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Dreamed 1992/1/15 by Chris Wayan

I dreamed the Stealth Bomber was alive: a great black Owl, with luminous yellow Eyes, perched on a Juggernaut. And Stealth was worshiped. Robed senators with torches, chanting to their silent god, pulled Stealth onward, through the forests of the night.

senators worship the Stealth bomber, a giant owl: dream-sketch
Stealth was never about war. It's about beauty. The beauty of predators. The lure of the deadliest, fastest, quietest, biggest, most elusive. As much as sex or safety, humans like useless excellence. Oh, you think it's only men? You women--picture a wild horse running, a tiger leaping. Not sexy? Not beautiful?

After my dream, I understand how militarists feel: their weapons aren't toys or penises or status symbols. The Owl in my dream was none of these.

Stealth was a god. And it was beautiful.

We need substitutes for the delicious dread that hooks arms addicts (even pacifists, even me). We need a methadone for doom.

LISTS AND LINKS: gods and goddesses - cults - owls and hawks - politics - war and militarism - peace and pacifism - nocturnes - pure digital art - two centuries ago, William Blake first framed the problem of the beauty of predators (and the gods who make them) in The Tyger

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