The Sky Made Of Rock and Our Backs to the Rain.

*

The 107

107 pulled out of the station
You said it would be on time this time
Father Jim said leaving was our choice
Sure hope things will be different this time

Off in the distance, lights on the outskirts
Last time I saw them was the last time I saw you
Man next to me had difficulty breathing
Lights on the bend disappearing from view

Signalman gave us last minute warning
Sky was so heavy it sank like a rock
Man turning blue he had difficulty breathing
Unfortunately by then it was too late to stop

Surely we’re wasting our time here alone
Now that we see it is slipping through our hands
Better off turning our backs to the rain
Turning our attention to the matters at hand

Surely we’re wasting our time here alone
Now that we see it is slipping through our hands
Better off turning our backs to the rain
Turning our attention to the matter at hand

Remember we said we were gonna stop at nothing
Listen to no one, never turn back
Now the more we struggle the deeper we sink
Once you have left you can never go back
And the more we struggle the deeper we sink
And the sky made of rock and our backs to the rain
And the sky made of rock and our backs to the rain
And being drawn up just to start all over
And the sky made of rock and our backs to the rain
And making an effort and being drawn up again
And the sky made of rock and our backs to the rain.

The Triffids

He caught them, those moments in the tender bar, was never understanding of what had happened, had been curious about the growing crustaceans, the artificial forms, those things which existed only in an absent dimension. He was determined to make things work, this time. He wanted a fresh start. He was tired of the old routines. Shadows formed, trying to shape themselves into constructs. He turned to watch. These mysteries were beyond understanding. The hounds of God. He tried to gather himself up, to pretend to be a normal person. He gazed with envy, great envy, as young, handsome men dashed past in their flash, glinting black cars, everything matched, a smile on their loopy, broad, beautiful faces.

And so he looked on as if the world was a place in which he could never participate. He looked for meaning in a garbage can of discarded ideas. He tried to remember the person he once was, to find meaning in the original motives. But nothing came. Like the rest of the city he was trapped within his working day. He could feel God moving through the fabric of things, the prickling mystery, random parties spilling on to the street, out of that special night. All else was broken, lost, but this connection, these strings of consciousness, were taking him to a higher plane. He saw Gersch on the pub corner, down at the infamous Glengarrie, talking animatedly with beer in one hand and cigarette in the other, that special, protective, damaged stance of his. Gersch was too involved to notice, and he walked right past.

And he gathered his forces for an old age he did not want to face. He planned his escape routes: a junky in Calcutta, the splutter of the tuk tuks, the universal cry: Hey Johnnie, you want something?; an alcoholic in Amsterdam, smelling the divine smell of stale cigarettes and stale beer as the morning light streamed through the bar window and he ate up the romance like a hungry sailor. Nowhere was there a normal way to go; face upward, clear eyed, waiting for the dawn. He was shattered and beholden, owing all to those who had helped him. The stories all had the same end; an emotional plea for calm. He wasn't convinced this was the right path.

He was jelly eyed and indistinct; and each of the parties that he passed gave him a fuzzy warm feeling; as if he was personally tickled by the eccentricities of the partiers, as if God was inviting him into each and every one of them, as if he was still young and welcome anywhere, crashing through any social barrier with good looks and blithe charm. They were so savage. Those rare moments when he did knock on the door, when he did give way to temptation, he was met with blank, even horrified stares. Who is this old man? What does he want with us? Why would he even think he could be welcome here?

And so all the refuge he had attempted to seek in the common bar; all the camaraderie and good friends and strangers briefly fascinated by his career so easily available, all of it vanished when he stood like a naked fool knocking on a stranger's door. I heard you were having a party. From who? I'm your neighbour and I can't sleep; so I thought I might as well come down. I though I saw a friend of mine come in here. I thought I'd spent the night here with my passionate German lover; but can't remember the door. Can't remember the place. Can't remember the right train stop. So I've walked and walked through unfamiliar streets, trying to find that person to abandon myself to, trying to find the love that had dodged him all this time. Trying to take back everything that could have been his.

And from that moment he was compelled to knock on stranger's doors. To walk up for no reason and enter another set of lives. To cross the threshold and be received in intimacy. To be grappled and groped and kissed and welcomed at the kitchen table; to be sat down and told: you are welcome here. To find out how different they were, to recognise the beauty of their simple lives, their daily routines. To embrace humanity in all its variations. And to lie satiated at dawn, so clearly in love, their entwined bodies glistening with the sweat of youth.

All these things could come from the knock on a door. From a stranger opening to greet him. From trailing conversations in the kitchen, at the party. These great, vast intensities which helped him travel into the souls of others, to live their lives, empathise with their loss, share their joy. All this to cross the boundaries of what it meant to be human, to cross the great divides separating us all. You're very simpatico he said to Gersch one night, and he knew exactly what he meant. Gersch would embrace him drunkenly, how are you darling, and he would smile at the feel of his working man's body and laugh at all the circumstances, the common predilections, which had brought them together.

THE BIGGER STORY:

http://www.abc.net.au/news/stories/2009/03/02/2504452.htm

Victorians are being warned to be ready for fire conditions that could be as bad as Black Saturday when strong winds and high temperatures hit the state tomorrow.

Fire authorities say it will be too late to leave properties tomorrow morning, and anyone planning to evacuate should do so as soon as possible.

Northerly winds are expected to pick up tonight, and winds are predicted to reach gusts of up to 150kph.

About 2,200 firefighters are continuing to battle four fires - in Bunyip State Park and Wilsons Promontory, and two in Kilmore East-Murrindindi.

Victoria's Department of Sustainability and Environment says the blazes are relatively quiet due to favourable weather conditions.

A total fire ban is in place and department spokesman Kevin Monk says fire crews have done as much preparation as possible over the past two days.

"At present we've had a good weekend of a lot of profitable work strengthening our control lines in anticipation of today and tomorrow," he said.

http://www.climatechangefraud.com/content/view/3427/218/

Sunday, 01 March 2009

Showers, thunderstorms and even snow showers are falling across parts of the southeast. Showers and storms with gusty winds moved through central Florida today, while thunderstorms produced tornado warnings in southern Georgia during the early morning hours on Sunday. Meanwhile, colder air is filling in and changing the rain to snow in parts of Alabama and Georgia including Atlanta.

All of this is part of a developing storm system that will intensify later tonight as it approaches the North and South Carolina coasts. As the storm brings heavy rains and strong winds to the southeast coastline, colder air in the central Carolinas and the Mid - Atlantic States will change the rain to snow and begin piling it up later tonight. One area that appears to be in store for a significant snowfall is Washington, D.C. where a massive global warming protest is planned for Monday. It is being billed as one of the largest ever global warming protests in the U.S. Mother nature will not make it easy as Winter Storm Warnings are posted for the area and snow accumulations could reach as high as 6-8" with locally higher amounts south and east of the nations capitol.

The storm system will slowly wind down in the Washington, D.C. area midday Monday, but blustery winds and very cold temperatures will make traveling, or protesting for that matter, rather difficult.

http://www.climatechangefraud.com/content/view/3421/236/

Where There's a Will, There's Still Hope
Written by Tom Richard, Climate Change Fraud
Saturday, 28 February 2009
will_george.jpg

If you've ever wondered why more scientists, journalists, media pundits, and MSM outlets don't come out more forcefully to refute the hysterical claims of the global warming alarmists, one only has to look at what happened to one prominent commentator who didn't toe the green line. George Will, a moderate Republican, made the mistake of using his Washington Post column to share his views on GW propaganda, specifically the unfounded cries of alarmism and grant-hungry scientists riding the wave of green money literally pouring out of the Obama administration. And not once, but twice!

RealClimate, joining the Gore-loving cadre of far-left loonies, begins it's diatribe by making it clear they don't want to join the Beat-up-on-Will party as "everyone else" is doing a bang-up job. Everyone? Really? I guess their gift for overstatement extends beyond their manipulation of Wiki pages.

We've avoided piling on to the George Will kerfuffle, partly because this was not a new story for us…but mostly because everyone else seems to be doing a great job in pointing out the problems in his recent columns.

Or course, there are plenty of commentaries, blog posts, and scientists articulating the themes that Will espouses, but the MSM ignores them. At least until the NY Times deems this information OK for public consumption. So send your support, or anything else, to georgewill@washpost.comThis e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it .