Three months later, the UN is
in the D.R. Congo with the ability to actually use force to stop the “tit-for-tat massacres” that have been going on since May. It’s good to know that we pay millions of dollars into such an efficient organization.

Maybe, one of these days, we’ll actually see the UN doing its job on a regular basis so that the US doesn’t have to.

While I’m certainly no big fan of Woodrow Wilson’s vision for the world, I do like to see folks doing what they say that they are going to do.

Finally had a chance to pick up where I left off in Ghost Rider, over another finally: I’m finally starting to make good meals again. Having largely lost interest in cooking, it’s starting to come back. This is a very good thing, as I love eating, and I love cooking. Anyways …

So I’m having this back-and-forth regarding Neil Peart. I can’t decide whether he’s what *I* would be if I was absurdly wealthy, or whether he’s a spoiled rich kid with the chance to ignore reality. Perhaps those are the same thing. I’m not sure. Perhaps some day I’ll have the chance to find out. I should be so lucky.

So, over barbeque chicken and zin, I read the following:

… More reasons to treasure the memories of [important period in his life. Read the book. Not relevant for my ruminations.] I keep saying we were “spoiled,” but I guess that’s only so if you consider it being spoiled to have, like, a good life. Not hardly.

Is it such a bad thing to want to be happy? Hell, no. Everyone deserves to have their life not suck. But, unfortunately, so few people seem to achieve that. “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation,” quoth Thoreau. And I used to think, geez, that must suck for them. Yet, here I am, quietly desperate.

Oh, and I wanted to make note of another thing that Peart said, because it made a lot of sense to me, particularly in light of my recent forray into fiction writing.

Millions of thoughts spin out, all connected, like a tape unreeling, then as soon as I stop, all gone. Snap.

He’s talking about how, as he’s hiking, he’s writing the great book of his life. And then, somehow, when it comes to actually writing it, nothing happens. Yeah. That’s how it is. And so, alas, I’m stuck writing technical books, rather than the great stories that come to me as I hike, drive, or sleep, only to vanish when I sit down at the screen.

Well, I expect I could ramble more, but I’m not sure how long gnat is going to put up with my lateness. (Oh, on a very cool related note, Morbus apparently put a note in his new book, something like “Thanks to Ken and Rich for making me feel better. At least I’m not as late as you!”. You suck, Morbus.)

Please note, if you understood any of the above, you are very scary person, and should seek professional help.

I wrote a short story yesterday. I was driving along, and noticed one of those crosses on the side of the road with a name and a message on it, and found myself wondering what they were talking about, or thinking, in those last seconds. Suddenly, this story sprang fully formed into my mind. This happens every once in a while, and I never write them down, and they they are gone like the visitor from Poorlock. So, I know it’s kinda schmaltzy, but, perhaps Bradbury’s admonition that we write something every day, no matter how trite it seems at the time, is worth following after all.

So, yeah, I know it’s not very good, but here it is.

I while back I read a book of short short stories – they were supposed to be 50 words or less, I seem to recall – and I like the style. Say as little as possible. Leave the reader to figure out what the story is about. If you have to explain something, you probably need to rewrite rather then explain. It is better to imply than to say. I’m not good at this, but one has to start somewhere.

Heavyweight boxer, army general, canibal, mass murderer, and president for life of Uganda Idi Amin, the Butcher of Africa, died yesterday in Saudi Arabia. He came to power in 1971 in a military coup, overthrowing Milton Obote. He ruled Uganda until 1979, when another military coup kicked him out. During that time, he transformed Uganda from a wealthy and beautiful tourist resort nation, teeming with wildlife, industry, and commerce, into an impoverished hole, where no tourist would dare set foot, and no company would dare invest. He used to go out into the game reserves with a machine gun and shoot herds of rhinos, for fun. These days, it’s very difficult to guess that rhinos used to move in herds, since there are not enough of them left to make this possible. Idi Amin is almost single-handedly responsible for bringing that about. He was also responsible for the deaths of more than 500,000 people, many of whome he killed personally. He tortured many others, and thousands of people disappeared for years, and when they emerged, they were reluctant to talk about what had happened in that time. Idi Amin is one of the most wicked people to have lived in our life time.

Yet, somehow, Saudi Arabia, a God fearing nation, decided to keep him as an honored guest, paying him a stipend that allowed him to live in luxury until his death yesterday. Their reasoning, presumably, was that he converted to Islam. This apparently means that he should not be turned over to his countrymen for a trial by his peers, but should be treated like a foreign dignitary, and supported in luxury for more than 20 years.

His family continues to insist that none of what I’ve talked about ever happened. They claim that he was a peace-loving guy that was just deeply misunderstood, and that the media made up a bunch of stuff. Stuff like the heads and penises in his fridge, and the arms in his freezer. Stuff like chopping off peoples’ heads because they were taller than him. Stuff like being personally responsible for the Air France plane that was hijacked to Entebbe in 1976 (see the movie Raid on Entebbe for a fantastic portrayal of this event), and like executing journalists that dared to criticize him, and like throwing his political opponents to the crocodiles, and like deporting every citizen and resident of asian or indian origin. The Indians, like in many african nations even today, form the core of the economy, owning or managing many of the businesses. Expelling them destroyed the economy pretty fast.

After 1979, Uganda went through what we used to refer to as the “president of the month” phase, and I went to school with a few of president’s kids during those years. They seemed to remain rather friendly with one another while their fathers exiled one another. In particular, I seem to remember that we went to school with Lule’s and Okello’s kids. I guess their rules weren’t actually consecutive.

The current president, Yoweri Museveni, took power in a military coup also, in 1986, although he has been elected in moderately fair elections since that time.

With the last of the African strong men being kicked out of office (like Charles Taylor and Daniel Moi) and dying off (like Idi Amin and Bokasso), one is almost tempted to hope for a new era in Africa, when people can actually live in peace with one another. Of course, there are still lunatics like Robert Mugabe who are leading their people into a future of international alienation and poverty, but one hopes that he will not last forever.

There are good articles about Amin on CNN and BBC. There are also many many web sites about Idi Amin and people that survived his rule. Wikipedia has a pretty good treatment.

If you’re interested in Africa and how it got into the mess that it’s in, an excellent book on the subject is Things Fall Apart. There’s also a new book called The Zanzibar Chest, which tells the story from the perspective someone who grew up in Africa, as the son of a colonial soldiering family. This was recently reviewed on NPR and sounds very interesting.

Turns out I am incapable of sleeping in. I intended to take today off, sort of – at least to sleep in, have a big breakfast, and then do either some writing/editing, or perhaps even some coding on Maneggio, which is finally interesting to me again.

So I slept in.

Until 7.

Apparently that is as late as I am capable of sleeping in.

That’s really pathetic.

Continued from earlier …

The French troops have arrived in the D. R. Congo, and are complaining that they have been “caught in the middle” of the war there. Um. Am I missing something? Aren’t they supposed to be peacekeepers?

Seriously, can *anybody* explain to me the purpose of having 2000+ “peacekeepers” who “do not have a mandate to intervene in the conflict?”

What, exactly, are they supposed to be doing there? Either be peacekeepers, or stay home. By being there, they are further complicating the situation, and spending insane amounts of money for no benefit.

It really makes me ill.

Meanwhile, the death toll is up to more than 500, thousands have fled the area, mostly to refugee camps in other places that aren’t much better off, and although the people there rejoiced at the arrival of the French troops, it’s not clear to me that they would have if they understood what role those troops would play – essentially overseeing the slaughter, but not interfering.

Also of great interest to me are the dozens of morons willing to share their uninformed opinions on the situation. I suppose I’m not much better than some of them, but the bulk of the folks commenting would apparently be hard-pressed to find find Bunia on a map, let alone have a chance of understanding the realities of the situation there.

Incidentally, if you’re interested in Ghost Rider, but don’t have the time for a tome of this size, you might also take a look at Vapor Trails by Rush. While reading the book, you can see hints of songs yet to be written, and reading the book makes the CD make a lot more sense. The play list meshes very well with the progress of the book, and each serves to illuminate the other. Also, you might like to read the lyrics.

I don’t often wax philosophical here. And I don’t often talk about my personal life, since, if it was any of your business, I would have already told you about it in person. Or on IRC, which is sort of the same thing.

But I thought I’d share the following, from “Ghost Rider”, by Neil Peart, because it makes more sense to me than all the books I’ve ever read about grief and dealing with horrible situations in your life. I tend to have a great deal of contempt for psychologists, because they think that life is formulaic, and, worse yet, they seem to think that if you know the formulas, your problems will go away. Yes, this is a grossly unfair generalization, but it seems that so many “counsellors” have completely lost touch with what it means to suffer, and so they offer formulas to “fix” things. This is profoundly disingenuous.

Anyways, I gain more comfort from Neil’s book than from a dozen counselors, because he does not offer solutions. He just talks about himself, and what he’s going through. He offers a few insights, but does not insist that things are the same for everyone in the world.

Anyways, the following is rather lengthy, but it is covered under Fair Use, and so I’m not violting any copyright laws. But you really should buy this book, if this passage resonates with you.

I have found that it is meaningless to talk in terms of “dealing with it,” or of “working through it.” No. This particular it is not something to be dealt with or worked through. This kind of It simply changes everything, and there’s no coming to terms with it. No deal to be made, no compromise. (I think Ayn Rand once wrote “You can’t compromise with evil.”)

Here and now it’s about starting all over again, from the ground up, and as Darwinian organisms, we are expected to adapt to these new circumstances. Adapt, or perish. We can’t change what is, or its effects on us and our view of life. That is all done. If we truly want to carry on from this dark crossroads, we can only try to guide the inevitable changes in ourselves. We would not be who we are if this was something we could “get over,” or simply carry on from where we left off. Once I expressed the way I see my future this way, “I know I’m scarred by these experiences, I just don’t want to be too crippled by them.”

If there is any point in carrying on, it is not in simply existing, in cluttering up the world with another bitter and nasty old man, or a joyless hermit, or a suffering martyr forever living in the pas, and punishing everyone else for what life has done to me.

I don’t like the feel of the word “Acceptance,” the technical term which is applied by the “griefologists” to the state of the process in which I presently find myself. I found on my return from the Healing Road that after all that time and distance I had at least transcented “denial.” But to me, knowing that these things are true doesn’t mean that I accept the truth. Far from it. As far as I can see, I will never accept that life is supposed to turn out this way. Especially our lives. It’s not the way I lived, or Jackie lived, or the way we taught Selena.

This is not at all the way I thought the world worked, and after all, it is not “acceptable” that Selena and Jackie had to die. No way. Not in my world. So that world, or our world-view, is gone. Some well-meaning people have tried to offer me what they perceive to be a “comforting” thought of the “everything must happen for a reason” kind, but I shut them up right away (as politely as I can). Somehow they don’t see that it’s absolutely no consolation to look at it that way, and more, it brings up some terrible questions in your head: “There’s some kind of reason? What? They deserved to die? I deserved to lose them? The world didn’t need people like Jackie and Selena?”

Bullshit.

…

So, those of us on the “inside,” like you and me, are left trying to “accept the unacceptable.” We’re expected to pull ourselves together and carry on (expectations sometimes from others, sometimes just from an unextinguishable part of ourselves), but we face a pretty desperate battle, after all, for there’s nothing to pull together!

Everything that we were, everything that we based our lives upon, everything that we believe is gone. … No way we can hold onto what we used to believe, and no way we can forget what has actually happened in our lives, and in our worlds. We will never trust Life again.

However, once again, we’ve got to adapt, even to that unbearable reality, or one way or another, we will perish. Period.

I won’t inflict my deep thoughts on you very often, but perhaps this passage will help someone get a useful perspective on things, as Peart’s writings have been doing for me.