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Terrance's accident made the local papers. He was working on a circuit breaker forty feet off the ground between the Chevrolet dealer's show lot and the Pizza Factory in Kalispell. He had rerouted the power grid so he could work on the local transformer. There was a checklist of things he'd gone through and marked with a red Bic pen before he climbed the steel ladder to the high retention wires. He had done everything right, too. Alberta-Montana Power Company would check it all several times afterward. It was someone at the main power switchboard, thinking that the diversion was a mistake, who put it back to its normal current flow. Terrance had already started working when the power got sent back toward him. He heard a humming. It got louder, bigger, and the few fine hairs above his knuckles on his right hand stood straight up before everything crested into him.
He felt as if he'd been sliced into millions of thin biopsy cuts that were manically rattling against each other, until everything inside his body pushed against everything on the outside. His eyes bulged like overfilled balloons, and his world went teal blue—then red from his blood rushing to his head as he hung upside down from a harness. Then everything went black when he passed out.
The head of his hammer pressing against the outside of his lower thigh got so hot it burned the shape of itself through his thermal Carhartt pants and into his skin. The dealership filed a claim because his screwdriver shot fifty feet out of his tool belt and punctured the passenger's side door of a new gunmetal grey Tahoe truck in the lot. A witness was quoted in The Hungry Horse News, saying he looked like an "epileptic fish flopping above the road."
He wasn't sure for how long, but for a while before he woke up, he was conscious of who he was but not of his body. He felt the bones in the top of his right foot first. They were just floating there by themselves like the bare spines of a Chinese hand fan. Then he felt how those bones connected to his ankle, and there was only his one foot. He felt it wholly, as if it supported the weight of the world. When he started to think about his leg, his shin bone ached, then his knee. In this way, as if he were the god of himself, creating one small piece at a time, he reassembled his body until he became aware of being in the hospital bed. He felt holy. Except for the sharp pain in his groin, gravity did not apply to him, and he was ascending to something.
The room was empty when he woke. His left leg was in a stirrup. It felt like something was resting on the outside of his skin—a teal-blue fear trying to get in—or the outer layer of himself had been burned off and everything was nerve-end sensitive.
Helen walked in five minutes later with a cup of coffee and a bag of yogurt-covered pretzels. She didn't look up at him until he asked, "Am I okay?"
She made a gutteral "Ogh" sound and dropped the coffee on the floor. The puffed-up, subtle bruise-colored skin around her eyes made them so squinty that she looked like a haggard version of herself. She had stopped sleeping several weeks before, after she lost her job as a secretary to the high school principal. For some reason she had torn every sheet of paper she filed away in half, and she never answered Terrance's or the principal's questions about why she had done that.
When she dropped the coffee, Terrance wanted to touch her face the way a blind person would, with hungry fingers trying to find something. He wanted to push the stray strands of her bangs behind her ear, but all her hair fell loose as she leaned over the bed and sunk her face into his neck. Her highlighted brown hair covered his eyes. She stayed like that for a long time. "I thought you were going to die," she said. Then she peeled herself off him and ran out of the room to get a doctor.
Everything around Terrance felt lighter as a doctor told him about the half-dollar-sized hole between the inside of his left thigh and testicles, where the current of electricity that entered his body had ripped out. Surgeons had sutured and skin-grafted the wound during the thirty-one hours he had been unconscious.
That feeling of lightness stayed with him the whole week he was in the hospital. The doctors kept him because they wanted to make sure nothing was wrong with the circulation of his femoral artery. He slept most of the week, waking each time with his mind fixated initially on the bones of his right foot and then working its way over his body, making sure everything was still there. When he wasn't sleeping he sketched his awakening skeletal system in his notebook and drew things he would carve when he was released.
"Did your life flash before your eyes?" Helen asked him while they were alone in the room together.
"No," he said. "There's too much of it to happen all in one little moment." She looked disappointed by his answer. He probably should have said something about thinking of her. He was worried about why she had been fired and how soon they could both get back to work. Maybe he should have mentioned something about Los Caporales, the Mexican restaurant off highway 93 where they had met three years ago. She was thirty-seven and had never been married. Terrance was forty-four, had been divorced for five years. His ex-wife, Claire, and their three kids, lived in Buffalo, New York, and they rarely talked. Helen was the only one who visited him in the hospital, as his children were out there in a place he could not get back to. That alone seemed like it would be hard to condense into one brief flash before a person could die.
His cabin was on a hundred and sixty acres of land in the Bitterroot Mountain range. It sat against the foothills side of an expansive oval field that his grandfather had cut back into the surrounding woods when he first bought the land in 1938 for next to nothing. Terrance had made the cabin his year-round home after his grandfather died and he'd moved back following his divorce.
The first three days out of the hospital, Helen lifted his leg from the couch and rested it on her shoulder as she rubbed the salve he'd been given at the hospital on the burn scar on his crotch to keep the skin moist. On the fourth day he had full range of motion back, and Helen helped him limp around the cabin the rest of the weekend. On that Monday, he drove himself to the office at Alberta-Montana, where his bosses and their lawyers were waiting to offer a settlement package to keep them out of court. They were willing to offer him a 2.3 million dollar pension plan that would kick in next month, when he was forty-five. If he wanted to continue working, he could. He felt a subtle wave of shock roll over his body like he was hanging upside-down again. He imagined it was a similar feeling to the way Helen described her orgasms.
Terrance signed the papers.
When he got home, Helen was under the covers on the couch with the salve cream cupped in her hands like a tiny bowling ball.
"I thought you had been killed," she said. "It would have just been me—all alone." She lifted her body off the couch and hugged him. "I thought you had been killed."
Terrance sat next to the couch, and Helen's hand started clutching the hair on the back of his head. There was a buffalo skull that he'd cleaned and mounted above the fireplace. Two track lighting bulbs illuminated it against the brick. The eye sockets of the bison skull were empty. He turned to Helen, and her eyes seemed just as exposed and vault-like. Something in her had come unlatched and was swinging around inside. He felt the shrill screech of an alarm sounding up his spine, as if his skin was still so very thin and offered no barrier between him and the world. All of this had happened before. Her moods had always swung between outrageously happy and a bone-tired funk that ushered her into the flatness of depression. The struggle with each had been exhausting, but now he wanted to take his new penetrating vision and turn it on her, look for something that had been jarred loose to mend it.
He pulled the blanket over her shoulders and rubbed his fingertip against her temple until she fell asleep. He didn't have to tell her about the money. She knew he'd receive Workers' Compensation checks until he wanted to go back to work, so he wouldn't have to tell her. Another one of those ghost-currents shook through his body.
He went to their bedroom and started to sketch another sculpture he now wanted to build. He focused on the sculpture, not how desolate she had looked on the couch when he came home, not on the pain between his legs he felt climbing toward his heart.
When Terrance woke up, his sketchbook was resting on his stomach and he was on top of the covers. It was dark in the room. The alarm clock on the side of his bed read 1:13 A.M. The bright LCD screen shone on the floor. He closed his eyes and opened them to get the sleep out, then turned on his reading lamp.
There were chrome-oxide-green footprint outlines on the carpet leading into his room. His heart knotted like a fist when he saw Helen's thin feet had lightly touched the ground as she came in. Next to his bed there were thicker footprints, where she must have stood for a while. If he could peel off those closest to him he'd have the perfect imprint of her whole foot. She had been watching him sleep again. He walked into the living room and found her rolling dollops of paint into the carpet with a roller brush. She had the five-gallon paint bucket from his work truck that he used for neighborhood circuit boxes. She'd either rolled the brush over her chest or lain in the wet paint, as there was an outline of the large cups of her bra highlighted in chrome-oxide-green on her shirt.
"Helen—" The ends of her hair had sealed together in clumps, with paint. She had finger-painted the corners of her eyes as if she were accentuating the crow's feet and now looked like a tired forty-year old-child.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm devastated," she said to him and bent forward over her lap so her forehead was resting on the carpet.
Terrance phoned the hospital after she fell back asleep. "Is she off her meds?" the doctor on call at the clinic asked. The doctor's question seemed rigid. "She swore she wasn't," he told the doctor, who said to keep an eye on her and bring her in that afternoon.
Terrance was now wide awake from falling asleep so early. Helen's presence in their bed seemed to fill up the entire space of the cabin. He didn't know how he'd make it until morning, wondering how to help her. So the rest of that night he pulled out the ruined carpet, cutting away at the corners and rolling it up at the center of the room. Enough paint had soaked through to dye the carpet glue chrome-oxide green. He thumbed the green glue marks and hoped she had gone off her meds and it would be an easy fix.
She had gone to what they ended up calling a "therapy retreat" once since they moved in together. He had hoped she'd be able to address some central event of her life that she could then move on from. She came back with a small painting she had done in a rehab session. It was something completely out of the norm for her, and she kept it on the wall of the cabin. Terrance looked over at it as he took a break from pulling up the rug. It was a watercolor copy of a Mardi Gras picture. There were people wearing blank white masks with feathered shawls and rounded hats that hid any part of themselves except the eyes, which were shadowed and dark. The prospect of trying to understand a person through such masks was terrifying.
He had snuck one of her meds after she got back to see what they did to her. The next morning he had to call in to work for the first time in ten years. When he could finally get out of bed he was fearful of what was now keeping Helen up and running, and as he continued to pull up the rug now, all that fear knotted between his shoulders. He dragged the ruined carpet outside, wondering if chrome-oxide green was the color being devastated washed a person in.
At first light, Terrance filled his nostrils with cotton swabs so he wouldn't smell the putrid meat scraps hanging off the buffalo skulls he'd gotten from the bison ranch. He coated the horns with a thick layer of Vaseline so the ants wouldn't eat away the enamel and left the heads on anthills. The ants would clean away the tendons and tunnel to the marrow, if a bear or coyote didn't decide to come gnaw on it first. His grandfather had taught him how to clean bones like this when he was a boy. When he'd had a skull on every anthill he could find in the whole valley, he piled the bones and antlers from rendering what he'd hunted into a cargo net. He set the net in the deep part of the Kootenai River tributary on a rope he tied across the water so the current would bleach them clean.
He'd been carving bones and antlers his whole life—making eagles, bears, wolves, and other "high Alpine art images." Danny, a friend, would sell them in his tourist store outside of Glacier National Park. The bones had added a lot of extra income over the years. Now Terrance walked back through the snow to the cabin with a full elk rack over his shoulders. The hilt from the crown of the elk's head rested against the back of his neck, and the horns draped over his shoulders in front of him like a giant thorn scarf. He was thinking of the sculpture he wanted to build: how with the large bag of bones in the cargo net, he'd have everything he needed.
He weaved out of the woods with the antlers and came into the open valley south of the cabin. The cabin had been a sanctuary for him since his divorce, giving him all the time he wanted to set out into the woods and mountains and collect his bones.
After Helen woke up he drove her north to Whitefish, where he dropped off a truck full of bone carvings to Danny's gift shop. Danny was in the store, wiping a dirty rag over a glass display case of turquoise jewelry. Helen helped Terrance unload the carvings. They took one at a time through the back door of the building to the storage area; there Danny would decide where he wanted to display Terrance's work.
"This one is lovely," Helen said as she pulled a length of elk horn out of the truck cab. Terrance had carved a series of figures running from the base toward the points. They showed an evolutionary progression, from a hunched over Neanderthal to better and more upright hunters. The final figure was standing straight, with a bow drawn taut across his chest. Terrance had carved them using small bend gouges and skew knives. He'd often work on them late at night so Helen wouldn't be awake by herself. In the morning he'd wake to her sweeping up the pittings off the floor.
When they finished unloading the truck, they drove south toward the clinic in Kalispell. The hospital was the first major development on a gigantic plot of land. For Sale signs advertised the other lots in the surrounding fields. At the clinic, Helen went into the doctor's room but wanted Terrance to stay in the lobby. He went outside and walked around the building to escape the staleness of the lobby seeping into him.
In the summer all that was in those fields were bleaching bones and weeds. Now the light off the snow made everything seem refrigerated. A yellow finch landed in front of him on a tall, dead blade of olive grass. The grass curved slightly under the bird, which dropped a little white splatter of shit and flew off. There was a frozen burlap seed sack stuck to the ground along the fence bordering the parking lot. Terrance pulled it up from the snow, and it peeled grass out of the ground like a Band-Aid on arm hair. Camel crickets, potato bugs and centipedes squirmed in the exposed earth.
His grandfather used to read the Bible to him. Terrance had been fascinated by the story where Jesus walked on water. Maybe it was having lived entrenched in this kind of earth and so far from any sea that made the whole matter an utter mystery. Terrance used to think about Jesus walking on the water and how fine a thing it must have been. Now he thought how Jesus must have walked from the water back into the world—back into this—and felt a bit of a letdown. He wondered if Jesus felt water underneath his feet for the rest of his life, the way Terrance suspected he'd feel a blue current running through him.
When he went back inside he read Oprah's magazine instead of a pamphlet called, On living with people who suffer from various mental disorders and imbalances. He had spent the last several years learning the clinical language of disorders and imbalances. He had been there through the course of trying to find the right balance of medications. He'd held his concerns in check as the medicines seemed to be getting stronger with each doctor's visit, cycling through anticonvulsants, before moving onto Lithium, and Carbamazepine.
From the waiting room he saw a doctor with his head down, writing and talking to Helen at the back counter. He tore a pharmaceutical script from the pad and handed it to her. She put it in her pocket. Terrance thought of setting her up somewhere other than the cabin when he got his settlement money.
"How'd it go?" he asked when she came out.
"Let's go," she said.
"Wait. Do we need to get your prescription filled?"
"Please, let's get out of here, Terrance." Her voice was limp. Something in her face looked crushed, and he couldn't bear keeping her there. They went to the truck, and he started driving her north to the cabin.
"Are you okay?" he asked Helen when they were driving north.
"I just need to be sad for a while," she told him as they drove.
"Why are you so sad?" he asked. She was looking out the window at the rolling fields.
"Terrance," she said, letting his name hang in the silence between them. "I used to feel it."
He knew she was about to drop some hammer on him from out of the blue, something that had been festering and become gangrenous. "Feel what?" he asked.
"I could feel my body wanting a baby. If I was around one, I could feel it in my bones." She turned away from him and looked out the window. "I stopped feeling it. It was this sort of pang. Something inside of me I couldn't explain that got louder and louder when I got older. Now I can't hear it anymore. It stopped."
Terrance reached over and put his hand on her knee, but she pulled her leg away. "We're never going to have a family. I was always too scared of having crazy kids to try." She was pressing herself into the doorjamb, "And—you—never pushed us to do it!" Her voice was full of anger, and she shot out and punched his arm as hard as she could. His elbow buckled, and the truck veered to the side of the road for a moment, vibrating over the rumble strip and gravel before he pulled it back. Her eyes looked like the hollow buffalo's again.
"We're not going to have a family!" she screamed at him. Her sudden rage was unfurling in front of him, and something reckless was pushing out at her skin, making her glow.
"You'd probably just be a shitty husband and a shitty father again anyway," she yelled, sighting and hitting his most vulnerable spots, flicking truth he never spoke of that would linger in him forever. "You're not even worried about me, either, you just don't want to be stuck taking care of me forever."
Terrance was silent—hurt.
"Say something!" Helen yelled.
"Right now that's true. Right now I'm sick of you," Terrance blurted out.
"So what? Right now I hate you!" Helen screamed. She sounded vicious, and Terrance felt the dread that there would be no washing clean after something like this. There would just be plodding ahead, both of them worn to emotional shreds. As they drove, there was a chilly reserve between them, vacant and immense.
Helen hadn't taken her eyes off of him. Everything dark and confusing in her was working its way through her stare into the side of his neck as he drove. There was too much to flash in front of a person's eyes before they died, he was sure of it.
They drove further north.
Helen had told him all of those fears about having children before, but this time he sensed the added weight to it. "When you got hurt, I thought you were going to die and I'd be left with nothing," she finally said, and he knew she was mourning the family they would never have. Now all they had for sure was each other. Her body must have told her that, and when he'd been shocked and almost killed, she was as close to left alone as she'd ever been. All they really had was a trust that they'd be there for each other, and she had draped that trust over herself like a plaster cast until it was holding her up.
When they got back to the cabin it was past dark. There was cloud cover pocked with clusters of dense, bright stars.
Helen stepped inside the cabin, took off her boots and made a show of tossing them far across the room. She undid her belt and slipped her pants to her knees before even taking off her coat. He watched as she kicked her legs free of her jeans, then started undoing the jacket as she walked toward the bedroom, looking over her shoulder at him before the jacket hit the wood floor.
They had not had sex since his accident, and everything she did now made him anxious, but he followed her into the room. Just inside the door frame she jumped on him from behind. He felt her bare breast push into his back. He turned her over in front of him and pinned her back against the wall. He bent down and took her breast into his mouth and bit down on her nipple with his lips folded over his teeth. She pushed him away and threw herself on the bed. When he came near her, she reached up and scratched his chest. He jumped back and felt the pain of each long nail gouge she'd given him. Her eyes were locked on him. She was gyrating her hips at him, grinding the space between them away, as if, since this part of their lives together was going to be fruitless, she'd make it into something else entirely.
He charged her. When she tried to scratch him again, he blocked her hands and pinned her to the bed and started fucking her immediately. It felt like the first time there was real hate between them, as they crashed their bodies into each other until they'd shook the painting on the wall sideways.
"Where did that come from?" Terrance asked after they had finished, breaking the silent shock they were both panting into.
"Sometimes I want to be able to yell it out of me," she said.
"This is a good place to do that," he whispered to her as she burrowed her head into the nook of his shoulder and arm.
Helen slept like their sex had erased time and she'd forgotten everything they'd said. Their fight kept Terrance on edge, so he slept poorly and woke before dawn. He got dressed and went out to walk the woods.
His grandfather had also taught him how to trap, and now Terrance went to see what he had caught in the critter cages he'd set up. When he found a baby raccoon in one of the cages, the animal was swaying back and forth and climbing upside down in a lunatic motion of frenzied circles. The animal was making high-pitched staccato squeaks like an engine stuck in some high gear. Terrance opened the cage to release it, and as it scurried into the trees he hoped he'd never see it again.
Walking back to the cabin, he heard Helen screaming on the porch. From that morning, all through the next month, when Terrance was working with his bones in the woods, he heard her yelling. It became a part of her morning calisthenics.
A month later, Helen was still waking up and screaming from the deck as loud as she could. Terrance knew it made all the animals in the valley freeze until they perceived where the noise was coming from. The bone statue he was building did not move. The creature was eight feet high and had one hundred and fifty four bones, from nine different animals.
He'd started drawing where the bones would go to support the skeleton when he was in the hospital dreaming his own bones back to life. He had since studied charts of the human skeleton. At the taxidermy shop in the town, he studied the charts of animal bones. He studied how museums had framed their skeletons, but he wanted his sculpture to be more organic, as if it was stemming from the earth it stood on. He used a papier-mâché system with plaster and strips of old white sheets he bought at a local Salvation Army. He dipped the strips of sheet in a five-gallon bucket of plaster and used the strips to make joints that held the bones. When the plaster dried he wound the joints tighter with thin rope or chicken wire for extra support.
For the hands he used six-point mule deer antlers. The hands connected to the metacarpal bones of a horse, bound by plaster at the elbow joints to a horse femur. The bulbous end of the femur, where the stifle joint had connected, was stuck into the groove of a moose's shoulder plate.
The spine was the hardest part. He let the river clean away the tendons from all the skeletons he had, so the individual vertebrae just fell apart from each other. He fed a length of steel rod through a garden hose and wove the tip of the hose through each open ringlet of spine. For ribs, he connected the humerus and ulna bones of wild turkeys and kept them bent in at the joint like curled fingers. The statue had six ribs on each side, and there was enough room between rib tips for him to kneel between and set the vertebra bones.
Helen did not know what he was doing. It seemed important that she not know. This was his own thing. This project was how he could keep himself straight even while she was slipping. It kept him out in the fresh air, where he felt healthy and alive. The buffalo skull with a black bear's jaw melded to it was the last thing he'd mount on the sculpture. He had to hook a wire from the top of the skull to each shoulder to keep it on steady. Once it was secure, he brushed off the new snow and stepped back from it and looked up at what he had made.
It looked like a monster emboldened to dance among the trees. He thought about what the muscles of the animal he'd created would look like and how they would curve around the bones as he had them laid out. None of it seemed like something a god would sit down and figure out. As he walked around it, he wondered what a blue shock would do for the bone marionette he'd created. He thought of burying his settlement money right underneath it.
Then he heard Helen screaming from the deck of the cabin. He sat in the snow at the base of the sculpture and looked at its right foot. He worked his way up, one bone at time, making sure he had forgotten nothing. He studied the linkage of bones. He shut his eyes and let his mind run over the bones he'd felt in his own body.
Helen screamed again. He let her dirge stretch out and disappear across his mind. If they were lucky, this place would let them purge his teal-blue current and her deep sadness into the woods. The woods could absorb her wanting children, children their mutual fears and time had taken from them, absorb the limbo of regret over each of those children that could have been.
He wanted to help her. He could meet her want for new life if one of his kids would come out for the summers. They could get horses. There could be dogs. There was life. He was constructing a life deep in the forest. It was new life from old life—old bones. That was something he could do for her. He could scramble what they had and lay it at her feet until it made a family and she felt she had something to care for, so sleeping could have mercy on her.
On the way back to the cabin he saw Helen's footprints in the freshly fallen snow. He followed them out of the woods. In the clearing they had been windswept and disappeared. He kicked the clumps of snow off his boots by slapping them against the porch banister. Inside the cabin the bedroom door was open. She wasn't in bed. He listened for bathroom noises. She'd been taking multiple showers throughout the day lately. She'd once told him she needed a shower to fully wake her up and start her day. Now he was afraid she didn't like what was happening and kept trying to start again.
When he didn't hear any water running, he walked to the bathroom, but the door was open. At the front door her parka was still on the hook, and her boots, though wet, were still on the floor.
"Helen," he called out in the cabin. No one answered. He opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. The wide clearing extended in front of him to the forest sloping up the mountainside. The lone road cut a line through the center of the field where he'd plowed with his truck. "Helen."
At the far end of the snow-covered open space he saw a herd of mule deer moving along the wall of pines and larches. He followed their movements until he saw her. She was lying naked on her side with her back to him. He took the porch steps in one bound. The far end of the valley behind her had a few waist-high tree trunks where his grandfather had initially cut back the forest. The forest was thinned out fifty yards in, so the remaining trees had great spaces between them. The closer he got to where she was, the more the woods seemed to recede before becoming a solid wall of conifer trunks.
A blank cloud of terror drained the color out of everything as he ran. As he got closer he saw how the light pooled between her shoulder blades. The deer were trying to move faster through the snow. For a moment he thought about running right past her and into the deeper woods, where he would be done with her. Then he noticed the deep blue veins on her mid-thigh. They were dead-thing colored, and that color blue filled his head, blanketing everything like the sky. His last steps were through snow up to his hips, and he lunged forward, crawling to her like a wolverine. The weight of his body pushed snow against her bare back. Her body hadn't indented the snow she was lying on, until he pulled her into his lap and arms, so she was facing him. The dark patch of her pubic hair puffed out against the white snow between her legs. She was limp and amoeba-like. He wanted to crack open his ribs and drape himself over her like a jacket. The deer were still marching along the line of trees. Their wet, sable eyes fixated on him leaning over her as if he were in some skewed nativity.
"Helen!" he yelled into her face. His words fanned out. The deer all jumped, and he heard them crashing away. "Helen." Her eyes were open wide like he'd scared her. Her head was cold when he put his hands against her and red where her cheek was resting in the snow. She looked like an alcoholic Eve—beautiful and tragic. The last of the deer were just passing them about fifty feet away. He expected her to open her mouth big enough to swallow him or scream it all out.
She just watched him. Then she looked beyond him into the woods.
There was a murky, primeval excitement in him as he lifted her. She felt lighter than he expected, like part of her, the part he knew, had escaped into the deeper parts of the forest and was now gone.
When he brought her inside, the cabin smelled like burned apples; it was warm compared to her skin against his arms. In the foyer, the creak and pop in the bones of the cabin settling in broke through the uninterrupted sound of her breathing against his shoulder. The deer were probably now walking the deeper snow in the woods, looking to root out new grass shrubs to eat. It was harder for them in the winter.
He put her in the bed and wrapped the heavy blankets around her. He lay on the covers with his arm and leg over her to keep her warm. Her dark outline made him feel as if she were scratching out from under a thick layer of ice.
"What were you doing in the snow?" Terrance asked. "What were you thinking?" He no longer knew what to do with her, and it frightened him. He held her until he felt her body warming up. Terrance wished he could tune in to what she was thinking like a radio and just listen without her knowing, so he could understand what he could do for her.
He went to the bathroom and started the bathtub running with warm water. There was a film of soap in the curve at the base that ringed the whole basin. He had not cleaned the cabin since his accident. He kept his fingers under the water to make sure it was warm but not hot, the way she liked it.
He went back into the bedroom. He peeled the blankets back and led her to the tub. He held her arm as she lifted herself over the tub wall and sat down. She leaned her head back until it was under the water, which was clear, and he looked at her naked body. He knew every part of it—had longed for and hated it. He knew the cluster of freckles above the knob of her left ankle that disappeared when she had a tan. She dunked her head underwater. When she popped back up, her eyes were raw, and he knew he couldn't help her.
He hated when she smoked but went to her purse and grabbed her lighter and cigarettes. He sat on the toilet next to the tub and put a cigarette in her mouth and lit it. She held it in her lips, and he watched the tip breathe red. Her knee was sticking out of the water, and he wanted to put his hand on it but didn't. Her silence seemed like she was falling into some chasm he could not comprehend. He took the cigarette from her lips and put it back to her mouth when she wanted another drag. It felt like all he had left was that cigarette and a want to touch her.
He had sat on that toilet with her leaning over him the time he lanced a cyst on his scalp. It had been there his whole life that he could remember, but in bed she kept running her hand over it and saying it was getting bigger. "I'm taking you to the doctor," she'd say. "It's a tumor!"
She'd done that enough that he found himself running his fingers through his hair to find it, pushing the bump that felt like a hard pea just under the skin. He held the tip of the needle under the flame from one of her cheap lighters and jammed it into the bump until it scraped his skull. When he pulled out the needle and started to pinch the cyst, she sopped up what came out with a paper towel.
"That's gross," she said. "It's like black puss."
He squeezed and ran his thumb over the area the bump had been until it felt like a tiny, deflated balloon. She held the paper towel in front of him and smiled because she had wanted to see what was inside. The darkened paper smelled pungent and human.
He passed the cigarette back to her. She had used his toothbrushes, picked up their used condoms off the floor, stuck her finger in his ear, tickled his armpit, cried on his shoulder that she'd hit and bit and screamed into. He remembered all those things; time was just stacking them, and each left some impression on him because he never forgot anything with her. Now the memory of her bluing skin somehow became linked to all his other bad memories, and he wondered if that was what her episodes were like, and if each was a new tentacle, a tendon latching them together.
As he sat on the toilet breathing in her smoke and steam, he knew there was nothing he could do for her. Though it was nice to pretend like there was, like these small, sad moments were adding up to something. He sat there breathing in the smoke, her naked body, and the memory of his own black blood. It gave him a feeling of dread that drove him into the tub with her, like it was defeat that really brought people together. He let the warm water fill the space between his clothes and skin.
"So what are we going to name it?" Helen asked and pointed to the corner of the bathroom, toward the woods Terrance had been working in. Her voice made it sound like he had done it all for her.
He scooped her so she was bobbing just over his body, like he could hold her up forever, or until they could name all the shadows skirting the center of their lives. Then he shut his eyes, dunked his head under the water, and spoke of all the colors of fear that bind people together.
originally published in The Missouri Review, Issue 33.2


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|Textures: Aurora Kim Klassen, Jennifer Nancy Clayes, Big Bad Wolf Love That Shot, Cover Shadowhouse Creations
Regardless the shadow, my neck problems are casting over my life at the moment, I'm trying to focus my attention on the things on the bright side: Moments when being able to take a walk outside, reading a few pages in a book, having a good rest ... and my sweet, caring family and friends (thank you for all your sweet notes and comments!)
The unexpected breaks in our everyday life seem to take place when we least expect them, yet they're sharpening the intensity and appreciation of the things, we often take for granted.
Let's cherish the little things this week - the tiny notions that bring a smile on our faces, and the funny coincidences in life,

subset: commoncrawl


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Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Off the Runway: Uban and Iman Talk About Somalia and Race in Fashion
2 comments:
- Safera said...
Thanks for posting this Brigitte :o) I saw her Ralph Lauren ad and think she is beautiful! She is SO humble and down to earth I LOVE that.
Sidebar:She is the spitting image of a friend from High School who isn't of the same origin but the resemblance is sticking.
Keep up the good work :o) xoxo
- April 9, 2009 at 1:08 AM
Woow....really lovely interview and so true about the industry....its a phrases thing.
- April 19, 2009 at 11:17 PM
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One of the reasons I get so bored with food blogs is that it seems everyone is copying each other.
They are. How many photos have you had to look at featuring a stack of cookies, tied in twine? A cruddy wooden board that the dishes rest on, over a folded bit of floral fabric? The patch of burlap. The little glass milk bottle, with swirly-striped paper straws. The teeny cake stand. Artful sprinklings of fresh leaves, everywhere.
You are copying each other, and I found the online store where you buy all your identical props!
Recipes are copied, too. I recently cooked from a recipe suggested by a fellow blogger, and credited her on my blog. Only to find that the actual, perhaps original, recipe is sourced from somebody else, and it's all over the Internet. Legitimate ethical dilemma here: Was I copying the blogger? I took a picture of my results and did an enthusiastic post. I definitely attributed my food to the blogger whose recipe I used. I wasn't claiming originality. But I did feel a little bad about her not crediting her source.
If you visit Tastespotting much, you'll run across blatant ripoffs, repeats, robberies, and no attribution. Suddenly everybody is creating — originally! — an asparagus tart in puff pastry. Shaved asparagus salad. Boozy blueberry limeade (it's everywhere). Cauliflower crust pizza. No credits anywhere.
I even think I've been copied, though I wouldn't say any of my recipes have been plagiarized. (This is not a recipe blog!) I've come across things that remind me of food I created for this blog, in some cases, YEARS ago. Didn't I invent radishes on tartines? (You know what, I'm not that crazy. I probably didn't invent radish tartines.) Didn't I invent homemade ranch dressing (and this time, I'm pretty sure I've been copied.)
How many food bloggers besides me, amateurs mostly, would dream up buttermilk and fruit juice popsicles? Cucumber juice summer drinks? Watermelon juice summer drinks?
OK, calm me down, people. Thanks. It's not remotely impossible that people might come up with similar ideas, unbeknownst to each other. But the dishes I'm talking about from my blog were posted years ago, and right this minute there's a huge flurry of just those dishes, my dishes, in the foodosphere.
I sound really paranoid, don't I? Nah. Besides, I think I just solved the issue. If my creations were posted years ago, why did it take until now for people to find them? I wasn't copied. Probably. :)
I will leave you with this selfish discovery. I DID invent those dishes (even if tons of cooks already also had, historically). I was original! I thought. So was everybody else.
But you know what? For your own good, everybody, please don't copy that burrito bowl recipe that's proliferating all over cyberspace. What's a burrito bowl? A burrito is supposed to be wrapped in a flour tortilla. No, I get it. They're all copying Chipotle's.


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Truth or Dare (15)
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Eight college friends head to a 'Haunted Rental' for Halloween weekend, where a seemingly harmless game of truth or dare turns deadly. Someone, or something, begins to punish those who tell a lie or refuse a dare in this supernatural horror that will make you think twice before ever saying the words 'truth or dare' again!


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Trump, Brexit, Isis... we discuss everything, but our excuse for a political system is off the agenda
We prefer dealing with global issues than with disconnect on our own doorstep, writes Gail Walker
There is no doubt that, out there, in the wider world, there is a real change under way. It's not just that major votes in recent years have gone against predictions, or against what the media and pundits and polls insisted would be the outcome. The 2009 General Election, the Scots IndyRef 2014, General Election 2015, Brexit 2016 and the US presidential poll last November ... all ended up eluding the forecasters in quite embarrassing ways and wrong-footing politicians, activists and political commentators alike.
Many still haven't got over the shock of the results yet, and each new poll only serves to deepen and widen the gulf between wishful thinking and reality.
Moreover, there is a host of elections forthcoming in Europe which could very well signal a wholesale shift in the political temperament of the continent as a whole. It's all change. Open any newspaper, click on the internet, or even just say something to a colleague over the coffee machine, and what you will get in return is a torrent of opinion, loudly expressed, vigorously proposed, delivered as a challenge.
Whether on the Left or Right (that's if those terms actually mean anything anymore), there is a sense that getting involved matters - if only to rant at a loved one who has the temerity to question your total rightness. About everything.
But the point is that things are being argued, being discussed. Being fought over. There is, to use that old buzzword, "engagement". But not 'ere. Not in Northern Ireland. Or - to be more accurate - not in our traditional party politics.
Stick your head round any cafe in Belfast and you may find yourself in an argument about Brexit, or Trump, or Corbyn, or even Marie Le Pen. But not Stormont. Not the forthcoming Assembly election.
And that must be bad. Because it shows that many of us, tired of the perpetual groundhog day that passes for politics here, are silently abandoning the system.
Many of us are, paradoxically, making ourselves both external and internal exiles, turning to our private domestic and work world for value and meaning and purpose; and to the outside world for our big political opinions.
Brexit, Isis, immigration, climate change, Syria. We will have rallies to show how nice we are on immigration policy, but not on victims of our own Troubles. We will lecture American voters on President Trump's Mexican wall, amid the ruins of our own Assembly, collapsed by the sheer weight of our own sectarian attitudes. We have even wagged our collective fingers at the US over their gun laws!
We never see the irony. Even so, it's no surprise we are more at home with global issues than the fact none of our close friends are Catholics ... or Protestants, according to how the cap fits.
There is another factor, of course. In Northern Ireland, many voters are trapped in a system that doesn't represent them. What we are witnessing is hopelessness. We all know - give or take the odd seat - that the result next time will be much the same as last time.
Because elections here are not about "issues", "values", or "scandals". They are solely about keeping the other side out. But not so far out that the show cannot be patched up in a quick fix and kept on the road a bit down the line.
It is the perfect mix for apathy and disillusionment. And, as any fool can tell you, atrophy and rot go hand-in-hand.
We are 23 years now from the 1994 ceasefires; 19 years from the Good Friday Agreement. Remember the cover of the document we called The Agreement back then? Remember that family staring into the middle distance and a bright sunrise? Well, we are today on the horizon they were only able to gaze at.
We are, today, two decades on, living in the very future which seemed so distant then, but which the rhetoric of those days talked about as the one which was supposed to be "at stake" in the all-island referendum.
This is the future we were all promised - terror-free, more secure, more just, more sane.
The problem is, it doesn't feel like it.
I'm not talking about the fact that the "united Ireland" that was supposed to be "closer in 20 years" hasn't arrived yet for those who still think their lives are defined by wanting it.
Or about the fact that there is still uneasiness among unionists about the persistence of potential terror groups and still the requirement for them to "share power", when they would clearly prefer just to exercise it in an old majority rule way. For those people, nothing would have made much of a difference other than continuing violence in any case.
No. It doesn't feel like it, because our evasion of democracy simply hasn't won the energy and commitment of our population the way it should have done. Turnouts have been tumbling over many years here, hovering just over 50% at last year's Assembly elections - 54.2% to be precise. I suspect it will be even lower this time around.
What would happen if turnout for Stormont fell below 50%? Constitutionally, nothing. The 90 MLAs will still meet - or not, depending on circumstances. Probably little will change in terms of media. It is much easier to comment on a something than a nothing; easier to get het up about Count 7 in Strangford and get all the usual talking heads in the studio to shout at each other and proclaim their mandate. And yet ... it should mean something. While I have little sympathy with non-voters, because many of them simply can't be bothered dragging themselves down to the local primary school, many this time who won't be voting will be doing so not out of laziness, but out of contempt for a depressing and failed political culture.
The fact that our politics is still off the agenda here in casual conversation, because of fear and intimidation and sectarian pigeon-holing, is only one aspect to our failing social structures. Another is voter apathy - where the fear of expressing a view socially is exactly matched by the sense that casting a ballot makes no real difference at all.
If we live in a system where only a minority casts ballots, has that system lost legitimacy? In the long run, we can go into many different exiles - internal, external, hedonistic, or angry - but this place needs an engaged citizenry.
We need to be talking as much about here as Trump, Brexit and Article 50. For better, or worse, "here" is where we actually live. Of course, many places and elections have low turnouts. But that cannot be accepted as an excuse, or as some weird sign of "normality".
This isn't a "normal" society. Not many places have as much at stake every time as Northern Ireland does.
Maybe it's time for compulsory voting in Northern Ireland. But with the proviso that every ballot paper should have an extra option, in addition to the usual list of candidates. It would make our politicians think a wee bit harder about what politics is and how their voters actually feel - and I'd say the turnout would rise dramatically - if people could tick that intriguing little box marked "None Of The Above".
Belfast Telegraph


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Monday, October 8, 2012
Boy Scout Popcorn glut and traffic jams
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"Faye's Daily Words Of Encouragement" # 114 Today's Word Is: Blind"
"Faye's Daily Words Of Encouragement" # 114 Today's Word Is: Blind"
"Faye's Daily Words Of Encouragement" # 114 Today's
Definition of the word Blind: Lacking or quite deficient in the ability to see. Not intelligently controlles. Something to conceal or darkness. To make blind, or spiritual b lindness.
Exodus chapter 23 - 8 : And thou shalt take no gift: for the gift blindeth the wise: and perverth the words of the righteous.
Isaiah chapter 35 - 5 : Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened and the ears of deaf be unstopped.
2 Corinthians chapter 4 - 4 : In whom the god of this world hath blinded them which believeth not, lest the light of the glorious gospel of Christ who is the image of God, should shine unto them.h
2 Corinthians chapter 3 - 14 : But their minds were blinded: for until this day remaineth the same vail untaken away in the reading of the old testament, which vail is done away with in Christ.
1 John chapter 2 - 11: Be he that hateth his brother he is in darkness and walketh in darkness and knoweth not whiter he goeth, because that darkness hath blinded his eyes.
Being blind is a detriment to us; because we can't see;where are going or what we're doing and it's the same way with spiritual blindness If our spiritual eyes aren't open; then we can't and his antics... that's why we should pray and ask God to open our spiritual eyes and he ears..so, nothing want get passed our spiritual understanding. We should also ask for the spirit of discernment, so we can know an evil thing or person.. when it approaches When we're in God and God is in us; he will not suffer anything to catch us off guard, because he lets us always be aware of the wiles of the devil. God's children is never blinded by the truth, even though, sometimes; we might not want to hear it , but God has his ways of making everything come to the light
So let pray that God will help us keep our spiritual eyes and ears open to the true word of God and the gospel of Jesus Christ. When our spiritual eyes and ears are open ourl ives will reflect it by the way we live our lives. spiritual blindness is an enemy of the children of God; that's why we pray to be worthy of the knowledge of God our father in heaven.
Benny Faye Douglas
Excellent words to live by and sometimes hard for mankind to remember.
A well written hub about a very sensitive subject.
May we walk always in the brilliant light of our Lord, Jesus Christ, lest we stumble in the dark. Thank you for the reminder. Love and Peace.
Forever His,
God is great.
Thanks for another timely reminder. Spritual blindness is so detrimental to our spirtual well-being.


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Online Programs Offering Illegitimate Credentials using
- Hubert Gaines
- 3 years ago
- Views:
1 I thought I earned my GED certificate online, but instead I was denied a job. Online Programs Offering Illegitimate Credentials using the GED Brand Contact: CT Turner Associate Director, Marketing and Public Relations (202) or
2 Consumer Problem Overview The situation Every day, state GED Test administrators receive reports from vulnerable consumers who have spent precious time and resources pursuing what they believe are accredited high school equivalency credentials online. These adults, who have not completed high school and typically are of a low socioeconomic status, believe the claims of web sites offering accredited diplomas online and pay fees in the range of $200-$1,200. Some of these credentials purport to be issued by a high school while others use the GED trademark without permission. (Some organizations even offer framed diplomas and class rings for an extra fee.) Consumers later discover that these dubious credentials are not accepted by employers, colleges or universities. Currently the tests offered by GED Testing Service cannot be taken online in the United States or Canada. Although some online high school programs work diligently with appropriate accreditation agencies and state departments of education, numerous web sites confuse consumers about how to obtain an accepted high school credential. Three brief case examples are included on the second page of these materials to further illustrate how this issue is affecting consumers. Actions GED Testing Service/ACE have taken GED Testing Service (GEDTS), a program of the American Council on Education, has worked diligently to address the situation. GEDTS/ACE issued a warning about the illegitimacy of online tests that claim to be GED Tests and posted it on our high-traffic web site, circulated it via several education e- newsletters, distributed it widely as a press release to education and consumer affairs reporters, and distributed it to every state GED Administrator. The story was picked up by the AP wire and pieces appeared in over 12 major newspapers nationally. GEDTS monitors sites that infringe on the use of the GED trademark and takes appropriate action to stop the infringement. What you can do to help protect your state s residents Issue a warning from the Attorney General s office to consumers. Notify state officials (e.g., department of education, department of workforce services, and department of social services), outlining the threat of dubious online high school credentialing programs. Notify the above to accept only state-issued transcripts that verify GED Test scores, which are difficult to forge, rather than any type of certificate/diploma. Ensure that accurate information on your state s GED testing program is available (see Work with your state department of education to create a list of credible accreditation bodies, and if possible, programs that are recognized as accredited by your state. Monitor the legitimacy of online degree-granting programs and take action as appropriate.
3 Examples of Actions Taken in Some States Examples of actions taken in some states: October 11, NJ Department of Education issues advisory warning against misleading GED Diploma services. Warning still located on NJ GED administrator s website. October 26, NY Attorney General obtained court order against Long Island Home Study. Judgment in the amount of $750,000 and ordered to pay $10,000 to consumers. May 04, NY Attorney General obtained court order against GED Associates, Inc., operating under the name Home Study Careers. Ordered to pay $30,000 in restitution to consumers and $20,000 in penalties. February 14, Kentucky Attorney General and the Council on Postsecondary Education- Kentucky Adult Education issue consumer alert to students to beware of misleading GED programs. Fall Missouri pursued and sentenced former college employee to more than 10 years in prison for selling 200 forged certificates to students, resulting in more than $650,000 in fraudulent student loans and grants. Spring The Kentucky legislature is considering a bill to make the forgery of an academic degree a class D felony. Spring New York Attorney General shuts down Long Island Home Study and East End Home Study. Man who ran businesses receives jail time, community service and ordered to pay $5,000 in restitution. Summer Better Business Bureau warns your online diploma could be a worthless piece of paper Spring South Carolina s WYFF exposes diploma mill and tells story of man who fell victim to company but then returned to pass the GED Test and earn his credential.
4 Case Examples from Real Stories Case Example #1 Mrs. Garcia In December 2007, Mrs. Garcia s mother-in-law spent $200 on a prominent online high school program. She completed and passed a short online test in her home, for which she was awarded a certificate that indicated she obtained her GED. But the certificate was not accepted by a local community college, so her daughter-in-law contacted GED Testing Service to complain and clarify the confusion. She felt that her mother-in-law was too embarrassed to complain herself, but that it was important to report the issue. She stated that she would hate to see others get scammed on this, and so-called online schools make a lot of money off people. Damage to Consumer: Spent $200 on a certificate, denied admission to her local community college, and embarrassment. Case Example #2 Name not to be released In 2007, a GED Administrator s office was notified of a local complaint from the parent of a recent high school dropout who wanted to earn his high school credential. The parent explained that they had supported their son in pursuing his credential through an online program that appeared to be accredited. They paid tuition for the program, a fee for a framed diploma, and for their son s class ring. They refused to be identified or lodge a formal complaint with the state s attorney general s office. They wanted GED Testing Service staff to be aware of the online program and to alert others who might also be vulnerable to the program. Damage to Consumer: Spent approximately $950 on tuition, a dubious framed high school diploma, and matching class ring. Case Example #3 Mr. Davidson and other Ivy Tech applicants In fall 2006, the GED Examiner at Ivy Tech Community College reported four students who were not allowed to pursue classes because they possessed illegitimate high school equivalency credentials. The students were allowed to enroll in one class until the credential could be verified which was an additional cost to the students for a class that would not be valid. One student, Mr. Davidson, paid $150 for his certificate and GED Grade Summary Sheet, which were not accepted by either Ivy Tech or his anticipated employer. Damage to Consumer: Spent $150 on an illegitimate credential, $200 on a community college class, wasted time on a semester-long course, and denied employment.
5 GED Testing Program and ACE Facts About the GED Testing Program and GED Testing Service The GED Tests were developed in 1942 to measure outcomes of a high school education. The program began by awarding a high school credential to soldiers returning from World War II, providing them an opportunity to pursue postsecondary education. Since its adoption by the state of New York in 1947, GED testing has served as a powerful second chance for those who did not complete high school: o 1.23 million 1 students drop out of high school each year. o 39 million Americans, or 18 percent of the population, do not have a high school diploma. 2 Over 780,000 people participated in GED testing in 2009, and over 470,000 adults earned a high school equivalency diploma/certificate after passing the GED Tests in Since 1942, over 17 million people have received high school equivalency credentials after passing the battery of tests offered by GED Testing Service. The GED Tests assess academic skills and knowledge taught in a four-year program of high school education. Students who meet the minimum passing standard and any additional requirements established by their respective state are awarded a diploma or certificate. Tests offered by GED Testing Service are normed on studies with high school students. The passing standard is set so that 40% of graduating high school seniors would not meet the passing standard on their first attempt. GED Testing Service offers a battery of tests consisting of five exams: Language Arts, Reading; Language Arts, Writing; Mathematics; Social Studies; and Science. Testing on all five content area tests takes a total of seven hours. GED Testing Service is a program of the American Council on Education. About the American Council on Education Founded in 1918, ACE is the major coordinating body for all the nation's higher education institutions, representing more than 1,600 college and university presidents, and more than 200 related associations, nationwide. It seeks to provide leadership and a unifying voice on key higher education issues and influence public policy through advocacy, research, and program initiatives. 1 Editorial Projects in Education [EPE] Diplomas count 2007: Ready for what? Preparing students for college, careers, and life after high school. Special issue, Education Week 26, no.40: Population totals for the United States and insular areas include adults aged 16 years and older, without a high school diploma and not enrolled in an educational program, based on 2000 U.S. Census data.
Protecting Test-Takers from Fraud. Paul Mussell VP & Assistant General Counsel
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Ecstatic would best describe my feelings on the images I captured this weekend at The Great Swamp Conservancy in Canastota New York. Saturday the Green Heron (pictured below) spent time atop this old tree paying me little mind.
Sunday a pair of Green Herons were perched on tree limbs far out in the swamp.We observed each other (and I took some photos) for twenty minutes. Surprisingly one of the Herons decided to fly in my direction landing on some fallen trees a mere 60 or so feet away.
Once he flew closer to me we enjoyed a 45 minute photo shoot. He walked and at times took brief flight to different locations in this general area (getting as close as 20 feet away). This Heron's accommodation allowed me to get so many great shots of him in different poses and with different backgrounds. I couldn't be happier for the way this worked out.
The Heron pictures alone would have made this weekend's photography sessions a success. However, there was more. As I entered the end of the swamp Saturday morning I encountered another species new to me. A Northern Harrier (hawk) this one a juvenile (if not it is the adult female). I liked this image, a beautiful bird.
Labor Day weekend, the unofficial end of summer is now coming to a close. For this amateur bird photographer it couldn't have been better.


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If there's one thing that American "conservative Christians" have been conditioned to love, it's war.
War overseas, of course - the kind that you can take in via Fox News from the relative safety and comfort of your rented-from-the-State-to-fund-State-controlled-children's-"education" home here in "the land of the free" and the home of the NSA. (See: How "free public schools" make us all renters from the State. and Privacy is for masters. Transparency is for slaves. Welcome to "the land of the free" and the home of the NSA.)
As reported this week by The Daily Beast (how perfect is that name/title, by the way?), Marco Rubio is coming on strong up against another fave of the Establishment Pagan Right, Jeb Bush, and he's making this surge by stoking the never-ending, ever-building flames of perpetual war favored by both the Right and the Left heads of the Progressive Dragon that is trying its best to eat us alive...with our help, of course. (See: Problem>Reaction>Solution – Why we will beg to have our freedoms taken away and go to war forever.)
Here's what The Beast had to tell us about newly minted Pagan Right champion of perpetual war, Marco Rubio:
Marco Rubio proved he can hang with the big hawks in his first foreign policy speech since he declared his run for president.
The student has now become the teacher.
Sen. Marco Rubio, once viewed as a protégé of presidential competitor Jeb Bush, schooled the former Florida governor Wednesday evening in the first national security address of his national campaign.
As compared to Jeb Bush, who fumbled and stumbled through his first major national security address, Marco Rubio delivered a master class on foreign policy that spoke to the soul of the right's hawkish neoconservatives.
In New York City, before the Council of Foreign Relations and their foreign policy experts, Rubio showed himself to be a peer.
Hands down the most awesome quote from this story is its reference to "the soul of the right's hawkish neoconservatives."
The soul...of war hawk neocons.
The story went on to add other nifty details (bold emphasis and appropriate links added):
Ultimately, Rubio's appeal for a foreign policy based in morality is the strategy most designed to pluck at the heartstrings of American national security hawks.
It isn't the mathematics of defense cuts that stir souls, nor the need to reauthorize Section 215 of the Patriot Act to continue the country's metadata collection program. [See: So the American State has to destroy our freedom in order to protect it? Oh yeah, that makes sense and So even the Germans are creeped out by our Surveillance State.]
Instead, it's the strategic belief in American morality and its link to foreign policy that drives the neoconservative movement. [See: Islamic worship in American government? Sure. Why not?]
Rubio hit all those notes: lofty words, with a measured tone—citing JFK and Pope Pius the 12th.
"America plays a part on the world stage for which there is no understudy," Rubio said. He went around the world, criticising the regimes of the so-called Islamic State, Iran, Russia, China, Syria and North Korea. "Mankind remains afflicted, and… its destiny still largely remains in our hands." [See: Oops! We "accidentally armed ISIS"…again…]
So there we have it. If we are sick and tired of having a Pagan Leftist like Obama lead us into the totalitarian hell of American Statism, then there's only one thing to do: Replace him with a Pagan Right Neocon Hawk like Rubio. (See: How American Conservatives happily forge the chains of American Socialism.)
Yep, that'll fix things.
That'll make it all better.
At least we can die in dignity with an (R) after our name on the tombstone, right?
I mean, Right?
If you appreciate articles like this, please feel free to check out more of Scott's writing at FireBreathingChristian.com.Don't forget to Like Freedom Outpost on Facebook, Google Plus, & Twitter. You can also get Freedom Outpost delivered to your Amazon Kindle device here.


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