At 5:41 a.m. on January 6, 2017 Bruce R. Babbitt floated out of this life and into the next. After looking down on his corpse for a while from near the ceiling, disgusted that he'd drooled all over his pillow case, he felt himself slip through the ceiling boards and enter an intense light.
There was simply no way to describe the light other than as pure love. Intense joy surrounded him, a light that permeated every molecule of his mind, a white so vibrant it should have incinerated him. He thought I should be ash. But he wasn't. He was sure of that. He still had his form. He studied his fingers, little sausages of light. All was light. All was knowledge. He wondered how there could be so much light and no glare. It was hard to explain, but the white was goodness. As he was verbalizing this, or rather thinking it, there was no difference, a man walked towards him from a great distance; on earth it would have been perhaps a block away. He was on the other side of an iron gate. There was a fence too, also iron. On the man's side of the fence was a garden. Even from that distance, Bruce could perceive the intense colors. Light flicked and flaked, darting this way and that way like water droplets in sunlight hitting a hot tin roof.
Oh the joy he felt. He wanted to sing. He did sing. And he could sing. That amazed him. Natasha, his wife, would be so proud. He wanted her to hear him. On earth he couldn't sing. Sitting near him at church must have been very hard on Natasha. He felt bad for her. All those years listening to a man who couldn't sing pour his soul out in song each Sunday. As he thought this, he was back in the chapel at his old ward house in Provo, Utah. He was sitting next to Natasha. She wore her elegant blue dress with white birds and white irises on it. The congregation was singing "If You Could Hei to Kolob," his favorite hymn, and he heard for the first time him singing through the ears of Natasha. They were on the third verse--
The works of God continue,
And worlds and lives abound;
Improvement and progression
Have one eternal round.
There is no end to matter;
There is no end to space;
There is no end to spirit;
There is no end to race.
--and his voice definitely was not pretty when he hit the high note on "spirit." He knew the song only intensified as it progressed, and he winced as he imagined what he would sound like in the fifth verse when he hit the high note on "being":
There is no end to glory;
There is no end to love;
There is no end to being;
There is no death above.
He felt himself as Natasha anticipating that moment; she wanted to slouch down on the bench, dreading the note's arrival.
As Bruce was experiencing this earthly moment, he felt a warm, fatherly embrace of his hand. He looked up and saw the man who had been at the iron gate. He realized it was Natasha's father, Wayne, who had died in August. Wayne laughed. "She needs to work on that."
"Work on what?"
"Not caring so much what others think. Embarrassment keeps her from fully experiencing love. Go ahead though. Follow this memory through."
As Bruce did this, he came to the moment where he actually tortured that note on "being," and he felt Natasha giggle inside. It was not a laugh of ridicule, but a chuckle of acceptance. This was the man she loved even if his singing made her want to crawl under the bench and hide. He also noticed others around her were giggling inside too. There was one little honest girl behind them, the Jones's girl, who was more blunt. The thought in her head was, "Oh somebody kill him now, please." That made Bruce laugh, and all of the sudden, it didn't matter whether he could sing back on earth or not.
He could sing now--really sing. But he didn't care about that either. What he cared about was the light and the love. He had no words to describe the joy he felt inside.
Perceiving his thought, Wayne said, "It feels good, doesn't it?"
"It does. Very good. But will Natasha be alright?"
Monday, April 30, 2018
Saturday, April 21, 2018
2017: Nora James Closes the Door to Her Room at the El Rancho Hotel in Gallup, New Mexico
December 31, 2016. Nora James closed the door to her room at the El Rancho Hotel in Gallup, New Mexico, looking down at her pink Nikes against the dark, scuffed hardwood floors. She had thought about getting dressed up as it was New Year's Eve. But, she didn't know where she wanted to go. She was alone and had no plans other than to walk down 66 in the light winter rain and stop in at random bars. Still, for a brief moment, she pictured her cherry red pumps against that historic wood floor. This place had once been the stomping grounds of movie stars. Even though she was a mixed martial arts fighter, and had been the UFC's Flightweight Champion before giving it all up to be a pollster, she still liked to look dazzling once in a while. But, she didn't like senseless pain. A fist against the head in the thrill of the fight was one thing, but aching feet just to turn men's heads, well that was just stupid. Still, she looked down at her feet. Those heals would have allowed her to wear that little red dress, which she had brought along, just in case. Instead, she wore Levis, a white v-neck t-shirt that said WTF: Where There's Frybread, and a black leather jacket.
As she was standing there looking at her feet, she heard a nearby door open and looked up. She couldn't believe it. A man who looked just like Paul McCartney was half in the room next door and half out into the hall. He smiled. He was elderly, but then Paul McCartney was elderly too. Sadly, his face seemed like either Spanish moss or a slow-moving glacier decidedly determined to reach lower ground. But his hair was still long and thick, and he had those unmistakable McCartney eyes and eyebrows that were Walmart smiles turned upside-down. He wore a black leather jacket, a white t-shirt and jeans. It couldn't be.
She laughed when she realized they matched.
"What," he said with a British accent.
Maybe all Brits just look alike, she thought, realizing he couldn't really be McCartney. She pointed to his jacket. "I guess everyone who comes here dresses the same."
"Hey, we match."
She smiled. "We do."
"Except," he noted, "I could be your granddad."
"A pretty stylish one at that." She said.
"Thanks love."
Oh that sounded so Beatle-ish. But it couldn't be. Should she? Why not? "You look oddly familiar," she continued. "Do I know you from somewhere."
"I get that a lot."
"You do. You look just like--"
"Shhh. Don't let it get out."
"You aren't though, right?"
"You mean one of those four lads from Liverpool?"
She laughed, covering her mouth, and looking down at the floor in mock embarrassment. She looked up, her dark brown eyes catching the light. "Yes, one of them."
"Now what would Sir Paul McCartney be doing all alone in Gallup, New Mexico on New Year's Eve?"
Now she really was embarrassed. "You're right. It's just that you--" She needed to save herself. She pointed to all the signed pictures of old movie stars on the wall. "This is the home away from home for the stars, you know."
"Or was," he said, smiling. "It's no longer the 50s."
"Yes, I guess you're right," she said, clearly let down.
"But hey," he said, "I would be glad to pretend to be him. It's not like I haven't done it before."
Now she was worried. It was not like her to just hang out with strangers. She might be the former UFC's Flightweight Champion, but she wasn't stupid. Even a girl like her could get herself into a dangerous situation.
The Sir Paul McCartney look-alike seemed to sense her reluctance. "Sorry, love," he said. "No big deal. I just thought, since, as you pointed out, we match, we might hit a pub or two together."
"Yeah, I don't think so. It's just that I don't know you."
"What if you do. Or at least know of me."
She gave a nervous glance. "Are you saying that you really are--"
He reached in his back pocket, pulled out a black wallet.
"How would that change anything?" She said before he got a chance to flip it open. "I'm not some groupie you can bed for the night."
He put his wallet back. "Of course not. Have a good night." He walked off, clearly hurt by her assumption.
She stood there for a moment, watching his backside as he entered the balcony area surrounding the large two-story great room that was the lobby. The overhead lights caught the hair on the top of his head. It's New Year's Eve and I might be passing up a night out on the town with Sir Paul McCartney. Now that's just stupid, isn't it?
She quickly ran after him and grabbed his arm.
He stopped. "Yes."
"I guess I'd be a fool to pass this up, if you really are him."
"I know about them."
"Who?" She was taken back. Who was 'them'?
"About fools. They live on hills. You don't happen to live on a hill do you?"
She laughed. "I do."
"Oh yeah, where at?"
"In a place called Wheatfields. It's not too far from here. I just come here to get away from my family and focus on my work."
Now they were standing on the balcony, holding on to the large log rail, looking down one of the staircases that curved down around the massive stone fireplace in the center of the great room.
"You're married?"
"No, not that family. My parents. My siblings. My cousins. I'm Navajo. There is no end to family. Everywhere I turn, I have a relation."
"Sounds like mine."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Once Linda, I and the band were performing in Liverpool, and this heckler in the crowd kept insulting her. Finally, I just stopped the show, you know, to deal with the bastard. Sometime later, I'm at a family event and this skinny lad comes up to me. Some relative of mine, and he says, 'You remember the time you stopped the show cause some arse was insulting Linda?' I said yes, and he said, 'Well, that was me!' Then he broke into laughter. 'Got you good, didn't I?'"
"You know, you play this whole McCartney character rather well," Nora said, smiling. "That's a great story. You almost convinced me."
"I do, do I? Sometimes I can almost convince myself. When I step away from it all. That's why I like it here. I still get recognized. But it's not the same. I have a ranch not too far from here."
Nora glanced over the lobby below--the dark red tile floors, the log furniture with deep red cushions, the Navajo print rugs. She often came here with her grandpa as a kid.
"Why do you come here, if you have a ranch?" She thought she'd trapped him. She didn't mind the act. She was sure he enjoyed it. It's just that she was beginning to like this old man, and wanted to find out who he really was.
"I just like New Mexico. I thought I'd go on a bit of a walk-about?"
"And you're not with anybody?"
"Nope. Should I just show you my licence? It would end all this guessing."
Nora thought about it, chewing lightly on her lower lip. "No, I think I'd like it better telling the story of how I might have spent New Year's Eve on the town with Sir Paul McCartney. Something is lost in the knowing."
He smiled and put his arm around her shoulder, still looking down on the lobby. "Alright then. Where should we go first? Your car or mine?"
For a second the arm-around-the-shoulder move irritated her, but as he kept it there, she realized it didn't seem sexual in any way.
"Have I been presumptuous?" he asked, noticing the pause.
She had to think about that one. If he really was Paul McCartney and he really had a ranch in New Mexico, the car really would be his. What better way to find out if he was authentic? But, she could just have him flash his I.D. for that. Why didn't she just do that. Because, she thought, it shouldn't matter. She was only slightly famous, but she was famous enough to know how it felt when people only want to be around you because of your name.
"Let's walk," she said. "I like the rain."
He sang, oh so naturally, in Paul's voice,
You've never felt the rain my friend,
until you've felt it running down your back.
Maybe it was him after all.
"'Mamunia' from Band on the Run."
"Yep, Love. I thought you'd be too young."
My Grandpa is a fan," she said simply.
Maybe he was McCartney after all. Oh the story she would have to tell. She didn't want to tell it though. She didn't want to be like everyone from Lukachukai to Wheatfields who treated her so differently since she'd become somewhat of a celebrity, something she admittedly exploited in her polling business. At least now she understood it. The elderly gentleman clearly was charming, but he was far more charming as Paul McCartney. Like it or not, she thought, fame matters.
Nora James laughed out loud, realizing she'd given up what little fame she had to take polls for a living.
"What?" said the man who might be McCartney.
"Oh nothing. I just realized I am that fool"
"The one on the hill?"
"Yep. That'd be me. A fool on a hill in Wheatfields, Arizona."
As she was standing there looking at her feet, she heard a nearby door open and looked up. She couldn't believe it. A man who looked just like Paul McCartney was half in the room next door and half out into the hall. He smiled. He was elderly, but then Paul McCartney was elderly too. Sadly, his face seemed like either Spanish moss or a slow-moving glacier decidedly determined to reach lower ground. But his hair was still long and thick, and he had those unmistakable McCartney eyes and eyebrows that were Walmart smiles turned upside-down. He wore a black leather jacket, a white t-shirt and jeans. It couldn't be.
She laughed when she realized they matched.
"What," he said with a British accent.
Maybe all Brits just look alike, she thought, realizing he couldn't really be McCartney. She pointed to his jacket. "I guess everyone who comes here dresses the same."
"Hey, we match."
She smiled. "We do."
"Except," he noted, "I could be your granddad."
"A pretty stylish one at that." She said.
"Thanks love."
Oh that sounded so Beatle-ish. But it couldn't be. Should she? Why not? "You look oddly familiar," she continued. "Do I know you from somewhere."
"I get that a lot."
"You do. You look just like--"
"Shhh. Don't let it get out."
"You aren't though, right?"
"You mean one of those four lads from Liverpool?"
She laughed, covering her mouth, and looking down at the floor in mock embarrassment. She looked up, her dark brown eyes catching the light. "Yes, one of them."
"Now what would Sir Paul McCartney be doing all alone in Gallup, New Mexico on New Year's Eve?"
Now she really was embarrassed. "You're right. It's just that you--" She needed to save herself. She pointed to all the signed pictures of old movie stars on the wall. "This is the home away from home for the stars, you know."
"Or was," he said, smiling. "It's no longer the 50s."
"Yes, I guess you're right," she said, clearly let down.
"But hey," he said, "I would be glad to pretend to be him. It's not like I haven't done it before."
Now she was worried. It was not like her to just hang out with strangers. She might be the former UFC's Flightweight Champion, but she wasn't stupid. Even a girl like her could get herself into a dangerous situation.
The Sir Paul McCartney look-alike seemed to sense her reluctance. "Sorry, love," he said. "No big deal. I just thought, since, as you pointed out, we match, we might hit a pub or two together."
"Yeah, I don't think so. It's just that I don't know you."
"What if you do. Or at least know of me."
She gave a nervous glance. "Are you saying that you really are--"
He reached in his back pocket, pulled out a black wallet.
"How would that change anything?" She said before he got a chance to flip it open. "I'm not some groupie you can bed for the night."
He put his wallet back. "Of course not. Have a good night." He walked off, clearly hurt by her assumption.
She stood there for a moment, watching his backside as he entered the balcony area surrounding the large two-story great room that was the lobby. The overhead lights caught the hair on the top of his head. It's New Year's Eve and I might be passing up a night out on the town with Sir Paul McCartney. Now that's just stupid, isn't it?
She quickly ran after him and grabbed his arm.
He stopped. "Yes."
"I guess I'd be a fool to pass this up, if you really are him."
"I know about them."
"Who?" She was taken back. Who was 'them'?
"About fools. They live on hills. You don't happen to live on a hill do you?"
She laughed. "I do."
"Oh yeah, where at?"
"In a place called Wheatfields. It's not too far from here. I just come here to get away from my family and focus on my work."
Now they were standing on the balcony, holding on to the large log rail, looking down one of the staircases that curved down around the massive stone fireplace in the center of the great room.
"You're married?"
"No, not that family. My parents. My siblings. My cousins. I'm Navajo. There is no end to family. Everywhere I turn, I have a relation."
"Sounds like mine."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Once Linda, I and the band were performing in Liverpool, and this heckler in the crowd kept insulting her. Finally, I just stopped the show, you know, to deal with the bastard. Sometime later, I'm at a family event and this skinny lad comes up to me. Some relative of mine, and he says, 'You remember the time you stopped the show cause some arse was insulting Linda?' I said yes, and he said, 'Well, that was me!' Then he broke into laughter. 'Got you good, didn't I?'"
"You know, you play this whole McCartney character rather well," Nora said, smiling. "That's a great story. You almost convinced me."
"I do, do I? Sometimes I can almost convince myself. When I step away from it all. That's why I like it here. I still get recognized. But it's not the same. I have a ranch not too far from here."
Nora glanced over the lobby below--the dark red tile floors, the log furniture with deep red cushions, the Navajo print rugs. She often came here with her grandpa as a kid.
"Why do you come here, if you have a ranch?" She thought she'd trapped him. She didn't mind the act. She was sure he enjoyed it. It's just that she was beginning to like this old man, and wanted to find out who he really was.
"I just like New Mexico. I thought I'd go on a bit of a walk-about?"
"And you're not with anybody?"
"Nope. Should I just show you my licence? It would end all this guessing."
Nora thought about it, chewing lightly on her lower lip. "No, I think I'd like it better telling the story of how I might have spent New Year's Eve on the town with Sir Paul McCartney. Something is lost in the knowing."
He smiled and put his arm around her shoulder, still looking down on the lobby. "Alright then. Where should we go first? Your car or mine?"
For a second the arm-around-the-shoulder move irritated her, but as he kept it there, she realized it didn't seem sexual in any way.
"Have I been presumptuous?" he asked, noticing the pause.
She had to think about that one. If he really was Paul McCartney and he really had a ranch in New Mexico, the car really would be his. What better way to find out if he was authentic? But, she could just have him flash his I.D. for that. Why didn't she just do that. Because, she thought, it shouldn't matter. She was only slightly famous, but she was famous enough to know how it felt when people only want to be around you because of your name.
"Let's walk," she said. "I like the rain."
He sang, oh so naturally, in Paul's voice,
You've never felt the rain my friend,
until you've felt it running down your back.
Maybe it was him after all.
"'Mamunia' from Band on the Run."
"Yep, Love. I thought you'd be too young."
My Grandpa is a fan," she said simply.
Maybe he was McCartney after all. Oh the story she would have to tell. She didn't want to tell it though. She didn't want to be like everyone from Lukachukai to Wheatfields who treated her so differently since she'd become somewhat of a celebrity, something she admittedly exploited in her polling business. At least now she understood it. The elderly gentleman clearly was charming, but he was far more charming as Paul McCartney. Like it or not, she thought, fame matters.
Nora James laughed out loud, realizing she'd given up what little fame she had to take polls for a living.
"What?" said the man who might be McCartney.
"Oh nothing. I just realized I am that fool"
"The one on the hill?"
"Yep. That'd be me. A fool on a hill in Wheatfields, Arizona."
Saturday, April 14, 2018
2017: One TV
January 31, 2017, 8:00 a.m.
It was a cold bright morning. A long shadow was cast across the eastern third of the Snake Valley by the low but geologically twisted and tormented Confusion Range. The shade stretched down the long dry alluvial fan, and a thin strip of highway followed it in a strait line. About two thirds of the way down, the cool blue-gray ended in a jagged edge roughly perpendicular to the highway. Then, the extremely dry valley glowed ocher orange. To the west the snow clad towering peaks of Wheeler and Moriah glistened in the morning sun.
A small motel sat equally bright in the intense light towards the western edge of the valley. Out front a towering sign announced Border Inn / Motel / Slots / Cafe. A rusted, yellow Ford F-100 sat next to one of the two well-sized globular Utah Juniper's at the entrance. Long shadows were caste across the gravel parking area by the aluminum canopy over the service station pumps. Not far from the pumps sat an enormous replica of a water bucket with a sign that read "Don't Let Las Vegas Destroy Nevada. Keep Your Pipes Out of Our Aquifer".
Inside the casino was mostly quiet and dark. There was the usual random low sounds of the slots enticing players to pull the handle. On a flat screen TV mounted on the wall behind the bar, Fox News played. A white light poured in through the entry from the kitchen, and a Miller Lite sign glowed in neon blue and pink above the doorway. A collection of liquor bottles sat on a counter directly below the TV.
A man in a black Stetson hat sat at the bar facing the TV. Behind him, slightly above the height of his head, a mind-droplet floated, pearly, bean-shaped, unseen, the size of a speck of dust, recording the scene for nobody--a satellite of communication communicating nothing. There were billions of these information-filled micro-drops of dew just floating around waiting for some mind to connect with them. This one observed a TV set in a small, all-but-empty casino on the loneliest road in America.
On the screen was a picture of the white house at night from the ground looking up, the extreme 3-D perspective enhancing its stateliness. The Fox & Friends logo was also in 3-D, getting larger as it came towards the viewer. The entire picture projected on a screen in the studio faded out around the edges, giving it the quality of a historic photograph, except that it was in shades of blue rather than sepia-tone. A man with blond hair stood at the side of the projected scene wearing a blue suit and a pink tie.
He said, "Thank you Brian, the president's border order spurs outrage from the emotional left."
Bold letters zoomed in from the bottom left with a swooshing sound:
NOT BACKING DOWN
WH VOWS TO ENFORCE RULE, DESPITE JUDGE RULING
A man appeared on the screen, reading a statement:
"This executive order was mean spirited and unconstitutional."
On the bottom of the screen, same bold print:
SEN CHUCK SCHUMER (D-NY)
SENATE MINORITY LEADER
The screen split into three and each screen showed the same woman from a different angle holding a megaphone. Two of the views were blurred, like the shot of the woman walking by the wall on the Abbey Road album cover. Through the blurred shots, one woman with a megaphone took on the ominous power of a riot.
Riot woman said, "It is unconstitutional; it will be overturned."
At the top left, words appeared:
BOSTON
TWITTER/SEN ELIZABETH WARREN
On the bottom of the screen same bold letters reiterated
NOT BACKING DOWN
WH VOWS TO ENFORCE RULE, DESPITE JUDGE RULING
The screen changed to head-shots in year-book fashion:
Hillary Clinton, Michael Moore, Jill Stein
Elizabeth Warren, Rosie O'Donnell, John Lewis
At the top of the screen:
ISSUED A CALL TO ACTION
A voice said, "Familiar faces, including Michael Moore, Rosie O'Donnell and Jill Stein, are also blasting the plan to vet refugees for the next 90 days, riling up supporters to protest. So, who's really fanning the flames?"
The screen changed with swooshing sound. Split screen.
The liberal head on left, frowning, wore a suit that appeared too tight--a gray suit, with a blue shirt, clinched tightly around his neck like a noose held in place by the knot of his brown spotted suit tie. He looked out of date, out of touch, from the 1950s, and somewhat distraught.
The conservative head on the right smiled and wore a loose, black suit and an open-collared bright yellow shirt. He was at ease and comfortable in his clothes. He seemed as casual as if he were sitting in your living room having a cup of coffee.
On the bottom of the screen, in extra-big, bold letters:
LIBERALS CALL FOR CHAOS
MICHAEL MOORE, ROSIE O'DONNELL, URGE PROTESTS
The audio said, "Here for a family debate is Dallas Woodhouse. He is the Executive Director of the North Carolina Republican Party, and his brother Brad, who is President of Americans United for Change. One's a Democrat, and one's a Republican, and so the family feud."
The man in the pink tie popped in between the two political heads to moderate. Dallas Woodhouse grabbed the collar of his own sunny Florida-casual shirt in a mocking gesture, as if to say, "Okay, I'm ready for a serious debate".
Dallas said, pointing to himself, "I just want to make sure you know I'm the Republican; I don't want to be tagged as a Democrat."
Center head said, "Now Dallas, a lot of people on the political left really don't like what Trump is doing with this 90 day pause to try and figure out how to get a handle on immigration. How do you defend what the president did?"
Dallas said, "Well, I defend him because he is putting America first, and he is dispensing with the Blame America First crowd. We have the right to protect our borders; we have the right to decide who comes in and out. Far more people were inconvenienced by Delta's computer problem's yesterday then were a couple hundred people at airports across America. Now, we don't want to inconvenience people unfairly, but that happens to virtually anyone who goes to an airport".
Middle moderator-head said, "Sure."
Dallas said, "We're causing some disruption in the system, and that's good, because for too long American interest have been put on the back burner, and they need to be put on the forefront. That is what President Trump is doing, and he shouldn't apologize for it."
While the Dallas spoke, Brad scowled and shook his head, his head tilted slightly back, his eyes squinting.
The middle head smiled in calm, knowing peaceful agreement, and then said, "Now for a contrary point of view, his brother".
At this point, the Brad impatiently jumped in, "Dallas--"
The middle-head moderator serenely took control of the situation, beaming a knowing smile. "Yes, Brad"
Brad continued, "Dallas, you are full of crap, and so is this president. This is a blemish on America. 50 years ago a law was passed in this country that you could not determine immigration status based on national origin, and this goes beyond national origin. This is a ban of Muslims. This is the president telling an entire religion that they are not welcome in the United States of America".
Dallas threw open his arms in wonder. "How? I hope we're not banning a religion. I hope we're banning terrorists."
Brad reasserted, "This is a ban on Muslims. Rudy Giuliani, who wrote this executive action, who helped write this policy, said on Fox News yesterday that this was a ban on Muslims".
Middle moderator-head popped in, "Brad, Brad, Brad... I have read it, I have read it, and I would be delighted in you circling and faxing me the part that shows where the president did that. You also said that the president does not have it in his authority...."
Brad tried to jump in.
"Hold on a sec," said middle moderator-head, waving his finger. "You also said that the president doesn't have it in his authority, and yet the constitution is very clear that the constitution states the president can do whatever it takes to keep Americans safe, right? Dallas?"
"That's right," said Dallas. "And I think it's very disturbing that my brother, the Blame America First crowd, does not recognize America's right to decide who comes here and who doesn't."
Dallas continued, outstretching both arms, and cupping both hands. The camera temporarily zoomed out to accommodate this Moses-like gesture, although no heroic music rose in the background. "Is it in the best interest of the American citizen to let somebody in here first--whatever their situation is back home--and, of course, we will continue to welcome immigrants, welcome refuges--"
Brad tried to cut in.
Dallas became angry and yelled, "Brad, why don't you want to put Americans first?"
Brad screamed back, "I am putting Americans first!"
Moderator middle-head jumped in, "One at a time, one at a time."
19 miles away, at an elevation of 10,900 feet above sea level, the morning sunlight warmed the wide, gnarled trunk of a 4000 year-old snow-clad bristlecone pine, the towering limestone cliff of Wheeler Peak glowing in the background with snow strung every which way in the cracks and crannies of a masonry wall millions of years old reaching to a height of 13,064 feet above sea level.
The air was still. The sun intense. The cold pronounced.
Silence surrounded.
If one were to look east, one would witness the mountain drop down to the desert floor. Out beyond where the pinion and juniper end, an ever-so-thin line of road would cut strait across a desert valley, and there would be a little white speck, the Border Inn, where inside, one man in a Stetson hat observed America raging.
Outside, it's America. Outside, it's America.*
Many miles away there's a shadow on the door
Of a cottage on the shore
Of a dark Scottish lake
Many miles away.**
* U2 & Bono, "Bullet the Blue Sky," The Joshua Tree, 1987.
** Sting, "Synchronicity II," Synchronicity by the Police, 1983.
The dialog from the Fox & Friends is real, and I tried to describe what is happening on the screen as objectively as possible given the limitations of print when describing video. I only used loaded words when I felt the show was using loaded images to influence perception. I chose January 31, 2017 not because of the show's content that day but as a beginning book-end to a s series that of news clips that will be placed throughout the novel, ending December 31, 2017. I want these clips to represent typical news days of 2017 rather than exceptional news days. There will also be news clips from MSNBC, which I will handle in the same manner.
Below, is the actual video used as the source for this segment:
It was a cold bright morning. A long shadow was cast across the eastern third of the Snake Valley by the low but geologically twisted and tormented Confusion Range. The shade stretched down the long dry alluvial fan, and a thin strip of highway followed it in a strait line. About two thirds of the way down, the cool blue-gray ended in a jagged edge roughly perpendicular to the highway. Then, the extremely dry valley glowed ocher orange. To the west the snow clad towering peaks of Wheeler and Moriah glistened in the morning sun.
A small motel sat equally bright in the intense light towards the western edge of the valley. Out front a towering sign announced Border Inn / Motel / Slots / Cafe. A rusted, yellow Ford F-100 sat next to one of the two well-sized globular Utah Juniper's at the entrance. Long shadows were caste across the gravel parking area by the aluminum canopy over the service station pumps. Not far from the pumps sat an enormous replica of a water bucket with a sign that read "Don't Let Las Vegas Destroy Nevada. Keep Your Pipes Out of Our Aquifer".
Inside the casino was mostly quiet and dark. There was the usual random low sounds of the slots enticing players to pull the handle. On a flat screen TV mounted on the wall behind the bar, Fox News played. A white light poured in through the entry from the kitchen, and a Miller Lite sign glowed in neon blue and pink above the doorway. A collection of liquor bottles sat on a counter directly below the TV.
A man in a black Stetson hat sat at the bar facing the TV. Behind him, slightly above the height of his head, a mind-droplet floated, pearly, bean-shaped, unseen, the size of a speck of dust, recording the scene for nobody--a satellite of communication communicating nothing. There were billions of these information-filled micro-drops of dew just floating around waiting for some mind to connect with them. This one observed a TV set in a small, all-but-empty casino on the loneliest road in America.
On the screen was a picture of the white house at night from the ground looking up, the extreme 3-D perspective enhancing its stateliness. The Fox & Friends logo was also in 3-D, getting larger as it came towards the viewer. The entire picture projected on a screen in the studio faded out around the edges, giving it the quality of a historic photograph, except that it was in shades of blue rather than sepia-tone. A man with blond hair stood at the side of the projected scene wearing a blue suit and a pink tie.
He said, "Thank you Brian, the president's border order spurs outrage from the emotional left."
Bold letters zoomed in from the bottom left with a swooshing sound:
NOT BACKING DOWN
WH VOWS TO ENFORCE RULE, DESPITE JUDGE RULING
A man appeared on the screen, reading a statement:
"This executive order was mean spirited and unconstitutional."
On the bottom of the screen, same bold print:
SEN CHUCK SCHUMER (D-NY)
SENATE MINORITY LEADER
The screen split into three and each screen showed the same woman from a different angle holding a megaphone. Two of the views were blurred, like the shot of the woman walking by the wall on the Abbey Road album cover. Through the blurred shots, one woman with a megaphone took on the ominous power of a riot.
Riot woman said, "It is unconstitutional; it will be overturned."
At the top left, words appeared:
BOSTON
TWITTER/SEN ELIZABETH WARREN
On the bottom of the screen same bold letters reiterated
NOT BACKING DOWN
WH VOWS TO ENFORCE RULE, DESPITE JUDGE RULING
The screen changed to head-shots in year-book fashion:
Hillary Clinton, Michael Moore, Jill Stein
Elizabeth Warren, Rosie O'Donnell, John Lewis
At the top of the screen:
ISSUED A CALL TO ACTION
A voice said, "Familiar faces, including Michael Moore, Rosie O'Donnell and Jill Stein, are also blasting the plan to vet refugees for the next 90 days, riling up supporters to protest. So, who's really fanning the flames?"
The screen changed with swooshing sound. Split screen.
The liberal head on left, frowning, wore a suit that appeared too tight--a gray suit, with a blue shirt, clinched tightly around his neck like a noose held in place by the knot of his brown spotted suit tie. He looked out of date, out of touch, from the 1950s, and somewhat distraught.
The conservative head on the right smiled and wore a loose, black suit and an open-collared bright yellow shirt. He was at ease and comfortable in his clothes. He seemed as casual as if he were sitting in your living room having a cup of coffee.
On the bottom of the screen, in extra-big, bold letters:
LIBERALS CALL FOR CHAOS
MICHAEL MOORE, ROSIE O'DONNELL, URGE PROTESTS
The audio said, "Here for a family debate is Dallas Woodhouse. He is the Executive Director of the North Carolina Republican Party, and his brother Brad, who is President of Americans United for Change. One's a Democrat, and one's a Republican, and so the family feud."
The man in the pink tie popped in between the two political heads to moderate. Dallas Woodhouse grabbed the collar of his own sunny Florida-casual shirt in a mocking gesture, as if to say, "Okay, I'm ready for a serious debate".
Dallas said, pointing to himself, "I just want to make sure you know I'm the Republican; I don't want to be tagged as a Democrat."
Center head said, "Now Dallas, a lot of people on the political left really don't like what Trump is doing with this 90 day pause to try and figure out how to get a handle on immigration. How do you defend what the president did?"
Dallas said, "Well, I defend him because he is putting America first, and he is dispensing with the Blame America First crowd. We have the right to protect our borders; we have the right to decide who comes in and out. Far more people were inconvenienced by Delta's computer problem's yesterday then were a couple hundred people at airports across America. Now, we don't want to inconvenience people unfairly, but that happens to virtually anyone who goes to an airport".
Middle moderator-head said, "Sure."
Dallas said, "We're causing some disruption in the system, and that's good, because for too long American interest have been put on the back burner, and they need to be put on the forefront. That is what President Trump is doing, and he shouldn't apologize for it."
While the Dallas spoke, Brad scowled and shook his head, his head tilted slightly back, his eyes squinting.
The middle head smiled in calm, knowing peaceful agreement, and then said, "Now for a contrary point of view, his brother".
At this point, the Brad impatiently jumped in, "Dallas--"
The middle-head moderator serenely took control of the situation, beaming a knowing smile. "Yes, Brad"
Brad continued, "Dallas, you are full of crap, and so is this president. This is a blemish on America. 50 years ago a law was passed in this country that you could not determine immigration status based on national origin, and this goes beyond national origin. This is a ban of Muslims. This is the president telling an entire religion that they are not welcome in the United States of America".
Dallas threw open his arms in wonder. "How? I hope we're not banning a religion. I hope we're banning terrorists."
Brad reasserted, "This is a ban on Muslims. Rudy Giuliani, who wrote this executive action, who helped write this policy, said on Fox News yesterday that this was a ban on Muslims".
Middle moderator-head popped in, "Brad, Brad, Brad... I have read it, I have read it, and I would be delighted in you circling and faxing me the part that shows where the president did that. You also said that the president does not have it in his authority...."
Brad tried to jump in.
"Hold on a sec," said middle moderator-head, waving his finger. "You also said that the president doesn't have it in his authority, and yet the constitution is very clear that the constitution states the president can do whatever it takes to keep Americans safe, right? Dallas?"
"That's right," said Dallas. "And I think it's very disturbing that my brother, the Blame America First crowd, does not recognize America's right to decide who comes here and who doesn't."
Dallas continued, outstretching both arms, and cupping both hands. The camera temporarily zoomed out to accommodate this Moses-like gesture, although no heroic music rose in the background. "Is it in the best interest of the American citizen to let somebody in here first--whatever their situation is back home--and, of course, we will continue to welcome immigrants, welcome refuges--"
Brad tried to cut in.
Dallas became angry and yelled, "Brad, why don't you want to put Americans first?"
Brad screamed back, "I am putting Americans first!"
Moderator middle-head jumped in, "One at a time, one at a time."
* * * * *
19 miles away, at an elevation of 10,900 feet above sea level, the morning sunlight warmed the wide, gnarled trunk of a 4000 year-old snow-clad bristlecone pine, the towering limestone cliff of Wheeler Peak glowing in the background with snow strung every which way in the cracks and crannies of a masonry wall millions of years old reaching to a height of 13,064 feet above sea level.
The air was still. The sun intense. The cold pronounced.
Silence surrounded.
If one were to look east, one would witness the mountain drop down to the desert floor. Out beyond where the pinion and juniper end, an ever-so-thin line of road would cut strait across a desert valley, and there would be a little white speck, the Border Inn, where inside, one man in a Stetson hat observed America raging.
Outside, it's America. Outside, it's America.*
Many miles away there's a shadow on the door
Of a cottage on the shore
Of a dark Scottish lake
Many miles away.**
* U2 & Bono, "Bullet the Blue Sky," The Joshua Tree, 1987.
** Sting, "Synchronicity II," Synchronicity by the Police, 1983.
The dialog from the Fox & Friends is real, and I tried to describe what is happening on the screen as objectively as possible given the limitations of print when describing video. I only used loaded words when I felt the show was using loaded images to influence perception. I chose January 31, 2017 not because of the show's content that day but as a beginning book-end to a s series that of news clips that will be placed throughout the novel, ending December 31, 2017. I want these clips to represent typical news days of 2017 rather than exceptional news days. There will also be news clips from MSNBC, which I will handle in the same manner.
Below, is the actual video used as the source for this segment:
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