to school. But I noticed that everybody elseâs dry cleaner plastic was clean and clear. Mine was blue, and theirs was clear. I was horrified by the idea that Iâd brought in the wrong raw material. The teacher gave me some extra clear plastic, but there wasnât enough for a whole wreath. âYou can take pieces of clear plastic and do part of the wreath,â she said gently, âand then alternate with the blue plastic.â I shook my head. Everybody elseâs wreath was knotted with thick luscious densely packed bow-ties of clear plastic. I didnât want to finish the blue-striped wreath, but I did. It was a shaming disappointment. My mother wanted to hang it on the door but I said no. And yet why was I raising a fuss? It doesnât make any sense. What were we doing making plastic Christmas wreaths, anyway?
This morning I woke up at four a.m. and read the beginning of Medea Benjaminâs book on drone warfare. Benjamin talks about meeting a thirteen-year-old girl who was begging on the road near the border between Afghanistan and Pakistan. In 2002, a missile hit her house while she was outside carrying a bucket of water; it killed her mother and her two brothers. Her name was Roya. Her father, a vendor of sweets, had survived, but he did not speak. I got up and watched a video of Medea Benjamin telling the story to an audience at a library. She said that Royaâs father had carefully gathered pieces of his wife and his sons from the tree near their house and buried them. Oh, Jesus. Roya. That poor girl. Her poor father. Their lives completely demolished. I was traumatized and angryâangry at General Atomics, the company that makes drones, angry at George W. Bush, angry at Barack Obama for increasing the drone attacks fivefold after he was elected. I paced the kitchen for a while feeling powerless and ineffectual. At least Tim is writing his book.
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I WENT TO P LANET F ITNESS and had a long session on the elliptical trainer. By the time I was done, the parking lot was crowded with cars and I couldnât remember where Iâd parked. I walked up and down and then I started singing, âI lost my car in the parking lot, I lost my car in the parking lot.â Was it a song? Yes, in a way it was.
Once I found my car, which was parked way over to the right, I started home. I saw a street sweeperâa big yellow street sweeper with an invisible pilot high up in the cab. It looked like it was driving itself. I love street sweepers, I always have, even more than garbage trucks. I love the way the big rear roller turns inward against the forward movement of the machine, flinging the mess that the front bristles have dug away from the curb up into some inner holding area. âSweeperâ was one of the first words I said, according to my motherâs stories. âSweeperâ and âlung lord.â âLung lordâ was how I said âlawnmower.â
I lit a Ramones cigar, from Hondurasâone of the shorter cigars in the grab bagâand I pressed the button on my recorder and sang, âStreet sweeper baby, coming down the street. Spinning those bristles and keeping it neat.â Thatâs definitely a song. When I got home I grabbed my guitar and went up to the barn and clutched out a few chords and matched the chords to the melody, and I was in business, in a primitive sort of way. It was very windy and the barn creakedâI could hear the joists moving and twistingâbut I ignored the windâs white eyeballs. I spent the morning recording snippets of songs, and then I took Smack for a walk in the park near Strawbery Banke, where all the historic houses are. Strawbery Banke, is there a song in Strawbery Banke? No. I looked across the water at the submarine base. What about a song about a burning submarine? âThe submarine was burning, going up in smoke.â No. âThe sea warriors watched while
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