Author Archives: Missy Comley Beattie

Thanks for your sacrifice, dead Iraqis. Continue reading →

Good strong words are essential. Not merely during a debate but, also, in selecting a label, slogan, or to frame a mission. Continue reading →

Last week I attended a presentation by Robert Ford, the first United States Ambassador to Syria in five years. Just two months ago, Ford was recalled from Syria because of safety concerns. More than 3,500 people, including children, have been killed there. Continue reading →

Snarling riot cops evicted protestors and raided Zuccotti Park last Tuesday morning, two months after Occupy Wall Street (OWS) was launched in lower Manhattan. Spin-off groups across the country were shut down as well. Continue reading →

Something is happening here, this movement called Occupy. Continue reading →

A few months back, I signed on to the sustained October rally in DC. After soul searching, examining my own questions, email exchanges with friends in the peace movement, and a trip to NYC to participate in the Wall Street protest, I’m writing on October 2, and I’ve made a decision to stay away from DC. Continue reading →

My sister Laura and I took the train to Manhattan on Wednesday to participate in the occupation of Wall Street. But Wall Street is barricaded. Yes, pedestrians move on the sidewalks, but police and metal prevent anyone from walking or entering the street. Continue reading →

Here in the Realm of Cross Purposes, I sat on D’s balcony in what he calls a cheap chair. But it’s the anti-gravity adjustable recliner and it does everything but what should be consensual. My hands worked the arms, forcing it forward, then back. I told him I couldn’t step onto his sailboat, because I have motion sickness. Yet I’m always in motion. He needs a mermaid. I’m a land mammal. With this thought that’s really a foreshadowing, I question motion sickness versus emotional sickness. Continue reading →

This is the war on terror and the war of terror, the Project for the New American Century, or the New World Order, crafted before the events of September 11, 2001 and trafficked to a frightened-beyond-reason public unwilling to examine why we’re hated, receptive only to “they’re jealous of our freedoms.” Frenzied by nationalism, our young rushed to recruitment centers and on to boot camp, trained as matriculants of imperial US murder. It is the long war, perhaps permanent, a consequence of evil intersections, machinations to bomb a country or two, three, four, five, six, seven, whatever, back to the Stone Age. Continue reading →

Okay, I know I’m using artistic-op-ed license, but Mother Earth, maybe, rumbled a 5.8 demand for justice on Tuesday. Continue reading →

The Iowa Straw Poll is in with Michele Bachmann out front. And just when we think it can’t get loonier, Texan Rick Perry, who recently prayed for rain in his parched state, swaggers his candidacy to show us the way, his way, god’s highway. Now, we have two Lordites in the race. Heaven’s the limit. And with The Rapture in his sights, Gov. Perry has his own army to invade, occupy, and plant the flag. Continue reading →

On the sixth anniversary of my nephew Chase’s death in Iraq, 30 Americans, most of whom were Navy Seals, died in Afghanistan, their helicopter shot down by insurgents. Continue reading →

In 2009, my son went to Washington, DC. He was among hundreds of thousands swept to excitement by an unprecedented moment. I discouraged—didn’t want him on the road. Probably, had I been his age, 22, I’d have driven all night, too. It was one hell of a party. Continue reading →

I was listening to music when the plot of an old movie crashed through the guardrails of my mind. I searched for a title I couldn’t recall. Dennis Weaver’s face appeared. The actor portrays a motorist at the wheel of a sedan menaced by a huge tanker truck. Of course, the driver of the truck is the villain, but since the viewer never sees his face, the truck itself is malevolent. Continue reading →

Months ago, I attended David Swanson’s book signing in Baltimore to purchase his remarkable work, War is a Lie, and to hear Swanson, Debra Sweet, and Andy Worthington speak. During the question-and-answer period, a woman stood and introduced herself. Speaking beautifully, softly, and passionately, she gestured, pointing to lighting in the room, laptops, and cell phones. She said something like this: “It’s cold outside, but the room temperature is warm. So many here have computers, cell phones, technology. . . .” She paused and, then, continued, “Are people willing to sacrifice for peace.” Continue reading →

My senses are soaked still with last weekend’s red, white, and blue after having attended a party at the home of a lovely couple intro’d to me recently by a friend. Their fireworks display, colors bursting in the night sky, was as impressive as any I’ve seen produced and directed by local government via taxpayer dollars. I’m sure the hosts’ guest list covered the political spectrum. I’m also sure that my politics are the most radical of anyone who watched the bombs bursting in air. I sat there, thinking about bombs bursting in air, exploding the lives of people in the growing number of countries where we’ve exported U.S. imperialism. Continue reading →

I drove the Lesbaru just yards to sister Laura’s new place, where we’d been working 12-hour days, and loaded all the boxes into the car for recycling. Then, I went to my apartment to compose, hurriedly, an evening meal. As I searched the pantry for roasted peppers, things fell apart. I was juggling stuff that, apparently, longed for liberation. Gravity prevailed. I lost a container of pasta sauce, applesauce, and a jar of sun-dried tomatoes in oil. All three hit tile, splattering a cabinet, baseboards, and toe kick, but most of the combo, resembling a Jackson Pollock, seemed to be resting on the floor, waiting, waiting, trying to decide what to do while I was deciding what to do and, then, it decided before I’d made a decision. The blob started oozing and moving, oozing and moving, under the fridge. Grabbing paper towels, I tried to block the flow. Then, I used my hands to scoop the mass, where pieces of glass stood like skyscrapers atop peaks and valleys of colors and textures, into a large plastic bowl as I repeated, “This is nothing, NOTHING.” Continue reading →

Yesterday, I said to my sister Laura, “I don’t believe in hell, but if I’m wrong, I’ll be removing wallpaper there.” Continue reading →

During Barack Obama’s presidency, we’ve witnessed a convergence of paths, a union of pathologies. Obama is Bush. Bush is Obama. One could have been fashioned from the other’s rib. Mission position accomplished. Mission expanded. Continue reading →

A centenarian went to Las Vegas to celebrate. Sounds like the beginning of a joke. It isn’t. The adventurer’s a woman who lives in my condo complex and she brought back souvenirs from her trip. By the time she realized what was feasting on her 103-year-old body, there was such an infestation of bedbugs that she had to get rid of almost everything in her bedroom. Continue reading →

After cremation, the ashes are put in a bag and then boxed or placed in an urn for the home, somewhere, anywhere, including under the ground. My father was a veteran and wanted some of his remains at the national cemetery. And it’s a rule there—you want a headstone, some remains must be buried. So, a portion of Daddy’s remains was buried in a black box and the rest resided in an urn at my sister Laura’s. Continue reading →

I had emailed David Ker Thomson, telling him I was going to sit shiva. On the way to this shiva sitting with my best friend Joan, who’s Jewish, I mentioned that we were sitting shiva and she said: “No, you’re not sitting shiva. You will be sitting with someone who’s sitting shiva.” We learn. Continue reading →

A few days ago, I drove past the house we sold in 1994 to move to Nashville. There was a “For Sale” sign in the yard. Later, I went to the web, curious about the price. It’s three times what we’d accepted. Then, I scrolled through the photographs. Had I not seen the front of the Tudor row house and known the house number, I wouldn’t have recognized the rooms. Complete renovation. Gone was the breakfast bar my husband designed and built. Gone were the balcony tiles I’d helped him install. All gone, except the memories. Continue reading →

I used to joke with my peace-movement friends, telling them I might self-immolate in front of the White House to make a statement about war. And, then, I’d laugh, saying there was just one glitch in the plan—I’d require so much Valium I’d be unable to strike the match. Continue reading →

It’s blue here in Kentucky, true blue, a landscape of royal blue, this altar to basketball and home to the Kentucky Wildcats whose devotees are historically and hysterically frenzied for victory. Continue reading →

My hands are curved, poised above the keyboard. I’m staring at a document, blank except for the cursor that’s blinking to the rhythm of an Annie Lennox song, “Love is a Stranger.” My eyes are focused on this small vertical mark that at other times, could be a soporific. Just not now. Because the Lennox lyrics are harsh. Continue reading →

Years ago, I was on my gynecologist’s examining table, feet in stirrups, in need of the morning-after pill. He handed me a brochure—info about the med—and said, “Read this, if you can think in this position.” Continue reading →

Abusers appear when we are most vulnerable. Mistaking their sweet nothings for REAL somethings, we slowly allow harmony to lose its last three letters. Continue reading →