There's been a bit of blather in the press recently. By the press, I mean all news sources, including the internet, radio, tv, magazines, and yes, newspapers. The blather's been about scientists retracting previous statements that have been made about global warming.
Well, guys, guess what: that's what science does. They announce their findings, then they retract 'em if further research shows them to have been mistaken. The point is this: Of the million verifiable facts that point, arrow-like, toward man-made global warming, maybe a dozen have been taken from the quiver because their fletching has been found to be wanting. (I know that Dean Koontz could have carried on the archery metaphor for another 2 pages, but he does get a little overheated... thus contributing to global warming).
So yes, here it comes: I believe in Global Warming, and I believe it's man-made. I can't say that I know it to be fact, because I don't. I ain't a scentist. But I do trust scientists, and the scientific methods - and I know that science says it's 98% proven, and that's good enough for me.
A chap I was conversing with the other was howling victoriously, saying the blizzards over a fair-sized chunk of North America showed him that the planet was cooling. He doesn't understand that violent weather swings happen because there's too much heat in the atmosphere. Heat is energy, baby... and a blizzard is nothing but a huge dump of energy.
Listening to: Leonard Cohen, "Dear Heather". This is art. The title song is, well, different. I've listened to it maybe 50 times. I'm starting to understand it.
Reading: Still on Ambrose's book about Eisenhower. More of a hagiography than a biography, but it's an entertaining read.
Today's word: What else? Hagiography. I originally thought it had to do with witches, or ex-wives, or something. (Actually, not my ex-wives. I think of them very fondly, when I think of them at all).
Rats: I'm slowly but surely catching up to where i've written up to, so I'm going to shorten the excerpts, and pick up on the writing. I'm doing about 3,000 words a week on Rats, and this week I've also done 3,000 wordson a new project. Sigh.)
young men like themselves, separated from each other by the twin barriers of language and fear.
It was these Germans in their field-grey uniforms that Arthur went to commune with every day. He always started each day with twenty rounds, and always came home with twenty pieces of empty brass cartridge in his pocket. He crawled and slithered his way to the church. It took him the better part of an hour to cover the seventy yards of torn ground. He was aware of the fact that as he was climbing a slight slope, he would be visible to anyone who bothered to look from the other side of the lines. He had set out well before dawn, but the night was clear, with a bright quarter moon shining down. When he reached the church he rolled in behind the shattered stone wall, and took a moment to collect his breath. He knew that his counterpart on the other side of the lines was probably doing exactly the same thing: watching the steam of his breath stain the early morning air, waiting until the thunder of his heart calmed down.
The armour was heavy on his back. He slipped out of it, and carried it up the broken stone stairs that led to the top of what was left of the church tower. Here, he had almost perfect cover: he could lie in the shadowy corner, and fire from the darkness. He had a wide field of fire, nearly 180 degrees. He set up the armour plating, and poked his rifle barrel through the slot. He has left several sandbags here some weeks ago. They were exactly as he had left them, carrying the imprints of his rifle and elbows.