HAPPY HOLIDAYS: State-Induced Psychological Terror

Raven and I are very busy these days, but we want to say just how horrified we are at the Bush Adminstration's (Petrocrimnals') policy of continuing to terrorize the US public. The latest caper of canceling Air France Christmas flights from Paris to LA--although Air France found absolutely nothing out of the ordinary in regard to passengers on any of the flights--on the basis that terrorists were going to fly to LA and perpetrate an act of terrorism, was another turn of the screw in the campaign to keep folks in the US scared shitless.

We will say it again: here are two regimes in the world that need to be changed ASAP: those of the US and Israel. They are without a doubt the most dangerous, ruthless and cynical regimes in history. Atilla, Genghis Khan, Hitler and Stalin had nothing on these guys.

Raven: "Give them the bird for the holidays. Tar and feather them, too. I will gladly donate my tailfeathers for this project!"

(For those of you who read Spanish, LA JORNADA has an excellent article on this topic today: www.jornada.unam.mx)

Raven and I have been doing some hard travelling. His wings are a little worse for wear, and I am hobbling with an ankle support--thanks to Guayaquil taking a final shot at me before we flew off back to Mexico.

But we're still watching what's going on out there--Bush wants to create paramilitaries in Iraq: Hello El Salvador, Hello Iran-Contra Scandal, Hello Colombia, Hello Chiapas--not to mention the big bummer of Viet Nam! Right Rave?

"You didn't hear it here first, but we'll keep saying it: US past due for a regime change!"

It may go down the drain into that good night, along with the dollar--nosediving against the Euro and the Yen, OPEC threatening to switch to Euro only payments (Uh ah, Chavez no se va.)

RAVEN TOURS LA GRAN SABANA

Raven discovers
that the fort he visited,
El Zamuro, means
vulture; here they are very
prominent in the landscape.

He is invading
their territory: winging
over waterfalls,
swooping down on the thatch-roofed
villages; he is whooping,

shrieking his song
in honor of the tepuis—
table mountains
spread with their feast of secrets
served up by hermetic clouds.

Predator he is:
despite noble intentions
of myth and spirit,
he’s ever on the lookout
for victims of his capers.

Buzzing the capped heads
of waders in the river,
Raven is martial
as the red jasper under
their feet; dodging the arrows

the indigenous
artisans fire at him to
demonstrate their wares,
what, after all, does he care?
He is in his element:

The gold uncontrolled
water crashing on the slabs
imitates his laugh,
the mountains his wingspread
and the grasslands his feathers

ruffling in the breeze.
His beady eyes, diamonds
shining in water,
are carbonized creation
dreaming of becoming stars.


Santa Elena de Uairen
Venezuela

RAVEN'S EYE VIEW, FORTIN EL ZAMURO

Perched on the little
fort's roof, Raven listens to
a guide recounting
stories of the place to a
gaggle of high school students.

Raven has flown here
from the river to hear what
goes on when humans
think they have a bird's eye view,
but he hears nothing startling.

He takes for granted
his privileged position,
and wouldn't trade it
for a rung higher up on
the food chain. He knows the trade

offs well enough to
feel satisfied with his lot
of mobility.
The relativity of
historical consciousness

doesn't bother him:
his is a spirit moving
back and forth in time;
banking his wings cloudward,
or diving down hard for his prey.

He changes his mind
at the drop of a feather;
this is the secret
of Raven: he spins the world
on his axis of caprice.

Ciudad Bolivar
Venezuela

RAVEN IN THE POSADA AMOR PATRIA

Raven is circling
the chandeliers, searching in
their crystals for his
eyes, the shadows of his wings
dancing like black diamonds.

Above the hammock
swaying its pendulum of
Orinoco dreams,
Raven imitates a flute
piping in counterpoint to

the cathedral bells
groaning the hour: five o'clock
in the afternoon,
time to light the chandeliers,
not for nothing called spiders

in Spanish, holding
in their interstices the
webs of fugitive,
but very real spiders
spinning in Raven's dark light.

Raven's is manic
light, creation reflected
over and over
in peeling mirrors whose scales
silver off and disappear

as the light withdraws
into his vital organs.
He is Minotaur
crouching in his labyrinth,
Theseus tracking himself

down, Ariadne's
string dribbling from his own beak.
And still he is lost,
unable to break out of
the egg of unconsciousness,

spread his wings and speak
in rational language.
The bells shout again,
marking another hour in
Raven's crystal conundrum.

Ciudad Bolivar
Venezuela

RAVEN AT THE FINE ARTS MUSEUM, CARACAS, VENEZUELA

Raven is watching
the photographs, waiting for
the crocodiles to
leave their two-dimensional
circumstance, and play with him.

Raven sees his face
in the glass—of jeep trails in
la Gran Sabana;
his is the delirium
presupposing creation

of the earth itself:
in the mountainous darkness
he navegates back
in time to starless, moonless
nights, even days without sun.

How did he miss this
sacred place on the planet
when he scattered stars?
A flat mountain top calls him
to enter the foggy shot

the photographer
has carved from primeval mud.
He tries touching down
on the grass, but the glass stops
his feet in their tracks, and makes

Raven feel anger
ruffling his feathers like wind.
In the mirror of
time well past and time present,
he shivers like the future.

RAVEN PACKS HIS BAGS AGAIN

Raven has returned,
reluctantly, to his digs
in the grey city.
His image is on the door,
but no birds come calling—just

a tiny kitten,
crying in the dark hallway.
Raven is having
nothing of paternity—
adoptive or otherwise.

He is poised to pack
his bags, figuratively,
for Venezuela,
and preens in the mirror to
put his best feathers forward.

Soaring once again
over the Andes, he will
touch down in the dream
of Bolivar, turn loose his
raucus laugh in Caracas.

Guayaquil, Ecuador

RAVEN IN THE FOG

Raven is flying
tired—and without instruments—
through dense mountain fog.
He can barely see his beak
in front of him, but he hunts

for more volcanoes,
needing to see in their mouths
his own reflection.
Black is the color of all
energies combined, he says.

With his wings drooping,
he makes a shaky landing
in snow at the rim
of a crater, peers inside,
and sees absolutely nothing.

Guaranda, Ecuador

RAVEN ENTERS THE WATERFALL FROM WHERE HE IS NOW

Raven is slicing
the water with his wings while
it falls from the cliff,
and keeps falling, forever.
His is this precious instant

repeating itself
in a prism of silver
threads stitching the stones
to the trees to the morning.
His dance becomes the roaring

perpendicular
drop as he dives, beak forward
into the black pool
of volcanic reflection,
erupts in cosmic laughter.


Ba?os de Agua Santa,
Ecuador

SCATOLOGY, OR SIMPLY SCAT?


Raven and I have had a few run-ins with Nescafe instant coffee the past few days. The Bird is adamant: he’s not having any of that.

“This is a coffee-producing country, for Pete’s sake—and they are guzzling this garbage!”

Rave, of course you’re right. The infamous Pete notwithstanding, the Third World folks will never be free until they stop selling their products for peanuts and buying them back again—manufactured, pulverized, petrified and chemically treated—for big bucks. In the meantime, let’s make do with a couple of teabags—barnsweepings from another part of the Third World, undoubtedly.

Raven dunks a bag in his cup and lets it dribble from his beak as he mutters a few well-chosen Third World obscenities which cast a lot of doubt on his mother.

Rave, didn’t your mother ever tell you not to swear with a teabag in your beak?

He leaves the bag in the cup.

“Let’s change the subject. I noticed in yesterday’s LA JORNADA that Durito (note: Durito is a beetle who accompanies the EZLN leader in his meanderings and musings—in short, his muse) ended up with more than half of Subcomandante Marcos’ speech.”

What are you saying, guy? You want to make a speech? You think you’re not getting your fair share of the blogs?

“A speech? Hmmm, I’ll have to think about that. You think Durito took a class in speeches or something?”

I’m not sure they have those classes in the mountains of southeastern Mexico. Anyway, you have as much—if not more—autonomy than Durito.

“Autonomy is not freedom, baby. Remember when ex-president Zedillo sent the federal cops in to break heads in the “Autonomous National University” in Mexico City?

He was still president then—don’t mislead our faithful five readers. But I get your drift. Like the autonomous nervous system isn’t free of the body—it just allows knees to jerk.

“Weak analogy, given that I don’t have knees.”

Raven dumps a bunch of aji (chile sauce, in Ecuadorese) on his scrambled eggs.

Go easy with that stuff. What did Durito have to say in his speech?

“A lot of stuff about anti-globalization. He compared the globe of the earth to a ‘globo’ (balloon), and he labels as ‘tienderos’ (store clerks) people at the head of puppet governments of countries that have given up their sovereignty to the globalizers—multinational companies and imperialist regimes like the U.S.”

Like that gringo in Bolivia, I guess?

“He made no specific mentions. But he says that it doesn’t matter that they have no idea how to govern—just that they know how to watch the “tienda” (store) and render clear accounts to the owner—Big Money.”

Durito is pretty sharp, Rave. Almost as sharp as you?

“And equally as modest. His final point was that therefore in the globalization of power the world no longer is round, like an inflated bladder, but it bursts—and in its place there’s a big store. And those stores, as everybody knows, are square—not round. And that’s how, he says, globalization functions—or as if we were to call it ‘bladderization’.”

Bladderization? I take it all back, guy. You wouldn’t come up with a goofy term like that! Or would you?

Raven lets loose with one of his ear-splitting cackles.

“Why not? If Bush can block the congressional investigation into 9/11—which he and his henchmen engineered—why couldn’t I popularize as asshole term like that?”

Asshole? No, Rave—the bladder is for doing Number 1, not Number 2.

“With folks like the Bush Gang bladderizing the world barrio—folks who in terms of normal activities cannot find their butts with both hands—Numbers 1 and 2 are the same.”

He might have a point, that Birdbrain.

Raven under the Volcano

Raven rose early;
like smoke from the volcanoes.
He was fluttering
his inky wings all morning,
landing with a coat of ash

on his feathers, and
a tender smile on his beak;
his eyes are glassy
and green from his dive bombing
cows in their grassy pastures.

On his way to bathe
in the waterfall, he shakes
his feathers free of
ash, set for his next attempt
to wash himself white again.

Above him, laughing,
Tungurahua spews his
black birds every
few minutes. He knows Raven’s
doomed to be black forever.

Baños de Agua Santa, Ecuador
October 26, 2003

Raven has been raving about the latest CIA shenanagins in Venezuela. He's also, however, traveling in the Andes with me, as the poem below will confirm:

RAVEN IN THE CURVE OF CUENCA

Raven is transfixed,
frozen like a Morris Graves
bird on a canvas,
lapis lazuli pastels
barely whimpering his tune.

It’s the mountain light
that snagged him in its talons:
bird caught by cloud’s
song. Circling the cathedral,
mocking its bricks and mortar,

suddenly he saw
his Raven face reflected
in the dome. Behind
his flutter of feathers: clouds
burled by the sun, blue stone sky

poised like a closed vein
to receive Raven’s knife cry
as he roughly cuts
himself free, bathing the late
afternoon sky with his blood.

Cuenca, Ecuador
October 14, 2003

JUSTICE FOR THE GOOSE, BUT NOT FOR THE GANDER?

Raven is napping on a cushion in one of the rattan chairs. He looks tuckered out, so I tiptoe around as I make myself a cup of tea and a sandwich.

“What kind of sandwich is that?”

Raven is perched on the cushion, suddenly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Sort of.

The typical: ham and cheese on raisin. I thought you were crashed for the morning.

“So did I. I was trying to escape.”

He yawns, flutters over to the table and edges toward my sandwich.

From me?

“From the latest round of patent hypocrisy, double-talk—you know—the Bush Gang’s usual M.O. This time expounded by Condoleezza Rice. About Bolivia.”

Raven extracts a raisin from my sandwich.

Don’t be a martyr, guy. I’ll make myself another one.

“Thought you’d never offer.” He tucks in.

So what did Miss Petrobucks say about Bolivia?

“You’ll love it. She announced to the Sociedad Interamericana de Prensa that it was absolutely imperative to support the “constitutional government of Bolivia”!

Constitutional? The US IMPOSED Sanchez de Lozada! The US Ambassador advised the Bolivian Congress that if they put Evo Morales in the presidential chair that the US would call in all loans and they would never see a red cent of loans or aid in the future.

“Don’t you see something else a bit strange?”

Yes, Rave, I do. The Bush Gang is insisting on propping up that guy—whom everybody calls “The Gringo” because he has spent most of his life in the US, and speaks Spanish more poorly than I do—as the supposed constitutional president of Bolivia, while at the same time they are doing everything they can think of to overthrow Hugo Chavez—who IS the constitutional president of Venezuela!

Raven buzzes over to the computer screen, cocks a dark eye at me?

“Double standard? Racism, perhaps? Here’s another good follow-up quote, from US spokesman Richard Boucher: ‘The internacional community and the United States will not tolerate any interruption of constitucional order and WILL NOT SUPPORT any regime which arises through antidemocratic means.' Wow! And they couldn’t wait last year to be the first to announce their support for the government—in quotes—of Carmona in Venezuela."

Double-speak, Rave. In the case of Bolivia, they know that if Sanchez de Lozada falls—and 4 of his ministers resigned yesterday—they won’t be seeing the gas shipments. And, in the case of Venezuela, we know they want to control the oil AND the gas from there.

“Not to mention that they hate Chavez because he doesn’t kiss their asses.”

Crude language, Rave.

“Crude situations call for crude language. Any more raisin bread around here?”

TWO, THREE, A HUNDRED IRAQS? AFGHANISTANS?

Tomorrow we commemorate the 36th anniversary of the assassination of Ernesto “Che” Guevara in a pesthole called La Higuera, Bolivia, at the hands of the CIA , the Green Berets and the Bolivians—yellow for the general cowardice displayed by the majority of the actors in that scenario.

Raven and I made a little poster of Che—with the famous Korda image above one taken by an undesignated photographer in Bolivia—probably in November or December of 1966, as he still looks partially in the disguise he created in order to get into the country. While Che was in Bolivia in April of 1967, cut off from Cuba and from just about everything else apart from the stands of jungle in front of the machetes of his companions, his famous “Message to the Tri-continental” was published in Cuba. This was the “Create two, three, many Vietnams” speech. Rather than talk about it, we’re going to give you an English translation of just part of that speech, as it rings very current for something written in 1966:

Vietnam and the World Struggle for Freedom
(Message to the Tricontinental)

published on April 16, 1967

"It is the hour of the furnace, and the light is all that can be seen."
-- Jose Marti

An excerpt:

….Everything seems to indicate that peace, the precarious peace that bears that name only because no global conflagration has occurred, is again in danger of being broken by some irreversible and unacceptable step taken by the United States.

What is the role that we, the exploited of the world, must play?

The peoples of three continents are watching and learning a lesson for themselves in Vietnam. Since the imperialists are using the threat of war to blackmail humanity, the correct response is not to fear war. Attack hard and without letup at every point of confrontation--that must be the general tactic of the peoples.

But in those places where this miserable peace that we endure has not been broken, what shall our task be?

To liberate ourselves at any price.

The world panorama is one of great complexity. The task of winning liberation still lies ahead even for some countries of old Europe, sufficiently developed to experience all the contradictions of capitalism but so weak that they can no longer follow the course of imperialism or embark on that road. In those countries the contradictions will become explosive in the coming years. But their problems, and hence their solutions, are different from those facing our dependent and economically backward peoples.

….Little by little, the obsolete weapons that suffice to repress the small armed bands will turn into modern weapons, and the groups of advisers into U.S. combatants, until at a certain point they find themselves obliged to send growing numbers of regular troops to secure the relative stability of a power whose national puppet army is disintegrating in the face of the guerrillas' struggles.

This is the road of Vietnam. It is the road that the peoples must follow. It is the road that Latin America will follow, with the special feature that the armed groups might establish something such as coordinating committees to make the repressive tasks of Yankee imperialism more diffcult and to help their own cause.

….We must definitely keep in mind that imperialism is a world system, the final stage of capitalism, and that it must be beaten in a great worldwide confrontation. The strategic objective of that struggle must be the destruction of imperialism.

The contribution that falls to us, the exploited and backward of the world, is to eliminate the foundations sustaining imperialism: our oppressed nations, from which capital, raw materials, and cheap labor (both workers and technicians) are extracted, and to which new capital (tools of domination), arms, and all kinds of goods are exported, sinking us into absolute dependence. The fundamental element of that strategic objective, then, will be the real liberation of the peoples, a liberation that will be the result of armed struggle in the majority of cases, and that, in Latin America, will almost unfailingly turn into a socialist revolution.

In focusing on the destruction of imperialism, it is necessary to identify its head, which is none other than the United States of North America.

We must carry out a task of a general kind, the tactical aim of which is to draw the enemy out of his environment, compelling him to fight in places where his living habits clash with existing conditions. The adversary must not be underestimated; the U.S. soldier has technical ability and is backed by means of such magnitude as to make him formidable. What he lacks essentially is the ideological motivation, which his most hated rivals of today--the Vietnamese soldiers--have to the highest degree. We will be able to triumph over this army only to the extent that we succeed in undermining its morale. And this is done by inflicting defeats on it and causing it repeated sufferings.

….Our mission, in the first hour, is to survive; then, to act, the perennial example of the guerrilla carrying on armed propaganda in the Vietnamese meaning of the term, that is, the propaganda of bullets, of battles that are won or lost--but that are waged--against the enemy.

We must carry the war as far as the enemy carries it: into his home, into his places of recreation, make it total. He must be prevented from having a moment's peace, a moment's quiet outside the barracks and even inside them. Attack him wherever he may be; make him feel like a hunted animal wherever he goes. Then his morale will begin to decline. He will become even more bestial, but the signs of the coming decline will appear.

….Let us sum up as follows our aspirations for victory. Destruction of imperialism by means of eliminating its strongest bulwark: the imperialist domination of the United States of North America. To take as a tactical line the gradual liberation of the peoples, one by one or in groups, involving the enemy in a difficult struggle outside his terrain; destroying his bases of support, that is, his dependent territories.

This means a long war. And, we repeat once again, a cruel war. Let no one deceive himself when he sets out to begin, and let no one hesitate to begin out of fear of the results it can bring upon his own people. It is almost the only hope for victory.

We cannot evade the call of the hour. Vietnam teaches us this with its permanent lesson in heroism, its tragic daily lesson of struggle and death in order to gain the final victory.

Over there, the soldiers of imperialism encounter the discomforts of those who, accustomed to the standard of living that the United States boasts, have to confront a hostile land; the insecurity of those who cannot move without feeling that they are stepping on enemy territory; death for those who go outside of fortified compounds; the permanent hostility of the entire population. All this is provoking repercussions inside the United States. It is leading to the appearance of a factor that was attenuated by imperialism at full strength: the class struggle inside its own territory.

How close and bright would the future appear if two, three, many Vietnams flowered on the face of the globe, with their quota of death and their immense tragedies, with their daily heroism, with their repeated blows against imperialism, forcing it to disperse its forces under the lash of the growing hatred of the peoples of the world!

And if we were all capable of uniting in order to give our blows greater solidity and certainty, so that the aid of all kinds to the peoples in struggle was even more effective--how great the future would be, and how near!

....Wherever death may surprise us, let it be welcome if our battle cry has reached even one receptive ear, if another hand reaches out to take up our arms, and other men come forward to join in our funeral dirge with the rattling of machine guns and with new cries of battle and victory.

*******
And a final comment from Raven: “Hasta la victoria siempre!”

WRITING WITH YELLOW….

Raven is reading, with increasingly narrowed eyes, an article in the online version of US News and World Report.

“These guys have some nerve.”

What’s happened now, Rave?

Raven reaches for his cup of Ceylon tea, slurps, then smears peanut butter on a cracker.

“These shills for the Bush Gang of petrocriminals are at it again. First, Chavez calls a press conference to announce he has recommended that OPEC increase the price band from 22 to 28 dollars a barrel to 25 to 32 dollars a barrel. Second, oil futures rise. Third, the US News and World Report comes out with this 100% libellous story, “Terror Close to Home”—four pages of spurious reportage and quotes from unnamed US government sources saying that Chavez is sponsoring the minions of Al Qaeda, lodging Colombian guerrillas all along the border, and that Cubans are involved in paramilitary operations in Venezuela.”

Interesting fantasies. This goes way beyond yellow journalism. Venezuela doesn’t have any paramilitary operations.

“I know. Gregory Wilpert takes the article apart on www.venezuelanalysis.com. And apparently Sha-perro, the Ambassador, was supposed to appear for a meeting at the chancellor’s office to discuss this latest round of attacks on Venezuela.”

Reeks of oil, Rave. Remember that surfer scene in “Apocalypse Now” where Robert Duvall says, “I love the smell of napalm in the morning”? Sounds like the Bush Gang, by accusing Chavez of “flirting with terrorism”, is more than flirting with a libel action. The smell wafting off the polluted waves on Lake Maracaibo must have addled their pates.

“More than usual? That’s like saying there is a degree lower than Absolute Zero.”

Raven is now scraping out peanut butter with his claw.

I know you’re outraged, Rave. But Chavez can take care of himself. He didn’t say he was going to be in the snipers’ crosshairs for many years just to be saying something.

“No, whistling “Dixie” he wasn’t.”

Nor would he be inclined to that tune, anyway. I think we need to get you something better to eat than peanut butter and crackers. You’re too agitated.

“The cupboard is bare,” sighs Raven.

I know. But the shelves of Supermaxi aren’t. Let’s fly out of here.

“You’re not just whistling “Dixie”, either.” Raven looks dramatically less dour. “I vote for tortellini.”

Whew. I thought, with your Venezuela fixation, you’d be demanding arepas.

“Not a chance. Those are for playing pool with. Not eating.”

Raven is looping the loop in the hallway, his feathers shining like oil in the leaden afternoon sun of Guayaquil.

A ROSE IS A ROSE IS A….

Raven is starting to crawl out from behind beakfuls of Kleenex to look like his old, feathered self. He also looks angry.

“Can you believe this!”

He spins away from the computer screen to get my attention.

What’s going on now?

“Immeasurable nerve, that’s what. Remember all the fur and feathers that were flying a couple of days ago because Chavez accused the US of harboring and training terrorists who were plotting his assassination?”

But of course, Rave. That was at the International Women’s Forum. He said he had given a full color photo of the terrorists in training someplace in Florida that had been published in a Florida newspaper to the US Ambassador, and was still waiting for an explanation.

“Ah, yes. Charley Sha-perro I think he’s being called these days. Anyway, there was a photo on the news services of Chavez holding a rose and…”

You mean THAT photo, Rave?

I am pointing to a print out of a color photo taped onto the bulletin board. An Associated Press photo.

“Precisely that photo. A newspaper in Caracas doctored the photo and ran it with Chavez holding a revolver instead of a rose!”

I hope heads will roll as a result of that!

“It says here they are going to make a complaint to the Organization of American States. And sue the paper, too, apparently.”

Good. And meanwhile, under all the hoo-hah, Chavez is quietly nationalizing the diamond mines.

“It’s the least he can do, don’t you think?”

Raven turns a baleful eye in my direction, cackles. He’s back to normal.

BACK IN THE SADDLE

Raven and I have pretty much kicked The Crud.
But there are other kinds of crud
floating around out there
that kick back.
One of them is called Bad Karma—
a particularly prevalent kind of
crud that circles around
in our Universe and sticks
its psychic suction devices onto
The Usual Suspects
(at least in the fantasies of Raven and me,
they are the logical targets.)

Meanwhile, we learn that the Milky Way
(the galaxy, not the candy bar)
is eating Sagittarius.
Maybe that’s why the bird and I,
sojourning in the eye of Chiron,
have been under the weather lately.
Maybe there is becoming less of us all the time….?

CRUD

Raven and I have had The Crud. After a year of living as far as possible from any industry, here we are in the middle of The Big Muddy of pollution, sneezing our brains out and spitting up unmentionable stuff here in Guayaquil (aka Galveston South). Kleenex litters the apartment, and the garbage can is full of chicken bones from the Traditional Soup Cure. Tea cups with suspicious smears of cough syrup are lined up on the kitchen counter.

This place stinks, Rave.

Raven, prostrate on the springless sofa, glares at me. And coughs.

“Tell me about it. When are we leaving?”

No, I mean the apartment stinks. Even with all the windows open it reeks of virus.

“It’s a microcosm, that’s all.”

You mean the Universe is sick?

Raven covers his beak with a Kleenex, spits.

“Let’s put it this way: it’s not having a bad hair day.”

I pull up a chair next to the bird.

Rave, we’ve got to pull ourselves together.

“Don’t do counselling mode with me. Please. The world is going to hell in a handbasket and you say we need to pull ourselves together. This can’t be my life I am living. Did you even look at any of the news commentaries today?”

I confess, no. I have done nothing but read Vargas Llosa’s “La Guerra del fin del mundo.”

“We’re LIVING the war of the end of the world. Why read about it. Look, people are even writing books about it.”

Raven flutters off the couch—like a limp handkerchief—and plops himself in front of the computer screen.

“Listen. It’s an article in The Globe about a book by John Newhouse called “Imperial America: The Bush Assault on the World Order”, describing it as: "cri de coeur" from that lost Washington world that favors diplomacy over dictate, working with allies rather than unilaterialism, and "sensible pragmatic policy" rather than the "ritual truculence" that has become the hallmark of America's international relations.”

And just what does that “cri de coeur” say?


“ ‘Newhouse traces the right's bid for power to the attempt to take over the Ford administration in the so-called Halloween Massacre of 1975, when Donald Rumsfeld was White House chief of staff and Cheney his deputy. Rumsfeld maneuvered Secretary of State Henry Kissinger out of his dual role as national security adviser, got Secretary of Defense James Schlesinger fired to be replaced by Rumsfeld himself, with Cheney promoted to chief of staff. Vice President Nelson Rockefeller was told he would not be on the ticket when Ford ran for president the following year. Rumsfeld was not interested in Kissinger's efforts to limit nuclear weapons -- he wanted a harder line -- nor did the right want the moderates associated with Rockefeller's branch of the party.

Ford lost the election. But the right wing tried again during the first Bush administration with a proposed doctrine "cobbled together" after the first Gulf War by Paul Wolfowitz, Rumsfeld's deputy today, and Lewis Libby, now Cheney's chief of staff. The new doctrine spoke of not just remaining number one in the world but of destroying any state that might in the future challenge the United States -- i.e., preemptive offense without benefit of allies, without UN sanction, with a stress on raw military power over containment, persuasion, and diplomacy. It was not a doctrine that gained any purchase with Bush senior's administration. But after 9/11 in a new Bush administration, its day has come. Rumsfeld and others were angling for an attack on Iraq before Afghanistan, a suggestion which Bush wisely rejected. But it is now clear that for this administration, regime change always trumped disarming Iraq -- thus the intelligence skewing that has now been exposed. ‘”

Sounds like more of the same to me, guy. The incredible persistence of the bad guys. What else have they had to do BUT be persistent? But I take umbrage at the idea that Bush did anything “wisely”.

“Well, yeah. But everything is relative.

No, Rave. Everything isn’t relative. That’s like saying compared to serving a life sentence having a cold in Guayaquil is a happy event. It simply isn’t.

Raven sighs.

“Fundamentalists.”

SONS OF BITCHES AND OTHER USUAL SUSPECTS

Raven is stirring a bit of milk into his tea. This is an affectation he has taken up only recently, and I do not intend to share it with him.

“Did you know that Nixon called Salvador Allende a bastard and a son of a bitch?”

Raven, the asker of disingenuous questions.

I didn’t hear him say it, Rave. But I believe it. Nixon had a very dirty mouth. In fact, about the only clean talk I remember from him was when he said, “I am not a crook”—and that was a lie. In the Checkers Speech, I think it was. Along with referring to his wife, the long-suffering Pat’s “good republican cloth coat.”

“Checkers?”

Don’t you remember? That was the Nixons’ dog.

“Oh, yeah. How could I forget that much-maligned long-suffering beast? Anyway, in today’s LA JORNADA Helms of the CIA reports Nixon called Allende both of those after he won the 1970 election in Chile.”

Nixon and Kissinger were gunning for Allende from Day 1. Between the CIA and the Nixon Dirty Tricksters, and his not having a majority in the Chilean Congress, Allende was a Sisyphean stone rolling uphill during his whole almost-3-years in office.

“Listen to how they describe the “democratic way” Allende was removed from the presidency:

‘Eight million dollars were spent secretly between 1970 and the military coup of 1973, according to the Church Report—during which time the CIA and US military officers established contacts with Chilean military officers with the end of gathering intelligence and permitting the US to enter into communication with the group with the most possibility of taking the power from Allende. The collaborationist press, headed by the right-wing daily “El Mercurio”, was the voice of the terror campaign that contributed to the political polarization and financial panic of the time. Also strikes and terrorist attacks were financed, and shortages of necessary items were created, and a galloping inflation set in.

‘Philip Agee, ex-CIA agent, confessed years later: “The agency, by financing truckers and businessmen to organize against Allende (stopping the flow of merchandise and paralyzing the country) could create the appearance of chaos and disorganization which always is attractive to right-wing military leaders who advocate order and discipline. This creates the opportunity for them to intervene to restore order, peace and dignity to the nation.”’”

Sounds fishily like Caracas 2002, doesn’t it? In addition to military and CIA funds channelled to Venezuelan “opposition” groups, almost a million bucks on the books was given them by the US government through the National Endowment for Democracy. Are there any more figures on the Chilean buy-off?

“Yeah. It says here:
‘The sabotage of Allende was gigantic: US aid that in 1965—during the government of Eduardo Frei—was 35 million dollars, dropped to a million and a half in 1971. And from a record 234.6 million dollars in credits from Eximbank to Chile in 1967, the number fell to zero in 1971, at the same time as Chile was given the lowest credit rating. The Inter-american Development Bank, which early in 1970 loaned Chile 45.6 million dollars, loaned Chile 2.1 million in 1972, at the same time that the World Bank loaned Chile exactly one dollar. The Club of Paris, pressured by the US, refused to renegotiate the enormous debt Allende inherited from his predecessors.’”

Nothing like a big time slap in the face, right?

“This article indicates that the plan of Allende’s government that was extremely worrisome to Washington was that its goal was to improve the living conditions of the people by way of a fair redistribution of income, and by way of the ballot box to advance toward democratic socialism. When it looked like Allende might actually receive a majority in the Congress is he was able to complete his government’s plan, all the alarms went off in the White House, the Pentagon and the CIA. Nixon said to do everything posible to bring Allende down.”

Great guy, Nixon—running around like a latter-day Perry at the same time, opening up China for exploitation by the West.

“Yeah, but Kissinger was the one who wrote the plan. And even then all the money the US used to buy people didn’t stop Allende's party from receiving more votes in March of 1973 than they did when he was elected in 1970.”

So that’s when the decided to take him out. He had said that only being shot would he not implement the people’s program. And they decided to take him at his word.

“That’s right. It says here: ‘In Washington they filed their sights for “D Day”—the day of the coup. All they needed was to define the date and the person to head it. The date was September 11, 1973. It was headed by general Augusto Pinochet.’”

And the rest, as they say is history. Unfortunately, it is a history that the Usual Suspects (aka the CIA, the White House and the Pentagon) keep trying to repeat in Venezuela, where another president is struggling to program dignity for his people. Last week, in a particularly cynical gesture, US Ambassador to Venezuela Charley Shapiro marched over to the National Election Commission and offered it the services of the same folks that stole the presidential election for George W. Bush 3 years ago.

“Some nerve!”

Raven pours his milk-laden tea down the kitchen sink’s drain.

I hope his tea is the only thing going down the drain.

*************
In memory of Salvador Allende, who died in La Moneda, Santiago de Chile, Sept. 11, 1973. An enormously destructive Sept. 11th brought to us by the Usual Suspects--the CIA, the White House and the Pentagon--just 28 years before they gave us Sept. 11, 2001--with its destructive pyrotecnics and its even more destructive aftermath. Thanks guys.

PRINCES (continued)

“Wow, right on the nail!” Raven spits a beakful of granola across the breakfast table.

What’s up, guy? Tools in the newspaper?

“Yesterday we were talking about “reconstructive” contracts in Iraq being the sop to the Petrocriminals, aka “nobles”, in Maquiavellian terms. Now there’s an article in LA JORNADA that’s right on the nail.”

You mean that hits the nail right on the head, I think. Is my bird buddy piddling in the puddles of Bushisms?

“God, I hope not. Anyway, this guy goes so far as to call Halliburton a “parallel army” in the Iraqui context.”

Raven wipes up the spat granola with his napkin.

Sounds great. Let’s hear it.

Raven takes a deep breath.

“’ “The war on terrorism, highest phase of capitalism, has signified for the company Halliburton and its subsidiaries one of the most fabulous businesses in corporate history. In full view of everybody, its open association with the US government represents a paradigmatic case of influence trafficking, as well as the supreme example of just how profitable the war is for hawks and buzzards. Above all, if to that are added comfortable tax exemptions.’”

Hmmm. You’re right that we were right. Does the article total up the windfall for the buzzards?

“Yeah. “Operation Iraqui Freedom” gives them 1.9 billion dollars, plus more related to the Army Corps of Engineers. Then one third of the budget for maintaining US troops in Iraq (3.9 billion dollars) goes directly to Halliburton, and to a lesser degree to Bechtel and DynaCorp.”

This is a bit beyond the bones thrown to camp followers, I think.

“The JORNADA article quotes the WASHINGTON POST’s revelation that they are even wearing military uniforms—but with their company insignias on their shoulders.”

Halliburton maybe should just be called Dick Cheney, Inc.?

“Or Ubiquitous Dick Cheney, Inc. The article goes on to say that Michael Scherer, correspondent in Washington for the magazine Mother Jones, just announced their scope of operation, complete with an interactive map of “The World According to Halliburton”. ‘The reporter notes that the past two years have been excellent for Halliburton—After 9/11, the Bush government has awarded the second largest petroleum services company in the world with at least 2 billion 200 million dollars in defense-related contracts—the majority to support military operations overseas. The map illustrates the location of the bellicose investments of Halliburton: Guantanamo, Bosnia, Kosovo, Turkey, Iraq, Afghanistan, Jordan, The Philippines, Russia, Georgia, Uzbekistan y Djibuti and Somalia. Not to mention domestic investments from coast to coast, plus Alaska, Hawaii, Guam y Puerto Rico. No less impressive is the geographic diversity of the “fiscal paradises” where they launder and keep their money: The Cayman Islands, Bermuda, Barbados, Nevis, Santa Lucia, Panama, Liechtenstein, Jersey, Mauricio. And they advanced 58 percent on the Forbes 500 list in 2002.’”

Just a mom and pop operation, Rave.

“Right. And just to put icing on the cake—by the way, we haven’t had cake around here in awhile—maybe chocolate would hit the nail on the head—Halliburton just received a contract for 391 million dollars to maintain the National Lab at Los Alamos, New Mexico—our old stomping ground—and another 200 million to “update” the security of the strategic biological research in the national Institute of Health, in Maryland. Not small change, either.”

I wonder what they mean by “maintain” the Lab at Los Alamos?

“Probably looking for Chinese Americans to blame security leaks on.”

Is that Wu Lee guy still in the New Mexico Penitentiary?

“No, they let him out when in the clean-up after that fire we watched so anxiously from the friendly confines of Espanola in 2000 they found top security hard drives collecting ashes and dust in broom closets. Sort of blew their case.”

I would think so.

“Now, can we talk about taking a walk for chocolate cake?”

Just what I need: A cakewalk with the Bird for All Seasons.

************

And speaking of cakewalks--this, from yesterday's TORONTO STAR piece, "Bailing Bush Out of His Iraq Fiasco" (reprinted today on COMMON DREAMS:

'Bush is now spending $1 billion a week to keep 150,000 troops in Iraq, along with 11,000 British troops and 10,000 others. Yet he has precious little to show for it. Saddam Hussein is still on the loose, and Iraq is being infiltrated by fighters bent on driving the Americans out.

This explodes the neo-conservative fiction that rebuilding Iraq as a stable democracy would be a cakewalk, once Saddam was deposed.

(As Bush might say--Great minds think by the same set of rules....)