On Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts: 2

I watched the first Bombing of Baghdad with interest. I could not get enough of the instant re-play of smart bombs. Somewhere, they said, a hospital was being bombed. Somewhere a wedding party was mistakenly attacked. Miles of vehicles destroyed and bodies strewn in the sun. Never did the vultures praise Nekhbet as they did that day. Then the second Bombing of Baghdad. Wasn't this the greatest TV you had ever seen? This was "American Idolatry" and all the right buttons were being pushed and no one got voted off, except the ones in war's way, and they were voted off with finality. No come backs on the last show for them. How will God ever forgive me for standing and watching and not saying anything? I had a friend who was staunchly against the re-election of President Bush. Her neighbors and friends made fun of her for being against the war, which was all but won, they said. They made a bet on the election's outcome. She lost. They made her pay up by choosing the most expensive restaurant they could find. Now no one says anything. No one says they wished they'd listened to her. And she says nothing. She has changed. The killing tomes have displaced the literature books on her shelves. She accepts that she cannot do anything and she is quiet, not with the silence of humility, but with that sharp-eyed calm that cuts like a sword and whets itself with tears and runs with lonely wolves. murder as fine art 1