| October 7, 2005 Red Alert by Soren Wuerth Lisa!
Lisa! Lisa!
I saw her down at the edge of a bluff, nearly prone on the bowing limb of a tree. The branch hung over a sidewalk, a two-second spit below. She worked carefully, every now and then brushing aside curly hair that crept from the control of her black, stocking night watchman’s cap. It was well into the evening and I didn’t want to startle her. “Hello, there,” I said from a distance. Suddenly, using the limb as a spring, she pushed herself up, back and away, spinning in mid-air, and landed on her feet. “Hey, what’s up!” she said. Her tone implied a command more than a question. I noticed a sign dangling from the branch. It was positioned well over the rush of traffic down below us. It read: “Shut the F*15 up!” “What!” she said, even though I hadn’t said anything. “I can’t hear you ‘cause of the damn Elmendork jets. You know, those jets that shoot pollution out their ass, cost us millions of dollars just to fly around, and sound like a million children screaming with napalm burns?” “I’m just out walking my dog, and I ...” She cut me off: “Hey, look, it’s my constitutional right to free speech hanging this sign here, buddy, so don’t even start.” “Well, hey, I am in total agreement with you on this issue. In fact, I work for an environmental organization and ...” “And what the hell do they do? The world’s going to shit and they’re out asking for signatures for recycling? You gotta be kidding me, man.” She was pointing her finger toward my face, so I took a step back. “Well, we’re also working on providing testimony for Congressman Don Young to stop a bridge ...” “DON ASSHOLE YOUNG?” “... to stop a bridge from taking out this very neighborhood that your standing in right now!” I said quickly. She turned to watch a car slow down as it passed below her sign. Then she started up the bluff on a shadowy, skinny trail through a patch of gray cottonwoods. “Follow me,” she called back. It was slippery going, but I finally caught up to her standing at the edge of a field staring up at a rusting, red and black water tower. “Know how to climb?” “I’ve done some,” I said between breaths. “Meet me here Sunday morning, 3 a.m., I’ll bring the ladder and the banner. I’ll need some help tying it off.” “OK,” I said, biting my lip. “I can do this.” “Don’t go enviro on me. Be here, buddy.” She zipped her charcoal, stretch jacket. “Oh, what’s your name?” I asked, timidly. “You don’t know me?” she said, now grinning at me. Her teeth glowed like fresh milk in the light of the street lamp. “Um, I think so. Do you live around here?” Without answering, she scribbled on a worn index card, turned, raised a peace sign and shuffled away until she disappeared into the black hollow of an alley. I looked at the name. Shaped in capital letters, it looked like our country’s abbreviation: LISA. Soren Wuerth is perhaps Alaska's best known community activist. He resides in an undisclosed location in rural Alaska and can be reached at soren@insurgent49.com. |
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September 30, 2005 September 23, 2005 September 16, 2005 September 9, 2005 September 2, 2005 August 26, 2005 August 19, 2005 August 12, 2005 August 5, 2005 July 29, 2005 July 22, 2005 July 15, 2005 July 8, 2005 July 1, 2005 June 24, 2005 June 17, 2005 June 10, 2005 June 3, 2005 May 27, 2005 May 20, 2005 May 13, 2005 May 6, 2005 April 29, 2005 April 21, 2005 |
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2005
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Reserved. in-sur-gent (in sur'jent), n. 1. a member of a group which revolts against the policies of its leadership. |
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