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.
Friday, May 11, 2012
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.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
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!
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!
Saturday, December 17, 2011
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.
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.
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