The cicadas are here. They were crawling up out of the ground after seventeen patient years, drying their wings on the new beehives the Russians have installed. Mattski brought one over on his forefinger, and it was as spectacular a specimen as the ones from 1996: dark husky body and harmless, though menacing, bright red eyes.

Their last arrival is now ancient history, and I feel bad about the bugs that went to ground that since has been paved over. Still, most will rise from the earth and I expect the sound of their mating ritual will swell over the next few weeks, when it is finally time to get those pesky (so far) imaginary tomatoes in the ground.

The Russians already have the potatoes and cabbage in, and they grown their plants from seed, the old fashioned way.

All that- and the reminder to plant marigolds with the vegetables for pest avoidance- was the last thing to be done before slogging back north to put the weekend- and me- to bed.

The cicadas and the planting put me in a contemplative mood about the nature of time. I remember the splash that happened back in October of last year.

The attack on the Embassy in Benghazi was still fresh and raw, and the truth, which shall set you free, was one of those things that seemed completely mutable. The murder of a US Ambassador- a position I recall from my time dealing with protocol weenies is the equivalent of a Four Star General or Admiral- and three other brave kids had almost instantly become a political football, and I marveled at the time- and now, for that matter, that the deaths of good Americans could so swiftly be turned into something so banal and disrespectful.

We are unhinged, it would seem. The Administration was desperate to ensure that the voting public would accept that the murders were just a sort of “shit happens” sort of incident, not the act of an implacable and well-organized foe. That the story should now be about the Republican-ruled House versus the lap-dog Senate and the Administration also fills me with something near to despair about the state of the discourse in this great land.

I remember Secretary Clinton’s astonishing performance in those Groucho Marx glasses, her voice rising in outrage about “what does it matter” about who did it or why the murders were committed. Presidential Press Secretary Jay Carney piled on with something unique to jurisprudence this past week, when the statute of limitations for murder appeared to be dramatically truncated: “Benghazi was a long time ago,” was how he began one of his signature dismissive responses to a question from the Press Corps.

I used to be one of those chumps assigned overseas, which may be why I take these political matters personally. Eight months is now ancient history. Well, perhaps. We will see how that works out as the civil war in Syria spins out of control.

I gather the approach will be the usual one- we will dither our way out of poor options until there are only truly awful ones remaining.

Meanwhile, the Israelis have taken an active role in striking targets inside their neighbor to the north, apparently putting to rest the idea that the Syrian air defense network would provide a deterrent to an air campaign. I have no idea which of the extremists jihadi groups we will wind up supporting, except I can only hope it is not one of the ones that is actively at war with us, except they all are.

Anyway, no one on the radio seemed to have a better idea, and I had to make a run to the store for supplies once I got the Panzer down to the farm. Croftburn Farms was out of free-range eggs, and the farmer’s market would be shutting down by the time I could get there, so off to the actual supermarket it was. I decided to try the plaza on the south end of town- I thought I had seen a supermarket there when investigating the health club I joined, but could not recall if it was a Food Lion (ugh) or a Safeway (ick).

It turned out to be a Safeway, and I had my best compromise with organic eggs in short order. There was only one cashier working, so I had plenty of time in the check-out line to look at the magazines.

You know the ones: ten tips to a better life in the bedroom, creating the perfect six-pack, the continuing Kardashian train-wreck, La Lohan’s latest arrest and the Last Print Issue of the venerable newsmagazine Newsweek.

This wasn’t quite as ancient a bit of history as Benghazi, though almost. Editor Tina Brown boldly declared last October“an important development at Newsweek and The Daily Beast. Newsweek will transition to an all-digital format in early 2013. As part of this transition, the last print edition in the United States will be our Dec. 31 issue.”

That date has a hell of a shelf life, since The Last Print Issue is still in the rack at the check-out line.

Having plenty of time on my hands, I looked through the retrospective articles about the great day of print, when Time and Newsweek and US News and World Report drove the political discussion. That was back in the day when Congress worked more than a couple days a week and murders were treated…well, you know.

Anyway, I bought a copy of that last issue because I have been tasked with transitioning my own little magazine- the Quarterly publication I put out twice a year- to an all digital format. Things are moving too fast these days, and content is obsolete as swiftly as the Benghazi attack, regardless of who is stirring up the pot.

Tina Brown helpfully commented the “Newsweek will expand its rapidly growing tablet and online presence, as well as its successful global partnerships and events business.”

I guess that is the line I am going to take. Anything else is ancient history and not worth thinking about, right?

(Ancient History: some Greatest Hits from a now-irrelevant icon. Photo Daily Beast).

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com