Concerning that vow in my last post that I would never vote again for anyone who supported the evil austerity bill, I mean to keep it. If more of us abandon those who’ve clearly abandoned us, maybe a real people’s party will arise in response to the need and/or Democrats will wake up and start acting like Democrats again.
Generations of Resistance to War
From the book
RADICAL PEACE: People Refusing War
By William T. Hathaway
Published by Trine Day
A Granny for Peace told of finding young allies in the struggle against military recruiting. Due to the Patriot Act, she wishes to remain nameless.
It’s never easy being a parent or a child. The generations always have friction between them, a conflict between the elders’ need to give guidance and youths’ need to find their own way. Continue reading
Wikipedia defines Loyalty as faithfulness or a devotion to a person, country, group, or cause. Most of us will say that we are loyal Americans.
“Here in America we are descended in blood and in spirit from revolutionists and rebels — men and women who dare to dissent from accepted doctrine. As their heirs, we may never confuse honest dissent with disloyal subversion .”
The Historical Gastonia Textile Mill Strikes Are Not Forgotten
When in the early part of this millennium I was writing a rather surrealistic novel, ASHEVILLE, about the town in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Western North Carolina where I started out my life, I ran into the story of the Asheville-based self-professed Communist writer, Olive Tilford Dargan, of whom I had never heard before. Visiting then her gravesite in the little known Green Hills Cemetery in West Asheville and researching her and her activities I fell into a gossamer review of early 19th century labor struggles in the good old U.S. South.
History never repeats itself exactly. But it makes some pretty decent copies. As I write this on March 29, 2011, we are winding down to the end of the so-called “debt-limit crisis,” or the possible end, or the continuation of it, or what have you. Of course what is going on is not really about the debt-limit. It is about the future of the federal government in the United States and its appropriate role. As I wrote in my BuzzFlash@Truthout Commentary on Grover Norquist’s wet dream his 25-year campaign is focused only at the secondary level on taxation. It is primarily about his stated goal of “shrinking the federal government to the size of a bathtub and then drowning it in the bathtub,” or as he used to more simply state it: “starve the beast.”
For almost 10 years we have been engaged in a massive and many-fronted war advertised as a war on terror-war on Al Qaeda. Recent reports put the total cost to America of this war on terror at around $3 trillion. This is not counting un-countable covert operations with secret budgets, and it does not include the war in Libya or covert wars elsewhere.
OK, I cannot prove how I feel… I just know it is true! The Hindus teach that our 3rd dimension, this ‘life‘ we are all living, is but a dream that our souls are creating…as we go. Thus, as taught in Autobiography of a Yogi, we are the creators, directors and actors in our own dream, or illusion. I state all this as not really the purpose, rather the preface of my column today.
I am not the only international guest speaking at the rallies against nukes and for world peace here in Hiroshima, Japan—a pediatrician from Iraq was also invited—Dr. Hassan.
Dr. Hassan has seen and is treating numerous cancers and other problems in children stemming from the US invasion and occupation and the use of conventional weapons coated with depleted uranium, or DU.
“Nato has attacked a Libyan state broadcaster in the capital, bombing three satellite dishes in Tripoli, saying the channel instils hatred.” — ‘Libya unrest: Nato bombs state broadcaster‘, BBC News 30 July 2011
At first when I heard this I couldn’t believe my ears. What a pathetic excuse for killing people but then desperate times demand desperate measures. The Empire is in disarray!
On my first day in Cuba, in 1967, I waited in a bus queue that was really a conga line. Ahead of me were two large, funny females resplendent in frills of blinding yellow; one of them had an especially long bongo under her arm. When the bus arrived, painted in Cuba’s colors for its inaugural service, they announced that the gringo had not long arrived from London and was, therefore, personally responsible for this breach in the American blockade. It was an honor I could not refuse.