Take a breath.
I propose that we raise our cups to this. This fleeting pause. This moment of silence between sentences.
Let us toast being here together, in this place, among these words.
don't @ me
10 years ago
Monday, November 8, 2010
Thursday, September 23, 2010
8
8
This is not my story. It is a story that was told to me by an Aymara man in the extreme north of Chile, in a place that was part of the Incan Empire before it was part of the Spanish Empire, in a highland valley in the mountains above the driest desert in the world:
“Listen. I have a story for you. It begins with the Spanish invasion. In the beginning, there was trust. But very soon, there was conflict. And the conflict grew and our people were dying. There was fighting and there was more dying. Two brothers, leaders, saw their people dying and walked into the desert. They walked and walked and when they stopped, they called out to the sun god Inti.
“Great Inti! Why have you abandoned us? What have we done wrong?”
And in a vision, Inti appeared to them.
“Great Inti! What must we do? How can we fight back against the white men?”
And Inti replied, “I cannot beat them back. Their god is more powerful than me. They will win this war.”
“Great Inti! Is there nothing that we can do?”
And Inti replied, “You have been great leaders. You have been wise and kind and just leaders. But I cannot defeat their god. So I will give you a plant. After much fighting, you will lose to the white men. They will take your land and they will dominate your people. But this plant will be a blessing for you and a curse for the white men. It will make you as strong as it will make the white men weak. They will make you work and work and when other men would fall, it will sustain you. But upon them, it will be a blight.
And do you know what that plant was? It was the coca plant. And Inti’s prediction came true. The white man won the war and put our people to work. They forced us to work in deep underground mines, but we chewed the coca leaf and we were strong. They forced us to work planting and harvesting food, but we chewed the coca leaf and we were restored. We chewed the leaf at celebrations and after years of hard work, we are still alive, we are still strong. But for the white man, their greed turned the coca leaf into cocaine.”
This is not my story. It is a story that was told to me by an Aymara man in the extreme north of Chile, in a place that was part of the Incan Empire before it was part of the Spanish Empire, in a highland valley in the mountains above the driest desert in the world:
“Listen. I have a story for you. It begins with the Spanish invasion. In the beginning, there was trust. But very soon, there was conflict. And the conflict grew and our people were dying. There was fighting and there was more dying. Two brothers, leaders, saw their people dying and walked into the desert. They walked and walked and when they stopped, they called out to the sun god Inti.
“Great Inti! Why have you abandoned us? What have we done wrong?”
And in a vision, Inti appeared to them.
“Great Inti! What must we do? How can we fight back against the white men?”
And Inti replied, “I cannot beat them back. Their god is more powerful than me. They will win this war.”
“Great Inti! Is there nothing that we can do?”
And Inti replied, “You have been great leaders. You have been wise and kind and just leaders. But I cannot defeat their god. So I will give you a plant. After much fighting, you will lose to the white men. They will take your land and they will dominate your people. But this plant will be a blessing for you and a curse for the white men. It will make you as strong as it will make the white men weak. They will make you work and work and when other men would fall, it will sustain you. But upon them, it will be a blight.
And do you know what that plant was? It was the coca plant. And Inti’s prediction came true. The white man won the war and put our people to work. They forced us to work in deep underground mines, but we chewed the coca leaf and we were strong. They forced us to work planting and harvesting food, but we chewed the coca leaf and we were restored. We chewed the leaf at celebrations and after years of hard work, we are still alive, we are still strong. But for the white man, their greed turned the coca leaf into cocaine.”
Monday, September 6, 2010
7
We are like the steel and concrete and fiber optic bones of this country –
A type of alloy, stronger for the number of different components.
You see, refugees built this country. Refugees
Struck by the siren song sung by the Mother
of Exiles, Who called them in with her lamp held high
And offered her bounteous breast to comfort all,
Only to stand helpless as Uncle Sam judged
With a disapproving silence.
“We will make you proud Father!” they vowed
And they worked for that vow:
They built the railroads, stretching their backs
They built aircraft carriers and fighter jets and still he looked on angrily
They brought wonders crafted painstakingly by cramped hands seeking love
And sometimes His silence crept into them.
Let us not forget the lessons of history
Let us not forget the wonders of Rome created not by the warriors, but by the Etruscan artists who shared their homes and their precious geniuses
Let us not forget the majesty of the Ottoman Empire conceived not by the lawyers and politicians, but by the humble travelers
And let us not forget how the wonders crumbled under the weight of fear
-----
That's not done (as with all of these), but it's been brewing in my mind for about a month. Recently, I've felt more patriotic, more hopeful, and more fragile than I ever have before.
Coming back to Tufts has been more of a culture shock than arriving to Chile. In Chile, the culture was gradually revealed to me. But I knew Tufts. I knew what to expect. And coming back after a year of serious changes, I immediately saw things revealed in a very different light.
The most positive surprise has been my Perspectives group. I'm teaching a class to freshmen this fall with my friend Todd and we were "Orientation Leaders" for our incoming students. The university had a number of programs, some of which we attended with them, and some of which we led on behalf of the university. Despite corny sounding topics, I was really amazed at how well some of them went.
At one of the programs, a senior girl made a comment along the lines of "I love Tufts. I believe that if I were stuck in an elevator with any other student at the university, I would listen, I would learn, and I would come to love them." And as she said that, I realized that was true for me as well. I've come to realize that I love almost all of the people that surround me as I move through life. Not in any sort of romantic way, but feeling more than ever that these people have a large piece of my (poetically used) heart. And right now, I'm overwhelmed by that in the best possible way. For whatever reason, I am full of love right now and I want to hold onto that.
(Stepping back down from the poetic and open to the socially acceptable,) I was very impressed and pleased this weekend with my students-to-be. I asked them off-script at two of the events we led to make our discussion work. The discussions covered fairly personal thoughts, feelings, and experiences and I told them that the responsibility for whether or not the discussions are taken seriously is entirely in their hands. The first person that makes a defensive comment that is hurtful or sarcastic will send everyone else scattering back into their shells. And much to their credit, they took it seriously and really treated each other with a lot of respect. I honestly don't know if I could have done that back when I was an frightened, smart ass, anxious, uncomfortable freshman.
To finish the topical circle, I'm really pleased with the diversity at Tufts. There are some interactions, especially across class barriers, - or more than interactions, there are some understandings - that I can't imagine happening as easily where I came from in Chile. Or New Jersey. I don't know how well that will hold up as I adjust back to the university, but we'll see. Whatever the case, I believe that Chile has changed me permanently in a way that I'm not sure that anything else could have. I feel fragile, I feel like an exile twice over, and I feel welcomed back from my self-exile to the Valley of Paradise.
A type of alloy, stronger for the number of different components.
You see, refugees built this country. Refugees
Struck by the siren song sung by the Mother
of Exiles, Who called them in with her lamp held high
And offered her bounteous breast to comfort all,
Only to stand helpless as Uncle Sam judged
With a disapproving silence.
“We will make you proud Father!” they vowed
And they worked for that vow:
They built the railroads, stretching their backs
They built aircraft carriers and fighter jets and still he looked on angrily
They brought wonders crafted painstakingly by cramped hands seeking love
And sometimes His silence crept into them.
Let us not forget the lessons of history
Let us not forget the wonders of Rome created not by the warriors, but by the Etruscan artists who shared their homes and their precious geniuses
Let us not forget the majesty of the Ottoman Empire conceived not by the lawyers and politicians, but by the humble travelers
And let us not forget how the wonders crumbled under the weight of fear
-----
That's not done (as with all of these), but it's been brewing in my mind for about a month. Recently, I've felt more patriotic, more hopeful, and more fragile than I ever have before.
Coming back to Tufts has been more of a culture shock than arriving to Chile. In Chile, the culture was gradually revealed to me. But I knew Tufts. I knew what to expect. And coming back after a year of serious changes, I immediately saw things revealed in a very different light.
The most positive surprise has been my Perspectives group. I'm teaching a class to freshmen this fall with my friend Todd and we were "Orientation Leaders" for our incoming students. The university had a number of programs, some of which we attended with them, and some of which we led on behalf of the university. Despite corny sounding topics, I was really amazed at how well some of them went.
At one of the programs, a senior girl made a comment along the lines of "I love Tufts. I believe that if I were stuck in an elevator with any other student at the university, I would listen, I would learn, and I would come to love them." And as she said that, I realized that was true for me as well. I've come to realize that I love almost all of the people that surround me as I move through life. Not in any sort of romantic way, but feeling more than ever that these people have a large piece of my (poetically used) heart. And right now, I'm overwhelmed by that in the best possible way. For whatever reason, I am full of love right now and I want to hold onto that.
(Stepping back down from the poetic and open to the socially acceptable,) I was very impressed and pleased this weekend with my students-to-be. I asked them off-script at two of the events we led to make our discussion work. The discussions covered fairly personal thoughts, feelings, and experiences and I told them that the responsibility for whether or not the discussions are taken seriously is entirely in their hands. The first person that makes a defensive comment that is hurtful or sarcastic will send everyone else scattering back into their shells. And much to their credit, they took it seriously and really treated each other with a lot of respect. I honestly don't know if I could have done that back when I was an frightened, smart ass, anxious, uncomfortable freshman.
To finish the topical circle, I'm really pleased with the diversity at Tufts. There are some interactions, especially across class barriers, - or more than interactions, there are some understandings - that I can't imagine happening as easily where I came from in Chile. Or New Jersey. I don't know how well that will hold up as I adjust back to the university, but we'll see. Whatever the case, I believe that Chile has changed me permanently in a way that I'm not sure that anything else could have. I feel fragile, I feel like an exile twice over, and I feel welcomed back from my self-exile to the Valley of Paradise.
Monday, July 5, 2010
"Ars Poetica?"
Ars Poetica?
When I was little, I would make up songs -
Tiny silly songs about a giraffe or
The way the branches move in the breeze
And as I’d start to sing, I’d choke up and tear.
The words would absorb all the moisture in my throat and
Stick to the sides, making it hard to breathe.
Deprived of oxygen, the words died out for a time.
I’m not sure how I started writing
But I know that when I write, it is like dancing
You become weightless, faceless, as the experience fills you
You communicate unconsciously, swaying, spinning, laughing
What “feels” right becomes all-important as everything else is laid aside.
Writing is a release, it is an expression
Writing is a way to scream into a pillow or scream at society
Or scream at yourself; or perhaps scream for ice cream.
Writing is memory too
Writing is power
Quiet power, subtle power, deep power
What powerful magic these symbols have to evoke
To evoke
To remind, to enrage, to crush, to woo, to paralyze with sentiment
Dangerous power.
Writing is beautiful
It is vulnerable
When I was little, I would make up songs -
Tiny silly songs about a giraffe or
The way the branches move in the breeze
And as I’d start to sing, I’d choke up and tear.
The words would absorb all the moisture in my throat and
Stick to the sides, making it hard to breathe.
Deprived of oxygen, the words died out for a time.
I’m not sure how I started writing
But I know that when I write, it is like dancing
You become weightless, faceless, as the experience fills you
You communicate unconsciously, swaying, spinning, laughing
What “feels” right becomes all-important as everything else is laid aside.
Writing is a release, it is an expression
Writing is a way to scream into a pillow or scream at society
Or scream at yourself; or perhaps scream for ice cream.
Writing is memory too
Writing is power
Quiet power, subtle power, deep power
What powerful magic these symbols have to evoke
To evoke
To remind, to enrage, to crush, to woo, to paralyze with sentiment
Dangerous power.
Writing is beautiful
It is vulnerable
"Beware of poets"
Beware of poets
Be careful of poets
Knowers of words
Artists of language
Wooers of souls
For they choose:
To sculpt life
Or to sculpt death
Be careful of poets
Knowers of words
Artists of language
Wooers of souls
For they choose:
To sculpt life
Or to sculpt death
Friday, June 18, 2010
"A Sculpture At Macul"
A Sculpture At Macul
There is an architectural hourglass at Macul -
a skeleton frame bent like a spoon
by the weight of three handprints in clay -
Thin imprints tattered around the edges -
A finger could push through the clay
stretched like skin across an oval frame -
They are the handprints of an adult,
but look like the hands of a child
Imprinted on a fleeting sculpture
There is an architectural hourglass at Macul -
a skeleton frame bent like a spoon
by the weight of three handprints in clay -
Thin imprints tattered around the edges -
A finger could push through the clay
stretched like skin across an oval frame -
They are the handprints of an adult,
but look like the hands of a child
Imprinted on a fleeting sculpture
Saturday, June 12, 2010
The World Cup in Santiago
When trying to find words to describe the experience of the World Cup in "the rest of the world" (i.e. anywhere outside the US, primarily, but not exclusively, based for me on my own experience in Santiago), I struggled as I have in the past to imagine an event which could sweep the entire US to emotion. The Superbowl is one potential sports comparison, but is by no means universal. In other parts of the country, maybe horse racing or Nascar or the only-US-and-Canada "World" Series.
A much better comparison came from a friend of mine, who referred to it as "Christmas on steroids." Christmas extends into everyone's life where I live, whether or not they celebrate it. It's on TV, it's on the radio, it disrupts traffic patterns, it's the major marketing push for most big companies, it's in elementary schools. (All of those apply in similar volume to the World Cup)
A few examples:
1. City officials have been giving a lot of thought to the problems of traffic patterns, because Chile's first world cup game is at 7:30am. If Chile wins, the center of the city (The Plaza Baquedano) will become flooded with people. Either way, most commuters will leave home following the game. To address the issue, some workplaces are staggering when they open - some people can travel during half time, others can come in late, etc. People have come up with their own solutions - a recent news report showed the sales of small TVs and antenna (to be used in the car on the way to work) and radios way up. That's a scary thought, but I don't intend to be on the roads.
2. The world's first sports games to be broadcast in 3D - World Cup.
3. I've seen a table full of grandparents and great-grandparents discussing changing cable providers to see more world cup games.
4. HD TV started recently in Chile. The World Cup will mark a drastic expansion of HD TVs in the country (i.e. sharp jump on a graph). Only two cities in the country will have HD for this world cup - Santiago and Concepcion. It's worth noting that Concepcion was one of the cities hit hardest by the earthquake at the end of February.
Two final notes from a soccer-conscious point of view
1. In Chile, one of Chile's national league teams, Colo Colo, is very popular with lower and middle class people. I've been told that construction work (,etc.) slows down on the day after a Colo Colo defeat and goes well if Colo Colo wins. No one hiring the construction workers would dare expect anything different.
2. Chile is by no means the most soccer intense country out there. As a second friend put it, "Once every four years everything slows down and the World pays attention." The World Cup could affect the world's day to day business more than most political decisions.
A much better comparison came from a friend of mine, who referred to it as "Christmas on steroids." Christmas extends into everyone's life where I live, whether or not they celebrate it. It's on TV, it's on the radio, it disrupts traffic patterns, it's the major marketing push for most big companies, it's in elementary schools. (All of those apply in similar volume to the World Cup)
A few examples:
1. City officials have been giving a lot of thought to the problems of traffic patterns, because Chile's first world cup game is at 7:30am. If Chile wins, the center of the city (The Plaza Baquedano) will become flooded with people. Either way, most commuters will leave home following the game. To address the issue, some workplaces are staggering when they open - some people can travel during half time, others can come in late, etc. People have come up with their own solutions - a recent news report showed the sales of small TVs and antenna (to be used in the car on the way to work) and radios way up. That's a scary thought, but I don't intend to be on the roads.
2. The world's first sports games to be broadcast in 3D - World Cup.
3. I've seen a table full of grandparents and great-grandparents discussing changing cable providers to see more world cup games.
4. HD TV started recently in Chile. The World Cup will mark a drastic expansion of HD TVs in the country (i.e. sharp jump on a graph). Only two cities in the country will have HD for this world cup - Santiago and Concepcion. It's worth noting that Concepcion was one of the cities hit hardest by the earthquake at the end of February.
Two final notes from a soccer-conscious point of view
1. In Chile, one of Chile's national league teams, Colo Colo, is very popular with lower and middle class people. I've been told that construction work (,etc.) slows down on the day after a Colo Colo defeat and goes well if Colo Colo wins. No one hiring the construction workers would dare expect anything different.
2. Chile is by no means the most soccer intense country out there. As a second friend put it, "Once every four years everything slows down and the World pays attention." The World Cup could affect the world's day to day business more than most political decisions.
Monday, June 7, 2010
6
Another short one. It started as a very different type of poem, but the first three lines set up a rhythm that I couldn't resist.
6
As I stepped down
From off the bus
He offered me his hand.
No, no, I said,
You have it wrong,
You just don’t understand.
I’m not yet old,
I’m still so young,
Perhaps, let me help you.
You don’t need help?
Well, nor do I!
I’m Virile! (Stubborn too).
6
As I stepped down
From off the bus
He offered me his hand.
No, no, I said,
You have it wrong,
You just don’t understand.
I’m not yet old,
I’m still so young,
Perhaps, let me help you.
You don’t need help?
Well, nor do I!
I’m Virile! (Stubborn too).
Thursday, May 27, 2010
5 and a for fun Macbeth-witch-slash-halloween-inspired rhymelet
Two light, short, fun bits
5
A snow covered mountain
Is like a black and white sketch -
All the edges,
All the shading,
All the unnoticed until then wrinkles of skin,
Drawn in powder white
- So detailed that it could almost come to life
That other thing, without a title
Sometimes summer, sometimes spring
Let forth from out the heavens ring
Crash of thunder, crash of light
Let fear and wonder fill the night
Nourish the bushes, strike the trees
Let tremble each and every knee
And then it softens and then it's gone
Until again we raise our song
5
A snow covered mountain
Is like a black and white sketch -
All the edges,
All the shading,
All the unnoticed until then wrinkles of skin,
Drawn in powder white
- So detailed that it could almost come to life
That other thing, without a title
Sometimes summer, sometimes spring
Let forth from out the heavens ring
Crash of thunder, crash of light
Let fear and wonder fill the night
Nourish the bushes, strike the trees
Let tremble each and every knee
And then it softens and then it's gone
Until again we raise our song
Monday, May 17, 2010
"Message in a Bottle"
Message in a Bottle
Dear Reader,
I have never felt so susceptible to happiness, nor so alone.
I feel every touch of the wind magnified,
Each ray of sunlight as a rush of warmth.
I smell the smells of cities carried miles over the oceans.
I hear the sounds of sneakers running down stairs.
I have no worries for myself; there is food and drink aplenty.
I know that one day, a ship will come.
I only worry that when I return to land, I will shatter.
In truth, I know that I will not
But oh! the strength of my ache for land
Dear Reader,
I have never felt so susceptible to happiness, nor so alone.
I feel every touch of the wind magnified,
Each ray of sunlight as a rush of warmth.
I smell the smells of cities carried miles over the oceans.
I hear the sounds of sneakers running down stairs.
I have no worries for myself; there is food and drink aplenty.
I know that one day, a ship will come.
I only worry that when I return to land, I will shatter.
In truth, I know that I will not
But oh! the strength of my ache for land
Thursday, May 13, 2010
On my way to class today
As I was walking to class this morning, I was looking at the branches barely covered by the last chromatic leaves, absentmindedly weaving through the sparsely used sidewalk, when I saw an unnerving face in my peripheral vision. My heart jumped and I felt a sudden nausea and an urge to walk faster. My eyes fixed on the woman’s face for just a moment before she passed me walking the other direction. It was a reptilian looking face – a hairless, oily mask, grotesquely devoid of texture. It was a dark yellow or a dull orange color with dull brown spots, three or four of them the size of quarters.
Once past her, I regretted speeding up. Who is to say that her appearance was not some trick of perception, brought on by suggestive colors of autumn and an overactive threat detection circuit in my brain putting an end to my distraction? Perhaps she does look that way and my mind automatically instigated rejection of the unfamiliar. There is no reason to think that she is a dangerous person or unfriendly because of a gut reaction.
On an impulse, I turned around.
“Ma’am”
She stopped at the tone of my voice. I’m not sure that I would have. I don’t trust most of the people that would stop me on my street. But there must have been something in the tone of my voice that convinced her that I didn’t mean her any harm.
“Ma’am, this is a strange question, and I expect that you don’t have time, but I was hoping that I might ask you a few questions.”
Surprisingly, she seemed open to the idea. At the very least, she turned to look at me.
“You see, I’m a journalist, and I’m doing a piece on what residents of Ñuñoa think of the Plaza Ñuñoa.”
She started to shake her head and turn to leave.
“Actually, ma’am. Ma’am. Please wait for just a moment. I lied. I’m not doing a piece on Plaza Ñuñoa. I, I was startled by your appearance and I don’t like that I reacted that way. I was hoping that by talking to you, I could fix that.”
I expected to get slapped in the face, but she agreed to let me buy her a cup of coffee.
“My name is Ben.”
“My name is Maria.” She leaned in for a kiss as I was stretching out my hand. We both looked down. I moved to kiss her cheek, but she seemed embarrassed and we stood silent for a moment.
We sat chatting over coffee until it began to get dark and we called for the check. When the check arrived, the price seemed low, and I went to the register to ask. They assured me that there was no problem, that all I had ordered was one coffee. I paid the check, returned to my table, picked up my things and started walking back towards my house.
---
I decided to try my hand at a different style of writing.
Once past her, I regretted speeding up. Who is to say that her appearance was not some trick of perception, brought on by suggestive colors of autumn and an overactive threat detection circuit in my brain putting an end to my distraction? Perhaps she does look that way and my mind automatically instigated rejection of the unfamiliar. There is no reason to think that she is a dangerous person or unfriendly because of a gut reaction.
On an impulse, I turned around.
“Ma’am”
She stopped at the tone of my voice. I’m not sure that I would have. I don’t trust most of the people that would stop me on my street. But there must have been something in the tone of my voice that convinced her that I didn’t mean her any harm.
“Ma’am, this is a strange question, and I expect that you don’t have time, but I was hoping that I might ask you a few questions.”
Surprisingly, she seemed open to the idea. At the very least, she turned to look at me.
“You see, I’m a journalist, and I’m doing a piece on what residents of Ñuñoa think of the Plaza Ñuñoa.”
She started to shake her head and turn to leave.
“Actually, ma’am. Ma’am. Please wait for just a moment. I lied. I’m not doing a piece on Plaza Ñuñoa. I, I was startled by your appearance and I don’t like that I reacted that way. I was hoping that by talking to you, I could fix that.”
I expected to get slapped in the face, but she agreed to let me buy her a cup of coffee.
“My name is Ben.”
“My name is Maria.” She leaned in for a kiss as I was stretching out my hand. We both looked down. I moved to kiss her cheek, but she seemed embarrassed and we stood silent for a moment.
We sat chatting over coffee until it began to get dark and we called for the check. When the check arrived, the price seemed low, and I went to the register to ask. They assured me that there was no problem, that all I had ordered was one coffee. I paid the check, returned to my table, picked up my things and started walking back towards my house.
---
I decided to try my hand at a different style of writing.
Monday, May 10, 2010
4
As with all the poems, not yet done, but it was a short idea that's been floating around my head for a while. Some of the longer ones will have to wait until I can find some more time.
4
We are the Nietzschean Übermensch,
The embodiment of a democratization of philosophy.
We who, not content to accept values, challenge assertions,
Question them, piece by piece.
We who are by definition not one group,
Though solidary in our solitary paths.
What unites us is this earth, just this, and
The weight of responsibility in the face of no alternative.
4
We are the Nietzschean Übermensch,
The embodiment of a democratization of philosophy.
We who, not content to accept values, challenge assertions,
Question them, piece by piece.
We who are by definition not one group,
Though solidary in our solitary paths.
What unites us is this earth, just this, and
The weight of responsibility in the face of no alternative.
Friday, April 23, 2010
3
3
I can not help but lament a fading flower
Unable for the moment to rationalize -
That as the seasons pass, more flowers will blossom
That the flower has done its job, lived its life, completed its purpose.
I grieve in the way one grieves for a death, but not for deaths
Here is beauty, an outburst of energy, unashamed.
Perhaps it is a selfish grief -
The flower was color, and sweet smells
And now I must go to buy some lilac or lavender or jasmine scented hand-soap
I can not help but lament a fading flower
Unable for the moment to rationalize -
That as the seasons pass, more flowers will blossom
That the flower has done its job, lived its life, completed its purpose.
I grieve in the way one grieves for a death, but not for deaths
Here is beauty, an outburst of energy, unashamed.
Perhaps it is a selfish grief -
The flower was color, and sweet smells
And now I must go to buy some lilac or lavender or jasmine scented hand-soap
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Something to work on in the future
I've been reading some famous poems and poets recently in my very limited spare time and while I'd like to dive deep and find some hitherto unknown poetic master, I simply haven't needed to. There are so many "well known" works that I've never stopped to look at. Their words live on in an ever expanding...something. It's as though we, by opening a book (or internet page for some), like Odysseus and Aeneas, can cross into the underworld to consult with the past. From that comes the first two lines of a potential something to write in the future:
Such beauty, and such thought, there is in these Elysian Fields,
Filled not with titans, but giants, upon whose shoulders we might climb
Such beauty, and such thought, there is in these Elysian Fields,
Filled not with titans, but giants, upon whose shoulders we might climb
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
A second one without a title
Two tonight, both dense, superficial, and important for me to write.
2
we are alone
cultivating
remote
farmsteads
coming together in towns of insignificant details
we are alone because we are unique
and because we are unique, we are the same
2
we are alone
cultivating
remote
farmsteads
coming together in towns of insignificant details
we are alone because we are unique
and because we are unique, we are the same
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Games
This is not a post for everyone. Before you begin, I'd like to give you an idea of what this post contains. First, there is a video of the keynote address at PAX by Wil Wheaton in 2007 where he discusses the social aspects of video games to a convention full of self-proclaimed nerds. PAX is a giant gaming convention built on the foundation of a love of games and gaming. Wil Wheaton is an actor, blogger, and gamer. PAX is a phenomenon in itself, but I want to talk about something broader, which is whether video games are good and/or worthwhile. Following the video are three articles that talk about addictive aspects of games. These are not necessary to read, but interesting. And following that, I respond to the bunch. This entry is mainly about posting the keynote speech and a response.
Wil Wheaton Video (Not Suitable For Work: Very Strong Language, 1 Hour): http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-4616592653905673144#
Three Critical Articles on gaming addiction:
http://www.cracked.com/article_18461_5-creepy-ways-video-games-are-trying-to-get-you-addicted.html
http://www.gamasutra.com/blogs/ErinHoffman/20090916/3065/Life_Addictive_Game_Mechanics_And_The_Truth_Hiding_In_Bejeweled.php
http://museumtwo.blogspot.com/2007/07/game-friday-when-does-addictive-play.html
––––
A second prelude: I am a nerd and I am a geek. That is a fundamental aspect of my identity. Everyone has their own idea of exactly what that entails, but to establish a few implications: I like math, computers, reading, role-playing games, video games, arcade games, card games, distopian universes, speculative fiction, fantasy stories, and dragons. There are other fundamental aspects of my identity, but this is where I’m coming from when I write this. I do not play many different video games, but I have spent a lot of time of a select few.
––––
Are video games bad for us as a species? Is there anything worthwhile or good about video games? I ask this question because it is common to hear gaming referred to derogatorily. Above and beyond the somewhat rare (though still disproportionately common) accusations of literally killing our youth, the prevailing social thought is that people would be better off not playing video games.
I’d like to begin by comparing video games to art. There is an art to video games. Video games are multimedia (sight, sound, and sometimes touch or balance), interactive presentations. There are video games that are meant to be visual and aural masterpieces. Just as with movies, there are games that commission original scores, original artwork, original stories, but also original game design. Fundamentally, there is nothing in theater, two dimensional artwork, stories, poems, movies, or music that could not be part of a game. In addition, the interactive component can be utilized artistically. There are those that might criticize the commercialization of games, but we live in a world full of commercialized art. There are derivative video games meant to waste time and earn money, but there are plenty of similar books, television shows, and movies. There do exist video games that follow the mantra of art for art’s sake. There are also masterpiece video games that evoke emotions as strong as and convey messages as well as many revered works of art. Some games that are exceptionally crafted include Final Fantasy VII, Chrono Trigger, Ocarina of Time, Castlevania, and yes, even World of Warcraft. I will probably recall several particularly well executed and awe inspiring sections of World of Warcraft (WoW) for years to come. In other words, the possibility is there. As with art, we take away nothing physically, but rather a sort of social and cultural capital.
What is wrong with video games?
Frequently, video games are subjected to straw man arguments about social interaction and I think that the keynote address is an excellent starting response to that.
A more pressing concern comes from the three articles. On the more dangerous side of the spectrum, there are games where (quoting article one referring to article three), “the point is to keep you playing long after you've mastered the skills, long after you've wrung the last real novel experience from it.” As mentioned before, video games are not the only art form to fall prey to this vice. There are those people who pass the time watching episode upon episode of a soap opera or a reality show or a high paced series like Lost or 24 or Heroes. The first article discusses some "creepy" (and effective) mechanisms specific to video games to create such devotion.
The main problem is that there are games that don’t end. The problem with the famed addictive games such as World of Warcraft is that they are time sinks. Any amount of time that you put into the game just goes rushing down the drain. This is not as big of a problem with games like Solitaire because there is no incentive to play for ten minutes instead of five. However, games with advancement like Farmville or Diablo II, or the many multiplayer online games take advantage of the time invested to lower their own creative standards for late-game content. It is difficult to develop original content for the 5,000+ hours (2,500 two hour movies) that some (albeit few) people have spent on World of Warcraft.
Even within the games that end, there are aspects of game play that do nothing artistically but only exist to encourage game play. Inherently at the moment, games simplify our options and trivialize failure, which is understandably appealing. Even games that do end take advantage of the time we invest to lower standards. This is not the only way. For example, imagine a model UN video game where players make speeches and arguments that are judged and responded to by other players. Furthermore, “grinding” (or very repetitive actions needed to progress) can also be utilized as a tool to instill emotional connections or convey a message. Fine pieces of art can be achieved without the common level of shortcuts.
In many ways, PAX represents some of the best things about video games. PAX is a convention filled with gamers who inherently tend to be critics. There is legitimate interest in games as a creative creation and finding (and playing) truly exquisite games. In a technological age, video games are one of the greatest expanding possibility frontiers for art and culture. As an example, let us think of the strides that graphic design and game design have taken in the last twenty years. Let us be smart consumers of technological art whether it be mixed with games, movies, music, dance, or museum displays.
Wil Wheaton Video (Not Suitable For Work: Very Strong Language, 1 Hour): http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-4616592653905673144#
Three Critical Articles on gaming addiction:
http://www.cracked.com/article_18461_5-creepy-ways-video-games-are-trying-to-get-you-addicted.html
http://www.gamasutra.com/blogs/ErinHoffman/20090916/3065/Life_Addictive_Game_Mechanics_And_The_Truth_Hiding_In_Bejeweled.php
http://museumtwo.blogspot.com/2007/07/game-friday-when-does-addictive-play.html
––––
A second prelude: I am a nerd and I am a geek. That is a fundamental aspect of my identity. Everyone has their own idea of exactly what that entails, but to establish a few implications: I like math, computers, reading, role-playing games, video games, arcade games, card games, distopian universes, speculative fiction, fantasy stories, and dragons. There are other fundamental aspects of my identity, but this is where I’m coming from when I write this. I do not play many different video games, but I have spent a lot of time of a select few.
––––
Are video games bad for us as a species? Is there anything worthwhile or good about video games? I ask this question because it is common to hear gaming referred to derogatorily. Above and beyond the somewhat rare (though still disproportionately common) accusations of literally killing our youth, the prevailing social thought is that people would be better off not playing video games.
I’d like to begin by comparing video games to art. There is an art to video games. Video games are multimedia (sight, sound, and sometimes touch or balance), interactive presentations. There are video games that are meant to be visual and aural masterpieces. Just as with movies, there are games that commission original scores, original artwork, original stories, but also original game design. Fundamentally, there is nothing in theater, two dimensional artwork, stories, poems, movies, or music that could not be part of a game. In addition, the interactive component can be utilized artistically. There are those that might criticize the commercialization of games, but we live in a world full of commercialized art. There are derivative video games meant to waste time and earn money, but there are plenty of similar books, television shows, and movies. There do exist video games that follow the mantra of art for art’s sake. There are also masterpiece video games that evoke emotions as strong as and convey messages as well as many revered works of art. Some games that are exceptionally crafted include Final Fantasy VII, Chrono Trigger, Ocarina of Time, Castlevania, and yes, even World of Warcraft. I will probably recall several particularly well executed and awe inspiring sections of World of Warcraft (WoW) for years to come. In other words, the possibility is there. As with art, we take away nothing physically, but rather a sort of social and cultural capital.
What is wrong with video games?
Frequently, video games are subjected to straw man arguments about social interaction and I think that the keynote address is an excellent starting response to that.
A more pressing concern comes from the three articles. On the more dangerous side of the spectrum, there are games where (quoting article one referring to article three), “the point is to keep you playing long after you've mastered the skills, long after you've wrung the last real novel experience from it.” As mentioned before, video games are not the only art form to fall prey to this vice. There are those people who pass the time watching episode upon episode of a soap opera or a reality show or a high paced series like Lost or 24 or Heroes. The first article discusses some "creepy" (and effective) mechanisms specific to video games to create such devotion.
The main problem is that there are games that don’t end. The problem with the famed addictive games such as World of Warcraft is that they are time sinks. Any amount of time that you put into the game just goes rushing down the drain. This is not as big of a problem with games like Solitaire because there is no incentive to play for ten minutes instead of five. However, games with advancement like Farmville or Diablo II, or the many multiplayer online games take advantage of the time invested to lower their own creative standards for late-game content. It is difficult to develop original content for the 5,000+ hours (2,500 two hour movies) that some (albeit few) people have spent on World of Warcraft.
Even within the games that end, there are aspects of game play that do nothing artistically but only exist to encourage game play. Inherently at the moment, games simplify our options and trivialize failure, which is understandably appealing. Even games that do end take advantage of the time we invest to lower standards. This is not the only way. For example, imagine a model UN video game where players make speeches and arguments that are judged and responded to by other players. Furthermore, “grinding” (or very repetitive actions needed to progress) can also be utilized as a tool to instill emotional connections or convey a message. Fine pieces of art can be achieved without the common level of shortcuts.
In many ways, PAX represents some of the best things about video games. PAX is a convention filled with gamers who inherently tend to be critics. There is legitimate interest in games as a creative creation and finding (and playing) truly exquisite games. In a technological age, video games are one of the greatest expanding possibility frontiers for art and culture. As an example, let us think of the strides that graphic design and game design have taken in the last twenty years. Let us be smart consumers of technological art whether it be mixed with games, movies, music, dance, or museum displays.
Monday, March 8, 2010
"Villa Grimaldi"
Villa Grimaldi
In Chile, there is a place called Villa Grimaldi,
A fossil from Pinochet
Testament to a time when men’s fear swallowed whole their compassion
Another example of a war against the Other, that hideous, greedy, larval enemy
We sat in a classroom first, listening to descriptions
As flashes hammered my memory of tattooed numbers and emaciated photos
How can tragedy have an effect after the Holocaust?
Perhaps a better question is, how can tragedy not have an effect after the Holocaust?
What paralyzed me were the contrasts:
We walked through the park and were shown, -
“Here is where people were tortured” and then,
“Here is where officers’ families would swim, and play guitar, and sing.”
Buildings were thin and the space was small, just an old country villa
And the sounds of screams and laughs would swirl together in the air like blood dripped into water.
The worst was a rose garden, the pride of the officers.
It had roses from all over the world - a thirty-meter spiral of rose bushes
Blossoming in blues and reds and purples and pinks and yellows and whites
Meticulously cared for in the center of the park
And in the open air, in the midst of beauty, the officers would rape the youngest women.
The officers would rape the youngest women and the sound would wash out over the roses, over the park, over the imprisoned, over the newly arrived, until it crashed against the walls and sank into the earth
In Chile, there is a place called Villa Grimaldi,
A fossil from Pinochet
Testament to a time when men’s fear swallowed whole their compassion
Another example of a war against the Other, that hideous, greedy, larval enemy
We sat in a classroom first, listening to descriptions
As flashes hammered my memory of tattooed numbers and emaciated photos
How can tragedy have an effect after the Holocaust?
Perhaps a better question is, how can tragedy not have an effect after the Holocaust?
What paralyzed me were the contrasts:
We walked through the park and were shown, -
“Here is where people were tortured” and then,
“Here is where officers’ families would swim, and play guitar, and sing.”
Buildings were thin and the space was small, just an old country villa
And the sounds of screams and laughs would swirl together in the air like blood dripped into water.
The worst was a rose garden, the pride of the officers.
It had roses from all over the world - a thirty-meter spiral of rose bushes
Blossoming in blues and reds and purples and pinks and yellows and whites
Meticulously cared for in the center of the park
And in the open air, in the midst of beauty, the officers would rape the youngest women.
The officers would rape the youngest women and the sound would wash out over the roses, over the park, over the imprisoned, over the newly arrived, until it crashed against the walls and sank into the earth
"I am but a babe"
I am but a babe
I feel as a new babe giraffe, born at 5’7
Barely able to stand and asked to run
I want to say, “I will be ready soon,” but I’m not sure if I will, unless it is demanded now
How do you respond to someone when they tell you that they spent all weekend taking shifts at their mother’s bedside in the hospital?
As a child, we say, “Is there anything I can do?” and “I’m sorry” and return to play with our toys
We look down at our feet and fidget, looking through our eyelashes until they release us
When we ought to lift our necks and look at them
I feel as a new babe giraffe, born at 5’7
Barely able to stand and asked to run
I want to say, “I will be ready soon,” but I’m not sure if I will, unless it is demanded now
How do you respond to someone when they tell you that they spent all weekend taking shifts at their mother’s bedside in the hospital?
As a child, we say, “Is there anything I can do?” and “I’m sorry” and return to play with our toys
We look down at our feet and fidget, looking through our eyelashes until they release us
When we ought to lift our necks and look at them
Saturday, March 6, 2010
How do you talk about the earthquake?
Chile was recently hit by an earthquake with a magnitude of 8.8, some 63 times greater in magnitude than the 7.0 that recently hit Haiti. At 3:34 on February 27th, I was on a bus in the northern part of Chile, about to be sheltered only a few hours later in a bubble known as San Pedro de Atacama, accurately described as a "tourist mecca." It's a small oasis town in the middle of the Atacama desert where half the people in the town are backpackers from Europe who have traveled to take tours of the breathtaking scenery to the east and south. 
The scenery is all the more amazing because it is hidden like needles in a haystack among a monotonous landscape of sand and rock that stretches on and on from the sides of roads that seem eternal. In San Pedro, our hostel's internet lay dysfunctional more than half of the time and the two ATMs in town were broken. When I first heard of the earthquake and began to respond to the worried messages of family and friends, I knew less than anyone in the US. Our flight (as with all non-essential domestic flights) was put on indefinite hold. And so, while Chile responded, we were trapped in an idyllic Odyssean paradise - full of worried travelers eager to return home, yet surrounded by arresting sights.
Home is where the heart lies, and as such, I have homes in New Jersey, Boston, Salamanca, and now Santiago. Whenever I travel, it feels like I'm holding my breath. I put my routines on hold and I go somewhere to do something. When I come home, everything goes back to normal. Normal is different in each of the four places, but I feel at home in each one.
For the last ten days, I've watched the news cover the initial impact, the aftershocks and tsunamis which continue, the looting - especially in Concepción, the efforts of the armed forces, the efforts of the volunteers, and more and more, the rebuilding efforts. Tonight, I watched the end of a "Telethon" which raised money to make Chile better after the earthquake. Interspersed between donations by organizations and performances to benefit the relief effort were inspirational videos, interviews, stories, and speeches. It's tough to imagine a telethon in the US that would be taken as seriously. The president Michelle Bachelet and the president-elect Sebastian Piñera both attended and both spoke. The closest thing in my (admittedly short) memory is Comic Relief, a telethon in the US, whose hosts included Robin Williams and Whoppie Goldberg, that raised money for Hurricane Katrina relief efforts. This was on a different scale though. I find myself emotional with pride for a country that would not call me its own, but which I claim for myself. There's a commercial that explains that "We've always taught our children that Chile is a country of earthquakes." It shows a grandfather explaining the movements of the earth to his seven year old grandchild. Chile expects earthquakes and is determined to overcome them. Even an 8.8 earthquake will not stop Chile. I have strong hopes that a year from now, Chile will be stronger economically than it was before the earthquake. It is already stronger as a nation.
And yet, there are others with much better claims to talk about the earthquake than myself. I have not yet felt a single tremor. I haven't been to any areas that were damaged with the exception of the airport in Santiago. The worst damage I've seen in person is cracks in the uppermost corner of a single building's facade.
However, the earthquake does put a different lens on the beauties of the Atacama desert. Nowhere else is the tectonic history of the country as immediately obvious.
Here you can see the white stripes in rock from volcanic ash layered amidst rock and sand.
Here you can see the volcanoes themselves, often three or four clearly visible from where you are standing. I heard one estimate that Chile has 10% of the world's volcanoes despite covering only 1/200th of the land.
Here you can see the mountains formed in ridged waves as the Nazca and Antarctic plates crunch and slide under the South American plate, just under the west coast of the country.
Here you can see the salt flats that came about when a lake of salt water was trapped between the newly forming coastal mountains and the older Andes and evaporated. Even today, the difference in the density of the plates contributes to the way mountain runoff water behaves.
Here you can see geysers shooting up groundwater from the Andes, heated when it drops down to the level of hot rocks and magma underneath.
And always in Chile, the Andes serve as a tremendous reminder.
The Chilean people are part of this tectonic ecosystem and that seven year old grandchild will group up resilient in it.
The scenery is all the more amazing because it is hidden like needles in a haystack among a monotonous landscape of sand and rock that stretches on and on from the sides of roads that seem eternal. In San Pedro, our hostel's internet lay dysfunctional more than half of the time and the two ATMs in town were broken. When I first heard of the earthquake and began to respond to the worried messages of family and friends, I knew less than anyone in the US. Our flight (as with all non-essential domestic flights) was put on indefinite hold. And so, while Chile responded, we were trapped in an idyllic Odyssean paradise - full of worried travelers eager to return home, yet surrounded by arresting sights.Home is where the heart lies, and as such, I have homes in New Jersey, Boston, Salamanca, and now Santiago. Whenever I travel, it feels like I'm holding my breath. I put my routines on hold and I go somewhere to do something. When I come home, everything goes back to normal. Normal is different in each of the four places, but I feel at home in each one.
For the last ten days, I've watched the news cover the initial impact, the aftershocks and tsunamis which continue, the looting - especially in Concepción, the efforts of the armed forces, the efforts of the volunteers, and more and more, the rebuilding efforts. Tonight, I watched the end of a "Telethon" which raised money to make Chile better after the earthquake. Interspersed between donations by organizations and performances to benefit the relief effort were inspirational videos, interviews, stories, and speeches. It's tough to imagine a telethon in the US that would be taken as seriously. The president Michelle Bachelet and the president-elect Sebastian Piñera both attended and both spoke. The closest thing in my (admittedly short) memory is Comic Relief, a telethon in the US, whose hosts included Robin Williams and Whoppie Goldberg, that raised money for Hurricane Katrina relief efforts. This was on a different scale though. I find myself emotional with pride for a country that would not call me its own, but which I claim for myself. There's a commercial that explains that "We've always taught our children that Chile is a country of earthquakes." It shows a grandfather explaining the movements of the earth to his seven year old grandchild. Chile expects earthquakes and is determined to overcome them. Even an 8.8 earthquake will not stop Chile. I have strong hopes that a year from now, Chile will be stronger economically than it was before the earthquake. It is already stronger as a nation.
And yet, there are others with much better claims to talk about the earthquake than myself. I have not yet felt a single tremor. I haven't been to any areas that were damaged with the exception of the airport in Santiago. The worst damage I've seen in person is cracks in the uppermost corner of a single building's facade.
However, the earthquake does put a different lens on the beauties of the Atacama desert. Nowhere else is the tectonic history of the country as immediately obvious.
Here you can see the white stripes in rock from volcanic ash layered amidst rock and sand.
Here you can see the volcanoes themselves, often three or four clearly visible from where you are standing. I heard one estimate that Chile has 10% of the world's volcanoes despite covering only 1/200th of the land.
Here you can see the mountains formed in ridged waves as the Nazca and Antarctic plates crunch and slide under the South American plate, just under the west coast of the country.
Here you can see the salt flats that came about when a lake of salt water was trapped between the newly forming coastal mountains and the older Andes and evaporated. Even today, the difference in the density of the plates contributes to the way mountain runoff water behaves.
Here you can see geysers shooting up groundwater from the Andes, heated when it drops down to the level of hot rocks and magma underneath.
And always in Chile, the Andes serve as a tremendous reminder.
The Chilean people are part of this tectonic ecosystem and that seven year old grandchild will group up resilient in it.
Monday, February 1, 2010
#184
#184
When I think about strong, inspiring people in my own life
Marked not only by their accomplishments but by the way they live
Woman after woman comes to mind
Strange role models for a young man, but role models nonetheless
Not in the role of “man” or “woman,” but “human.”
More perfect people.
Perhaps it is ability that develops through need and practice
As I believe many abilities are
Or perhaps it is because men are missing
The last fourth of that 46th chromosome,
The last leg of an X, and are thus
Destined to be 183/184ths of a human being
I search for exemplary footsteps to follow and sometimes recoil
I find myself repulsed by men who hoard power
Disappointed by men who think only of themselves
Ultimately, we are all human, we are all connected, but there are too many people who have never outgrown the childhood notion that the world revolves around them
It’s easy to stay a child when you never feel your frailty
It is so very easy and yet we must not fall down that well
I admire empathy, understanding, and thoughtfulness
And yet sometimes I despair that they reside primarily in that last 184th of our DNA
Precious treasures unlocked by dual knowledge - of our vulnerability, and of the necessity to continue, somehow, because there is no other option
When I think about strong, inspiring people in my own life
Marked not only by their accomplishments but by the way they live
Woman after woman comes to mind
Strange role models for a young man, but role models nonetheless
Not in the role of “man” or “woman,” but “human.”
More perfect people.
Perhaps it is ability that develops through need and practice
As I believe many abilities are
Or perhaps it is because men are missing
The last fourth of that 46th chromosome,
The last leg of an X, and are thus
Destined to be 183/184ths of a human being
I search for exemplary footsteps to follow and sometimes recoil
I find myself repulsed by men who hoard power
Disappointed by men who think only of themselves
Ultimately, we are all human, we are all connected, but there are too many people who have never outgrown the childhood notion that the world revolves around them
It’s easy to stay a child when you never feel your frailty
It is so very easy and yet we must not fall down that well
I admire empathy, understanding, and thoughtfulness
And yet sometimes I despair that they reside primarily in that last 184th of our DNA
Precious treasures unlocked by dual knowledge - of our vulnerability, and of the necessity to continue, somehow, because there is no other option
Saturday, January 30, 2010
"My Old Age" Jan.30.10
Another go at this. Old age must be on my mind.
My Old Age
It’s the end of the rainbow
My heaven if you will, (I won’t)
Why work hard all your life?
Why do more than you need to do?
I can’t think of a greater reward for a life well lived
Than to grow old with someone by my side -
Certainly not seventy-two virgins – a temptation that is all too shallow, temporary, physical
Nor the semitransparent heavens of Valhalla, Eden, or Avalon – amorphous amalgamations of superlatives – the best, unending, most beautiful
I want to reach my 60th anniversary -
To pass conspiratorial winks to visitors
To walk outside each morning and feed the birds like my grandfather
To complain and complain and enjoy and enjoy
To have millions of reasons for that smile to keep crossing my face
To be that old couple, slow dancing –
So close together - their bodies, their movement –
That they seem like one
I want to know happiness in comparison to sorrow
I want the dynamism of life and the depth of relationship
I want surprises and uncertainty and worry
I want to fight for love even as my legs give way underneath me
I want to be that old couple that has made it – not through the tunnel of life, but up, and down, and up, to the best vista in a mountain range - wrinkled, shriveled, tired -
Together
My Old Age
It’s the end of the rainbow
My heaven if you will, (I won’t)
Why work hard all your life?
Why do more than you need to do?
I can’t think of a greater reward for a life well lived
Than to grow old with someone by my side -
Certainly not seventy-two virgins – a temptation that is all too shallow, temporary, physical
Nor the semitransparent heavens of Valhalla, Eden, or Avalon – amorphous amalgamations of superlatives – the best, unending, most beautiful
I want to reach my 60th anniversary -
To pass conspiratorial winks to visitors
To walk outside each morning and feed the birds like my grandfather
To complain and complain and enjoy and enjoy
To have millions of reasons for that smile to keep crossing my face
To be that old couple, slow dancing –
So close together - their bodies, their movement –
That they seem like one
I want to know happiness in comparison to sorrow
I want the dynamism of life and the depth of relationship
I want surprises and uncertainty and worry
I want to fight for love even as my legs give way underneath me
I want to be that old couple that has made it – not through the tunnel of life, but up, and down, and up, to the best vista in a mountain range - wrinkled, shriveled, tired -
Together
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
"The Old Couple"
The Old Couple
It’s rare to find a person with whom you enjoy doing nothing
Where you can sit quietly next to them and know that it’s better that they are there
I want to be that old couple on a bench in a park on a cloudless spring afternoon
Bundled up with light jackets because it isn’t quite summer yet
His hand resting on hers
No need to do anything
Just sitting; listening; watching; breathing;
being
together
It’s rare to find a person with whom you enjoy doing nothing
Where you can sit quietly next to them and know that it’s better that they are there
I want to be that old couple on a bench in a park on a cloudless spring afternoon
Bundled up with light jackets because it isn’t quite summer yet
His hand resting on hers
No need to do anything
Just sitting; listening; watching; breathing;
being
together
"Holding your breath"
Holding your breath
We run blindly through the night.
If we stopped, we might realize...
how frighteningly precarious
how unsure we are
So we close are eyes and hold our breath and run
We turn left or right and it probably doesn’t matter, but maybe that’s all that's kept us from falling
Anything is better than standing still
In full knowledge of our vulnerability
We run blindly through the night.
If we stopped, we might realize...
how frighteningly precarious
how unsure we are
So we close are eyes and hold our breath and run
We turn left or right and it probably doesn’t matter, but maybe that’s all that's kept us from falling
Anything is better than standing still
In full knowledge of our vulnerability
Monday, January 18, 2010
The appropriate time to rouse oneself to action
To be, or not to be; that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing, end them. (Hamlet, III.i)
I recently stumbled across a quote attributed to Lillian Hellman. Asked "Ms. Hellman, why haven't you endorsed gay rights?" she responded "The forms of fucking do not require my endorsement." This struck a chord with my foray into politics, more specifically, the Chilean independent, progressive, vote-of-dissatisfaction-with-the-current-way-of-doing-politics former presidential candidate Marco Enríquez-Ominami. Even moreso, it struck a chord with my interest in confrontational atheism.
The question at hand is "When should we fight?" Fight for change, fight against change; to rouse ourselves, to become interested in something outside our quotidian routines; to become an activist, to advocate, to argue, to take action. More specifically, when should people who are not prominent public figures attempt to change the minds of others (or, in the case of Hamlet, to take more dramatic action unto others). This could be arguing politics with friends. This could be wearing a Livestrong bracelet. This could be writing about a topic you care about in a public medium. This could be demonstrating in front of the UN.
Let us briefly consider some possibilities that might discourage us from acting. We (those not-prominent-public-figures of readers and myself wishing to change the minds of others) could be incorrect, or at least without all of the relevant information. The matter could be largely subjective. We could be forcing our views onto others. There are plenty of instances where two groups are convinced that they are right and the other is wrong.
One possibility is that the fight for change is not an onward push towards some lofty goal, but rather a constant struggle in the balance of power, between a multitude of individuals loosely arranged into various groups.
Another possibility is that activism can radicalize groups, hallowing the "Us," closing avenues of criticism, and demonizing "Them." Activism could encourage strongly held, superficial opinions.
Another possibility is that activism is a mechanism by which we show ourselves to be superior to others by demonstrating that they are wrong about something. This is typically, but not always, unconscious.
Finally, I want to cross two extremes off of the argument because they simply don't happen. 1) There is nothing that I would fight for. 2) There is no topic on which I will hold my breath.
With that prefaced, I move on.
To return to the quote that inspired this post, it is a statement of unity. It is not homo vs. hetero. Hellman's "forms of fucking" implies that anything that happens in the bedroom is not and should not be a public issue and it doesn't matter if it is between two men or not. It is a statement of support for gay rights. However, it is also represents the decision not to press the issue with others.
Politics on the other hand - specifically elections - constantly presses. "This is why I'm the only correct choice."
Blogging, in general, also presses issues.
I obviously speak out against several aspects of religion on this blog. I also have links on facebook to a variety of arguments against religion. Two important aspects are interest on the part of the receiver and space to develop a more comprehensive argument. In both cases, the reader has to come to me. I'm not interested in arguing if the other person doesn't listen to my words. They might not agree with my larger point, but if they are coming to me, they will at least read through the arguments.
When I worked with the Ominami campaign, action went further. Our major sources of contact were people interested in the campaign, but we wanted those people to spread the word. As an independent campaign (and thus with no history of supporters), we had to work harder to spread the message. We didn't have the funds to pay for as many advertisements as third party candidates, let alone the two major coalitions. Instead, the campaign heavily utilized the internet (where spreading the word to another city six hours away costs little, if anything) and advertising by supporters. There were flyers, banners, and signs that you could download and print out. Another advertising attempt was distributing tinted decals for the rear windows of cars. This was only partially successful because there was a fear (justified by at least two attacks) that putting a campaign decal on your car could prompt someone to single out your car in an act of vandalism or theft. What would prompt supporters to put themselves at risk to spread awareness about Marco's campaign?
There is a big difference between the private sphere and the public sphere in terms of action and behavioral norms. Imagine a gradient based on the number of strangers that you will encounter. In "public," everyone, for the most part, has minimal interaction with strangers. There is a lengthy discussion to be had about public vs. private that I'll save for another time, but one difference is that accountability is less for a face in a crowd than for example, a neighbor. It makes sense that politicians (who are by profession, public figures) would want to speak publicly. It makes sense that they would want supporters to support them in public. But why do supporters take public action?
One aspect is group identification. What do the Red Sox, Iron Maiden, and Obama have in common? They feature prominently on shirts. A person wearing an Iron Maiden fan is no longer a stranger to a an Iron Maiden fan.
Another aspect is demonstrating commitment to peers. Showing public support against breast cancer is looked upon favorably by others who want to support the fight.
Third (and closely related to the other two), public statements can represent a show of strength. When large groups of people unite, it is reassuring to the individuals that there are many other people like them. It also demonstrates the strength of the group to others. Politicians, for example, may be swayed by large demonstrations of group strength.
Fourth, one could simply think the cause important enough to fight for.
This is all modified by what is required of the person. If there is less danger, it is easier. If there is more work to do, it is harder.
It is never simply a choice not to endorse gay rights or support to Haiti or environmental issues. As much as the audience member or group leader or presidential candidate wants you to believe that their issue is of singular importance, there are many, many important issues out there. However, if there are things that we care about changing (for whatever reason), we may take up arms. I care enough about science denial to argue against it. I care about removing the negative connotations of "Atheist."
What will you fight for?
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
"My Old Age" Jan.6.10
My Old Age
It’s the end of the rainbow
My heaven if you will, (I won’t)
Why work hard all your life?
Why do more than you need to do?
I can’t think of a greater reward for a life well lived
Than to grow old with someone by your side -
Certainly not seventy-two virgins – a temptation that is all too shallow, temporary, physical
Nor the semitransparent heavens of Valhalla, Eden, or Avalon – amorphous amalgamations of superlatives – the best, unending, most beautiful
To pass conspiratorial winks to visitors
To walk outside each morning and feed the birds like my grandfather
To complain and complain and enjoy and enjoy
To have billions of reasons for that smile to keep crossing your face
To be that old couple, slow dancing –
So close together - their bodies, their movement –
That they seem like one
I want to know happiness in comparison to sorrow
I want to always earn love given freely
I want to fight and struggle and work to make my life what it is
I want surprises and uncertainty and worry
I want to be one half of that old couple that have made it – not through the tunnel of life, but up and down and up to the best vista in a mountain range - wrinkled, shriveled, tired –
Together
It’s the end of the rainbow
My heaven if you will, (I won’t)
Why work hard all your life?
Why do more than you need to do?
I can’t think of a greater reward for a life well lived
Than to grow old with someone by your side -
Certainly not seventy-two virgins – a temptation that is all too shallow, temporary, physical
Nor the semitransparent heavens of Valhalla, Eden, or Avalon – amorphous amalgamations of superlatives – the best, unending, most beautiful
To pass conspiratorial winks to visitors
To walk outside each morning and feed the birds like my grandfather
To complain and complain and enjoy and enjoy
To have billions of reasons for that smile to keep crossing your face
To be that old couple, slow dancing –
So close together - their bodies, their movement –
That they seem like one
I want to know happiness in comparison to sorrow
I want to always earn love given freely
I want to fight and struggle and work to make my life what it is
I want surprises and uncertainty and worry
I want to be one half of that old couple that have made it – not through the tunnel of life, but up and down and up to the best vista in a mountain range - wrinkled, shriveled, tired –
Together
Sunday, January 3, 2010
One of my favorite quotes and a problem with religion
Richard Feynman once said “Listen, I mean, from my knowledge of the world that I see around me, I think that it is much more likely that the reports of flying saucers are the results of the known irrational characteristics of terrestrial intelligence rather than the unknown rational ethics of extraterrestrial intelligence” (Cornell, 1964)
I recently had a discussion about religion:
Him: "Do you believe in aliens?"
Me: "I think it's possible that there's other life in the universe"
Him: "How can you believe in aliens and not in god?"
Me: "I think it's possible that god exists, but that's not the issue. I'd have an equal problem with people who tried to make policy, teach science, or tell other people what to do based on personal revelations from aliens."
The statement was incomplete, but contained the heart of my problem with religion. The issue is not whether a god could exist. So far, there is no objective evidence of god just as there is no objective evidence of other life in the universe. We have personal opinions, traditions, divine books which bear the marks of human authorship, and "miracles" which have never been beyond the capacity of nature to explain. My issue is that people have ideas of what god wants and does not want. I shouldn't limit it to god, but I will for the moment. When someone says that god doesn't like condoms, I ask, how do they know?
I recently had a discussion about religion:
Him: "Do you believe in aliens?"
Me: "I think it's possible that there's other life in the universe"
Him: "How can you believe in aliens and not in god?"
Me: "I think it's possible that god exists, but that's not the issue. I'd have an equal problem with people who tried to make policy, teach science, or tell other people what to do based on personal revelations from aliens."
The statement was incomplete, but contained the heart of my problem with religion. The issue is not whether a god could exist. So far, there is no objective evidence of god just as there is no objective evidence of other life in the universe. We have personal opinions, traditions, divine books which bear the marks of human authorship, and "miracles" which have never been beyond the capacity of nature to explain. My issue is that people have ideas of what god wants and does not want. I shouldn't limit it to god, but I will for the moment. When someone says that god doesn't like condoms, I ask, how do they know?
Blasphemy in Ireland
Ireland 2009 [with my comments]:
In response, Atheist Ireland (an atheist group from Ireland) released a statement: "From today, 1 January 2010, the new Irish blasphemy law becomes operational, and we begin our campaign to have it repealed. Blasphemy is now a crime punishable by a €25,000 fine." They have published 25 blasphemous quotes from religious figures including Jesus and Muhammad, authors, politicians, singers, and other public figures.
They go on to say,
The Minister for Justice is proposing [a law], stating: “A person who publishes or utters blasphemous matter shall be guilty of an offence and shall be liable upon conviction on indictment to a fine not exceeding €100,000.” [~$143,000]
“Blasphemous matter” is defined as matter “that is grossly abusive or insulting in relation to matters held sacred by any religion, thereby causing outrage among a substantial number of the adherents of that religion; and he or she intends, by the publication of the matter concerned, to cause such outrage.
In response, Atheist Ireland (an atheist group from Ireland) released a statement: "From today, 1 January 2010, the new Irish blasphemy law becomes operational, and we begin our campaign to have it repealed. Blasphemy is now a crime punishable by a €25,000 fine." They have published 25 blasphemous quotes from religious figures including Jesus and Muhammad, authors, politicians, singers, and other public figures.
They go on to say,
"This new law is both silly and dangerous. It is silly because medieval religious laws have no place in a modern secular republic, where the criminal law should protect people and not ideas. And it is dangerous because it incentives religious outrage, and because Islamic States led by Pakistan are already using the wording of this Irish law to promote new blasphemy laws at UN level."
"Despite these quotes being abusive and insulting in relation to matters held sacred by various religions, we unreservedly support the right of these people to have published or uttered them, and we unreservedly support the right of any Irish citizen to make comparable statements about matters held sacred by any religion without fear of being criminalised, and without having to prove to a court that a reasonable person would find any particular value in the statement."
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