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March 20, 2003 - (no title)   Early morning, and the television has the first pictures of the day. Hands clasped behind their heads, the men march toward surrender in a line that stretches as far as the eye can see. At this time the fate of their leader is not known; it's possible that he's been taken out of the equation permanently. Even if you oppose all killing for any reason, it is difficult to argue that things there will not be the better for his absence. Standing over the breakfast dishes I wonder momentarily if perhaps I haven't been mistaken, if perhaps this war, such as it is, might not be such a terrible thing after all. Saddam will be gone, everybody else will surrender, and sure the U.S. will skim a few bucks off the top from the reconstruction, but in the end it might turn out to be for the best. Or so I let myself think, for a moment. Then the bombing of Baghdad began. Ê Great gray flowers of blooming dusty death, their stems plumes of crimson and yellow flame. And where have I seen such rising pall before? over lower Manhattan on the loveliest September day God ever made. It is impossible to convince myself that the human toll being taken before my very eyes is any less than it was on that day. Innocents, as those in the towers were, are dying. We are slaughtering them by the hundreds at the very least, and when the dust settles we expect them TO WELCOME US AS THEIR LIBERATORS. A thousand souls who will give their own lives gladly to see America destroyed are birthed in each fresh explosion. Bush walks across the White House lawn to the plane, blood dripping from the casual goodbye wave of his murdering hand. I look at his face and think of bin Laden's and can't for the life of me fathom the difference between the two.