Second Thoughts

Nick Intro or A Short (Person's) Story

2010-10-03T15:01:00.000-07:00

Nick lifted his daughter's little blue bike off the floor and floated it out of the mud-room door, down the stairs and onto the sidewalk. It had stormed the night previous and Nick lazily cleared fallen branches and kicked gravel from the walk into the road, hands in pocket. His daughter burst out of the front door and tumble-ran down the front steps to meet him on the sidewalk.

Having enjoyed a sugary breakfast, Rose was thrilled about everything, " No training wheels! Yes!"

Nick noticing her exceptional energy and also lack of helmet, pointed to his head, "Rose..." She pretended not to understand. Nick repeated the gesture and added, "Helmet?"

Rose dashed up the stairs and disappeared into the house. Nick knew her helmet was upstairs in a closet and would take some time to locate--he walked behind the hedge, sat down and lit a cigarette. He looked down the road left and right and settled on a dog trying to bite through his leash--its gums bleeding the leash red.

Nick always thought he was smart--maybe a little crazy. Smart enough to know why he was anti-stratfordian, smart enough to enjoy conversations about Schrodinger's cat and definitely smart enough to know he didn't feel any angst when watching Fight Club. He was crazy to drink too much and crazy to mistake disenchantment for truth. Nick flicked his cigarette into the street and moved toward his house. His being mistaken didn't matter so much to him right then, and he returned to the front stairs.

Rose burst out of the front door for the second time and spilled onto the sidewalk. Pointing to her helmet and upset that somehow dad had remembered in the first place, she exclaimed, "I'm ready, let's dah do it."

Nick grabbed the seat and started to give hints, pointing out curbs and bushes, after awhile Rose interrupted, "Okay, I'm ready, let's go!"

They started moving together and picked up speed, water from puddles spraying Nick in the face. They went down the street for several blocks, Rose shouting, "Daddy let go! Let go!"

Nick held on and kept running behind. Again Rose insisted, "Let go!"

Nick released his grip and Rose slowly pulled away, peddling faster, looking intently forward. Nick slowed to a walk and kept moving in Rose's direction. She sped onward and crashed into a shrub. Nick chuckled and Rose leapt up twirling and pumping her tiny fists in the air.

'...mistake disenchantment for truth' J.P. Sartre.

Re: A Dream Deferred

2010-05-16T20:56:00.000-07:00

If they must--

Leave me slowly, not

All at once.

Quick Fiction: Tel Aviv, 2006.

2009-04-15T23:03:00.000-07:00

"If you say it is, I guess it is." Livna looked over her shoulder at the bus behind them.

"It'll be okay--it's just another night for everyone else, keep walking"

"All right. The bloody bus drivers are more stubborn than your dad."

Tel Aviv is hot and humid in the summer, but never too hot for dancing. Everyone who's got some poisoning to do hops a bus or moto downtown, resigning themselves to finding their own way back--early in the morning, when the buses aren't running and the moto key's are in a friend's pocket. It's July 2006 and things are serious. But, early mornings in Tel Aviv don't seem that way, and when the sun comes up it lights the Mediterranean in reverse so you can't tell where the sky meets the sea, it's all orange juice. From the beach you can't really even see the glowing aura from the city lights if you're facing west.

"You know, Livna, I don't really want to report in tomorrow, I'm positive we're going north." Tamir looked back at the bus, lit a cigarette and dropped his hand into Livna's back pocket.

A minute later Livna, "You can always go to jail instead you ape." she removed the hand and wrapped it around her waist.

Tamir was grinning like an incorrigible schoolboy, "Maybe I will, then I won't have to deal with you." they both took another backwards glance at the bus, then at the beach.

Quick fiction: Leaving New York (1st person, woman).

2009-04-13T01:40:00.000-07:00

Turning off my phone and paying for everything in cash on the road--it's self-medication. It's either funny or profound that it's always the small things you end up remembering in the end. Little things, like doves on the windowsill, my boyfriend's glasses on the bed stand and drinking V8 at lunches outside. Probably the small things are all we can remember because they're all that really matter when they happen. Doves; a week ago, before I left New York, the pair of doves by the window--one was perched on the sill and the other cut against the breeze, staying almost still, then fluttering back like a stalling plane.

I always take a few weeks off during the summer to visit my brother in Chicago--fluttering, that's exactly what the midwest is up to during July. I never fly this trip, I take my car. Eventually the small things add up, that's what I love about the road, no contact-lenses, no phone, no plastic, no heels (usually), no jewelry (usually), no pantsuits (definitely), no nothing. East coast, headed west, high-rises slowly flattening into ranches.

My brother. He has a beautiful seven year old girl with long brown hair, and Chicago is a big place for a five year old--actually I've found she can't be bothered by anything but avoiding cracks in the sidewalk. Even though I see her every year, I'll really never know her, all those weird little worlds she'll have. Somehow that's okay because I already miss all of mine--New York's hazy dawn skyline, my boyfriend's damned glasses cluttering my bed stand, and the morning doves that live on our windowsill.

Brief Exloration of a Political Economy: Pakistan and the Taliban

2009-04-07T14:55:00.001-07:00

Survey of Pakistani Political History.

The State of Pakistan contains around 170 million people. Pakistan’s many ethnic nations coexist under a constitution drafted in 1973 and reinstated in 1985. A shared Islamic heritage further unites these ethnic groups as over 95 percent of Pakistanis profess Islam. The highly homogenous religious environment is no accident: when the British left in 1947, the area was split into India and East and West Pakistan. The primary reason for this partition was the separation into states based on religious belief, India for Hindus, Pakistan for Muslims. In 1956, West Pakistan became the Islamic Republic of Pakistan we know today, and in the early 1970’s East Pakistan became Bangladesh. Since its independence in 1947, Pakistan has been governed by both military and civilian governments, each of these have shaped Pakistan’s modern political economy.

Pakistan’s Modern Political Economy.

Pakistan is a modern democracy with a bicameral legislature, its Senate and National Assembly are multi-partied. An electoral college selects the president and his prime minister represents the majority party of Pakistan’s National Assembly. Pakistan’s military has played a major role in shaping the modern political system and the laws that comprise it. There have been three periods of rule by military presidents: 1958–71, 1977–88 and 1999–2008. One of these military presidents, General Ziaul Haq, reinstated Pakistan’s suspended constitution in 1985, adding an amendment giving the ruling president power to dissolve governments and elected parliaments. From 1988 four consecutive presidents dismissed elected governments until the powers were revoked in the late 1990’s. Yet in 2002, Pakistan’s last military president, General Pervez Musharraf, restored the powers, again granting presidential control over elected parliaments. President Musharraf resigned in late 2008, amidst allegations of dictatorial abuse and bipartisan calls for his impeachment. Asif Ali Zardari, was elected president shortly thereafter and is the widower of Benazir Bhutto, Pakistan’s famed two-term prime minister who was assassinated in 2007.

Asif Ali Zardari’s prime minister is Yusuf Raza Gilani, a contemporary of Benazir Bhutto and the leader of the Pakistan People’s Party; he was jailed for 5 years during the Musharraf administration. President Zardari like his predecessor, General Musharraf, has pledged to join forces with other governments fighting the problem of Islamic militancy. This has become a central issue for modern Pakistan as many militant groups have been found to operate out of Pakistani borders, recently Pakistan was implicated in the November 2008 attacks on Mumbai, India. Pakistan is currently heavily involved with the United States’ war on terrorism, as many elements of the Taliban have moved into tribal areas of Pakistan following their expulsion from Afghanistan where they ruled from 1996 until 2001.

Pakistan and the Taliban.

When they were expelled from Afghanistan by the Northern Alliance and NATO forces in 2001, the Taliban shifted from a governing body to an insurgency. Currently they operate in Afghanistan and Western Pakistan fighting the elected government, its army and NATO--led security forces. Pakistan was integral during the formation of the Taliban, and some elements of Asif Ali Zardari’s government are alleged to still be in collaboration with Taliban leaders.

Central to the Taliban’s creation was Afghanistan’s struggle against the Soviets during the 1980’s. The United States’ Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) and Pakistan’s Inter-Service Intelligence (ISI) trained and supplied almost all of Afghanistan’s freedom-fighters, the mujahideen. Pakistan’s ISI continued to train Taliban fighters during their rule of Afghanistan during the mid to late 1990’s, only after the September 2001 attacks on the United States did Pakistan formally renounce the Taliban and their associates, Al Qaeda. During the decades of instability in Afghanistan, many refugees came to western Pakistan where Pashtun heritage supercedes national borders.

Pashtuns comprise the majority of the Taliban’s command structure and many were trained by the ISI and reared in Pakistani madrassas, or Islamic schools. The Taliban’s commander himself, Mullah Mohammed Omar, is believed to have studied at a madrassa in the Pakistani city of Quetta. More than any other Pakistani political body, the Jamiat Ulema-e-Islam (JUI) has constructed thousands of madrassas and openly supports the Taliban and their radical objectives. The JUI is a recognized Pakistani political party and is represented in the National Assembly. The party enjoys strong support in Pakistan’s western Pashtun regions.

These western regions of Pakistan are usually referred to as ‘tribal areas’ and are officially comprised of Balochistan, the North-West Frontier Province and the Federally Administered Tribal Areas. As stated, these western Pakistani states are influenced by the JUI and the Taliban, and quantifiably support the Taliban insurgency in Afghanistan. In the late 1990’s as many as one dozen madrassas in the North-West Frontier Province, representing over 8,000 students, closed and sent their constituents into Afghanistan to fight alongside the Taliban. Having been involved for decades, in December of 2007, the Taliban formally birthed Tehrik-e-Taliban, an operational Taliban body in Pakistan.

The Islamic Emirate of Waziristan.

The Tehrik-e-Taliban had been operating in the Tribal areas of Pakistan for at least five years before being formally consolidated. It is led by Baitullah Mehsud, who is backed by tribal chiefs from all of the Federally Administered Tribal Areas and a few from the North-West Frontier Province. Experts place their strength at between 30,000 and 35,000 Taliban operators. These Taliban elements are concentrated in Waziristan, a region of the Federally Administered Tribal Areas that claimed to be an Islamic state in 2006. The Pakistani government has recognized this Taliban presence as an entity, but not a legal state.

The Federally Administered Tribal Areas recognized de facto as Waziristan are a well-known staging ground for incursions into neighboring Afghanistan and a base for Taliban leaders and ideology. In these areas a strict interpretation of Shariah law is enforced, as per Taliban dogma. The Associated Press and other news agencies have reported ritual killings, stoning, human rights violations and political assassinations as being commonplace in territories controlled by the Tehrik-e-Taliban.

Current Events

High profile figures in the American government have confirmed that Pakistan’s ISI supports and, in some cases, directly assists Taliban and Al Qaeda insurgents in Afghanistan. President Obama has recently addressed this issue head-on, and has publicly stated that a high-profile Taliban or Al Qaeda leader would be pursued within Pakistan by covert operatives. Afghanistan’s Hamid Karzai and Pakistan’s Asif Ali Zardari both agree that militant Islam is a regional problem affecting both nations, with Zardari saying that combating militancy would ‘strengthen democracy in his country’.

Pakistan, and particularly its ISI, has been publicly criticized for links with the Taliban and Al Qaeda. Although intelligence officials openly deny support for these terrorist groups, many high-level Taliban leaders have been killed within their borders. President Zardari has taken a firm stance against militant Islam, and has vowed regional cooperation in eradicating these groups from the area. In the past he has been critical of American drone activity in Pakistan’s frontier and tribal areas, stating these operations violate Pakistan’s sovereignty.

Looking Forward: Solutions and Questions.

Pakistan’s tribal areas have long been a refuge for radical Islamists, yet the current government headed by Asif Ali Zardari is genuinely interested in rooting out Taliban influence. Central to the Pakistani government’s success is cooperation with NATO and Afghan forces operating against Taliban and Al Qaeda elements along their shared border. President Zardari has been justified in his criticisms of cross-border incursions by NATO and US forces, but certainly his government has proven ineffective in routing the influence of Taliban militants in Pakistan’s frontier tribal areas. President Zardari has to allow transparency of the widely criticized ISI and their collaboration with Taliban elements. Further, the Jamiat Ulema-e-Islam (JUI) must be held accountable for their open support of militants if Pakistan wishes to be fully rid of Taliban influence in the tribal areas. President Zardari and Pakistan will play a crucial role in the greater middle east, and must take a firm stance against the Taliban and other militant Islamist groups.

The road to Narok.

2009-03-14T17:50:00.000-07:00

Between Maahi Mahiu and Narok, there is a large expanse and an old road that's potholed when it's dry, and puddled when it's raining. Beside the road, two-tracks and trails make a braided river, flowing with it. It's mid-November, and the grass is high, dry as a bone and the color of my mother's brass ring. When Koyati and I were uncircumcised and in standard six, the grass grew above our heads, now we can walk during the dry season and dance our palms on the grasses' tips.

Yesterday, during our walk home from school, Koyati noticed a group of vultures circling nearby. Nothing unusual, but they were flying low and every so-often one dropped like a pelican into the grass. It was late afternoon, I looked west, and the sun was already between the clouds and purpling hills--I told Koyati we had one hour. He looked briefly in the direction of the vulture funnel then at me--we ran together down a narrow cattle trail, one foot in front of the other.

Between clockwork breaths, Koyati shouts over his shoulder, "Did you see. the way Kaelo. looked at me. after school?"

He was grinning--I yelled, "Shut up. she'd rather die! You can't. even keep your. mouth shut. during class. you think she'd. like to put up. with your talking. outside of school!?"

"She only. lives a little way. south toward Narok. I'm going to bring. two goats there. anyway"

Still running and sidestepping rocks and shrubs, "You fool! Do you know. what your father. would do to you. if he found out. you saw her. instead of doing your chores?" The funnel of vultures was growing increasingly large.

In an instant we burst into a clearing in the grass and come to an abrupt halt, it is matted down flat. The breeze has grown colder and the sun has fallen onto the hills, it's red and heavy now. Off to the side of the clearing an impala lay on her side; she'd broken her leg. The birds now circling above us, we approach the impala and slowly stroke her; flank to rump. She's warm, and her veins are thick under her tight skin; the birds have taken little bites of her, and her left ear is torn at its base. Koyati continues to stroke her and I sit on my haunches picking ticks out of her nape; her eye's moving around like a leaf in the wind. We had already stayed too long, and I looked at Koyati who was already standing. "We'd better get home." The sun had set now and we start running south along the road.

Suicide in New York City.

2009-03-08T17:33:00.000-07:00

In one way or another, Herbert Hasp has been hiding for most of his life. He's decided to call it quits. He has an old toyota with an empty tank that's missing two wheels, and a dog who hates him. Herbert's life was not always this way, over the years he had loving parents, a loving wife and a beautiful daughter who moved to California when she turned eighteen. Herbert has forced all who would love him into the margins, and survives on his small pension from the post office by rotating between Brooklyn's soup kitchens and avoiding his landlady.

On monday he begins his weekly rotation at the Hazel Brooks Senior Center on Flatbush and Farragut. Every day he migrates north on Flatbush and on friday he dines at CAMBA on Flatbush and Church Avenue. At every meal Herbert steals a butter knife, and avoids sitting with people speaking spanish and single mothers. When he returns home, his dog races to the door for her only meal of the day; stale rolls pocketed at lunch. He drops open his rusty oven's door and hauls out a fifth of liquor, letting it clank hollowly against the others he keeps there.

He's not abstemious by choice. But every afternoon between four thirty and quarter to five, just as the sun's bringing things into high contrast, he's glad that he only ate once that day; he'll be drunk by the time the five o'clock news comes on. He tosses that day's knife behind the couch to join a thousand others, slumps down and fixes his sorrowfully moist eyes west, out the window. Usually he wakes at eight o'clock and rises to urinate, but today he wakes and climbs the angle-iron stairs to the top of his building. There in the dark, thirty-two stories above New York, he sighs. Herbert lets his heavy eyelids fall closed, breathes in the crisp air, and unzips his trousers. He urinates and bends over to untie his shoes--after removing his shoes and socks and rolling up his pants he stands upright, stretches out his arms and leaps forward.

Short Story: A loner visits old friends in Chicago.

2009-02-26T15:53:00.000-08:00

Alexadra and Ross have a nice apartment--red line at howard, walk toward the lake. Their two girls always hated having to take a bus home from school. Every time I visit, I tell them to take the L and walk the last few blocks home, they heave their heads back and roll their black-pearl eyes; little girls can't be bothered by middle-aged advice. In the summer Chicago is nice, midwest meets metro New York; the winter is awful, I know why Dante's innermost realm of hell is icy.

Five years ago my wife died, when she was alive we always loved visiting Alexandra and her husband. Well, it's more like, they loved visiting each other and I drank and smoked cigarettes on their balcony. They were magic, their momentum was worth suffering through a midwest winter, or, in Ross' case, having a mortgage and potty-training his girls. There're two types of people, navigators and pilots, my wife and Alexandra are the former. Al called three weeks ago; I wasn't doing anything important, so decided to visit.

As soon as I got into their apartment their two daughters assaulted me. It happens every time and, as usual, each grabbed their favorite leg. Then they happily return to their coloring. Al is in the kitchen and offers me a glass of water. We're quite old now, and her rings clank loudly on the glass. After a pair of big smiles and a firm embrace,

"How are you Kenneth?"

"Everything's good Al, your daughters look fantastic." We sit down on the balcony and her girls start fighting over 'orange-yellow'.

Later, when Ross comes back from his work we catch up and I share a pasta dinner with them. We discuss the girls' grades and how they both want to play cello next year. Al looks at me, and then at her husband, we burst into laughter; we all know they're too small to hold one up. I tell Ross that yes I've been doing some traveling, some wandering, but Chicago's my favorite stopover and I love the remodeling he's done in their living room. When the girls go to bed, we uncork a malbec and smoke and talk, Ross looks at me,

"So have you been back to New York yet, you know, to clean up your apartment and finally get rid of your wife's bloody Fiat?" I tell him yes, and yes--that I've rented it to some NYU students who are definitely not appreciating the location or my late wife's hand-tiled bathroom.

Al rejoins, "We all know that tiling was pure rubbish." then drapes her arm over Ross.

"I know, I always hated the color, and it was so uneven that I would cut my toes getting out of the shower every week, I still can't feel the pinky!"

After a pause, and wide grins, Al says, "So, are we going to see a show tomorrow? I have a co-worker you should meet."

"You know I hate your co-workers, never really liked architects." Ross nods in agreement, and we end the night in laughter.

Later, I sneak onto their balcony to have a midnight cigarette and smell Lake Michigan. Of course I won't tell them where I've been roaming or what I've been up to, they never ask and they don't have to, we're old friends. We will see a musical tomorrow, I'll meet Al's bloody architect friend. Their girls will have a sleepover at a friends house, and I secretly hope they give me one of their colorings before I leave. I fold them into my passport when I'm out there--I'm looking, but I'm not alone.

Another essay written for something else, damn the 5 para form.

2009-02-21T02:54:00.000-08:00

The United Nations embodies the hopes and ambitions of the modern world. An intellectual triumph, the membership is as relevant today as when it was conceived. The modern political economy demands collaboration and dialogue, without these even the simplest diplomatic exercises fail. The United Nations facilitates international cooperation by ensuring discussion and security. Its significance is maintained by dedication to collective security, justice and sustainable development.

Since its inception following World War Two, the United Nations has continually proven its devotion to collective security. This security is provided by resolutions and economic sanctions; they carry the full endorsement of members. The endorsement process can be lengthy due to power checks and debate, but consensus is essential to the very philosophy of collective security. One might note the political effects of economic sanctions on Apartheid South Africa, or the result of military intervention against Iraq during the First Gulf War.

Even if a security measure is unable to force policy changes, or infringes on national sovereignty, the United Nations maintains its relevance as a judicial body. The United Nations’ International Court of Justice can prosecute criminals with the assurance that it represents the entire membership. In a culturally diverse world, a court upholding the ideological and philosophical interests of the United Nations is a major statement of cooperation. The many nations comprising the membership set aside cultural idiosyncrasies in order to join others in pursuing a collective sense of justice. Among other things, the International Court of Justice has prosecuted high-profile war criminals like Slobodan Milosevic and Charles Taylor.

Collective security and international justice represent United Nations members’ desire for stability and peace; the body’s devotion to sustainable development is the same. Because of its large constituency, the United Nations has an immense capacity to provide temporary humanitarian relief. Yet, the body’s involvement with relief reaches beyond the immediate, and several programs are aimed specifically at restructuring and observing nations in need. This foresight, combined with shared experience, sets up the organization to meet one of its major goals: the eradication of poverty. An example of United Nations’ efforts in sustainable development is its involvement with microfinance in the developing world.

Sometimes the endeavors of the United Nations fail with disastrous consequences; peace disintegrated under careful watch in Somalia, Haiti and Rwanda. The membership is often criticized for its political maneuvering and bureaucratic weight; some missions have been ongoing for more than twenty years. Despite significant challenges, the United Nations has survived and remains steadfast in its charter and commitment to collaboration and dialogue. Collective security, justice and sustainable development represent the loftiest human goals, and are important to a stable and peaceful world. The United Nations is central in promoting these things, it is relevant today and will be as long as people desire to work together promoting peace.

Holland Pastoral or Ode to Nausea

2009-01-31T16:58:00.000-08:00

On Saturdays, hungover--this is when it happens. The high-court of fools is always scattered across a sleepy and quite frozen town. In a mile-high pile of beer bottles, next to a girlfriend, or just in bed after an uneventful friday night, phones start going off; it's time for breakfast. The slow and steady congregation of hungry friday-nighters proceeds as it always does, stories, fibs, Jim Rome had a great rant last night. The unlucky college-boy who has a car is swamped: it's the night of the living dead, and everyone needs a ride.

Even though the greasy spoon is not that good for a greasy spoon, everyone still goes there, it's a habit, a ritual. Now that people are eating, the chit-chat starts. They are laughing and nodding, arms are crossed and hair is getting rolled between fingers, soon it will be time to line up and annoy the waitstaff by splitting a thirty dollar check ten ways.

Somebody has a desire for basketball most foul. The gym is always humid, there's something about the dusty floor and incandescent lighting that makes it comfortable; it's familiar, it's dirty. After a lot of high-pitched laughter, a few fights and 'The bank's open Saturday!' people disperse, it's time to slip into saturday afternoon sloth.

Pizza or cheap pasta under low-light--that's how dinner happens. The television is on and glowing; the few who have been napping are not surprised to find that others are gradually filling the carpeted room. Chit-chat resumes, plans for the night are made and changed. All the two story buildings spread over the flat-land are glowing and dusk slowly returns.

Short thoughts on growing old.

2009-01-25T16:42:00.000-08:00

What is it about getting older that is so frightening? Sometimes I think about it as my bills are piling up, or I'm considering homicide at another friends of friends' meet-and-greet. Is it the growing burden of knowledge and responsibility I so fear? It's not being a physical adult that's terrifying; perhaps its the slow creep of conformity and credit-score-woes that I'm afraid may eventually render me one of those wizened old men who visit their relatives and have colonoscopies.

No, I have it. What's so frightening about getting older is I can feel myself forgetting my life and world. Surely this fear manifests itself in the steel file cabinet I still keep in my parents basement crammed with little trinkets, ticket stubs, travel notes and thousands of photographs. Although I take comfort in having few worldly possessions, I often catch myself slipping little bits of life into nooks and crannies, so that when my mind finally does capitulate, I can still piece together what happened to me (that's how egocentric I am). Materially it's not a lot, a picture here, a scribbled note there.

I can feel myself forgetting what it's like to lay down in the grass at sunset, bloated with dinner, and letting the sun's strong-red ray bake me. Or being gripped by depression so deep that the blood moves like heavy lead; so strong that simply rising from sleep is difficult. Is it the sum of one's life that makes one an individual or is it a random slice of their four-dimensional life-worm that defines them? I don't think spinning the existential wheels is worth it on this one, what I fear about getting older is that I will forget what I never want to and only remember things I'd rather not.

Terminal Four, LHR.

2009-01-24T15:11:00.000-08:00

The majority of people despise airports; my father for example. He seems to think the best thing about Terminal Four in Heathrow is that you can still pay five euros for a shower and then visit the multi-faith chapel for some recuperation. I've found that I'm still drawn to the smoking parlor and the gate with a flight to Islamabad. Perhaps when I'm my father's age I'll want to shower and then nap in the chapel, but then again, maybe not. I've been there many times, and only twice with dad, but it's my favorite terminal in any airport.

It's design is annoying, some carriers are split between there and terminals one through three, and there is not a train to it but a bus, this poses problems for those inevitable close connections. Yet, there's something human about the terminal, and it's less organic than JKIA or BKK; maybe it's the diversity of passers-through, most probably it's my disposition every time I'm there.

Last time I was sleeping in the observation area I was coming back to the US after a short visit abroad. I arranged my favorite articles I had acquired during my travels and was emaciated and very dark from sun; I was attempting to seduce myself. All night my sleeping was frustrated by a little boy and girl urging each other to trade special candies and secret messages. Because they were children, cooperation and scheming soon tuned to bitter argument; they became very loud. Their parents were disheveled; clearly they had become exhausted toting this young general and princess with them. Surely the tasks they had delegated one another had left them frazzled; 'baby where the hell are the passports?!', 'I can't find our custom declaration forms!' In my typically self-absorbed world, their state of being was less than desirable, I was free, I was without child or lover, I was only responsible for me.

But this is what I love about Terminal Four LHR. In the morning I awoke to find the children neatly folded into their mother's arms, their father was returning from a five euro shower and had found breakfast for his sleeping kids. The children's bickering had ended in snoring; their mother's face didn't say go but stay. I had to turn away. I wept briefly and silently; I remembered when I was a child and had exhausted myself fighting with my sisters only to wake up dazed to find dad coming back from his bloody five euro shower with new customs forms and the last big mac breakfast I would have until I was 18.

This is an essay from another thing, the topic is Universal Service; sorry it's a little loud.

2009-01-22T20:21:00.000-08:00

I like to think that the human race moves forward. Are we moving forward together, or are individuals left behind? Perhaps non-participation in a group's rituals and rules is enough to be excluded. To me, the relative motion of mankind's sub-cultures with others provides a most damning argument against moral absolutes; is there room for transcendence in a world occupied by humans? I reference transcendence metaphysically, as it is central to my exploration of National Universal Service.

What do transcendence and moral relativism have to do with National Universal Service? Everything. The nature of one's ethics has great impact on how one participates in the universe, society and therefore, societal service. Thus, the mutual evolution of society and philosophy introduces a new problem to the traditional responsible citizen. Must one participate in society's rituals to be accepted into the fold, and which responsibility comes at a greater cost and reward, transcendent truth or social acceptance? Ultimately, with the chorus of moral-relativists, I must posit that whatever each individual feels is right, is.

This is what makes being an American so unique. The freedom America advertises is exactly that, and some people feel the need to serve, or fight for it, others decide to do nothing. I feel none of the above can be conclusively argued as being mandatory, but the United States offers an outlet for all. If there's not the Marines, there's the peace corps, and if not that then nothing, either way it's an individual choice, and that's America. All for one is one for all, and that is enough, and that is everything.

Best Ugg Boot move.

2009-01-18T16:53:00.000-08:00

It seems it's hate it or love it when it comes to Ugg Boots. Those multi-purpose foot gloves and their surfeit of imitators have basically taken control of millions of feet across the globe. Pre-teens and AARP members shell out hard currency for these boots and I always wind up seeing them in the strangest of situations, they're everywhere; everyone knows this.

The boots are as synonymous with western cultural influence as they are ubiquitous. I suppose like most consumer products their socio-economic statement is a major part of their market value. Oh yeah, the point of all this drivel? On saturday, I saw for the second time my favorite Ugg Boot move ever: a girl feels around inside an Ugg Boot,

produces a flask and partakes,

then slips it back into place.

Films and Loathing

2009-01-04T14:37:00.000-08:00

I take singular pleasure in watching movies in a theatre. A good, and even a bad, film is like a book. It's so because wherever you are, you experience retreat between the pages; there's a whole different universe there, different people, different physics. When I think back about a book I've read long ago, even recently, I find that increasingly that book is bound to a place or a smell and I remember how that book changed me or helped me escape, rather than the plot or beauty of the text (that requires a re-reading). So it goes with movies in theatres.

I posit readers can remember escaping seventh grade gym and reading some trade-paperback trash sci-fi, romance or thriller, skipping biology for a little Tolstoy or tracking down that first edition Camus in Chicago. So, who was the young German engaged to Vera Rostov in part III? Who gives a shit? (histrionics; of course I care.)

Leaving friends behind on my way to Seattle via Chicago, I stopped by a theatre and slipped into the ether. I believe the film Slumdog Millionaire had an effect on me opposite what the director would have intended. The film is overly sentimental and romanticizes poverty, but it was stimulating entertainment. The film, combined with a little Pamuk, was precisely the yin I craved for an uplifting holiday season yang. I enjoy surrounding myself with texts (pedantic version of the word including film) that foster my fascination with solitude and disconnect; those that say sometimes, go ahead, have that cigarette and lock yourself in a room or theatre.

This article was for something else, and sorry to editorialize:

2008-12-10T22:45:00.000-08:00

More to the Horn of Africa than Piracy Headlines.

Somalia has been supplying western news agencies with headlines for decades. Pirates who have been operating for years have recently taken high-profile prizes and the media’s great eye has once again returned its focus to the Horn of Africa. It’s a good time to assess human rights abuses, raise awareness and force action in Somalia and Somaliland.

Human Rights Watch reports that there are currently one million internally displaced persons in Somalia alone; sixty per cent of Mogadishu’s population has evacuated the city. In support of the Transitional Federal Government (TFG) Ethiopian Defense Forces have been documented to use indiscriminant bombardment tactics and fail to distinguish between civilian and combatant. Hospitals were deliberately targeted as soft targets during a 2007 offensive by the Ethiopian Defense Forces. The area is widely recognized as one of the most dangerous places for journalists; in 2007 eight Somali journalists were murdered.

Accountability and responsibility for human rights abuses at all levels of government and citizenship represent the very minimum for reconstruction in Somalia and its surrounding autonomous regions. If Ethiopia withdraws military forces as promised and the TFG drafts a constitution by 2009, there will be need for dialog and redress of abuses to prevent further fractioning in the area. Human Rights Watch and the UN office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights suggest the present observer mission be made potent by full international endorsement and attention. Without thoughtful international action, expect to see pirates operating in the area for years to come.

Night and Morning

2008-12-08T21:55:00.000-08:00

I'm pretty sure that most of getting older is about finding what you love and throwing the rest in the trash. I certainly don't feel as if I'm growing older, or growing for that matter, but I'm starting to understand what that involves: ignoring unification theory and existing by whatever laws you want. I'm saying that sometimes knowing it all isn't enough.

What I love, and certainly am not tossing into life's waste bin, is my stereo receiver. When I was much younger, my family did not have the means for me to have my own radio or set of speakers. So naturally I take pride in an unnatural obsession with music and equipment. I inhabit an austere room, but next to my mattress is a Pioneer SX-3700. It's old, it has wood siding and a row of brushed aluminum knobs that control it's feral innerds. It keeps guard every night and provides the first sound I hear in the morning. It's power knob rotates to 45 degrees with precision, and makes a sound like a knuckle cracking. Even though I should probably treat it to some nice speakers, we both agree to let old dogs alone. We've been sleeping together for months now, and I doubt it will stop anytime soon.

Bizzaro Encounter

2008-12-07T20:39:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite leisure activities is patronizing local cafes and roaming the streets wherever I may find myself. I'm a terrible watcher, and there's a simple pleasure in observing people as they participate in any number of mundane, or not so, activities in a town. Sometimes, if I'm feeling very bold, a conversation is developed and these talks with total strangers are usually profound.

Yet on most days, when I'm feeling particularly average, I don't say anything and immerse myself in an imaginary world where I'm omnipotent and can read everyone's thoughts and intentions. So, instead of a broader concept of the human condition and good talk-time, I fall in love with every brunette I see and hate everyone with a scintilla of similarity to me.

Today I encountered a bizzaro, and instead of being brave I followed my usual method and stewed. A great thing about a new town is the chance to reinvent yourself and apparently this...dude, had the same inklings as me. I was reading Pamuk, he Palahniuk, our laptops were the same model, his white, mine, black, he even had the same brand of notebook as me; my table mate agreed, we were bizzaros. I hated the sight of him; he was aloof, he was a pedant, we were too similar for comfort. Obviously I am neither aloof nor pedantic, so I took offense that both of us were so alike.

My roommate and I walked back and I felt a real regression, that sounds mickey-mouse, but perhaps it's not. I am neurotic, self-centered and generally stupid, but it's usually okay if those somehow have a relationship with feeling.