What is it with me? First there was TNC cruising in and out of my apartment every day. Now another of my neighbor's cats (different neighbor) is sitting outside my screen door, wailing at me in a horrible hoarse voice. I'd be flattered, if it weren't so gol-durned annoying!
Are there grounds for starting impeachment proceedings against George W. Bush for his actions leading up to the war in Iraq? That's what the After Downing Street coalition is asking. If you think that Congress should investigate this question, please continue reading. Note that the coalition is not pushing for impeachment at this time, merely asking Congress to raise the question of whether or not there are valid reasons to move toward impeachment.
Personally, I think that it's pretty obviously an issue worth further investigation (at the very least). If Congress can launch actual impeachment procedures on the basis of a president lying about his sex life, surely we can ask them to look into whether Bush's actions with regards to the Iraq war might be just as important or as questionable.
In other words, there's not enough evidence in the Downing Street memo to start impeachment proceedings. There is, however, enough to start an inquiry. That is, if Congress can persuaded to do its job -- hence this blog swarm.
If you agree, or even if you're just curious as to what this is about, I've added the relevant information below the fold.
Between the fleas, and the moths that swarm the lights, and the ants, and the spiders who prey on all of them, I've got a regular little ecosystem in my apartment. I've always had a love of spiders (particularly jumping spiders, with their large eyes and cocky demeanor) but I've grown somewhat fond of the ants, much to my surprise. Ants are a nuisance and irritation when they are interested in your food and garbage, and when they make long black lines across the floor. This spring, the ants are for some reason content to simply cruise throught the apartment as individual scouts, hunting down the odd dead flea or hauling away the carcass of a moth. Since they don't bite (unlike the fleas) and they're helping keep things tidy, I've gotten used to sharing the place with them. The only exception to this is when I'm sitting at the back table, which for some reason fascinates the ants. They love to race around its surface, and over and across anything that lies on it. Since this includes both books I'm trying to read and my own self, my tolerance for anty antics can grow short. So far I've resisted the occasional urge to squash them -- instead blowing them with a sudden puff of breath to the ground -- but they certainly push it. Ants are many things, but you could not call them calm or deliberate.
I'm feeling bouncy and frustrated today. I may take up a long time to make up my mind about things, but when I do, I want to race before the wind and go as fast as I can in the direction I've chosen. I have all this pent up directional energy, and I can't do anything with it. I'm reduced to tacking back and forth, waiting for the tide to reveal the shoals and reefs ahead so I can choose the best path to my goal. I'm waiting to hear from the unemployment folks so I can plan my financial future over the next few months. I'm waiting for the camera store to open so that I can test out my desired new camera and see if it is indeed worth the financial sacrifice. I was going to go in to the library this weekend (free parking on Sundays) and borrow their wifi, but it is Memorial Day Weekend, and nothing will be open until Tuesday. I'd like to go for a walk, but I am crampy.
All last week I had the freedom to act on many of these things, but no will. Now I have all the will, and external forces stand in my way.
Perhaps this is a sign that I should clean my apartment. I've been putting that off, too.
Reading Pilgrim at Tinker's Creek at midnight, my sense of it blurs, wavers. Have I read it before, or am I only remembering words I have read about it, stories about Annie Dillard's cat, the mountains, the frog's empty skin? No matter: the words flow around me in timeless motion, pulling ideas out of my head and setting them free to spin about the room, swirling and dancing like motes of dust in the sun.
What is really happening is the infection of my prose, the cadences and rhythms and strange dark moods burrowing deep in, like a virus into DNA, pushing, prodding, demanding replication and repetition. It at times drove me mad, this weird sponge-like quality, this absorption and release of others' patterns. When I was researching the words of boosters, and mad visionaries, and dryly witty government officials, the tenor of their prose drifted ineluctably into my own, mutating it into strange forms, some verging on the purple, a purple of susurating consonants, limpid vowels, and curious twisted phonemes and turns of phrase. I see this happen, and it is frustrating, but it seems at times inescapable, much like a dancer walking past a drumbeat finds herself moving in time to its thumping cadences, like a musician who is pulled out of his tight chords into the wild rhythms of jazz.
Yet should I be like the musician I once found in a story, raised from childhood in the absence of music, so as to preserve his genius originality, but who revealed the accidental taint of Bach on his psyche not through its presence, but by its absence in his subsequent compositions? Shall I strip my prose of all that may carry the whiff of other minds, of other patterns of thought, of other rhythms?
I say not. I shall ride the waves of others, drifting and swimming and dancing like Dillard's sharks in the waves, rising up like the giant water bug to suck them dry of their insight, and then fly off in the shadow of the rain, knowing that by mimicry I learn, that by imitation I come to see, that these are the scales and etudes of my craft, and no less valuable for having been created by the dreams of others.
Now, if only I can learn to not have such thoughts so late at night, when I am hoping to curl into slumber, to fold into that softness of which she writes. At the very least, I should not pick up books with such compelling visions at such a time. Discipline, myself, discipline is the key, the means of luring close the wild thoughts within, of enticing them to alight, and nibble at my fingers, before darting away into the shadows of dreams and the dark.
I'm sorry I've been so behind with the posting. I've been feeling very scattered this last week. In some ways this is a good thing, in that it means I have a lot of interesting thoughts whirling around my head to play with, but it also means that I'm spending far too much time staring into space or sleeping and feeling guilty about that.
I think my problem is that while I'm a person who enjoys "freedom from" I eventually need to shift into "freedom to" mode. That is, for a few days after I've been doing something difficult (or boring) I revel in the freedom to do anything other than that. It's an escapist sort of freedom; the whole delight of it is not having to do anything. But I can't sustain that. Eventually I need to find productive outlets for my freedom, whether it is spending time with my plants or spinning or doing yoga, or packing or looking for work. I am, at base, a goal-oriented person, even when the goal may be as vague as "have fun with friends." I need something to aim myself at, else I whirl away into a cloud of particles, fearful that they'll just fly off forever and never come back.
So this week I've been at the flying particle stage, trying to figure out a new routine to keep me grounded, a routine I can sustain over time and which makes the best use of my circadian rhythms. If I'd figured it out by now I'd share it with you, but it does seem to have at least a few essential elements. I need to get up earlier, because I do my best, most focused thinking in the morning, and it's therefore a good time to write. I need to schedule time for walking and spinning and gardening, because, again, this gives me time to think. (When your livelilhood hinges on your creativity, anything that promotes productive thought is good.) I need to find a space for yoga, partly for the mental clarity, but also because I am spending far too much time sitting around, and that's just not good. I need to teach myself to go to bed before midnight, because nights are unproductive and staying up either makes me groggy or results in my missing my productive morning time.
Beyond that, I'm still working out the bugs.
Oh, and I want a new camera. This one. But, damn, it is freakin' expensive!