Southern Comfort

I could feel the ancient spirit of my irrevocably Catholic grandmother’s glare penetrating through my devastated consciousness with the fury of the Inquisition—my father’s nurturing mother, a widow…

Source: Southern Comfort


Southern Comfort

I could feel the ancient spirit of my irrevocably Catholic grandmother’s glare penetrating through my devastated consciousness with the fury of the Inquisition—my father’s nurturing mother, a widow for half a century who never remarried after a drunk driver sent my grandfather to his untimely death, my religiously and patriotically fervent, wizened, matriarchal grandmother whose eat-all-your-peas passion was more than strong enough to guarantee to even the worst skeptic that the goodness of the Holy Spirit will invariably defeat Evil every single time, my eternal-hugging yet stern-disciplining grandmother, from beyond her grave, gave me that crushed mothering look of bitter disappointment that shattered my soul into supernumerary shards of foreboding shame. I had just bitterly shred her heart into illimitable pieces at the complete irreversible understanding that I, her very first grandchild, had casually squandered away my eternal salvation.


A silent tear rolled down her cheek, condemning my soul, and as she slowly evanesced into the misty horizon, I called out.

“But I didn’t do it. He did! I wasn’t even there!”

I knew, however, deep within the most inaccessible regions of my viscera that, although he was on the verge of doing something unconscionable and potentially fatal long before I had met up with him that fateful dusty afternoon, I had more than helped him to leap over the line that separates good decisions from those that morph reckless and chaotic impulses into aggressively questionable actions from which there is no return. His lifeless body hung motionlessly from a rafter in the ceiling, a macabre human piñata filled with volatile visceral chemicals, a motionless, slightly bloated corpse with wide bulging eyes, looking as if it were eager to explode into a sinewy sebaceous, chaotically connected network of web-like filaments at the slightest prick of a sewing needle, the darkened bluish-gray, gravity-defying ashen mortal coil dangling from a hempen cord through dancing dust-laden, pallid morning sun-rays, and I knew that in some post-modern, Faulknerian, unregenerate Southern way, I was responsible for his suicide.


At the novelty store, I hand the clerk a shot glass, and he runs off to the back.

“He’s going to have someone etch the year on it. Won’t take long. Gonna give it to Andy.”

“You might wanna change the year,” Jasmine muses. “It ain’t like y’all just started drinking this year. Y’all been at it for a while.”

“It’s for graduation.”

She smiles wanly.

“You sure look great,” I say.

Again she smiles a soft smile, sincerely, but something’s on her mind. I become hopeful as we stroll the aisles chatting, looking at the various items for sale, trying hard not to show my excitement. The clerk returns with the shot glass. After I pay him, Jasmine tells me, “We gotta talk.”

Unintentionally, I quicken my pace. It seems like an eternity as I sit and excitedly wait for her on a bench just outside the store in a small courtyard, but I can still smell her lingering perfume playfully wrecking pleasant havoc on my sensibilities. I take the shot glass out of its bag and look at it admiringly as she shuffles toward me.

“My friend hasn’t come this month,” she whispers.

I abandon the shot glass to the wooden ledge of a planter next to us, and I look at her, my eyes earnestly imploring for help. Noticing my complete befuddlement, she says more sharply, still trying to whisper, “My period!”

Suddenly surreal, everything around me slowly melts, a deliquescent shifting of my perception and sensibilities, the entire mall thumping rhythmically into the visual vicissitude of Capitalistic images in varying shapes and sizes and colors all mocking my pain. I see her at the prom in that beautiful red gown, radiating with the ecstasy of Midas at the initial understanding of his gift, that exuberant giddiness that precedes the realization that happiness is fleeting, that total immersion into a self-absorption that seems to belie reality for an eternity, that anticipatory signing over the soul to Satan to learn what the blues really mean. I lucidly recall when she had told me that she was going to the prom with Warren and my heart’s sudden destruction as when the two-mile wide meteor slammed into the Yucatan Peninsula. I stared at her numbly as her voice shot through me into the outer reaches of the universe. I didn’t even take a date to the prom, just hung out with my best friend Andy and an amber bottle containing a sweet splash of liquor that kicked me like a mule until I puked on a chaperon and was unconsciously escorted home to face the wrath of my father and a purgatory of accusations I could in no way deny. It was so clear. How could I have not seen it? A few months later it was obvious how far she let him penetrate her pudendal bastion. He had planted his seed into her fecund field, never considering the possibility of fruition. Then left her.


I had been wistfully dreaming about hopping a freight train to nowhere since first grade, more of a whim really, a romantic adolescent fantasy churning in my crayola-infused imagination as I listened in my bed at twilight to the coupling of boxcars slamming together in preparation for epic journeys out, away from my house through the most remote places on the planet that harbored magical kingdoms and fire-breathing adventures. Trains regularly wove through the tapestry of my hometown Columbus, Georgia. Wearily laid tracks sinuously slithered down the center of 9th Street towards Phenix City, Alabama, heading west towards every sunset, crawling over the Chattahoochee River that, itself, sinuously slithers endlessly, southerly, towards Apalachicola, Florida then into the Gulf of Mexico. I knew that one day I’d hop that train just to discover its pulsing potential. Even as I hopped inside a slowly moving boxcar, it felt like a childhood dream.

I had been in the boxcar for a few days or so, passing time any way I could: hitting my pipe of weed, humming, whistling, dreaming, dangling my legs from the opened portal during star-sated nights that obligingly reached for infinity from my solitary space in the universe, listening to the almost incessant clickety-clack of the track’s humming rhythm along the rickety tracks, feeling the landscape jostle my bones.

I doggedly climbed into another brooding freight car after the train I had previously boarded came to rest in a small hissing train-yard somewhere in the continental United States; we had been traveling mostly northwest, so I figured I was in America’s heartland, somewhere in beef country. Slowly, rhythmically, the landscape morphed from small town urban chaos into a more bucolic serenity, and I stared at the far wall of the acrid boxcar I had indifferently chosen, an amorphous amalgamation of refuse I couldn’t quite make out but vaguely resembled varying cardboard boxes strewn alongside distant hills of burlap, old clothes, driftwood, dust and ashes, the likely remnants of vagabond survival, but as I stared at the darkened mountainous silhouette, it seemed to quicken, breathing a steady rhythmic ebb and flow as if it were a mass of heavy energy, darkly foreboding, startled into an impending puissance, roiled into an existence created exclusively for my destruction. A heavy-hanging, billowy cloud drifted from under the sun suddenly releasing a steady stream of sun-rays that blasted into the littered boxcar and revealed two mendicants, desperate, ashamed, and angry that I had violated their personal asylum.

They took all my money (which wasn’t that much), my shoes, and my sweater; they left my shirt and jeans and a ragged sock, the only articles of clothing I was allowed to keep. After pummeling me to semi-consciousness, they threw me out of the boxcar. That’s all I remember. When I awoke, I was in a bright room, silver and stainless steel flashing at me monitored by a sterilized person wrapped in white cotton strips of cloth that covered everything save a pair of intense, dark eyes. Another set of eyes popped before me followed by a dark oxygen mask coming toward my face at incomprehensible reality. Everything went black.

Instantly back, I heard the various whirs and bleeps of electronics, and I knew I was in a hospital’s intensive care unit, where I think I spent the next few days. Since I had no insurance, I was released almost immediately, roaming the streets of Gallows, Montana. The pain killers were quickly wearing off, and I needed an anodyne immediately when I saw a sign that slightly brightened my spirit: Longbranch Saloon, just like back home, but as I passed through the door, I was roughly bumped into by a patron who was leaving. With an audible grunt, I went down on one knee, the thud rocking the foundation of the Rockies, sending crashing waves throughout my body then out my wrenched shoulders, tears flowing like mountain waters, which caused a fairly sizable ruckus for the half-dozen people who invisibly sat scattered around me.

“Oh my God! Isaiah? Is that you?

There was no mistaken it. I had come to loathe that voice. It was Warren, son of Colonel Daniel Hardsock. The weasel that left the only woman I would ever love, crying endlessly eternal. The soambitch who got her pregnant. Then left like a coward in the night. But I was in too much pain to lash out at him.

“You look horrible. What happened?”

He could tell even before he started to speak that I could not effectively communicate.

“Here. Let me get you a drink.”

I couldn’t count how many shots it took, but after an eternity of the most unforgiving pain I had ever experienced, I started to slowly crawl out of the cave lined with broken glass and rusted barbed wire into a soothing relief from the pain’s violent sharpness. Warren’s emotions then flowed like pyroclastic effluvium from Vesuvius as I slowly misplaced the anguish of my contorting agony.

“I can’t believe it’s you… you…”

He went on and on ad nauseam as my lips anxiously reached for more relief from an empty shot glass, my tongue desperately searching for the magic of more anesthesia, my desire to kill the pain by which I was embraced matched only by my desire to choke Warren until his eyes burst out of his fucking head, to kill him deader than any other man had ever died. After a while, his hysteria decreased, and he slowed down, tears still falling, voice still quivering, body still rapidly shaking.

“Is she all right?”

At that instant, I saw my revenge. He still cared for her. I almost yelled with delight, yet somehow I maintained control. Complete, wicked, control.

“She killed herself.”

His anguish was delicious, the totally defeated moan of an invincible warrior who realizes with his last breath that everything he had ever held sacred was irrevocably wrong. His soul cried out to my utter delight.


A lonesome train’s whistle slowly surges west, its moaning echo in low tones throughout the bar like a weeping willow’s humming the blues of Billie Holiday. I’ve been sittin’ at the Longbranch Saloon back in my hometown since eight o’clock, steadily nursing shot after shot with my head down, slumping over alcohol stained wood, fingering the lip of the glass that Joe keeps refilling, both of us silent, absorbed by the thick air that hovers over Georgian red clay like the breath of an ancient dragon awaiting its final suspiration.

Ten o’clock in the morning, and it’s already hot and humid enough to make the sun itself dream of Arctic coolness as the rusted door to the darkened bar opens wide, aggressively flashing intense light in rectangular brightness that overwhelms her silhouette until she steps further in, banishing the aggressive rays outside. As the door to the dilapidated lounge closes, my eyes adjust, and she slowly steps into focus, an illuminated angel appearing before rural simplicity as my pursed lips reach for assurance from an empty shot glass.

“Morning, Joe,” she says to the portly bartender.

“Jasmine,” he returns. “Want anything?”

“No, just stopped in to… Isaac? Is that you?” She shifts her 18-month child to her other hip. “Excuse me a sec, Joe; it’s my… Isaac!” she says as she turns to address me with an enthusiastic passion that makes my soul bleed.

“My Lord, son. Where’ve you been? Does your mother know you’re home? Where have you been? What have you been doing?”

She walks over to sit at a table adjacent to the bar, adjusting her child on her lap, talking a mile a minute, which seems like the incessant chugging of the locomotive heading to Elysium, an all too familiar eternal drone languidly begging me to stay, helplessly imploring me to go. I sidle to an awaiting chair and plop down.

“What’s the matter Isaac?” she asks, looking at her gurgling child, “You look kinda down. You thinkin’ ‘bout something serious. Is that Southern Comfort?”

I pause. An infinity of silence before I almost whisper, “I found him.”

She’s speechless. I see her eyes dazzle briefly, but in that same instance, just before I continue, her understanding becomes complete.

“He’s dead.”

Russell (Rusty) Allen Taylor
August 2008


Lyrics – Triste

Sad brooding diamond in night sky
once glistened bright celestial light.
Conflagrant astral lover left without a reason why.
It seemed like a dream
only to be
angel-bereft reality.

Flittering flames melt into shade.
Star-burned, she yearns to dissipate.
Her luminescent luster dies,
fuliginously disguised;
encrusted heavens bleakly sigh.

Composition by Antonio Carlos Jobim © 1967
Lyrics by Rusty Taylor © 2016

Icarus Illumined

It hit him suddenly and with such unnerving force that its veracity shined as undeniably as the August sun, intensely, irrevocably. It was in no way malicious, but its effects were shattering. He sat there quietly, but a violent squall was unleashed deep within his emotional theater, and although he continued to speak without showing any signs of his revelation, it was irrefutable: his complete solitude. Other than family, he had absolutely no one in his life who really cared for him. He would never have a partner with whom to share his life intimately.

When he was twenty-two years old, he was involved in a single-car accident that left him a quadriplegic, a complete spinal cord injury at the fourth and fifth vertebrae. He was paralyzed from the chest down; he couldn’t even feel his hands. Everything just below his nipples became a vacuum of sensation and utility, offering no other value than as objects of visual curiosity, and his youthful body quickly metamorphosed from a comparably Olympian paradigm to a collection of body parts that were useless, empty, soulless, repugnant. But he still had his youth and its undying accompanying optimism.

In retrospect, he believed that he would’ve been much better off had he never met her, but Kharmela became his primary nurse-angel when, two weeks after he had broken his neck, he was transferred to Shepherd Spinal Center, where he would rehab for four months. She had just finalized her divorce from a man she described as violent, and when she talked to her paralyzed patient, she looked so sincere and vulnerable that he fell for her almost immediately and with such passion that the aftermath was a combined emotionally nefarious Hiroshima and Vesuvius. For four months a friendship had kindled, and this conflagrant relationship was fanned by his innocence; he was very sure at that time that he could never again be attractive to the more gentle gender, but this was because all of his previous relationships had quickened primarily because of his aesthetics, and this kind of reward conditioning led him to falsely believe that he had nothing left of quality for any woman.

When he left Shepherd Spinal Center, Kharmela told him that she’d like to come visit him. He agreed and was happy that she was so kind to him, but he couldn’t bring himself to believe it. She lived in Atlanta, and he lived one hundred miles south in Macon; she was beautiful, and he was hardly worthy. He sincerely believed that his only contact with Kharmela would be an annual Christmas card, and he would cherish each “Love, Kharmela” that would end each card; however, she called the very next week, and he went to visit her the following month.

He never thought it would happen, but he made love to her, and even though he had no sensation and was as immobile as Stone Mountain, it was such an overwhelming expression of love that he cried. For a year they carried on their love, despite the miles that separated them. He would’ve gladly spent the rest of his life with her, but she became restless. She was so beautiful and spirited, a Leo, and he realized that she had merely misinterpreted her respect for him as love; besides, she was just coming off of a second failed marriage, so she was riding a volatile emotional roller coaster herself.

They remained friends, a friendship that ultimately evanesced in time… and distance. For the next five years, he worked hard and finally graduated from Mercer University with a BA in English and a minor in Computer Science. The following January he landed a job as a computer programmer in Columbus, Georgia, the town where he grew up. The most exciting aspect of the employment opportunity was that he’d be on his own as much as possible, but he had plenty of family to help him, and he moved into a house that was right next door to a high school buddy.

Of course, he needed help with even the most rudimentary acts of daily living, so he placed an ad in the paper for a live-in attendant. Maria answered. A Pisces, intense, passionate. Ultimately, he and she formed relationship number two, but she was the innocent lover in this affair. Again, the relationship lasted about a year, then she went back home to the small town of Talbotton to live with her mother.

He was still only in his late twenties, and he felt really good about life in general; after all, he was a professional, making more money than he’d ever dreamed of, and he was as independent as he could be under the circumstances; he felt like he was just like every other guy in the world, except for the fact that he couldn’t walk. He couldn’t use his hands either, but he never considered that; he used a mouthstick to type, and he used a wrist-splint to ineffectively feed himself and brush his teeth. That was pretty much the extent of his physical prowess. He needed help getting in and out of bed, dressing, washing and combing his hair, bathing, urinating, shitting; hell, he needed help with everything, but he had overcome so many things in his life that he felt he could do anything, even fall in love.

He had a spinster aunt who was ten years his senior, and he felt sorry for her because he knew that she was never going to find her life-mate; she stayed at home with her aging mother and had nearly no opportunity to get out and meet anyone; she even worked from her home. But he worked for a company with thousands of employees, and there were many women with whom he worked, women who were intelligent and very attractive; one was bound to discover that he had many positive qualities and characteristics that would overcome his physical inadequacies.

For ten years he worked as a computer programmer, a decade of learning about himself, work, the world, and he was well liked; he had an almost magical ability to make people very comfortable with his paralysis. He smiled most of the time, sang aloud, was pleasant to almost everyone, and he was intelligent, or, at very least, he could communicate very effectively so that many of his cohorts thought he was intelligent. When the subject of relationships came up in conversation, he would casually state that he was an eternal bachelor, too wild to tame, too free to be controlled by one woman, the usual banter from one who had no relationship and no future prospects, but just under the surface he inaudibly screamed his desire to find whomever it was with whom he was to share eternity.

He asked a few women out, and they graciously rejected his advancements, but he justified each rejection. He had lived long enough to realize that many people ended up in broken relationships because they were afraid of being left all alone at the end of their lives, but he was now in his late thirties, and he enjoyed his solitude. He knew all too well that a relationship undeniably involved compromise, and he had no desire to give up the freedoms he enjoyed just because he didn’t want to be alone. He would only make that sacrifice for an intelligent, internally beautiful woman, and she’d grow old with him, maturing in wisdom until the winter of their content where, as octogenarians, they’d sit together on the front porch of their house, holding each other’s withered hand and dreaming of the future. He still felt that his destined woman existed somewhere in the vast world and would be drawn to him through some celestial power, so he was patient, realizing that each rejection only advanced his spirit closer to ultimate happiness.

He rarely got sick, maybe a bad cold would keep him homebound for a few days once a winter, but for the most part, he was healthy. His wheelchair, however, would occasionally break down, and he’d have to miss work on these occasions. It was during his tenth year of employment when the major power source of his electric wheelchair went out. The wheelchair vendor was in Atlanta and his wheelchair maintenance worker was in Columbus, so what he initially thought would be a three-day work absence wound up being two full workweeks. It was during this time that he realized why he went to work. He was, in effect, under house arrest, and he sat all day in one spot watching television; there was nothing else to do and nothing on television during the day worth watching—six million channels of infomercials or banal daytime programming. Occasionally there’d be a good movie on the classic movie network, but when there wasn’t, he had to choose the least offensive of programming. He could really take only so much of the home and garden network; although, he did get excellent advise on how to fertilize his azalea bushes.

On the Monday of his return to work, he saw a friend of his, a young, attractive woman, and he asked rather spiritedly “Anita, did you miss me while I was gone?”

She smiled brightly, beaming like aurora borealis as she coyly replied, “I most certainly did; I cried every day! I missed you terribly!”

“You missed me so much that you cried, huh? And yet you didn’t even come to see me while I was home… alone! I was crying, too, as I was staring out my window, unable to move, watching every car that slowly passed in front of my house, wondering where they were going, envying their freedom.”

He meant it as a joke, and it was funny, but she quickly turned and faced him with an astonished look and said as she put her hands over her gaping mouth, “You are so right! Oh my God! I am so busted! I didn’t even think about coming to see you…”

It was at that moment when he realized that his joke turned out to be a dramatic overstating of the obvious. She hadn’t come to see him.

No one did.

By Rusty Taylor
Spring 2002

Venus Versus Mars

Hillary Clinton and Elizabeth Warren are currently campaigning together, and so, in the United States, the debate involving women and their genetic abilities to hold positions of power has intensified and has sadly morphed into a plangent shouting match between distaff eloquence and the testosterone aggression of atavistic barbarity; of course, many other nations on our planet have already evolved beyond such a puerile debate, but the truth is that women make better leaders then men because they can not only take a life as effectively as any male—it’s not physically challenging to push a button that launches and then guides a drone to destroy a target or to pull a trigger of a weapon whose only reason for existence is the mass murder of humanity—but women can also manifest life from within, which man cannot. One may argue, ineffectively, that the male’s production of sperm is needed to create another human and is thereby as important to the process of biological creation as his female counterpart. Gallant effort… but pointless.

There is already so much sperm saved within encrypted vaults of cryobanks throughout the world that the population of China could easily be matched—cryobanks are specialized places for storage that use very low temperatures to preserve semen or transplantable tissue. This ready availability of semen along with the scientific process of biogenetics make male participation in the creation of human biology literally unnecessary. (A man will willingly donate his seed to most any project and therein help with the continual supple of the biological commodity.) And test tube babies are no longer science fiction. Maybe that is why, in the Catholic tradition, God only needs the virgin Mary to actually gestate the couple’s demigod son Jesus… and Joseph is merely a silent witness. Not even God needs a man to create life, but Mary, a woman, is indispensable.

To quote Alice Cooper, “Only women bleed.”

I’m not trying to shock and awe my readers by employing crass rhetoric. The reference to menstruation is not pejorative; menstruation is a uterine-cleansing purge of sanguine nutrition, a prenatal recipe for a possible embryo after a reproductive egg goes unfertilized. It’s really the cycle of life that the male only understands as… well, ineffable and thereby worthy of total expunging from his thought process. Menstruation can be messy and a bit embarrassing; however, menstruation is also a source of humility for the female, an uncomfortable, mood-altering, uncontrollable biological response to Life, and as such, it becomes an accepted badge of courage and strength. Men are uncomfortable with the feminine discharge of blood and tissue and thereby mock it, unconsciously turning it into a misguided source of masculine pride simply because men errantly believe that they’ve been blessed by unknown forces to NOT have to deal with it, and they don’t… happily. Women can also endure more pain than man. If the male of our species could give birth, abortion would not only be legal, it would become another testosterone-encouraged game, a Y-chromosome bonding yet superfluous sign of masculinity akin to belching and farting with effective vociferous abrasiveness.

I’ve heard more than one male callously comment that even bad sex is good sex. Some of these automatons believe that, during a rape, a woman should merely relax and enjoy the sex. This, unconscionably, connotes that, to a man who casually jokes about such a sensitive subject, sex is merely a very pleasurable act with little emotional commitment; obviously, this is male privilege… some men primarily focus on egocentric gratification even when it can bring irreparable emotional damage to someone else. I’m pretty sure that these puerile thoughts about rape’s being a serendipitous opportunity for unexpected yet very pleasurable explosive orgasmic climax would transmogrify into the true horror that rape is if the roles were reversed. Imagine one of these single-minded rape-sanctioning fools finding himself in a smelly abandoned warehouse with an overweight, pungent octogenarian male, possibly of eastern origin or of a misunderstood non-Christian religion or of a race that possesses melanitic epidermal pigments and who is in possession of a case of Viagra, a bucket full of viscous petroleum-based unguent, and a six-pack of 5-hour energy drinks. Suddenly, the aesthetically impaired, throbbing mutant stands erect and ready to penetrate the cowering egocentric’s personal space with violent, thrusting aggression. Any woman on the planet would lovingly advise the victim to merely relax and enjoy the sex. Doesn’t seem nearly as desirous when masculine privilege is so violently violated; does it?

Women nurture and discipline, looking for the best in others but then effectively dealing with adversity when confronted whereas men look for an advantage and manipulate accordingly. This can be effectively corroborated by visual verification when a very wealthy although emaciated, doddering and edentulous, pasty-white, balding, corpulent, octogenarian codger marries a twenty-eight year-old supermodel from eastern Europe. Of course, many middle-aged yet far less ludicrously wealthy men act in similar fashion when they purchase that lustrous red Corvette and manipulate ingenues and nuptial prostitutes into meaningless carnal affairs. (A nuptial prostitute is any women who enters into a contractually-bound monogamous relationship for the monetary rewards… a trophy wife.) I know of a very shallow man, militant and morally annoying, a brazen hypocrite who abandoned a goddess for a pulchritudinous yet empty, giggling, jiggly biological receptacle for his seminal disinterest, simply put, this insecure man abandoned a beautiful, mature, intellectual, and funny woman with glowing patina for a warmblooded cavity into which he could insert his misguided tumescent energy. Although a man can be noble, it is easier for him to acquiesce to his egocentric urges, to struggle in an intimate relationship, fail, then sequaciously request pardon from his victim… uh, I mean from his partner… it is much easier to request forgiveness from his professed lover than to act responsibly even though duty and responsibility should never be temporary.

I am not suggesting that women are completely nurturing; there are always polar extremes within any debate. One need only google Susan Smith to find an example of emotionally stagnant motherhood. I am, however, connoting that a vast majority of women are biologically equipped with nurturing instincts whereas men were innately armed with protective, militant, reactive aggression. Men wonder, awestruck, at creation. They can only take lives and have proven to be very good at it. Men are quick to war, yet, in recent history, the men who declare war send their warriors, with whom they share no emotional connection, to fight their battles while they cower in deep mountain bunkers. Some have even lied to their constituency not only to pursue the direct murder of a tyrant falsely accused of the 9/11 tragedies but to proffer their clan members an opportunity to amass mass quantities of wealth… blood money.

I do not think that the USA would have gone to war with Iraq had Al Gore been president during the horrific attacks on the Trade Centers and the Pentagon; I doubt that he’d have made such an illogical yet megalomaniacal connection between Iraq and those horrific acts of terrorism, but I’m really sure that Hillary Clinton would have made war the last possible option for national security. She’d have seen her daughter in every female warrior and would have reluctantly put her into harms way; Mrs. Clinton wouldn’t, probably couldn’t, think of any warrior as an expendable but necessary casualty of war.

Personally, I prefer Venus to Mars when it comes to national leadership, especially when the United States of America possess THE most effective weapons of mass destruction. We don’t need another petulant boy as the Commander and Chief supervising such an effective and efficient tool for planetary annihilation.

I can only ineffectively imagine the total deflation and anger of a warrior who learns in retrospect that she committed murder simply because her leader, one insecure man, was looking to ensure the romanticized, mythological, militarily decorated legacy of a beloved historical war hero instead of the doddering, privileged knight’s errant who callously demanded the lives of thousands of troops and then silently evanesced with his tail between his legs into a background of obscurity cluttered with depressing self-portraits of incompetence. As a woman, Hillary Clinton will make a great president simply because she has not only given life but has developed and positively influenced her lovely daughter. She is also reluctantly capable of taking the lives of people with whom she shares no emotional connection save the bonds of human connectivity; she’ll make nation-nurturing decisions deliberately because she understands the interweaving relationship, the weft and warp, between Life and Death.

Peace Through Music
Rusty Taylor
June 29, 2016