I met an aid worker somewhere in an airport, maybe it was Singapore.  The new airport, in the middle of the night.   Store fronts glowed with wealth all round us, jewelry, luggage, clothing, pretty vari-colored liquors, fairy-tale books, as we hunched over our styrofoam cups of coffee while she told me about families she knew that starve one child, in order to beg food for the others.


The baby cries silently into her pillow while the family hosts a gathering in the parlour and debate the never-ending question: “Who’se to blame?” Ice cream cake, crisp salad with ranch dressing, golden white wine.


You know there are such children in your neighborhood.  Like the woman who spent most of her childhood locked in the shed out back in a nice neighborhood in the East Bay, until someone spotted her and her children ten or fifteen years too late.  Isn’t that awful?  Who would do such a thing?


And the earth is burning away its human burden.  Isn’t that awful?  Who’se fault is that?


Who’se to blame?  It must be those awful, ignorant people on the television; or the medical community with its snake-oil claims; or those rich folk in Washington DC who never stop debating never-ending fairy-tales about who’se to blame for what.


One thing we know.  We would never do such a thing.   It’s not our fault.


Burn baby burn.