Chris hedges AND george Monbiot ON THE IGNORANcE - ColdType

california dreaming
open meadows
spread down to
the pacific ocean
where only the
well-heeled are
free to roam;
and graffitifilled
corridors
pass in flashes
through the train
windows, where
l.A.’s homeless
pitch their filthy
mattresses and
try to catch a few
winks between
passing trains and
roaming thugs
long time ago. If I can’t make the rally, I figure,
I’ll have the opportunity to talk to him
directly on the train.
“So, is Kucinich really going to be on the
train today?” I ask.
“He was supposed to, but he couldn’t
make it,” David says. “His brother died unexpectedly
and he had to cancel the trip.
But the peace ride’s still going on.”
A Kucinich fan interrupts our conversation.
“Is Dennis going to be on the next
train?” David explains the sudden tragedy.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” the man responds,
and adds with a wink and a laugh, “maybe
his wife could take his place.”
David informs the man that she’s where
she’s supposed to be, by her husband’s
side. Kucinich’s wife, a tall striking, statuesque
redhead, has been a big draw for Kucinich,
and supporters will be quick to tell
you how beautiful she is. The man walks
away, disappointed.
I look at David and we both shake our
heads.
“The train’s great, isn’t it?” I say, glad to
have my tickets and parking pass in hand.
David leans in closely and says: “The
revolution is taking place in the café cars
on trains all across the country.”
“What?”
“The revolution, it’s in the café cars,
on every train across the country. The old
men, listen to them. They talk about overthrowing
the government. They’re disgusted
with Bush. They’ve had it; they’ve had
enough.”
I’ve sat in on a few parties myself in café
cars, so I know what he’s talking about.
People have a way of speaking their minds
after they’ve had a few drinks on the train.
Maybe this ride with rebels would be just
the thing, even without Kucinich.
At 5:30 a.m., I’m on the road, the full
moon infusing the early dawn with a warm
purplish luster, and pulling at me like an
unquenchable woman. I don’t want to go,
yet the possibility of riding on the Peace
Train compels me, lures me away from the
comfort of home and a warm bed. I hope to
find something new – political enlightenment.
At the train station, the holiday travelers
jam themselves into the ticket line,
and sit restlessly on benches or mill around
the train, waiting for the doors to open. A
big crowd, the largest of any I’ve seen yet
at the start of the line, gather to board the
train.
Are these all the Kucinich people? Is he
that popular?
Avoiding the freeways
Traveling by train, you can relax, and avoid
the aggravation of driving L.A. freeways.
You meet unusual people, watch flushcheeked
mothers pound Bud Lights as
their children scramble up and down the
aisles, screeching and panting, pushing on
doors, while old men eye young women
sitting alone with their computers and iPods,
heads bobbing to the music in their
earphones, oblivious to all except for the
occasional dude who struts the aisle and
nods and smiles at everyone.
Every day the Pacific Surfliner from San
Luis Obispo to San Diego rolls furiously
along as commuters dig into purses and
bags, pull out food and drink, books and
magazines, bottles for their babies, cellphones,
computers, every contrivance you
can imagine, and settle in for the scenic
ride, a movie on the laptop, the adventure
of meeting someone new, or simply to take
a long nap.
It’s a swirl of activity from start to finish,
with stops and starts, and people getting on
and off and making small talk, or running
down to the café car to buy alcohol and get
spun while the Amtrak train lumbers along
the beautiful and terrifying California landscape:
Open meadows spread down to the
Pacific Ocean where only the well-heeled
are free to roam; and graffiti-filled corridors
pass in flashes through the train windows,
where L.A.’s homeless pitch their filthy
mattresses and try to catch a few winks
between passing trains and roaming thugs.
Riding Amtrak, you get to peek into
people’s lives and backyards. For some rea