Chronic Illness, Hidden Battles, and the Death of a Celebrity

The outpouring of grief at the recent loss of a beloved actor and comedian as well as the show of admiration for him as a person and for his achievements have been heartwarming to be sure. Over the past few days we have read and heard loving tributes to Robin Williams and additional entreaties to better understand and treat mental illness and addiction. It would be nice to think that these conversations were moving us forward and out of the dark ages of mental health treatment and discourse. There is, however, little evidence to suggest that this is the case. After all, we have been down this road before--most recently--with the untimely death of actor Phillip Seymour Hoffman.

Though the grief and condolences may be sincere, they are not always accompanied by a change in behavior and attitudes. For all of the sympathy we may show for the dead, it does not always translate to compassion for the living. Let's be honest here; the very same comedians and talk show hosts who claim to be torn up about these tragic losses in the entertainment industry rarely miss a chance to go after easy targets such as Lindsey Lohan or even Rob Ford. We participate with our mix of laughter and derision. The message: the struggles of those living with addiction or mental illness are fair game as long as we can frame these people as unlikeable or unsavory characters.

Also at issue is the tendency to see and value others not as human beings but as merely role players. I was struck by something Wayne Brady said Tuesday night in an interview on Al Jazeera America. He mentioned, and I'm paraphrasing here, that performers feel a kind of pressure to always be "on," that they are not afforded the opportunity to be vulnerable or sad, because it is not what people want to see from them. I do not doubt that this is generally true, but I am certain that it is not universally true.

Consider the following of the acclaimed podcast the Mental Illness Happy Hour, which is hosted and produced by comedian Paul Gilmartin. It started in 2011 as an hour-long, weekly show featuring interviews with his show biz friends about their internal struggles. The shows now tend to run over two hours long and involve the reading of listener surveys to show us that "we are not alone" in our mental battles. MIHH is unlike any other podcast out there, and it allows a space for guests to be honest and open. Its niche but avid following serves as proof that many of us appreciate performers more after seeing their more human sides.

Insecurity is a common theme even among the more famous and accomplished of the show's guests. There is that illusion of success that we idealize--that finish line like a horizon that recedes as fast as we move toward it. With all the pressures of our society and culture, the high value they place on ambition and drive, it can feel as though we never have enough, do enough or are enough. It does not matter who we are or where we are in life. Sometimes we think if we just got that promotion, got published in that magazine, or got that house in the suburbs, we would be OK. Chances are though, you have already got a lot going for you. So if you cannot appreciate and be happy with what you have, what you do, and who you are now, what makes you think that next arbitrary milestone will change anything?

It can be even more tiresome and defeating when we have to fake ambition or find that its existence is so often blanketed by apathy. Even the things we want to do can become cumbersome. I have sat indoors on perfect summer days, knowing that I should be taking advantage of the fair weather but also certain that I will not be able to enjoy it in the way that most others will. I have spent hours standing in front of my stage piano and keyboard trying to re-create the exhilaration and joy I once felt for playing and composing music only to quickly become bored and feel disconnected from the experience. This lack of feeling connected can be particularly painful.

The truth about emotional pain is that, like physical pain, it comes in many forms. There is the constant dull throbbing that seems to permeate through your soul and can last for weeks at a time. On the other end of the spectrum, there are the acute pangs of dread and despair that can be excruciating. Is it any wonder then that we might turn to alcohol or other recreational drugs to distract ourselves, if only temporarily, from this hell? Luckily, I have gained some insight and wisdom over years of working on myself emotionally. I have learned that this momentary relief can lead to a harsh rebound effect and a self-sustaining death spiral. So I am more mindful now, more in touch with my feelings, and I try to feel compassion for myself whenever possible.

Yet, the scary thought remains. Williams presumably knew all of this. He talked about alcoholism and rehab in thoughtful ways. The cruel thing about conditions such as his is that you can think you are in the clear and suddenly hit a brick wall. All of that gained wisdom can be forgotten in a whirlwind of depression, and that is perhaps the most frightening and tragic aspect of his death. It begs the question: Are any of us ever really "in the clear?"

We now know that it was not a relapse into substance abuse that spurred his final actions but likely the beginning stages of Parkinson's disease. Chronic conditions, especially neurological ones, can be triggers or intensifiers of depression, and they can pop up at just about any time in our lives.

It is my hope that things will change. One day we may look back at our trial-and-error approach for treating mental illness and neurological disorders in the way we now think about using leeches and exorcism to cure disease. We may finally get to the causes instead of just treating the symptoms. Until then, however, we must remember that we never know the full extent of what those around us are dealing with internally. Perhaps they are experiencing debilitating physical pain or their souls may feel like cold, wet dog poop. So it is important to be constructive with our criticism and generous with our praise--to let the people in our lives know that we value them for the whole of who they are and that our lives are better for their mere presence in them even though that may not ultimately be enough.

5 common mistakes made by new writers

I should preface this all by saying that I do not want to give anyone a complex. It is important not to overthink your first draft and constantly second guess yourself as I, myself, am disposed to doing. The voice of my inner editor can, and often does, disrupt the flow of my writing process. Nevertheless, there are some habits that new writers may want to break in order to improve their writing and make the editing process easier. Remember, editors have a lot of material to review, and, in this day and age, it seems to be all about getting content published as quickly as possible.

I am still getting used to the idea of editing and proofreading the work of others. In fact, I have plenty of doubts and insecurities when it comes to my own writing. Yet, there are a few issues that I come across frequently and which are fairly easy to correct. I have listed a few of them here.

1.) Putting two spaces after a sentence. This is something most of us learned in grammar school, but it no longer applies. I've heard that the practice of using two spaces to separate sentences harkens back to a time when typewriters were commonly used. Nowadays, space is at a premium and the wider gap can be disruptive to the flow of one's writing.

2.) Commas or dashes separating two (or more) independent clauses. Independent clauses work fine on their own, and short, simple sentences can be very effective. They can also be combined using conjunctions. Still, if using a conjunction seems inappropriate, and you really think that two otherwise complete sentences belong together as one thought, use a semi-colon to separate them.

3.) Not spelling out numbers up to ten. This varies depending on the style guide used (some recommend writing out numbers up to 100) and does not pertain to headlines. It can seem like nitpicking; however, it is generally disruptive to the reader when he/she has to switch between numbers and letters. On the other hand, writing out long numbers can feel clunky and take up a lot of space. Because, as a rule, numbers at the beginning of sentences should be written out in word form, it is best to avoid beginning a sentence with large figures whenever possible.

4.) Using the same word multiple times in a sentence or paragraph. This can be, at times, unavoidable. You may have noticed that I did it above with the word "sentence." Clarity is paramount in writing, and sometimes there just isn't a better word. Also, using some obscure word you found in the thesaurus can come off as pretentious. But consider the following unpalatable sentence:

Wanting some food, I went for food at the Food Truck Rodeo, which offers some of the best food around.

In this case, replacing an instance of the word "food" with, say, "alimentation" is probably not the best way to go.  Sometimes you just need to find a different way of phrasing your thought. There will be other times, however, when the dictionary and thesaurus will be your best friends.

5.) Verb agreement. If you are telling a story in the past tense, you need to stick with it. Here is an absurdly egregious example:

Yesterday, we went to the market, had eaten apples, and enjoy them very much. 

Being a stickler can often be unpleasant, and sometimes it seems as though rules can hold us back creatively. At the same time, the most creative among us may use the confinement of these rules to construct more thoughtful, meaningful sentences and more easily flowing prose.

Are there any editors out there? What are your biggest peeves and most often-encountered issues?

An Open Letter to the Bugle Podcast

Dear Chris, Andy and John (in order, from left to right, of the faces depicted on my mock Mt. Rushmore tattoo):

I am writing to express my dismay for your decision to name last week's episode Crimea River. At first, I thought: "Odessa good pun!" But then I started to think: "that was the worst joke Kiev-er made." Though I guess I Cyrillic can't blame you. I really think Ural gonna be sorry that you made light of Russian foreign policy, and I'm not sure it had Dnieper-pose. The whole situation seems quite grave, and I am worried about the potential Cossack-quences of any intervention. 

In any case, I love the show, and I wish Yalta best. 

***

You can catch this very witty and often ludicrous podcast here: http://thebuglepodcast.com/

HMS Moira

She blew in a day early,
A vessel tall and proud.
From across the world
With sails unfurled
She met the cheering crowd.

My Love had traveled on that ship
With other precious cargo.
A fateful freight
To abrogate
A long and cruel embargo.

Though liquor My Love had rarely touched,
A lady prim and prude,
We sought libation
In celebration
Of this end to solitude.

From the frigate to the shore
Clippers brought both rum and rye
To ingratiate
And satiate
Land and lips so dry.

The rum had put My Love at ease
To reveal her penetralia.
Though she would mind
When I, in kind,
Exposed my genitalia.

Below, the streets were filled with mirth.
The throngs were warbling tunes.
Lascivious
And oblivious
To hordes of marauding dragoons.

Though danger was approaching,
The gentry were now feral.
They hollered and clapped
And proceeded to tap
Each and every barrel.

While spirits on the battlefield
Can make a valiant soldier,
Before the dawn
The rum was gone,
And we were all hungover.

The sentinels were in a stupor
Among whom I was one.
We signaled in vain
And all would be slain
Before the day was done.

So heed you well this warning
From my post beyond the grave:
Beware what you do
That you may eschew
All that which doth deprave.

For our bounty did come early,
Bringing joy and then remorse.
What caused delight
Became our blight
An aquatic Trojan horse.

Homecoming

The sun was setting behind the hills, and the glare revealed the oily residues of passengers past on tinted panes of plexiglass. The intermittent ka-thump of the train cars and the passing of telephone poles through my field of vision were a reminder that I was moving toward something I didn't want to face. 

The funeral was set for tomorrow morning. I had no idea how I was supposed to give a proper eulogy for a man with so much ugliness. I wondered if anyone would be there and if I should even bother showing up. 

I grabbed my duffel bag and suitcase just as a shrill voice came over the P.A.: “Stony Creek station.” 

Despite the baggage, I didn’t mind the long walk through town. The sodium street lights flickered on to a dim glow as I came toward my old house. After about a minute, they gained full intensity, bathing the street in peachy light. 

At the porch steps, I pulled a hidden key from under a fake rock, made my way inside, and turned on the hallway light. 

Walking into the living room, I glanced over at the rocker. I imagined Ma there getting lost in her sitcoms and variety shows, because real life didn't come with laugh tracks and prompted applause. Pale blue light flashed across her expressionless face. 

The stairs groaned with the pressure and release of each step as I slowly plodded upward. My room was pretty much as I'd left it. A simple, scratched-up desk and wooden chair sat by the window, and the twin bed mattress without a frame was tucked by the wall under the slanted ceiling, which had taped to it a faded Led Zeppelin poster. 

I remembered Dad bursting through the door with unmitigated fury over something I had (or hadn't) done. He threw me against the wall, and with his hands encircling my neck, I started to black out. I could still hear Ma wailing through sobs, "Stop it, Hank! You're going to kill him!" But he couldn't hear her. His eyes revealed a kind of crazed, adrenaline-fueled trance. The smell of whiskey hit me just as I lost consciousness. 

The next day, Ma seemed oblivious. I didn't understand how she could just go about pretending that nothing had happened--like we lived in some kind of "Leave It to Beaver" fantasy world. "Let me fix you some eggs, Honey," she said. Yet, I suppose it was more than eggs she was trying to fix. It was our lives as well, as if food would fill these widening emotional chasms. 

I grabbed a flashlight from off the desk and climbed out of the window and onto the porch roof as I had on so many nights previous--those nights when Dad was shouting or Ma was crying and I just needed to escape. 

Across the street was Caroline Connors’ house. She was the only good thing in this beater town, and the only reason I could have had for staying. She had a way of ensnaring herself in relationships with older guys who treated her badly. Maybe they were stand-ins for her absent father, giving her just enough validation but no more than she thought she deserved. One night while sitting on the roof, I took a flashlight and pointed it at her window, waving my hand in front of the beam as if to signal. She came over and climbed up to my perch where we talked for hours, both sharing our need to get away from our lives in this town. 

I wondered where she was and what she was up to this evening--thinking she was probably away somewhere married to some guy she couldn't stand. I hated that I had these thoughts--resurging crests of jealousy--but my mind just couldn't help but go there. Just then it caught my eye. From across the street a light was flashing from a bedroom window: Our secret signal. My heart leapt into my throat.

Noćnik

Great War Island, at the confluence of the Danube and Sava rivers, was so named because of its strategic importance in both the defense and siege of Belgrade. Officially, it was uninhabited, but there were a few of us who summered there in shanties--tending our gardens in solitude just a few hundred meters outside of the old city. Hidden behind a dense woodland, it might as well have been miles away. It had been a mistake to come here in early spring when the night air was still bitterly cold and there would be no one near to hear my screams. 

My heart was racing and sweat beaded up across my brow. It was time, and I was frantic. I knew that, at any moment, it would come for me--just like it had late at night when I was a child. 

Belgrade itself was no stranger to recurring nightmares. Countless times, the city had been raided and leveled by marauders, violated and passed about from Celts to Romans to Byzantines and Franks, juggled between Austrians and Turks. For ravenous, warmongering men, she was an object to be conquered and ravaged. 

Over the centuries, the walls were fortified and held for a time. But while they were keeping out Ottoman invaders, they also kept in pestilence and famine. 

In the cabin, the curtains, like swollen bubos, inflated into the candle-lit room with the brisk outdoor breeze. I pushed them aside and rushed to close the shutters, which I slammed and bolted in place. I ran to the door and, after fumbling for several seconds with my skeleton key, managed to lock it. I slid a chair toward it, screeching across the bare wooden floor, and propped it under the knob. 

At my bed I made the sign of the cross on my pillow before turning it over. This was the Serbian ritual for keeping the demon or mora away passed down over generations. I remembered how my mother taught it to me one sleepless night when I was a small child. The thought gave me some momentary comfort. But then the candle suddenly went out. 

I dove under the covers, shaking violently. It was dark and silent except for the chattering of my teeth. Then I saw it. A green light came in through the keyhole. It flowed in like a vapor at first and then began to take the shape of a luminescent moth. It approached the bed slowly growing and transforming into a large hairy beast. 

All the while, there was a weight building on my chest, and I began to struggle for each breath. Gnarly limbs grew up from the floor and tied my wrists back against the bedpost as I writhed with terror and began to sob. 

Suddenly, I could hear a woman's voice. It seemed to be coming from inside of me, reverberating through me. 

"You can change how it ends, Danijela," it said. "You MUST change how it ends." 

The mora hovered over me, approaching my face with breath like burning sulfur. It hissed and snarled and bore stiletto-like teeth. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. This isn't real, I thought to myself. I have the power to end this. No sooner had I thought it than a knife appeared in my hand, and with a single thrust, I broke my arm free and plunged the blade into the beast. It shrieked and shattered into gravel and dust. The viny limb binding my left arm loosened and fell as it turned to yarn. 

The voice returned. 

"Now, on the count of three you will awaken from your trance." 

"1... 2... 3." 

***** 

The room was bright. It took some time to adjust my eyes and acclimate myself to my new surroundings. I was lying on a rust-colored teak sofa, and there was a table by my feet holding an antique stained-glass lamp and a box of tissues. From somewhere, on a clock radio perhaps, Chopin's Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2 was playing faintly. 

"You were very brave today, Danijela." 

Dr. Obrenovic's voice was soft and soothing, but as I looked down at my still trembling hands, I could not ignore the bruised and swollen wrists that met them. They were reminders that the horrors of the past could not easily be overcome.

Fashion Faux Pas

The detectives, a thirty-something female with long dark hair and an older man with grey hair and mustache, came out of the elevator carrying covered coffee cups. They flashed their badges and pushed open the glass door to the studio without pausing their conversation.

"Don't get me wrong, I love her, but she spouts the rankest mash of drivel and poppycock."

"Poppycock? Who are you?"

"What's wrong with poppycock? My grandfather says poppycock."

"I think you've just answered your own question."

"Oh, hush." She mumbled sheepishly. An attractive woman, she had a slightly gaunt face with high cheekbones and captivating brown eyes. "You know, I wanted to be a model when I was a teenager."

"What made you change your mind?"

"It was just a phase I grew out of, I guess. I don't know. It all just seemed so..." She was searching for the right word. "Vapid."

The receptionist was filing her nails and pretending not to notice them. "All the way back and to the right," she droned without looking up.

Inside of the fashion studio the walls, floor and furniture were all bland varieties of white, egg shell and beige. This was by design. It was the blank canvas over which everything else came to life. Against it, the unadorned mannequins practically disappeared into their surroundings while others displayed vibrant, multi-colored garments. To the left were large windows looking out over Madison Avenue. To the right were giant rolls of fabric in a plethora of hues and patterns. On the far wall, assorted sketches done by colored pencil were posted neatly in rows. They were of female figures in various dresses and gowns, commanding in their presence, always with their arms on their hips. Some stood straight while others had one hip lowered seductively.

"Look at these photos." Higgins was looking at glossy pictures of fashion models he found on a work desk. "Would it kill them to smile once in a while?"

"Smiling is uncool. Unfashionable." Rodriguez couldn't help but smirk as she said it.

"This isn't Moscow. I mean, do they have to project such..."

"I think the word you're looking for is ennui."

"On-what?"

"Apathy. Boredom."

"I swear, Rodriguez, when they assigned you as my partner, they should have issued me a dictionary instead of a gun. Lord knows I'd use it more often."

"This way detectives." A uniformed officer approached. His face was sickly pale, and he seemed relieved to see them. Clearly, he was not used to the sight and smell of not-so-fresh corpses.

He directed them to an office with a placard displaying the name Xavier Leroux. Higgins hung back to question the officer, while Rodriguez went inside.

The medical examiner had already arrived. "It looks like the body has been here for about two days. The positioning and ligature marks around the neck suggest that he was attacked from behind," he added.

"By the way," he was looking at Rodriguez, "navy is NOT your color, detective."

"Thanks for noticing," she shot back.

Higgins came in and handed her a file folder. "This may be our perp. He's an up-and-coming star in the fashion world. Camera loves him, apparently. He and Leroux were seen having an argument last week, and guess who didn't show up for the photo shoot this morning?"

"Interesting." She looked over the file with glamour shots paper-clipped to a bio.

"Quit drooling."

"Shut up." She tried to hide her embarrassment.  "Alright. We need to interview anyone with a connection to our vic. And let's put out an APB for..."

******

SAINT MICHEL, Florian Laurent. The letters, once engulfed in flame, shriveled and disappeared into blackness. He turned the card slightly and let the flame run across the picture, an emotionless visage of vanity and emptiness. He held it up and, just as the intense heat began to singe his thumb and index finger, threw it into an urn. The last remaining connection to his former life smoldered and disintegrated. He picked up a broom that was propped against a wall of jagged stone and brushed toward the corner sweep-hole long, curled locks of golden hair.

The quiescence was punctuated by the sudden ringing of a gong. Once. He let the sound wash over and through him as the higher pitches receded, leaving a low bass that too eventually faded. Twice. He put away the broom, put on his sandals, and instinctively looked for a mirror before catching himself. Thrice. He left the room, descended the spiral staircase of a stone tower, and entered the courtyard to join the converging swarm--an anonymous face among a sea of orange robes.

Out of Balance or Prelude to a Fall

A man emerged from the bathroom stall. He rolled down his sleeve, concealing the bruised skin where several needles had been lodged, and made his exit. Dark circles surrounded his eyes and his shirt was tucked in only in the front. It was a fashion faux-pas that one might call a dress shirt mullet.

As he pulled the door open he was hit by a toxic miasma of flashing lights and pulsing sound. The electronic chimes and dings, the rustling of tokens and sporadic mirth were an assault on the senses, and he felt an urgent need to abscond.

A couple blocks from the casino, the streets were empty. They were littered with potholes, and tufts of grass grew through cracks in the pavement.

He closed his eyes and was briefly transported. The same street was now brick and cobblestone, bustling with opportunistic vendors and snake oil salesmen. In horse-drawn carriages, mustachioed and monocled European royalty or be-spectacled industrialists were being chauffeured about. In front of bars and inns, young boys and girls solicited patrons for their respective establishments in the hopes of bringing in tourist dollars and earning a modest commission.

He opened his eyes as a dead man walking--a ghost in a ghost town. The only sounds came from a hanging sign that broke from its chain on one end, waved violently in the wind, and slapped against a wall of concrete.

Before long he arrived at the observation deck where he took in the view. He drifted away again.

The land glaciated and thawed with the passing of seasons and epochs.

The sun swung from east to west as shadows did the opposite. Clouds raced across the sky. The trees bloomed, greened, yellowed and disrobed. All the while a mighty cataract ate through layers of stone and pushed its way across the landscape. It carved out the gorge where the power vista would be. It made a sharp turn and left behind the whirlpool rapids as it continued its recession. As it arrived to more or less its current location, he looked out over the glistening waters at the bottom of the gorge and at the roaring falls with their now unrestricted flow.

And as Niagara falls, it also rises--in tiny ionized droplets, a levitating mist painted by a neon-trimmed skyline.

Such powerful forces contrast the fragility of life--a state of balance that is the product of perpetual imbalance. What is breathing if not a constant switch between a surplus and lack of oxygen? A series of breaths. An alternating current. A chemical stasis. As a sound wave is but a series of crests and troughs, these illusions that we call equilibria are just constantly changing states, averaging out over a duration of arbitrary length. Forward and back went the dance of time.

Sometimes the pendulum swings too far. It comes back as a wrecking ball.

To his right was Nikola Tesla. On his left--Frederick Law Olmsted. There could be no balance between the exploiter and the preservationist. There was a spanning between the two, but to no one's satisfaction. The chasm was too large.

He got up on the railing of the bridge and slowly put one foot in front of the other. Muscles in his body that he never knew he had were making tiny adjustments to keep him balanced. They did this unconsciously, just as the heart beats without anyone having to give it the slightest thought. Beside him on tightropes were the Blondins and Farinis. They crossed carrying others on their backs, with wheelbarrows and bicycles, and with peach baskets strapped to their feet, trying to top the latest stunt. Crowds gasped and cheered from the overlooks.

He stood on the railing of the bridge with arms outstretched, leaned back, and let his body go limp. He was only the latest sacrifice to the Great Spirit of Niagara.

Mosaic

Eirlys shrieked with excitement as a gust of wind liberated several helicopters from the limbs of an old maple. She chased one as it whirled and glided through the air. It landed on her shoulder and clung to her white flowery dress and provoked a fit of giggles in the process. She was entering that critical age at which she was beginning to learn where she ended and where the rest of the universe began, creating objects and drawing lines in the world around her through the acquisition of language.

"Kitty!" she shouted as her attention was diverted by the approach of an orange tabby. Scampering towards the furry grail, her legs could no longer keep up with her momentum, and she stumbled, hurtled forward, and planted her chin onto the grassy ground.

Dylan, a locally acclaimed artist, was but fifty feet from his daughter up on a ladder where he had been working on his masterpiece. Upon seeing her trip, he refrained from calling out or running to her and instead watched closely to assess her status. She was fighting back tears that were less the product of physical pain than her growing frustration with her worldly constraints. She defiantly got up and started again at a slower pace--her desire to no longer be an entity separate from the cat unwavering.

The girl's father, now sufficiently assured of his little daughter's continued well-being shifted his focus back to his work. He had always believed that artistic endeavors were a window to the divine, and he too had a need to make sense of the world around him and his place therein. "If we see the world in tesserae, do gods see it in tesseracts?" he mused. This made him think of his own limitations.

Before long, after the cat lost interest in her--or she with it--Eirlys trotted over to her father on the veranda. He glanced downward and playfully stuck his tongue out at her. She picked up a bright orange tile from a stack on the floor, reached up as high as she could, and placed it onto an unadorned spot on the wall. Lacking any adhesive to keep it in place, it fell to the ground and shattered. She was inconsolable.

The Secret Life of a Suburban Ninja

The man next to me on the bus has his headphones on. He thinks he is being discreet, mouthing the words to the songs on his playlist. But I am keenly aware of his actions and his presence. I can hear the whooshing and hissing fricatives and the sputtering stops, and it is unhinging. It's plucking at my nerves one by one. I can't wait to be free of this bilabial bebop, this velar vocal vacuity. Deliver me from these tees and esses marooned on islands of staccato sound.

"Amateur," I thought to myself.

Rewind to 1989. Seven years into my life and seven years before Monty Python taught me--by means of a VHS rental--the "importance of not being seen," I was learning something more useful: the importance of not being heard.

It was a normal summer late afternoon. Dad was asleep upstairs, recharging for another 12-hour night shift. Mom was resting on the couch, headachey from a busy day at work. The phone was taken off the hook with the earpiece muffled by a dish towel so that the outside world would not interrupt this delicate peace. It was in this environment that I learned to be inaudible. During such times, it was prescribed that my brother and I play in the basement. He with a DOS-loaded video game from a cassette or floppy disk and me with a set of Legos or Lincoln Logs, usually. There, we had a bit of a buffer to create a sort of a muted din. My mother would tell us to keep the door closed, but there was a trick to it. You see, it closed rather tightly so that when it was opened, it would make a loud screech. This was a problem since inevitably we would need to come upstairs to fetch something or use the bathroom. So we closed the door only partly until it wedged just a little against the door frame. When we came upstairs we would lean into it and hope that the resulting noise was only subtle.

There were other tricks I learned to employ as well. Walking on the balls of my feet helped cushion the impact of my weight on the floor. One learns quickly by trial and error where the floorboards most audibly creak and that it is best to keep as close to the walls as possible. A single false step elicits a Pavlovian response similar to the one that occurs when the buzzer is triggered in the popular children's game, Operation.

Unlike that vintage Milton Bradley diversion, however, my game of sneaking around the house had a lot of replay value. Every trip to fish something out of a drawer in my bedroom was a new quest. The act of entering or exiting the house undetected--best accomplished through the sliding door in the back whose friction was audible in a lower register than their squeaking, hinged counterparts--was an adventure in itself.

As it turns out, the modern home is filled with all kinds of potential auditory perils. Every door represents a slamming thud. Appliances can become the vile producers of shrill dings and beeps as their timers go off. Pots, pans and dishes clang as they are removed from cupboards. One must navigate with care amidst these snares.

If this kind of attitude and these behaviors seem strange to you, then count yourself lucky. For the kind of irrational sensitivity and hypervigilance with which I was born are not easily switched off. Imagine always being self-conscious but lacking in self-awareness--always looking with wariness at the things around you but never addressing the impact such thinking has on your feelings and moods. Now, imagine projecting those inward impositions onto others. The man on the bus for whom I have such great disdain, is not at all deserving of it. Yet, his attenuated lisping is all I can think about, amplified by my own obsessive mind.

I am happy to get off at the next stop, sliding off my seat, shuffling through the aisle and slipping out the doorway quickly and silently and not warranting even a fleeting glance from a fellow passenger.

A Writer's Creed

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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?

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.

Trepidation and Resolve

I'll admit it.  I can't wait for this year to be over.  It's a silly thing, and part of me feels ashamed for it.  I feel like I've succumbed to the kind of superstition that I take every opportunity to deride.  Am I that guy that thinks wearing his lucky Yankees hat to the stadium has some effect on the outcome of the game?  Seriously, how could that possibly work?   And how could someone be so solipsistic?  Am I as daft as the astrologer who thinks the alignment of planets and stars on the date of his birth could actually have some effect on his fortune?  How would that work?  Do I stay in bed on Friday the 13th? 
It's these issues with the calendar and its arbitrary nature that now have me feeling foolish.  The only thing that will be significantly different on 12:01 AM January 1st than on 11:59 PM December 31st is that two minutes will have gone by. 

Certainly, I can look at the time period that is 2011 on this Gregorian calendar and say that, for me, it was an overall shitty year.  Yet, I could pick any day and say that this is the first day of a new phase of my life or that I'm wiping the slate clean and going boldly forward as if I'm not scarred by the events of the past and not chained by my fears about the future. 

But perhaps it is not so foolish to think that a wave of a collective unconscious will be surging across the time zones today--that people "re-setting" themselves has an impact (if ever so slight) on us all.  And though it may seem a fine line that distinguishes superstition from the belief in a collective unconscious, there is actually some science to support the latter. 

So let us all participate unabashedly in this group therapy we call New Year's Eve, and I will take comfort in knowing that, by doing so, I will not have compromised the integrity of a scientific mind.

Also, in a change of heart, I offer these resolutions:

(1)  I will listen to your viewpoint before I try to deconstruct it, criticize it, and point out the factual errors and logical fallacies therein, because I believe that is what reasonable people do. 

(2)  I will remove myself from the company of those that do not share my adherence to the above. 

(3)  My mental and physical health will be paramount.  I will work to invoke this resolution in most of my decision-making. 

(4)  I will call out anyone who uses slurs in reference to a particular race, ethnicity, or sexual orientation regardless of their age, status, or relationship to me.  I expect better from the people with whom I choose to spend my time.

(5)  I will try to share in the happiness of those for whom I care whenever possible, and I will exercise less restraint in sharing my own happiness with others. 

Have a happy, safe, prosperous and spiritually fulfilling new year!

Shower Thoughts (or "Stay Out of my Grout")

There’s something about being in the shower that puts me at ease; it helps me think. I can’t say what it is exactly. I only know that it clears my mind just enough to be able to start putting thoughts together. It could be the mechanically routine process of it. Or it could be the droning sound of the water rushing by that lulls me into some semi-trance. Maybe it’s that confined and private space that is free from distraction. This could be the reason why so many people come up with good (and bad) ideas in the shower. It’s just a hypothesis and, who knows, perhaps scientific research has been done on this. I’m not going to go there.

Anyway, I was taking an exorbitantly long shower this morning when I came up with this awful song that will probably get stuck in my head forever. It’s not all that creative, because it’s a song about mildew. Yes, a shower-inspired song about mildew. I’ve written it down below so that it will become a part of history. Of course, it’s only the words, so to get the full effect you need to imagine a jazzy swing beat with a Frank Sinatra or even a Michael Buble-type crooning in melodic fits. I think you get the idea. So without further ado (besides the ado caused by this sentence and then, of course, this parenthetical statement within it) I present to you a song about mildew:



Mildew, Mil-Don’t bring me down

Oh, Mildew, Mil-Don’t bring me down

You know I need a clean shower when my lady comes around

Oh, Mildew, Mil-Don’t bring me down

Well, she caught that plane, and she’s flyin’ into town

Oh, Mildew, Mil-Don’t bring me down

So there you have it. You’ve just wasted about twenty seconds or more of your life reading that, and actually, come to think of it, it’s not so much a song about mildew as it is about the unsuitable state of my apartment for hosting lady friends.

So today’s ‘Eureka!’ moment in the shower produced the brilliant, groundbreaking idea that, well, I really need to clean my shower.