From: gwb
To: Hank Blakely
Sent: Monday, December 10, 2001
Subject: About my terrible dream
Evil days, my friend, evil days.
First them evil terrorists blows up all them people right in the middle a' my readin' a story to the school kids. Then some nut case - or nut cases - unknown sends anthrax through the mails - some a' which winds up right
here in the damn WH itself, puttin'
me in harm's way!
Which is goin' too damn far.
Then at first the war wasn't goin' too good, then it was, and now it ain't again, 'cause, even though we kinda won, it looks like we've collateraled several hundred Afghanistan civilians for no reason anybody can figure, and we mighta let most a' the leaders get away to boot. And damned if they ain't blamin' me for
that too! I mean, who's runnin' this war? Is it
me? It is
not.
Plus some un-American cry-babies is gettin' mad at
me on account a' Ashy's holdin' a lotta foreigners without doin' process on 'em. Laura says it would help me to understand the issue better if I read a book called "1984," but I can't see what good's a 17 year-old book gonna do me in these more sophistry times.
Then there's that awful Israeli-Palestine thing. An unconscious lotta people gets killed just as I was sendin' my peace envoys. Makes me look like a fool, and now nobody wants to talk to nobody else.
It's all changed somehow. This job useta be fun. Now ever' day is full a' fear and panic - and not just me, but a lotta other people feels the same way. Who knew this job was gonna turn out such a bummer.
Ever'thin' happens to me.
But, at least outta alla this I have found my own voice - well Karen and Karl and Ashy found it for me - but I recognized it as soon as I heard it.
And I'm gettin' pretty good at recognizin' evil, too, and I got them three to thank for that as well.
In fact, I've been recognizin' evil up a storm lately. It's amazin' how much a' it there is once you start lookin' for it. The great thing is that the evil has got big enough to where ever'body can see it plain. Even better, they practical can't see nothin'
but the evil. Which gives us quite a bit a' maneuverin' room. The evil-doers been reg'lar takin' advantage a' us 'cause we been such a free and open society. Well, we're gonna fix that.
I got to go along with Ashy on this. He's the one told me: "Extremism in the liberty of pursuit is no vice." and I'm gonna remember that.
And I'm also never gonna forget them first terrible hours, neither. When I sat down to read to the kids, a' course I already knew about the first plane hittin' the Trade Tower. I had been sittin' outside the classroom waitin' to go in, when I saw on TV that an airplane hit the tower...and I said, "There's one terrible pilot." *
I was rememberin' my own (un-combative) flyin' days, and I was just glad that it wasn't me for once.
Later, a' course, I said how it was a horrible tragedy.
Then followed some grim hours gettin' to the WH. Even though we tried to get back as soon as we could, it took us near ten hours to do it.
Head-winds, y'know.
At least all that's behind us now, a real improvement from when it was in front a' us. I'm more or less resoled to it, and devotional to shoulderin' the burden a' my assignments.
Now, if I could just stop the Bad Dream.
First time I had the Bad Dream was on the night a' the attack. Laura n' me was bein' shuttled back and forth all night. First we was on a coupla cots in the Big Room in the Basement, then they let us go back to the WH to sleep, then they hustled us outta there in the middle a' the night and took us back to the Big Room in the Basement again. I was pretty damn upset; 'cause alla this was very inconvenient on me, deprivin' me a' my sleep. But that's only one example a' the kinda things I gotta put up with these days.
Anyhow, the dream started when we was back in the Big Room in the Basement the second time. It always goes the same way:
I'm in a place looks kinda like them battlefields y' see in movies about the First World War. There's these big wooden "X"s all over, with barb wire strung through 'em. John Ashcroft n' me is down in a trench, draggin' this lady by her arms over rocks and dead soldiers. The lady's wearin' a sorta sheet and a hat with spikes. And she's holdin' tight onto a torch that ain't lit. She's bunged up pretty bad and gettin' more so from the draggin'.
It's hard to tell if she's still breathin'.
Then the picture changes. Now I'm in some kinda courtroom, only it's in a basement. Ashy's there too, only now he ain't my friend no more, he's the one prosecutin' me.
It seems I'm accused a' killin' the spiked-hat lady.
My defense lawyer is Richard Nixon.
I'm given the oath by a man who looks exactly like Ashy. Then I notice the court stenographer looks exactly like Ashy too. And then I notice so does the judge, the jury and all the speculators. The only one in the room who don't look like Ashy
is me.
So, you won't be surprised to learn that the prospects for my case don't look good. And neither, for that matter, does Nixon. To be frank, he is not in good repair. His clothes is moldy and fallin' away from him. And his hygiene - 'specially that skin-care thing - could use some work.
Lawyer Nixon addresses the judge, and says three things:
1. I didn't do it.
2. If I did do it, they was lotsa other people did it too.
3. It wasn't no way his fault.
It occurs to me then that Lawyer Nixon might not be the smartest choice a' defender, and I fires him. The judge offers to appoint me a new lawyer, but the man he points to is another Ashy.
Realizin' that discreteness is the better valet, I elects to speak for myself.
The first thing I tell the court is that it wasn't me killed the spiked-hat lady, at least not intentionally, and that Ashy-the-prosecutor had been in on it with me. To which Ashy-the-judge replies "Hmmm. That's very important."
"Very un
important, your honor means," interrupts Ashy-the-prosecutor.
"Yes, precisely," says Ashy-the-judge, "Very unimportant.." I don't know why, but this all sounds kinda familiar.
I'm startin' to get worried. My side is not makin' the kinda rally one likes to see in capital cases, and I come to find out that killin' the spiked-hat lady is only one a' the charges against me - and not the most serious one at that. But no one will tell me exactly what the other ones is. And there seems to be some kinda identity mix-up too, 'cause they keeps callin' me outta my name, referrin' to me as "Joseph K."
Then things start to make even less sense. I notice that the court stenographer has changed into a big white rabbit wearin' a vest and checkin' his watch a lot. Then I notice that all the Ashcrofts is now wearin' turbans and long beards.
And then I realize that so am I.
Now I'm gettin' really panicked, and I starts cryin' "I ain't guilty - I ain't guilty!". So Ashy-the-judge tells me I need to have things better explained to me, and Ashy-the-prosecutor and two very big Ashy-lookin' men take me into the room where the explainin' is done.
The explainin' does wonders for my cooperative attitude. I can now entirely see Ashy-the-prosecutor's point. And from then on I doubles my efforts to give the court my every assistance.
Whatever the charges is, I'm guilty, a' course, and was even before the trial began. 'Cause a' my cooperation, however, the judge has mercy on me, and I am merely drawed and quartered.
That's when I wake up screamin' with Laura shakin' me.
I hate that dream. What I hate most is what Laura calls "The stench of inevitability," they got their minds made up and it don't matter one bit what I say. I never has a chance from the start.
It was terrible. Thank God it was just a dream.
_________________________________________
* Newsday - December 4, 2001
From: gwb
To: Hank Blakely
Sent: Monday, December 10, 2001
Subject: About my terrible dream
Evil days, my friend, evil days.
First them evil terrorists blows up all them people right in the middle a' my readin' a story to the school kids. Then some nut case - or nut cases - unknown sends anthrax through the mails - some a' which winds up right
here in the damn WH itself, puttin'
me in harm's way!
Which is goin' too damn far.
Then at first the war wasn't goin' too good, then it was, and now it ain't again, 'cause, even though we kinda won, it looks like we've collateraled several hundred Afghanistan civilians for no reason anybody can figure, and we mighta let most a' the leaders get away to boot. And damned if they ain't blamin' me for
that too! I mean, who's runnin' this war? Is it
me? It is
not.
Plus some un-American cry-babies is gettin' mad at
me on account a' Ashy's holdin' a lotta foreigners without doin' process on 'em. Laura says it would help me to understand the issue better if I read a book called "1984," but I can't see what good's a 17 year-old book gonna do me in these more sophistry times.
Then there's that awful Israeli-Palestine thing. An unconscious lotta people gets killed just as I was sendin' my peace envoys. Makes me look like a fool, and now nobody wants to talk to nobody else.
It's all changed somehow. This job useta be fun. Now ever' day is full a' fear and panic - and not just me, but a lotta other people feels the same way. Who knew this job was gonna turn out such a bummer.
Ever'thin' happens to me.
But, at least outta alla this I have found my own voice - well Karen and Karl and Ashy found it for me - but I recognized it as soon as I heard it.
And I'm gettin' pretty good at recognizin' evil, too, and I got them three to thank for that as well.
In fact, I've been recognizin' evil up a storm lately. It's amazin' how much a' it there is once you start lookin' for it. The great thing is that the evil has got big enough to where ever'body can see it plain. Even better, they practical can't see nothin'
but the evil. Which gives us quite a bit a' maneuverin' room. The evil-doers been reg'lar takin' advantage a' us 'cause we been such a free and open society. Well, we're gonna fix that.
I got to go along with Ashy on this. He's the one told me: "Extremism in the liberty of pursuit is no vice." and I'm gonna remember that.
And I'm also never gonna forget them first terrible hours, neither. When I sat down to read to the kids, a' course I already knew about the first plane hittin' the Trade Tower. I had been sittin' outside the classroom waitin' to go in, when I saw on TV that an airplane hit the tower...and I said, "There's one terrible pilot." *
I was rememberin' my own (un-combative) flyin' days, and I was just glad that it wasn't me for once.
Later, a' course, I said how it was a horrible tragedy.
Then followed some grim hours gettin' to the WH. Even though we tried to get back as soon as we could, it took us near ten hours to do it.
Head-winds, y'know.
At least all that's behind us now, a real improvement from when it was in front a' us. I'm more or less resoled to it, and devotional to shoulderin' the burden a' my assignments.
Now, if I could just stop the Bad Dream.
First time I had the Bad Dream was on the night a' the attack. Laura n' me was bein' shuttled back and forth all night. First we was on a coupla cots in the Big Room in the Basement, then they let us go back to the WH to sleep, then they hustled us outta there in the middle a' the night and took us back to the Big Room in the Basement again. I was pretty damn upset; 'cause alla this was very inconvenient on me, deprivin' me a' my sleep. But that's only one example a' the kinda things I gotta put up with these days.
Anyhow, the dream started when we was back in the Big Room in the Basement the second time. It always goes the same way:
I'm in a place looks kinda like them battlefields y' see in movies about the First World War. There's these big wooden "X"s all over, with barb wire strung through 'em. John Ashcroft n' me is down in a trench, draggin' this lady by her arms over rocks and dead soldiers. The lady's wearin' a sorta sheet and a hat with spikes. And she's holdin' tight onto a torch that ain't lit. She's bunged up pretty bad and gettin' more so from the draggin'.
It's hard to tell if she's still breathin'.
Then the picture changes. Now I'm in some kinda courtroom, only it's in a basement. Ashy's there too, only now he ain't my friend no more, he's the one prosecutin' me.
It seems I'm accused a' killin' the spiked-hat lady.
My defense lawyer is Richard Nixon.
I'm given the oath by a man who looks exactly like Ashy. Then I notice the court stenographer looks exactly like Ashy too. And then I notice so does the judge, the jury and all the speculators. The only one in the room who don't look like Ashy
is me.
So, you won't be surprised to learn that the prospects for my case don't look good. And neither, for that matter, does Nixon. To be frank, he is not in good repair. His clothes is moldy and fallin' away from him. And his hygiene - 'specially that skin-care thing - could use some work.
Lawyer Nixon addresses the judge, and says three things:
1. I didn't do it.
2. If I did do it, they was lotsa other people did it too.
3. It wasn't no way his fault.
It occurs to me then that Lawyer Nixon might not be the smartest choice a' defender, and I fires him. The judge offers to appoint me a new lawyer, but the man he points to is another Ashy.
Realizin' that discreteness is the better valet, I elects to speak for myself.
The first thing I tell the court is that it wasn't me killed the spiked-hat lady, at least not intentionally, and that Ashy-the-prosecutor had been in on it with me. To which Ashy-the-judge replies "Hmmm. That's very important."
"Very un
important, your honor means," interrupts Ashy-the-prosecutor.
"Yes, precisely," says Ashy-the-judge, "Very unimportant.." I don't know why, but this all sounds kinda familiar.
I'm startin' to get worried. My side is not makin' the kinda rally one likes to see in capital cases, and I come to find out that killin' the spiked-hat lady is only one a' the charges against me - and not the most serious one at that. But no one will tell me exactly what the other ones is. And there seems to be some kinda identity mix-up too, 'cause they keeps callin' me outta my name, referrin' to me as "Joseph K."
Then things start to make even less sense. I notice that the court stenographer has changed into a big white rabbit wearin' a vest and checkin' his watch a lot. Then I notice that all the Ashcrofts is now wearin' turbans and long beards.
And then I realize that so am I.
Now I'm gettin' really panicked, and I starts cryin' "I ain't guilty - I ain't guilty!". So Ashy-the-judge tells me I need to have things better explained to me, and Ashy-the-prosecutor and two very big Ashy-lookin' men take me into the room where the explainin' is done.
The explainin' does wonders for my cooperative attitude. I can now entirely see Ashy-the-prosecutor's point. And from then on I doubles my efforts to give the court my every assistance.
Whatever the charges is, I'm guilty, a' course, and was even before the trial began. 'Cause a' my cooperation, however, the judge has mercy on me, and I am merely drawed and quartered.
That's when I wake up screamin' with Laura shakin' me.
I hate that dream. What I hate most is what Laura calls "The stench of inevitability," they got their minds made up and it don't matter one bit what I say. I never has a chance from the start.
It was terrible. Thank God it was just a dream.
_________________________________________
* Newsday - December 4, 2001
