Sunday, September 07, 2008

Desert storms

Just got back from my vacation out west, which included a week at Burning Man. I plan on writing something more substantial about the experience, but am not quite ready. For now, these lyrics from Shriekback's "The Strongest Wind that Blows" sum it up pretty well.

I start to know
the strongest wind that blows
The thing that until now I only read about
New structure
eating up the old
The process we all have this nameless dread about

Cold shoals
Their bloodless arms enfold
The earthen engines moan
the feast out in the cold
Everybody leaves this dance alone

Lashed up,
clinging to a thing
The nights are drawing in, that there's no doubt about
Wild rapture:
the old familiar code
This brute reflex is nothing much to shout about

Pegged out,
pulling down the stone
Botched, brave and alone
Fierce lustre
blistering the soul
Mourning for those I will never know

Stake out,
cops inside a van
To test a theory that the world is credible
My brains
boiling in a pan
Tests have shown they prove to be inedible

Own up
The terrifying trees
Will shake the leaves around
Starts at every sound
Everybody needs somebody now

Apparently, Barry Andrews went to Burning Man this year, wrote that song, then traveled back to the past and recorded it.

One of the best parts of the trip was getting totally cut off from news and current events for a week. I wish I could have stayed out until mid-November.

The important cog in the big story, for me at least, was the conservative reaction to Bristol Palin's pregnancy. Taken along with their criticism of Senator Obama's dedication to physical fitness and healthy eating habits, we can divine that their plan for our nation's children is to make them fat and pregnant. No news yet on the Republican's policy position regarding the availability of shoes in winter.

Seriously though, this is horrible. I am morally outraged that a national party is encouraging teen pregnancy. "It's her choice," they say. Choice? For a child? If my daughter were to come home pregnant, we'd be speeding on down to the abortion clinic before she finished the sentence. Choice? No. She can choose to fuck up her life when she's 18. Until then, that's my job.