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Writing on the Stall
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 Fruits of Humanity by Cpt. Willard Tuesday, September 11 was the day that I turned 21 years old. Little did I know that some malicious little camel-jockeys had a birthday suprise planned for me that I didn't really ask for. We don't need to discuss the facts here. We don't need to see repetitive footage of airline jet destruction. We don't need to hear anymore profound statements about the events of Tuesday, because you just know that every newsman wanted to be the one who said something about it that would be quoted in textbooks 30 years from now. I think the general facts are known and the people are dead and, well, there's not much we can do about that now. It truly was a tragic day. Terrorism is tragic in its over-zealous, blind passion that holds no regard for the sanctity of life. It was no more tragic than any other event that takes place daily; the way we kill God in effigy through our sins. However, this is an event that was unique in the way it was carried out and where it was carried out, so it seems to be the only tragedy that anyone finally wanted to take notice of. With that in mind, I feel a need as a commentator on life to, well, comment. When the shit hit the fan and everyone started talking Tuesday morning, the mood seemed to give off an odor of desperate mourning and dramatic sympathy. Everyone I saw was in a very sad mood and was on a mission to let everyone know about it. I, however, being tainted by years and years of training in hyper-cynicism, was not so effected. With these sort of things, I usually shrug my shoulders and say, "That's humanity." Yes, it's a shameless copout and I knew it and I felt guilty about it. Yet, in addition to not feeling overly saddened and feeling guilty for not feeling overly saddened, I was also in a foul mood as I observed what I took to be hypocritical sympathy. It didn't look authentic to me at all, all those people whining about how this affected us all and wanting to group hug until suffocation set in. It almost sickened me more than the news footage. |
How, I wondered, were these victims more personal to us and their deaths more tragic than those 30,000 children that starve every day? (I'd like to thank Tony Campollo for that statistic, which is probably not all that accurate) They're lives are not more sacred than any one else's, and yet we only mourn the loss of our own U.S. citizens. What's worse is that I don't believe a lot of the sympathy floating in the air was really sympathy. As Cleo pointed out to me that day, they're really only worried about how this affects their lives, not about the wounded and families of the dead. That's probably true, but I won't point fingers.
And then you must eventually, as I did, come to the realization that though it is not more tragic than other things, there is still the reality that people did die and they died for no good reason at all. It was terrorism and it was wrought on innocent people. That is the only thing we need to know. This act of violence was like any other act of war and its victims were unwilling participants. That's nothing new and there's nothing else I can say about it. With that, I will leave you with the lyrics to Black Sabbath's War Pigs/Luke's Wall. Just like witches at black masses Evil minds that plot destruction Sorcerers of death's construction In the fields the bodies burning As the war machine keeps turning Death and hatred to mankind Poisoning their brainwashed minds Oh lord, yeah Politicians hide themselves away They only started the war Why should they go out to fight? They leave that role to the poor Time will tell on their power minds Making war just for fun Treating people just like pawns in chess Wait 'till their judgement day comes, yeah Now in darkness, world stops turning Ashes were the bodies burning No more war pigs of the power Hand of god has struck the hour Day of judgement, god is calling On their knees, the war pigs crawling Begging mercy for their sins Satan, laughing, spreads his wings Oh lord, yeah 
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