Disrespect

I'm taken to task, Bush, by one of my correspondents. Not just for my reprehensible liberal views, but for disrespect--specifically in addressing you as Bush, as I do, rather than as Mr. President. I actually prefer the term "irreverent", but he has a point. I have to cop to a certain disrespect. At the same time, I do happen to think that it's a legitimate rhetorical ploy, a hint of satire that works well for my purposes. Oh, and by the way, I didn’t notice a whole lot of respect for your opponent in the recent election, Bush, on the part of your supporters, and I heard no criticism of them on your part. As for your predecessor in office… well, let's not even mention that episode. Remember, though, what's good for the goose… etc.

There's also some deep, dark place inside, where I do have the inkling that I'm not really addressing you. It would be nice to think you settled down to read my meanderings every day, but I rather suspect that you have other things on your mind than PeterAtLarge and his blogifying. I'm just about smart enough to recognize that I'm really talking to myself. I find that a pleasant and useful thing to do. I listen to what I have to say, and find it pretty much edifying--at least some of the time. It tells me a lot about myself and keeps me, in a certain way, honest, and clear about where I stand in relation to the world. If others care to join me, then I'm thrilled. If they care to disagree with me, that's fine with me, too.

I think fairly often of my daughter's astute remark: that you have become a kind of muse to me, Bush. You inspire me, in a funny, maybe even somewhat perverse kind of a way, and I appreciate that. I look forward to writing to you every day. But I do plan to keep on addressing you (or myself, if you choose to have it that way,) as Bush.

Meanwhile, a propos of nothing I can think of, here's a poem:

Moon Flight


Last night we flew
to the moon together. Our landing there
was smooth, uneventful. Everything
was perfect, if you can
imagine. Outside, romping
like kids, we saw our reflections
in the glinting visor of the silent
astronaut, our guide and escort,
sent to supervise our weightless
explorations with the solicitude
of a benevolent teacher
in the school yard. Everything
was moonlit, at once bright
and silvery-shadowed. Rocks,
sharply defined, stretches of sandy
dirt, almost bone white,
untrodden, perfect…

It was on our return to earth,
though, that we were most amazed.
We gazed up at the distant moon
from a place where many people
gathered, for reasons that were not
quite clear, but yet, we knew,
necessary; people
who had never been there
as we had, who sat quietly
at outdoor tables, drinking coffee
seriously, in white cups. And we told
each other the story then, told those
others, too, who listened to us,
in astonishment: Just yesterday,
we said, we were there, on the moon's
surface, and it was beautiful beyond
the daily worries of the mind,
beyond all words. And we were
there, in moonlight, if you can
imagine, wandering
hand in hand, like kids,
across the dunes.

PS Just caught a few minutes of your news conference, Bush. Way to go! Give 'em hell!