Tuesday, March 20, 2007

In Touch with my Inner Vanderleun

Bouquet of Flowers By Marc Chagall (from chagallpaintings)

I never ceased to be amazed by the numbers of really good writers there are on the internet. Blogging has exposed me to far better, more vibrant writing than any recently published book. The numbers of superb and thoughtful blogs is beyond my ability to count, and for me, these writers have done more to get me to think about news than the blatherskytes on television...or the radio.

Even Rush quotes from the blogs. In fact, he is one of the only guys on radio or television doing so. Thanks for the encouragement, Rushbo. Surprisingly, (or not) I quit watching news on television a long time ago. Not even FOX gets my trust. I tried to watch the other day, and all I can think is, "What shallow, vapid people. Why am I wasting my time watching them?"

To be sure, sites like MySpace are just vanity posts for vacuous teenagers with a whole lotta nuttin' to say, but writing that makes an impact on the world is out there.

Allow me to highlight one site today:

American Digest

Here is a sample of Vanderleun's writing, and if your appetite is whetted sufficiently, go and read the whole site. Slowly, digesting everything a sentence at a time.

Four Years In

Four years in. An inch of time. Four years in and the foolish and credulous among us yearn to get out. Their feelings require it. The power of their Holy Gospel of "Imagine" compels them. Their overflowing pools of compassion for the enslavers of women, the killers of homosexuals, the beheaders of reporters, and the incinerators of men and women working quietly at their desks, rise and flood their minds until their eyes flow with crocodile tears while their mouths emit slogans made of cardboard. They believe the world is run on wishes and that they will always have three more.

Like savages shambling about some campfire where all there is to eat are a few singed tubers, they paint their faces with the tatterdemalion symbols of a summer long sent down to riot with the worms. They clasp hands and sing songs whose lyrics are ash. "We shall... over... come." Overcome what, overcome who? Overcome their nation? Is that their dream? It is the lifelong dream of those that lead them that much is certain.

Four years in and we see these old rotting rituals trotted out in the streets like some pagan procession of idols and shibboleths, like some furred and feathered fetish shaken against the sky by hunkering witch-doctors, to hold back the dark, to frighten off the evil spirits and graven images that trouble the sleep of the dreamers...

Read the whole thing. I wish I could say it as well.

Also posted at My Pet Jawa...which has an excellent photo of the Anti-Gravitas Peace Rally.

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