Blogcritics Author: S L Cunningham

Look to Berlin

S L Cunningham — Sun, 27 Jul 2008 11:25:38 EDT

That Obama is a skilled orator cannot be denied. But does he have the courage to provide the real leadership we so desperately need?
Regardless of whether you’re a staunch Republican or Democrat, the one thing that can’t be denied is that this coming election promises to be unlike any election we have experienced in our history. Barack Obama, in spite of his so-called lack of experience and knowledge has not only succeeded in becoming a Presidential candidate, he...

Election 2008--the "Big Mo"

S L Cunningham — Sun, 29 Jun 2008 01:21:05 EDT

In politics like sports, momentum drives you to victory.
In the world of sports, momentum is a well understood concept. If you expect to win, you have to have momentum going in, and you have to sustain it throughout the game. Of course, the other team or players sometimes are successful in changing the momentum but not often. Simply put, momentum is the will to win and overcome your opponent no matter...

Leonardo da Vincis are Needed to Address Global Issues

S L Cunningham — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 13:01:54 EDT

A chance encounter in a diner brings about the solution to our problems.
Saturday night I went to the movies to catch Iron Man, which turned out to be much better than I had anticipated. I found I was particularly mesmerized by ...

Announcement: Short-content feeds

Phillip Winn — Sun, 26 Aug 2007 12:00:00 EDT

Sunday, August 26, 2007, marks the switch of all Blogcritics.org article feeds from full-content to short-content. This is the result of several converging factors, and is unfortunately a permanent decision (as permanent as any decision can be on the web, that is). We are aware of all of the reasons that this is a Bad Idea, and we are aware that some of you will be quite upset about having to click on something to read the free content, and we're sorry. Unfortunately, despite great effort, full-content feeds are not currently economically viable. Two other factors are involved: full-content feeds have resulted in an unprecedented level of content theft, with BC content appearing on many websites, usually spam sites, without attribution or permission. This duplicate content causes a cascading set of problems, not the least of which is that search engines generally aren't favorable to duplicate content, and don't always guess correctly. Finally, our RSS advertising partner is strongly in favor of short-content feeds. We hope that you'll continue to subscribe to BC via RSS, and when an article grabs your eye, it's only a click away, still free on the BC website. Thank you for your understanding.

Lay Da Smack Down

S L Cunningham — Sat, 25 Mar 2006 01:50:39 EST

Even though winter seems to be trying to hang on with significant snowfall throughout the mid-west, in Maine we have bare ground, sunny skies, and mild temperatures. On many of the ponds and lakes, ice is out, almost three weeks earlier than what would be expected in a normal season. More than likely, winter this year will be remembered here as the winter that wasn't. Our only significant snow was a half-foot that fell during the third week of December. It didn't last long with the rain that fell a few days later. Actually, about the only place in Maine that had winter was northern Aroostook County. Almost everywhere else had very little snow and the convenience stores, restaurants, and hotels that depend on snowmobilers and cross-country skiing enthusiasts suffered multi-million dollar losses.This past week has afforded some of the driest weather we've had so far. Though still below freezing at night, the day temperatures have been in the mid-forties. The drive to work in the morning on Highway 1 is now in full light of the sun as it glistens on the water of Penobscot Bay. Most days at work I categorized as either good, or not so good. Good, in that the kids had little difficulty with being in class and managed not being asked to take a time out by the teacher. At the residential home where I work, kids first have school on site, and depending on individual circumstances, may eventually be allowed to take a regular class at the high school. Very seldom, though, do we have any kids who are able to attend high school full-time.Today I had to go to the high school to pick up a student and an ed-tech, who had been assigned to him, and drive them to Rockland for his GED preparation class. As I stood in the hallway outside the library to wait for them, I watched the students pass to their classes after the bell rang, and became amused by a simple observation. Like most of our kids back at the house, many of the kids that went by me were dressed in similar fashion. With sagged pants, shirts two sizes too big, and hats worn sideways, it seems hip-hop has become far more influential than I had even imagined.Not that there's anything wrong with hip-hop, at least no more so than rock and roll was to my generation. But with hip-hop there seems to be an undercurrent that goes beyond simply challenging the status quo, an undercurrent perhaps far more insidious and pervasive than the gang culture depicted in West Side Story, which almost seems tame compared to what is shown and heard on much of MTV today. Want to know what your kids are tuning into? Just watch. Or better yet, listen to a couple of tracks by G-Unit or the Black Eyed Peas. Pimps, Thugs, Bitches, and a lot of f-this and f-that in-between. Oh, yeah. I be talkin' now.While I stood there reflecting on this, I noticed a young lady, about 5'4, in a pink sweatshirt, as she ran down the hallway. Suddenly, as if zeroing in on a target, she leapt about ten feet forward, planting both her hands on the back shoulders of a girl in front of her and knocked her flat to the floor. "Don't you ever talk shit about me behind my back again, you bitch."She then turned and walked away. The girl who was pushed down to the floor gathered up her papers and books and stood up. She looked stunned and uncertain as to what to do next. What I found more upsetting about the incident, though, is that none of the other students offered to help her. I noticed a couple of teachers on the other side of the hallway, oblivious to what had just happened. I walked over to them. "Did either of you see what just happened?" I asked."Oh, the girl that tripped," one of the teachers responded."Tripped? She was shoved to the floor by that girl," I said, pointing to the young lady who was now down the other end of the hallway."You actually saw that she was pushed?" the other teacher asked.I was perturbed by his response. "It wouldn't be too much to ask if one of you went and brought that girl to the office, would it?"Finally, one decided to go and get the girl and the other left to inform the principal. After the girl had been brought to the office, the principal approached me and asked if I would be willing to write a signed statement, which I did, as to what I saw.After I had signed my statement, I left with the student and ed tech I had come to pick up. As we were walking out to the van, the student asked why I had to be such a snitch. "Snitch?" I asked."Yeah, besides it wasn't your business," he said. "You're supposed to leave it as it is.""I'm not sure if I follow you," I said."It's simple. Someone talks trash about you, you lay da smack down on 'em.""Just like that, huh.""Oh yeah, got to keep it real with your homies . . . keep your respect.""So, you just give into your emotions, regardless of the consequences. Is that it?" I asked."That's it," he said.I didn't continue further with the discussion. I was still upset by what I had witnessed and found it difficult to concentrate on anything else, let alone a discussion with a kid who thinks smacking other people is a perfectly acceptable way to command respect from your "homies." Besides, there would be plenty of other opportunities to work that topic in with the discussion group my colleague and I conduct each week with him and the other students.Later that day as I drove back home under a robin's-egg blue sky that signified warm spring days ahead, I found myself experiencing a sense of disassociation. I rolled my window down a couple of inches: the cool air, fresh and inviting. In my youth I never felt separate from my home, family, friends, school, or the community I lived in. Whether white-collar, blue-collar or otherwise, it was if the neighborhoods we lived in existed as mosaics that consolidated a comfortable sense of purpose and belonging.Even with those of us who chose to have moments of rebelliousness, the community was able to absorb our challenge to the status quo without any lasting consequences. We put away our bell bottoms, beads, and peace buttons, cut our hair, and moved on to pursue bigger and better dreams.For most young people today, hip-hop is where it's at. And for most, like those of us who were caught up in the craze of rock and roll, they, too, will eventually move past it. They'll go on to college, work or the service. Those are the kids I don't worry about. Our communities are still strong enough to accommodate another generation's rite of passage without necessarily sacrificing the values that have allowed people over a period of decades to thrive and succeed.It's the kids I work with that worry me. Too many of our young people are in trouble today. As to why, though, ends up being a question that gives itself to a lot of rough generalizations rather than any specific answers. Both parents work. Sometimes they lose jobs or can't hold jobs. Sometimes jobs just disappear. Parents can't agree on what kind of expectations or limits they should set for their children. The father drinks while the mother is subjected to his continual abuse. And so it goes.Regardless of whatever the reasons may be, one thing is certain: in an environment of uncertainty, children become anxious and confused. They begin to feel pushed away, unwanted, and left to themselves. Without a clear sense of purpose and belonging, it isn't long before they seek out and join with others who also feel left out. With its tribalistic style of dress, music, mannerisms and code of ethics that espouses and glorifies drug dealing, pimping woman, and drive-by shootings -- that says easy status can be gained by beating the crap out of somebody, or even shooting somebody -- it isn't surprising that these kids have bought into the Gangsta culture that has proliferated across America. "Hey, Homey G, welcome to da house."

S L Cunningham is a freelance writer and has poems and feature articles published in several small press magazines and newspapers. His column, "Unburned Pieces of the Mind" has been featured in the Village Soup Citizen. A former resident of Belfast, Maine, he now lives in Houston.

Swirling the Snow in a Frenzied Dance - Random Thoughts on Dubai and Sheehan

S L Cunningham — Tue, 28 Feb 2006 01:48:02 EST

When it comes to the weekends, I pretty much have my routine down fairly well. Saturdays are usually my do-whatever-I-feel-like days. And usually what I feel like doing during this time of year is going out for breakfast, snowshoeing, taking a drive, browsing at the bookstore, or just sitting at home doing nothing but relaxing on the couch with a magazine or newspaper. This winter hasn't been much for snowshoeing, though. Come to think of it, I haven't been out snowshoeing once this winter. A week before Christmas, we had a half-footer that was washed away by the rain that followed the week after. What snow we've had since then has been of the 1 to 2 inch variety. Here today, melted tomorrow, and a lot of rain in-between. It's been plenty cold this week. Coldest week we've had thus far this winter, but a little late considering we're going into March. The temperature this morning was bumped down right next to zero, and tomorrow morning, it actually might be sub-zero. Even though it feels like winter, the struggle continues with actually trying to look like it. If not for the snow squall we had Thursday that dropped a couple of inches, we'd still have bare ground.I'm not sure what six weeks of winter Punxsutawney Phil had in mind, but as far as I'm concerned, this winter is pretty much over. Of course, there's that one chance of getting a one-footer before the vernal equinox, but at this point, I don't see myself digging the snowshoes out of the closet. Usually when I sit down to relax with the paper, I'll have the news on. Why, I don't know, especially since I don't seem to pay much attention to it. Much of what is reported on the news is hyperbolic rhetoric, a slug fest of words between the Democrats and Republicans that the media feasts on as if it were the best prime rib in town. In response to any perceived blundering or acts of incompetency by Bush, you can pretty much count on Kennedy or Clinton or Schumer to say bananas and baloney. But this weeks response by the Democrats and a few Republicans to the news of P&O's proposed purchase by Dubai Ports that would "surrender management of our ports to an Arab-based firm" went beyond bananas and baloney: "Bush not aware of the Dubai Ports World bid of P&O before it was proposed;" "Hillary Clinton and other Senate leaders oppose Dubai's 6.8 billion dollar purchase of P&O;" "Take over of our ports by Dubai poses a serious threat to our national security." Excuse me, but can anyone say, "Xenophobia?" If the faulty assumptions that are being made here cannot be clearly seen and understood, then I think we're in even bigger trouble that goes way beyond last week's fodder-all over Cheney's accidental shooting of one tough old bird. The United Arab Emirates, aside from being a very strong ally, also represents the very model of a "moderate" Arab/Muslin government that is beginning to take hold in Afghanistan, and, hopefully, will begin to take hold in Iraq. Contrary to what some people would like to think, this is not a case of the fox being let in the hen house, or as Letterman put it, "letting Britney Spears baby sit your child." If anything, it's a case of ignorance on our part, thus kudos to Karl Rove for suggesting a "cooling off period" so that we might put this argument in proper context, and back away from absurd arguments such as given by Schumer, who said we should be careful before we outsource our "sensitive homeland security duties." First of all, "security duties" are performed by our U.S. Customs and U.S. Coastguard. The actual operation and management of the port would be by the company, which, incidentally--and I'm sure much to Schumer's surprise if someone where to tell him--is now operated and managed by a British owned company. If the brouhaha over the Dubai purchase wasn't enough, the media's Chicken Little News Events has turned the spotlight once again on Cindy Sheehan. Like the caricature in the game, "Where's Waldo?" Sheehan keeps popping up in the most unlikely places. Newsflash: see Cindy Sheehan arrested while attending the State of the Union Address; see Cindy with Hugo Chavez; see Cindy with Veterans for Peace in New Orleans. And where will she be next? Who knows? Who cares? Yawn. Whatever sentiments one may feel toward her, especially considering she has experienced the loss of two of her children, she is not a modern day Joan of Arc, and the more the media strives to portray her causes as noble and worthy of our attention, the more pathetic and contemptible she becomes. Enough of the couch and TV. Tomorrow is Sunday. Clothes to wash, and then housecleaning. Later in the afternoon I'll be going over to my mother's for dinner. I make a cup of orange spice tea with a dab of honey, and then sit down at the table. I turn the light off, and stare out the window. On a cold night like tonight--the wind busy swirling the snow in a frenzied dance across the yard--I'm amazed by how bright the stars shine.

An Abiding Sense of Home

S L Cunningham — Wed, 11 Jan 2006 23:26:07 EST

"The road was new to me, as roads always are going back." - Sarah Orne Jewett, The Country of the Pointed FirsJanuary has always been that one month of the year that seems to put me in a quandary of sorts more so than any other month. I'm never sure whether I'm supposed to be completely happy or terribly miserable. So far, winter has been fairly mild for those of us who live here on the coast, whereas Northern Maine has seen more typical weather, especially with sub-zero temperatures and a covering of three feet of snow that they had a few weeks ago. A perfect backdrop, to say the least, for the U.S. Olympic Biathlon Trials that were held at the Maine Winter Sports Center in Fort Kent. It's been cold enough, though, for the pond and lakes to freeze over, but we've only had a few dustings of snow, and the one significant snowfall of a half foot we had a couple of weeks back washed away with the rain we've had this week. Unless winter gets here real soon, January thaw might end up going unnoticed this year, unless, of course, you live up in Caribou or Fort Kent. After I got home from work today, I made a tuna fish sandwich and a pot of coffee. As I was sitting at the table sharing bites with my cat, I started to think about how I have struggled mightily over the years with the question of "home." I was born in Bangor, Maine, but as a young boy, I grew up in Pittsfield, Mass. after my mother had moved there from Belfast. During my teens and early twenties, home was central and southern California. As much as I liked those places, and still like going back to visit, they no longer feel like home. And even though I have lived in other places, Kansas and Florida, the one place that has always kept drawing me back has been Maine. But I don't think it's because I was necessarily born here, or because my mother had been born and grew up here, and later moved back here in 1980 to live for good. No. Not for those reasons, although it could be argued that roots might have something to do with it. But it's not that. As I look out the window and watch the snow that has begun to fall, I find myself reminiscing back to the time when I was nine years old during the summer of 1963. My mother drove to Saturday Cove, Maine with my brothers and me to visit with Uncle Mike, Aunt Mary, and our cousins Beth, Sue and Eben.The drive up the Maine coast to Northport enthralled me with its scenery of pines and ocean. When we pulled into their driveway, I was amazed that they had the ocean right off from their back yard. I remember sitting at the window seat in my cousin's second floor bedroom. Staring out at the water, at the fir covered island of Isleboro, I dreamed away the hour in mystery and adventure. The next morning, after eating a breakfast of eggs, bacon and oatmeal that my aunt had cooked on a woodstove, my cousins and I headed down to the beach, and then went climbing on the rocks along the shore. In between we stopped at a small tidal pool and collected a couple of large starfishes that I dried out to bring back to Pittsfield with me. Later during the day, my cousin Eben took me back down to the shore to gather mussels. I don't remember what we had for dinner that night, but when we had finished, Eben went outside and built a small fire in the front yard, and then put a grate over it. He then went and got an empty Maxwell House coffee can and filled it with water. He brought it outside and set it on the grate over the fire. A half an hour later when the water started to boil, he emptied the mussels we had gathered earlier into his makeshift pot. Fifteen minutes later, I tried my first mussel dipped in the melted butter that my aunt had brought out for us. The ocean, the islands of Penobscot Bay, the majesty of the white pines, the walks along the rocky shore, the step-back in time city of Belfast---those were the reasons I had chosen to come to this place to live. My cat nuzzles up to my hand and takes the last bite of my sandwich. As I give him a pat on the head, I feel that maybe, after all, I did make a good decision by moving back here. Although I don't live in a house on the shore as I used to dream that one day I would, I do have a nice apartment that's within a half mile from the harbor.The view of the bay and the islands beyond is still mine to look at whenever I choose to dream and wile away the hours. Like last night, when I walked down to the City Landing, the air thick in a swirl of fog, it occurred to me that what makes "home" feel like home, is our deep, abiding sense of place. I pulled my collar up close and headed back. For once it felt good I was walking "to" somewhere, instead of away.

On the Advent of this Holiday Formerly Known as Christmas

S L Cunningham — Mon, 5 Dec 2005 18:37:54 EST

Last month I had been considering the possibility of moving out of my two-bedroom apartment to a one-bedroom that had become available over at the next building of the complex I live in. The rent would've been sixty dollars less than what I pay now, and when the landlord said she was going to have a full remodel done, I became excited and asked her to put me down on the list.Since my son has left home, a two-bedroom almost seems too big for my cat and me. Although my cat may mew to differ. A few weeks later, I decided to walk over and look in the windows to see how the work was progressing. The apartment had been gutted and a couple of walls had been taken out to make the living room larger.As I surveyed the work that had been done, though, I noticed the apartment was trapped by the shade of the other buildings and trees. Two hours of sunlight left, and not one single ray was filtering in any of the windows. Whatever thoughts I had of moving were dashed. Compared to the sunlight I enjoy all day, a northwest exposure would mean little to no sunlight. My bedrooms face the east and the living and dining rooms face the southwest. Giving that up to save sixty dollars a month, especially with the darkest days of the year, didn't seem to be a sensible trade off.I'm not one who depresses easily, but given the right environment and circumstances, I can be bummed out to the point where I just sit on the couch all day and stare at the wall. Having learned several times before that it is not wise to act contrary to your intuition, I called my landlord to let her know I had decided to stay put.With the advent of the Christmas season, I find myself experiencing a bit of melancholy as I look at the spot in the living room where my son and I had put up our last Christmas tree a few years back. My daughter was able to fly out from California for a visit. It had been eight years since the last time that the three of us celebrated the season together. Now with my son in the Army, and my daughter in college, it may be a sometime before we get a chance like that again.Tonight as I watch the news, I'm surprised to see how much consternation our latest campaign of political correct-madness has caused us. It seems that even "Christmas" is considered offensive to those who do not recognize or celebrate the occasion. Oh, really? Who would've thought, and so in deference to their sensibilities, our civic leaders have taken it upon themselves to proclaim that from now and hereafter, Christmas will be known as "Holiday."Those who wish to celebrate Christmas may continue to do so in their own homes or churches, but any public celebration of Christmas will no longer be accepted or tolerated. Instead of "Christmas trees," we will have "Holiday trees"; instead of "Christmas lights," we will have "Holiday lights."I have never appreciated euphemisms, especially when used to substitute words that represent or describe specific customs or beliefs, like Christmas, for example, for words considered less offensive or neutral. The more we resort to the use of euphemisms to replace words that others might be offended by, the more we euthanize another aspect of our culture. What's peculiar about this, though, is that of all the words to replace "Christmas" with, "Holiday" may have given us traditionalists the last laugh as the word happens to have a bit of an ironic twist to it. Derived from the Old English hāligd�g, "holiday" translates simply as "Holy Day." Hmmm, go figure. Whose sensibilities are we protecting now?It seems to me that as of lately our culture has become maladaptive. Instead of a society that builds on shared beliefs and customs while assimilating new ones by enculturation, we now have a generation that says the beliefs and customs our society is based on and lives by is offensive to those who have chosen not to respect our beliefs and customs, all the while insisting we respect theirs.It is good, then, to see that a few of our political leaders have come to their senses by saying, "Bah, humbug," to the fodder all. By deciding to preserve tradition by renaming the "Capitol Holiday Tree" back to the "Capitol Christmas Tree," though not in time to have the brochures printed to reflect the change, shows that perhaps confusion is not necessarily a good trade off for trying to respect the diverseness of those who, because of different customs and beliefs, do not recognize Christmas.Enough of the news. I turn the TV off and head out the door and amble toward the Christmas lights downtown. Twenty minutes later, I find myself at the city landing looking out across the bay. I haven't decided whether to put a tree up this year or not. A light breeze begins to pick up. Mesmerized by the rhythmic clanging of the lines and pulleys against the masts, I feel akin to the shepherds tending to their flocks on the night that Jesus was born. Oh, what it must have been like to witness such a star shimmering brightly across the desert sands. As I stare out at the buoy light, I sense the power and beauty of the annunciation, the acclamation that on this day our Savior was born, the humility of the magnificat:Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end. Amen

Until Victory Is America's and There Is No Enemy

S L Cunningham — Sat, 19 Nov 2005 21:57:15 EST

This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life. -The Rifleman's Creed Tonight my son calls from Fort Benning, Georgia to let me know how he is progressing with his boot camp training. He's only allowed to make an eight-minute call, so it's not really a conversation. He reports on what has transpired since he last talked with me, and by the time he's finished, I have just enough time to say, "It sounds like things are going really well," before I'm cut off. "I have to go, Dad. Good talking with you."I put the phone down and go out to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. With the sun setting at around 4 P.M. now, seven o'clock feels much later than it is. I sit down at the kitchen table and look out the window. A light rain is falling, and the wind is beginning to pick up. From what my son said, it seems he's enjoying his experience, and making the most of it. This past week, his training focused on marksmanship and hand-to-hand combat. "I made it up to five-on-one before somebody finally got me in a headlock I couldn't get out of. I had to tap out." As I reflect on what his experiences have been with boot camp these past six weeks, I become reminiscent of the very same experiences I had thirty-four years ago when I was a Marine recruit at USMCRD San Diego. I was a bug-eyed 17-year-old kid that the drill instructor thought had been let in by mistake. "Boy, this is a man's organization. The Boy Scouts is just down the road." I looked straight ahead. "Yes, sir," I would say, and no matter how hard he tried to humiliate and mock me in front of the others by referring to me as Private Baby Huey, no matter how many times I had to respond with "Quack a Doodle Doo" whenever I was called to come forward, I refused to allow myself to give in or give up. Even still, those first five weeks had me questioning more than a few times whether I made a big mistake. The drill instructor seemed to have a certain knack for choosing me to be his example--"Quack a Doodle Doo"--of how not to march, to fire a rifle, or to block against an opponent in hand-to-hand combat. In each instance, he would then demonstrate the correct way, and then I would have to demonstrate to the other recruits that I could do it correctly. If the drill instructor still weren't satisfied with my efforts, the rest of the platoon would have to do punishment PT until I did get it right. While I demonstrated the skill, stood for correction, and then demonstrated again, the rest of men would have to do push ups, bends and thrusts, and "extended port." During that time the M-14 was still used as a training rifle and at nine pounds, your arms would start to burn after holding it fully extended after a few minutes. Later on during the night, my fellow recruits would thank me by honoring me with a blanket party. In spite of almost a good month of sporting multiple bruises, I didn't give up. I just kept at it, and I think all that extra practice actually made me more proficient when it came time for the tests we had to take. After I took out some of the biggest guys in the platoon in rifle and bayonet fighting and hand-to-hand combat, the drill instructor stopped making me an example of how not to do something. Instead when I executed a move that took down my opponent, the drill instructor smiled at me and said, "Damn, Cunningham, that was good." Two weeks before graduation I was walking my post on Fire Watch, giddy with the thought that I'd actually made it. I felt satisfied knowing that I had succeeded with the most difficult thing I had ever tried to do in my life. No more Baby Huey. I had become Private Cunningham. The three-mile runs, the forced field marches, the obstacle and confidence courses, marksmanship training, the intimidation and humiliation, the drill movements I had been so clumsy with in the beginning, I had learned all of it, had overcome my fears, and I was not the worse for it, but the best, a rifleman, a United States Marine. What I didn't know then, though, was how much I would hold on to that feeling throughout the rest of my life. As a 17 year old high school drop out who earned the title of Marine, I would later go on to earn a GED, and eventually a BA and MFA in English. The Marine Corps ingrained in me a sense of stick-to-itiveness that has stayed with me throughout my life. Reflecting on my conversation with my son, I recognize in his voice that same sense of excitement and self-assuredness that comes from the realization of individual success. "You know, Dad, during the first couple of weeks, there were a few times when I said this really sucks. I mean I felt like I made a mistake. But then I realized that thinking that way didn't change my situation. So, I decided that I would make the most of it, and I've been doing just great since then. I actually like it. I can't wait until you're here for graduation. You'll have to meet my drill instructor. He was in the Marines, and the guy's just crazy, but I've come to really respect him."My son, a man, a warrior, stepping on the "great doorstone" facing a vast horizon not only of adventure and possibilities, but also of uncertainty and danger during this time of war that he may be called upon to fight. Of all the values we may strive to live by, duty perhaps may be the least understood, especially when it results in paying the ultimate price with one's life. But as cultures continue to move relative to all others, rigid and firm in their own beliefs and purpose, the call to duty will be answered by our Marines, Soldiers, Airman, and Sailors when events fracture into chaos, leading to war. 9/11, however, was not a minor earthquake; instead, it was an 8.0 magnitude paradigm shift that has altered our daily lives in ways only Orwell could imagine.To protect our freedoms, and to bring the message of freedom and liberty to others, we have greatly curtailed some of our most precious freedoms here at home. And that scares me more than the terrorists who have committed themselves to making us subservient to their kindly, bow to Allah, maliciousness that they have perpetrated on us. "Death to America," is not a slogan, or a hollow understatement, it is the loud rumbling of Hannibal's elephants marching over the Alps. Just as the Romans never imagined the day they would see pachyderms in Northern Italy, never did we imagine jet planes used as missiles to bring down the World Trade Center. What this time means, and the challenges we will have to face as a consequence, in spite of the nasty political bantering that has erupted between our political leaders, has yet to be defined and understood. That my son has decided to serve our country during this time of war does make me a little nervous. During my time when I was willing to serve, I had no fear of the 'Nam. But now as a parent, I understand my mother's concern then as my concern now. I can only hope and pray my son's choices in life are good ones, and that his quest in life is one of purpose and meaning, of a life lived in confidence in the pursuit and fulfillment of his dreams. And should he be called to serve in Iraq, or elsewhere, I pray his training will have been such that he has been pushed physically and mentally so that if he is faced with a combat situation, he will be able to rely on himself and his fellow soldiers as they help each other complete the mission and get themselves safely home to their families and loved ones. Looking out the window again at the light rain that continues to fall, I begin to recite the last verse of The Rifleman's Creed: ...My rifle and myself are the defenders of my country. We are the masters of our enemy. We are the saviors of my life. So be it, until victory is America's and there is no enemy, but Peace.

As The Shades of Evening Draw On

S L Cunningham — Thu, 27 Oct 2005 19:48:44 EDT

October is not a month that I usually associate with rain, at least not in the same sense as I do April and May, but with close to eleven inches of rain so far this month, and another two to four inches of rain expected from the storm that is raging outside, I think a long dry spell for November would be welcomed. Maybe even through December considering that here in Maine our rainfall is already twelve inches above average. However, considering the recent weather pattern we seem to be in, I imagine it won't be too long before I'm looking at snow piled right up to my windowsill.The lights have been flickering on and off for the last half hour now. I decide it might be best to unplug the computer and TV, and just make an evening of it at my kitchen table, reading and writing in my journal. Nor'easters are always impressive, and this one so far has been putting on an incredible display of wind and rain since mid-afternoon. The trees bend in a frenzied dance, shedding leaves and small branches that scatter about in the yard and street. Bobbing like a bobble head toy, my cat puts on an impressive display of concern as it looks out the window. The coffee maker makes its last gurgle just before the power goes out shortly. The power comes back on but it isn't too long before the lights start to flicker again. I decide enough is enough. If I'm going to have flicker, than I'll take it in the soft form of lit candles, rather than a harsh, sputtering light bulb. I get a couple of candles out and set them up on the table. Once lit, I cut the lights.I sit down in the chair and marvel at the change of atmosphere I've created. The ambiance from the warm hue of the candles, along with the rain beating against the windows, makes me feel as if I've been transported back in time. Considering this is the week ending with Halloween, I decide what better night than this to become reacquainted with Edgar Allan Poe. "The Fall of the House of Usher" has always been a particular favorite of mine. The opening lines especially have a sonorous, mystical quality: During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher.To read Poe is to read the wrangling of the human soul when it is no longer capable of balancing its connection with the natural world with the spiritual, when it becomes mired in its physical existence, when it becomes relegated to the "unredeemed dreariness of thought."Holding to that sentiment I find myself drifting off into the push and pull of the wind against the building: the rain, heavy and certain. And then I wonder how it is that I sit here at this table laden with thoughts of the events that have transpired since 9/11. Something has happened to us since the collapse of the World Trade Center, something insidious and malignant has affected all of us, has changed us, whether we realize it or not, in ways that, though, may not be easily understood, is becoming more evident each day. Al Qaeda has turned our country into a "mansion of gloom." Instead of a culture of hope and optimism, we have become a culture of fear. And as such, we have become clumsy and ineffective in our response to this war of terror that has been unleashed on us. Out of fear, we give up our liberties, our freedoms, and our privacy so that we may be protected from those who wish to do us harm. But I don't feel any safer. When I flew out to California last year, and was subjected to a full search not only of my belongings, but a pat-search as well, I did not feel like I was being protected from ruthless hijackers intent on using my flight as a bomb. As a TSA agent swept me with his wand, I couldn't rationalize how this end justified any means. Instead, I thought it terribly reminiscent of Orwell's 1984. Putting my shoes back on, I felt relieved that Big Brother determined I wasn't a threat, but, nevertheless, as far as I was concerned, the unthinkable had become reality. Our behaviors in society today are being closely monitored, and as long as terrorists wage their psychological and explosive warfare against us, I imagine it won't be very long before our very thoughts are being closely censored to protect us from Al-Qaeda's mission of merciless insanity. I pick back up where I left off on my reading and find a passage that seems almost transpicuous of our present dilemma: "I shall perish," said he, "I must perish in this deplorable folly. Thus, thus, and not otherwise, shall I be lost. I dread the events of the future, not in themselves, but in their results. I shudder at the thought of any, even the most trivial, incident, which may operate upon this intolerable agitation of soul. I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its absolute effect --in terror. In this unnerved-in this pitiable condition --I feel that the period will sooner or later arrive when I must abandon life and reason together, in some struggle with the grim phantasm, FEAR."We do not have to live our lives in fear. We do not have to succumb to pernicious pessimisms that dictate the tempo of our lives. Though I may not be able to change the reality of our present political and economic situation, I can change how I respond to it and thus affect a change in my reality by choosing to live my life out of courage, hope and love. As the candles I have lit burn down, I reaffirm my belief in our humanity and God, and decide that I am not going to contribute to this "collective consciousness" of Osama Bin Laden butterflies. I like my freedom, thank you very much. And so with that I pinch off the flame of the candles. My cat, nestled against Poe's collective works, watches me with what seems a curious intent. I scoop the cat up off the table and prop him up to my shoulder. It is a cold wind that blows tonight, the howl deep and low, the voice of winter to come. Tomorrow morning the drive to work will be that of a more wintry scene, the leaves having been blown off most of the trees, the gray clouds crabbing across the sky like sailboats heading for Isleboro. I decide that to celebrate my newfound freedom, I'm going to get up an hour earlier and walk to Weaver's Bakery in downtown Belfast. At 5:30 a.m., a tray of apple spice doughnuts will have been pulled from the fryer vat. I'll order two doughnuts with a cup of coffee, and then go outside and sit on the bench near Main and High Street. When you bite into a hot doughnut like that on a thirty-degree morning, well, I think it's about as close to heaven as you can possibly get.

Blogging - A Paradigm Shift of How We Disseminate and Communicate

S L Cunningham — Sun, 25 Sep 2005 18:00:38 EDT

Six months ago during a phone conversation with my son, he suggested I create a "blog" after I had told him I had gone back to writing to help pass up the time since he had left home. "Blog?" I inquired. After getting his usual "Gees, Dad," he spent the next week guiding me through the process of creating my own web log, or "blog," which Brad L. Graham is credited with coining several years back. When I first began posting my writing, I had a sense of what I wanted to "blog" about, but I didn't have an overall sense of what I wanted to accomplish, or what purpose it might serve other than giving me a healthy distraction to keep myself from going stir crazy. After being an active parent for 18 years, and then finding yourself with an empty nest when your child moves out, it takes a while to adjust to the new pace. It's like I took the off ramp from the freeway, and decelerated from seventy to zero within seconds. When you come to a full stop like that, it's hard to figure out whether to go left or right. In the process of "blogging," I began reading other bloggers to get a sense of what other people were doing with what seems to be a very unique cultural phenomenon that makes the exchange of ideas, services and products more fluent and accessible. Of the numerous blogs that exist on the net, and are created each day, I am convinced more than ever that we are indeed "language" animals. Blogging also has become unique in that we can choose how we represent ourselves to the world. Even with standard templates, people tinker with them until they get the right format, font, and background that say, "Hello, it's me and this is my blog. Come on in." And with a simple click, the door opens to their small havens of political views, stories, anecdotes, essays, information on a variety of topics, and virtual flea markets where you can buy all kinds of products from books to vitamins. That others are writing each day by posting to their blogs, regardless of their ability or education, is simply amazing. For hundreds of years, print media served as our conduit for the exchange and discussion of ideas. Blogging, though, makes that exchange both immediate and curiously intimate. Want to know what people are thinking about a specific topic? Easy enough, since all one need do is a Google search on "blog politics," for example, and wham, an unbelievable amount of sources becomes instantly available. From there you can whittle down to a particular topic of interest.But as with writing for publications, it does take a while to develop an audience. During my first few months of posting, my readership was marginal at best. I hardly had any visits or comments during my first month, and my counter showed only twenty-six people had visited. But even then I was pretty excited. Out of that twenty-six, seven took the time to respond by commenting. In the process of exploring different blogs represented by sites like blogexplosion , Blogcritics and others, I began responding to blogs I liked, and in turn would sometimes receive reciprocal comments as well. By the end of the second month my hit counter started to become real busy, and was up to 3200 visitors, certainly more than I had ever expected. My postings were also generating more comments, which gave me the opportunity to visit more blogs in return. This last month and half, though, has been a watershed, not in terms of my writing, per se, but in terms of the incredible people I have met and corresponded with by blogging. It would seem that blogging has made the world smaller, and has made it possible to become part of a community joined together by common interests and the Internet. Three bloggers (writers) I have begun to develop a sense of camaraderie with have their own unique perspective on personal issues that matter to them, but instead of trivializing their view points by ranting to no end, or breaking down into silly diatribes that say much about nothing, they breathe life into the ideas they present, and show obvious care about what they think and say. Phil Dillon, for instance, blogs Another Man's Meat, which he describes as being a blog that represents "my world and my times through the prism of the Flint Hills" of Kansas. As you read his posts, there is no mistaking that here is a writer who has a keen sense of the art of invention and style. When Phil gets his hands on a political issue, he starts to tear it apart like a mechanic tearing into an engine. He does not ride on easy assumptions, but instead tests each one until he gets at the crux of the problem. This from an essay in response to those who took offence to his analysis of Nazi propaganda as similar in tone and reasoning of the anti-war movement that began to flair up in earnest when Cindy Sheehan served as the catalyst for certain groups that seem to have an obvious self-serving political agenda: I understand the rhetoric is supercharged right now. But I can honestly say that it is not politics, but principle that guides my thinking. You may not agree with those principles, but try as you will, they can not be marginalized, nor will I abandon them. - Dillon, Offensive Enough? When you read Phil, turn the TV off and pull up your chair with a cup of coffee. He's a slow read, but well worth the time. Another blog I began to take an interest in is Clive Allen's Gone Away. Clive offers a unique British perspective on American culture and politics as a travels around the United States. His descriptions of our people, how we are similar and how we differ from the Brits, remind me of a modern day Walt Whitman: It was their honesty and optimism that attracted me to them. All my life I had been surrounded by people who would go to great lengths to avoid calling a spade a spade, but here was a nation who saw nothing wrong in going straight to the point. They seemed so open and willing to learn about the world around them, almost innocent in their enjoyment of life. - Allen, "American Experience" p. 9 As I started to become well acquainted with these two writers, I discovered another blogger whose writing I have come to admire. Letting me be by Liz Strauss offers a compilation of writings that focus on a variety of topics specific to her life and to the process of writing. She writes with a deft touch that makes you feel welcomed to be in the company of her words. In terms of style, "The Turkey in the Trunk" exemplifies Liz at her best:"The drive home took about two hours. It was me, music, and the empty Illinois cornfields. My thoughts were busy with the day to come, seeing my brother would convince everyone to cause diversions while he ate my lunch for me, and how my cousin Joe and I would sneak down to the basement when we were 'peopled out' to get space and catch up on things." Especially wonderful and informative are her non-fiction articles from "The 65th Crayon," which she describes as ". . . a rainbow of news and insights about colorful people, places, and things." "Scribbles: Snow White Never Kissed," is an example of her reflections on fascinating tidbits of information. Though more than that, she offers astonishing personal insight and reflection on day-to-day events, but especially impressive is her output. Compared to her I am a definitely a turtle-paced poster. Hmmm, try to say that three times fast.Anyway--all kidding aside and certainly no offence to Liz--what I have come to appreciate most about blogging these past few months is the sense of friendship and community that seems to have developed not just with them, but with those who also read my blog, and with those whose blogs I read as well. There's JC of Further Ironies; Patry Francis of The Marvelous Garden; EuroYank: An American Alien in Europe ; and many others I am getting to know and enjoy. But I am especially indebted and grateful to Phil and Liz for posting a review of my writing on their blogs, and to Clive for recognizing a need for a forum where serious writers representing a variety of views can link together by joining Writers Blog Alliance.It used to be that if you wanted to have an exchange of ideas, or stories, you would have to make a considerable effort to belong to a specific community of people who shared common interests and goals. It is easy to do that when you live in a large city. It is even easier to do that when you attend or teach college classes. But in a small community isolated from a larger metropolitan area, it is very difficult to find a similar community. Those that do exist, as I have found, can be painfully provincial. Thanks to the Internet, the world has become smaller by becoming broader in ways that almost seem incomprehensible. Instead of hopping in my car to drive across town to meet with a friend to discuss our writing or a book, I can connect with him or her online. The only drawback, though, is not being able to be in their presence physically. But then, who knows. Because of the camaraderie we develop with our fellow bloggers, especially those who we consider to be in our immediate circle, and the alliances we form with them, we may decide that getting together for a day of discussion might be an entirely plausible proposition. And so here's to that cup of coffee, virtual or otherwise, that we may someday drink in the spirit and wisdom of friendship, and commune with each other in a lengthy discussion on writing and literature.