1. Today I finished Buffalo, NY journalists Dan Herbeck and Lou Michel's biographical study of Timothy McVeigh entitled American Terrorist: American Terrorist and the Oklahoma City Bombing.
Once McVeigh was found guilty and sentenced to death, he decided to entrust his whole story to Herbeck and Michel. He submitted to countless hours of interviews, made all kinds of documents available to the writers, and asked nothing in return. No compensation. No book deal. Nothing.
Timothy McVeigh lived by codes of idealism. He definitely entered what Maryanne Vollers calls "a journey into the darkest precincts of idealism, an exploration of how things can go terribly wrong in the name of doing good." She's the author of Lone Wolf: Eric Rudolph and the Legacy of American Terror, the book I started this evening,
For the last, what?, two years or so, I've been reading books and listening to podcasts trying to understand what's commonly called right wing extremism. Much, but not all, of Leah Sotille's journalism focuses on this and Lone Wolf will, too, given the right wing ideals Eric Rudolph acted in service to when he bombed Centennial Park during the 1996 Olympics, two abortion clinics, and a gay/lesbian bar.
2. Today, reading Maryanne Vollers' phrase "the darkest precincts of idealism" helped me more than anything else I've read or heard in the last couple of years.
My idealism and the idealism of many people I've associated with in church, in my work, and as a volunteer were not journeys into dark precincts of idealism, but into light ones, the precincts of alleviating hunger, studying compassion, exploring and practicing self-examination, pondering Socrates' insights into what it means to live a well-lived life, and more.
Not one of these ideals ever even faintly suggested that in order to achieve them, I needed to do something violent in the name of good.
I've also realized, especially as I've grown older, that the ideals I pursue can never be realized, that my reach will always exceed my grasp, as Robert Browning writes in his poem "Andrea del Sarto".
Knowing this, I do my best, not always successfully, not to be disillusioned.
The reading and listening I've been doing over the last couple of years leads me to wonder if the journey into the darkest precincts of idealism isn't fueled by disillusionment.
It was for Timothy McVeigh.
His disillusionment with the U. S. Army, the federal government, the FBI and ATF (he was enraged by what happened at Ruby Ridge and Waco), and other agencies that he saw as waging war against Americans and against citizens' freedoms convinced him that he bombed the Murrah Building in the name of good.
I'd say those who bombed ROTC buildings, burned down ranger stations, lit fires and destroyed property in cities, whether in the wake of the MLK's assassination or the death of George Floyd, and who have carried out other acts of similar violence did so in the name of good and were fueled by disillusionment.
A lot can go terribly wrong in the name of doing good.
This little blog post barely scratches the surface of how this can be true.
3. You might wonder with all this serious reading I did today, with all this serious pondering the reading led me into, do I give myself a break from thinking about these conflicts and these acts of violence we live with now, and have lived with for decades?
None of these troubling aspects of human life trouble Gibbs or Copper.
With Debbie having been gone for two weeks, I've done my best to divide my time between the living room, Gibbs' domain, and the bedroom, where Copper spends much of his time.
It's a comfort and a great help to my spirit to have Gibbs jump on my lap and relax, especially after he was so gloomy for the first couple of days Debbie was gone.
Copper is always grateful when I come into the bedroom.
I lie down to read and he inches as close as he's willing towad me -- within about a foot -- and purrs contentedly when I pet him, simply lay my hand on his back or stomach, and when he rests his face inside my hand when I shape it like a cup. This wanting to put half his face in my cupped hand is a new development, one that seems to transport Copper beyond contentment into a temporarily ecstatic state.
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