Jack Burns Lives!

“All options are on the table.”

That’s the response of George Bush when asked if he would rule out the nuclear option as a response to Iran’s nuclear ambition.

Nuclear Option. That’s one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever heard.

Where is the outrage in this nation? Where are the calls demanding his resignation? Why is there no popular rebellion against this despot? Is it again possible that a single man can plunge the planet into a world wide conflict? Is it possible that the United States could be the first nation to use nuclear weapons against a non-aggressor or is this all simply the talk of a madman trying to look strong when everyone knows he is not?

The United States is like a violent addict, drunk on the elixir of crude and profits and willing to use any means to attain the chemicals and vices it craves. Rotting from the inside out, we’re willing to take everyone else down with us, to do anything to keep the party going and maintain the high. Almost all the signs of addiction are present: lies to get the fix, deteriorating relationships, incoherent speech, gross financial mismanagement and violent outbursts against innocent parties. The only sign that’s not present, self-imposed seclusive behavior, is the one I’m hopeful may yet appear.

“And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts, And I looked and behold: a pale horse. And his name, that sat on him, was Death. And Hell followed with him.”-Johnny Cash, “When The Man Comes Around”

The heat of the southern summer is suddenly upon us. Cool, serene April is overtaken by a hot sun normally seen in June, as today’s temperatures soar into the 90′s.

Leaves of lemon balm bow to the heat, curling gently downward until the sun retreats behind the trees and the cool air of evening returns. Juvenile pepper and tomato plants seem to rejoice at the turn in the weather, surging upward as if they were trying to reach for the sky and touch the mighty orb that fuels their growth.

Nearly all the signs of summer are in the garden, broad-headed skinks climb about the walls of the house while dragonflies circle a row of hearty chives. Morning dove gather under the mighty oak tree and enjoy the cool water of the bird bath, while our dog hides within the spots of shade created by the angles of the house. Look closely and you’ll find remnants of Robin eggs scattered beneath the trees, signaling the arrival of new members of the community. The only things missing are the bees that will swarm the flowers yet to come and the sound of the Cicada, singing its unmistakable summer song. That, and the toads, which I fear shall not be seen in abundance ever again.

It’s almost like being in Florida but without the breeze, for the sky is still a brilliant blue, not yet tarnished by the haze of late June and July. Within it are hundreds of small white clouds but not even a hint of rain.

Inside, I hear the occasional click of the ceiling fan and wonder how much longer we can go without running the air condition. The answer, of course, is we can go all summer without it, just like my grandmother did when she was a child growing up in Eastern Arkansas and slept on a double decker screened porch. I have no such porch, but wish that I did.

Lower Delta, behold summer in all her majesty! Her fullness of life is wondrous, and for it, we should give thanks. For there are those that would take us from such simple scenes and cast us into foreign deserts full of armaments, misery, fire and death. I find great joy in these simple things, and the great beauty is enough to sustain me in a world made ugly by selfish, waring men.

Last week was the 144th anniversary of the battle of Shiloh, a beautiful place that was once the scene of one of our ugliest conflicts.

As a young boy growing up in the south, I loved to visit Shiloh and would often fantasize I was Albert Sidney Johnston, P.G.T. Beauregard or Nathan Bedford Forrest dressed in a magnificent grey wool uniform trimmed in gold with a sabre on my hip. It all seemed so romantic, exciting and honorable, and like most good southern boys, I grew to dislike Yankees. Just hearing the word conjured up images of ruthless, untrustworthy savages still in our midst, despoilers of our land, our way of life and worst of all, people disrespectful to our fine southern women.

I remember the dogwood blooms of April along the Sunken Road and around Bloody Pond. Rows and rows of white headstones mostly inscribed “Unknown,” and Confederate burial trenches where thousands of my rebel ancestors were dumped in mass graves without dignity by a drunken, cigar smoking former clerk named Ulysses S. Grant. Little Shiloh Church. The Hornets Nest, the scene of supposedly the (but falsely credited) most brutal and significant fighting of the entire battle. Glancing across the Tennessee River where Buell’s reinforcements arrived and climbing on the cold, quiet canon that still overlook the mighty river.

I wanted to be a rebel. A Rebel soldier.

Of course to a young boy, all this is over romanticized and glorious, but in reality, there’s no glory in war. War is horror. Multilated bodies, children without fathers, the killing of innocents and often brutal occupations. No one mentioned those things when I was twelve, and although I saw the Brady photos of bloated dead at Antietam, it never seemed to register just how gruesome a spectacle it really was.

And no one mentioned the ugly specter of racism, either. Folks conveniently left all of that out of story.
It’s simply part of being an American boy. You’re raised to believe there’s glory in war, it’s honorable to be in the military and U.S. wars are always just. Just part of the indoctrination into the official but unspoken American religion, war to support profits, and don’t ask no questions! It’s unpatriotic and aids the enemy. Or so I’ve heard.

I later went on to study history at the University of Mississippi and The University of Memphis, and during those years, many of my boyhood images, fantasies and unfounded prejudices were shattered by the brutal reality of Southern history. The burden of Southern history, as some call it. Plantations like Oak Alley were not the norm, and while most Southerners didn’t own slaves, blacks universally endured a torturous existence that persisted in the South until the 1960′s. Whites were cruel and inhumane. Period and the end.

Southern armies were ragtag units of half starved boys, bare footed and stricken with disease, and the South and the North had war time prisons that made Abu Ghraib look like Disneyland. (more…)

It’s interesting to see how people attempt to extend competition to nearly all levels of society. I’ve known competitive hikers (whoever gets to the end of the trail first wins nothing), seen grown men cheat at Cub Scout Pine Wood Derby competitions, watched beauty pagents and even a few of those absurd dog shows. For some, it’s all about competition. I’m superior to you, and you’re inferior to me. The unspoken but obvious conclusion in the mind of the so-called winner.

This weekend, I got my first taste of competitive cycling while participating in a group bike ride called Ride Into Spring that was sponsored by a local bike shop, RB’s Cyclery. RB’s is a high end bike shop that caters to yuppies with high amounts of discretionary income and testosterone. You can get all the latest and unnecessary carbon fiber widgets like $500 pedals for your not fully equipped $3500 bike, jerseys, sports supplements and other gizmos all designed to make you faster, stronger and supposedly look cooler in the eyes of people that care about such things.

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