Requiem for a Thought

2006-01-23T19:18:00.000-06:00

We all have AIDS. Yep...AIDS. I think "Southpark" featured a spoof on the musical "Rent" with a similar sort of title. I don't know if Kenneth Cole, the primary sponsor of this campaign--which, by the way features some of the most regonizable celebrities in the world--was sticking it to Trey Parker et al, but this campaign in rather interesting for what it presumes.

"We all have AIDS--if one of us does." If I remember my logic systems correctly that means that since there is certainly one person in the world with AIDS (in fact there are millions), then we all have AIDS. But we don't all have AIDS. I know I don't have it, and I don't know anyone who does. Hmm. Confusing, no?

Ah, but my astute reader, you say that this campaign is more symbolic than literal. Of course, we don't ALL have AIDS. We're just showing solidarity. I'm waiting for the "We all have hemroids--if one of us does" campaign. Or perhaps the "We all have syphilis--if one of us does" campaign. What about the "We all have shy bladder syndrome--if one of us does" campaign? Those sound so silly, yet the principle remains the same doesn't it? So how can one pull off the "We all have AIDS" slogan so easily? What is it about AIDS that creates such zeal among celebrities? Why are other diseases which kill more people and have no cure left in the doldrums?

It's kind of the similar phenomenon as Breast cancer. Quick, what's the number one killer of women in the U.S.? Here's a hint: it's not breast cancer. It's heart disease. Where's the Race for a Cure for heart disease? Heart disease is usually thought of a "male" disease but it still remains the number one killer among both sexes. It's interesting how a disease can get hijaked in a way. AIDS, which was and still remains largely the disease routinely passes to those on the fringes of society--gay males, drug addicts, prostitutes. Yet it it affects such a small percentage of
American society. Granted, this Kenneth Cole campaign is directed to the AIDS fight in America and the rest of the world, but still.

Should AIDS research be funded--of course. All I'm attempting to argue here, is that there is an insanely disproportional zeal with which the AIDS fight it perpetuated. If one person has AIDS, we don't all have AIDS. Indeed, no man (or woman) is an island; one person's pain does affect others'. But let's not lose sight of where AIDS belongs on the list of awful diseases that cause pain and suffering not only among those who have it, but for those who love those who have it.

2005-09-28T16:41:00.000-05:00

2005-09-20T19:31:00.000-05:00

From the Dallas Morning News...

There's a certain name on the "Honorable Mention" list that may ring a bell with of few of you loyal readers.

2005-09-11T18:52:00.000-05:00

A Wound that Time Cannot Heal?

Today's first reading at mass today:

Wrath and anger are hateful things,
yet the sinner hugs them tight.
The vengeful will suffer the LORD’s vengeance,
for he remembers their sins in detail.
Forgive your neighbor’s injustice;
then when you pray, your own sins will be forgiven.
Could anyone nourish anger against another
and expect healing from the LORD?
Could anyone refuse mercy to another like himself,
can he seek pardon for his own sins?
If one who is but flesh cherishes wrath,
who will forgive his sins?
Remember your last days, set enmity aside;
remember death and decay, and cease from sin!
Think of the commandments, hate not your neighbor;
remember the Most High’s covenant, and overlook faults.
(Sirach 27:30--28:7)

Part of Today's Homily:

Pat and Daniel grew up together. They were friends for 20 years before Daniel did something to Pat that Pat wouldn't forgive. Looking back it was a minor incident, but like a supperating wound, it grew and festered with time until Pat had become so consumed with it that God decided to step in. He sent down Pat's guardian angel.

The angel came to Pat and said that in order to heal the situation, he would offer Pat anything he wanted. But there was a caveat--if he asked for anything, Daniel would get double whatever was asked. Pat said, "So if I ask for a new house, you will give Daniel two new houses?"
"That's right," said the angel.
"And if I asked for a million dollars--"
"Daniel would get two million dollars, that's right," said the angel.
Pat mulled it over and asked the angel to come back the next day for his answer.

The next day the angel returned to Pat.
"Now, I want to make sure that I understand this. If I ask for something, you will give it to me AND you will give Daniel double of whatever I ask?"
"That is the deal, yes."
"Ok," said Pat, "I want you to make my blind in one eye."

Today is September 11, 2005.
How do you begin to forgive the events that occured four years ago?

Photograph courtesy of Chad C.

2005-09-04T13:39:00.000-05:00

National Geographic, October 2004. Written by Joel K. Bourne, Jr. with photographs by Robert Caputo and Tyrone Turner...

2005-09-01T21:27:00.000-05:00

Laissez les Bon Temps Roulette—No More.

In 1927 the Mississippi River flooded like it had never done in American history. Reports suggested that the river was perhaps 80 miles wide in some places during the height of the flood. Politicians and prominent New Orleans leaders decided to save the city by diverting the flood waters into southern Louisiana. New Orleans was saved, but the ensuing loss of life and damage to property in the southern portion of the state was devastating. In fact, socio-economic results was the mass migration of blacks to northern cities like Chicago (this is generally considered how the Blues started in Chicago). It completely transformed life in Louisiana.

Fast forward to 2005. Reports place perhaps as much as 80% of the city of New Orleans under some amount of water. The flooding, of course, extends into the neighboring states of Mississippi and Alabama. However, the city of New Orleans—the “Big Easy”, the “Crescent City”—has always been a colorful character in American culture. Few places draw instant images in one’s minds as New Orleans does.

To watch what is happening on TV (or perhaps more appropriately, sadly, is NOT happening) I’m left with various emotions. First, it’s obliviously a horrible situation that no one really expected. Everyone knew it COULD happen, but no one really expected it. I remember reading a National Geographic article from last year (October 2004, p. 89) that explained southern Louisiana’s soil erosion problems. They juxtaposed pictures of the same coast line from 40 years ago and in 2004, and the water has crept up hundreds of feet. There are a variety of reasons for this, some of which include oil exploration. But, if anything, such exploration has only sped up a process that nature continues to do anyway. The article suggested what might happen if New Orleans experienced a flood; how much water would inundate the city. Well, now it happened.

It’s unfortunate the city has little effective leadership or suitable plans for such a catastrophe. This is wholly apparent. A city that generally buries people above ground because of the water table, sits at about 8 feet below sea level, and it bounded by a river, a lake, and a large Gulf, should be prepared for a flood. And it should be prepared for a catastrophic flood. Maybe 80% of the city is a bit extreme to prepare for, but if they were prepared for a 40% flood rate, it seems a lot of what has transpired over the last few days would have been averted.

There are reports that rescue workers and police officers have been fired at, stores are being violently looted, bodies are floated in the water. This isn’t third world country, yet my TV is blanketed with images that suggest just that. The National Guard seems to have come in extremely ill-prepared; the New Orleans leadership, including Mayor Nagin, are effectively useless. It has been 4 days, and the city isn’t safe from its own people, let alone the disease and bacteria growing the strange brew of Gulf water, river water, and sewage. But that the city would need to be kept safe from its own inhabitants says a lot, doesn’t it?

New Orleans might be likened to the South’s version of Detroit. Although it has (did) have a thriving tourism industry (unlike Detroit), the population remains poor and commerce isn’t growing. About ten years ago, while on a trip to visit family, my family was robbed. Someone broke into our car and stole a few hundred dollars within minutes of our leaving the vehicle. And let’s be honest, granted the health situation is dire right now in the city, New Orleans wasn’t exactly a clean place to begin with. Bourbon Street—the cesspool of sin and alcohol—was an extreme microcosm of a city that was filthy and dangerous.

Now you have inhabitants, the majority of which problem came out of public housing, wandering aimlessly around the town. Maybe they’ll get on a bus to the Houston Astrodome. Maybe not. They don’t really have a home. There was a woman who complained that she hadn’t had a “hot meal” in 4 days. Hmm. If you don’t count the pizza I ordered on Tuesday, neither have I. And I haven’t even been through a hurricane. Other reports suggested that the New Orleans Superdome had turned into a bowl of urine and feces.

People pissing off the rafters and defecating on the bathroom floor. Who does that sort of thing? I also liked how people lined up to get into the superdome without any luggage. If I’m going into a shelter, I might want to bring something to eat, a pillow, a blanket, some clothes, a toothbrush. Maybe even—gasp—some soap. It’s basically like camping. But who am I kidding. If you didn’t bring it, I’m sure you can just steal it from some storefront. No worries. It’s disgusting. This whole situation is disgusting.

Optimistic forecasts suggest that bringing electricity and running water into the city will takes weeks, maybe even 3 months. Homes, neighborhoods, businesses are gone. Whole families are probably gone. And thousands of residents will be displaced to cities like Houston and Dallas to live for the time being. I’m not sure what percent will actually return, considering there won’t be much to return to. Maybe they will start a new life in a new city. Whatever the end result, I believe the social impact on the city will be huge.

I donated to Catholic Charities’ Hurricane Katrina relief fund today. I don’t recall the last time I made a donation to a major cause. I know some people (are and will) abuse the system. But whatever corners those people may cut, they will have much larger issues to face in their lives soon. Life in New Orleans as we knew it is over. The good times will not roll. The Big Easy is now just a big mess.

2005-08-27T17:43:00.000-05:00

An Exercise in Crowded Isolation.*

When I went to mass a few weeks ago, something interesting happened. I went to the 12:45pm mass, which is usually reserved for the most casual of adults. (The last mass, 5:30pm, is for the high schoolers.)

Sitting next to me in the pew was an older man. His hair was thinning quite a bit, so it was hard to tell just how old he was. I’d place him in his mid-50s, but he may have been a little older. He wore glasses and had shorts on—something you don’t normally see older adults with, at least not at a church service.

For those of you who haven’t had the opportunity to attend a Catholic mass: 1) you should give it a shot some time 2) there is a lot of oral reciting, interspersed with singing, which, not surprisingly, is usually done by reciting. This is a crucial point, for without it, nothing that follows will seem as interesting.

So back to this gentleman next to me: He had a normal voice when he recited various prayers and spoke, but his singing was something else. I’ve never heard someone who was literally tone deaf, until this man started to sing. I could understand completely such a singing disability if his voice was somehow abnormal. In fact, given the careers of successful singers, a poor speaking voice can be turned into an asset once sung. (Think Dylan and Cocker.)

Think of your average person with a hearing disability. When they speak, they tend not to have tonal control because hearing is such an integral part of speaking. If you cover your ears and talk long enough, your voice will probably change noticeably to the people listening to you. This man sitting next to me sang as if he were deaf. AND, to top it off, he made sure to sing as loud as he could. Wow.

“Biting one’s lip” took on a whole new meaning. The adolescents behind me snickered, and I just kept looking down, up, left, but not to the right. The voice that would make dogs cry was to the right.

But my story does not end here. Nay, it only gets stranger…

During the communion procession (where every one eventually files out of the pew and head up for the Eucharist), there is a song. It tends to be one of a handful of songs, all very well known. At this point I hear sniffling from the right. Sniffling tear? Or sniffling allergies? Which one is it going to be? Am I going to hear tone deaf sneezing? Is that even possible?

He’s not just crying, he’s balling. He takes his glasses off to wipe his eyes, and I just want to reach over and give the guy a hug. Sometimes these communion songs can make people emotional, but it didn’t appear he knew this one since he had to look it up. But there he is, crying. And I’m thinking that this is one of my strangest church experiences.

This leads me into the larger point of this post. Henry David Thoreau, the misanthropic American writer, said that “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” I think that’s largely true. How many people are happy with their jobs? How many marriages end in divorce? Zoloft, anyone? And those are just a few things that make headlines of magazines and time-wasting websites.

We all suffer in life. Now that doesn’t mean we are all depressed. Depression seems to be more of a clinical, long-term sense of despair and longing. But sadness, loneliness, frustration, guilt, shame, etc. are a huge part of the human condition. Why are dramas so popular? Why is it Shakespeare's tragedies, rather than his comedies, that so often grab our attention? I think I've written on this topic in an earlier post. But seeing this man in church made me realize that even in a crowded house of God, we are so isolated from each other. We don't really know all of what is going on in one's life.

“And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.” Aeschylus (525 BC —456 BC)

2005-08-19T14:18:00.000-05:00

"Excuse me, waiter, there's a Buddha in my salad."

I really like Thai food. And so I've found a local Thai place here in Dallas that serves wonderful food--Thai Soon. Inside this small restaurant, which used to be located near downtown, is a handful of tables. In total, the place probably can handle about 20 people at one time. When I first stumbled over the eatery, I was pleasantly surprised to find numerous awards and positive newspaper reviews posted on a wall near the register. So I figured that the food was going to be good at least and probably authentic (not that I've been to Thailand to see for myself). Well, today I found out just how authentic the food is.

As my dad and I walked into the restaurant, we immediately noticed the 5 BUDDHIST MONKS sitting at a table eating together. Now I've met Catholic monks, brothers, and priests who wear various habits. That's one thing. But today was surreal. Each was wearing the traditional orange robe of Theravada Buddhism.

First of all, I didn't think I'd ever see Buddhist monks in person, let alone in a restaurant. I figured that they lived such ascetic lifestyles that they basically cooked rice and beans. Then I wondered how they got to the restaurant, especially since there isn't a monastery across the street. Certainly they aren't sporting the 5 series, I thought to myself. Indeed they were not. Instead, they had a large "Church van” that they all climbed into after their meal.

To me it has always been refreshing to listen to people discuss their religious beliefs, especially when those beliefs are radically different than my own. Similarly, when I actually see first hand people who have chosen a way of life that is so staggeringly strange to most people, it makes me realize that faith in something is universal. And it’s not a Western vs. Eastern thing, because, like I mentioned earlier, Catholic brothers and nuns take vows very similar to those that these Buddhist monks took. It’s amazing that in cultures that are so vastly different both in location and philosophy there is still at least one huge similarity—the renunciation of materialism.

Buddhist monks visiting the The Buddhist Center of Dallas. (Probably not the same ones at Thai Soon, but the same clothes.)

2005-08-13T10:09:00.000-05:00

According to the Bay Area Center for Voting Research, I live in the most politically liberal city in Texas (Dallas) and the 32nd most liberal city in the United States. I think that's hilarious, if true; I don't mind sticking it to Austin any chance I get.

To the left is the famous map of RED and BLUE states by county voting results. It was generated by Robert J. Vanderi of Princeton University.

Other cities on the list:

Most Liberal/Most Conservative

Detroit, MI/Provo, UT
Gary, IN/Lubbock, TX
Berkeley, CA/Abilene, TX
Washington, D.C./Hialeah,FL
Oakland, CA/Plano, TX
Inglewood, CA/Colorado Springs, CO
Newark, NJ/Gilbert, AZ
Cambridge, MA/Bakersfield, CA
San Francisco, CA/Lafayette, LA
Flint, MI/Orange, CA

2005-08-06T11:23:00.000-05:00

A Distorted Legacy: Hiroshima and Nagasaki

Many of you by now have been watching news accounts of the 60^th anniversary of the United States dropping two atomic bombs on the Japanese cities of Hiroshima (Aug. 6) and Nagasaki (Aug. 9) in 1945. What you probably haven’t heard is some perspective on the event. That is, the events that transpired on the Japanese mainland in early August of 1945 did not occur within a vacuum.

Writing in today’s The Dallas Morning News, Duke English professor Marianna Torgovnick states “It’s not that Americans don’t know that the United States remains the only nation ever to have used atomic weapons against civilian populations.” Notice the careful qualification: “ATOMIC weapons against a civilian population.”

In reality weapons had been used routinely on civilian populations in Britain, Germany and even Japan. In months prior to dropping the first atomic bomb on Hiroshima, killing some 140,000 people outright, the United States had firebombed Tokyo, killing 150,000 civilians. Of course, such devastation took two nights rather than one morning, but the end result was the much the same. Similarly, European cities (e.g. Dresden, London) were bombed killing tens of thousands of civilians.

One can surely argue that these instances were morally wrong and inhumane, but why single out Hiroshima or Nagasaki just because the bombs released on those cities did in 10 minutes what conventional bombs would need perhaps a couple of nights to do? When the end result of civilian deaths is the same, why does the instrument of those deaths matter?

I think the guilt that Americans are told to feel about Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and the illogical attacks from moralists and ethicist who conveniently neglect the civilians deaths under other, less atomic, circumstances, is a product not of the act but of the bombs themselves. The nuclear bomb changed the way America and world does politics. It is the ultimate trump card. Today these bombs can yield so much energy that they can eradicate whole societies—not just cities.

Hiroshima and Nagasaki are ghosts that continue to haunt us not because they happened, but because they could happen again.

2005-07-25T22:34:00.000-05:00

Rugby Anyone?

Quadriplegia (kwodra-plee-jee-a): A condition of having partial or full paralysis of all four limbs.

Rugby (rug-bee): A game played by two teams of 15 players each on a rectangular field 110 yards long with goal lines and goal posts at either end, the object being to run with an oval ball across the opponent's goal line or kick it through the upper portion of the goal posts, with forward passing and time-outs not permitted. (American Heritage).

Murderball (Mur-der-bal): Quadriplegics playing rugby.

I watched the new documentary, Murderball, yesterday with my brother. Honestly, going into it I didn’t really know what to expect. Was the doc going to focus on the sport? The players? I wasn’t sure. As it turned out, it focused on both, but not in the way you might think.

Don’t walk into the movie expecting it to be a feel good movie about men overcoming great odds. It’s not that kind of film. Instead, expect a rather graphic discussion of sex as a quadriplegic; a trophy-collecting father who probably abuses his son; winning rugby games and losing rugby games; dealing psychologically with being in a wheelchair; and a lot of laughs.

Here’s a quote that I think sums up the movie: Scott Hogsett recounts how he was at a wedding and most of the people there knew he was about to play in the Paralympics in Athens (2004). Well, a woman comes up to him and says, “I understand you’re playing in the Special Olympics.” He said to himself, “Right then I went from being the man at the party to being a f*^&ing retard.”

Now I realize that’s cold, and he does qualify the remark by expressing admiration for the athletes in the Special Olympics. But, let’s face it, the Special Olympics aren’t about winning. They are a competition for children and adults with disabilities; participating is the biggest reward. The Paralympics, on the other hand, are about winning. And these guys work their ass off to make sure they do just that.

If you have the time, check out Murderball. It will be eye-opening to say the least, and if you are like most people, it will broader your understanding of quadriplegia and exactly what does and doesn’t mean to be disabled.

www.murderballmovie.com

2005-07-20T13:59:00.000-05:00

"That's one small step for [a] man..."

So today, July 20, is the anniversary of humans landing on the moon. Or is it...

2005-07-19T21:28:00.000-05:00

(Supreme Court Justice?) John Roberts, Jr.

I don't know much about Judge John Roberts, Jr., but he was nominated earlier tonight to replace the vacancy soon to be created by Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O'Connor.Currently, he is on the appeal's court in D.C.; he's 50 years old (pretty young); and he went to Harvard (undergrad and law).

I was extremely impressed by his brief statement after President Bush introduced him. Very classy:

"Thank you, Mr. President. Thank you.

"Thank you very much. It is both an honor and very humbling to be nominated to serve on the Supreme Court. Before I became a judge, my law practice consisted largely of arguing cases before the court. That experience left me with a profound appreciation for the role of the court in our constitutional democracy and a deep regard for the court as an institution.

"I always got a lump in my throat whenever I walked up those marble steps to argue a case before the court, and I don't think it was just from the nerves.

"I am very grateful for the confidence the president has shown in nominating me, and I look forward to the next step in the process before the United States Senate.

"It's also appropriate for me to acknowledge that I would not be standing here today if it were not for the sacrifice and help of my parents, Jack and Rosemary Roberts; my three sisters, Kathy, Peggy and Barbara; and of course my wife, Jane.

"And I also want to acknowledge my children, my daughter, Josie, my son, Jack, who remind me every day why it's so important for us to work to preserve the institutions of our democracy.

"Thank you again very much."

2005-07-15T16:30:00.000-05:00

Atheism's God

I was listening to the radio today, and the host had on two people: a young woman who was 17 and an older man (not related). The reason the host had these people on was that they were affiliated with Camp Quest (www.camp-quest.com), a summer camp "for the children of Atheists, Freethinkers, Secular Humanists, Humanists, Brights, or whatever other terms might be applied to those who hold to a naturalistic, not supernatural, world view." The young woman has attended the summer camp for the past three summers, and the man is the camp director.

I have to say its always entertaining to listen to religious and non-religious people debate or discuss religion. Usually what happens is a bunch of Christians will call in and say that the bible is the word of God and therefore everyone should read it and live it. As with most people, their skills at debating always seem to me to be pretty lacking. How do you convince someone that they should listen to the word of God (in any form) if they don't believe in God at all? It’s tantamount to circular reasoning.

But what has always fascinated me about atheism is this: Every time I listen to an atheist, he or she says that it is absurd to believe that they are not moral simply because they don’t subscribe to the notion of any higher authority.

We have Christians, Jews, and Muslims who be in a certain God and therefore define their morality based upon principles laid down by that figure. Buddhists subscribe to a morality influenced by the philosophy of a circular nature. Hindus believe in many Gods and define their morality from those supernatural beings. I’m sure that if we studied the religions of small tribes in Africa, South America etc., we’d find a similar pattern: I define my morality this way because a supernatural being says so (in effect).

Ok, so let’s turn now to the atheist. I have no doubt that an atheist can be moral. (Brief side note: I realize that “morality” to many people, especially those in the realm of academia, is fluid and relative, let’s put that notion aside for the moment.) In fact, I would suggest that, as a ratio, there are just as many moral atheists as there are moral Christians (or Buddhists, or Hindus, etc,).

What I want to know, and what I would like you all to comment on (ESPECIALLY if you are or know an atheist), is how do atheists arrive at what is moral and what is immoral? What is the standard?

Murder, Rape, Theft…

Certainly any atheist would agree that those things are wrong. But the question is: why are they wrong. What is it about those acts (and the many others that I could rattle off) that make them wrong. Christianity has a pretty defined reason why murder is wrong. It involves many aspects. Why do atheists believe it is wrong. To me it is not good enough to say, “Well, come on Mike, it’s obvious that murder is wrong.” What makes it so obvious.

So please, let’s discuss this. Give me your thoughts.

2005-07-08T09:37:00.000-05:00

Is That the Best You Could Do?

Over the past 30 hours, we’ve all had the unfortunate opportunity to see and read about the latest (purported) Islamic terrorist act in London, England. However, given the city’s tragic history in the 20^th century, 4 bombs and less than 40 dead is hardly an affective way to get a “stiff upper lip” to quiver.

During the “Battle of Britain,” NAZI bombs (when they actually went off) killed more than 27,000 civilians in London between 7/1940 and 5/1941. That is approximately 2,700 people a month. The bombs also injured more than 30,000. Since the 1960s, the United Kingdom has been victimized by numerous attacks from the Irish Republican Army (in its various forms), killing perhaps a total of 50 people.

Isn’t the bomb-in-the-subway or bomb-on-the-bus strategy just a little passé, Arab Islamic terrorist? Did you spend on your terrorist capital on hijacking those four American planes on September 11 and driving them into various buildings and fields?

Believe me, I’m not asking for anything more “spectacular” than the terror you’ve already wrought. And, granted, you may pull off something huge today or tomorrow. But I doubt it. I’m willing to bet, now that certain world leaders have gotten more serious about terrorism, you’re activities will remain be regulated to the cheap, easy, and disgusting—just like your mom.

Snap.

2005-07-04T10:16:00.000-05:00

What does the date July 4, 1776, mean to you? Please respond by comment or a post of your own...

2005-06-23T16:55:00.000-05:00

Changes

I've made some minor changes to the format of the site, now that I feel more comfortable manipulating the template. I'd like to add some more links and blogs. So if you know of a blog that I should link to or if you have any general suggestions, let me know.

2005-06-17T20:01:00.000-05:00

It really is quite a feat that this country has survived as long as it has with what it has been through. I'd chalk a great deal of that success up to the men (and one woman) who created it. Their genius is absolutely stunning, yet it is rarely discussed or mentioned. Right now I'm reading two books: Founding Brothers by Joseph Ellis and The Federalist Papers by John Jay, James Madison, and Alexander Hamilton.

Founding Brothers takes on the Founding Fathers from a different perspective than most of the histories out there. Although, Ellis' personal and professional reputation was (understandbly) smeared the same year this book was published (2001), he has nontheless weaved a far more personal account of the relationship between the men who founded this country. Each chapter is devoted to an episode that featured two or more of these people. For instance, the famous duel between Hamilton and Aaron Burr. Each of these episodes attempts to cast a different light on these legendary figures.

The Federalist Papers, the famous collection of essays written in support of constitutional ratification, are indeed dense and rather difficult material. Now, the Constitution (as originally ratified) is about 13 book-length pages long. The Federalist Papers (keeping in mind that they were written for no other reason to explain the ins and outs of the Constitution and why it should be ratified) runs about 570 pages. Granted, a constitution shouldn't have to explain itself in the text; but the fact that the explication of the document runs more than 40 times its length certainly shows just how much thought went into it.

We are all living in the shadows of intellectual giants and couragous soldiers.

2005-05-30T11:47:00.000-05:00

Today is Memorial Day

Today is the day that America marks those who died in military service to the nation. Unfortunately, for many of us who happen to be alive, it's just a day off from work.

Previously, I've posted on the numbers of American soldiers, sailors and airmen, who have died so that we can have this day off, so we can read blogs on the internet, so we can buy that shirt at the mall at 30% off today, etc. But today I'd like to reflect on one battle of one war in which America fought.

On September 17, 1862, Gen. Robert E. Lee attempted to invade the North in Maryland. Twenty-three thousand men died in 11 hours. That's nearly 2,000 men per hour; 33 men every minute. Interestingly, that's 4 times the number of Americans who died in the initial D-Day invasion.

Few people remember this battle, but it remains the single bloodiest day in American history. In many historians' eyes, it cemented the fate of the South, and it directly led to Pres. Lincoln signing the Emancipation Proclamation. It was also the first battlefield ever photographed in America without the casualties having first been removed. The images are grisly even today.

The Roman orator, Cicero, said that to be ignorant of what happend before you were born, is to forever remain a child. Let us never forget, and never cease trying to remember that far braver, stronger, and better men and women have come and died before us so that we can live in peace.

To fallen soldiers let us sing
where no rockets fly nor bullets wing
Our broken brothers let us bring
to the mansions of the Lord

No more bleeding no more fight
No prayers pleading through the night
just divine embrace, eternal light
in the mansions of the Lord

Where no mothers cry and no children weep
We will stand and guard tho the angels sleep
All through the ages safely keep the mansions of the Lord

2005-05-26T08:57:00.000-05:00

Hey, how come we haven't heard anything about Pope BD16 recently? I wonder what he's up to.

2005-05-21T19:29:00.000-05:00

Fear and Loathing in Gotham

I wonder if the Algonquin Indians, who inhabited what is now known as Manhattan Island, ever thought that their small parcel of land would eventually become the home one of the world’s largest cities. I bet not. Rather, they probably thought that giving up the island for about $430 (2005 dollars) was a good deal. According to one source the median price of an apartment in Manhattan is more than $650,000. Such has been the negotiation success of native peoples in America.

When God was younger and experiencing the pangs of boredom that come along with being omnipotent, omniscient, and omnipresent, he decided to study human psychology. He put a bunch of humans down in a maze and watched it for a while. But then he got bored and forgot about it, perhaps he slid it under his bed or on top of all the board games in his closet. Either way, when he eventually picked it up again, he found that the humans had put some lights on and called it New York City.

New York seems to make you hard. I was only there two days, and I became rather indifferent to the people walking by. I looked at the homeless man who had defecated on himself, pretending to jump rope (that was only two feet long), and mumbling as a curiosity, not with empathy. Why? Because New York is a city where if you start caring about what you see, you won’t find any respite. It is a city privileged and infected with the best and worst of what America has to offer, and I think you could walk past 1,000 examples on any given block.

Little Italy/Chinatown: Since these two ethnic enclaves are located so close to each other, I figured I’d write about in the same blurb. Don’t go there. I’m kidding. I guess I expected more authentic stuff, and judging from the fish markets we passed by on a side-street, authentic does exist there. But the main portion of Chinatown geared toward tourists who want cheap crap. Little Italy was mainly composed of restaurants.

Museum of Modern Art: Six floors of objects whose artistic value is questionable. But it was worth the price of admission—free after 4pm on Fridays.

Harlem: So two white guys are walking down the street in Harlem. Which one gets accused of being fascinated with African American genitalia first? That’s right, your humble blogger here. As we passed by what seemed to be an amateurish lecture given by an obviously disgruntled black man—the topic of which appeared to be the history of black mutilation at the hands of whites—I was accused of, like my white ancestors, of having a fascination with “the black man’s penis.”

The Bronx: Like Harlem except it seemed to have more people; required you to walk up and down hills; and was more congested. It truly was like I was in a different world. So much activity between the cars on the streets and the people on the sidewalk—much more heightened than on the island for some reason.

Grimaldi’s: A pizzeria located under the Brooklyn bridge. It’s obviously an Italian place, but, interestingly enough, they don’t take credit cards or checks. It’s an all cash business. I’ve heard of these businesses—sham operations to launder money. But the food is good. Do I really care that 10% of my $20 pie went to whack some Soprano?

I’ll try to post more later…

2005-05-06T07:27:00.000-05:00

The LSAT is the most mind-numbing test I've ever faced. I suppose it should be a good sign that I'm taking it on June 6, the anniversary of D-Day.

2005-04-22T14:48:00.000-05:00

My friend Doug is no longer working with me. He was laid-off recently. Though I know we’ll keep in touch, I’d like to spend a few moments and reflect on a relationship that was very unique for me.

Doug is a black man and holds a law degree from American University. Yes, that American University about which I had so many wonderful things to report in an earlier post. He grew up in Ohio to a father who was a World War One veteran and a mother who was extremely active in the Republican party. They were the only black family on the street. And, as if that weren’t unique enough, Doug’s grandfather was a slave. Now that I think about it, I doubt there is anyone on this planet with a similar background to his. So, naturally, we had some interesting discussions.

Before our daily conversations, I had never really talked in depth with someone who was black. I’ve had such discussions with people of other races/ethnicities, but I don’t recall any of them being with someone who was black.

I think we talked about every important and unimportant issue out there, from Beyonce to capital punishment. And it was a great experience. I taught him a few things about "white" culture (e.g. Q: "Mike, what’s up with that new salesman’s hair?" A: "Doug, that’s called a mullet."). He taught me some things about "black" culture. (e.g. dashikis).

In his youth, Doug was a semi-militant black activist—not quite Black Panther but close. Today, he has mellowed into more of a very moderate Republican. He told me that he likes conservatives because they are more apt to think logically through things and will listen to what you have to say. Generally, I think that’s true. One needs only to look at the recent spat of adolescent liberals throwing pies and drinks at invited conservative commentators (e.g. Buchanan, Horowitz, Coulter). Free speech only when you agree with it I suppose.

Doug, like fellow African-American Bill Cosby (though Doug doesn’t find him funny), laments the decline in black culture: From names like Shineequa to black women being portrayed as cheap whores in rap videos, he thinks that black culture must change. And he also is ready for us to leave Iraq, especially after spending $300 billion on the expedition. That is a steep figure.

Today marks a week since he was let go. He was a good guy, and will be missed.

2005-04-20T22:56:00.001-05:00

Pope Benedict XVI

I hesitated to post on Pope John Paul II’s death earlier this month in part because of the other monumental event that occurred just before it—the starvation of Terri Schiavo. However, I’d like to say just a few words about the former pope and then talk a little about the new one.

Pope John Paul II (JPII, I liked to call him) was an amazingly charismatic individual. He was part of a triumvirate that helped destroy the last vestiges of communism in Europe. And, for me, he’s hasn’t just be a pope but the pope. I was born after he was elected and had grown up with him as pope. Sure, popes came before him, but that didn’t reverberate with me personally. So I think it’s going to take a little getting used to a new pope—this new pope.

Pope Benedict XVI—lets just go ahead and shorten that down to “BD16”—is an interesting choice. Supposedly his social disposition is more reserved than JPII. And since the man is nearing 80 years of age, I wouldn’t expect him to be touring the world. However, if he is, as one UK newspaper suggested, “God’s Rottweiler,” then he might be great for the Church.

One thing that JPII didn’t (and perhaps couldn’t successfully) deal with was the sexual abuse scandal that consumed the Church. There’s something wrong with (if what was reported was true) threatening to excommunicate a Cardinal for discussing the papal selection, but NOT excommunicating a priest who rapes a boy. To say that the scandal was “unfortunate” hardly represents the gravity of the situation; and the situation is not over.

I think BD16 will step up to the plate here. If he is willing to deny communion to someone who supports abortion or euthanasia, certainly there is a far greater punishment for priests/rapists. I also think BD16 will start to “clean up house” so to speak beyond sex abuse.

I don’t foresee any married or female priests during BD16’s tenure. But I do wonder whether the Church will begin to change after this pope. Let’s face it, he is much older than JPII was when the latter was elected pope; he may have, what, 5—10 years realistically? Was his election meant to be a long-lasting presence or was it just a last gesture to his predecessor? I don’t know. But I do think that BD16 will stir some things up a bit as long as he has the papal pulpit.

2005-04-17T13:01:00.000-05:00

It has been nearly a month since my last post. However, I'm working on some new material. Check back in the next few days...

2005-03-19T10:37:00.000-06:00

Personality

INTJ...should I be worried?

2005-03-18T22:56:00.000-06:00

Needless Death

Earlier today, Terri Schiavo began the process of slowing starving to death. A feeding tube, which had brought water and other nutrients into her body, was permanently removed per Florida judge George W. Greer’s order.

I’m sure many of you are aware of this case, at least to some degree. Briefly, however, in February 1990, Terri Schiavo collapsed and slipped into a coma. Soon thereafter she awoke but remained it what is generally considered a “persistent vegetative state.” There is no argument that she is severely brain damaged. Although she is able to breathe on her own and make simple voluntary movements, albeit not without considerable difficulty, she currently uses a feeding tube to ingest water and nutrients into her body.

Michael Schiavo, Terri’s husband and legal guardian, for many years has sought the removal of the feeding tube. Though such an action would lead to her starvation, something which would most likely be excruciatingly painful to the average person until the final hours when the body releases ameliorating chemicals, he claims that she would have wanted it that way.

Her parents (the Schindlers), who are devote Catholics, have waged a legal battle to keep the feeding tube in, stating that Terri would have wanted to live and that she could be helped with various rehabilitation exercises that Michael Schiavo has refused to allow. Further, the family claims that Michael Schiavo formally declared Terri’s intentions seven years after she first slipped into her present state, not immediately after which would seem to have been the more appropriate time. Some family members, though perhaps moved by anger at Michael, have suggested that Michael may even be the reason she is in her present situation. Evidence of any such foul play has not been made public, however.

In any case, since 2003, Terri Schiavo’s legal battle has been routinely making national news. Various Florida courts have ordered the feeding tube in and out, the Florida legislature and Florida governor “Jeb” Bush have taken steps in support of the Schindlers. The federal Supreme Court has refused to hear the case. Today, however, Terri Schiavo’s feeding tube has been permanently removed, and she has started the process of dying.

Terri can obviously have no say in her own destiny. Since she had not written down her intentions (and, really, how many of us ever have) for such a situation, and since she cannot communicate any such wishes now, her fate must be left to her family. But what do you do when the family cannot decide?

I have no doubt that Michael Schiavo loved Terri. He may still love her on some level. But the fact remains, since as recent as 1997, Michael Schiavo has been living with another woman with whom he now has two children. He is still legally married to Terri. I don’t blame him for starting a new life. That may or may not be what I would have done, I don’t really know. But once you start a new life you necessarily leave part of your old life. This does not mean that he has no connection to Terri. Rather, it means that his natural position as legal guardian of his spouse must be reconsidered. Unlike her parents, he has not been at her side. And, unlike her parents, he has refused to provide for the rehabilitation services that might help her. I’m not sure what the legal precedent is for such a case, but I have to wonder why his status as legal guardian has not been successfully contested.

Maybe Terri did tell Michael that if she was ever in such an unfortunate medical state that she would want to die. However, one cannot reasonably understand how a man who has started a new life with a new family is so desperate to make sure his wife’s “wishes” are honored that he would, for ten years, fight her immediate family members who have been by her side everyday. He has moved on, why does he care so much that she die? To me that says there is something else going on here. I don’t know what it is, but it just does not add up to me. Let the family members take care of their sister/daughter, and he can go on with the rest of his life. Seems like a simple solution to me.

In any event, Terri will probably die within two weeks unless the feeding tube is brought back. I for one, believe certain politicians will step in and make sure that she lives. At least, I hope so.

2005-03-01T14:10:00.000-06:00

Since 1776 more than 1,261,136 American soldiers have died in military actions. The vast majority of these deaths occurred during the Civil War and the Second World War. These wars and “military operations” include:

Revolutionary War (4,435 deaths)

War of 1812 (2,260)

Mexican War (13,283)

Civil War (620,000 est.)

Spanish-American War (2,446)

First World War (116,516)

Second World War (405,399)

Korean War (36,574)

Vietnam Conflict (58,209)

Persian Gulf War (382)

Operation Iraqi Freedom/Operation Enduring Freedom (1,632 as of Feb. 24, 2005)

These are deaths, though not necessarily “battle” deaths. For instance, during the Civil War and the First World War, more soldiers died of a disease rather than a bullet. Similarly, these figures do not reflect the number of wounded soldiers, which are always much higher—sometimes between two and four times the number of deaths.

2005-02-21T18:06:00.000-06:00

The Longest Post Yet...

If we humans could just think long enough and hard enough, we could fix not only our problems but the world’s problems. That is much of the story of us, a story that has been most conspicuously written over the last 300 years. But this idea of thinking—“rationalism”—has only led us down the path of irrationalism and non-thinking. So says Bruce Thornton, a classics professor at Cal State Fresno, in his book Plagues of the Mind: The New Epidemic of False Knowledge.

This idea of self-destructive rationalism is misleadingly narrow at first. But it has slowly infected nearly every facet of our lives, ultimately aiding the present postmodernist intellectual chaos—what is up is down; what is down is up. Here’s a wonderful description of postmodernism:

---“Early 20th-century Modernism—painting that does not reflect what the eye sees; poetry that has neither rhyme nor meter; novels whose characters speak and act like real people or perhaps far worse than real people; rebellion against traditional social protocols—was a rejection of classical ideas of culture, literature, and art. Yet modernists were rebels against a system, and often had once mastered what they later rejected—so a T.S. Eliot or a Salvador Dali really understood meter or perspective.
“But contemporary postmodernism…rejects the rejection, claiming that there is no objective standard to judge anything inasmuch as power alone adjudicates arbitrary notions of artistic, literary, or cultural ‘excellence.’ Thus the postmodernist is really a nihilist: all cultures are relative; it is impossible to have objective criteria to say that this is ‘bad’ or that is ‘good.’ Literature has no aesthetic or transcendent power, but is a mere narrative that can be deconstructed to determine how issues of race, class, and gender are manipulated to privilege particular positions (usually associated with white capitalist males). ‘Theory’ is the Holy Grail: since there are no such things as ‘facts’ that can lead to a disinterested investigation, analysis, and conclusion, one instead offers ‘truth’ based on a priori recognition of the role of power and its insidious machinations.”
Victor Hanson, classicist and Hoover Institution fellow---

This sort of thinking is the direct corollary to our modern fetish with rationalization. (You might have heard the famous line from the movie The Big Chill: “Ever gone a week without a rationalization?”) We have, in effect, out-thought ourselves into nothingness. Quite the opposite of Descartes, who though himself into existence—“Cogito ergo sum (I think, therefore I am).” But what are the more tangible effects of this disease?

Thornton argues that the result is a culture of therapy, not tragedy; emptiness and selfishness, not fullness, and charity; and perhaps worst of all, misunderstanding, rather than understanding.

The story of the human experience is tragedy. Whether it is MacBeth, Oedipus Rex, The Sound and the Fury etc. etc. etc., it is the story of a tragedy. Thornton quotes from the Iliad where Apollo sums up the human existence: “…[Y]ou would not consider me sensible , if I should fight with you because of wretched mortals, who like the leaves now flourish full of fire, eating the fruit of the earth, and now wither and perish.”

The Greek poet Aeschylus gave us the only way for humans to seek comfort in their tragic existence—God. “Even in our sleep,” he wrote, “pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.” (Robert Kennedy spoke these words immediately after the death of Martin Luther King Jr.)

Yet, rationalism rejects God simply because his existence cannot be quantified on a spreadsheet. And with God out of the picture, who is the next smartest entity on Earth? Us. We have replace God with ourselves and the result has been a whole slew of things: the murderer is no longer responsible his actions because of the people in his life, his childhood. The proliferation of the self-help book is another.

Thornton juxtaposes Joyce Brothers’s declaration, “Love, power, riches, a good marriage, exciting sex, fulfillment are not impossible dreams. They can be yours if you want them.” With the Greek playwright Euripedes’s “To suffer is necessity for mortals.”

In this world, writes Daniel Boorstin, “We expect anything and everything. We expect the contradictory and the impossible. We expect compact cars which are spacious; luxury cars which are economical. We expect to be rich and charitable; powerful and merciful, active and reflective, kind and competitive. We expect to be inspired by mediocre appeals for “excellence,” to be made literate by illiterate appeals for literacy. We expect to eat and stay thing, to be constantly on the move and ever more neighborly, to go to a ‘church of our choice’ and yet fell its guiding power over us, to revere God and to be God.”

Our insistence of self-help and rationalization has led us to be nothing more than selfish narcissists. Our problems, however individual and unique, must be everyone’s problems. The ignorant preoccupation with AIDS in the third world is a prime example. AIDS is not the number one killer of people living in the third world, although that may come as a surprise. Malnutrition, starvation, and malaria are bigger problems. So why the preoccupation? Simply because in the West (the people with money and worldly power) AIDS became a chic fashionable disease.

It was the disease of the artists, the poets, the playwrights. Gay males, who represent no more than 4% of America’s population, became the poster children for the disease. So hundreds of millions of dollars flowed into science to study and eradicate what is a terrible illness. But what does that say of our culture?

One of the biggest diseases of our time was a disease that 99% of the people contracted by choice—risky sex or drug use. AIDS is our problem, so it must be everyone else’s problem. Wrong. The narcissism and arrogance of the Western elites made AIDS the issue of the third world, in particular Africa. And while millions in Africa die each year of lack of food, water, and malaria eradication techniques that saved Western countries, billions of dollars go to AIDS research and therapy for Africans.

Finally, our preoccupation with rationalizations has led to more misunderstanding, rather than knowledge. Quoting from Freud, Thornton makes the case against Western humanity’s ignorant distaste for civilization: “This contention holds that what we call our civilization is largely responsible for our misery, and that we should be much happier if we gave it up and returned to primitive conditions.”

We have become worshipers of nature; the environmentalist movement is merely a symptom of this larger disease. Western culture tends to have a fascination with the pureness of nature. We go camping; we enjoy the national parks. But how many of us have ever chosen to go live there? Physically living off of the land? There is a notion that in nature is all truth, and if we go visit it and cherish it enough, it will enlighten our ignorant selves.

The real truth, however, is much different. Nature is a completely indifferent place. It exists but that is all. It is neither cruel, nor loving. Those are abstract notions that humans put on it. Nature does not know what it is, because it cannot think or reason. It just is.

We have anthropomorphized nature. Countless Disney movies and an irrational environmentalist movement has persuaded far too many people that nature is the very thing that is not. Nature is simply indifferent, much like the indifference in our interactions with computers. Computers don’t “know” anything. They merely respond to input. They cannot care; they cannot love; they cannot be just precisely because they have no concept of it. Nature is the same way.

How then, is it a place to learn any transcendent knowledge? If you think that by camping, for instance, you are experiencing nature in any real sense, you are mistaken. Your car, the food you brought, the clothes you wear, your phone, the road to your campsite all say otherwise. You are able to “experience” nature only through the umbilical cord of civilization.

You are removed from civilization only in the most direct and literal sense. Yes, you are not in the city; but neither are you subjugated to indifference of nature. IF you seek any transcendental understanding of your world from nature, then it is only through the discussion you have about it with other people. That intellectual interaction is where you will truly learn. Unless you are willing to return, as Freud suggested, to the primitive ideal of living naked off the land, then you are only fooling yourself if you hold that you are connected to nature in any real way. “Forgive me, my dear friend,” wrote Plato, “You see I am fond of learning. Now the country places and the trees won’t teach me anything, and the people in the city do.”

So there’s a summary of the basic ideas of the book and my response to them. I think our culture is at a low-point right now. But its nothing insurmountable. Plagues, whether of the body or mind, must take their course, and then are gone.
[Note: Unless specifically quoted otherwise, this post is based on my ideas and understandings of Thornton’s book. I don’t want any charges of plagiarism.]

2005-01-22T18:56:00.000-06:00

Complexities of Life

One thing that I have tried to do with this blog, albeit in the admittedly much too rare postings, is to connect the seemingly unrelated complexities of life. Granted, I’ve only been able to do that on a microcosmic scale. It is my hope that, in time, the rambling here will lead to a more sophisticated philosophy later. In the mean time, I’ve been reading.

I’m actually reading three books right now. They are: Plagues of the Mind, by Bruce S. Thornton; Ripples of Battle, by Victor Davis Hanson; and A Widow for One Year, by John Irving. Although I’ll discuss each book, I think I’ll spend more time on the first one I mentioned, which, even though I haven’t made it half-way yet, is proving to be the most enlightening book I’ve read in some time. However, I’ll do that in Part II—yes, this post would just be too long otherwise.

PART I

A Widow for One Year (AWOY) is a book by the prolific (and thus) well-known author, John Irving. If you don’t recognize the name immediately, he is the mind behind several books, including The Cider House Rules, which made into a movie by the same name. I’ve seen three of the movie versions of his books and, given my dissatisfaction with the story development and the treatment of heavy, complex moral issues with kid-gloves, it was suggested to me by a friend that I should read one of Irving’s books before I pass judgment. In turn, I’ve started reading one of them.

AWOY was made into a movie last year with the title The Door in the Floor. Whereas the movie seems to have stayed very true to the book, I can tell that the book continues past where the movie ended, becoming the story of a life of a girl named Ruth, only a minor character in movie. In fact, the movie (and the part of the book that it was taken from, the beginning) deals only with one summer in Ruth’s life when she’s about six years old. And then it only deals with a young prep-school student spending a summer on Long Island with married couple whose relationship is only a ghost of what it had been. Not passing any judgment yet, but the book is considerably better written than I had imagined.

Ripples of Battle (ROB), is the second book from Victor Davis Hanson that I’ve read. Even more so than Irving, Hanson is a rather prolific writer, although his work is nonfiction and takes on the intersection between military and cultural history. In that vein, ROB highlights three military battles that, historically, have not received too much research or time: (in chronological order) Delium, 424 B.C.; Shiloh, 1862; Okinawa, 1945. His goal is not to describe the military tactics or battles in too great detail, rather he seeks to explain how these battles have directly affected our society. For instance, the Civil War battle of Shiloh, had the direct dual effect of creating one of the best Christian stories ever written and one of the most vile, hate groups in American culture.

Shiloh was the battle in which one Union Gen. Lew Wallace, through a somewhat understandable error, was disgraced in battle. Although his error has, through the somewhat mitigating lens of historical perspective, proven to have been more rightly include others rather than singularly to himself, he spent many years after the Civil War explaining himself to his comrades and other civilians. Granted, his previous shameless self-promotion and aggrandizement contributed to his being “black listed,” he nonetheless atoned for his war error in the form of a novel. The novel, which was later made into a famous Hollywood movie, was really a thinly veiled story of his own experiences during and after the war, set in the early 1^st century A.D. in Judea. The movie, Ben Hur, won several Oscars for its epic portrayal of a wealthy Jew thrown into slavery by a mistake and how he eventually triumphs.

The battle of Shiloh also helped establish the reputation of one Confederate general. Shiloh was Nathan Bedford Forrest’s breakthrough battle. Although the South lost, his brave maneuvering earned him a reputation in the South as a valiant general. This reputation gave him the authority to establish an organization after the war that challenged radical Reconstruction. Its members wore white robes and hoods as symbolic “ghosts of the confederacy,” the Ku Klux Klan. While the original goal of the Klan may not have immediately or readily embrace any racist sentiments, its reincarnation in the 1920s did just that. To his credit, I understand Forrest disavowed the organization once he saw it moving in that direction. Nonetheless, he is the father of the Klan—largely because of Shiloh.

PART II to be posted soon...

2004-12-28T00:05:00.000-06:00

Christmukkah Catholic Style

I am not Jewish, nor do I have any family member who is. In fact, the closest thing to Jewish in my family is the neighbors who live across the street. But they are really only half Jewish anyway—what fraction does that make me then?

This weekend was, without a doubt, the weirdest Christmas ever. Leading up to it we had expected that my mom, who is a flight attendant, might not make it home for Christmas. After all, there are flights everyday of the year, including holidays. However, my mom received her schedule around December 23 and, fortunately, she was to fly on Christmas eve and be home on Christmas. Home for Christmas that is, barring some strange occurrence like—oh I don’t know—snow in New Orleans, for instance.

Before December 25, 2004, it had last snowed (an amount that could be measured) in “The Big Easy” on December 22, 1989—I was eight years old. So it snowed in New Orleans on Christmas and my mom was locked into the New Orleans airport. The flight that was to bring her back to Texas was cancelled. Obviously, this put quite a damper on the holiday. In fact, it didn’t feel much like Christmas at all.

My dad and I immediately suspended dinner preparations (the usual: ham, potatoes, etc.), waiting until my mom eventually arrived. We tried, at first, to find a grocery store open to get some easy food to fix for our scaled down dinner. Apparently, the grocery stores closed at 4pm on Christmas; we arrived in their parking lots at 4:05pm. Plan B: Question—What kind of restaurants are open on Christmas? Answer—Any kind so long as it serves either bad Chinese or bad Mexican food. Neither bad Chinese nor bad Mexican food goes down well and their reincarnation hour later is rather unsettling. In fact, eating that food is like feeding Gizmo after midnight. Pizza, the old standby, is great, however—even if it is Christmas dinner. Although my mom was away, everyone got to open one present.

On December 26, my mom was supposed to arrive in Dallas in the afternoon, and she did. But there was one small problem: the airline put her on another flight immediately upon arrival. Now she’s out west somewhere, and everyone got to open one present. Yes, this Christmas has turned into a de facto, pseudo-Hanukkah celebration, elongating the Christian holy day into a three-day (if she makes it home tomorrow that is) festival. Its like a real Christmakkuh.

It still doesn’t feel like Christmas though. I can see now, at least partly, what people who have recently lost a loved one are going through. Not having someone who has been there every holiday is hard. Its a routine that is suddenly empty with the absence of even one.

2004-12-16T18:33:00.000-06:00

Metaphysical Cachets on the Road to Modern Realism

When I was in high school, I was on the golf team. (Yes, the world’s biggest one player sport can be played as a team effort.) Most of the time, we would practice on public courses in the Dallas area. Occasionally, we got to practice on some of the nicest courses in Dallas. Well, my apartment back up to a tee box on one of the courses; 6 years ago I, when I looked over at the strange apartments from the tee, I was looking at my future home—and I didn’t know it. I had, literally, seen part of my future and didn’t know it. I suppose that shouldn’t really be all that surprising. Life seems to be filled with these sort of occurrences; we probably don’t recognize many (maybe most) of them.

Why is it that when we are young, life seems so ephemeral? There is sense of immediacy, an idea that thing must be done fast or at least soon or else…something. But what is that something? What will happen if we don’t move faster? I’m about to mention a name that will, more likely than not, never be mentioned again on this post: Brittany Spears. (Please, don’t discount the post rest of the post.) But as I sit here watching an old episode of “Friends,” during a commercial break there was an advertisement for the television premier of “Crossroads.” She says, at one point, “All we have is right now…and right now we have each other.” Cheesy, of course. But that line, at least the first part, I think, grabs young people. “All we have is right now…” Yet young people—those old enough to have a developed immune system—are the most likely population to live. Whether we’re 12 or 30, we statistically more likely to be healthy and not have just “now” but a good many tomorrows—years in fact.

This immediacy is also present in more reputable movies like “Garden State.” Although more existential, Natalie Portman’s character wants to be a person who does one original thing. She reasons, that no matter what else happens, she’ll be the only person to have ever done (insert some crazy act)—an original moment. Yet, given that she has so many years left to live (statistically, of course), what’s the rush to originality? Why does it have to be now, right then? I suppose you could say that its part of a culture that is used to everything quickly (fast food, microwaves, cars, etc.) But I think there is more to it.

Readers, what do you think?

2004-11-09T20:16:00.000-06:00

A Two Liter of Coke? or How I Went to Washington, D.C. to Discern My Future and Only Came Back With More Questions

Well, most of you reading this probably know that I visited American University this weekend. I'll get to all that in a minute. But first I would like to write some about our nation's capital, affectionately known as The District.

According to my trusty guidebook, the city was "founded" (at least in a sense) by one Charles Pierre L'Enfant (pronounced "lefawnt" for those of you from Lubbock) around 1791. True to his French nature, and according to the book, "L'Enfant was a diva." Only a year after he first planned the city, he was fired by President Washington (old ivory teeth himself) for being, well, too much of a diva in the district's scene. Nonetheless, L'Enfant's design for the city was implemented, thereby giving him a memorable place in American history and, subsequently, facilitating future references to the Frenchman by modern D.C. dwellers.

It is a wonderful city to visit. Although I had been there once before (staying at Georgetown University for a conference), seeing it again was like seeing it for the first time. You have the monuments, of course. Of these, I believe the Jefferson Memorial to be my favorite. It is not only a fitting memorial in its size, but its scope and depth-insofar as the memorial is rooted in the statesman's philosophy-- is truly remarkable. Dave, who joined me on this trip and about whom I have related and will continue to relate many stories-both here and elsewhere--and I discussed Jefferson's complexity.

Though not conclusive, it would appear that Jefferson did indeed have a relationship with a slave named Sally Hemmings. And, while he condemned slavery as a practiced burdened on the colonies by King George--originally listing this among the other grievances found in the
Declaration of Independence--he continued to keep his slaves until his death in the mid-1820s. I think, interestingly enough, this very complexity, this seeming paradox of culture and philosophy, is merely a microcosm of the complexity America has with race. It is not as simple as white vs. black (or other races)--the nuances are too many to reconcile with such an idea.

(NOTE: We did see many other memorials, too many, in fact, to discuss here. However, you should all get around to seeing the Lincoln Memorial, which Dave astutely observed was a life-size rendering of the 16th president.)

After seeing most of the monuments (at least those around The Mall) on Saturday night, we headed to Georgetown. In a word, Georgetown is preppy; in two words, preppy and pretentious; in three words preppy, pretentious, and political. It is a haven for, as one waiter described to me on my last night, “blue bloods.” Georgetown is famous, of course, for the university of the same name. But it is better know, perhaps, as the epicenter of the politically connected. Its narrow streets lines with two-hundred year old townhomes provide a quiet respite for political shenanigans. For about $500,000 you too could have a piece of this preppy enclave. After eating at Mr. Smith’—the more famous Clyde’s was a 2 hour wait—we walked around Georgetown before heading back to the hotel.

Sunday morning we headed to the capitol building where, however briefly, Dave flirted with the idea of posing as “Senator Burns from Montana.” Senator Burns would later, in a manner which I am only able to describe as effeminate frolicking, proceed down the steps of the Supreme Court—the nation’s most prestigious legal body. We then reflected on the sad fact that lady Justice was apparently stricken blind earlier in her life (perhaps from birth). Although we understood that all disabilities can be overcome, I bet if Senator Burns is re-elected his first order of business would be a bill outlawing blindness. Vote for Senator Burns!

After seeing about 30 buildings with titles beginning with “The National…” I was expecting to see the The National Toilet; alas, it was not to be. So we proceeded to the very posh Harry’s sports bar. Like other high class sports bars, Harry’s serves soft drinks for the weak—that’s us—but does it in style. Out plastic Dixie cups were refilled from a two liter bottle of Coke. None of that fancy fountain drink shit here. That’s just how you roll in D.C.

Well, about this time, Dave had to leave and head back to the “Constitution State” (Connecticut, again for those of you from Lubbock). Though Dave had been a great driver during the weekend, he changed directions so many times even autopilot would have gotten sick. Quote of the weekend from the driver, “When I get nervous, I floor it.” I think we can all take solace in that; Senator Burns, I commend you.

So what does one do by himself on a Sunday night in the District of Columbia? Whys you get yous some EastCoast hos! But I jest. You take a walk down the quiet 35 th street in Georgetown, turn left onto M Street and another left onto Wisconsin. You then stop into Third Edition, a bar, where you listen as the soundtrack from Garden State plays in the background. Have a beer, and ask the waiter about the city. Yes, if you have seen the Brat Pack classic, St. Elmo’s Fire—I haven’t but now feel the need to—it was filmed in part at this bar. Then you walk back to your hotel room and get some sleep for you meeting with American University in the morning.

Located in the affluent area surrounding Massachusetts Avenue in Northwest D.C., The American University (yes, there is a “The” apparently) is a small school of 10,000 students. Although its official abbreviation is AU, one Master’s student told me that it also goes by "Gay Jew" in reference to its large homosexual and Jewish populations. Now that I have had a day to reflect on the meeting, I have to admit that I have some strong reservations about the school.

The professor who facilitated the day was extremely generous and wanted to make sure I had the best visit possible. I greatly appreciated that, and I think the day went well. I met with a few different faculty members and two students. However, though the academics are certainly there, I’m not sure if I would feel comfortable (or best served professionally) if I pursued their program.

Although scholars pride themselves on their own objectivity and diversity, graduate programs (at least when it comes to Liberal Arts) are, unfortunately, rarely ideologically diverse or object when it comes to faculty. I knew that going in. However, while I do not want to attend a “conservative program” any more than a “liberal program,” I’m not sure if my views would be tolerated at AU given the actions of some of the faculty. As I entered the department’s main office, I was greeted by the UK’s Daily Mirror cover from Nov. 4: A picture of George Bush with the caption “How can 59,054,087 be so dumb?” Isn’t that special? And this is on the door of the main office? Hmm…it continues…

After meeting some other office workers, I was introduced to the head of the department. He asked me how Texas was and, thinking that he was referring to the weather, offered that it was pretty warm still. He said, “I mean politically.” Oh. I looked down at his desk and saw an interesting faux-TIME magazine cover: Bush’s picture with the caption “We’re Fucked.” I looked back up, and in a diplomatic way, suggested that I was sure Texas was fine with the outcome. I should add that upon leaving his office, I noticed more anti-Bush propaganda adorned to his door. Interesting.

Later, I met with a rather personable faculty member. She was very nice and seemed truly interested in talking with me. We discussed Robert Frost’s politics, which led into a discussion of Ezra Pound. Unlike Frost, I said, Pound could hardly be considered a conservative. To which she retorted, “Well he was a fascist.” Whoa. Stop. Let’s reread that:

We discussed Robert Frost’s politics, which led into a discussion of Ezra Pound. Unlike Frost, I said, Pound could hardly be considered a conservative. To which she retorted, “Well he was a fascist.”

Woops. Seems like a little Freudian slip there. So conservatism is synonymous with fascism. I’m starting to understand. However, to her credit—perhaps she saw my eyebrows rise—she qualified her statement with a weak “well I suppose conservatism doesn’t necessarily mean fascism” or some other similar statement. But she had already been had.

Now, as I wrote earlier. I know graduate programs tend to be liberal (sometimes radically so). And I by no means want to attend a program where everyone thinks as I do. There is neither intellectual growth in that, nor is there any fun. I do however expect intellectual soundness and professionalism. I don’t think equating fascism with conservatism is sound in the least. The former is a brutal dictatorial regime bent on consolidating private industries into the national government through the use of terrorism. On the other hand, I was disappointed with the fact that the head of the department not only had non-academic paraphernalia on his door (what are we doing here, decorating a dorm room?) but that it was so vulgar and crass. In no way would such material ever be considered professional. So given these actions, would I be comfortable at AU? I just don’t know. And this ignorance has led me to question whether an English program is right for me at all.

I’ve mentally reviewed my resume: History major with a 3.5+ major GPA; I worked as a columnist (mostly political) for a year in a major University newspaper; I currently research and write about major political events in the world and the United States. On paper, I would be an excellent match for a History, Political Science or American Studies program. The first two seem too narrow; however, I think American Studies might be a good bet. It will allow me to pursue American literature, politics, culture, and history at the same time. I think that would be interesting, and complement my overactive mind. But now there are even more questions with fewer answers.

I do know one thing though. I got to spend time with a true friend in a great town. We had a lot of fun seeing the sites and exploring the city. It’s a great place to visit, and perhaps to live in. D.C. has so much to offer—its like a miniature New York City. But I still didn’t get a stupid T-shirt.

2004-10-24T23:48:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, in the evening, when the rain comes in,

I like to watch it. I like to feel its coolness,

Sitting on my porch, Alone.

Although, I suppose I’m not really all that Alone.

I do have the rain—memories floating inside me,

Pouring forth, eternal, ephemeral.

And the dark woods, too.

So no, I suppose, I’m not really alone.

Still, I like to think that I am.

I like to think that it is just me out on my porch,

Watching the rain—watching the water fall, Alone,

Drop by drop by drop,

Onto my wood porch.

And when it’s over, I like to go back in.

But maybe I shouldn’t;

There’s so much more raining left to do.

2004-10-10T23:49:00.000-05:00

This weekend I saw three movies; they all, interestingly enough, we related. I saw (in this order) What the Bleep Do We Know?; In America; The Motorcycle Diaries. I didn’t realize until just now, that they all had something to say about life. Perhaps one could argue that any story has something to do with life, but these movies seemed to touch the theme in three unique ways.

The first, What the Bleep…?, takes on the metaphysical aspects of life—the mergence of quantum physics with spiritualism. The movie is part narrative, part documentary. Various experts in psychiatry, medicine, physics etc. discuss how reality is shaped by our perception of it, not necessarily its rules. I’m not going to explain it any further, since I’ll start confusing myself as much as you, the reader. I think it offers some interesting ideas, and some dangerous ones; if you had the time, it might be worth seeing.

In America is the modern story of a small Irish family coming to America (illegally). The husband and wife have two young girls as they start their new life in a drug infested, cross-dresser haven of a tenement house. What could easily have become a depressing, cynical account of such a transition, is far more fair—showing both the ups and downs of starting a new life.

I’ve thought about pursuing American Studies in grad school, and this film makes my theory more sound: in order to study American society and culture, it should be studied from the outside. The older sister, who seems to be 12ish at one point turns to her 8 (9ish) year old sister who has just said “cool.” “See,” the older sister says, “she already turning American—it’s disgusting. Where’d you hear ‘cool’?” I never thought about it, but “cool” may be one of the most American of words—at least as far as we use it here. But how many of us realize it? It might be as American as “bloody” is British. Without removing ourselves from the immediacy of American culture, however, we probably wouldn’t have been able to see it.

Likewise, the girls decide they want to go Trick-or-Treating for Halloween. They don’t know what it is or how to do it; they just hear bits and pieces about it at (catholic) school. “Here, you don’t ask for candy, you demand it. You knock on someone’s door and threaten them: Trick or Treat,” says the older sister. So what do they do in their apartment? They walk up to a door and bang on it repeatedly, yelling “Trick or Treat!” Again, how many of us ever thought about the strangeness of our Halloween custom—innocently extorting candy from neighbors? It’s not until we stand back and see our culture through another’s eyes that we can really grasp its uniqueness, idiosyncrasies, and its beauty. Of course America isn’t the only country with strange customs; they probably would gain as much insight into their culture by looking at it through another’s eyes as much as we gain doing the same.

The final movie’s topic may shock those that know me. It’s the story of Ernesto “Che” Guevara. That’s right, Che. As in the communist revolutionary who supported Castro’s take over of Cuba; as in the man whose face graced the backdrop of Rage Against the Machine concerts. Though the film hints at Che’s communist sympathies, The Motorcycle Diaries tells a story of the pre-revolutionary Che, based upon his own diary.

In the early 1950s, Ernesto Guevara, a medical student, decided to ride around South America with his best friend Alberto Granado, a biochemist. The wanted to see a land that they had only read about in books. It’s the best foreign film I’ve seen, one of the best films I’ve seen. By really focusing on the 8-month voyage, the film is able to go into great depth. And youcan see just how much potential is in the young Che (though he is not the legendary Che yet; he’s called “Fuser” by Alberto), and the images in the film are gorgeous.

So what does it have to do with life? Che’s diary begins with (and this is a paraphrase) “This isn’t the story of heroic feats. It’s the story of two lives running parallel for a while.” I think that’s a wonderful way to look at the trip these two young men took. They went on this adventure, not for the adventure itself, but for what they would learn about their world and their life. Its was almost an experiment—a move to gain greater perspective (a topic I’m sure this blog will revisit before long). Anyway, SEE THIS FILM. Its worth it.

2004-09-18T20:43:00.000-05:00

Well I finally got around to seeing "Garden State," a movie that I had intended to see when it first came out. For the two people who read this blog regularly, you both saw the movie so bare with me as I review the plot in the off chance someone else stumbles upon this page who hasn’t seen it.

"Garden State" is the story of Andrew Largeman (Zach Braff), an actor living out in Los Angeles who returns to New Jersey after the death of his mother. Its unclear if Largeman (known as “Large” by his hometown friends) has been estranged from his entire family or just his father, but he has not been home in several years. His return brings him back to old friends, who accept him back eagerly, and to face his family’s past.

Its a great first movie for Zack Braff as writer and director. The themes of loneliness and isolation are skillfully presented early in the film. In the surrealistic opening scene, Largeman sits quietly and apathetically in a plane as the rest of the passengers panic around him. The plane is going down and is suffering major turbulence. He is completely disengaged from the actions on the plane.

During his mother's funeral, Largeman stands off away from the other observers. He is not a part of the ceremony and seems to feel no connection to it. After the funeral, Largeman talks with his Aunt (who looks like she could actually be Braff's mother). His aunt would like him to try on a shirt that she made. Hilariously, he tries it on and it’s the same pattern as the wallpaper from a newly renovated bathroom. However, I think the scene shows how Largeman is blending in with society, remaining unoriginal—another theme which will later be expounded upon.

Returning for a moment to the previous theme of isolation, I think Largeman’s mode of transportation while he is home is quite telling. Its an old motorcycle from his grandfather. He explains that his grandfather left only one thing to any family member—the motorcycle—and he specifically left it to Largeman. However, what could be seen as merely a funny vehicle, further suggests Largeman’s loneliness since there is no one to ride next to him—the sidecar always remains empty until the last 30 minutes of the film.

Soon Largeman meets Sam, a bubbly young girl played by Natalie Portman. Although I know that Portman is not 16, when we first meet her she acts like she is. However, we learn that she is indeed at least 21 and perhaps more Largeman’s age (mid—late 20s?) Their friendship starts off quickly and eventually leads to a romance that takes a bit away from the movie rather than adding to it. And this is where my chief criticism of the movie occurs: why the romance here?

The first half of the movie is about Largeman’s place in life, his isolation and loneliness. A budding friendship with Sam is one thing, after all, Largeman is rekindling old friendships why not start a new one? But the romance between him and Sam sparks over 5 days. They find love in less than a week; why this romance is necessary at all, let alone believable. The film remained very unique up until this point. Then it seemed to slightly devolve from a mature character study to a typical mushy romantic movie. That really is my biggest criticism which, when the movie is taken in its totality, doesn’t really hurt my image of the movie too much.

A friend of mine argued that the movie is one for “our generation.” And I would agree with that. Like many children born after, say, 1975, Largeman has been medicated most of his life. However, he comes to reject the medications route in favor of coping with his feelings on his own. While he rejects prescription drugs, he does join his friends in recreational drug use, something which seems a bit counterintuitive. Prescription drugs hurt the mind, but X and pot don’t? He wants to purge the prescription drugs from his mind but readily pours equally mind numbing chemical back in. It’s a minor inconsistency and one that I can accept since he doesn’t seem to glorify it.

The movie hums along with a great soundtrack. The music compliments the movie’s actions well. The acting is wonderfully refreshing (how’s that for a marketing blurp?!); I cared about the characters. Aside from the fact that the movies seems to depart from its original plot, it’s well worth seeing.

2004-08-29T19:27:00.000-05:00

Earlier this week I read a news story out of Winnipeg, Canada:

“His telephone number was still listed in the telephone directory and his condominium fees and bills were automatically being withdrawn from his bank account.

"No one knew Jim Sulkers had died in his bed almost two years ago.

"Neighbour Sam Shuster said residents in the complex often wondered where the man they knew only as Jim had gone, but were told his condominium fees were still being paid.

“‘How can that happen, for God's sake. Two years!’ Shuster said yesterday of the man who had been a resident in the building since the mid-1980s.

“‘I used to ask the president of the board of directors where in the hell is he? She said all she knew was the bank gets the monthly money so we don't worry about it.’

Sulkers' remains were discovered Wednesday. Manitoba's chief medical examiner, Dr. Thambirajah Balachandra, determined he had died of natural causes.

“Sulkers, believed to be in his 50s, had multiple sclerosis. Balachandra said there were no signs of trauma and he was able to quickly rule out homicide, suicide or accident as a cause of death. But because the body was in a mummified state, he could not determine an exact cause.

“He said a newspaper dated Nov. 21, 2002, was found in the man's apartment and a wall calendar was opened to November 2002 — evidence the man died nearly two years ago.

“A cousin, Kim Dyck of Winnipeg, said she lost contact with the man after his mother died about 10 years ago, but relatives had attempted to make contact with Sulkers last summer when they were in the city for a wedding.

“‘They knocked on his door and he didn't answer,’ she said. ‘You assume he isn't home. You certainly don't assume he's dead.’

"She said the man's bills must have been covered by a pension cheque automatically deposited into his bank account.

"Neighbours said Sulkers' mailbox had become full several times and was always emptied by a letter carrier.

"Canada Post spokesman Brian Garagan said letter carriers are required to clear full mailboxes and inform a supervisor, who calls the condo owner. He said the corporation was trying to determine if that policy was followed.

"He said Sulkers' mail delivery was halted at some point but he wasn't sure when. He said he would be talking to the letter carrier on the route.

"Marcel Baril, executive director of the Family Centre in Winnipeg, called the situation bizarre and sad. ‘It's odd that we live in a society where technology can take care of our affairs like that, even if we passed away two years ago, and nobody's noticed.’

Morbid? Faulknerian? Indeed. However, throughout my reading of the article I kept returning to one idea: How can someone become so far removed from society and society interaction that they could, in effect, slip through the cracks for two years and not be noticed.

Set aside this man’s death for one moment, since his death is really only a minor event as far as the central focus of this story is concerned. He was dead to the world long before his life expired in that bed. His physical death only adds a tinge of morbidness, whereas his “metaphysical” death, that being his separation from the world, paints the entire article.

Without a family (or at least without a concerned one, we are led to presume), without friends, Jim Sulkers (such a literary name for such a literary theme) wasted away from multiple sclerosis for at least two years. However, for the past two years he could just have easily been living in Switzerland, Mexico, or some such place, having decided to skip town one day a start a different life. The result would still have been the same, no one would have said anything, he would never have gone “missing,” and, in this particular circumstance, the story would probably have never made the paper.

So what of this deep disassociation with society; is Jim Sulkers an anomaly? I doubt it. Surely it is one thing to voluntarily withdraw from society; it is quite another to be forgotten or dispossessed by society. I’m reminded of the Beatles song, “Eleanor Rigby.”

“Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ah, look at all the lonely people

“Eleanor Rigby, picks up the rice
in the church where a wedding has been.
Lives in a dream.
Waits at the window, wearing the face
that she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for?

“All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?

“Father McKenzie, writing the words
of a sermon that no one will hear
No one comes near.
Look at him working, darning his socks
in the night when there's nobody there
What does he care?

“All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?

“Ah, look at all the lonely people
Ah, look at all the lonely people

“Eleanor Rigby, died in the church
and was buried along with her name.
Nobody came.

“Father McKenzie, wiping the dirt
from his hands as he walks from the grave.
No one was saved.

“All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?”

I fear that this level of loneliness and isolation, be it in the form of a fictional Father McKenzie or real Jim Sulker, is manifesting itself surreptitiously in our society. Though the internet (and similar technology) has given us unprecedented access to thoughts and ideas, but not people. Even with the “blog” revolution, one finds an increasing openness on the part of the bloggers, but without much intimacy with the reader. We gain the insight to someone’s life and thoughts, but only through the manifestation of a computer code written in simple ones and zeros. I may be able to talk with someone in China through the internet or email someone in Australia, and no matter how detailed the conversation or note is, a barrier of thousands of miles separates us—physical human interaction is nonexistent.

And so it almost seems to me that we are slipping away from each other just as we believe we are getting closer. Our digital interactions, while rich in ideas, lack substance because of the very ease and anonymity it provides. Are we all, me included, simply living versions of Jim Sulker, wasting away in our homes and offices from the true human experience—physical interaction and the pain and joy that it inevitably brings?

2004-06-23T22:41:00.000-05:00

Why do we seek out connections? And when I say “connections” I mean connections of all sorts: physical, mental, and emotional. What is it about that moment of connecting with something or someone that we, as humans, are simply drawn to like moths to light? I wrote the following short story some time back. And I believe it attempts to make a connection to connecting. Why we seek these links to the past; to the dead; to the living; to the present. And why, more often than not, do we fail to understand why we’re even searching?

Requiem for an Early Morning
Et lux perpetuam luceat eis

It’s six a.m. and I am awake. For the last hour I have been in a twilight sleep dreaming about reasons I shouldn’t be getting up this early this morning. The light’s better this time of morning, I told myself – the light’s better. I get up. I get dressed. And I get out onto the highway.

The highway is surprisingly well lighted and, for a Saturday morning, there are many cars. Behind me the sun breaks the horizon. Why is the sunset so different than the sun rise?.
The light has grown broader, and the sky, once pink, now, turning a bright red-orange. I answer my own question: the sun is as lazy as we are in the morning.

I know where I am going. But I don’t.

I’m going to a black cemetery. I’ve been told it’s down this and that road, make a right here and a left there and you’ll find it. I’m lost save for the crudely drawn three inch square map I drew from the oral directions. I make a right off the highway and across the train tracks.

Now I’m on a two-lane road. On either side of me are thickets of trees; the road forcing me to focus on the miles of lonely country road ahead of me. I remember that I was told to keep going straight. I come to the four-way that was mentioned.

I go on.

The roads in the country appear longer in the dawn’s light than they do at any other time of day. The small amount of light forces us to see the truth.

I go on.

On my left I can see the mist rising from the lakes and ponds like smoke from a smoldering fire. It hovers above the lake. And you know it came from the lake. But it doesn’t touch the lake. And the lake is still.

It’s supposed to be about four miles from the four-way I tell myself. I look at the odometer – but why? I didn’t reset it at the intersection. I try to guess and say that I’ve gone about four.

I see it. Up around the bend. The turn-off to the one lane dirt road hides mischievously amongst the trees. It’s a hard road, summer rains having eroded miniature canyons. The dust behind me kicks up slowly in the moist morning air.

The cemetery gate is rusted shut. I pull on it. I pull harder and the sharp metallic squeaks of iron on iron permeate the air. Have I awakened anyone? Some of the stones are turned over, fallen like ancient monuments long forgotten. In the summer, the grass would be thick. It’s fall. And the grass? Merely a mirror of that which rests underneath its soil.

Why did I come here? I am not black.

A live oak stands in the middle of the cemetery. Majestic with its branches, the years have let it grow. And the soil, which worked hard on the fields of cotton, now works in the leaves. I look around me and see a battlefield of life. There are no flowers and there haven’t been for some time.

I bend down and look at a stone:

Er John n
Die Agus 4

People forget; Time forgets not,
And has left its mark. Vandal and thief,
Time cares naught
save
the progression
of the years.

I step back; I take a picture – the only flower I have to give. And head back to town.

* * *

I’ve taken pictures in downtown before. It’s in a historic district, which in Texas, usually means it’s poor. Downtown Carlson is one of those districts. I spend some time walking the streets gazing at the amount of potential there is for a thriving town and wondering, what happened? They say the town was built because of the railroad tracks. Given that the tracks slice through downtown, I’d say they were right.

Now I’ve heard about towns built on the railroads. They die quick deaths once the trains stop coming. But the trains pass through Carlson four or five times a day.
I read in a history book one time that when the Americans dropped the bomb on Japan, they only thing left of some of the Japanese was their shadow that the light of a billion suns cast upon the wall as they walked to work.

I can’t help but wonder what blinding economic catastrophe made Carlson but a sleepy shadow of its former self.

I walk down Main Street.

In what I guess to be a burst of self-realization, the town is redoing its street. Putting in a green median and making the street wider. It’s a band aid for a hemorrhage. And as I look into a storefront that seems like a perfectly usable and prime space near the center of the street, the eons of abandonment have left a think layer of dust and grime on the glass. I peer through the cake, and understand.

I understand why no one wants to own the location.

There is no roof and the walls are cracked and decaying. From the inside.

I walk on.

I return to Jim Bowie Elementary school. A few weeks ago, I had found some items around the school that seemed like good pictures. As I walk, a young girl in a blue hooded sweatshirt walks by me. I nod, she says hi.

I walk around to the back of the school and find the places that I had taken pictures of before. This time I decide to manipulate the shot. I move a ladder a few feet this way so part of it is in the light. I set up for the shot, check the light meter.

Snap.

I see the girl I passed earlier out of the corner of my eye. She’s obviously walking towards me now.

“You take pictures?” She asks me.

“Um, well –“I stutter and stumble over my words. Well obviously you do take pictures, you’re doing it now. But she means am I a photographer. Well aren’t you? You’re taking pictures – that’s what photographers do. But I’m not a professional. I just do this when I have time. She just asked if you take pictures, just tell the truth.

“– Um, yeah, I mean I guess so. I like this building.” I manage to successfully tell the truth and not feel like I’m misleading her.

“The kids in the neighborhood hang out here all the time,” she says.
I look around. The playground consists of a slide, a large oak, a small wooden contraption. I look at the building again. Most of the windows are broken but the plywood in each frame seems to keep people out. So I’m left to wonder, why this is such an attractive place.

“Really?” I ask.

“Yeah my best friend and I come here all the time. She’s in Juvi right now. Her dad beats her. He’s was a cop, you know, so he knows how to hit her and not leave any bruises. So now she’s in Juvi for trying to press false charges or something.”

I try to filter the load of information. What I am supposed to say or ask next?

“He’s hit me too, I’m thinking about pressing charges. Her family is thinking about moving to North Carolina in a few months. I figure if I press charges, then he can’t leave. Is that true? In Texas can I do that?”

Now I used to want to be a lawyer and I worked in a law office for four hellacious months. But that was a while ago, and I didn’t learn much about the law anyway. I tell her what I know.

“I don’t know if he could leave the state but it would look suspicious.”

She agrees.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Schyler.” She says.

I tell her mine. Schyler is a pretty girl. Her hair is cut short, slightly boyish but a style that a lot of girls like. She walks with a distinctive limp. From he knee to her foot on right leg kicks out as she walks, making her movement almost border on a hobble. She does not use crutches and there is no apparent brace.

I can sense there is a loneliness and isolation behind her greenish brown eyes. She’s in the 11th grade and she keeps her hands in her pockets.

“So the kids hang out here, huh?” I ask looking at the building some more.

“Yeah, mostly druggies go inside. My cousin’s in a gang and he goes in there. I’ve gone in a few times. But if the cops catch you, you get arrested.”

I wonder why she is telling me all of this. And then I think about how it can’t be any later than 9 in the morning and I’m talking to a high school girl who should be asleep but instead is walking around her neighborhood. She wants to talk. Why me?

“I can’t sleep or eat thinking about my friend in Juvi. We come here all the time to talk. We’ve been best friends for, I guess about a year now. We tell each other everything. Stuff I’d never tell anyone else.”

Stop telling me this. I don’t know you. How can I help you? Abandonment behind her eyes. But I know she wants to talk – about anything. So I try to steer the subject from the harsh burden of reality choking this 11th grade girl to something happier.

“Would you like me to take your picture?”

She hesitates. Shakes her head and says, “Naw, I don’t really like taking pictures.”

Neither do I.

“So when did they close it?” I ask.

“A few years ago. My mom went to school here. She tells me stories about her growing up. And she’ll point to things in town that have changed like, ‘That used to be this place or that.’ I act like I don’t care but afterward I’m like, ‘that’s cool.’”

“Do you know why it closed?”

“The inside walls started cracking, the vibration of the train. They said it wasn’t safe anymore so they built a new school about a mile away.”

“So how do you get in?” I ask knowing that there is no obvious entrance but like every abandoned building – there’s at least one way in.

“I can show you one way.”

Suddenly the crippling kinetic sound of steel and diesel horsepower breaks the morning silence in the neighborhood as the train goes by. I understand now why the school was closed down.

“That too,” she says.

We walk around to the side. She tears away a piece of plywood covering a window at ground level. It leads to the basement.
“See its pretty easy. And you can see all the stuff they left. They have games that my parents used to play.”

I peer into the blackness and see various toys scattered, a wheelchair, and a typewriter. I wonder why there is so much left. I immediately think of the public school system and am ready to blame the bureaucrats for, again, wasting money. Sure the typewriter is worthless but the wheel chair could be donated to a needy kid and the toys could have been used as well.

“No one cares around here –”

Somehow I don’t find that hard to believe.

Only the forgotten remember the forgotten.

“ – You know? Like, right now we’re trespassing. We’re not supposed to even be in the back of the school. But cops come by. They don’t care until you go in the building. We have a neighborhood watch. But no one really cares.”

No one cares about the building. I wonder how many people actually care about Schyler.

I decided to take some pictures of the building. Schyler tells me about how one time she and some friends got stung by bees while trying to get in. “We hated Andrew after that,” she says.

I am hiding behind my camera because I don’t know what I should say to this girl. I want to comfort her and tell her things will be ok. But I’m honest. I don’t know if things will be ok.

“Well I guess I’ll let you get back to your pictures.”

I’m finished taking the shots I wanted so I walk back around to the front of the school with her. I ask her where some other places to take pictures might be. She thinks for a moment.

“There’s the Carlson cemetery. I used to take pictures there. But I’ll tell you if you don’t believe in spirits, go there at night and you will. You know those orb things they have in ghosts pictures, well I got ’em too. I even got a picture of a spirit trying to get through the fence.”

She tells me how the cemetery is old and some graves go back to the 1700s. She tells me how in the back they have a fenced off section for the Jews. And that I should go to the left when I drive in to get to the oldest graves.

I nod my head as if understanding and think that the 1700s would be odd; we’re not that far south.

“I went a few times and started to get headaches. My mom, she’s a spiritual person, and she said that’s the spirits warning me. It’s ok to go there a few times she said. She told me that the spirit chasers can go there all the time because they are professionals and they know what to do.”

Why should I tell this girl that the orbs were probably just reflections of light on the lens? Why should I tell Schyler that her spirit trying to break out of the fence was more a product of her imaginative mind and less of the supernatural? And that her headaches are more of a coincidence than spiritual foreboding. Does it really matter?

I walk towards the car. She’s going the same way. And I think about offering to take her picture again. But decide against it. It’s not as if she would see the picture anyway.

As we part I ask her about going to the cemetery on Halloween. She laughs and says she’d never do it “but you can.”

I tell her to take it easy. She says it was nice to meet me. As she walks away, hood flapping, hands in her pocket. I take her picture.
Someone should remember her.

* * *

I return to my apartment. The ticking clock reveals its 6 pm. Where did the day go?

I reach into the refrigerator and grab a beer. It’s cold in my hand and, as I take a sip, the bottle begins to sweat. I walk into the bathroom.

Putting the beer down, I turn on the water. It’s good and cold as I cup my hands underneath its stream and bend down. What did I see today? I splash the water over my face and look at the man who stands before me. I stare as if seeing him for the first time. I reach out and touch the figure and the glass is cold.

In my bedroom, the oak desk is lacquered with a finish of old mail and photographs. I pick up some of it and then quickly put it back down. I turn the light on and then off again. Then I walk into the living area.

I pace around for a few moments: turn on the fan and open the blinds slightly. The light creates crisp shadows on the floor. And I lay down, lying on the floor looking up. The fan swirls softly above me. The room is silent and at first I hear only my breathing. However, slowly even that sounds slips away into the loneliness of the room.

I look outside.

The light, the shadows waltz up my leg as the setting sun glides past the window. They creep past my belt: the shadow chasing the light. And as I look at the blue sky coyly hiding behind the blinds, the shadows falling on my face now, the only sound I hear in the room is the echoing ticks of the clock.

2004-05-31T13:55:00.000-05:00

Memorial Day

I had the opportunity to visit the Vietnam Veteran's Memorial in Washington, DC several years ago. I didn't know anyone who died during that war; and have only met a few that served in it. But I can never forget how "the wall" affected me when I first saw it.

The following song affects me today as much as seeing the actual "wall" did when I was 18.

AFTER THE WAR
by Tim Irvine

My name is Billy Johnson. Indiana's my state.
I turned 21 back in '68.
Drafted into the army, sent to Fort Leonard Wood.
When I left my hometown, I prayed it wasn't for good.

His name was Hector Gonzalez, from San Jose.
We got stuck with KP the very first day.
After peelin' potatoes for hours on end,
Hector and I were the closest of friends.

When they put us on a troop jet, and flew us to 'Nam,
Some guy stood up in the back and read the twenty-third psalm.
He talked about walkin' through that valley of death.
I said, "Hector I'm scared." He said, "Just take a deep breath."

When we got off the plane and our assignments came in,
I got sent to Pleiku, he got sent to Long Binh.
He hugged me goodbye and turned around at the door,
And he said, "Don't forget look me up, after the war."

About three months later, he wrote me a letter.
He said some days are rough and some days are better,
And a kid named Gilardo we knew from basic training,
Was missing in action up north. "By the way, I meant what I said before:
Don't forget to look me up, after the war."

I was out on patrol in the spring of '69,
I stepped on a trip wire, took some shrapnel from a mine.
Spent the rest of my tour in a hospital bed,
With a pin in my leg, and a plate in my head.

On the plane ride home, I thought of all I'd been through.
I'd lived nine lives and I was just 22.
And I thought about Hector and what I'd promised before,
And I planned to look him up, right after the war.

Twenty-one years later in Washington, DC,
I was there on vacation with my family.
I went out to that park to see that wall,
And face up to a past I didn't want to recall.

First, I looked for that guy that Hector wrote me about,
He wasn't on the list, I guess he lucked out.
Then my eyes caught a name at the top of the page,
Corporal Hector Gonzalez, 21 years of age.

My throat got tight. My mouth went dry.
I looked up at that wall and I started to cry.
And the memories hit me like incoming fire,
From a time when we were so-o-o young,
Hector wavin' at me from the door,
Sayin', "Don't forget to look me up, after the war."

I lay awake some nights. I can still hear the guns,
Still hear the screams, I can still taste the blood.
I can still see Hector wavin' goodbye from the door,
Sayin', "Don't forget to look me up, after the war."

2004-05-26T19:16:00.000-05:00

Today, coming back from Wal-Mart, a man was standing in the median with a small cardboard sign. I didn’t have my glasses on but the sign mentioned something about a family (which I took to be his) and 2 children. He didn’t look like your typical “homeless” person. He wore a shirt tucked into a pair of jeans. In fact, I had seen him earlier on my way in to the store and – not seeing his sign – figured he might be having car trouble. But as I came to find out that wasn’t the case – he might not even own a car anymore.

I don’t know if this guy and I share any other similarities in life other than the fact that we both spend a considerable amount of time outdoors in the sun. I’m sensitive to that and had just bought a huge pack of Ozarka bottled water for that very reason. Walking around neighborhoods in the middle of the day – which is what I do – makes you kind of thirsty. So I rolled down the window and gave him a bottle.

Now whenever I see someone like that, I like probably 99% of America, wonder why he’s not working. And that seems like a valid question. But, in this case, does the question really matter since we can’t know (or won’t take the time to find out) the answer? If someone is on the streets begging for money, why do we naturally turn away from, in fact downright ignore his/her presence, and rationalize it by suggesting he/she would use the money for alcohol, drugs, etc. It’s ignorant cynicism based on perception and nothing more. And it’s that very thing – perception – which clouds and distorts our reality.

I watched a really good movie which was suggested to me by a friend: American Splendor. It’s the true story of Harvey Pikar, the pessimistic/depressive creator of the comic book “American Splendor.” In one scene, Pikar is approached by a woman who recognizes him from college (he dropped out after 2 semesters on account of, he says, the required math courses he was inevitably going to have to take). She’s heard about his success as a comic book creator/jazz reviewer (a side-job of his) and suggests that he’s doing well for himself. “You’re famous,” she says. We find out that she completed college and is a little unhappy being a stay-at-home mom. “I’m not doing as great as you think,” says Pikar. “My second wife divorced me, I work a dead end job as a file clerk; sometimes I hang out with the guys in the corner but most of the time I stay at home by myself and I read.” Her perception of Pikar’s life was different from the reality.

Solaris, the 2002 science fiction movie, had a more abstract take on the same theme of perception. George Clooney plays a psychologist (I think) who is sent to an orbiting ship to help with figure out the anomalies that are taking place there. As it turns out, each crew member is seeing and interacting with a person from his/her past. Clooney is affected too, when his dead wife comes back to him. But the entity which comes back is only the construction that the real person created. Which is to say, Clooney is seeing his wife not as she was, but as he perceived her to be. The major theme in the movie is that truly knowing someone is very difficult because we view their lives and our interaction with them through the clouded lens of our own biases, prejudgments, etc. (for better or worse).

Which brings me back to the homeless man on the median. I don’t know his life- which means I don’t know if he is to blame for his situation or not. Its probably a mixture. But I don’t know that for sure – so why be cynical about it. Why pass these people by without a second thought? Maybe it’s because we have our own problems to deal with – and that may be true. But can we rationalize our own inaction based on our own shaky perceptions?

2004-05-14T17:37:00.000-05:00

Driving Through the Delta in Winter
Phillips County, Arkansas

As the fog rests its feet
Upon the delta soil, and the road
Meandering through the land
Is silent save for the old tires’
Low hum on the pavement,
And the remnants of the rain
Rest between the rows
Of cotton and the cotton left
Droops and hangs from the rain,
An old house lies in the field,
Writhing and dying alone
Among the trees.

The cracked glass
And broken boards,
Warped and twisted, like scars
Marking up a body,
Grow with the cotton – Season
To season – just as the vine
Snakes up along its side,
Griping each scar and crawls
A little more. The house knows
No time. In a few moments,
I will be gone (just passing through),
But the fog will be there,
Anyway, it will always be there –
The house that is.

2004-05-11T17:43:00.000-05:00

Wearing red shorts and a small sleeveless shirt, she walks pointedly around my neighborhood. Each day she takes what seems to be the same path; her pace is so precise on both trips (she makes the one block-by-one block loop twice) that watching her is almost hypnotic. Her face is steady and blank and her mouth is slightly parted as her tongue rests slightly on her lower lip. She has Downs Syndrome.

I was never taught how to interact/associate with mentally/physically handicapped people. Over the years, I have learned how to deal with “mean” people and “nice” people, “loud” people and “shy” people, etc. But I somehow missed the lesson(s) where I learn how to associate respectfully with someone whose general mental capacity is severely hampered for whatever reason. Maybe that is why I’m unable to understand my feeling when I come across this sort of person.

A few nights ago, PBS ran a somewhat strange show. I missed the first part, but from the lighting and setting used, I could tell it was a relatively low-budget production. Apparently the show centered on the life of two sisters. One sister was a fully functioning “normal” person who cared for her physically handicapped sister. The handicapped sister seemed to be mentally fine, but her speech was severely slurred, one arm was in a semi-paralyzed state, and she shook violently as she walked with her feet turned slightly inward. She is the sort of person that one would instantly notice if she walked into the room. (I suspect most eyes would quickly look, evaluate, and gaze away quickly so as not to appear to be starring.)

So these sisters seemed about the same age, mid-30s, and when I said the one sister “cared” for the other, I mean that in a loose sense. The handicapped sister was fiercely independent, to such a degree in fact that she began writing poetry to a young man who worked behind a counter of a coffee shop the two sisters frequented. Understandably insecure, the poet-sister wrote anonymously. To make a long story short, her identity was revealed and a conversation between her and the man ensued.

“You were disappointed?” She asked him. He tells her that he was a little; she understands. But he also added that he would like her to keep writing and he wants to get to know her better but can’t promise anything more than a friendship will come of it. She accepted this graciously.

Perhaps I turned the channel for a moment and missed a few seconds because the next scene – the final scene in the show – had the onetime physically handicapped sister suddenly “normal.” Her walk was normal; she had control of her entire body and was no longer shaking uncontrollably. She walked into the coffee shop and smiles at the man behind the counter; he smiles back.

I didn’t know what to make of this. Was this a dream sequence, the first part of which I had missed in those brief seconds? Or was this part fantasy? But clearly the suggestion was that these two people will now get together because one person basically changed her “look.” I don’t know if that’s the best message to send, but I don’t think anyone could argue that it isn’t reality.

So I occasionally watch the young girl circling the block in my neighborhood and wonder if she is lonely. Perhaps she, like the one sister on the program, longs for someone she sees each day. Maybe he’s the grocery clerk at Albertson’s or a kid down the street.

And as one thought often leads to another, I wonder how I would react under similar circumstances as the coffee shop guy. It's then that I'm confronted with my own insecurities and the reality: How could I react any differently?

2004-05-07T20:20:00.000-05:00

Sitting in a hot car at the intersection of Highway 377 and FM 1709, I watch the cars pass. Mostly it’s large trucks heading to and from construction sites. In a way, 377 forms a de facto border. To the west is the largely undeveloped land to which I figure most of the trucks are heading. New homes are waiting to be built or finished and soon the land will look much like the land to the east – relatively developed and thriving – as Ft. Worth’s newest northern suburb.

Yet from my car it is not a truck that captures my eye but a bicycle. Two bicycles to be accurate, traveling east to west across 377 and continuing on down the ever narrowing 1709 as it meanders and snakes across the land. They don’t realize, I’m sure, that they will inevitably cause frustration for drivers who happen to be behind them as the road does narrow and thus taking with it any option to pass the bicyclers. And I also figure, that the as drivers soon notice that the two riding the bikes are dressed in black slacks, white shirts, necktie, and helmet, they might just scoff.

Indeed, this scene of two Mormon missionaries crossing a bustling commercial road gave me pause to think not only about them and their lives, it also caused me to rethink this whole “blog” thing. So after hearing from a couple of friends and regular bloggers that I, too, should set-up a blog, it was two Mormons, whom I have never met nor probably will ever meet, who gave me that final push. Why?

I’m reading Jon Krakauer’s Under the Banner of Heaven, which chronicles the 1984 killing of a mother and child and the hands of Mormon Fundamentalists. Without going into detail, the book has caused me to question the validity of the religion given its unusual history. (NOTE: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is wholly different from Mormon Fundamentalism but my views are applicable to both.) But I don’t like it. I don’t like to question someone’s religious beliefs but I find myself doing it and feeling guilty for it.

So what exactly, given that digression, about those two Mormons would spark this blog? The answer is two fold. It was their belief in their religion, not my belief in mine. Here were two guys probably around 20 years old on a mission. They are willing to suffer the scoffs, and the spit which inevitably flies their way, the crude hollers and honks for their religion, not mine.

And it was then that I realized we three shared a belief in something bigger than ourselves. And that that was enough. Regardless of what I think about Mormonism as a faith, here were two of its strongest adherents and me with my faith. Their faith may be wrong; my faith may be wrong; but its in believing in something that I think we shared everything. (I suppose I’m ecumenical like that.)

And it was that brief moment in time at that busy intersection and the realization – however minor – that occurred there that sparked this blog. I hope to fill this blog with similar ideas and stories. The blog is called “Requiem for a Thought” because I want to put to rest my many thoughts in hope that they may be remembered as they were and continue to live as they are.

Soon thereafter the light turned green and my car was still hot. The trucks next to me clunked into gear, spitting smoke and reverberating ugly noise. The bikes and their riders were gone, as I looked down the road watching it narrow and snake into the horizon.