Monday, February 07, 2005

Ecoterrorist Sentenced in Utah Arson

Ecoterrorist Sentenced in Utah Arson

The moon stutters briefly through low scudding clouds, illuminating the scene through locked and barred windows. Long rows of metal shelves stand in the darkness, dully reflecting red and green winking lights of computer consoles and electronic monitoring equipment. Tiny feet rustle in dry bedding, an occasional small squeak echoes against bare, institutional green walls. The smell of ammonia and disinfectant dominates the air.

Outside, between and among shafts of moonlight, deep shadows move beyond the edges of the brightly lit parking lot, deep shadows that occasionally clink softly, stumble and curse
under their breath. In the far distance a siren wails, whoops and falls silent. The shadows gather at the edge of darkness, patiently waiting.

For a moment, the crescent moon shines brightly through a rift in the clouds, fades quickly and disappears. A cough, a low whistle, a brief snap and spark. At the same moment, by some fantastic coincidence, all the lights in the parking lot sputter out, leaving dull glowing orbs floating eerily in the night air. Emergency lights snap on inside the darkened building, bathe the window ledges with a harsh glare, then one by one fade out as their batteries quickly deplete themselves.

As the darkness becomes complete, the night is shattered by the sound of breaking glass, the harsh rasp of metal on metal, the clunk of heavy boots on hard concrete floors. At each doorway along the long hallway, dark forms pause briefly, punch once-secret codes into electronic door locks and swing the doors open to reveal mysteries held within. Momentary silence, punctuated by the rasp of metal on metal, tiny squeals of alarm, more clumping of boots and the clank of metal on cold parking lot asphalt.

Soon the parking lot, once festooned with gas-guzzling products of automotive excess, sports irregular lines of metal cages of various sizes and shapes. After a brief pause for maximum appreciation of the scene, dark shapes walk quickly long the lines, opening metal doors, freeing the occupants therein. The night is suddenly filled to excess with small scurrying mammalian shapes.

Meanwhile, within the building, the contents of camo backpacks are placed in strategic positions in the many rooms, next to blinking computer consoles and whirring tape drives, on top of file cabinets, under work tables and among and between numerous vials and bottles of gaily colored liquids. Various adjustments are made, whereupon the dark figures beat a hasty retreat down the hall, out the door and into the cool, enveloping darkness of the night.

A pause, interrupted by the distant sounds of wailing sirens, drawing closer.

As an armada of emergency vehicles turn into the driveway of the parking lot, lights whirling and flashing in gay abandon, sirens set on stun, small flashes of light and dull thumps emanate from the bowels of the building. Caustic liquids, released from their secure containers, drip, hissing, into the bowels of delicate electronics, splash onto spinning tape drives, consume plastic and paper in a mad chemical dance. Flammable liquids drip and oozed into and among papers and books, which, suddenly united with oxygen, spark and heat, leap into the embrace of explosive effulgence.

The first armed and dangerous officer of the law opens the door of his fully equipped and meticulously maintained police cruiser. At that moment, all the windows of the first floor of the brick edifice before him explode outward in an exquisitely beautiful, rapidly growing red and yellow flower of ultimate destruction. A charred poster flutters down through superheated air, singed slightly on the edges but otherwise intact. On it's bright yellow surface, the startled officer reads:

I'm back!

If you listen very, very carefully, you can hear tiny giggles from the shrubbery surrounding the parking lot, punctuated by the patter of tiny feet, running away, very, very fast


War... and peace

It's been said that war is the basis for the organization of any state society. We see it now in operation in the United States, which has changed, in the space of some 40 years or so, from a country seeking world peace to a global imperialist nation seeking to dominate the world.

I can still hear John Kennedy saying,

"What kind of peace do we seek?  Not a Pax Americana enforced on the world by American weapons of war.  Not the peace of the grave or the security of the slave.  I am talking about genuine peace, the kind of peace that makes life on earth worth living, the kind that enables men and nations to grow and to hope and to build a better life for their children--not merely peace for Americans but peace for all men and women--not merely peace in our time but peace for all time."

That dream is lost, smothered under the bodies of men, women and childen killed in the name of US imperialism, a Pax Americana that has yet to achieve peace. As the 60s slogans said, "Fighting for peace is like fucking for virginity."

Not only has the United States government chosen oppression over freedom abroad, the freedoms our citizens have historically enjoyed have been eroded continualy over the past 40 years. Yes, I'm able to publish my dissent on this electronic notice board, and, it is already being perused by agents of the United States government (I know, as I track visiters to my web site.) I expect the slow knock on my front door any day now.

All the more important to soldier on, raise the voice of dissent clearly and distinctly above the brawl of war. I am a pacifist. I am no imperialist. I insist that my country follow the path of peace desired by the majority of the people. I insist that those who have stolen this country away from its people retire from the scene before we have to take them out by force.

Rebellion is good for the human soul, encouraging us all to rise on our back legs and stand up to the lovers of darkness who seek to steal our country under cover of night.

We are the bringers of light. It's time to welcome the dawn.

Michael
Leona Gulch
Pacific Plate