The Sublime Roundabout

Or, what to do about it... Sarah woke up one morning. There was something special about today. It seemed that the sun was just a bit brighter, the air a bit cleaner and sweeter, a few more birds in the air. Shee knew it sounded cliche, and such things couldn't really be true anyway. Besides, she was not the sort who gave in to maudlin reveries, anyway. Yet it was undeniable. Something was different. Then she remembered. The day before, Sarah had been contacted by the President's Special Task Force on Values. This program, staffed by folks who were disabled, (otherwise) unemployed, and receiving government assistance, had contacted her regarding her opinions about what was important to her. They had asked a series of very open-ended questions, ranging from what the proper role of government is to how she (Sarah!) would improve things. The conversation lasted hours; the person taking down her responses was genuinely interested in how she felt and it was a two-way conver

The first five letters of revolution, if reversed, spell lover. The chapters I'm reading right now in Les Miserables deal with the idea of revolution. Revolution, he asserts, is necessary from time to time to clear out the excesses of previous epochs. There are some, he notes, who take action, and others who contemplate. Both are necessary, for contemplation can lead to more directed action, and action without contemplation is reactionary and aimless. In the midst of all this, he gives us this gem: All the problems that the socialists proposed to themselves, cosmogonic visions, revery and mysticism being cast aside, can be reduced to two principal problems. First problem: To produce wealth. Second problem: To share it. The first problem contains the question of work. The second contains the question of salary. In the first problem the employment of forces is in question. In the second, the distribution of enjoyment. From the proper employment

I opened my eyes That cold winter's morning Unable to tell If it were day or night It was dark and damp Where I was hidden In the foxhole I had dug With my faithful comrade in arms The night was still When we began our watch And as the cold settled in I struggled to stay awake Falling asleep on watch Is a capital offense I was on the front line I could not desert my friends But my friend could see How dead tired I was And sometime around midnight He told me to take a nap He would stand watch At first I resisted But then reluctantly agreed That I wasn't doing anyone any good Barely able to keep my eyes open I'd been up for three days straight And had been digging with my friend all day I couldn't stay on my feet The whole ground seemed to move So I crawled down Into the bottom of the hole Pulled my jacket close In a feeble effort to keep warm The damp smell of the fresh earth filled my nostrils Reminding me of different times A