failsafes, backup systems…." He glanced over his shoulder, his sneer almost a snarl. "Nothing on this station can fail." Not till we were settled in and Frank had a chance to run unofficial background checks on the station personnel, about the beginning of our second week, did we discover that Chief of Security Robert Roghstein was one of some half dozen crew members employed by both NASA and ConStel (Construction Stellar International Inc.)
But, if my hunch was right, not even the sneaking, spying, eternally damnable bastard who killed my Frank knew that I understood the nature of Io, much less the nature of Io Station and the terrible danger it was in. Naturally, if I didn't know what Frank had been working on, I didn't pose any threat to them. But, just in case, I had to play the shattered widow to the hilt; the devoted wife so devastated by her loss as to be worthless from the standpoint of intelligence gathering. It was an easy roll too play, not a roll at all, really. I was shattered. I was devastated. The only thing that kept me from losing my mind altogether was the ingrained memory of what Frank had told me every morning before he left for work, every night before he went to sleep, and on the rare occasions that he left the station. He'd always said two things: "Remember, if something happens to me, Jill, get the information to Sing. And, remember that I love you."
Now, as I stood, suited and helmeted at the small port beside the outer lock of the Prometheus, one of Io Station's two shuttles, I remembered our last kiss before he'd gone in to suit up for the unexpected EVA. He'd gone through his little spiel as usual and, as usual, I'd said, "I'll remember. I love you, darling."
Then he said:
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight, watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way."
And he'd kissed me again, holding my shoulders in his big, strong, gentle hands. And then, without a backwards glance, he'd strode into the suiting up chamber. I'd stood still for a moment, looking at the closed door, before making my way back to our quarters with an uneasy feeling firming into certainty about the significance of those lines from "The Highwayman."
I'd called Stacy, insisting a little hysterically on a super secure line, and told him. "So," he said, speaking slowly to reduce the stutter that excitement or anxiety always brought on," you think King George's m-men will come m-marching, or already have?
"Yes. The more I think of it, the more certain I am that he's been compromised or caught outright." I swallowed. "Stace, I don't think he'll come back."
Stacy was silent for a long moment. Then he said even more slowly and deliberately, "I think, I think you're in for a very rough time, Jill. Remember what Frank told you - _everything_ he told you!" As I started to reply he broke in firmly. "Sorry, Sis, gotta go. Talk to ya soon. Love ya." With that, he'd broken the connection, leaving me to speculate miserably about his safety as well.
About four hours later Rachel Green, Director of Io Station, had called me to her office and told me, as gently as possible, that Frank wouldn't be coming back. She'd been very kind, had made all the arrangements with NASA, and had brought me up on the Prometheus for the burial in space. So now I stood in the air lock with Director Green, Deputy Director Ivanov, Roger Roberts, Prometheus' pilot, and the body bag wrapped in the American Flag that contained the mortal remains of my husband. I had asked, at some point, to see him; but Director Green had told me gently but finally that it would be better for me not to. And, I hadn't asked again.
"Taps" was playing over the com. I switched my com off. "Taps" made me cry under the best of circumstances. And these were not the best of circumstances. I blinked and clenched my teeth. The outer hatch opened, and I watched through the port as the flag-wound body bag shot out of the lock and floated amid the stars.
"They couldn't even give him a casket," I thought bitterly. Startled, I realized this was the first coherent thought I'd had in hours. Then there came into my mind the lovely lines Robert Heinlein wrote to be sung to the Navy Hymn:
Almighty Ruler of the all,
Whose Power extends to great and small,
Who guides the stars with steadfast law,
Whose least creation fills with awe,
O grant thy mercy and thy grace,
To those who venture into space.
I whispered the words as the slight shuddering of the wall beneath my hand signified the closing of the hatch. After what seemed like a long time, I felt a touch on my arm. Without switching on my com, I turned and followed Director Green inside.
My fingers were clumsy, and the simple act of popping my helmet seemed to take long minutes. As soon as it was finally off I said, more querulously than I intended, "I want to go to Calisto, to Stacy."
Rachel paused in the act of stepping out of her suit trousers, and looked at me compassionately. "Of course, Jill. Demetri and I have to get back to the station; but, I can have Roger fly you over. I'm sure he wouldn't mind under the circumstances."
"Sure wouldn't," Roger said. Glancing at him, I saw the slight, milk chocolate complected pilot, already unsuited and stowing his gear, pass the back of his hand across his wet cheeks. He was young, on his first off-Earth posting, and Frank had befriended him.
Watching him as he closed the locker and eagerly turned towards me, it struck me that we were the only friends he had on Io. Yet, I couldn't even trust dear Roger. For all I knew, he had killed Frank and would kill me, or take me to ConStell headquarters to be tortured… I couldn't trust anyone from Io. I had to get away from all of them.
"No," I wailed, feeling the hysteria finally rising as inexorably as Prometheus' lava. "I want Stacy to come get me." Dropping my gloves on the floor, I sank my head into my hands and burst into tears.
I was vaguely aware of Rachel speaking quietly with Roger. Then, after a few moments, I felt Demetri's arm about me. He was a big man, almost as tall as Frank, and he supported me effortlessly. "I understand," he said in his rumbling, heavily accented English. "Everything and everyone associated with Io Station is repugnant to you now. You want only to see your brother, not even to stay on the Prometheus any longer than you can help." I could only nod against his shoulder. "Of course. We understand. Let us help you out of your suit, and you can go call him."
Like a child, I stood still as they quickly and efficiently unsuited me. As soon as my arms were free, I touched my right hand to the bracelet on my left wrist. It held eight crystals. Frank had mounted the eighth the night before he, he was lost. Since the stones were ostensibly to mark each completed month of our posting, Frank had mounted each on the last day of the month. So, it was now October Second, about twenty-four hours since he had gone away. October Second. Something stirred in the back of my mind, but I was too distraught to grasp it and it fluttered down into oblivion again.
By the time I spoke to Stacy, he and a hanger crew were already going through final check outs on the Galactica, his personal, two-passenger space plane. "Your friend Roger called and told me you needed me to come get you," he said; and, I was so distraught that this didn't strike me as odd.
………………....
Frank had suggested we drive out to the beach. Though, loving the Maine coast in all seasons and weathers as I did, I gladly agreed, it did puzzle me that he, not a beach person even in August, would make the suggestion. But, at his troubled look, I suddenly remembered what this all too rare holiday had, briefly, allowed me to put out of my mind. In a few short weeks, we would move in as part of the inaugural crew of Io Station. The quaint inn where we were staying seemed ordinary and safe enough. But, as Frank said, "I'm not paranoid if someone really is trying to kill me."
We drove with little conversation. Leaving the car in the otherwise deserted parking lot, we trudged across the dunes and the wide stretch of sand, sepia under the cloudy sky, to walk on the firm sand at the water's edge. We took our time. And I thought, not of the deep, soft sand under my boots nor of the salt-laden wind, soft as a June breeze, that brushed my face, but of the world we would soon call home.
I'd visited space and research centers on Tarra. The day at Kennedy Space Center my bemused parents had given me for my tenth birthday remained in my memory as one of the chief occurrences of my life. Less than two months later, the Delta 5 rocket carrying the first payload of nuclear waste being shot towards the Oort Cloud had exploded on the launch pad, destroying a large part of the Southeastern U.S. Later, I'd visited ESA and CSA facilities with Frank and, had toured the Cosmodrome at Vaikanor with almost as much excitement and enthusiasm as the Cape itself. We'd travled to the International Space Station, the Lunar Tri-Cities of Armstrong, Collins, and Aldren, and the Martian city states of Lewis, Bradbury, and Burroughs. And, of course, I was familiar with Calisto and Ganymede Stations. But, I'd never seen anything like Io.
The station had been built, ostensibly, as a research center. But, that cover story had never made sense to me. The research center an Ganymede was generously sized and amply equipped. It was operated by ESA, sure, but parochial considerations of what tarran flag an off-Tarran base or colony nominally had been established under meant little to most people and less to space scientists nowadays. Any research NASA wanted to pursue could easily have been accommodated at Ganymede. Of course, ConStel had lost the contract on Ganymede, unfairly as th CEO had screamed across the media like a toddler whose favorite stuffed toy had been taken away, to British, French, and Icelandic companies. Since Pres. Arthur A. Chester had, to his astonishment and chagrin, been unable to bully and threaten ESA, the EU, the UN and the international Space Consortium into nullifying the contracts and awarding the entire project to ConStel, he had arranged Io as a consolation prize for his baby brother's firm. That was an open secret in the space community. But, it didn't answer the question of why Io? What did this volcanic little satellite have that ConStel or anyone else could possibly want?
As we strolled, looking out to the grey expanse of the Atlantic, I put this question to Frank. He paused and looked at me with a mischievous, almost a boyish grin, which slowly faded to his now accustomed expression of vague worry. "They've found a life form," he said, "a microbe, on Io. An extremoophile that actually feeds on radioactivity, breaking it down into harmless chemical compounds."
I stared, momentarily speechless. "The first extraterrestrial life," I breathed. "Frank, it exists! We're not alone!" I drew a long, shuddering breath. "Microbes on another planet, well, satellite. They should name them Saganoids, or something."
Frank smiled sadly. "Yes, they should. I doubt they will, though." He glanced around nervously. The bleakly beautiful beach was deserted; not unusually for Castene Maine in mid December. "This is highly classified material, known only to a very few outside the NASA and DOD highest circles."
I frowned. "but, surely, such a discovery is the story of the century, of the millennium. We've finally found ET. What's more, ET can do something of tremendous service to Tarra…" I paused, a chill running through me. Just about every plant, animal, and chemical compound that might conceivably be of use to Man had long ago been patented by the pharma-chem-ag mega-corps. "They're going to patent the Saganoids?" I said, but it wasn't a question.
Frank nodded. "But, that's not the half of it."
I shuddered again. "What could be worse than that?"
"Lots of things," he said grimly. Sen. Harper and Admiral Sing think a fundamental design flaw in the station on Io was glossed over, covered up." I gulped, a chill sweeping through me that owed nothing to the large, fluffy snowflakes floating on sea breeze. He scuffed the sand with his boot toe. "Best estimates are," he said quietly, "that the habitable part of the station, which is the important part, after all, will fail about eighteen to twenty-four months after completion. Although the station is built in one of the few relatively stable parts of the world, it's still mainly underground and the tidal flexing will eventually breech its integrity, not because such a breech is inevitable, but because of the methods and materials used in its construction, in combination with an inadequate design." He sighed. "With only one of those problems, even the poor design, the danger would be far less immediate. With all three…" He waved his hand.
He laughed humorlessly at my shock. "What do you expect? Constel uses its own designers, engineers and architects. They use their own proprietary methods and materials. What else would they use? And, their inspectors approve every bolt and man hour. We can't have OSHA, or the Mine Safety Administration or any other government body, not even NASA, unduly interfering with their business, now can we? And, hey, it's good enough for government work. Who cares how many people are killed in the eventual structural failure? It won't disturb Constel's bottom line."
Moons
Periods of rotation for Io and Calisto
Periods of orbit for Io and Caalisto
Size (in km) of orbital paths for Io and Caalisto
Distance between the orbital paths of Io and Caalisto
What moons lie between Io and Calisto? Their orbital periods?
Is it necessary to travel only in the orbital plane, or could one go, as it were, above or below the orbital paths of intervening moons?
Do intervening moons have sufficient gravity to use any or all for gravity assist, depending on the distance between Io's and Calisto's orbital paths? Would this be necessary or desirable?
Communications
How would Io station and Calisto Station communicate? Radio, microwave transmission? Other forms of transmission?
What would the delay time be? Are the orbits far enough apart and large enough that the delay time would vary? What about when the two moons were on opposite sides of Jupiter?
When Io and Calisto are occulted with respect to each other, could transmission relays on other moons/space stations in Jovian orbit maintain uninterrupted communications?
Is it possible that delay times would be low enough to allow "normal" conversation between someone on IO Station and someone on Calisto Station, or someone in low orbit around Io and someone on Calisto?
What is the delay time from Io to Earth?
Intersystem Travel
How long would it take for a two seater, Ferrari-type spacecraft to get from Calisto to Io? How large would the differentials be with regard to relative orbital positions? Minutes? Hours? Days?
Some Answers
Io, 1.77 days, 422,000 km
Europa, 3.55 days, 671,000 km
Ganymede, 7.15 days, 1,070,000 km
Callisto, 16.69 days, 1,883,000 km
Thus the distance varies from 1,411,000 km to 2,255,000 km or 5 to 7.5 light
seconds. Round trip time, for answer to statement, varies from 10 to 15
seconds, uncomfortable but manageable for a conversation. Io zips around
Jupiter so quickly that every second day there might be a period of ten
minutes during which communication is impossible. The two intermediate moons
might block communications for a few minutes every so often, but this would
be only a brief inconvenience.
Io Station
Frank was dead; and, I knew who murdered him. Not the name of the person who had tampered with his suit so cleverly that no one except me so much as suspected that his blocked air feed was anything other than a tragic accident caused by human error, his own error. But, I knew whom his findings would damage and who, for that reason, had wanted him dead as soon as their spies discovered why he was really on Io Station, and whom he was really working for.
As for me, I could only trust that they didn't know he had given me the information. It was a pretty thin thread to hang a life on; and, if it weren't for the vital importance of that information and, more important by far to me, Frank's urgent appeal that I get it to the admiral, I wouldn't have cared about any threads. My Frank was dead, and without him I couldn't bear to go on living. But, he'd given me a job to do. If they murdered me once it was finished, that was okay by me. But, right now, I had to make them believe I was harmless.
That wasn't, actually, very difficult. The other crewmembers had never taken me seriously. A poet on Io Station? They all assumed, in their smug, insular fashion, that I couldn't be the chief engineer's intellectual equal. Their patronizing attitude towards me had infuriated him and hurt me. After all, our friends back in Green Belt understood that, though my Master's was in Creative Writing and my poetry had achieved a certain amount of success, including a Reisling Award, I was also an amateur cosmologist, well able to follow the broad outlines of planetary science and even some of the finer detail. Frank Lange was a planetary engineer, for Pete's sake! He wouldn't have married some nitwit who didn't know an asteroid from her ass. But, that was exactly what, to a person, the crew of the Io station thought I was.
Frank had come home fuming about three standard weeks after we arrived. "Do you know what that lousy SOB Stafford had the unmitigated gall to ask me?" he demanded, suit jacket forgotten, in one hand and dragging on the floor.
Stafford didn't concern me; but Frank's blood pressure did. So, I calmed him and settled him with a cold Coke before asking as blandly as possible, "So, what did Stafford ask you?"
Frank spluttered. "He asked me what we find to talk about. He asked me why I hadn't married someone more suitable. More suitable! Can you believe it? As if there's something wrong with me because my wife isn't a physicist, or astro-biologist, or whatever his timid little mouse of a wife is." He took a long, cooling drink.
"I am the only spouse who isn't a scientist, practicing or otherwise," I pointed out. "Have some soy pasta chips." He munched them absently. "Then too," I continued, reaching for a chip, "You - well, and I - seem to be the only people on the station who realize there's a world beyond NASA. We've been in the Greens' quarters, and the Kowalski's. Do you remember seeing one volume of Dickens, or Dovstoievski, or Cardinal Newman? Or even SF: McCaffrey or Le Guin or Kim Stanley Robinson? And no poetry, no history, no reading matter at all but technical monographs and journals." Frank agreed thoughtfully and got up to refill our glasses. "And, do you remember what Joanna Kowalski said when she saw all our books and CD's?"
His eyes flashed. "Yes," he growled. "She asked me why I had let you bring so much extra weight. 'After all, you're only going to be here three Earth years. She could have left all that junk in storage' Junk! Elliot Gould playing Bach and G.K. Chesterton are not junk! And so I informed her. But, she just gave me a pitying, condescending look, as though I were some besotted old fool."
"Well," I said mischievously, "you're not old, anyway." It took a moment, but he had laughed. And, it was that evening that we realized that we might turn their attitude to our advantage. As long as they thought I didn't understand his day-to-day work; then, if they discovered his true work, they certainly wouldn't think I could understand that. And therein lay hope. For I could channel information to Admiral Sing, or at least to my Brother, Stacy, who was his aid, without attracting suspicion or even attention.
It was soon after that that frank came up with the idea for the bracelet. It was a cheesy idea, which is why it appealed to us both. It was so totally brainless that no one would ever suspect its true purpose. Once in Greenbelt, while in bed with the flu and too weak and miserable even to read, I had paused my channel surfing on the Jewelry Channel to watch a demonstration of make-it-yourself jewelry in which you take an empty setting, of a pendent say, select the gem stone you wan too mount, and just snap it in. I'd told Frank about it, and we'd had a good laugh. But, I'd begun to think about it. Would it be possible to de-mount the stone if you got tired of it? And, did it have to be only one stone? To my amusement, Frank had become so intrigued that he actually bought a jewelry making kit. It included a bracelet. We'd never been bored enough to mount stones in the bracelet, but now he suggested that he could mount his data crystals in it. We'd give out that we'd decided to mount one stone for every month of our tour. Frank took it as a good omen that the bracelet contained mountings for thirty-six crystals. Since our colleagues on the station already thought me silly and eccentric, the bracelet caused little interest.
Frank had to work quickly, but undetected. If he was right, the Io station had a little more than half those thirty-six months. A previous whistle blower had been silenced by being thrown out of a helicopter without a parachute. Things like that happened to people who criticized the President's brother's construction company. That company had, surprise, surprise, been awarded a no-bid contract to build the Io station. And, if what Frank and his friends suspected was true, the failure would make Morton Thyicol's failure with Challenger's O rings and the failure of Columbia's heat shielding tiles look like church picnics.
Seventy people lived and worked in Io's habitat, a habitat which was built not on but in Haemus Mons. Admitedly, this mountain near the South Poll was not volcanic, to the best of our knowledge. Nonetheless Io, third out of Jupiter's satellites, orbited close enough to the giant planet to experience, among other things, tidal action and consequent internal heating so severe as to make this little world, barely larger than Luna, the most volcanic body in the known Solar System. Such atmosphere as it had was mostly sulfur dioxide, and the mean surface temperature was -143°C. I'd never bothered figuring out what that came to in Fahrenheit. It was undoubtedly below the survivable range for humans. And, if the unbreathable air or the cold didn't get you, Jupiter's radiation would. And yet, even a "minor" failure of the station's superstructure or systems would send seventy shirt sleeved or pajamad residents rushing for the space suit lockers.
We weren't allowed to keep our suits in our quarters. "Contamination," Rothstein had explained, the miasma of contempt thickening almost visibly with each syllable. "We can't risk contaminating Io with any, anything from our habitat, and we can't risk contaminating the hab, uh, habitat with anything from out on Io. So, everybody and every suit is thoroughly decontam, cleaned before going out and after coming back."
Bristling at his "I'm talking to a retarded three-year-old" tone, I managed to keep my own tone light and conversational. "Yes, I understand that. But, what if there's an emergency?" Rothstein glared. "Some sort of breach or failure of the hab in which we'd need to suit up fast?"
"Obviously, Mrs. Lange," he said, leaning all his considerable weight on the Mrs., "you don't understand anything about the construction or management of this station." He turned away. "There are failsafes, backup systems…." He glanced over his shoulder, his sneer almost a snarl. "Nothing on this station can fail." Not till we were settled in and Frank had a chance to run unofficial background checks on the station personnel, about the beginning of our second week, did we discover that Chief of Security Robert Roghstein was one of some half dozen crew members employed by both NASA and ConStel (Construction Stellar International Inc.)
But, if my hunch was right, not even the sneaking, spying, eternally damnable bastard who killed my Frank knew that I understood the nature of Io, much less the nature of Io Station and the terrible danger it was in. Naturally, if I didn't know what Frank had been working on, I didn't pose any threat to them. But, just in case, I had to play the shattered widow to the hilt; the devoted wife so devastated by her loss as to be worthless from the standpoint of intelligence gathering. It was an easy roll too play, not a roll at all, really. I was shattered. I was devastated. The only thing that kept me from losing my mind altogether was the ingrained memory of what Frank had told me every morning before he left for work, every night before he went to sleep, and on the rare occasions that he left the station. He'd always said two things: "Remember, if something happens to me, Jill, get the information to Sing. And, remember that I love you."
Now, as I stood, suited and helmeted at the small port beside the outer lock of the Prometheus, one of Io Station's two shuttles, I remembered our last kiss before he'd gone in to suit up for the unexpected EVA. He'd gone through his little spiel as usual and, as usual, I'd said, "I'll remember. I love you, darling."
Then he said:
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight, watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way."
And he'd kissed me again, holding my shoulders in his big, strong, gentle hands. And then, without a backwards glance, he'd strode into the suiting up chamber. I'd stood still for a moment, looking at the closed door, before making my way back to our quarters with an uneasy feeling firming into certainty about the significance of those lines from "The Highwayman."
I'd called Stacy, insisting a little hysterically on a super secure line, and told him. "So," he said, speaking slowly to reduce the stutter that excitement or anxiety always brought on," you think King George's m-men will come m-marching, or already have?
"Yes. The more I think of it, the more certain I am that he's been compromised or caught outright." I swallowed. "Stace, I don't think he'll come back."
Stacy was silent for a long moment. Then he said even more slowly and deliberately, "I think, I think you're in for a very rough time, Jill. Remember what Frank told you - _everything_ he told you!" As I started to reply he broke in firmly. "Sorry, Sis, gotta go. Talk to ya soon. Love ya." With that, he'd broken the connection, leaving me to speculate miserably about his safety as well.
About four hours later Rachel Green, Director of Io Station, had called me to her office and told me, as gently as possible, that Frank wouldn't be coming back. She'd been very kind, had made all the arrangements with NASA, and had brought me up on the Prometheus for the burial in space. So now I stood in the air lock with Director Green, Deputy Director Ivanov, Roger Roberts, Prometheus' pilot, and the body bag wrapped in the American Flag that contained the mortal remains of my husband. I had asked, at some point, to see him; but Director Green had told me gently but finally that it would be better for me not to. And, I hadn't asked again.
"Taps" was playing over the com. I switched my com off. "Taps" made me cry under the best of circumstances. And these were not the best of circumstances. I blinked and clenched my teeth. The outer hatch opened, and I watched through the port as the flag-wound body bag shot out of the lock and floated amid the stars.
"They couldn't even give him a casket," I thought bitterly. Startled, I realized this was the first coherent thought I'd had in hours. Then there came into my mind the lovely lines Robert Heinlein wrote to be sung to the Navy Hymn:
Almighty Ruler of the all,
Whose Power extends to great and small,
Who guides the stars with steadfast law,
Whose least creation fills with awe,
O grant thy mercy and thy grace,
To those who venture into space.
I whispered the words as the slight shuddering of the wall beneath my hand signified the closing of the hatch. After what seemed like a long time, I felt a touch on my arm. Without switching on my com, I turned and followed Director Green inside.
My fingers were clumsy, and the simple act of popping my helmet seemed to take long minutes. As soon as it was finally off I said, more querulously than I intended, "I want to go to Calisto, to Stacy."
Rachel paused in the act of stepping out of her suit trousers, and looked at me compassionately. "Of course, Jill. Demetri and I have to get back to the station; but, I can have Roger fly you over. I'm sure he wouldn't mind under the circumstances."
"Sure wouldn't," Roger said. Glancing at him, I saw the slight, milk chocolate complected pilot, already unsuited and stowing his gear, pass the back of his hand across his wet cheeks. He was young, on his first off-Earth posting, and Frank had befriended him.
Watching him as he closed the locker and eagerly turned towards me, it struck me that we were the only friends he had on Io. Yet, I couldn't even trust dear Roger. For all I knew, he had killed Frank and would kill me, or take me to ConStell headquarters to be tortured… I couldn't trust anyone from Io. I had to get away from all of them.
"No," I wailed, feeling the hysteria finally rising as inexorably as Prometheus' lava. "I want Stacy to come get me." Dropping my gloves on the floor, I sank my head into my hands and burst into tears.
I was vaguely aware of Rachel speaking quietly with Roger. Then, after a few moments, I felt Demetri's arm about me. He was a big man, almost as tall as Frank, and he supported me effortlessly. "I understand," he said in his rumbling, heavily accented English. "Everything and everyone associated with Io Station is repugnant to you now. You want only to see your brother, not even to stay on the Prometheus any longer than you can help." I could only nod against his shoulder. "Of course. We understand. Let us help you out of your suit, and you can go call him."
Like a child, I stood still as they quickly and efficiently unsuited me. As soon as my arms were free, I touched my right hand to the bracelet on my left wrist. It held eight crystals. Frank had mounted the eighth the night before he, he was lost. Since the stones were ostensibly to mark each completed month of our posting, Frank had mounted each on the last day of the month. So, it was now October Second, about twenty-four hours since he had gone away. October Second. Something stirred in the back of my mind, but I was too distraught to grasp it and it fluttered down into oblivion again.
By the time I spoke to Stacy, he and a hanger crew were already going through final check outs on the Galactica, his personal, two-passenger space plane. "Your friend Roger called and told me you needed me to come get you," he said; and, I was so distraught that this didn't strike me as odd.
………………....
Frank had suggested we drive out to the beach. Though, loving the Maine coast in all seasons and weathers as I did, I gladly agreed, it did puzzle me that he, not a beach person even in August, would make the suggestion. But, at his troubled look, I suddenly remembered what this all too rare holiday had, briefly, allowed me to put out of my mind. In a few short weeks, we would move in as part of the inaugural crew of Io Station. The quaint inn where we were staying seemed ordinary and safe enough. But, as Frank said, "I'm not paranoid if someone really is trying to kill me."
We drove with little conversation. Leaving the car in the otherwise deserted parking lot, we trudged across the dunes and the wide stretch of sand, sepia under the cloudy sky, to walk on the firm sand at the water's edge. We took our time. And I thought, not of the deep, soft sand under my boots nor of the salt-laden wind, soft as a June breeze, that brushed my face, but of the world we would soon call home.
I'd visited space and research centers on Tarra. The day at Kennedy Space Center my bemused parents had given me for my tenth birthday remained in my memory as one of the chief occurrences of my life. Less than two months later, the Delta 5 rocket carrying the first payload of nuclear waste being shot towards the Oort Cloud had exploded on the launch pad, destroying a large part of the Southeastern U.S. Later, I'd visited ESA and CSA facilities with Frank and, had toured the Cosmodrome at Vaikanor with almost as much excitement and enthusiasm as the Cape itself. We'd travled to the International Space Station, the Lunar Tri-Cities of Armstrong, Collins, and Aldren, and the Martian city states of Lewis, Bradbury, and Burroughs. And, of course, I was familiar with Calisto and Ganymede Stations. But, I'd never seen anything like Io.
The station had been built, ostensibly, as a research center. But, that cover story had never made sense to me. The research center an Ganymede was generously sized and amply equipped. It was operated by ESA, sure, but parochial considerations of what tarran flag an off-Tarran base or colony nominally had been established under meant little to most people and less to space scientists nowadays. Any research NASA wanted to pursue could easily have been accommodated at Ganymede. Of course, ConStel had lost the contract on Ganymede, unfairly as th CEO had screamed across the media like a toddler whose favorite stuffed toy had been taken away, to British, French, and Icelandic companies. Since Pres. Arthur A. Chester had, to his astonishment and chagrin, been unable to bully and threaten ESA, the EU, the UN and the international Space Consortium into nullifying the contracts and awarding the entire project to ConStel, he had arranged Io as a consolation prize for his baby brother's firm. That was an open secret in the space community. But, it didn't answer the question of why Io? What did this volcanic little satellite have that ConStel or anyone else could possibly want?
As we strolled, looking out to the grey expanse of the Atlantic, I put this question to Frank. He paused and looked at me with a mischievous, almost a boyish grin, which slowly faded to his now accustomed expression of vague worry. "They've found a life form," he said, "a microbe, on Io. An extremoophile that actually feeds on radioactivity, breaking it down into harmless chemical compounds."
I stared, momentarily speechless. "The first extraterrestrial life," I breathed. "Frank, it exists! We're not alone!" I drew a long, shuddering breath. "Microbes on another planet, well, satellite. They should name them Saganoids, or something."
Frank smiled sadly. "Yes, they should. I doubt they will, though." He glanced around nervously. The bleakly beautiful beach was deserted; not unusually for Castene Maine in mid December. "This is highly classified material, known only to a very few outside the NASA and DOD highest circles."
I frowned. "but, surely, such a discovery is the story of the century, of the millennium. We've finally found ET. What's more, ET can do something of tremendous service to Tarra…" I paused, a chill running through me. Just about every plant, animal, and chemical compound that might conceivably be of use to Man had long ago been patented by the pharma-chem-ag mega-corps. "They're going to patent the Saganoids?" I said, but it wasn't a question.
Frank nodded. "But, that's not the half of it."
I shuddered again. "What could be worse than that?"
"Lots of things," he said grimly. Sen. Harper and Admiral Sing think a fundamental design flaw in the station on Io was glossed over, covered up." I gulped, a chill sweeping through me that owed nothing to the large, fluffy snowflakes floating on sea breeze. He scuffed the sand with his boot toe. "Best estimates are," he said quietly, "that the habitable part of the station, which is the important part, after all, will fail about eighteen to twenty-four months after completion. Although the station is built in one of the few relatively stable parts of the world, it's still mainly underground and the tidal flexing will eventually breech its integrity, not because such a breech is inevitable, but because of the methods and materials used in its construction, in combination with an inadequate design." He sighed. "With only one of those problems, even the poor design, the danger would be far less immediate. With all three…" He waved his hand.
He laughed humorlessly at my shock. "What do you expect? Constel uses its own designers, engineers and architects. They use their own proprietary methods and materials. What else would they use? And, their inspectors approve every bolt and man hour. We can't have OSHA, or the Mine Safety Administration or any other government body, not even NASA, unduly interfering with their business, now can we? And, hey, it's good enough for government work. Who cares how many people are killed in the eventual structural failure? It won't disturb Constel's bottom line."
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Voices in Wartime Newsletter: A Teachable Moment?
A Teachable Moment?
By Andrew Himes
I spent my high school years during the 1960s growing more and more outraged by the war in Vietnam. Every day I came home from school and watched Walter Cronkite on the CBS Evening News reporting on yet another cycle of death and horror, destruction and dismemberment. Every day I heard about dozens or hundreds of new US casualties and hundreds or thousands of new Vietnamese casualties. I heard about atrocities like the killing of Vietnamese civilians in My Lai, and the carpet-bombing of the jungles by endless flights of B-52s, and pointless slaughter at places with names like Khe Sanh and Hue and Ia Drang. I was saddened by the killing. I was angered by the lies told about why we went to war and the fraudulent speeches by politicians like Lyndon Johnson who spoke dignified phrases about democracy and freedom while launching the most horrific bombardments and assaults against human life and dignity. By the time I was a junior in high school, I was sickened and horrified by the war and deeply opposed to its continuation.
In the fall of 1968 I went off to college at the University of Wisconsin in Madison bearing an extraordinary burden of self-righteousness. I lived in a permanent sense of outrage combined with an extraordinary feeling of freedom. I had escaped from the narrow confines of my family and church and high school, and the context of my escape was the ongoing war in Vietnam. By the end of my first year in college I had become a fulltime political activist. I gave up attending all but a few of my classes, and devoted myself to passing out leaflets, helping to organize rallies, attending antiwar demonstrations, and running the mimeograph machine in the Student Union to help organize yet more demonstrations.
Not only was I against the war, I was also against any soldier who had become part of the machinery of the war, whether by volunteering or consenting to being drafted, and then had gone off to take part in the war. I was sure such an act was the result of a moral choice made by an individual who was morally accountable. I believed soldiers knew what they were getting themselves into, that they were fighting an immoral war against civilians on behalf of an invading and occupying force. They were available for my sanctified disapproval, and I condemned soldiers along with their actions.
By the fall of 1969, these frequent demonstrations had become a source of irritation to the Regents of the University of Wisconsin, and they passed a law forbidding the use of loud speaking equipment on the public college campuses of Wisconsin for any political purpose. Antiwar activists on my campus at Madison held a quick planning meeting and concluded this was an egregious violation of our right to free speech as enshrined in the First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution. Far from being outraged, we were actually quite pleased, having been granted a perfect excuse for a demonstration and a gift of the moral high ground in our dispute with the Regents. We had the ideal occasion in mind. October, 1969 would see a national demonstration in Washington DC, supported by student strikes and other demonstrations on hundreds of campuses across the country. It was called the Vietnam Moratorium, and over two million American would march against the war in the largest political demonstrations in US history.
In Madison, several thousand students gathered in the square between the University Library and the Wisconsin State Historical Association. We had prepared for a dramatic yet peaceful demonstration. We selected four volunteers to be speakers at the rally and targets for arrest that day. Marge Tabankin was a vice president of the student body, a woman of large presence and strong ideas. Elrie Crite, a slim black man with a large round Afro, was the first director of the brand new Black Studies Center, which had been created in response to a campus wide strike called by the black student union the previous year. Billy Kaplan was an aggressive, eloquent, and fearless speaker and chairman of Students for a Democratic Society, the potpourri assemblage of radicals on campus. And I was the fourth person selected for arrest.
The other three speakers were set up on the steps of the library surrounded by the largest physical display of loud-speaking equipment we could muster, assembled from rental equipment stores up to a hundred miles away. We had gigantic amplifiers and massive microphones and ten foot tall speakers designed for use in rock concerts and political rallies.
Three of our designated arrestees were surrounded by a phalanx of the campus police, led by Chief Ralph Hansen, a genial, balding, and somewhat portly gentleman with a liberal disposition and a desire to keep the peace in a civilized sort of way. Ralph knew me well enough as a burgeoning troublemaker on campus, and I had acquired the permit for the demonstration in his office the day before. A large round fountain occupied the middle of the yard in front of the Library where we held the rally. During the summertime the fountain was uncovered and active, but in October it was covered by a metal sheathe that protected the fountain from the ice and snow of the coming winter. By 10 AM that morning, I was perched high above the rest of the crowd atop the metal sheath, which made a perfect speaker's platform.
As the rally began, Marge, Billy, and Elrie each stepped up to the microphone in turn and began to speak. As they did so, each was arrested and carted off to the Madison City Jail, leaving no one on the platform except for the police. The crowd then began to stir, with no immediate focus for their attention except for the cops, who were doubtless worried about what might come next, given the history of violent protests in Madison. At that point, I opened the cardboard box I had brought with me to the top of the fountain cover and pulled out my portable bullhorn to carry on with the rally. As soon as I started speaking, the crowd recognized what was happening. They turned their backs on the police and began chanting and shouting. Several cops led by Ralph Hansen started shoving their way through the crowd in my direction. And the crowd, while offering no active resistance, also provided no assistance to Ralph and his cohorts. When Ralph reached the bottom of the fountain, he looked up at me, waggled his finger in my direction, and shouted, "Andy, you come down from there right this minute!" To the delighted cheers and catcalls of thousands, I hollered back, "Ralph, come up and get me!"
That moment was one of the supremely glorious moments of my life. Two cops clambered up the slanted metal sides of the fountain cover and hauled me down, placing me in handcuffs at the bottom of the fountain where Ralph waited impatiently. I was hustled into a squad car and taken to jail, where I was charged with "illegal use of a bullhorn." I spent no more than twenty minutes behind bars before our lawyers got me bailed out, a newly-minted minor hero of the peace movement. The next day in the New York Times, I read a small article about our arrests in Madison. The case itself was thrown out a few months later by Federal Judge Frank Johnson, who declared the law unconstitutional.
35 years passed and I grew up a bit. I was opposed to the invasion of Iraq in 2003 as I had been opposed to the war in Vietnam. But I was looking for how we could create a dialogue that transcended political arguments and led to an exploration of the human cost of war. I helped produce a film called Voices in Wartime that included an interview with Jonathan Shay, a psychologist who has treated hundreds of veterans with posttraumatic stress disorder. One afternoon in the spring of 2004 I sat in front of a television with my laptop, transcribing the raw footage of Jonathan's interview as he talked about how soldiers experienced war. Jonathan said, "We are talking about a clicking in of some very deep emotional mechanisms that bond soldiers to each other. The grief that a soldier feels when a comrade is killed or severely maimed is akin to the grief of a mother whose child has just been killed." That last phrase of Jonathan Shay's hit me hard. At a deep emotional level, I understood as never before the personal cost of war for soldiers.
In August of 2006, I was a speaker at a veterans' conference in Seattle. I told the story of my first arrest, in October of 1969, to those present, an audience of some 50 or 60 veterans, many of them from the Vietnam War. I looked back and remembered myself as a nineteen year old kid, full of self-righteous energy and disdain for anybody who disagreed with me, contempt for Ralph Hanson and Lyndon Johnson and my own parents, full of righteous anger directed at anyone who was in the military or in any way a part of the political superstructure that justified, supported, or funded the war. It would have been far from my consciousness on that long ago October morning, I said, to consider what might be going through a soldier's mind, or what the sufferings of any soldier might amount to or how they might matter. I was sure I was right and that anybody who made any choice contrary to my own was morally wrong. I was a fool, I said, full of my own sanctified disapproval of soldiers and disdain for their sufferings. I had been right to oppose the war. But I was wrong to oppose the warrior. I had failed to understand that soldiers themselves were victims of the war. I knew nothing of the sorrows of soldiers, of the fear and pain that attended their service and the nightmares that followed it. I was ignorant of their motivations and of the terrible cost they had borne and continued to bear. I had refused to grant them humanity, and in my refusal I had diminished my own humanity.
When I finished speaking, the first person to stand in the audience was a burly vet about my age. He was an ex-marine named Michael Patrick Brewer wearing a Veterans for Peace t-shirt. Michael was crying, and had trouble talking. He said that my story had opened his memory to a story of his own from that same time - October, 1969. And he said he had never told his story to anyone for 37 years. On that day he was a young active duty soldier who had just returned from Vietnam after a year's tour. He was in Chicago that day, only 100 miles away from Madison where I was. And he was also at an antiwar demonstration, part of the national Vietnam Moratorium. He was wearing his Marine uniform, and after much struggle and thought he had decided to speak at the demonstration.
Michael told us how he'd gone to the rally and up onto the platform where he had been invited. He knew just what he would say. He planned to make a short speech in which he would say that we needed to stop three kinds of hatred. We needed to stop hating the Vietnamese. We needed to stop hating each other. And we needed to stop hating ourselves. As he was waiting for his turn to speak, someone else on the platform saw his uniform and attacked him, screamed that he was a baby killer, and kicked him, driving him off the stage. He said he had never before spoken of his shame at being so treated.
"You know," he said, "that was more traumatic to me than anything that happened to me in Vietnam in 1968 and 1969."
After the workshop, Michael said to me, "You used the word 'sanctified.' You talked about your 'sanctified disapproval.' I've never heard anybody use that word before in that way. Nobody's ever apologized to me for what happened that day. And I never knew how much it mattered to me. I've always known what I did the next day - I walked into Hines Hospital in Chicago looking for help for my sadness and depression, though I didn't stay because they were just looking for guinea pigs to medicate. For some reason I never put those two events together until right now. I didn't go for help again until October, 1997, the same month as the Moratorium. 28 years of repression. Ain't the brain amazing? When repression is perfect you can't find it."
By giving me his forgiveness in so graceful and compassionate a way, Michael helped me understand that I was much in need of it. That day was important for both of us. As Michael told me, it was a big emotional "clear" for him, helping to close a chapter of his life in which he had difficulty trusting others or committing himself to being part of a community working for social change. He needed to hear how I had learned I was wrong, how much I wanted and needed to hear his story, and how I had come to feel compassion for him and other veterans. Michael needed to experience the liberation that came from forgiving me.
A gulf of perception, personal experience, expectation, and memory separates us from each other. On one side is who I am, my relationships, my pangs of hunger and desire, my terrifying loves and magnetic fears. On the other side are those others, like Michael, unknown and alien to me, whose emotions, experiences, and deepest beliefs I can only view "as through a glass, darkly." Even as I tell myself the story of my life, it changes. The story finds new pathways, enters new dominions. I discover new metaphors to filter and explain my memories and reshape my learning. I discover new connections and synchronicities between myself and those whom I identified in the past as my opponents.
For my part, I needed help from Michael to reach across that gap. I needed Michael to tell me his story, and I needed him to hear mine without judging me. We both needed to understand deeply the fear and sadness that had motivated each of us. And then we could begin our lives anew, having reconfigured the gap, having changed each other and ourselves. We could become each other's salvation. We could become each other's brother.
Now, five years after 9/11, we confront one of the most critical moments in our nation's history. With much blood and treasure, we have paid for some powerful lessons and deep wisdom. Out of the wreckage of this war, might we come to a new understanding of the terrible human cost of war, and the legacy of trauma created by war? Are we nearing an historic "teachable moment" when we may be open to new insight into how we can live in a more sustainable and peaceful world? The world is waiting.
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By Andrew Himes
I spent my high school years during the 1960s growing more and more outraged by the war in Vietnam. Every day I came home from school and watched Walter Cronkite on the CBS Evening News reporting on yet another cycle of death and horror, destruction and dismemberment. Every day I heard about dozens or hundreds of new US casualties and hundreds or thousands of new Vietnamese casualties. I heard about atrocities like the killing of Vietnamese civilians in My Lai, and the carpet-bombing of the jungles by endless flights of B-52s, and pointless slaughter at places with names like Khe Sanh and Hue and Ia Drang. I was saddened by the killing. I was angered by the lies told about why we went to war and the fraudulent speeches by politicians like Lyndon Johnson who spoke dignified phrases about democracy and freedom while launching the most horrific bombardments and assaults against human life and dignity. By the time I was a junior in high school, I was sickened and horrified by the war and deeply opposed to its continuation.
In the fall of 1968 I went off to college at the University of Wisconsin in Madison bearing an extraordinary burden of self-righteousness. I lived in a permanent sense of outrage combined with an extraordinary feeling of freedom. I had escaped from the narrow confines of my family and church and high school, and the context of my escape was the ongoing war in Vietnam. By the end of my first year in college I had become a fulltime political activist. I gave up attending all but a few of my classes, and devoted myself to passing out leaflets, helping to organize rallies, attending antiwar demonstrations, and running the mimeograph machine in the Student Union to help organize yet more demonstrations.
Not only was I against the war, I was also against any soldier who had become part of the machinery of the war, whether by volunteering or consenting to being drafted, and then had gone off to take part in the war. I was sure such an act was the result of a moral choice made by an individual who was morally accountable. I believed soldiers knew what they were getting themselves into, that they were fighting an immoral war against civilians on behalf of an invading and occupying force. They were available for my sanctified disapproval, and I condemned soldiers along with their actions.
By the fall of 1969, these frequent demonstrations had become a source of irritation to the Regents of the University of Wisconsin, and they passed a law forbidding the use of loud speaking equipment on the public college campuses of Wisconsin for any political purpose. Antiwar activists on my campus at Madison held a quick planning meeting and concluded this was an egregious violation of our right to free speech as enshrined in the First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution. Far from being outraged, we were actually quite pleased, having been granted a perfect excuse for a demonstration and a gift of the moral high ground in our dispute with the Regents. We had the ideal occasion in mind. October, 1969 would see a national demonstration in Washington DC, supported by student strikes and other demonstrations on hundreds of campuses across the country. It was called the Vietnam Moratorium, and over two million American would march against the war in the largest political demonstrations in US history.
In Madison, several thousand students gathered in the square between the University Library and the Wisconsin State Historical Association. We had prepared for a dramatic yet peaceful demonstration. We selected four volunteers to be speakers at the rally and targets for arrest that day. Marge Tabankin was a vice president of the student body, a woman of large presence and strong ideas. Elrie Crite, a slim black man with a large round Afro, was the first director of the brand new Black Studies Center, which had been created in response to a campus wide strike called by the black student union the previous year. Billy Kaplan was an aggressive, eloquent, and fearless speaker and chairman of Students for a Democratic Society, the potpourri assemblage of radicals on campus. And I was the fourth person selected for arrest.
The other three speakers were set up on the steps of the library surrounded by the largest physical display of loud-speaking equipment we could muster, assembled from rental equipment stores up to a hundred miles away. We had gigantic amplifiers and massive microphones and ten foot tall speakers designed for use in rock concerts and political rallies.
Three of our designated arrestees were surrounded by a phalanx of the campus police, led by Chief Ralph Hansen, a genial, balding, and somewhat portly gentleman with a liberal disposition and a desire to keep the peace in a civilized sort of way. Ralph knew me well enough as a burgeoning troublemaker on campus, and I had acquired the permit for the demonstration in his office the day before. A large round fountain occupied the middle of the yard in front of the Library where we held the rally. During the summertime the fountain was uncovered and active, but in October it was covered by a metal sheathe that protected the fountain from the ice and snow of the coming winter. By 10 AM that morning, I was perched high above the rest of the crowd atop the metal sheath, which made a perfect speaker's platform.
As the rally began, Marge, Billy, and Elrie each stepped up to the microphone in turn and began to speak. As they did so, each was arrested and carted off to the Madison City Jail, leaving no one on the platform except for the police. The crowd then began to stir, with no immediate focus for their attention except for the cops, who were doubtless worried about what might come next, given the history of violent protests in Madison. At that point, I opened the cardboard box I had brought with me to the top of the fountain cover and pulled out my portable bullhorn to carry on with the rally. As soon as I started speaking, the crowd recognized what was happening. They turned their backs on the police and began chanting and shouting. Several cops led by Ralph Hansen started shoving their way through the crowd in my direction. And the crowd, while offering no active resistance, also provided no assistance to Ralph and his cohorts. When Ralph reached the bottom of the fountain, he looked up at me, waggled his finger in my direction, and shouted, "Andy, you come down from there right this minute!" To the delighted cheers and catcalls of thousands, I hollered back, "Ralph, come up and get me!"
That moment was one of the supremely glorious moments of my life. Two cops clambered up the slanted metal sides of the fountain cover and hauled me down, placing me in handcuffs at the bottom of the fountain where Ralph waited impatiently. I was hustled into a squad car and taken to jail, where I was charged with "illegal use of a bullhorn." I spent no more than twenty minutes behind bars before our lawyers got me bailed out, a newly-minted minor hero of the peace movement. The next day in the New York Times, I read a small article about our arrests in Madison. The case itself was thrown out a few months later by Federal Judge Frank Johnson, who declared the law unconstitutional.
35 years passed and I grew up a bit. I was opposed to the invasion of Iraq in 2003 as I had been opposed to the war in Vietnam. But I was looking for how we could create a dialogue that transcended political arguments and led to an exploration of the human cost of war. I helped produce a film called Voices in Wartime that included an interview with Jonathan Shay, a psychologist who has treated hundreds of veterans with posttraumatic stress disorder. One afternoon in the spring of 2004 I sat in front of a television with my laptop, transcribing the raw footage of Jonathan's interview as he talked about how soldiers experienced war. Jonathan said, "We are talking about a clicking in of some very deep emotional mechanisms that bond soldiers to each other. The grief that a soldier feels when a comrade is killed or severely maimed is akin to the grief of a mother whose child has just been killed." That last phrase of Jonathan Shay's hit me hard. At a deep emotional level, I understood as never before the personal cost of war for soldiers.
In August of 2006, I was a speaker at a veterans' conference in Seattle. I told the story of my first arrest, in October of 1969, to those present, an audience of some 50 or 60 veterans, many of them from the Vietnam War. I looked back and remembered myself as a nineteen year old kid, full of self-righteous energy and disdain for anybody who disagreed with me, contempt for Ralph Hanson and Lyndon Johnson and my own parents, full of righteous anger directed at anyone who was in the military or in any way a part of the political superstructure that justified, supported, or funded the war. It would have been far from my consciousness on that long ago October morning, I said, to consider what might be going through a soldier's mind, or what the sufferings of any soldier might amount to or how they might matter. I was sure I was right and that anybody who made any choice contrary to my own was morally wrong. I was a fool, I said, full of my own sanctified disapproval of soldiers and disdain for their sufferings. I had been right to oppose the war. But I was wrong to oppose the warrior. I had failed to understand that soldiers themselves were victims of the war. I knew nothing of the sorrows of soldiers, of the fear and pain that attended their service and the nightmares that followed it. I was ignorant of their motivations and of the terrible cost they had borne and continued to bear. I had refused to grant them humanity, and in my refusal I had diminished my own humanity.
When I finished speaking, the first person to stand in the audience was a burly vet about my age. He was an ex-marine named Michael Patrick Brewer wearing a Veterans for Peace t-shirt. Michael was crying, and had trouble talking. He said that my story had opened his memory to a story of his own from that same time - October, 1969. And he said he had never told his story to anyone for 37 years. On that day he was a young active duty soldier who had just returned from Vietnam after a year's tour. He was in Chicago that day, only 100 miles away from Madison where I was. And he was also at an antiwar demonstration, part of the national Vietnam Moratorium. He was wearing his Marine uniform, and after much struggle and thought he had decided to speak at the demonstration.
Michael told us how he'd gone to the rally and up onto the platform where he had been invited. He knew just what he would say. He planned to make a short speech in which he would say that we needed to stop three kinds of hatred. We needed to stop hating the Vietnamese. We needed to stop hating each other. And we needed to stop hating ourselves. As he was waiting for his turn to speak, someone else on the platform saw his uniform and attacked him, screamed that he was a baby killer, and kicked him, driving him off the stage. He said he had never before spoken of his shame at being so treated.
"You know," he said, "that was more traumatic to me than anything that happened to me in Vietnam in 1968 and 1969."
After the workshop, Michael said to me, "You used the word 'sanctified.' You talked about your 'sanctified disapproval.' I've never heard anybody use that word before in that way. Nobody's ever apologized to me for what happened that day. And I never knew how much it mattered to me. I've always known what I did the next day - I walked into Hines Hospital in Chicago looking for help for my sadness and depression, though I didn't stay because they were just looking for guinea pigs to medicate. For some reason I never put those two events together until right now. I didn't go for help again until October, 1997, the same month as the Moratorium. 28 years of repression. Ain't the brain amazing? When repression is perfect you can't find it."
By giving me his forgiveness in so graceful and compassionate a way, Michael helped me understand that I was much in need of it. That day was important for both of us. As Michael told me, it was a big emotional "clear" for him, helping to close a chapter of his life in which he had difficulty trusting others or committing himself to being part of a community working for social change. He needed to hear how I had learned I was wrong, how much I wanted and needed to hear his story, and how I had come to feel compassion for him and other veterans. Michael needed to experience the liberation that came from forgiving me.
A gulf of perception, personal experience, expectation, and memory separates us from each other. On one side is who I am, my relationships, my pangs of hunger and desire, my terrifying loves and magnetic fears. On the other side are those others, like Michael, unknown and alien to me, whose emotions, experiences, and deepest beliefs I can only view "as through a glass, darkly." Even as I tell myself the story of my life, it changes. The story finds new pathways, enters new dominions. I discover new metaphors to filter and explain my memories and reshape my learning. I discover new connections and synchronicities between myself and those whom I identified in the past as my opponents.
For my part, I needed help from Michael to reach across that gap. I needed Michael to tell me his story, and I needed him to hear mine without judging me. We both needed to understand deeply the fear and sadness that had motivated each of us. And then we could begin our lives anew, having reconfigured the gap, having changed each other and ourselves. We could become each other's salvation. We could become each other's brother.
Now, five years after 9/11, we confront one of the most critical moments in our nation's history. With much blood and treasure, we have paid for some powerful lessons and deep wisdom. Out of the wreckage of this war, might we come to a new understanding of the terrible human cost of war, and the legacy of trauma created by war? Are we nearing an historic "teachable moment" when we may be open to new insight into how we can live in a more sustainable and peaceful world? The world is waiting.
Go to the essay on the Voices in Wartime web site
Help on Organizing a Community Screening of the Voices film
Voices in Wartime Anthology Available!
To order the book or DVD, go to http://voicesinwartime.org/order.htm
Voices in Wartime is a 240-page book containing the most powerful and eloquent voices - poets, writers, reporters, and veterans - testifying to the trauma and devastation of war, and the need for healing. Voices in Wartime is also a feature-length documentary that delves into the experience of war through powerful images and the words of poets - unknown and world-famous. Poets around the world, from the United States and Colombia to Britain and Nigeria to Iraq and India, share their poetry and experiences of war. Soldiers, journalists, historians and experts on combat interviewed in Voices in Wartime add diverse perspectives on war's effects on soldiers, civilians and society.
See a Trailer of the Film: Go to http://voicesinwartime.org/trailer.htm
Learn More about the Film: Go to http://voicesinwartime.org/movie.htm
Hear the Poems from the Film
Featured poems from Voices in Wartime are now available in MP3 and Windows Media audio formats on the web site. Visit the Poems in the Filmpage to download and hear the audio clips.
Go to http://voicesinwartime.org/poems.htm
Sign Up
...to get this monthly e-mail from the Voices in Wartime Education Project, a newsletter of art, essays, and ideas for healing conflict and the trauma of war, plus news about Voices in Wartime.
Go to http://voicesinwartime.org/register.htm
Home - http://voicesinwartime.org
About the Movie - http://voicesinwartime.org/movie.htm
About the Education Project- http://voicesinwartime.org/about.htm
Contact Us - http://voicesinwartime.org/contact.htm
Friday, November 03, 2006
Radio, Art & Music changing El Salvador
Supporters like you have been keeping us busy this fall!
In Olympia, friends organized a successful benefit concert with folksinger Greg Brown. They packed the house and raised nearly $4,000 to support the work in El Salvador!
Here in Austin, a great team of volunteers put together an art show and reception. They've helped promote the art project and create more visibility in the community for the Foundation for Self-Sufficiency! You can read more about the event here.
You should also know that Mangrove Radio, the community radio station in El Salvador, has completed 3 great years now! One of the highlights of their third year has been a weekly show with an environmental theme. You can learn more about how this educational program helps the Bajo Lempa's sensitive ecology by clicking here.
Saludos,
Isaac "Ike" Trevino & Jose "Chencho" Alas
Executive Director Founder & Peace Project Director
ike@fssca.net chencho@fssca.net
In Olympia, friends organized a successful benefit concert with folksinger Greg Brown. They packed the house and raised nearly $4,000 to support the work in El Salvador!
Here in Austin, a great team of volunteers put together an art show and reception. They've helped promote the art project and create more visibility in the community for the Foundation for Self-Sufficiency! You can read more about the event here.
You should also know that Mangrove Radio, the community radio station in El Salvador, has completed 3 great years now! One of the highlights of their third year has been a weekly show with an environmental theme. You can learn more about how this educational program helps the Bajo Lempa's sensitive ecology by clicking here.
Saludos,
Isaac "Ike" Trevino & Jose "Chencho" Alas
Executive Director Founder & Peace Project Director
ike@fssca.net chencho@fssca.net
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Poet At Center Of Firestorm
Further developments on the Nikki Giovanni/Ken Blackwell story.
In an article in The Cincinatti Inquirer, poet Nikki Giovanni is quoted as follows with regard to her Saturday poetry reading in Fountain Square:
Miss Giovanni's remarks are
If that's not an imflamitory, militantly Right-wing, not to say vicious remark, this blogger doesn't know what is.
Moreover, I find it highly inappropriate for a police officer to make such nakedly partazan remarks in a newspaper, especially when he is specifically identified as Vice President of the Ohio Fraternal Order of Police. Frankly, a poet *is* free to express her private views in any place and in any way she sees fit. A police officer is not. If Mr. Fangman had been speaking as a private citizen, he, too, would have been free to be as partizan as he wished. However, for him to speak as he did in his capacity as an officer of the law is distasteful and shows poor judgment on his part, to say the very least.
We wholeheartedly support Miss Giovanni's courage and artistic integrity, as well as her inalienable right to free speech.
Thanks to Renee*in*Ohio at Howard Empowered People for highlighting this controversy.
In an article in The Cincinatti Inquirer, poet Nikki Giovanni is quoted as follows with regard to her Saturday poetry reading in Fountain Square:
Giovanni isn't happy about the criticism or controversy. But she's not apologizing, either.
"All I have is my voice," she said. "I don't want it silenced. We were on (Fountain Square) where the Klan gathered to speak. I'm not sure as many people called to complain about what the Klan had to say as what I said."
Giovanni said Fountain Square has a long history as a place where controversial and sometimes unpopular issues are voiced.
"There's never an appropriate place," she said. "The square is a place for free speech and public dialogue."
Giovanni added, "I think Kenny is not a nice person. I think you can tell that by what I wrote."
Miss Giovanni's remarks are
balancedby the following:
Keith Fangman, vice president of the Ohio Fraternal Order of Police, was unhappy about a line in the poem that referred to police shootings of young black men. He called the reference "inflammatory."
"What a great way to welcome the cop-hating, racist element back to Fountain Square," he said sarcastically.
Fangman said 3CDC leadership was to blame for the "PR nightmare" created by Giovanni's remarks. "Any imbecile should have known that Nikki Giovanni is an ill-tempered, foul-mouthed, left-wing, political militant and should never have been invited to speak at this celebration."
If that's not an imflamitory, militantly Right-wing, not to say vicious remark, this blogger doesn't know what is.
Moreover, I find it highly inappropriate for a police officer to make such nakedly partazan remarks in a newspaper, especially when he is specifically identified as Vice President of the Ohio Fraternal Order of Police. Frankly, a poet *is* free to express her private views in any place and in any way she sees fit. A police officer is not. If Mr. Fangman had been speaking as a private citizen, he, too, would have been free to be as partizan as he wished. However, for him to speak as he did in his capacity as an officer of the law is distasteful and shows poor judgment on his part, to say the very least.
We wholeheartedly support Miss Giovanni's courage and artistic integrity, as well as her inalienable right to free speech.
Thanks to Renee*in*Ohio at Howard Empowered People for highlighting this controversy.
Monday, October 16, 2006
No Laurels For Nikki If Ken Wins?
Yesterday, Plunderbund ran this story about poet Nikki Giovanni:
I Am Not A Son Of A Bitch Like Kenny Blackwell
It is unclear whether the entire text of Miss Giovanni's poem is included in the article, or only most of it.
A strong, evocative poem, "I Am Cincinatti" is not necessarily well served by the hypertopical refferences IMO. My hunch is that they may be removed when the poem is printed. Still, Miss Giovanni demonstrates the power of poetry and the public engagement that I feel is an integral part of being a poet. She also showed no little courage.
We applaud Nikki Giovanni for her poem and the courage to perform it.
Read more:
Nikki Giovanni's web site
I Am Not A Son Of A Bitch Like Kenny Blackwell
It is unclear whether the entire text of Miss Giovanni's poem is included in the article, or only most of it.
A strong, evocative poem, "I Am Cincinatti" is not necessarily well served by the hypertopical refferences IMO. My hunch is that they may be removed when the poem is printed. Still, Miss Giovanni demonstrates the power of poetry and the public engagement that I feel is an integral part of being a poet. She also showed no little courage.
We applaud Nikki Giovanni for her poem and the courage to perform it.
Read more:
Nikki Giovanni's web site
New U.S. Poet Laureate
Donald Hall has been named U.S. Poet Laureate. A prolific essayest as well as poet Mr. Hall, who lives in New Hampshire, writes movingly and vividly about the natural, day to day world around him.
Asked about the future of poetry, he expressed optimism. Poetry is infinitely more popular today, he told The News Hour's Jeffrey Brown, than when he was a boy. Today, Mr. Hall pointed out, it seems that there's a poetry reading on every block.
We congratulate Mr. Hall on his achievement.
Read more:
Poet Laureate Donald Hall Reflects on Age and Nature
PBS News Hour: Poet Profile - Donald Hall
Donald Hall's poetry at the Poetry Foundation's web site
Interestingly, while the just departed Poet Laureate, Robert Pinsky wrote a statement of conscience supporting Sam Hamil and the Poets Against The War movement, Mr. Hall does not appear to have any material at their site. One cannot help but wonder whether this nonappearance has anything to do with Mr. Hall's appointment. Maybe I'm just paranoid.
Asked about the future of poetry, he expressed optimism. Poetry is infinitely more popular today, he told The News Hour's Jeffrey Brown, than when he was a boy. Today, Mr. Hall pointed out, it seems that there's a poetry reading on every block.
We congratulate Mr. Hall on his achievement.
Read more:
Poet Laureate Donald Hall Reflects on Age and Nature
PBS News Hour: Poet Profile - Donald Hall
Donald Hall's poetry at the Poetry Foundation's web site
Interestingly, while the just departed Poet Laureate, Robert Pinsky wrote a statement of conscience supporting Sam Hamil and the Poets Against The War movement, Mr. Hall does not appear to have any material at their site. One cannot help but wonder whether this nonappearance has anything to do with Mr. Hall's appointment. Maybe I'm just paranoid.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Poetry On The News Hour
Throughout this year, The PBS News Hour is carrying an occasional series on poetry. The series profiles American poets and discusses the role of poetry in America today.
Click the title to go to the "About" page for the series, from which you can access the entire sub-site.
Click the title to go to the "About" page for the series, from which you can access the entire sub-site.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Egyptian Nobel Laureate Naguib Mahfouz In Unstable Condition
Egypt's Nobel Prize-winning writer Naguib Mahfouz is in intensive care at hospital in the capital, Cairo.
Mahfouz, in his mid-90s, has been in hospital since a fall last month. He is said to be in an "unstable" condition.
His vibrant, colourful portrayal of capital in his Cairo Trilogy won the 1988 Nobel Prize for literature.
Click the title to go to the BBC article. Our prayers are with Mr. Mahfouz and his family.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Call For Solidarity From Poets Against War
Dear Poets Against War:
Fernando Rendón, poet and workhorse for peace, directs the MedellÃn International Poetry Festival. We at Poets Against War support his petition whole-heartedly.
Please go to
http://www.poetsagainstwar.net/poetspetition2.asp
and add your signature.
Namaste,
Sam Hamill & the PAW Board
Medellin, March 22nd, 2006.
Dear poets:
Greetings from Colombia.
We invite you to sign the attached letter to express as soon as possible your solidarity with this cause and then to circulate this letter electronically among your friends.
All the best,
Fernando Rendón
Director
International Poetry Festival of Medellin
Cease hypocrisy on the issue of Human Rights
The 62nd Session of the UN Commission on Human Rights will begin next March 20 in Geneva, coinciding with the broadcasting of new footage of US military torturing Iraqi prisoners.
The United States and its EU allies have successively prevented this Commission from condemning the massive and systematic violations of human rights promoted in the name of the so called war against terrorism.
The EU governments have refused to admit the testimonies and evidences submitted by citizens of their countries, who have been victims of several forms of torture at Guantánamo navy base. They have also allowed the flight of CIA aircrafts carrying prisoners to illegal detention centers in Europe and elsewhere.
We the undersigned call upon intellectuals, artists, social activists, and men and women of goodwill everywhere to join our claims: the Commission on Human Rights or the Council that will substitute it, must demand the immediate closing of the arbitrary detention centers created by the United States as well as the ceasing of all these deliberate violations of human dignity.
Fernando Rendón, poet and workhorse for peace, directs the MedellÃn International Poetry Festival. We at Poets Against War support his petition whole-heartedly.
Please go to
http://www.poetsagainstwar.net/poetspetition2.asp
and add your signature.
Namaste,
Sam Hamill & the PAW Board
Medellin, March 22nd, 2006.
Dear poets:
Greetings from Colombia.
We invite you to sign the attached letter to express as soon as possible your solidarity with this cause and then to circulate this letter electronically among your friends.
All the best,
Fernando Rendón
Director
International Poetry Festival of Medellin
Cease hypocrisy on the issue of Human Rights
The 62nd Session of the UN Commission on Human Rights will begin next March 20 in Geneva, coinciding with the broadcasting of new footage of US military torturing Iraqi prisoners.
The United States and its EU allies have successively prevented this Commission from condemning the massive and systematic violations of human rights promoted in the name of the so called war against terrorism.
The EU governments have refused to admit the testimonies and evidences submitted by citizens of their countries, who have been victims of several forms of torture at Guantánamo navy base. They have also allowed the flight of CIA aircrafts carrying prisoners to illegal detention centers in Europe and elsewhere.
We the undersigned call upon intellectuals, artists, social activists, and men and women of goodwill everywhere to join our claims: the Commission on Human Rights or the Council that will substitute it, must demand the immediate closing of the arbitrary detention centers created by the United States as well as the ceasing of all these deliberate violations of human dignity.
Friday, March 24, 2006
In Memoriam: John Morressy
from the Blind SF listserv
Forwarded (I think) from Joyce Scrivner:
SF and fantasy writer John Morressy died Monday, March 20, 2006, of a heart attack at his home in Sullivan, New Hampshire, at the age of 75. Morressy wrote more than 20 books, from space opera to humorous fantasy, and was best known for his novels and stories (mostly in F&SF) about Kedrigern the wizard.
» The SFWA obituary includes funeral details
http://www.sfwa.org/news/2006/jmorressy.htm
Forwarded (I think) from Joyce Scrivner:
SF and fantasy writer John Morressy died Monday, March 20, 2006, of a heart attack at his home in Sullivan, New Hampshire, at the age of 75. Morressy wrote more than 20 books, from space opera to humorous fantasy, and was best known for his novels and stories (mostly in F&SF) about Kedrigern the wizard.
» The SFWA obituary includes funeral details
http://www.sfwa.org/news/2006/jmorressy.htm
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
From mataliandy via listener: The Impeachment Wagon is Ready to Roll
(Oh you know you want it...)
All aboard!
Vermont's Impeachment document known as the Rutland Resolution has wheels, and we're hitching our wagon to it.
The Rutland Resolution is a resolution passed by the Rutland Vermont County Democrats on February 28 that takes advantage of a little-known US House rule for impeachment charges to be transmitted to the US House from the states. It's building a groundswell of support in Vermont, and starting to leak into other states. Rhode Island already had their own version in the works, and there are rumors of action elsewhere.
We need to keep the momentum going!
mataliandy has just posted a do-it-yourself impeachment guide on Kos http://www.dailykos.com/story/2006/3/7/105540/6002 and MyLeftWing http://www.myleftwing.com/showDiary.do?diaryId=6540, which includes the text of the Rutland Resolution, link to a pdf of the US House Rules, as well as steps to creating your own state's resolution.
Recommends are needed, but we also need swarming. The most helpful thing right now is to get rolling thunder - make it sweep across the landscape before it can be stopped. Once the word is out there, we can keep people excited by reporting on what's happening with it around the country. If we can't get it into the media, we can at least get it into our communities.
That's where you come in. If you can get folks to recommend, please do, but also, if you have a blog or know someone with a blog, please post about it - feel free to use the entire thing wholesale if you're short on time. The important thing is to get it disseminated.
While you're at it, please email the diary to any email lists you belong to. The more people who are aware of the option, the better
For more information email: impeach@dfvt.com
Thank you!
All aboard!
Vermont's Impeachment document known as the Rutland Resolution has wheels, and we're hitching our wagon to it.
The Rutland Resolution is a resolution passed by the Rutland Vermont County Democrats on February 28 that takes advantage of a little-known US House rule for impeachment charges to be transmitted to the US House from the states. It's building a groundswell of support in Vermont, and starting to leak into other states. Rhode Island already had their own version in the works, and there are rumors of action elsewhere.
We need to keep the momentum going!
mataliandy has just posted a do-it-yourself impeachment guide on Kos http://www.dailykos.com/story/2006/3/7/105540/6002 and MyLeftWing http://www.myleftwing.com/showDiary.do?diaryId=6540, which includes the text of the Rutland Resolution, link to a pdf of the US House Rules, as well as steps to creating your own state's resolution.
Recommends are needed, but we also need swarming. The most helpful thing right now is to get rolling thunder - make it sweep across the landscape before it can be stopped. Once the word is out there, we can keep people excited by reporting on what's happening with it around the country. If we can't get it into the media, we can at least get it into our communities.
That's where you come in. If you can get folks to recommend, please do, but also, if you have a blog or know someone with a blog, please post about it - feel free to use the entire thing wholesale if you're short on time. The important thing is to get it disseminated.
While you're at it, please email the diary to any email lists you belong to. The more people who are aware of the option, the better
For more information email: impeach@dfvt.com
Thank you!
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Ads For The War On Iraq, Coming To A TV Near You
TruthOut reports today:
I don't need to read the story. The summary alone is enough to raise my blood pressure. I'll only say here that the purchase and broadcast of such adverts seems to me to be an abuse of the public airwaves and of the cable services many Americans pay for.
TV Ads Push Iraq War Support
http://www.truthout.org/docs_2006/030206E.shtml
In an early sign of the imagery that may flood the nation's television screens as congressional elections approach this fall, a conservative political group closely aligned with the Bush administration has launched a blitz of television ads to shore up sagging public support for the war in Iraq.
I don't need to read the story. The summary alone is enough to raise my blood pressure. I'll only say here that the purchase and broadcast of such adverts seems to me to be an abuse of the public airwaves and of the cable services many Americans pay for.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Cardinal: Ash Wednesday, 2006
"All artists are mystics in some way."~ Franciscan Br. Robert Lentz,
(known for his riveting rendition of the Stations of the Cross)
Br. Robert's work can be found at Trinity Stores.
Friday, February 24, 2006
WONDERING IF THERE'S A WAY TO ACTUALLY HELP THE TROOPS?
listener writes:
Soldiers in Iraq must be having a very scary week, with the situation there deteriorating so rapidly. And the medical units must be running on exhaustion.
I am thinking these days of my friends' son Aaron who left for Iraq in November when his firstborn daughter was only two weeks old. He's younger than our youngest, so about age 21. I've been wishing we knew how he is, and wondering how to ease the strain on our friends here in Vermont.
Well, I just got word through my sister Patti, who is now an Air Force Captain, that there are some specific items that a medical unit serving injured soldiers could use. It might take a little of the strain out of this time to do something which is kind and useful, at least to add a little balance to the Universe.
If you would like to send something, here are the particulars, which come from Capt. Maureen A. McCann, Life Skills Nurse. Typical of a nurse, Maureen says, "Many of you are asking what you can send, do we need anything? Well, we don't, but our patients do."
She elaborates, saying: Many can't continue to wear the uniforms they come in with and do not have anything else. Here is a list of what we can use (many of you are connecting with your church or job, but even one set is great!).
THANKS SO MUCH!
Mailing address for packages:
Capt Maureen McCann
332 AEW/CASF
APO AE 09315-9997
Soldiers in Iraq must be having a very scary week, with the situation there deteriorating so rapidly. And the medical units must be running on exhaustion.
I am thinking these days of my friends' son Aaron who left for Iraq in November when his firstborn daughter was only two weeks old. He's younger than our youngest, so about age 21. I've been wishing we knew how he is, and wondering how to ease the strain on our friends here in Vermont.
Well, I just got word through my sister Patti, who is now an Air Force Captain, that there are some specific items that a medical unit serving injured soldiers could use. It might take a little of the strain out of this time to do something which is kind and useful, at least to add a little balance to the Universe.
If you would like to send something, here are the particulars, which come from Capt. Maureen A. McCann, Life Skills Nurse. Typical of a nurse, Maureen says, "Many of you are asking what you can send, do we need anything? Well, we don't, but our patients do."
She elaborates, saying: Many can't continue to wear the uniforms they come in with and do not have anything else. Here is a list of what we can use (many of you are connecting with your church or job, but even one set is great!).
- Large size:
- Sweat pants
- long sleeve T-shirts
- T-shirts
- gym shorts (blue, black, gray only; they need to be conservative due to the area we are in)
- mens underpants
- small pillows (great for stuffing under or around the patient's injuries/casts to make them more comfortable for their long flight while they are on a litter.)
(We get tons of socks and toiletries.)
THANKS SO MUCH!
Mailing address for packages:
Capt Maureen McCann
332 AEW/CASF
APO AE 09315-9997
Thursday, February 23, 2006
From The Inbox: The Foundation for Self-Sufficiency in Central America
Last month we went to El Salvador so Ike could get better acquainted with the people and projects. In El Salvador, this included a variety of meetings with community leaders and the staff of the Coordinadora, our local partner. In Guatemala the Mesoamerican Peace Committee had its annual meeting (which drew the attention of the international press); Ike shared a pipe ceremony, a part of his Native American spirituality, with the participants from Chiapas, Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, and Panama.
One of the things visitors to El Salvador always want to see is the Rays of Light Youth Art Project. The communities are truly proud of their young people and how they are channeling their creativity into works of beauty. Balbino is one such artist, who has already received international recognition in El Salvador. You can read more about him here. To learn more about the advances of the art project last year, click here for a report and pictures. Remember that there's still time to sign up for our summer tour, July 22-29. Contact us if you'd like to participate.
Saludos!
Isaac "Ike" Trevino & Jose "Chencho" Alas
Executive Director Founder & Peace Project Director
ike@fssca.net chencho@fssca.net
PS, We will be in Worcester, Massachusetts, on March 22nd to celebrate Romero's anniversary with Rep. Jim McGovern. The event, from 7-9pm, will take place at The College of the Holy Cross's Rehm Library. For more information on this event, call (508) 831-7356 or click here.
***********************************************************
PRIVACY
The Foundation for Self-Sufficiency in Central America does NOT share your email address with others.
You received this email because you either gave the FSSCA your email address, signed a mailing list at a special event, or a friend thought you would be interested in our work.
If you want to subscribe to or be removed from this list, send an e-mail to sean@fssca.net with either "subscribe" or "remove" as the subject.
One of the things visitors to El Salvador always want to see is the Rays of Light Youth Art Project. The communities are truly proud of their young people and how they are channeling their creativity into works of beauty. Balbino is one such artist, who has already received international recognition in El Salvador. You can read more about him here. To learn more about the advances of the art project last year, click here for a report and pictures. Remember that there's still time to sign up for our summer tour, July 22-29. Contact us if you'd like to participate.
Saludos!
Isaac "Ike" Trevino & Jose "Chencho" Alas
Executive Director Founder & Peace Project Director
ike@fssca.net chencho@fssca.net
PS, We will be in Worcester, Massachusetts, on March 22nd to celebrate Romero's anniversary with Rep. Jim McGovern. The event, from 7-9pm, will take place at The College of the Holy Cross's Rehm Library. For more information on this event, call (508) 831-7356 or click here.
***********************************************************
PRIVACY
The Foundation for Self-Sufficiency in Central America does NOT share your email address with others.
You received this email because you either gave the FSSCA your email address, signed a mailing list at a special event, or a friend thought you would be interested in our work.
If you want to subscribe to or be removed from this list, send an e-mail to sean@fssca.net with either "subscribe" or "remove" as the subject.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Quilts For Veterans
Rutland Herald
February 21, 2006
Fifty Iraq war veterans from around the state were presented with "Quilts of Valor" at a ceremony Monday night at the Veterans Affairs Hospital in White River Junction.The quilts were made by nationwide volunteers taking part in the Quilts for Soldiers organization based in Silver Springs, Md.
VA Hospital director Gary De Gasta said the quilts were in part a response to the poor attention given to veterans of the Vietnam War."I hope we've turned that around," he said.
Rep. Bernard Sanders, I-Vt., was scheduled to be guest speaker for the event, but had a scheduling conflict. Samuel Haskins, a Vietnam veteran and aide to Sanders, read a statement stressing the importance of adequately funding the VA to give veterans the help they deserve.
February 21, 2006
Fifty Iraq war veterans from around the state were presented with "Quilts of Valor" at a ceremony Monday night at the Veterans Affairs Hospital in White River Junction.The quilts were made by nationwide volunteers taking part in the Quilts for Soldiers organization based in Silver Springs, Md.
VA Hospital director Gary De Gasta said the quilts were in part a response to the poor attention given to veterans of the Vietnam War."I hope we've turned that around," he said.
Rep. Bernard Sanders, I-Vt., was scheduled to be guest speaker for the event, but had a scheduling conflict. Samuel Haskins, a Vietnam veteran and aide to Sanders, read a statement stressing the importance of adequately funding the VA to give veterans the help they deserve.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Sunday, February 19, 2006
On The Money
Different countries and cultures have different ideas about who it is appropriate to portray on their money. At present, the Swiss Frank is graced by portraits of figures from the arts. The previous series displayed portraits of scientists.
If the U.S. were to place American artists (native born and naturalized) on our bank notes, who do you think those artists ought to be?
If the U.S. were to place American artists (native born and naturalized) on our bank notes, who do you think those artists ought to be?
Images and Blogger
Some Blogger blogs, this one among them, have user pics in comments enabled. This means that, if you have an image stored on your Blogger profile, that image will show on your comments on the Blogger comments page. User pics do *not* show next to comments on the individual pages for each thread.
Blogger does not allow you to upload images directly to your profile. Instead, you must provide a URL of up to 86 characters. The image must be in .png, .gif, or .jpeg format. If you have a graphics program such as Paint Shop Pro or Photoshop, you can simply "open" an image with the .jpg extension and "save as," giving the file the .jpeg extension. Then, upload it to your online storage area, free web space, or whatever, and enter the URL in the blank on the profile form. Click the orenge save button at the bottom of the form to save your changes.
As to the uploading itself, you have a choice. If your ISP provides free web space, as many do, you can upload your images to that space for storage. To use this option, you'll need an FTP program to transfer the image files to your webspace.
A simpler, less expensive alternative is the Hello software system, offered free to Blogger members. According to the info on the Hello page, this system is fully integrated with Blogger and will allow you to upload images to your Blogger blogs with minimal effort or knowledge of the particulars. This system may also allow you to create a URL accessible to the Blogger profile.
You can upload images on the fly to your post threads by means of the "add Image" function on the post creation screen. This function permits you to upload images directly from your computer.
Blogger does not allow you to upload images directly to your profile. Instead, you must provide a URL of up to 86 characters. The image must be in .png, .gif, or .jpeg format. If you have a graphics program such as Paint Shop Pro or Photoshop, you can simply "open" an image with the .jpg extension and "save as," giving the file the .jpeg extension. Then, upload it to your online storage area, free web space, or whatever, and enter the URL in the blank on the profile form. Click the orenge save button at the bottom of the form to save your changes.
As to the uploading itself, you have a choice. If your ISP provides free web space, as many do, you can upload your images to that space for storage. To use this option, you'll need an FTP program to transfer the image files to your webspace.
A simpler, less expensive alternative is the Hello software system, offered free to Blogger members. According to the info on the Hello page, this system is fully integrated with Blogger and will allow you to upload images to your Blogger blogs with minimal effort or knowledge of the particulars. This system may also allow you to create a URL accessible to the Blogger profile.
You can upload images on the fly to your post threads by means of the "add Image" function on the post creation screen. This function permits you to upload images directly from your computer.
Morning Prayer
Lord, thank You for a beautiful morning,
The hope and promise of a beautiful day.
Grant me the strength to fulfill that promise.
Help me to be kind, thoughtful and generous
And to think of others before myself.
And help me to do something good this day.
Protect those I love and all Your people,
And keep the world in peace till evening.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Well, Knock ME Over With A Feather!
Have you ever had a moment, as a writer or other sort of artist, when you received unexpected recognition or worthwhile comment on your work, and the experience just knocked you over with unimaginable joy?!
This is not a rhetorical question; please share your "bluebird of happiness" stories!
Mine happened TODAY!
An article I wrote was published in December in a magazine that comes out every two months. This morning I received word from a peer in R.I. that the new issue includes "a full page of letters to the Editor (including one from the Executive Director herself) affirming" the article! A short while later I received word from another peer in MA saying: "Did I share with you that copies of your article were given to us at the Residency? Excellent and so important to the dialogue."
Given that in the past whenever I have gone out on a limb and spoken out about something regarding the ministry I offer, I have been met with resistance and disdain, I am feeling a bit startled! So, it may take awhile to receive this news, but I will continue to savour it.
Now, I really DO want to hear your stories!
Tell us your "greatest response" and JOY story.
With Amazed and Delighted Gratitude, listener
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
In Memoriam: Peter Benchley
Peter Benchley, novelist, shark lover and advocate for ocean concervation, died Saturday. He suffered from pulmonary fibrosis, a progressive and fatal lung disease. He died at home, in Princeton.
Most recently, Mr. Benchley wrote articles for National Geographic and did radio ocean reports and educational films on ocean conservation. He believed deeply in the vital importance of the seas and of rain forests, and worked to educate the public, especially young people, about the need to care for this planet.
Mr. Benchley is survived by his wife of forty-one years, Wendy, and his three children.
RIP
Related Links
Jaws Author Peter Benchley Dies at 65
Jaws Creator Loved Sharks, Wife Reveals
Jaws Author Dead at 65 from xinhuanet.com (China)
Peter Benchley, The Author of Jaws, Dies at Sixty-five
PeterBenchley.com
Most recently, Mr. Benchley wrote articles for National Geographic and did radio ocean reports and educational films on ocean conservation. He believed deeply in the vital importance of the seas and of rain forests, and worked to educate the public, especially young people, about the need to care for this planet.
Mr. Benchley is survived by his wife of forty-one years, Wendy, and his three children.
RIP
Related Links
Jaws Author Peter Benchley Dies at 65
Jaws Creator Loved Sharks, Wife Reveals
Jaws Author Dead at 65 from xinhuanet.com (China)
Peter Benchley, The Author of Jaws, Dies at Sixty-five
PeterBenchley.com
Monday, February 13, 2006
Words of Wisdom from the Good Gray Poet
Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to everyone that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown, or to any man or number of men - go freely with powerful uneducated persons, and with the young, and with the mothers or families - re-examine all you have been told in school or church or in any book, and dismiss whatever insults your own soul; and your very flesh shall be a great poem, and have the richest fluency, not only in its words, but in the silent lines of its lips and face, and between the lashes of your eyes, and in every motion and joint of your body.
From the 1855 Preface to Leaves of Grass
Sunday, February 12, 2006
A Snowy Day
It's been snowing here in W. MA all day, the same snow JC had in KY a couple of days ago. It's quite lovely, and put me in mind of this poem, which I wrote in 1986.
Snow
The slow, steady creak of my boots sounds
loud in the silent street; until I pause
to raise my hood, and a crystal soft swish
and patter enspheres me, in whose center
I soon grow still. More now, and faster falling
around me; and I walk In a world, without,
yet within, alone, yet one with the sounds
of the waking street: Shouts of playing children,
barking of a dog, ring of an ax on wood.
For hearing has eclipsed sight in the silver-strung
morning, where distance deceives and even gravity stands
still, content to straddle the shoulders of the wind.
And the wind, with a conjurer's hand, sets the snowflakes
dancing in spinning spirals that bewilder the unwary
watcher, winding him - me - in a wandering reverie.
The houses, the trees, the passing people of the familiar
street seem strange through the shifting screen of snow,
unreachable, and yet I could dance with them all, whirling
and wheeling in the wind's hands like the softly sifting
snowflakes. I stop and draw a long breath, blinking
away visions of forbidden freedom in the singing circles
of the stars. Earthbound again, I feel my fingers, nose
and feet chill. Heedless of higher things, they crave
cocoa and curling up in a warm corner. Smiling, I turn
and quietly walk home through the crowded, snowy morning.
First published in Delta Epsilon Sigma Journal
Snow
The slow, steady creak of my boots sounds
loud in the silent street; until I pause
to raise my hood, and a crystal soft swish
and patter enspheres me, in whose center
I soon grow still. More now, and faster falling
around me; and I walk In a world, without,
yet within, alone, yet one with the sounds
of the waking street: Shouts of playing children,
barking of a dog, ring of an ax on wood.
For hearing has eclipsed sight in the silver-strung
morning, where distance deceives and even gravity stands
still, content to straddle the shoulders of the wind.
And the wind, with a conjurer's hand, sets the snowflakes
dancing in spinning spirals that bewilder the unwary
watcher, winding him - me - in a wandering reverie.
The houses, the trees, the passing people of the familiar
street seem strange through the shifting screen of snow,
unreachable, and yet I could dance with them all, whirling
and wheeling in the wind's hands like the softly sifting
snowflakes. I stop and draw a long breath, blinking
away visions of forbidden freedom in the singing circles
of the stars. Earthbound again, I feel my fingers, nose
and feet chill. Heedless of higher things, they crave
cocoa and curling up in a warm corner. Smiling, I turn
and quietly walk home through the crowded, snowy morning.
First published in Delta Epsilon Sigma Journal
Saturday, February 11, 2006
One Year At The DNC
Howard Dean is about to complete his first year as Chair of the Democratic National Committee. How are you going to commemorate the anniversary? Some people are contributing to the DNC. Others are planning tributes, greetings and gifts. Ideas?
Kudos for Edwin: From the HEP blog
Puddle's Edwin was reviewed in today's Wall St. Journal--
AND there was a photo of Edwin and 2 of his co-stars. He's identified as 'Ed Owens.'
Corinne | 02.10.06 - 7:27 pm | #
The same caveat applies to the acting. Most of the performances in "The Right Kind of People" are cartoonish, albeit agreeably so (Keith Jochim and Evan ******** are especially sharp as an odious pair of arch-snobs). But Edwin C. Owens, last seen in the Irish Repertory Theatre's unforgettable revival of "Philadelphia, Here I Come!," is so believable as Frank, the upper-middle-aged businessman whose 40-year marriage is unraveling, that he seems to have wandered in from another, better show down the street.
AND there was a photo of Edwin and 2 of his co-stars. He's identified as 'Ed Owens.'
Corinne | 02.10.06 - 7:27 pm | #
Valentine's Day Haiku Contest: DEADLINE LOOMING!
I just learned that Breakup Girl is running a haiku contest to be judged by Jason Reich, "Emmy-Award-winning writer for Emmy-Award-winning The Daily Show with Jon Stewart."
You'd better get going, though, the deadline is midnight tonight!
You'd better get going, though, the deadline is midnight tonight!
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Writing Contests
The NFB Writers' Division's Poetry and Fiction contests are now open. Nonmembers, blind and sighted alike, may enter. Come to think of it, I'm not altogether sure the contests page says so, but the deadline is June 30. See the contest page for all other details.
Join The Team: Donate To Habitat
On Monday, I posted about the team associated with this community to assist Habitat with their Home Delivery project. Checking the team page, I see that the donation total stands at $25.00, the same level it was at when I published that post.
We can do better than that!
I know that $25.00 is sometimes a lot to give all at once. But, can you afford $5.00 this month? $5.00 to help people who have nothing regain some measure of security and dignity with a new home. $5.00 that will mean as much to the family you help as it means to you, maybe more.
When I check the team page on Saturday, please let me see a total higher than $25.00. Do it for The Arty Blog. Do it for Howard. Do it for our brothers and sisters who are in such desperate need.
We can do better than that!
I know that $25.00 is sometimes a lot to give all at once. But, can you afford $5.00 this month? $5.00 to help people who have nothing regain some measure of security and dignity with a new home. $5.00 that will mean as much to the family you help as it means to you, maybe more.
When I check the team page on Saturday, please let me see a total higher than $25.00. Do it for The Arty Blog. Do it for Howard. Do it for our brothers and sisters who are in such desperate need.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Get Involved In The Arty Blog Community
Since I am *not* the only person with keys to the blog, it would be extremely helpful if other members would post here. Thoughts, news items, anything at all related, however vaguely, to the Arts, handycrafts, politics, Howard Dean - ideally some sort of synthesis of two or more of these, but not necessarily. Also, if anybody has time on their hands and just wants to update us on their doings, that would be great too.
I simply can't maintain this blog alone. Besides, it's supposed to be a community. Please, friends, get involved in this community, or it will wither and die.
Posting Hints
To post a main blog entry, click the orenge "Blogger" button in the uppermost left corner of any of the blog's pages. This takes you to your "dashboard," a control pannel displaying (as hyperlinks) the titles of the blogs you own/participate in. Click the green plus sign marked "Create New Post. You'll be taken to the post entry page.
Please make use of the "Title" field near the top of the post entry page. Adding a title makes identifying the post easier for everyone.
If you want to include a pic in your post, look for the "Add Image" function on the post entry page. This will allow you to upload or enter a link to an image resource already on the web. You must know the exact URL (web address) of the image to link to it.
Proofread your post for grammatical errors, omitted words, and the llike. It's probably best to compose long posts in a word processor, where you have the benefit of spellcheck and grammarcheck. You can also use the spellcheck function on the post entry page.
The length of the post is *not* important. Your participation is what's important. A community is only as strong as its members. We're Deaniacs. We're strong; we can do anything!
I simply can't maintain this blog alone. Besides, it's supposed to be a community. Please, friends, get involved in this community, or it will wither and die.
Posting Hints
To post a main blog entry, click the orenge "Blogger" button in the uppermost left corner of any of the blog's pages. This takes you to your "dashboard," a control pannel displaying (as hyperlinks) the titles of the blogs you own/participate in. Click the green plus sign marked "Create New Post. You'll be taken to the post entry page.
Please make use of the "Title" field near the top of the post entry page. Adding a title makes identifying the post easier for everyone.
If you want to include a pic in your post, look for the "Add Image" function on the post entry page. This will allow you to upload or enter a link to an image resource already on the web. You must know the exact URL (web address) of the image to link to it.
Proofread your post for grammatical errors, omitted words, and the llike. It's probably best to compose long posts in a word processor, where you have the benefit of spellcheck and grammarcheck. You can also use the spellcheck function on the post entry page.
The length of the post is *not* important. Your participation is what's important. A community is only as strong as its members. We're Deaniacs. We're strong; we can do anything!
Monday, February 06, 2006
Arty Bloggers For The Gulf Coast
You may have seen the NBC Nightly News report (Jan. 23, 2006) on Habitat's project to build a Musicians' Village in the Upper Ninth Ward of New Orliens. This seems to me an ideal project for us to pitch in and help with. Doing so is easy. Just go to this online donation form. If you do not use the Address Line 2, as for an apartment No. etc., use it for Artists For Dean.
In addition, I have created a "team" to help with Habitat's more general Home Delivery project. Having created the team, I'm the team captain. Don't worry, though; I won't be breaking out the cat o nine tails. *grin* I do, however, ask that all Arty Bloggers and friends join the team and give as generously as possible.
Additional Links
"Through building with Habitat, Bon Jovi helps ‘make volunteering hip'"
Some of the world’s leading songwriters and singers are supporting Habitat for Humanity's hurricane response efforts with their lyrical talents
Harry Connick Jr. Addresses Lawmakers, Urges them to Help Rebuild the Gulf Coast
In addition, I have created a "team" to help with Habitat's more general Home Delivery project. Having created the team, I'm the team captain. Don't worry, though; I won't be breaking out the cat o nine tails. *grin* I do, however, ask that all Arty Bloggers and friends join the team and give as generously as possible.
Additional Links
"Through building with Habitat, Bon Jovi helps ‘make volunteering hip'"
Some of the world’s leading songwriters and singers are supporting Habitat for Humanity's hurricane response efforts with their lyrical talents
Harry Connick Jr. Addresses Lawmakers, Urges them to Help Rebuild the Gulf Coast
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Purpose and Project
With her usual acumen, listener nutshells our problem and suggests some solutions.
We need a common purpose, a short-term project perhaps. What do the Poets Against the War need by way of support from kindred blogs? Or do we simply want to choose our own "project" and go for it?
One idear is to link with some of the people who visit veterans, such as Anne*from*Vermont and see if there are some vets who have written poetry about their struggles.
In addition, are there some among us who have written poetry during this difficult time? Or who have painted, or created music, or whatever OUT OF their sorrow or hope related to the war and/or the state of this country?
What if we all tried to create or uncover at least one item to share with one another by...Valentine's Day?
~ listener
We need a common purpose, a short-term project perhaps. What do the Poets Against the War need by way of support from kindred blogs? Or do we simply want to choose our own "project" and go for it?
One idear is to link with some of the people who visit veterans, such as Anne*from*Vermont and see if there are some vets who have written poetry about their struggles.
In addition, are there some among us who have written poetry during this difficult time? Or who have painted, or created music, or whatever OUT OF their sorrow or hope related to the war and/or the state of this country?
What if we all tried to create or uncover at least one item to share with one another by...Valentine's Day?
~ listener
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
In Memoriam: Columbia
Crossposted at Disabled Americans for Democracy
The STS-107 crewmembers strike a flying pose. From the left, bottom row, wearing red shirts, are astronauts Kalpana Chawla, Rick Husband, Laurel Clark and Ilan Ramon. From the left, top row, wearing blue shirts, are astronauts David Brown, William McCool and Michae Anderson. --NASA
We remember that terrible Saturday morning, three years ago today when, rather than reporting on the safe return of Columbia, audibly shaken newscasters reported the Space Shuttle's destruction during reentry into Earth's atmosphere.
May they rest in peace.
Published in Slate & Style: Magazine of the NFB Writers Division
Additional Links
Space.com Special Report
BBC In Depth Coverage
NASA's Columbia Site
The STS-107 crewmembers strike a flying pose. From the left, bottom row, wearing red shirts, are astronauts Kalpana Chawla, Rick Husband, Laurel Clark and Ilan Ramon. From the left, top row, wearing blue shirts, are astronauts David Brown, William McCool and Michae Anderson. --NASAWe remember that terrible Saturday morning, three years ago today when, rather than reporting on the safe return of Columbia, audibly shaken newscasters reported the Space Shuttle's destruction during reentry into Earth's atmosphere.
May they rest in peace.
Columbia
STS 107
February 1, 2003
Seven souls released in fire,
Vehicles sublimed between air and Earth,
Their courage and love set free to fill
Our hearts and the universe.
God takes his own in his good way and time,
Not for us to fathom the emptiness behind the taking
Or the mind so vast its love looks like death.
For us is only grief and, looking up,
To reach again for the stars.
Published in Slate & Style: Magazine of the NFB Writers Division
Additional Links
Space.com Special Report
BBC In Depth Coverage
NASA's Columbia Site
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