March 31st, 2002. - 12:18 p.m.

Catching a train of thought.

�Never underestimate the power of non-violent resistance,� he says.

Never underestimate the power of a good blow to the head. (It is all a joke. Nervous laughter is shared all around.)

�Some nights poetry is not enough.�

This is not one of those nights.

�I want to be on a mountain top, with a radio and good batteries. And play a joyous tune. And free the whole human race.�

I pray with all my being that it were so simple. I cry to that song. I want to able to play a joyous tune and free the whole human race. I want parents to unite with their children. I want estranged lovers to find fate again. I want enemies to join hands. I want the blemish of hate polished out from the human entity. I want the crippled to dance. The mute to have a voice. The blind to see. The deaf to hear. Despair to dissipate. This slow calcification process of bad intent to cease. Vehemence and revenge erased, rubbery shavings casually brushed off the desk. That little boy to get that candy he wanted. I want it all done with a song, played on a mountain top. One simple song.

It will never happen. Sigh. But optimism reigns, and reins in the tears.

�Dream a little dream for me.� And set us free.

�After years of waiting. I'm a reasonable man, get off my case.�

n.

p.s. My father once said to me: You know, daughter, you are merely a budding flower, you have to wait and watch yourself bloom. I looked him straight in the eye and replied: Father, some buds never get a chance to bloom, they die with the early frost. I was twelve years old.

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