Monday, December 12, 2005

Spontaneous Fiction...


In most Native American tribes the leaders are expected to administer not only the politics and problems of their people but also, and perhaps more importantly, to be in touch with a greater cosmic reality - the laws of Nature and the highest consciousness available to a man. That certain drugs and herbal tonics have been used to achieve these states does not necessarily detract from the veracity of their discoveries... Unbelievably accurate Mayan calculations mapping the position of our planet within our solar system within the Milky Way within the nearby clusters of galaxies are said to have been realized through the use of organic substances that fueled fact-finding astral projections. Of course it takes a rare and seasoned soul to master these cosmic antennas and filters provided by Nature, to allow them to open us up AND protect us from the colossal bowel-shredding, mind-incinerating power of the dimmest passing boson of a Universal truth. Then again, there is sometimes beginner's luck. Sometimes.

Meanwhile, it is Tuesday at the White House and there is very little concern for the cosmos. The President, an ace politician and a master of simple folksy rhetoric is living up to his secret service moniker: The pharaoh of the photo op. On this Tuesday he will deliver the first State of the Union address for his second term. The speech is written, the town bustling with press, and the oval office is open for business. By noon he has met with a winning women's golf league, an anti-abortion minister, a former gang leader whose execution was stayed by a progressive governor in a big Western state, and six adult "Children of Chernoble," in town to offer an unlikely vote of support for the president's struggling nuclear energy plan. The "pow-wow" with the oldest living Native American tribal chief would have to wait until after lunch and a mid-day briefing. Perhaps the picture could be snapped on a time out during a game of T-Ball? Now there's a photo: The President and the Last of the Cheyennes holding whiffle bats.

Throughout the afternoon there is much fuss around the batting tee, and a small emergency unfolds on the Great Lawn that causes the President (yelling into a cell phone) to reveal the true nature of his leadership, standing just three feet away from the patiently waiting tribal chief. Having been dismissed as an old "ignoramus" by the president, the chief takes it upon himself to drop a healthy load of peyote bead dust onto his host's tuna and caper melt. The gesture goes undetected. The melt is swallowed in four bites assisted by two ice cold cans of Diet Coke.

Three hours later, preparing before the mirror he flips through his speech, sweating slightly through his vocal exercises. His aide sets a pair of lapis Great Seal cufflinks on the marble sink, one of which the President promptly eats when eyes are averted. Half an hour later the President has gone strangely silent. "Ready sir? The limousine is prepared to take you to the Capitol."

"Never readier to make history..." he snorted, at last, with a collar snap and a smirk. Had he known exactly what degree of televised wailing and gnashing of teeth and uncontrolled exposing of top secrets and speaking in fiery tongues the next hour and twenty seven minutes would bring, even he, in some other time and space, might have enjoyed the irony of these five words spoken in haste. Sitting next to the First Lady, high up in the gallery, the chief felt the learning had begun.


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