The greatest enemy of creativity is fear.
Perfection is an asymptote that we approach through error. The belief that it can ever be reached is the ultimate folly. Know this, and be free from the fear of being flawed.
There are billions of people on the planet and billions that have passed. Everything meaningful that can be said has been already in one way or another. Know this, and be free from the fear of being redundant.
There is a path unique to you made up of an infinite number of moments. There is a story inside of you that only you can tell. Know this, and be free from the fear of being inconsequential.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
The Committee Goes Out For a Cup of Coffee
The Sunday morning sun was still low in the sky. It shined through the bedroom window, illuminating dust particles passing through its rays and formed skewed rectangles across the floor and bed.
Time to get up.
Wouldn't you rather sleep in? It's warm here. Safe. Comforting.
You're missing everything. It's a beautiful day. The world is passing you by.
Clothes were strewn about the floor around the bed and in the closet, above which dangled underemployed hangers. The hamper was full, and any articles that managed to make their way into dresser drawers had been stuffed inside so carelessly as to partly spill out and prevent them from closing properly.
Just fifteen more minutes.
You always do this. Put things off. Fifteen minutes will become an hour and then two hours...
What could possibly be better at this moment than this soft bed--a peaceful nap?
He pushed his torso up with his arms and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Sitting at the edge and shivering, he let out a long, exaggerated yawn and rubbed his crusty eyelids.
You can always just crawl back into bed.
Quiet, you!
Yeah. Quiet! You're not helping.
Still groggy, he sighed and stepped out of bed where his foot landed on something small and prickly. He immediately arched his foot and shifted his balance to avoid putting his full weight on it, and in doing so stumbled forward. It was a bottle cap, which he detached from his sole and dropped back onto the floor.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered.
You know things like that wouldn't happen if you cleaned up after yourself.
He looked back at the shiny metal annoyance and proceeded towards the bathroom, stepping around books, garments and empty bottles. He maneuvered with seemingly effortless skill through this minefield despite his daze.
How can you live like this? It's disgusting.
It's fine. I'm sure you'll get around to straightening this up later. It's not like you're having any visitors.
The tube of toothpaste was missing its cap. He picked off the dried part at the end that obstructed the opening and flicked it into the toilet. The bottle of mouthwash was empty save for a few milliliters lingering obstinately at the bottom. He took the final tiny swig--holding his head back as far as possible and the bottle vertically to his lips--and then put the empty piece of plastic back on the counter.
Aren't you going to throw that away?
Maybe you should take a shower first.
Why not pick out some clothes first?
You'll need to see what the weather is like. It might be chilly today.
He went to look for his laptop in the living room, which it turns out was sitting on the coffee table. After sitting down on the couch, he pressed the button, but the screen remained dark. It was out of juice.
"Ugh," he murmured. "Where's that power adapter?"
Still shivering and unshowered in only an undershirt and boxer shorts, he searched the apartment for the cord and eventually found it by the bed next to a copy of the latest issue of the Economist. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and skimmed an article on the European debt crisis.
Wasn't there something you were going to do?
Twenty minutes had passed. He felt parched and decided to go to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, dancing through the minefield on the way.
There were no coffee cans in the pantry, but he saw a box of instant coffee--the kind with the single serving packets. It was empty. He placed the box on the countertop and went to take a shower.
You should go out and get more coffee.
Why don't you go to the coffee shop?
No need to go out. There are plenty of things you could get done around the apartment.
It will be good to get some fresh air.
You'd have to get dressed.
You need the exercise.
He dug through a pile of clothes and found a pair of jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. After giving them the smell test, which they passed (barely), he put them on hastily.
The Starbucks is just around the corner.
Wouldn't you rather go to a locally-owned, quaint coffee shop?
You'd have to take the bus. It only runs every forty minutes.
Corporations are evil.
You'd have to check the schedule and time your trip to the bus stop.
The stairwell of the apartment complex smelled rank, like one of the neighbors was sauteing seaweed and octopus in armpit sweat. He scurried down the stairs while holding his breath. Some paint chipped off the wall and fell onto the steps as he brushed against it.
Did you remember to lock the door?
Did you you remember your keys? Wallet?
"Shit."
He had forgotten his wallet and had to go back. On the way, he retrieved the mail from the compartment crudely labeled '14D,' and shuffled through it as he climbed back up the stairs. There was a piece that he was immediately able to identify as a Christmas card from an old friend from its large red envelope, return address label, and relative lack of flimsiness. He opened it while re-entering the apartment and proceeded to walk and read at the same time. His keys were still in the door's handle as it closed behind him.
You came back here to do something. What was it?
It's almost Christmas. There's so much to do.
Have you mailed your cards yet? Bought gifts?
He glanced over at his keyboard sitting on the stand in the corner of the living room and suddenly had the urge to play a song. It was "A Long December" by Counting Crows, one of the few songs he could manage to play and sing along to at the same time. One song turned into three...
Wasn't there something you were going to do?
You were going out and then you came back for something.
Have you made your holiday travel plans yet?
Your wallet!
He found it underneath the bed. But the debit card was not inside, and he had no cash on hand. After some searching, he found it next to his laptop.
OK. time to go!
He rushed out of the building and down the road to the main intersection. The 'Don't Walk' signal was flashing.
If you hurry, you can make it.
It's dangerous. Cars are making left-hand turns.
Everybody does it.
Can't you wait a minute? What's the rush?
The risk isn't worth the reward.
The signal stopped flashing. It was too warm out for a sweatshirt--unusually warm for December--and he began to feel hot and itchy.
After a brief wait, he crossed the street and walked a block past the supermarket, past the pharmacy and to the coffee shop with the green awning at the entrance.
Christmas music was playing inside. Actually, the particular song was secular holiday music if we're to be nit-picky. There was a short line to the cashier, and he craned his neck upward to look at the selection as he queued.
Make sure you know what you want once you get to the counter.
Yeah. Don't be that guy.
It's warmer out than expected. Why not go for a frap?
Plain, simple dark-roasted black coffee. Coffee that tastes like coffee.
"'Tis the season for a gingerbread latte!" proclaimed a chalkboard bordered by gold and silver tinsel.
'Tis the season.
The man in front of him had neatly parted hair and was wearing glasses, a starched shirt and a bow-tie.
Upon reaching the counter, the stranger barked his order: "A venti, half-caffeine, skim, no foam, three pump caramel, one pump hazelnut, macchiato with Splenda, whipped cream and a dome lid."
Brewed with rosewater, of course. And a saucer with gold-leaf trim...
Yeah. Definitely don't be THAT guy.
What a crappy job.
Are you ready for work tomorrow?
You have that meeting in the morning.
"Sir? Can I take your order?" A cordial female voice was coming from somewhere. "Sir?"
The barrista was a short, attractive and dark-haired girl, wearing the obligatory green apron and forced smile. Or maybe it wasn't forced. She may have even been flirting. He didn't notice.
"Oh, yes. Hi. Umm. Medium regular coffee--black, please."
Next to the register were overpriced compilation discs, presumably containing the same music that was currently playing in the shop.
You were supposed to call your mother last week.
Why don't you do that now?
You forgot to bring your phone.
"Will that be all?"
He was already looking around the room to find a place to sit. Two women in the corner were talking about the contents of their shopping bags, which sat beside them at their table in chairs of their own.
"Hmm? ... Um. Yes," he stammered. "Thank you."
It's too crowded in here.
And noisy.
What about breakfast? You haven't eaten yet.
Once the transaction was complete, he took back his debit card and receipt and turned to exit the shop.
"Sir?" she said, a bit sheepishly. "Your coffee?"
It was still sitting on the counter next to a tip jar.
"Oh yeah." He blushed, fumbled through his pockets, and dropped the only change he had into the jar. Grabbing the cup, he hurried away and out the door.
Sitting down at a nearby bus stop bench, coffee in hand, he turned his wrist to look at his watch. Hot liquid spilled over the crotch of his pants.
It was 4 P.M.
Time to get up.
Wouldn't you rather sleep in? It's warm here. Safe. Comforting.
You're missing everything. It's a beautiful day. The world is passing you by.
Clothes were strewn about the floor around the bed and in the closet, above which dangled underemployed hangers. The hamper was full, and any articles that managed to make their way into dresser drawers had been stuffed inside so carelessly as to partly spill out and prevent them from closing properly.
Just fifteen more minutes.
You always do this. Put things off. Fifteen minutes will become an hour and then two hours...
What could possibly be better at this moment than this soft bed--a peaceful nap?
He pushed his torso up with his arms and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Sitting at the edge and shivering, he let out a long, exaggerated yawn and rubbed his crusty eyelids.
You can always just crawl back into bed.
Quiet, you!
Yeah. Quiet! You're not helping.
Still groggy, he sighed and stepped out of bed where his foot landed on something small and prickly. He immediately arched his foot and shifted his balance to avoid putting his full weight on it, and in doing so stumbled forward. It was a bottle cap, which he detached from his sole and dropped back onto the floor.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered.
You know things like that wouldn't happen if you cleaned up after yourself.
He looked back at the shiny metal annoyance and proceeded towards the bathroom, stepping around books, garments and empty bottles. He maneuvered with seemingly effortless skill through this minefield despite his daze.
How can you live like this? It's disgusting.
It's fine. I'm sure you'll get around to straightening this up later. It's not like you're having any visitors.
The tube of toothpaste was missing its cap. He picked off the dried part at the end that obstructed the opening and flicked it into the toilet. The bottle of mouthwash was empty save for a few milliliters lingering obstinately at the bottom. He took the final tiny swig--holding his head back as far as possible and the bottle vertically to his lips--and then put the empty piece of plastic back on the counter.
Aren't you going to throw that away?
Maybe you should take a shower first.
Why not pick out some clothes first?
You'll need to see what the weather is like. It might be chilly today.
He went to look for his laptop in the living room, which it turns out was sitting on the coffee table. After sitting down on the couch, he pressed the button, but the screen remained dark. It was out of juice.
"Ugh," he murmured. "Where's that power adapter?"
Still shivering and unshowered in only an undershirt and boxer shorts, he searched the apartment for the cord and eventually found it by the bed next to a copy of the latest issue of the Economist. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and skimmed an article on the European debt crisis.
Wasn't there something you were going to do?
Twenty minutes had passed. He felt parched and decided to go to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, dancing through the minefield on the way.
There were no coffee cans in the pantry, but he saw a box of instant coffee--the kind with the single serving packets. It was empty. He placed the box on the countertop and went to take a shower.
You should go out and get more coffee.
Why don't you go to the coffee shop?
No need to go out. There are plenty of things you could get done around the apartment.
It will be good to get some fresh air.
You'd have to get dressed.
You need the exercise.
He dug through a pile of clothes and found a pair of jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. After giving them the smell test, which they passed (barely), he put them on hastily.
The Starbucks is just around the corner.
Wouldn't you rather go to a locally-owned, quaint coffee shop?
You'd have to take the bus. It only runs every forty minutes.
Corporations are evil.
You'd have to check the schedule and time your trip to the bus stop.
The stairwell of the apartment complex smelled rank, like one of the neighbors was sauteing seaweed and octopus in armpit sweat. He scurried down the stairs while holding his breath. Some paint chipped off the wall and fell onto the steps as he brushed against it.
Did you remember to lock the door?
Did you you remember your keys? Wallet?
"Shit."
He had forgotten his wallet and had to go back. On the way, he retrieved the mail from the compartment crudely labeled '14D,' and shuffled through it as he climbed back up the stairs. There was a piece that he was immediately able to identify as a Christmas card from an old friend from its large red envelope, return address label, and relative lack of flimsiness. He opened it while re-entering the apartment and proceeded to walk and read at the same time. His keys were still in the door's handle as it closed behind him.
You came back here to do something. What was it?
It's almost Christmas. There's so much to do.
Have you mailed your cards yet? Bought gifts?
He glanced over at his keyboard sitting on the stand in the corner of the living room and suddenly had the urge to play a song. It was "A Long December" by Counting Crows, one of the few songs he could manage to play and sing along to at the same time. One song turned into three...
Wasn't there something you were going to do?
You were going out and then you came back for something.
Have you made your holiday travel plans yet?
Your wallet!
He found it underneath the bed. But the debit card was not inside, and he had no cash on hand. After some searching, he found it next to his laptop.
OK. time to go!
He rushed out of the building and down the road to the main intersection. The 'Don't Walk' signal was flashing.
If you hurry, you can make it.
It's dangerous. Cars are making left-hand turns.
Everybody does it.
Can't you wait a minute? What's the rush?
The risk isn't worth the reward.
The signal stopped flashing. It was too warm out for a sweatshirt--unusually warm for December--and he began to feel hot and itchy.
After a brief wait, he crossed the street and walked a block past the supermarket, past the pharmacy and to the coffee shop with the green awning at the entrance.
Christmas music was playing inside. Actually, the particular song was secular holiday music if we're to be nit-picky. There was a short line to the cashier, and he craned his neck upward to look at the selection as he queued.
Make sure you know what you want once you get to the counter.
Yeah. Don't be that guy.
It's warmer out than expected. Why not go for a frap?
Plain, simple dark-roasted black coffee. Coffee that tastes like coffee.
"'Tis the season for a gingerbread latte!" proclaimed a chalkboard bordered by gold and silver tinsel.
'Tis the season.
The man in front of him had neatly parted hair and was wearing glasses, a starched shirt and a bow-tie.
Upon reaching the counter, the stranger barked his order: "A venti, half-caffeine, skim, no foam, three pump caramel, one pump hazelnut, macchiato with Splenda, whipped cream and a dome lid."
Brewed with rosewater, of course. And a saucer with gold-leaf trim...
Yeah. Definitely don't be THAT guy.
What a crappy job.
Are you ready for work tomorrow?
You have that meeting in the morning.
"Sir? Can I take your order?" A cordial female voice was coming from somewhere. "Sir?"
The barrista was a short, attractive and dark-haired girl, wearing the obligatory green apron and forced smile. Or maybe it wasn't forced. She may have even been flirting. He didn't notice.
"Oh, yes. Hi. Umm. Medium regular coffee--black, please."
Next to the register were overpriced compilation discs, presumably containing the same music that was currently playing in the shop.
You were supposed to call your mother last week.
Why don't you do that now?
You forgot to bring your phone.
"Will that be all?"
He was already looking around the room to find a place to sit. Two women in the corner were talking about the contents of their shopping bags, which sat beside them at their table in chairs of their own.
"Hmm? ... Um. Yes," he stammered. "Thank you."
It's too crowded in here.
And noisy.
What about breakfast? You haven't eaten yet.
Once the transaction was complete, he took back his debit card and receipt and turned to exit the shop.
"Sir?" she said, a bit sheepishly. "Your coffee?"
It was still sitting on the counter next to a tip jar.
"Oh yeah." He blushed, fumbled through his pockets, and dropped the only change he had into the jar. Grabbing the cup, he hurried away and out the door.
Sitting down at a nearby bus stop bench, coffee in hand, he turned his wrist to look at his watch. Hot liquid spilled over the crotch of his pants.
It was 4 P.M.
Thursday, September 6, 2012
In search of cheap (or free) education
Just a short post today to get the word out about some new learning sites I have come upon. I have started a few courses with little to no cost, and I now find that I'm happier overall with life in general. Education is a lifelong process for me and I'm glad to be away from any feelings of stagnation.
Coursera
Cost: FREE
I was first turned on to this site while watching a TED talk by its co-founder, Daphne Koller. http://www.ted.com/talks/daphne_koller_what_we_re_learning_from_online_education.html
(TED, which stands for Technology, Entertainment and Design, is a starting point for anyone interested in learning about the latest ideas and innovations across myriad fields and subject matter.)
Khan Academy
Cost: FREE
I haven't tried this yet, but you can get an idea of what it's like from this video.
Rosetta Stone
Cost: Around $35/month for the online courses.
Rosetta Stone is probably the most well-known and acclaimed provider of computer-based courses on language. In addition to the CD-ROM course packages, they also offer the courses online by subscription through a site called TOTALe. A few months back, I decided to try a beginner's course in Italian through TOTALe and found it to be a both fun and effective way of learning a new language. There are interactive tutoring groups with native speakers as well as engaging games to help you brush up on the material learned. In the end, I did not renew my subscription since I could no longer afford it and I had some problems with the TOTALe site. For instance, I'm not sure why there were separate logins for the Rosetta Stone site and the TOTALe site. This caused me some confusion and resulted in my getting locked out of the site on several occasions. Also, I'm not sure that they offer the 3-month and 6-month subscriptions any longer, so you may have to commit to a full year. Nevertheless, it is, overall, a quality product.
Babbel
Cost: $12.95/ month
At a only a fraction of the cost, Babbel uses similar technology and methodologies to Rosetta Stone, which include voice recognition plug-ins to help with pronunciation and the interactive exercises that use inference and visual aids to guide you through the learning process. Unlike Rosetta Stone, however, Babbel utilizes your native language in the teaching process instead of relying solely on pictures and logic. I am sure that there are advantages and disadvantages to both methods, which I am likely to uncover as I get further into the course material. Whether you opt for the courses on this site or the more expensive (and perhaps more thorough/natural) Rosetta Stone courses, there is no reason why anyone with access to the internet should pay $300+ to drive to a college campus to take a language course a few times per week.
Coursera
Cost: FREE
I was first turned on to this site while watching a TED talk by its co-founder, Daphne Koller. http://www.ted.com/talks/daphne_koller_what_we_re_learning_from_online_education.html
(TED, which stands for Technology, Entertainment and Design, is a starting point for anyone interested in learning about the latest ideas and innovations across myriad fields and subject matter.)
Khan Academy
Cost: FREE
I haven't tried this yet, but you can get an idea of what it's like from this video.
Rosetta Stone
Cost: Around $35/month for the online courses.
Rosetta Stone is probably the most well-known and acclaimed provider of computer-based courses on language. In addition to the CD-ROM course packages, they also offer the courses online by subscription through a site called TOTALe. A few months back, I decided to try a beginner's course in Italian through TOTALe and found it to be a both fun and effective way of learning a new language. There are interactive tutoring groups with native speakers as well as engaging games to help you brush up on the material learned. In the end, I did not renew my subscription since I could no longer afford it and I had some problems with the TOTALe site. For instance, I'm not sure why there were separate logins for the Rosetta Stone site and the TOTALe site. This caused me some confusion and resulted in my getting locked out of the site on several occasions. Also, I'm not sure that they offer the 3-month and 6-month subscriptions any longer, so you may have to commit to a full year. Nevertheless, it is, overall, a quality product.
Babbel
Cost: $12.95/ month
At a only a fraction of the cost, Babbel uses similar technology and methodologies to Rosetta Stone, which include voice recognition plug-ins to help with pronunciation and the interactive exercises that use inference and visual aids to guide you through the learning process. Unlike Rosetta Stone, however, Babbel utilizes your native language in the teaching process instead of relying solely on pictures and logic. I am sure that there are advantages and disadvantages to both methods, which I am likely to uncover as I get further into the course material. Whether you opt for the courses on this site or the more expensive (and perhaps more thorough/natural) Rosetta Stone courses, there is no reason why anyone with access to the internet should pay $300+ to drive to a college campus to take a language course a few times per week.
Friday, May 11, 2012
Tiny Caterpillar by A Man and His Keys
Pre-final draft of the lyrics to my soon-to-be chart-topping song. If all goes well, I may have a video up soon. However, for now--call it technical difficulties or divine mercy--you will be spared.
Great majestic turtles from the sea
Burying what yet has come to be
The future sits within the realm of faith
Forget your futility
Don't dwell on probabilities
Take your daily pill and be OK
Listless little sheep among your flock
Don't forget that you are on the clock
Your job may be to sleep and graze and shit
In life, remain oblivious
And never be lascivious
Just try to make the most out of it
Cannonball cannibals
On Adderoll and panic pills
And silky moths that come when you're in bed
That flutter in florescent green
And fly around effortlessly
So maybe you can sleep when you are dead
Tiny caterpillar in a tree
Think not of what you may one day be
For though it may come off as sounding crude
Your life is much simpler now
You may not make it anyhow
At any moment you could be bird food.
Great majestic turtles from the sea
Burying what yet has come to be
The future sits within the realm of faith
Forget your futility
Don't dwell on probabilities
Take your daily pill and be OK
Listless little sheep among your flock
Don't forget that you are on the clock
Your job may be to sleep and graze and shit
In life, remain oblivious
And never be lascivious
Just try to make the most out of it
Cannonball cannibals
On Adderoll and panic pills
And silky moths that come when you're in bed
That flutter in florescent green
And fly around effortlessly
So maybe you can sleep when you are dead
Tiny caterpillar in a tree
Think not of what you may one day be
For though it may come off as sounding crude
Your life is much simpler now
You may not make it anyhow
At any moment you could be bird food.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Traveling (Day 1)
I heaved my luggage, a hefty carry-on bag and a backpack, into the taxi that was parked there in the gravel lot. I immediately followed it, sliding rear first inside. I knew the cost of the ride was going to take a big chunk out of my spending money, but it was the only way to get to my destination. I also knew that, even if I felt so inclined, there was no turning back. The last ferry of the night was the one from which I had just disembarked.
It was dark now. The last signs of daylight had retreated from me during the boat ride, the churning of which had left me feeling a bit queasy. I uttered a few words in Spanish to the driver, and we were on our way. The crackling sounds and the rumbling of the stones beneath us quickly gave way to the smoothness and droning hum of the pavement. This relaxed me a bit as did the knowledge that things were no longer in my control. Surrendering to fate was a comforting, if transient, relinquishing of responsibility. I sat back and closed my eyes.
I was still wearing my work clothes sans the tie that I had pulled off and shoved into my bag on my way out of San Jose. It was a simple wardrobe consisting of a short-sleeved button-up shirt made of cotton and dyed a mustard yellow accompanied by a gray pair of khakis and some long black socks. Until then, I hadn't really had time to think about the taxing journey from the Ministerio to the bus station, to the port, and finally, across the bay. I tried to relax. I was on vacation after all.
Out the windows I could see only darkness, save for the twisting conveyor belt of road and dashes of yellow paint up ahead illuminated by the car's headlamps. Other than the occasional motorcycle, there was hardly any traffic at all and no specks of light or landmarks that would indicate the presence of civilization. I could feel the torsion pulling me from side to side as we wound through the hilly countryside. I closed my eyes and imagined a space capsule hurtling through the turbulence of solar winds in an inky void.
Thirty minutes or more had past when we pulled into town. I told the driver to drop me off anywhere he saw fit. I paid him, thanked him and with luggage in hand was on my way--to where, it was as yet uncertain. A few fellow students from the exchange program had gone ahead of me and were supposed to have arrived earlier. I decided to do a half-hearted search for them while exploring the town.
It wasn't much, just a coastal strip and the short road leading up to it. There were bars, restaurants, a camera shop and a couple of nightclubs from what I could glean, but no sign of my university acquaintances. I was beginning to feel the burden of my bag, which having taken turns from one hand to the other, had made red grooves in each along the folds of my fingers. When I decided to give up the search, I had found myself in a rather loud and crowded bar. Although I felt uncomfortable and out of place, I also felt it to be a spot where no one would notice I was alone. I could be a ghost there. It would be less awkward. I ordered a beer.
The din was dying down and the crowds thinning. I decided I was going to sleep on the beach--or was that my plan all along? Henrik and Alice, a few friends I had made back in the city, would be arriving at some time the following day. I would meet up with them, at which time we could collectively make plans for lodging. It was cheaper to share rooms, and there was a lot that I wanted to see and do.
I gained access to the beach by walking back to the start of the strip and around the first bar with its well-lit patio. The businesses on that side of the road were oceanfront, but Costa Rican law ensured that all beaches were to be public, and therefore, access and use could not be restricted in any way. I stepped over a narrow, shallow trench, through which the waste water from the bar ran into the ocean. It was just a few feet away from this stream that I decided to set myself up for the night. The patio lights were still on and from there emanated an audible and lingering mirth. I figured that it would be safer and that I'd have less chance of being robbed if I stayed close to tourist activity. I unbuttoned and removed my dress shirt and kept my undershirt on. I laid out a towel and placed my bag at the end of it. Laying down on the towel, I rested my head against the bag. My feet stuck out and laid upon the cool sand.
It wasn't the most comfortable of arrangements, but then again, comfort was never the main factor governing the quality of my sleep. Despite my vulnerability in the open air, I felt free and at ease. I had little choice but to face the ocean since any other arrangement might have resulted in a steady slide down the sandy slope to where it met the waves. With belongings stowed safely beneath my head, I began to nod off. I embraced the willful surrender to darkness, as we all do, and placed myself in its arms. The world around me became muffled. I recall hearing transient voices and the shuffling sounds of people passing behind and above me. I was already more than half asleep and unwilling to open my eyes or break the paralysis that had overtaken me.
*****
The shutters opened--the lenses blurry for a moment. Shivering, I jolted upwards. I reached into my bag to grab a sweatshirt. It seemed I could not put the garment on fast enough. I pulled out a hoodie as well and draped it over myself as I laid down. To satisfy my curiosity, I struggled to read my watch in the moonlight. It was around 4 A.M.--a sign that I wasn't dreaming. Apart from the gentle lapping of waves before me, all was still and quiet. The shutters closed. The sound of ocean faded.
It was dark now. The last signs of daylight had retreated from me during the boat ride, the churning of which had left me feeling a bit queasy. I uttered a few words in Spanish to the driver, and we were on our way. The crackling sounds and the rumbling of the stones beneath us quickly gave way to the smoothness and droning hum of the pavement. This relaxed me a bit as did the knowledge that things were no longer in my control. Surrendering to fate was a comforting, if transient, relinquishing of responsibility. I sat back and closed my eyes.
I was still wearing my work clothes sans the tie that I had pulled off and shoved into my bag on my way out of San Jose. It was a simple wardrobe consisting of a short-sleeved button-up shirt made of cotton and dyed a mustard yellow accompanied by a gray pair of khakis and some long black socks. Until then, I hadn't really had time to think about the taxing journey from the Ministerio to the bus station, to the port, and finally, across the bay. I tried to relax. I was on vacation after all.
Out the windows I could see only darkness, save for the twisting conveyor belt of road and dashes of yellow paint up ahead illuminated by the car's headlamps. Other than the occasional motorcycle, there was hardly any traffic at all and no specks of light or landmarks that would indicate the presence of civilization. I could feel the torsion pulling me from side to side as we wound through the hilly countryside. I closed my eyes and imagined a space capsule hurtling through the turbulence of solar winds in an inky void.
Thirty minutes or more had past when we pulled into town. I told the driver to drop me off anywhere he saw fit. I paid him, thanked him and with luggage in hand was on my way--to where, it was as yet uncertain. A few fellow students from the exchange program had gone ahead of me and were supposed to have arrived earlier. I decided to do a half-hearted search for them while exploring the town.
It wasn't much, just a coastal strip and the short road leading up to it. There were bars, restaurants, a camera shop and a couple of nightclubs from what I could glean, but no sign of my university acquaintances. I was beginning to feel the burden of my bag, which having taken turns from one hand to the other, had made red grooves in each along the folds of my fingers. When I decided to give up the search, I had found myself in a rather loud and crowded bar. Although I felt uncomfortable and out of place, I also felt it to be a spot where no one would notice I was alone. I could be a ghost there. It would be less awkward. I ordered a beer.
The din was dying down and the crowds thinning. I decided I was going to sleep on the beach--or was that my plan all along? Henrik and Alice, a few friends I had made back in the city, would be arriving at some time the following day. I would meet up with them, at which time we could collectively make plans for lodging. It was cheaper to share rooms, and there was a lot that I wanted to see and do.
I gained access to the beach by walking back to the start of the strip and around the first bar with its well-lit patio. The businesses on that side of the road were oceanfront, but Costa Rican law ensured that all beaches were to be public, and therefore, access and use could not be restricted in any way. I stepped over a narrow, shallow trench, through which the waste water from the bar ran into the ocean. It was just a few feet away from this stream that I decided to set myself up for the night. The patio lights were still on and from there emanated an audible and lingering mirth. I figured that it would be safer and that I'd have less chance of being robbed if I stayed close to tourist activity. I unbuttoned and removed my dress shirt and kept my undershirt on. I laid out a towel and placed my bag at the end of it. Laying down on the towel, I rested my head against the bag. My feet stuck out and laid upon the cool sand.
It wasn't the most comfortable of arrangements, but then again, comfort was never the main factor governing the quality of my sleep. Despite my vulnerability in the open air, I felt free and at ease. I had little choice but to face the ocean since any other arrangement might have resulted in a steady slide down the sandy slope to where it met the waves. With belongings stowed safely beneath my head, I began to nod off. I embraced the willful surrender to darkness, as we all do, and placed myself in its arms. The world around me became muffled. I recall hearing transient voices and the shuffling sounds of people passing behind and above me. I was already more than half asleep and unwilling to open my eyes or break the paralysis that had overtaken me.
*****
The shutters opened--the lenses blurry for a moment. Shivering, I jolted upwards. I reached into my bag to grab a sweatshirt. It seemed I could not put the garment on fast enough. I pulled out a hoodie as well and draped it over myself as I laid down. To satisfy my curiosity, I struggled to read my watch in the moonlight. It was around 4 A.M.--a sign that I wasn't dreaming. Apart from the gentle lapping of waves before me, all was still and quiet. The shutters closed. The sound of ocean faded.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Themistocles
Themistocles, gather your fleet
Get ev’ry one up on their feet
Say, we’re going to war
A trireme’s oars are swinging to the beat
Of the pipe and drum
The sound’s pitch overcomes the water
I know of a place
To hide your wives and daughters
All the things we’ve left behind go up in flames
Yet, for now, our freedom, love and life remains
Since you took the reins
Poseidon, won’t you take our side?
Shake the land, and calm the seas
It’s on you we rely
To help vanquish all our enemies
Committing deicide
I confide that you are needed
To bring them to their knees
To leave ‘em humbled and defeated
And when the brilliance of a man rebuffs the odds
He’s, for a time, elevated to a god
But then he’s just a sod
Themistocles, don’t look back
Glory fades and fealty wanes
We’re not under attack
Though blood creates a lasting stain
Cast out and bereaved
Made to leave and without honor
Will they remember your name?
And will your soul be soldered?
Get ev’ry one up on their feet
Say, we’re going to war
A trireme’s oars are swinging to the beat
Of the pipe and drum
The sound’s pitch overcomes the water
I know of a place
To hide your wives and daughters
All the things we’ve left behind go up in flames
Yet, for now, our freedom, love and life remains
Since you took the reins
Poseidon, won’t you take our side?
Shake the land, and calm the seas
It’s on you we rely
To help vanquish all our enemies
Committing deicide
I confide that you are needed
To bring them to their knees
To leave ‘em humbled and defeated
And when the brilliance of a man rebuffs the odds
He’s, for a time, elevated to a god
But then he’s just a sod
Themistocles, don’t look back
Glory fades and fealty wanes
We’re not under attack
Though blood creates a lasting stain
Cast out and bereaved
Made to leave and without honor
Will they remember your name?
And will your soul be soldered?
Monday, January 2, 2012
Foreign Policy, Iraq and Political Activism: A Look Back
It's toe tag and body bag weather
With showers of locusts and dust
From the mortars to our quarters
Shells are raining down on us.
Sand flies up the hour glass
Oil slides down the well
A moment can feel like a lifetime
In the next we may be in hell
Or is hell this anticipation
And death just the release
A holy book though often mistook
Is our only refuge for peace
It's toe tag and body bag weather
Our ziggurats crumble to dust
Your modern ideals won't pay for our meals
But you say that your war is just.
********
I try not to be too political in most of my writing and focus more on things to which most people can relate. However, I recently came across the above untitled poem that I wrote about a year and a half ago. It was intended to be from what I imagined was the perspective of one of the people we had "liberated" in Iraq. And although I want this blog to mostly be creative writing rather than diatribes, it felt like a good time to reassess all of my feelings about the war and their effect on me. So I begin. Tune in if you wish.
********
Now that our troops are officially withdrawn from Iraq, I find myself trying to understand what it all means. The truth is: even with a background in foreign policy, I have no idea. The complexity of it--the various government agencies that sometimes share information or not, the various levels of security authorization, the political agendas--have me utterly confounded. Do we as citizens have any hope of getting anywhere near the the truth when it comes to foreign policy? What about journalists?
Back in 2003, in the lead up to the war, campus groups at SUNY Fredonia and the University of Buffalo organized a trip to an anti-war rally in NYC, which I attended as a member of the Fredonia Students for Peace. Everyone had their own moral or ideological reasons for being there. I will share mine with you, but first, some background information.
I had recently learned about the U.S. involvement in Nicaragua during the 80s, the aim of which was to topple the revolutionary Sandinista government--one that had just overthrown a brutal authoritarian government. The "intervention" as many of these excursions came to be called involved: providing arms for the exiled thugs of the autocratic Samoza regime (known as Contras), training Contra leaders in military and law enforcement techniques (including torture) at a US facility called the School of the Americas, and using CIA covert operations to mine Nicaraguan harbors to prevent goods from being imported into the country. The first two methods mentioned above can be considered war crimes and the latter an act of terrorism by any definition. Not included in the heavily redacted documents regarding the intervention was any indication that the Sandinista government posed any imminent national security threat to the US. In fact, it was later revealed that the Soviets didn't want much to do with them at the time as they were already using up a significant amount of resources in Cuba to prop up the Castro government--an endeavor that was bearing little fruit.
As I began learning about similar (earlier) adventures into Guatemala, Chile and Iran. I began to realize that much of foreign policy claimed to be conducted under the auspices of national security was, in fact, done for reasons of ideology (Socialism=evil) or to benefit powerful interest groups that had vested interests in the domestic policies of these sovereign nations. It was these and other examples that made me think critically about the impending invasion of Iraq.
Now it seemed that we were using the threat of terrorism and supposed presence of al-Qaida in Iraq as a raison d'etre for invading. Yet, we knew that Saddam Hussein's regime and Osama bin Laden shared little in common ideologically and were actually bitter enemies.
There were the assertions that Hussein was in possession of or trying to develop Weapons of Mass Destruction. This was not new. In fact, we always knew that he was trying to develop these weapons, however, there was little, if any, evidence that he was close to posing an imminent threat to the US or even Israel (unofficially our 51st state). We still had options to work with the United Nations and the International Atomic Energy Agency.
The seemingly long list of allies in our coalition included Poland and Costa Rica. Countries that would contribute very little, but whose involvement would be used to legitimize the invasion, amounted to little more than moral support in most cases (Costa Rica doesn't even have an army). This benefited the Bush administration by making it seem as if it had a lot of political allies around the world even if those allies were putting very little at risk in terms of their own resources. Those allies received the benefit of gaining political capital with the world's only superpower.
So what was really going on here? None of it seemed to add up, which is the reason I now found myself on the streets of Manhattan in solidarity with the other protesters there as well as in other major cities around the world. I don't know what reasons the others had for being there, and I can't speak for them. Sure, some of them were probably there simply because they believed war is a terrible thing, and of course it is (even if it is sometimes necessary). Mine, I believe, had as much to do with pragmatism as it did ideology.
In the end, we never made it to the rally at the United Nations Building. The NYPD had barricaded the streets around it. Thousands of us were jammed up in streets that would normally have a high amount of vehicle traffic. The police tried to push us all onto the sidewalk, on which, even if we were piled one storey high, we probably wouldn't have been able to fit.
Though they caused more chaos in Manhattan rather than mitigating it, their strategy worked. News coverage of the rally showed an event that looked sparsely populated, and the disruption of traffic where we were held up couldn't have endeared us to the locals. The effect of the rally was severely diminished. Not that it would have mattered much. I believe the march to war, by that time, was inevitable and had already been pre-determined. A month later we invaded.
During my next semester of college, I tried to revive the group known as Fredonia Students for Peace with little success. I was able to get the group re-chartered since it was up for renewal, but only managed to get five members to join--all freshmen who were new to the group.
I suppose there were a number of reasons why we lost our momentum. First, the whole movement seemed deflated after the war actually began. It's strange because we usually protest wars while they are happening, but this time we thought we could prevent one. I think there was a general feeling of defeat.
Secondly, FSP's leaders had either graduated or were too busy with their involvement in other campus groups. Some of the members perhaps started believeing the fallacy that being against the war was in conflict with being supportive of our troops. Yet, I can speak for myself, and I think for most of the people who demonstrated, in having nothing but respect and admiration for those who serve in our armed forces.
Nevertheless, we were depleted and leaderless when I tried to step in. I had no experience in organizing activist groups as well as very poor (undeveloped might be more generous) leadership skills. I didn't stand a chance, but I believed I did. And that, I think, was congruous with the global anti-war movement as a whole. We just didn't stand a chance.
As I said, foreign policy is complex. It's hard for people who are worried about the day-to-day events in their personal lives to understand how such policy affects them. I'll admit, even I can't say with absolute certitude that we were wrong to invade. The story will go on. More details will be furnished. What I can say without doubt though is that we were deceived and misled.
What we learn in Foreign Policy 101 is that there are "official" reasons for the actions that we take--that is to say, those that are given to the press by communications departments--and there are the real reasons for those actions and the policies governing them.
Because of this, it is important that we think critically and hold our government accountable. This is equally important in matters of domestic policy.
In a later post, I may expound on this as it relates to the Occupy (Wall Street) movement and why I think that, this time, there is a real chance for people to make a difference.
With showers of locusts and dust
From the mortars to our quarters
Shells are raining down on us.
Sand flies up the hour glass
Oil slides down the well
A moment can feel like a lifetime
In the next we may be in hell
Or is hell this anticipation
And death just the release
A holy book though often mistook
Is our only refuge for peace
It's toe tag and body bag weather
Our ziggurats crumble to dust
Your modern ideals won't pay for our meals
But you say that your war is just.
********
I try not to be too political in most of my writing and focus more on things to which most people can relate. However, I recently came across the above untitled poem that I wrote about a year and a half ago. It was intended to be from what I imagined was the perspective of one of the people we had "liberated" in Iraq. And although I want this blog to mostly be creative writing rather than diatribes, it felt like a good time to reassess all of my feelings about the war and their effect on me. So I begin. Tune in if you wish.
********
Now that our troops are officially withdrawn from Iraq, I find myself trying to understand what it all means. The truth is: even with a background in foreign policy, I have no idea. The complexity of it--the various government agencies that sometimes share information or not, the various levels of security authorization, the political agendas--have me utterly confounded. Do we as citizens have any hope of getting anywhere near the the truth when it comes to foreign policy? What about journalists?
Back in 2003, in the lead up to the war, campus groups at SUNY Fredonia and the University of Buffalo organized a trip to an anti-war rally in NYC, which I attended as a member of the Fredonia Students for Peace. Everyone had their own moral or ideological reasons for being there. I will share mine with you, but first, some background information.
I had recently learned about the U.S. involvement in Nicaragua during the 80s, the aim of which was to topple the revolutionary Sandinista government--one that had just overthrown a brutal authoritarian government. The "intervention" as many of these excursions came to be called involved: providing arms for the exiled thugs of the autocratic Samoza regime (known as Contras), training Contra leaders in military and law enforcement techniques (including torture) at a US facility called the School of the Americas, and using CIA covert operations to mine Nicaraguan harbors to prevent goods from being imported into the country. The first two methods mentioned above can be considered war crimes and the latter an act of terrorism by any definition. Not included in the heavily redacted documents regarding the intervention was any indication that the Sandinista government posed any imminent national security threat to the US. In fact, it was later revealed that the Soviets didn't want much to do with them at the time as they were already using up a significant amount of resources in Cuba to prop up the Castro government--an endeavor that was bearing little fruit.
As I began learning about similar (earlier) adventures into Guatemala, Chile and Iran. I began to realize that much of foreign policy claimed to be conducted under the auspices of national security was, in fact, done for reasons of ideology (Socialism=evil) or to benefit powerful interest groups that had vested interests in the domestic policies of these sovereign nations. It was these and other examples that made me think critically about the impending invasion of Iraq.
Now it seemed that we were using the threat of terrorism and supposed presence of al-Qaida in Iraq as a raison d'etre for invading. Yet, we knew that Saddam Hussein's regime and Osama bin Laden shared little in common ideologically and were actually bitter enemies.
There were the assertions that Hussein was in possession of or trying to develop Weapons of Mass Destruction. This was not new. In fact, we always knew that he was trying to develop these weapons, however, there was little, if any, evidence that he was close to posing an imminent threat to the US or even Israel (unofficially our 51st state). We still had options to work with the United Nations and the International Atomic Energy Agency.
The seemingly long list of allies in our coalition included Poland and Costa Rica. Countries that would contribute very little, but whose involvement would be used to legitimize the invasion, amounted to little more than moral support in most cases (Costa Rica doesn't even have an army). This benefited the Bush administration by making it seem as if it had a lot of political allies around the world even if those allies were putting very little at risk in terms of their own resources. Those allies received the benefit of gaining political capital with the world's only superpower.
So what was really going on here? None of it seemed to add up, which is the reason I now found myself on the streets of Manhattan in solidarity with the other protesters there as well as in other major cities around the world. I don't know what reasons the others had for being there, and I can't speak for them. Sure, some of them were probably there simply because they believed war is a terrible thing, and of course it is (even if it is sometimes necessary). Mine, I believe, had as much to do with pragmatism as it did ideology.
In the end, we never made it to the rally at the United Nations Building. The NYPD had barricaded the streets around it. Thousands of us were jammed up in streets that would normally have a high amount of vehicle traffic. The police tried to push us all onto the sidewalk, on which, even if we were piled one storey high, we probably wouldn't have been able to fit.
Though they caused more chaos in Manhattan rather than mitigating it, their strategy worked. News coverage of the rally showed an event that looked sparsely populated, and the disruption of traffic where we were held up couldn't have endeared us to the locals. The effect of the rally was severely diminished. Not that it would have mattered much. I believe the march to war, by that time, was inevitable and had already been pre-determined. A month later we invaded.
During my next semester of college, I tried to revive the group known as Fredonia Students for Peace with little success. I was able to get the group re-chartered since it was up for renewal, but only managed to get five members to join--all freshmen who were new to the group.
I suppose there were a number of reasons why we lost our momentum. First, the whole movement seemed deflated after the war actually began. It's strange because we usually protest wars while they are happening, but this time we thought we could prevent one. I think there was a general feeling of defeat.
Secondly, FSP's leaders had either graduated or were too busy with their involvement in other campus groups. Some of the members perhaps started believeing the fallacy that being against the war was in conflict with being supportive of our troops. Yet, I can speak for myself, and I think for most of the people who demonstrated, in having nothing but respect and admiration for those who serve in our armed forces.
Nevertheless, we were depleted and leaderless when I tried to step in. I had no experience in organizing activist groups as well as very poor (undeveloped might be more generous) leadership skills. I didn't stand a chance, but I believed I did. And that, I think, was congruous with the global anti-war movement as a whole. We just didn't stand a chance.
As I said, foreign policy is complex. It's hard for people who are worried about the day-to-day events in their personal lives to understand how such policy affects them. I'll admit, even I can't say with absolute certitude that we were wrong to invade. The story will go on. More details will be furnished. What I can say without doubt though is that we were deceived and misled.
What we learn in Foreign Policy 101 is that there are "official" reasons for the actions that we take--that is to say, those that are given to the press by communications departments--and there are the real reasons for those actions and the policies governing them.
Because of this, it is important that we think critically and hold our government accountable. This is equally important in matters of domestic policy.
In a later post, I may expound on this as it relates to the Occupy (Wall Street) movement and why I think that, this time, there is a real chance for people to make a difference.
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