On the Anti-War Protests in
♠
W-A-S-H-I-N-G.
T-O-N, Baby! D-C!
S. stood next to A-Rood watching Sodder and Jeremiah the Jew interview some poor saps with neon green caps on their heads. See, they got that right, A-rood said, those caps. They’ll know where their buddies are all day with those neon caps. We’ve got to look out for that red top or the curly-haired mop on that giant’s head. He winked at S. and lifted and set the pack on his back into a more comfortable position. Sodder and Jeremiah were being waved away by three of the four green caps. They came back to S. and A-Rood, shaking their heads. They aren’t protesters, Sodder said. Tourists.
W-A-S-H-I-N-G.
T-O-N, Baby! D-C!
They could’ve answered a couple of questions, Jeremiah said. A-Rood gave S. another wink. Disinterest welled up in S.’s belly and he opened the paper bag in his hand and pulled out his breakfast. I need to eat, S. said. Sodder laughed. You’ll have to keep up, Sodder said, eat that standing. We should get to the rally. A-Rood laughed and pointed at a choir of cheerleaders, young and dressed in SDS red and black. Take a look at them, he said. The cheerleaders began to cheer, something about Dick and Dubbya, terrorism, war, WMDs, in rhyme. S. took a bite of his ham egg and cheese, salty sweet meat, a sour tang in the back of his throat. Goils and their gaymes. The thought escaped languidly.
THOSE LOVELY LOVELY DC GIRLS!
One in particular, red horizontal striped tube-topped, blond vacant and Scandinavian of origin, seemingly, caught his eye. A sour taste of bile in his throat. Hungover head hung over his sandwich contemplating the relative benefits of excretion and consumption as cure for and of next day drunk and the next day desire to lay one’s head softly on the bosoms of lovely lovely gaggle of DC girls. To eat or not to eat, S. thought, deciding, unconsciously, another bite of the cheese and sweet meat bread softening the sour taste of bile in his throat. A scrap of paper on the ground, a newspaper, a sign.
WHY NOT TO GO TO THE BATHROOM IN UNION STATION
A roiling in his bowels. Hope no one heard that, S. thought, mischievously. Jeremiah and Sodder were running far far ahead. A-Rood looked back over his shoulder, over his pack. Keep up, he smiled. S. stood still, watching and eating his breakfast meat and cheese. A man walked by, plain blue shirt, plain white shorts, with a black lab doggy wearing a protest sign. I’m fed up with this doggone war! Poor mutt, S. commiserated. A passing cohort of SDS kiddies—kiddies, no older than that—walking in mock military fashion, fake shields fashioned out of oil drums and dismantled doors held in front in mock military preparedness, as if off to war. The cohort’s integrity broke in the middle, kiddies milling around in circles of where do we go now what are we doing who are these other people let’s take this over Fuck the administration. Sodder and Jeremiah were back, filming the kids mill. Who are these kids? what’s SDS? S. asked. Student movement, Sodder replied. Bunch of assholes, Jeremiah sneered and smiled. They’ve got those shields, see, for protection, right? But they’re the violent ones—they start the fights.
NON SERVIAM!
They ruin it all for everyone here, Jeremiah added, provoking cops, making a muddle of things. Aimless angry youth, S. thought and smiled. A point of pain brightened in his mind. I’ve got to sit down, S. said. Sodder asked, Where’s A-Rood? Up he came, laughing, You have got to come see this! Red top and curly-haired giant followed A-rood’s lead. S. stood eating, finishing the last of his sandwich uncomfortably. A man with a gas mask nodded to him as he passed. S. felt motion-sick for a moment, it passed. He rummaged in the paper bag in his hand. Side order of bacon, six, no, seven slices a side? Wad of napkins, packet of Heinz. Later, perhaps, much later. A sweet tang of sickness threatened his stability.
SINE QUA NON
Awake at eleven after three hours unconsciousness. Rumbling in the belly. Hold it in…how long can this take? And now, and now, I’ve lost my friends. No matter. They’ll find me, and I them, presumably. Watch and wait. Enjoy. A pretty girl with a camera walked by. S. smiled, she declined a reply. Lovely day, pretty day; short shorts, short sleeved shirts, exposed arms, legs, bellies. The curve of a woman’s oh so nice neck. No, not neck, but the bones about the chest. Lovely, ever so lovely, are these girls of DC. International, perhaps; non-resident, maybe; irritating, possibly; lovely, definitely. He watched two girls watch the scene, arms snaked around each other lesbianly. Wonderful sight, yet a pain in the soul, not their preference, no no, not at all, but our absence, me and my maties. And S. couldn’t decide whether it was terrible or just sad to think in such a way. Away, brutal thoughts! Away!
HOMO FUGE!
S. tongued the film on his teeth. Dirty hippies, dirty me. Match made in purgatory. Thoughts in turn, respectively, four and five decades old. Get your protest shirts here! a fat black hawker cried. A scraggly white pretzel-seller followed behind. Buttons for sale, two bucks a piece, a sign advised. Funny thing, selling things, two bucks, ten bucks, a token peace.
IT FITS ME TO A T
IT’S NOT THE PEOPLE DOING SOMETHING REAL
IT’S NOT THE WAY THE SPRINGTIME MAKES YOU FEEL, NO, NO, NO
S. thought longingly of the night before, her houri eyes, darkened as with kohl in the dingy bar’s dimmed lights. Neon blues and greens illuminating the wine-stained wooden bar floor. My will that regards her, her will that disregards mine: Wine-darkened seas between. Where is she in all this mess, this human muddle? Hey, A-Rood’s winking smiling face pushed the thought aside. We were looking for you, come on. There’s something over there you’ve got to see. He led the way, winding through crowds thickened with cardboard signs. A message for every man, woman, dog, child. Modest pleas of misery. Absurd theatrics. Sincere grief. A crowd around a man-sized coffin, upside down stripes then stars, pictures of some dead soldier presumably immured in the mass of men. Nuts, huh? A-Rood smiled. Near the coffin, Sodder’s red-flamed head, Jermiah’s curly curls bobbing and weaving through the mass of men and women. They’re getting great stuff, A-Rood readjusted the pack on his back. Great stuff, indeed. Look at that, A-Rood brightened. A yellow cardboard sign accented with pink, a pink candy-flecked donut held in a four-fingered cartoon hand, Hippies Smell scrawled in a childish script. He’s aiming for the coffin, A-Rood cried. The yellow hand came close to the upside down flag, pink donut framing the field of stars and stripes. The hand faltered, as if hesitant to touch. It dipped. A fight! Donut declined to descend and declared its vertical superiority. Flag flapped festally in a felicitous wind. The hand moved away amidst muttered complaints. Asshole. Traitor. Disrespect. Think there’s a body in there? A-Rood asked.
IT’S NOT THE SPECTACLE AND PAGEANTRY
THE THOUSAND THINGS YOU’VE GOT TO SEE
IT’S JUST THAT’S WHERE MY BABY WAITS FOR ME
Might as well be, S. replied. Hyperbole. Sodder sauntered up with Jeremiah swaggering behind. Did you see the fight? Sodder smiled. That guy’s a repeater, Jeremiah said, that guy with the Simpsons sign. Hippies smell, A-Rood guffawed, yeah I could see how he’d get a lot of mileage out of that! S. looked around. A man shouldering a large cross fitted with a wheel walked slowly by. Hey! Sodder cried. Let’s get that guy on tape. S. wondered briefly of wheels and blasphemy. What’s the cross for? Jeremiah asked. The man with the cross stopped, its wheel squealed to a stop. I’ve been walking with this cross for weeks, now. Started off in
BE A (999) NOT A (666) THE ANTICHRIST!
(PHONE) DIAL 9 TO GET OUT, THAT’S “JESUS CHRIST”!
It’s exposure, so many people in one place, Jeremiah continued. So you get the protesters who want to protest whatever’s being protested, the protesters protesting the people protesting whatever’s being protested, the protesters protesting for their own personal causes, crazy Christians, traitorous Jews, Muslims for fair treatment, hawkers trying to make a buck, right-wing veterans demanding respect, left-wing lunatics crying for blood, impeachment, (perceived) wrongs to be redressed. It’s a mess. Try and make out a single message out of this mass and you’d go nutty. S. pondered silently the words of Jeremiah, seeing in them truths and half-arrogances. One message out of this mess? And as if in response to this silent thought a man walked up and handed him a card. What is this? S. asked. The man mumbled something incoherent. S. looked at the card. Be a Cat not a Dog! Don’t Dog “The Lord.” Thanks, S. said. The man stumbled away, mumbling incoherently. See? Jeremiah smiled. I don’t even need to look at that to tell you that guy is a nut. Speaking of nuts, Sodder said, there’s that guy on hunger strike, protesting the war in
TO END WAR, END CAPITALISM!
S. stood smoking his cigarette uncomfortably amidst the milling men and women. Not a place for dogs or children, he thought. Not a place for… and his mind went blank. Where do I stand in all of this? The question occupied a dead space… thoughtlessness. In the middle. On the blank and nameless side. Are you an American? Yes and no. Why can’t we all… Veni, vidi… I fail to see the point. The pretty photographer walked by again. Smile. A weakness in the legs, squirming bowels. The brown paper bag clutched in his hand, stained with bacon fat smelling oh so sweet, fraying edges wet with sweat from his palms. Physical reaction, sweat, to friction, to heat. A woman wound her body into a yogic salutation of the sun. No place for yoga, what has yoga to do with peace? One message out of this mess? Disagreement, selfishness, aimless ardor, will willy-nilly, purpose arrested. Send our troops home, for what? For this? Freedom of thoughtlessness…How grand we are this morning. How grand we are, indeed.
THE CHILDREN ARE OUR FUTURE
Sodder’s red head came bobbing towards him out of the crowd. Hey, give me a cig, he said. S. complied. Still got the bacon, I see, Sodder observed. I’m saving it, S. replied. For later. Sodder laughed, sending a stream of smoke out of his nostrils. Well we’re done with the rally. They’ve got an eight year old girl giving a speech. An eight year old girl! Sodder chuckled, smoke wreathing his flaming head. Fine representative of peace, huh? No place for children and dogs, S. replied. The dogs! The dogs are great, Sodder said. We’re going to do a montage of all of them,
ACCIPIO OMEN
Where are they? A-Rood asked. Jeremiah looked around. I see Sodder’s head, he said. See? Right there, and there’s S., too. He looks bored, A-Rood said. Not bored, no, Jeremiah smiled, he’s not all there, yet. Looks hungover, vacant. Give him some time, he’ll come around. He’s attentive enough, A-Rood smirked, smiled. With a wink: He’s been dogging girls around. Jeremiah sneered: Fine place to pick up chicks, with a beer shirt on. Brewed to go with the good times, A-Rood laughed. Yeah, he’s going to get nowhere with these Impeach Them chicks. Speaking of which, Jeremiah said, we should’ve gotten those Support The Troops shirts on, I’ve got a feeling we look too affluent, people won’t talk, or if they do, they’ll be suspicious. A-Rood laughed again. Who’re we working for? The YouTube conspiracy? Jews against the hippie stink? You know what I mean, Jeremiah said, but it doesn’t matter. Let’s go grab them, the march is about to start.
ONWARD CHRISTIAN SOLDIERS
S. noticed the commotion in the crowd first. The mass moved with purpose, shuffling rank and file into thicket of protest sign wood. Jeremiah’s large frame broke the front most line of the crowd, shouting to Sodder, They’re moving! Sodder flipped his cigarette away. You might want to get on the side there. Media only, he winked. S. moved off to the sidewalk slowly, looking for an empty place to occupy. Nearby, a large demon puppet, rubber-face-masked to look like George W. Bush, held up a sign. At the puppet’s feet, two men dressed up as Dick and Dubbya, Dick holding a marionette’s cross, tangled strings attached to Dubbya’s shoulders, danced through the crowd to the beat of a deafening chorus of drums: tom, snare, cow-bell, tom. Boom, boom, boom. Two workers stood on scaffolding in front of the building behind the drums, replacing the signage. Bank of… S. read what he could. A worker bent down to pick up a tool…
FREE CHECKING
S. felt oppressed in the crowd. He looked to see if he could find his friends. Gone. Lost in the middle of things. He moved away, away from the drums and the puppets and the clowns. And of a sudden, A-Rood in front of him. Where are you going? He smirked. I’m getting away from these goddamn drums, S. said. Aw, they look like they’re having fun, A-Rood replied. Anyway, the march isn’t going to start just yet, they’re getting organized still. See, look, people are still walking around. All the reporters are sitting down. We’ve got some time, so don’t go wandering off. Take in the scene, you know? Enjoy yourself a bit. S. looked around. An old man was doing a jig in front of the line of the protest crowd. A passerby dropped a few cents at his feet. Whore! the old man cried. A man with a carefully sculpted false-looking beard came up to A-Rood and S. with a CD in his hand. He scrutinized S.’s shirt. What does that say? he asked. S. replied, Tusker Export. It’s a beer. African. Oh, the man said, I thought it said Tuskeegee failed. No, S. said. No. You guys like protest music? the man asked. A-Rood looked away. I don’t listen to music, ever, S. replied. The man went away. A-Rood laughed. That was amazing, he said. S. wondered briefly what he meant by that. Yeah, S. said. Perhaps it was. And his eyes sought the false-bearded man in mute abnegate apology. No matter, he thought, never mind. His thoughts turned to the bag in his hand and he reached inside, drew forth a crispy string of bacon, and put it in his mouth, relishing the sting of the sweetness and the salt. Somewhere… somewhere someone was singing…
NOW
The problem with protests today. Mixed signals, mixed messages. Civil disobedience now toes two parties’ lines. Everything is in order, permits signed, streets cleared, designated cops to make sure no one gets out of line, simultaneously keeping the peace and fulfilling quotas for police overtime. Mutually beneficial, mutually agreeable; wherefore, then, our disobedient civilians? Maybe if they altered course, say, half way through they made a move to a different place? Rather than the
JIHADKILLER
S. stood alone on the sidewalk. A-Rood, Sodder, and Jeremiah stood arguing for a place on the media truck. The largest mass of protesters, lined up behind a row of white flags, were off to the left. SDS kids stood off to the right. In between, a corps of
NIMIS SERO
Too late, S. thought, too late. Are you an American or no? No and yes. He was on the side, not a part of the crowd, he and the tourists and the media alike. Spy for life. Esssssss. And his placelessness weighed heavily on his mind. Thoughts coiled in his mind, like springs, like snakes. Hissss. Is it because there was no peach cobbler, no apple pie, in his life? Peaches, apples, fruit of the earth. From which portion of
THIS IS NOT MY BEAUTIFUL HOUSE
S. looked up and down the street. The media truck was far far ahead, making a turn down a larger avenue. Even from the distance, S. could make out Sodder’s red head. S. looked back at the tourist woman, who by now had disappeared. He wondered briefly what he should do. Stay, or leave? He had nowhere to go to. S. started running down the blocks, past hawkers, reporters, tourists and cops, away from the great goddess and her glorious breasts. Whoso list to hunt? Hey? Hey, a cop cried, watch where you’re going! S. picked up speed. It felt good to run away. From? I know where is an hind. It made him feel alive, to run. Past the parade of shades. In pursuit; a yes, a no, a straight line, and then a left, follow the red flame, the curlicued paths of wandering Jew and A-rood’s rough laugh. Destination, please. Pointless, painless…the journey’s all I need. Points of dancing lights in his eyes. The vain travail hath wearied me so sore. Dehydration, winded chest, thrill of physical activity, alive with life. Must stop soon. Moderation, yes, moderation in all things. Run, dearie; deer, run. Flee! Flee from me!
NOLI ME TANGERE, FOR CAESAR’S I AM.
S. ran through the marching masses to cross the street. Drachmas for eyes, one under the tongue. Other side, please. Signs and slogans filled his sight. In memory of my son; Bush lied my little brother died; End the War now [the majority’s sign]; Your Constitution my T.P.; Iraq veterans against the war; Let’s whip Congress into Shape; Make Cupcakes Not War; Peace, Now; Peace, Please; Peace Bitch; Give Peace a Chance; Impeach for Peace! And then he was on the other side, running down empty sidewalks, past a cavalry of cops, perched on their steeds. S. slowed to a walk and then to a stop, and found himself standing in front of The Old Post Office where a D.J. spinned some R & B. He looked at the media truck, thirty yards away, and realized that Sodder was no longer there. He saw a crowd of protesters lined up a block away. Anti-anti-war.
ISLAMOPHOBIC AND PROUD OF IT!
On the street, a sign unfurled. Warning: Leftist Protesters Trying to Demoralize our Troops. Sodder, Jeremiah, and A-rood were following the sign, interviewing angry-looking men. S. followed them with his eyes. Around him, the crowd of anti-antis regarded him coldly. S. tried to exude disinterest. He reached into the paper bag and pulled out a bit of meat. Still salty, still sweet… but he’d lost the taste for breakfast meat. The meat made him feel slightly sick, but he continued to eat.
-SHAME ON YOU!
-SHAME ON YOU!
The parade had caught up to the lines of the anti-anti-protest crowd, shouts and jeers rising up like a cloud. Marchers were pointing fingers at S., grouping him in with angry vets and crazy cits, Islamophobes and young Republicans, Rolling Thunder and loudspeaker ladies, calling him a traitor. S. smiled a sickly sweet smile at all around. Everyone was taking pictures, say cheese to the crowd. Cheeeeeeeeeese. A sudden chorus of U.S.A! U.S.A! erupted from the pro-war side, which was then echoed on the roiling street. A hundred thousand spleens had found a mouth. U.S.A! U.S.A! U.S.A!
You, S., would say, “I don’t see the point to this mass, this muddle.” On the other hand, says I, it’s a perfect example of our democracy. Not the usual drivel of, Freedom of Speech is what makes us so neat, says I. No. It’s not that we have the state-given right of expressing our minds, no. It’s not that we can have not just two stances on an issue, but a thousand dissenting voices, dissenting from one another, decrying the position of each and every other side—and there are so many sides we’ve almost got a globe, a sphere—no, says I. No, says I, to each and every man every woman, every dog, every child. No, they’ve got it all wrong, says I. No, you have to look at it in another way. What are we all out on these streets for today? to what purpose, what goal to be achieved? You, S., would say, “I don’t know. With so many angry voices, so many crossed purposes, so many disingenuous desires, I think that the sole purpose, the driving force, is simply that we’re unhappy, worn thin, fed up, grim.” But why? says I. You’ve got a mix of true meanings, says I, but you’ll still get a no from me. No, says I, because we’ve all gotten a little ahead of ourselves, we’re moving a bit too fast. Slow down, fiddle with the fog that surrounds, rise up, chin up, back straight, survey the lay of the land from above the haze. So we’ve got a method down: Unhappy? Kick up a fuss. Okay, says I. Okay, we can express our disappointment with a furious shout. But what is the root cause of this disappointment? says I. What’s the final thought? When we think of wars—just look, look at the people lining this street—when they think of wars, what do they think of? Conflict, yes, conflict, not masses of men in the millions married to death. And to think, Hitler threw three million at
U.S.A! U.S.A! U.S.A!
You, S., would say, “So you’re saying we’re sore losers, each and every participant in this sordid mess. But not me, no, for what do I care? I care nothing for this war or for its reversal; I deny the impact that a hundred, a thousand, a hundred thousand or a million deaths have on the common man’s mind. All I see is a parade of”… what was it?... yes, “ shades marching past, with shades on the side to give them a path. And where do they march to? What building, what symbol is it they would like to attain? They would immure their dissatisfaction in a building of old and feckless and powerless men, invest their ideals in a scrap of paper long overdue for the recycling plant. I wash my hands of this mess. I don’t care. Un-American, through and through. Untied Soul of Apathy, I am.”
U.S.A! U.S.A! U.S.A!
No, says I. No and no again. What could have happened to make you so sour a stripling of a man? Girls and their games, ha! says I. Geldings and their gamboling. So you walk on the side, judging, watching, says I, never for a moment committing to anything, your thinking skewed negative. So, what are you, then? says I. You aren’t American, but are you a man? Hey? Castrati singing sour songs of sweet nothingness. Can’t you see that you’re part of the problem? says I. You and all the rest of these people on the streets (though perhaps you are worse, the worst of all, perhaps, for you mill amongst these sincere men and women insincerely looking for sex). But even in their sincerity there is the failure of our people. We stink of it. We ooze our hypocrisy. No one likes to lose, no, says I. No one likes to tie, says I. But we’ve forgotten what it is to win, that there’s a price to pay for any conflict of any weight. Acceptable losses can number in millions—you get what you pay for, in the end. How did we forget that War is Death? That Victory stands on the shoulders of the Dead? That’s something our enemies have on us—lord, do they know how to die. We, on the other hand, we know how to whine. Think back, back to the beginning, the point of origin of our current war. What gods we could have played at being! We’re under attack! And we sent out a dribble of troops, like a slap. We should have let loose the doggies of war, cerebri with gnashing pitiless teeth; we should have descended upon our enemies like a plague, a cloud of misfortune, our soldiers no mere soldiers, not men and women, but archons of vengeance, retribution, godly wrath, and we should have decimated whole peoples. Peoples! And when we’d done that, we could have extended a benevolent hand and brought nations within our nation, and bullied the recalcitrant peoples with a hidden iron fist. But we’ve lost the will to win, though, says I, I think at heart we’re still winners. Americans love their children too much, I think, much too much if we’re ever going to win. Accipio Imperium! Let the games begin! Again. Again! says I. Let’s not stop now. Onward, winning soldiers! Don’t stop until you reach the world’s end! And when the call comes, and the marching feet are stilled, and when our armies ring the wicked world round, and the world stands to attention, we’ll give the order: Now! Now you can whine. For the world will be American then and only then, when six billion men and women can complain in unison of piddling and insipid things. Because the world would be free, and evil quashed, and the serious dead or lost, and
NOW, THEN.
S. coughed violently; a shard of bacon had caught in his throat. He coughed and kept coughing, his head beginning to spin. He ran away from the pro-war people, gagging. He found a trash can already chock full with discarded protest signs. He vomitted. Again. He felt a hard hand on his back. Hey, Sodder said, you alright? I’m fine, S. replied, I think that’s the last of last night. Sodder smiled. We’re almost done, we just have to get to the Capitol’s steps. What’s happening there? S. asked. I think people are going to get arrested, Sodder said. Jeremiah came up with the microphone, A-rood following behind with the camera. I’m sick of interviewing these protesters, Jeremiah sneered, they’ve got nothing interesting to say. Let’s see if they can at least get arrested, it’ll give the movie some weight. S. swallowed the last of the bile in his throat and said, I’m not sure how much more of this I can take. I’m sick, I’m tired; my feet itch. I’ve got to lie down. A-rood winked. Before they get arrested, they’re doing a die-in. Die-in? S. wondered. Yeah, A-rood smiled, they’re all going to lie down on the Capitol lawn, make it look like it’s full of dead bodies. So they say. Die-in. You can nap a little there. Or have a little picnic, I see you’ve still got your bag.
-IS THIS WHAT DEMOCRACY LOOKS LIKE?
-THIS IS WHAT DEMOCRACY LOOKS LIKE!
The four of them wandered into the marching crowd. The march had lost some energy, and now, aside from a few shout and answer slogans the protesters seemed relatively subdued. The street had widened, and with it the protesters spread out, lending an impression of a street fair or block party. People smiled and laughed, groups of fours and fives huddled together for quick cigarettes. The
The protesters were streaming onto the
AND
The lawn was full. And comparatively quiet. And the many men and women lying down had driven their signs into the ground. And paper rustled like foliage in the wind. And there were children in the trees, and yellow-vested women screaming for all to lie down. And people were winding their ways cautiously through the lying down crowd, towards the steps. And around the steps was a gathering, hungry, rustling mass. And for all their efforts, the people did not look dead; just tired, just sleepy, just wan. And S. thought that if any, now was the time to leave.
NOW
Now the crowd on the steps groaned and rumbled, now people pushed forward against the crowd now crowded in front of the low-lying wall bordering the Capitol’s steps. Now S. wondered what would happen next, now the anticipation of the people surrounding him now infecting him with anxiety and now anger, frustration, now nameless rage. Now S. wanted to see above the gathered heads, now watch Capitol police arrest each and every volunteer criminal now cross the line now hold up their hands now give up their great freedom for a short period of time. Now is the time, S. now thought, that now I will be tested or not now, for I wouldn’t want to be arrested now for no purpose nor conviction now; now the time to flee from here, with or without these now friends who I am now with; now the time to preserve consider now reconsider and get away with, now, flee from me, now, flee from here. Now there was laughter, now something funny had happened, but now humor had left S. feeling alone and now lost and now not one of them all; now he was done with now and he washed his hands now for good and forever now of the now insipid and tasteless spectacle, and he longed now to be away from this city, these people, though now he was happy in his knowledge that at least he now had seen sights and things and signs and now he thought in the end, now, it wasn’t a wasted day, it now seemed actually quite alright because now he could go back to his now home and tell a new story to his not now here friends that now, Yes, I did this rather than then I did not do anything, and now he felt strangely proud of his now active life, now real yet strangely unreal, the story of a now strange day of now newness which in the end will be told with all the fervor and passion and, now, pride he could summon, and now it would turn dark and hard and cold as any stone thrown into an ocean of half-truths and lies.
—SS