Memory wiped,
I writhe in dreams.
Flashes of fear
Sting me while awake.
It's not a fog,
It's a carousel image
Gone sane:
Jumbled and reformed.
Not a pretty
Puzzle am I.
Half-moon scars
Shown to an uncaring world.
Fall apart, me?
Impossibility wears at
My missing past,
Revealing lurid tidbits.
Logic no longer
Reigns when disoriented.
Shattered memories form
A vast twisted museum.
Faith lies to me
Soft feathers in my ears.
I can no longer hear
My own weak sounds.
Doust thou protest too little
to have that much anger?
Vengeance has no bite:
I have heard a million variations.
Wrong, skin was supposed
To be kept safe.
Make room for invisible bruises
I hope it was broken at birth.
Let's hope it was broken at birth.
The door has no lock, no key,
safe from you, or safe for me?
~~~~~~~~AEW~~~~~~~~
Tuesday, 30 September 2003
Sunday, 28 September 2003
Traduccion
Here's the translation to the following poem, from the Sep. 14th poem, as quoted below:
Quiero confundirme
entre tu piel
y la mia.
Quiero confundirme
entre el sabor de tus labios
y el sabor de los mios.
Quiero confundirme
entre los latidos de tu corazon
y los latidos de lo mio.
Pero más que nada
quiero confundirme
entre tu ser y mi ser
hasta que mi alma
se confunde
con la tuya.
I want to confuse myself
between your skin
and mine.
I want to confuse myself
between the taste of your lips
and the taste of mine.
I want to confuse myself
between your heartbeats
and mine.
But more than anything
I want to confuse myself
between yourself and mine
until my soul loses itself
in yours.
That's a rough translation, it's not quite a word-for-word translation.
And here's the translation to Riesgo de Piel (Skin Risk), from the Aug 29 post.
I have powerful skin.
No more do I paint myself with colored powders.
I paint myself with blood.
I wonder: If I dressed like this,
if I dyed my hair like that, if I tanned my skin,
would you also name me with these words of ink?
Or, after so many words had run all over me,
would your drops of desperation and fear
tint my skin?
No more do I scream or cry. Now I laugh; I bury myself
in the laughter of those that survived so many years
with ironic laughter, without pure laughter.
How can they call me white? When I was a girl, I knew
that I had skin like wheat, like a peach.
Can so many lies and prejudices bleach
the tan from my body, leaving me
in whiteness?
No more do I feed forgetfulness, hypnotized,
blinded by the light that reflects
on my skin.
Why do you call me white? White are the papers
that they make from the flesh of trees.
Their inner wood, so vulnerable, has the same color
that my skin does.
White is the marble, cold, that does not bleed.
Do I have blood?
White is the freshly fallen snow.
My color is that of snow dirtied by the soil.
If this is white, will they make from my skin
papers on which they can note my "race"?
Perhaps I am the brown that disappears
when out of the sun, or the fabric that loses its color
after so many years of living without shade.
Or am I dirty snow?
I told you I had powerful skin.
~~AEW~~
It was given this title (I first chose a number of titles, such as "Painted" and "Ink") because it was a risky poem for me to write, in some ways. Oh, and I also ended up reading it at a poetry reading. It started out as an angry poem, with some curiosity and sadness mixed in. I hope that comes across in the translation.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And here's a "reprise" if you will.
~~~~Fields~~~~
crisp strands yield
below aching restless feet
groves of infant trees
bend them so easily
surveyors' ghosts measure topography
or our swiftly moving bodies
wildflower crowns cling, forgotten
we are stalks among the rest.
clouds are fake snow fantasies
above vivid kites with
hearts tied to tails for stability.
raspberry thorns mix blood and earth
old magicthat has no owners
sacrifice on the waiting stone tables
no secrets for you today.
never domesticated
yet sweet smell invades
so bitterness stays.
silicone spider webs whisper
man-made shadows over crisp hay
not yet baled in sunrise
to the pounding of earth
dried with my blood.
~~AEW~~
I don't really like this poem, I just felt like I needed to get the memories down.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the agenda for this post:
New pants: love them, they have zippers in odd places, yay!
Booking my trip to Chile: excited and nervous at once. I want to see H. again!
Worried about some of my friends: nothing much I can do.
Don't know whether or not to contact someone: again, working it out.
New movies seen: 8 Femmes/8 Women was a head trip, nice soundtrack, bizarre plot and characters, definitely unexpected cinematography. Holes: I want that soundtrack! Great story, I figured it out eventually, it is a beautiful story in all, and the actors are so awesome! I love Kissin' Kate's story. I figure I was a vigilante in a past life.
I did a Tarot reading on myself (I know, but there are more things on heaven and earth, Horatio...besides, it makes you think and take stock of your life) and it was surprisingly accurate and eerily important (like I got all major arcane cards, no suits, weird, huh?).
Other new stuff: Happy Birthday Lara! I normally forget everyone's birthday, including my own, but since I went to a party for Lara today, I remembered to say it.
What else have I seen or done lately? Oh, talked to SA, my recently married and pregnant friend in L.A. That is so weird, I hope her husband treats her right. It's just weird to talk to an estranged ex-best friend who you're not sure why she stopped talking to you in the first place, and suddenly started talking to you again, and wants you to visit, ASAP.
Looking back over my life over the past four or five years, I suddenly realized (esp. in my love life) what a mad, mad, mad world I lived in. I never dreamed any of these things would happen. If you'd told me five years ago even the smallest bit of what I was about to go through, I wouldn't have believed any of it. It's just so, not how you expect your life to turn out. I mean, it was all unexpected and me falling into things. I guess that's what a lot of life is like. You fall into your friends and your lovers, and some you cling to, and some cling to you, and some you let go when they bring you down or you bring them down. And sometimes, just maybe, some great soul helps you find your wings.
It occurs to me that I feel like this being, this thing that sees things from above, like an angel or a guardian, that I want to protect people, to show them what's to come. But that's so ridiculous, it's just me being odd. Scratch that from the record.
At any rate, I've been reading mysteries lately, as well as drawing some and planning on decorating some more. First I need to start buying presents for the holidays. Augghhh! I have two sets to buy for (almost three)! I've got some idea about a few people, but, don't get me started.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Unhelpful quote: "Mandala backwards is Aladnam. Maybe I'm Aladdin's evil twin."
Quiero confundirme
entre tu piel
y la mia.
Quiero confundirme
entre el sabor de tus labios
y el sabor de los mios.
Quiero confundirme
entre los latidos de tu corazon
y los latidos de lo mio.
Pero más que nada
quiero confundirme
entre tu ser y mi ser
hasta que mi alma
se confunde
con la tuya.
I want to confuse myself
between your skin
and mine.
I want to confuse myself
between the taste of your lips
and the taste of mine.
I want to confuse myself
between your heartbeats
and mine.
But more than anything
I want to confuse myself
between yourself and mine
until my soul loses itself
in yours.
That's a rough translation, it's not quite a word-for-word translation.
And here's the translation to Riesgo de Piel (Skin Risk), from the Aug 29 post.
I have powerful skin.
No more do I paint myself with colored powders.
I paint myself with blood.
I wonder: If I dressed like this,
if I dyed my hair like that, if I tanned my skin,
would you also name me with these words of ink?
Or, after so many words had run all over me,
would your drops of desperation and fear
tint my skin?
No more do I scream or cry. Now I laugh; I bury myself
in the laughter of those that survived so many years
with ironic laughter, without pure laughter.
How can they call me white? When I was a girl, I knew
that I had skin like wheat, like a peach.
Can so many lies and prejudices bleach
the tan from my body, leaving me
in whiteness?
No more do I feed forgetfulness, hypnotized,
blinded by the light that reflects
on my skin.
Why do you call me white? White are the papers
that they make from the flesh of trees.
Their inner wood, so vulnerable, has the same color
that my skin does.
White is the marble, cold, that does not bleed.
Do I have blood?
White is the freshly fallen snow.
My color is that of snow dirtied by the soil.
If this is white, will they make from my skin
papers on which they can note my "race"?
Perhaps I am the brown that disappears
when out of the sun, or the fabric that loses its color
after so many years of living without shade.
Or am I dirty snow?
I told you I had powerful skin.
~~AEW~~
It was given this title (I first chose a number of titles, such as "Painted" and "Ink") because it was a risky poem for me to write, in some ways. Oh, and I also ended up reading it at a poetry reading. It started out as an angry poem, with some curiosity and sadness mixed in. I hope that comes across in the translation.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And here's a "reprise" if you will.
~~~~Fields~~~~
crisp strands yield
below aching restless feet
groves of infant trees
bend them so easily
surveyors' ghosts measure topography
or our swiftly moving bodies
wildflower crowns cling, forgotten
we are stalks among the rest.
clouds are fake snow fantasies
above vivid kites with
hearts tied to tails for stability.
raspberry thorns mix blood and earth
old magicthat has no owners
sacrifice on the waiting stone tables
no secrets for you today.
never domesticated
yet sweet smell invades
so bitterness stays.
silicone spider webs whisper
man-made shadows over crisp hay
not yet baled in sunrise
to the pounding of earth
dried with my blood.
~~AEW~~
I don't really like this poem, I just felt like I needed to get the memories down.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the agenda for this post:
New pants: love them, they have zippers in odd places, yay!
Booking my trip to Chile: excited and nervous at once. I want to see H. again!
Worried about some of my friends: nothing much I can do.
Don't know whether or not to contact someone: again, working it out.
New movies seen: 8 Femmes/8 Women was a head trip, nice soundtrack, bizarre plot and characters, definitely unexpected cinematography. Holes: I want that soundtrack! Great story, I figured it out eventually, it is a beautiful story in all, and the actors are so awesome! I love Kissin' Kate's story. I figure I was a vigilante in a past life.
I did a Tarot reading on myself (I know, but there are more things on heaven and earth, Horatio...besides, it makes you think and take stock of your life) and it was surprisingly accurate and eerily important (like I got all major arcane cards, no suits, weird, huh?).
Other new stuff: Happy Birthday Lara! I normally forget everyone's birthday, including my own, but since I went to a party for Lara today, I remembered to say it.
What else have I seen or done lately? Oh, talked to SA, my recently married and pregnant friend in L.A. That is so weird, I hope her husband treats her right. It's just weird to talk to an estranged ex-best friend who you're not sure why she stopped talking to you in the first place, and suddenly started talking to you again, and wants you to visit, ASAP.
Looking back over my life over the past four or five years, I suddenly realized (esp. in my love life) what a mad, mad, mad world I lived in. I never dreamed any of these things would happen. If you'd told me five years ago even the smallest bit of what I was about to go through, I wouldn't have believed any of it. It's just so, not how you expect your life to turn out. I mean, it was all unexpected and me falling into things. I guess that's what a lot of life is like. You fall into your friends and your lovers, and some you cling to, and some cling to you, and some you let go when they bring you down or you bring them down. And sometimes, just maybe, some great soul helps you find your wings.
It occurs to me that I feel like this being, this thing that sees things from above, like an angel or a guardian, that I want to protect people, to show them what's to come. But that's so ridiculous, it's just me being odd. Scratch that from the record.
At any rate, I've been reading mysteries lately, as well as drawing some and planning on decorating some more. First I need to start buying presents for the holidays. Augghhh! I have two sets to buy for (almost three)! I've got some idea about a few people, but, don't get me started.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Unhelpful quote: "Mandala backwards is Aladnam. Maybe I'm Aladdin's evil twin."
Saturday, 27 September 2003
Riesgo de Piel - Translation
Skin Risk
I have powerful skin.
No more do I paint myself with colored powders.
I paint myself with blood.
I wonder: If I dressed like this,
if I dyed my hair like that, if I tanned my skin,
would you also name me with these words of ink?
Or, after so many words had run all over me,
would your drops of desperation and fear
tint my skin?
No more do I scream or cry. Now I laugh; I bury myself
in the laughter of those that survived so many years
with ironic laughter, without pure laughter.
How can they call me white? When I was a girl, I knew
that I had skin like wheat, like a peach.
Can so many lies and prejudices bleach
the tan from my body, leaving me
in whiteness?
No more do I feed forgetfulness, hypnotized,
blinded by the light that reflects
on my skin.
Why do you call me white? White are the papers
that they make from the flesh of trees.
Their inner wood, so vulnerable, has the same color
that my skin does.
White is the marble, cold, that does not bleed.
Do I have blood?
White is the freshly fallen snow.
My color is that of snow dirtied by the soil.
If this is white, will they make from my skin
papers on which they can note my "race"?
Perhaps I am the brown that disappears
when out of the sun, or the fabric that loses its color
after so many years of living without shade.
Or am I dirty snow?
~~~~AEW~~~~
I have powerful skin.
No more do I paint myself with colored powders.
I paint myself with blood.
I wonder: If I dressed like this,
if I dyed my hair like that, if I tanned my skin,
would you also name me with these words of ink?
Or, after so many words had run all over me,
would your drops of desperation and fear
tint my skin?
No more do I scream or cry. Now I laugh; I bury myself
in the laughter of those that survived so many years
with ironic laughter, without pure laughter.
How can they call me white? When I was a girl, I knew
that I had skin like wheat, like a peach.
Can so many lies and prejudices bleach
the tan from my body, leaving me
in whiteness?
No more do I feed forgetfulness, hypnotized,
blinded by the light that reflects
on my skin.
Why do you call me white? White are the papers
that they make from the flesh of trees.
Their inner wood, so vulnerable, has the same color
that my skin does.
White is the marble, cold, that does not bleed.
Do I have blood?
White is the freshly fallen snow.
My color is that of snow dirtied by the soil.
If this is white, will they make from my skin
papers on which they can note my "race"?
Perhaps I am the brown that disappears
when out of the sun, or the fabric that loses its color
after so many years of living without shade.
Or am I dirty snow?
~~~~AEW~~~~
Thursday, 25 September 2003
Oceans of Consciousness
Twisting, candid brooks and oceans of consciousness:
I'm getting so tired of feeling empathy without the weight. I read about someone else's troubles and I immediately want to help them out, to take away their pain, to solve the problem. Was there a void that was filled before? Did I used to do this? If so, for whom? And why do I feel everything so damn deeply for everyone else's lives but not for my own? You know that little part of your nerve endings, of your emotional baggage carrier, that connects to the part that lets you feel, that lets you know how you feel about something that happens to you? I think I was born without one. I swear, I get mad for other people, I feel sad, I feel that they should do x or y, I want to help them, but for me, I don't feel anything. Not even tired, or upset, or happy, or mildly annoyed. I just feel slightly full, kind of spacy, and like I want to do something else. I just want this indignation, this desire to help, this feeling that if I don't fix the world I'll never be right in it, to stop. What if someone cursed me and said "she will never know happiness as long as there are problems in the world." Why would they do that? Anger, jealousy, feeling that I did wrong somehow? Who have I annoyed lately? Maybe it's karma. I don't know what's going on. Maybe when I started to care about people, I lost my edge. I lost my anger and I stopped lugging around my portable gaping hole of despair. Or maybe I was meant to be this other person, this one who wants to change things and make amends and stop the pain of others. I don't want to hurt people right now. It's not as if that was my end goal in the past, but I often used to be an observer, one who could do experiments with the ants around me and see how much pressure it took to make them squirm. I guess I missed my calling as an actress. But it doesn't matter now. I just wonder which is the real me. This feels like I've been given a lobotamy, like I've been reformed, like I could no longer destroy, like I've been dulled. Is my knife edge dull with misuse or with happiness? Is this what happiness feels like? I think it's more contentment in general than anything else. But am I truly content?
No. There's something always pushing, always digging, always hoping, reaching. I want to know what this is. Is this the bottled-genie me? Or is it the Pandora's Box me? The container of infectious disease me? Or is it the real me struggling to get out. Is it right to be someone else, or is it worth it to spare the world and hide me? What if what's inside is the magic antidote to the world's problems?
Can you say, metaphysical?
There's something there, that says that you are not like this. Where is your wit, your sarcasm, your carefully orchestrated dance? Where have you hidden your claws this time? Did you try to file them down? How long do you think it'll take before they grow back? How to let this out on paper, safe, contained. Is that taking away the true essence of it? Because what if it could inspire to do good? Is that not how good counteracts evil, studying it in its natural habitat? So who's studying me? Why study something so confused?
Is it atonement? Am I trying to make up for things that I think I have to make up for? healthy slabs of guilt on my plate, I'm sure, but where I'm headed won't make up for anything. Besides, it needs to let go. I think it's to make happiness, more flies with sugar, to fix and not to destroy. Where did this inspiration come from? From love, or the chemicals associated with it? From the realization that my struggles were not valiant, not epic, but misguided?
There's a tugging, a pulling at my memory. That's different. I'm pretty sure I know why that's there (it's the only thing that makes sense), but I can't let that out. I don't need to, I've been practicing, and it's been analyzed, contained, quarantined, if you will. That is not worth the time it would take to let it escape. Because it never will.
So what is this other thing, this unsettling feeling. That time is running out. What does my body know that my ignorant mind does not? What is going to be lost? A life, a person, a feeling, a stage, a chance? Or will I simply poof into nothingness? Why is it telling me to fight against the water, that the canoe is by my side, you can see it red, among the green shafts of sunlight. Will my brain listen this time, as it did then? Will my body fight, or will my mind wear the gloves?
The fire cools as distance and time take their toll. What becomes of a fire the day after it is set? No forest fire, but a tame, expected flame. Will kerosene-man get there in time to save the blaze? Too bad, he doesn't exist? Who would fake it this time? Can it be done? When fear starts to replace love, anything goes. But will it come back before time runs out, and the journey begins? Can you picture it, and every picture seems more and more off? Then you might need to let it go. But it's so sweet, and it seems to like you so much. What's the difference between love and obliging contenment, anyway?
Like I said, Time can be bought, but time is running out. There's no way to decide and no way to know when the deadline has been drawn in the sand. My mini merry-go-round is spinning in circles. The foci must be offset. The horses and seahorses and giraffes and lions and tigers and dragons run away. But the leopard is my friend, maybe he'll stay. Then I can learn how to be back again, in that jungle I fled for the first time to get to the cities. Maybe we'll take on the strip malls and make them cry.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My archives for August have run away! And they screwed up my sidebar on the way out! Grrrr. Oh well, such is life.
On the plus side, I think the course of a life hangs in the balance. My hand could push someone's sanity over the edge or help it get a grip on the side of the spiky building.
"Callous and strange..."
It might be evil again. Nah, I should be so lucky. Like I said, I need the karma on my side. Besides, my conscience beat up my little devil, who's in the hospital. So it holds sway.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Maybe I've lost my fears. All of them. I'm not saying I can face anything, but the emotional fears, maybe they've gone on holiday. Perhaps now is the time to try and start something new. Or maybe the fears have forced me into complacency. Soft, feathery handcuffs of contenment make me queasy. The grease on them belies their angelic features.
I think I was wrong. I think the fire is still there. It's different, now. It knows how to twist and turn. It knows where to find fuel and how to burn what it needs to burn. And so do I. It always works that way. The memories you want to lose are the ones most burned onto your hard drive brain, and the ones you reach for are the ones that live in ghost arhives.
I don't want to plea bargain life like this. It's like trying to drink really thick milkshakes through a thin straw. No substance, no access. Just use a spoon and add some whipped cream. It was seize the day but now it's seize the years.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I don't mean to write in riddles. It's just easier to get down the feelings than it is to speak the events. Because there are no clear-cut events, so to speak, it's just there, and I don't remember how it crept in and took over. But that's the way it is. Good or bad, it's got to give a little and take half only. Life is compromise. At least it's not a fight but a council of peace.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Unhelpful imagination of the day: Anaconda am I!
I'm getting so tired of feeling empathy without the weight. I read about someone else's troubles and I immediately want to help them out, to take away their pain, to solve the problem. Was there a void that was filled before? Did I used to do this? If so, for whom? And why do I feel everything so damn deeply for everyone else's lives but not for my own? You know that little part of your nerve endings, of your emotional baggage carrier, that connects to the part that lets you feel, that lets you know how you feel about something that happens to you? I think I was born without one. I swear, I get mad for other people, I feel sad, I feel that they should do x or y, I want to help them, but for me, I don't feel anything. Not even tired, or upset, or happy, or mildly annoyed. I just feel slightly full, kind of spacy, and like I want to do something else. I just want this indignation, this desire to help, this feeling that if I don't fix the world I'll never be right in it, to stop. What if someone cursed me and said "she will never know happiness as long as there are problems in the world." Why would they do that? Anger, jealousy, feeling that I did wrong somehow? Who have I annoyed lately? Maybe it's karma. I don't know what's going on. Maybe when I started to care about people, I lost my edge. I lost my anger and I stopped lugging around my portable gaping hole of despair. Or maybe I was meant to be this other person, this one who wants to change things and make amends and stop the pain of others. I don't want to hurt people right now. It's not as if that was my end goal in the past, but I often used to be an observer, one who could do experiments with the ants around me and see how much pressure it took to make them squirm. I guess I missed my calling as an actress. But it doesn't matter now. I just wonder which is the real me. This feels like I've been given a lobotamy, like I've been reformed, like I could no longer destroy, like I've been dulled. Is my knife edge dull with misuse or with happiness? Is this what happiness feels like? I think it's more contentment in general than anything else. But am I truly content?
No. There's something always pushing, always digging, always hoping, reaching. I want to know what this is. Is this the bottled-genie me? Or is it the Pandora's Box me? The container of infectious disease me? Or is it the real me struggling to get out. Is it right to be someone else, or is it worth it to spare the world and hide me? What if what's inside is the magic antidote to the world's problems?
Can you say, metaphysical?
There's something there, that says that you are not like this. Where is your wit, your sarcasm, your carefully orchestrated dance? Where have you hidden your claws this time? Did you try to file them down? How long do you think it'll take before they grow back? How to let this out on paper, safe, contained. Is that taking away the true essence of it? Because what if it could inspire to do good? Is that not how good counteracts evil, studying it in its natural habitat? So who's studying me? Why study something so confused?
Is it atonement? Am I trying to make up for things that I think I have to make up for? healthy slabs of guilt on my plate, I'm sure, but where I'm headed won't make up for anything. Besides, it needs to let go. I think it's to make happiness, more flies with sugar, to fix and not to destroy. Where did this inspiration come from? From love, or the chemicals associated with it? From the realization that my struggles were not valiant, not epic, but misguided?
There's a tugging, a pulling at my memory. That's different. I'm pretty sure I know why that's there (it's the only thing that makes sense), but I can't let that out. I don't need to, I've been practicing, and it's been analyzed, contained, quarantined, if you will. That is not worth the time it would take to let it escape. Because it never will.
So what is this other thing, this unsettling feeling. That time is running out. What does my body know that my ignorant mind does not? What is going to be lost? A life, a person, a feeling, a stage, a chance? Or will I simply poof into nothingness? Why is it telling me to fight against the water, that the canoe is by my side, you can see it red, among the green shafts of sunlight. Will my brain listen this time, as it did then? Will my body fight, or will my mind wear the gloves?
The fire cools as distance and time take their toll. What becomes of a fire the day after it is set? No forest fire, but a tame, expected flame. Will kerosene-man get there in time to save the blaze? Too bad, he doesn't exist? Who would fake it this time? Can it be done? When fear starts to replace love, anything goes. But will it come back before time runs out, and the journey begins? Can you picture it, and every picture seems more and more off? Then you might need to let it go. But it's so sweet, and it seems to like you so much. What's the difference between love and obliging contenment, anyway?
Like I said, Time can be bought, but time is running out. There's no way to decide and no way to know when the deadline has been drawn in the sand. My mini merry-go-round is spinning in circles. The foci must be offset. The horses and seahorses and giraffes and lions and tigers and dragons run away. But the leopard is my friend, maybe he'll stay. Then I can learn how to be back again, in that jungle I fled for the first time to get to the cities. Maybe we'll take on the strip malls and make them cry.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My archives for August have run away! And they screwed up my sidebar on the way out! Grrrr. Oh well, such is life.
On the plus side, I think the course of a life hangs in the balance. My hand could push someone's sanity over the edge or help it get a grip on the side of the spiky building.
"Callous and strange..."
It might be evil again. Nah, I should be so lucky. Like I said, I need the karma on my side. Besides, my conscience beat up my little devil, who's in the hospital. So it holds sway.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Maybe I've lost my fears. All of them. I'm not saying I can face anything, but the emotional fears, maybe they've gone on holiday. Perhaps now is the time to try and start something new. Or maybe the fears have forced me into complacency. Soft, feathery handcuffs of contenment make me queasy. The grease on them belies their angelic features.
I think I was wrong. I think the fire is still there. It's different, now. It knows how to twist and turn. It knows where to find fuel and how to burn what it needs to burn. And so do I. It always works that way. The memories you want to lose are the ones most burned onto your hard drive brain, and the ones you reach for are the ones that live in ghost arhives.
I don't want to plea bargain life like this. It's like trying to drink really thick milkshakes through a thin straw. No substance, no access. Just use a spoon and add some whipped cream. It was seize the day but now it's seize the years.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I don't mean to write in riddles. It's just easier to get down the feelings than it is to speak the events. Because there are no clear-cut events, so to speak, it's just there, and I don't remember how it crept in and took over. But that's the way it is. Good or bad, it's got to give a little and take half only. Life is compromise. At least it's not a fight but a council of peace.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Unhelpful imagination of the day: Anaconda am I!
Tuesday, 23 September 2003
Riesgo de Piel
Tengo la piel poderosa.
Ya no me pinto más con pólvoro de colores.
Me pinto con la sangre.
Me pregunto: ¿Si me vistiera así,
y me tintara el pelo así, si me bronceara,
también me llamarías con estas palabras de tinta?
¿O, después de correrse encima de mí tantas
palabras, me tintarían la piel
tus gotitas de desesperación y miedo?
Ya no grito ni lloro. Ya me rio; me entierro
en la risa de los que sobrevivieron tantos años
con la risa irónica y sin la risa pura.
¿Cómo me llaman blanca? Cuando yo era niña, sabía
que tenía la piel como tel trigo, como el durazno.
¿Pueden tantas mentiras y prejuicios limpiar
el bronceo de mi cuerpo, dejándome en la
blancura?
Ya no alimento al olvido, hypnotizado,
ciega por culpa de la luz que refleja
en mi piel.
¿Por qué me llamas blanca? Blancos son los papeles
que se hacen de la carne de árboles.
Su madera interna, vulnerable, tiene este
mismo color que tiene mi piel.
Blanco es el marmol, frío, que no sangra.
¿Tengo yo sangre?
Blanca es la nieve que se cayó recién.
Mi color es lo de la nieve ensuciada por el suelo.
Si esto sea blanco, ¿harían de mi piel los
papeles en los cual puedo marcar mi "raza"?
Tal vez soy el pardo que desaparece por falta
de sol, o la tela que pierde su color
después de tantos años de vivir sin la sombra.
¿O soy yo la nieve sucia?
Te dijé que tenía yo la piel poderosa.
~~~~~~~~AEW~~~~~~~~
Ya no me pinto más con pólvoro de colores.
Me pinto con la sangre.
Me pregunto: ¿Si me vistiera así,
y me tintara el pelo así, si me bronceara,
también me llamarías con estas palabras de tinta?
¿O, después de correrse encima de mí tantas
palabras, me tintarían la piel
tus gotitas de desesperación y miedo?
Ya no grito ni lloro. Ya me rio; me entierro
en la risa de los que sobrevivieron tantos años
con la risa irónica y sin la risa pura.
¿Cómo me llaman blanca? Cuando yo era niña, sabía
que tenía la piel como tel trigo, como el durazno.
¿Pueden tantas mentiras y prejuicios limpiar
el bronceo de mi cuerpo, dejándome en la
blancura?
Ya no alimento al olvido, hypnotizado,
ciega por culpa de la luz que refleja
en mi piel.
¿Por qué me llamas blanca? Blancos son los papeles
que se hacen de la carne de árboles.
Su madera interna, vulnerable, tiene este
mismo color que tiene mi piel.
Blanco es el marmol, frío, que no sangra.
¿Tengo yo sangre?
Blanca es la nieve que se cayó recién.
Mi color es lo de la nieve ensuciada por el suelo.
Si esto sea blanco, ¿harían de mi piel los
papeles en los cual puedo marcar mi "raza"?
Tal vez soy el pardo que desaparece por falta
de sol, o la tela que pierde su color
después de tantos años de vivir sin la sombra.
¿O soy yo la nieve sucia?
Te dijé que tenía yo la piel poderosa.
~~~~~~~~AEW~~~~~~~~
Sunday, 21 September 2003
Kismet's Kick in the Butt
Every once in a while, you stop believing in fate, in kismet, in the idea that there is a purpose for everything. And then fate trips you and you land in a huge puddle and ruin all of your clothes. But it saves you from being flattened by a semi. Or, you could say that fate snatches you from the jaws of danger and puts you on the sideline. Or maybe it just backhands you one to wake you up and say: "you imbecile, of course there is a purpose! How dare you question my existence!"
Yes, today, that once in a while became a now.
Yesterday I went out to a local hot spot with one of my best N.Y. friends, LB. My mom had been reminding me to invite her to brunch after church today, Sunday, and so we decided to meet at our fave restaurant at noon. Mom & I got there early, coming directly from choir & church. So LB shows up around 12:15 or so, and we tuck in. As the waitress came to take our plates away, we saw a police car go screaming down 59, headed towards downtown. We saw an SUV go by with lights and siren, and wondered what kind of service that was. As it happened, our waitress was part of the RV Ambulance Corps, and explained the lights system to us. So, mom went home and LB and I decided to head to a crafts store. We headed for home around 2:50 - 3:00 or so, and she forgot to turn the right way to drop me off, and I asked her where we were going, and she said: "to my house, I guess." So we drove up to the entrance to her street and saw cars. POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape, plain cars, police cars, all around her house and the house across the street. Her parents had just left for a week-long joyride, so it was just her and her cat. And she starts (rightly) freaking out. We ask a woman standing outside the tape what was going on (a reporter, no doubt), and she told us that they were investigating a shooting.
Long story short: Her next-door neighbor had been shot sometime about when the police cars we were wondering about went screaming down 59 to save him and take him to the hospital and find the perpetrator. And just after LB had left her house to go with us. We checked on her cat, she called her parents, her grandma called her three or four times, our other friend and I are going to stay with her tonight, and she's o.k. now. But we don't know anything about the shooting, if the guy is all right, just that the police took her name and DOB, address, and phone number, and mine (I must look suspicious) (funny side story, he asked her for my name and I gave my address and number, then asked us if we had my DOB, was he on crack?). So, we distracted ourselves, and I eventually went home (still no call from H., you're in the casa de perros, my boy). Like I said, going back tonight (probably).
So, ultimately, fate looked out for her on two accounts: I invited her out on a Sunday morning (not a usual time for people to go anywhere but to religious services), and I was with her so she wasn't alone when she got to her house. It creeps me out to think that maybe someone premeditated this and watched her house to see when she left. Because the way the police were talking, the shooter got away. No warning from the men in blue, either. Thanks, policia. We must be suspects. I can vouch for her from 12:15 onward, officer (woh, weird deja-vu experience just now...).
I guess you could say it was an unusual day. I'm still floating in that unreal state where you know you've somehow escaped danger, but haven't really understood tha full possibilites still.
Gotta dash - - - - ok, I feel better now ;-)
Un beso por la paz.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Just....think. That's all.
Yes, today, that once in a while became a now.
Yesterday I went out to a local hot spot with one of my best N.Y. friends, LB. My mom had been reminding me to invite her to brunch after church today, Sunday, and so we decided to meet at our fave restaurant at noon. Mom & I got there early, coming directly from choir & church. So LB shows up around 12:15 or so, and we tuck in. As the waitress came to take our plates away, we saw a police car go screaming down 59, headed towards downtown. We saw an SUV go by with lights and siren, and wondered what kind of service that was. As it happened, our waitress was part of the RV Ambulance Corps, and explained the lights system to us. So, mom went home and LB and I decided to head to a crafts store. We headed for home around 2:50 - 3:00 or so, and she forgot to turn the right way to drop me off, and I asked her where we were going, and she said: "to my house, I guess." So we drove up to the entrance to her street and saw cars. POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape, plain cars, police cars, all around her house and the house across the street. Her parents had just left for a week-long joyride, so it was just her and her cat. And she starts (rightly) freaking out. We ask a woman standing outside the tape what was going on (a reporter, no doubt), and she told us that they were investigating a shooting.
Long story short: Her next-door neighbor had been shot sometime about when the police cars we were wondering about went screaming down 59 to save him and take him to the hospital and find the perpetrator. And just after LB had left her house to go with us. We checked on her cat, she called her parents, her grandma called her three or four times, our other friend and I are going to stay with her tonight, and she's o.k. now. But we don't know anything about the shooting, if the guy is all right, just that the police took her name and DOB, address, and phone number, and mine (I must look suspicious) (funny side story, he asked her for my name and I gave my address and number, then asked us if we had my DOB, was he on crack?). So, we distracted ourselves, and I eventually went home (still no call from H., you're in the casa de perros, my boy). Like I said, going back tonight (probably).
So, ultimately, fate looked out for her on two accounts: I invited her out on a Sunday morning (not a usual time for people to go anywhere but to religious services), and I was with her so she wasn't alone when she got to her house. It creeps me out to think that maybe someone premeditated this and watched her house to see when she left. Because the way the police were talking, the shooter got away. No warning from the men in blue, either. Thanks, policia. We must be suspects. I can vouch for her from 12:15 onward, officer (woh, weird deja-vu experience just now...).
I guess you could say it was an unusual day. I'm still floating in that unreal state where you know you've somehow escaped danger, but haven't really understood tha full possibilites still.
Gotta dash - - - - ok, I feel better now ;-)
Un beso por la paz.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Just....think. That's all.
Wednesday, 17 September 2003
Human Trafficking
While doing research for my internship, I had to look at a number of web sites devoted to helping victims of human trafficking, the illegal slave and forced labor trade that is flourishing in the 21st century. They made me cry, especially the PSAs some of these sites produce. It's so unbelievably horrifying, the worst nightmare of a free person. Some experts say that almost 4 million people a year (only a year) are sold into slavery. I mean, real slavery, where you work and work and never make enough money to pay off the thousands of dollars of debt you make getting out of your poverty-stricken town. You hope for a new life, and are forced (women and children) into prostitution, agriculture camps, and sweatshops. I'll post some of the URLs later on, but check out IRC and IOM International. The department of state also has some good resources. It's amazing how many people are sold into forced labor here in the U.S.
It makes you sick to think that you are here, and comfortable, and safe, and your only worries are relationships, and making enough money to buy a car or pay the rent, or what to eat for dinner, if you can afford that new thing you want, etc. And these people send their children, themselves away to what they think will be a better life, and they are betrayed by their family members, their parents, their siblings, thier friends, their spouses, believing the lies of those who would prey upon the desperate and the destitute. It makes you want to leap up and protect these people, every single one of them. It hurts me so much to see people suffering.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Every day, a battle rages within me. I want to help everyone, because I can't stand to feel their suffering. I really do, it hurts me to watch those who have no shelter, no basic needs, who face injustice and pain in their lives. But I get so bogged down by the hopelessness of it all that I want to run away. I want to lead the comfortable life. I feel as though I have been struggling for years, but I don't know who or what my demons are, what I am trying to escape from. At times, I just want to let the world fend for itself, to say that I can't do it, I don't want to. The drive for me to succeed is strong, but my need to help people runs deep. I don't know why I feel things so much, when sometimes I can be so cruel to the people around me and not care at all. But always I have a sense of empathy. I don't like to see people struggling needlessly, to watch someone's heart be broken, to see embarassment and shame on another's face. I always want to break through to the tough cases, to reach out.
But I don't like to fail. So I keep at things that are hopeless, sometimes, just because they have become symbols of winning or losing to me. And I hate it so much. That's one of the things that I have been changing about myself: my definition of success, my striving towards empty goals that don't bring me happiness. And with the realization that failure was my biggest fear, suddenly a lot of my past behavior oddities and relationship problems made sense. I would fight to hold on to things or to people that I wasn't happy with, and so would be depressed, feel that I had no future even if my partner was planning it with me. I would say, so, you won, you won an argument, you got the grade, now what do you want? And it would always be some inconsequential thing, that I hated doing, wanting to be accepted or loved, or hoping to win accolades and be the center of attention. At the same time, I needed my space, my distance, my walls. Before I had anger and coldness, then, I couldn't find them, so I used arguments and goals, tests and declarations. I used shyness as a curtain until I outgrew it. And then I used calculations. Always calculations.
Maybe that's why I liked math and astrophysics so much. I was always so calculating.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I went through life as an actress, and a chameleon, not looking for acceptance but for applause for a part well played. It got to the point when, in college, I realized what I was, and I hated it. I'd wish I could tear open my skin and see if I had a heart. And I could never find that part of your brain that tells me what I felt, if I were in love, if I liked this or that. I was always ambivalent about a lot of things. Friends and significant others were a matter of convenience, or inconvenience, or of me simply accepting a date as an equal-opportunity dater. And so I gave people what I thought they wanted and waited for them to go away. I was surprised when they didn't. And I confused life with drama, so I would say things just to see their affect on people, and to get the reassurances we all need. But, here's the thing: I didn't even want those reassurances of love or friendship in most cases. I just thought it was better to have a full, worry-filled life than it was to be content and bored. Not to say that I hurt people out of boredom. It was like getting revenge against people who had never done anything for me to react to, but I could, so I would. Only to a few people. And no one is a saint.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So I took a break, went abroad, and took a new attitude. I re-examined my life after a trip my junior year to Central America, and I didn't like what I saw. But when I went to study abroad the next year, I went with no expectations, especially of myself, except that I would pass my courses and travel. I didn't seek to make friends, to cultivate a new family, to find love. I decided that I would play a new character: myself. And it wasn't hard, because I stopped needing to find me. At some point, I had stopped being an imposter in my own skin. I don't know exactly how or when, but I know I did it. And I didn't realize what had driven me before I found me until the winter after I returned to my home. But, anyway, I just took things as they came, worried only about speaking in grammatically correct sentences and learning a new culture. Maybe the fact that it was harder to express myself in another language made me stop concentrating on getting results and let my feelings show.
I made mistakes still, huge ones, that I do regret, but they ended up for the best, and I don't mind having guilt on my conscience. I'm used to it, have been for years. I just don't let it overrun me. And it helps that I know that no one is perfect, almost everyone lives in a fragile house made of reservations, preconceptions, and fear. And when people like me come along, who shatter those houses accidentally, devastation can follow. That's why I like to build, not destroy (haha, I only use my power for good, not evil!). But I am off topic. The point is, I came back changed, better, a more solidified person, but more forgiving and adaptable. I adopted a philosophy I learned in training and from my friends, and from my own spirit: to take people as they come. They are people, they change, their interests and feelings change, their hatred, love, and apathy change. People are surprising. I always try to give people as many chances as they need to have with me (in general, I don't mean relationship-wise, that is difficult to do when you're in a relationship and someone comes back to you and asks for another chance, not a good idea to say yes then). They come back, they hurt too, they need a friend, and eventually they understand that while you are not too accepting, a pushover, a doormat, you are forgiving. And forgiveness is a huge gift to give.
Hee hee! Way over the top, Mandala!
No point, just happy! Got my head facing forward again, able to look in all directions, feeling kind of like I can do whatever I put my mind to.
So I'm not going to pick any one thing yet. Just some insurance.
Here's a little something to pick you up: I love this show!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Unhelpful event of the day: Mirror, mirror, soon to be on my wall? Ikea, you're the oddest of them all!
It makes you sick to think that you are here, and comfortable, and safe, and your only worries are relationships, and making enough money to buy a car or pay the rent, or what to eat for dinner, if you can afford that new thing you want, etc. And these people send their children, themselves away to what they think will be a better life, and they are betrayed by their family members, their parents, their siblings, thier friends, their spouses, believing the lies of those who would prey upon the desperate and the destitute. It makes you want to leap up and protect these people, every single one of them. It hurts me so much to see people suffering.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Every day, a battle rages within me. I want to help everyone, because I can't stand to feel their suffering. I really do, it hurts me to watch those who have no shelter, no basic needs, who face injustice and pain in their lives. But I get so bogged down by the hopelessness of it all that I want to run away. I want to lead the comfortable life. I feel as though I have been struggling for years, but I don't know who or what my demons are, what I am trying to escape from. At times, I just want to let the world fend for itself, to say that I can't do it, I don't want to. The drive for me to succeed is strong, but my need to help people runs deep. I don't know why I feel things so much, when sometimes I can be so cruel to the people around me and not care at all. But always I have a sense of empathy. I don't like to see people struggling needlessly, to watch someone's heart be broken, to see embarassment and shame on another's face. I always want to break through to the tough cases, to reach out.
But I don't like to fail. So I keep at things that are hopeless, sometimes, just because they have become symbols of winning or losing to me. And I hate it so much. That's one of the things that I have been changing about myself: my definition of success, my striving towards empty goals that don't bring me happiness. And with the realization that failure was my biggest fear, suddenly a lot of my past behavior oddities and relationship problems made sense. I would fight to hold on to things or to people that I wasn't happy with, and so would be depressed, feel that I had no future even if my partner was planning it with me. I would say, so, you won, you won an argument, you got the grade, now what do you want? And it would always be some inconsequential thing, that I hated doing, wanting to be accepted or loved, or hoping to win accolades and be the center of attention. At the same time, I needed my space, my distance, my walls. Before I had anger and coldness, then, I couldn't find them, so I used arguments and goals, tests and declarations. I used shyness as a curtain until I outgrew it. And then I used calculations. Always calculations.
Maybe that's why I liked math and astrophysics so much. I was always so calculating.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I went through life as an actress, and a chameleon, not looking for acceptance but for applause for a part well played. It got to the point when, in college, I realized what I was, and I hated it. I'd wish I could tear open my skin and see if I had a heart. And I could never find that part of your brain that tells me what I felt, if I were in love, if I liked this or that. I was always ambivalent about a lot of things. Friends and significant others were a matter of convenience, or inconvenience, or of me simply accepting a date as an equal-opportunity dater. And so I gave people what I thought they wanted and waited for them to go away. I was surprised when they didn't. And I confused life with drama, so I would say things just to see their affect on people, and to get the reassurances we all need. But, here's the thing: I didn't even want those reassurances of love or friendship in most cases. I just thought it was better to have a full, worry-filled life than it was to be content and bored. Not to say that I hurt people out of boredom. It was like getting revenge against people who had never done anything for me to react to, but I could, so I would. Only to a few people. And no one is a saint.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So I took a break, went abroad, and took a new attitude. I re-examined my life after a trip my junior year to Central America, and I didn't like what I saw. But when I went to study abroad the next year, I went with no expectations, especially of myself, except that I would pass my courses and travel. I didn't seek to make friends, to cultivate a new family, to find love. I decided that I would play a new character: myself. And it wasn't hard, because I stopped needing to find me. At some point, I had stopped being an imposter in my own skin. I don't know exactly how or when, but I know I did it. And I didn't realize what had driven me before I found me until the winter after I returned to my home. But, anyway, I just took things as they came, worried only about speaking in grammatically correct sentences and learning a new culture. Maybe the fact that it was harder to express myself in another language made me stop concentrating on getting results and let my feelings show.
I made mistakes still, huge ones, that I do regret, but they ended up for the best, and I don't mind having guilt on my conscience. I'm used to it, have been for years. I just don't let it overrun me. And it helps that I know that no one is perfect, almost everyone lives in a fragile house made of reservations, preconceptions, and fear. And when people like me come along, who shatter those houses accidentally, devastation can follow. That's why I like to build, not destroy (haha, I only use my power for good, not evil!). But I am off topic. The point is, I came back changed, better, a more solidified person, but more forgiving and adaptable. I adopted a philosophy I learned in training and from my friends, and from my own spirit: to take people as they come. They are people, they change, their interests and feelings change, their hatred, love, and apathy change. People are surprising. I always try to give people as many chances as they need to have with me (in general, I don't mean relationship-wise, that is difficult to do when you're in a relationship and someone comes back to you and asks for another chance, not a good idea to say yes then). They come back, they hurt too, they need a friend, and eventually they understand that while you are not too accepting, a pushover, a doormat, you are forgiving. And forgiveness is a huge gift to give.
Hee hee! Way over the top, Mandala!
No point, just happy! Got my head facing forward again, able to look in all directions, feeling kind of like I can do whatever I put my mind to.
So I'm not going to pick any one thing yet. Just some insurance.
Here's a little something to pick you up: I love this show!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Unhelpful event of the day: Mirror, mirror, soon to be on my wall? Ikea, you're the oddest of them all!
Sunday, 14 September 2003
Consumer Culture
A few days ago I got an amusing solicitation in my snail mail. It was from this Grapefruit Orchard place in Texas, and promised me orgasmic experiences with the so sour so good fruit. I mention it because it had an amusing paragraph on the part where you sign your sanity away for twenty bucks plus shipping & handling. It reads as follows:
"Of course, Harry. I'm willing to test a box of Orchard Rio Red grapefruit at your risk. Send me a box of 12 sun-sweetened Orchard Rio Reds {not just any of your underground-grown, unsweetened Rio Reds, Harry, so you'd better bite into them first and test them out}. If I absolutely love them, I'll send you $18.88 plus $5.97 shipping. If not, I'll just write "No, thanks" on the invoice and mail the invoice back to you. We'll still be friends."
Still? I was never friends with anyone who owned an orchard. I might be, in the future. Heck, I might even own an orchard some day. But I don't know that I'd call someone who tells me that my grapefruit supply is the most essential secret to my happiness is not one of my most clued-in buds, if you know what I mean.
This culture of consumerism is frightening. I was reading Bill Bryson's 1989 venture through small town America, THE LOST CONTINENT, and I realized exactly how much our culture drives us to create unique individuality that forces us all to keep up with one another. I mean, how we as advertisers try to convince every single resident of the world that their entire future happiness depends on getting a Triple Chocolate Fruity Blast smoothie, a Scrubbly Bubbly Cleaner Pad, a Lot-O-Meat Burnt Burger, any odd thing we would never otherwise associate with financial security or future bliss. And it's all in capitals. The branding of molecules has begun! Everything Must Have Capitals. I feel like I'm reading old time books where they capitalized odd nouns. A holdover from the German days of English perhaps. It has me checking my behind every time I take a shower to see if I've been stamped like a Cabbage Patch kid or a Huggly-Snuggly-Wuggly bear. Or like a chicken. Oh, excuse me, Chickette.
All in all, it makes me sick. Same with this attitude of bewilderment that a lot of people in the U.S. have in the face of political situations, understanding other countries, realizing the consequences of their actions, in other words. Because it's not in front of us, we don't care about it. We are the ultimate short-memory nation. Let's drop atomic bombs. It will be so far away that we'll never feel the effect. What do you mean that country can't be obliterated? It supports us? Hah! Forget them. So there are poor people here? Why do they have to complain? Why can't they just go home. Like this lettering I saw on a truck: "God Bless America Love It or Leave It." I just might. It hurts to know that we have allowed ourselves to be blindsided by our own needs, by our own desires, our own petty concerns that we can't extend a hand, let alone a nation's hand, to help anyone, even our own. Everyone just prays that good things will come to them, and mostly they do, but the rest of us are stuck and sinking fast in the quicksand of modern life. It makes my desert island idea seem pretty appealing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I wrote another one for H.:
Quiero confundirme
entre tu piel
y la mia.
Quiero confundirme
entre el sabor de tus labios
y el sabor de los mios.
Quiero confundirme
entre los latidos de tu corazon
y los latidos de lo mio.
Pero más que nada
quiero confundirme
entre tu ser y mi ser
hasta que mi alma
se confunda
con la tuya.
~~AEW~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Actual conversation (in Spanish): RJ (Random Jerk): "Hey, don't I know you from my dreams?"
Reply: "Well, if you do, then you should know my boyfriend from your nightmares."
I love comebacks!
"Of course, Harry. I'm willing to test a box of Orchard Rio Red grapefruit at your risk. Send me a box of 12 sun-sweetened Orchard Rio Reds {not just any of your underground-grown, unsweetened Rio Reds, Harry, so you'd better bite into them first and test them out}. If I absolutely love them, I'll send you $18.88 plus $5.97 shipping. If not, I'll just write "No, thanks" on the invoice and mail the invoice back to you. We'll still be friends."
Still? I was never friends with anyone who owned an orchard. I might be, in the future. Heck, I might even own an orchard some day. But I don't know that I'd call someone who tells me that my grapefruit supply is the most essential secret to my happiness is not one of my most clued-in buds, if you know what I mean.
This culture of consumerism is frightening. I was reading Bill Bryson's 1989 venture through small town America, THE LOST CONTINENT, and I realized exactly how much our culture drives us to create unique individuality that forces us all to keep up with one another. I mean, how we as advertisers try to convince every single resident of the world that their entire future happiness depends on getting a Triple Chocolate Fruity Blast smoothie, a Scrubbly Bubbly Cleaner Pad, a Lot-O-Meat Burnt Burger, any odd thing we would never otherwise associate with financial security or future bliss. And it's all in capitals. The branding of molecules has begun! Everything Must Have Capitals. I feel like I'm reading old time books where they capitalized odd nouns. A holdover from the German days of English perhaps. It has me checking my behind every time I take a shower to see if I've been stamped like a Cabbage Patch kid or a Huggly-Snuggly-Wuggly bear. Or like a chicken. Oh, excuse me, Chickette.
All in all, it makes me sick. Same with this attitude of bewilderment that a lot of people in the U.S. have in the face of political situations, understanding other countries, realizing the consequences of their actions, in other words. Because it's not in front of us, we don't care about it. We are the ultimate short-memory nation. Let's drop atomic bombs. It will be so far away that we'll never feel the effect. What do you mean that country can't be obliterated? It supports us? Hah! Forget them. So there are poor people here? Why do they have to complain? Why can't they just go home. Like this lettering I saw on a truck: "God Bless America Love It or Leave It." I just might. It hurts to know that we have allowed ourselves to be blindsided by our own needs, by our own desires, our own petty concerns that we can't extend a hand, let alone a nation's hand, to help anyone, even our own. Everyone just prays that good things will come to them, and mostly they do, but the rest of us are stuck and sinking fast in the quicksand of modern life. It makes my desert island idea seem pretty appealing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I wrote another one for H.:
Quiero confundirme
entre tu piel
y la mia.
Quiero confundirme
entre el sabor de tus labios
y el sabor de los mios.
Quiero confundirme
entre los latidos de tu corazon
y los latidos de lo mio.
Pero más que nada
quiero confundirme
entre tu ser y mi ser
hasta que mi alma
se confunda
con la tuya.
~~AEW~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Actual conversation (in Spanish): RJ (Random Jerk): "Hey, don't I know you from my dreams?"
Reply: "Well, if you do, then you should know my boyfriend from your nightmares."
I love comebacks!
Wednesday, 10 September 2003
Fever Dreams
So, I've been sick lately, on and off for the past few months, and every time I go to the clinic, they tell me it's a cold or a virus or strep throat even though I always test negative. So anyway after a bout of insomnia early this morning, I had some crazy feveresque dreams that make acid trips seem sane, and I don't know if it was just sickness-induced or fever-caused (cuz I'm usually fever free, and my temp yesterday was exactly 98.6, but then again I sometimes come up as 97 degrees, so who knows), but I thought someone might as well get a kick out of them besides me.
Please suspend all disbelief while crossing this line. At least you didn't believe this was REAL the way I did this morning.
I was in this gigantic house where I knew my boss lived with all of these cats, and I was simultaneously this woman and her daughter, and we were looking for something, surrounded by cats in this crazy mansion and with other kids, and eventually I left and a cat got attached to me by way of a chair. I mean to say, this fold-up chair got stuck with a stick up my sleeve and the cat sat on it and made me unstick the chair and the cat was just chilling and it was beautiful, I wanted to keep it.
Next, I'm somehow a young girl and I have dark hair and I'm swimming in some sort of aqueduct or river or pondish thing with a small bridge overhead, my blonde friend and I can touch the bottom with our feet and there are boats lined up on their sterns against the wall, covered in algae below the water line. I have swum here many times before, my dream-self knows. The girl stops me at the opposite side of the bridge underwater, so I am stuck under the bridge, swimming, and she plays with this light attached to the bridge and gleefully shouts: "Look, it's like the police!" and flashes a very bright light. I know she will attract too much attention, and sure enough a kid with his bedroom on the bridge wakes up, looks at us, and says: "Playing police, huh? Cool."
I am suddenly watching myself a seven year old girl named Kristy (not my name, but I am watching and it is me at once, as often happens in my dreams) who has got a major crush on the kid from the bridge (Older, teenaged, kind of Asian-punk looking), and she is debating whether or not to make him an engagement ring from plastic when her friends come in and convince her she will only get her heart broken.
Jump to older Me/Not me with a group of three teenagish girls going from a house opening a door stepping into some sort of truck show, western stage show, not important, but people tell us, "I don't think people dress like that to go here. You must be looking for the concert." And so we are. We are dressed sort of like Elvis, I am wearing a white jumpsuit with a halter top that has starry stuff like one of his most famous outfits (odd, I am not a big Elvis fan), and we are looking for some concert, not an Elvis one. That is located in some room that goes off of Salvo's basement but yet not his basement, with pine-covered walls that have two doors, and suddenly, hiding there, is a huge auditorium. Two thirteen-year-olds are kissing and the boy says, "I hope you kept your teeth hard to kiss me with" and we walk on. A little kid tries to injure me for stepping on his toy, but I calmly explain to him why it was his fault in the first place.
Jump again to me "waking up" in my dream and seeing that my clock says 9:15 and knowing I am late for my first day visiting clients and I run out to yell at my parents for not waking me up, and all of the clocks say it's after 11, but different times, and I yell at mom because she doesn't care or realize or agree that the clocks are out. Dad finally notices and says it must be the workman's fault. They have hired a maid and a fix-it guy (yeah right, a maid? Never happen!) and they are cleaning up the kitchen but tearing apart the walls. Dad & Mom sit on the couch and a thing that looks like a giant cake-decorating plastic tip drips cleaning sludge on my dad's shirt and he doesn't believe us until he sees for himself. There was more cleaning dripping, but I don't remember who got it or why.
Jump to me telling Emblem & Salvo, who are in a room that's not mine but yet is (the pine walls again) about my strange dream, how I dreamed Salvo's dad (who is in this fake awake part my boss) was there, and about the concert in his house, and he says that was weird. Then he says: "Look what I got" and pulls up his shirt to show us a gigantic tatoo of this bizarre scene of the Buddha all done in indo-chinese style that's half done and appears to cover most of his torso and back, half in white (unfinished) and half undone. Mom walks in and he has to tell her what's' up and she says: "That's a nice tattoo" and tells us something unrelated like "Dinner is ready." And I know in my dream that one of my friends is going to get a tattoo and I almost say it but don't. And the tattoo is just so big, and so undone, that it looks just odd, kind of achingly well done,but not beautiful yet. Then I wrenched myself out of fever and sickness and really woke up, and I could have cried, I was so happy none of it was true.
So shrink me. Unthink me. Blink me out of existence. Wink me your inner eye.
It's too bizarre for words. At least it had no premonition elements or deja-vu elements in it.
I submitted poems to a web site contest. I expect nothing to come of it, because it's pure chance that my poem would even be read. But I did it. So :-p
I made some more quick ones using the poetry in motion thing on poetry.com, it's fun because it limits you to 20 elements and to their list. Then you can make your poems in this style and rearrange the words.
Till later,
See you in my dreams.
Please suspend all disbelief while crossing this line. At least you didn't believe this was REAL the way I did this morning.
I was in this gigantic house where I knew my boss lived with all of these cats, and I was simultaneously this woman and her daughter, and we were looking for something, surrounded by cats in this crazy mansion and with other kids, and eventually I left and a cat got attached to me by way of a chair. I mean to say, this fold-up chair got stuck with a stick up my sleeve and the cat sat on it and made me unstick the chair and the cat was just chilling and it was beautiful, I wanted to keep it.
Next, I'm somehow a young girl and I have dark hair and I'm swimming in some sort of aqueduct or river or pondish thing with a small bridge overhead, my blonde friend and I can touch the bottom with our feet and there are boats lined up on their sterns against the wall, covered in algae below the water line. I have swum here many times before, my dream-self knows. The girl stops me at the opposite side of the bridge underwater, so I am stuck under the bridge, swimming, and she plays with this light attached to the bridge and gleefully shouts: "Look, it's like the police!" and flashes a very bright light. I know she will attract too much attention, and sure enough a kid with his bedroom on the bridge wakes up, looks at us, and says: "Playing police, huh? Cool."
I am suddenly watching myself a seven year old girl named Kristy (not my name, but I am watching and it is me at once, as often happens in my dreams) who has got a major crush on the kid from the bridge (Older, teenaged, kind of Asian-punk looking), and she is debating whether or not to make him an engagement ring from plastic when her friends come in and convince her she will only get her heart broken.
Jump to older Me/Not me with a group of three teenagish girls going from a house opening a door stepping into some sort of truck show, western stage show, not important, but people tell us, "I don't think people dress like that to go here. You must be looking for the concert." And so we are. We are dressed sort of like Elvis, I am wearing a white jumpsuit with a halter top that has starry stuff like one of his most famous outfits (odd, I am not a big Elvis fan), and we are looking for some concert, not an Elvis one. That is located in some room that goes off of Salvo's basement but yet not his basement, with pine-covered walls that have two doors, and suddenly, hiding there, is a huge auditorium. Two thirteen-year-olds are kissing and the boy says, "I hope you kept your teeth hard to kiss me with" and we walk on. A little kid tries to injure me for stepping on his toy, but I calmly explain to him why it was his fault in the first place.
Jump again to me "waking up" in my dream and seeing that my clock says 9:15 and knowing I am late for my first day visiting clients and I run out to yell at my parents for not waking me up, and all of the clocks say it's after 11, but different times, and I yell at mom because she doesn't care or realize or agree that the clocks are out. Dad finally notices and says it must be the workman's fault. They have hired a maid and a fix-it guy (yeah right, a maid? Never happen!) and they are cleaning up the kitchen but tearing apart the walls. Dad & Mom sit on the couch and a thing that looks like a giant cake-decorating plastic tip drips cleaning sludge on my dad's shirt and he doesn't believe us until he sees for himself. There was more cleaning dripping, but I don't remember who got it or why.
Jump to me telling Emblem & Salvo, who are in a room that's not mine but yet is (the pine walls again) about my strange dream, how I dreamed Salvo's dad (who is in this fake awake part my boss) was there, and about the concert in his house, and he says that was weird. Then he says: "Look what I got" and pulls up his shirt to show us a gigantic tatoo of this bizarre scene of the Buddha all done in indo-chinese style that's half done and appears to cover most of his torso and back, half in white (unfinished) and half undone. Mom walks in and he has to tell her what's' up and she says: "That's a nice tattoo" and tells us something unrelated like "Dinner is ready." And I know in my dream that one of my friends is going to get a tattoo and I almost say it but don't. And the tattoo is just so big, and so undone, that it looks just odd, kind of achingly well done,but not beautiful yet. Then I wrenched myself out of fever and sickness and really woke up, and I could have cried, I was so happy none of it was true.
So shrink me. Unthink me. Blink me out of existence. Wink me your inner eye.
It's too bizarre for words. At least it had no premonition elements or deja-vu elements in it.
I submitted poems to a web site contest. I expect nothing to come of it, because it's pure chance that my poem would even be read. But I did it. So :-p
I made some more quick ones using the poetry in motion thing on poetry.com, it's fun because it limits you to 20 elements and to their list. Then you can make your poems in this style and rearrange the words.
Till later,
See you in my dreams.
Monday, 8 September 2003
Poem Submission
Ok, I'm submitting a poem. Or not. Or am. I can't decide.
I updated the Aug 29th poem, but it needs a title. I like titles.
No, I am not drugged out, I am slightly catatonic...better than catapulted anyday, I say.
Un beso.
Chau
I updated the Aug 29th poem, but it needs a title. I like titles.
No, I am not drugged out, I am slightly catatonic...better than catapulted anyday, I say.
Un beso.
Chau
Thursday, 4 September 2003
List_serv: UNREADY
~~~~List_serv: UNREADY~~~~
She stares:
Ocean eyes: no sharks, webbed pupils, glossy black.
Impish lips: kissy face, sullen shine, surpise: not red!
Raincloud hair: unsafe frame, earth matted, so curlable.
My lists
are not
like yours
She moves:
Elfin feet: palm tree heels, family birthmark, pale fish.
Ballet arms: imperfect curves, careless tans, fluid flesh.
Smiling hips: rhythm=regained, playful shake, time hungry.
I hope
you don't
mind my asking
He sleeps:
Shadow skin: peaked crevices, no tourists, summer dark.
Moon eyes: model lashes, slow eyelids, spark iris.
Lake body: tight grip, smooth skin, warrior scars.
You took
the very first
one
He speaks:
Cello notes: hiding symphonies, crowded thoughts, swift release.
Soldier's triumph: unadorned words, gypsy prayers, seeking peace.
Child laugh: high tones, no demons, love pushes.
Can I
keep all
of yours?
~~~~~~~~AEW~~~~~~~~
She stares:
Ocean eyes: no sharks, webbed pupils, glossy black.
Impish lips: kissy face, sullen shine, surpise: not red!
Raincloud hair: unsafe frame, earth matted, so curlable.
My lists
are not
like yours
She moves:
Elfin feet: palm tree heels, family birthmark, pale fish.
Ballet arms: imperfect curves, careless tans, fluid flesh.
Smiling hips: rhythm=regained, playful shake, time hungry.
I hope
you don't
mind my asking
He sleeps:
Shadow skin: peaked crevices, no tourists, summer dark.
Moon eyes: model lashes, slow eyelids, spark iris.
Lake body: tight grip, smooth skin, warrior scars.
You took
the very first
one
He speaks:
Cello notes: hiding symphonies, crowded thoughts, swift release.
Soldier's triumph: unadorned words, gypsy prayers, seeking peace.
Child laugh: high tones, no demons, love pushes.
Can I
keep all
of yours?
~~~~~~~~AEW~~~~~~~~
Tuesday, 2 September 2003
Otra Vez
Besarte To kiss you
es respirar is to breathe
otra vez. again.
Abrazarte To hold you
es latir is for my heart
mi corazón to beat
otra vez. again.
Allí, There,
a tu lado, by your side,
viviré I will live
otra vez. again.
~~~~Al Rey~~~~
~~AEW~~ For H., by me.
In a rare moment of peace, I dreamed these words. Or maybe I was in the shower...or was it driving...maybe I was just astral projecting...
es respirar is to breathe
otra vez. again.
Abrazarte To hold you
es latir is for my heart
mi corazón to beat
otra vez. again.
Allí, There,
a tu lado, by your side,
viviré I will live
otra vez. again.
~~~~Al Rey~~~~
~~AEW~~ For H., by me.
In a rare moment of peace, I dreamed these words. Or maybe I was in the shower...or was it driving...maybe I was just astral projecting...
Two Great Flicks
Just seen two great flicks, BOWLING FOR COLUMBINE and ALL ABOUT EVE. Both of them made me think about very different aspects of modern life.
BFC made me want to get out of this country while I still can. It made me incredibly sad, even as I sat shaking my head in wonder and bemusement at the stupidity that the U.S has at its core. Bush must not be re-elected. Environmentally, politically, economically, he couldn't give a fig about the people of this county -- except to take their money and to keep them in the dark -- and he has proved this time and again. His environmental record is apalling. Terrorists (as S. said) want him in office, he's a convenient figure for them to present as the evil corporate oppressor. His bombing program (a continuation and expansion of Clinton's, I realize) gives them reason to attack us and to keep the people united in a common enemy, and so busy with their program against us that they don't notice that none of these leaders risk their own lives for the country. Is Sadaam helping the Iraqi people? He fled. Threw them to the wolves and left.
Is Bush helping the U.S.? Have you been helped? The tax cut helped the wealthiest only. The work for welfare program brings tragedy. But I digress.
Is the purpose of a president to reflect the will of the people or to do the best thing for this country? It is a philosophical dilemna, one that has human life as its ticket price. Don't believe me? Watch BFC, read between the lines of the corporate and government sponsored newscast, read the articles from Green groups, check out the government's proclamations and boil them down. We are kept in a culture of stupidity and ignorance because it would blow our minds, we couldn't handle the truth? We let our access to information on our own lives be controlled by a faceless bureaucracy, hiding its tracks and denying anything and everything that puts its employees' jobs in jeopardy. How long will we give these rulers, these monarchs, the opportunity to say, you can't handle the truth, you're not mature enough, you don't know enough, that you're happier stupid, that ignorance is bliss. Ignorance is an iron wall that crushes you when you turn your back on it. It is the single united state of America. How long will we let those whose fates are not dependent on law rule ours, make the laws that determine our lives.
We are too busy, we are just surviving, we have worked long and hard for our rest, we deserve respite. What about the billions of other people who worked just as hard, and never got anywhere? What about those who pulled themselves up and then turned around and gave back to the community, to the nation, to the world? What rest do they get? What is their reward? We love them, until we have to be like them. They are not saints. They have no special powers. They just opened their eyes and saw, and realized that to close their eyes again would be ignorant bliss, but a bliss tempered with guilt. WIth memories of wrongs unrighted, of justice usurped by power. With thousands, no, millions of voices crying out in need, day and night, fretful, restless, plaintive, hopeful. And the hope undoes you every time. There should be no false hope. There will be a brighter day, if you have to do it yourself. It hurts to give yourself up, to want to help, to help and to put your own happiness on hold. But there is a peace, a final sense of something is right with the world, a belonging, that comes with helping others. With taking a stand. With saying, I don't believe your culture of stupidity, I don't believe your stereotypes, your way of making us hate one another, of silence and rape, of torture and apathy. I am just a human. Just a mass of flesh and bones, of tendons and muscles, organs and blood, always blood. My veins are open and you are bleeding me dry, bleeding us all dry, you cut open our veins at birth and catch our blood to make soup you sell back to us, tempered with water, misinformation, a veil that helps us take our medicine without question. We are all just humans, the same ratios, the same parts, the same species. None of us is born better or worse than any of the others. But we do not all have the same chances to live, to flourish, to love, to die and live happily. And until we do, we can not call ourselves a wealthy society, a civilization, or even a people.
I have been to two of the places listed in BFC as sites of U.S.-sponsored overthrows of democratically elected presidents. These leaders were not overthrown because their policies were hurting the people, but because the U.S. wanted stronger economies, better friends, because the dictators that the U.S. put in their place smiled at our country and promised huge deals at the cost of thousands of lives. The statistics are startling, but so are the actual places, faces, and even one person who experienced either event. I've been to Santiago, Chile, I've lived there. I've walked down Avda. 11 de Septiembre, the date of Pinochet's 1973 coup. I've heard the stories of those whose family members disappeared. I've seen the footage of executions. I've learned that everything that has been since is a reflected shock, a rebuilding, a deal with Pinochet the lifetime senator, a deal with themselves. I've been to a town in El Salvador where government-sponsored soldiers raped and murdered thousands of women, where people were lined up outside of a church wall and shot with no mercy, no questions asked, all civilians, basically for the fun of it. Where the crater left by an exploded bomb is bigger than some of the refugees' tin or cardboard houses. Where they dropped babies down a well to crack their heads open on the rocks below. Where children wander still, with fleas and bare feet, giving you a tour of the burned-out shell of a house (to earn any small price) and repeating a story that no 8, or 10, or 11 year old should know, should have to know that it was true. These events occurred in the 70s, in the 80s, in the 90s. These are not tales from long ago. There are people, there are children who lived through these U.S. government-sponsored annihilations, the survivors, those who lived and promised to tell their stories.
What would happen if we all left this country in protest? If we fled to Canada, to Africa, to Europe, to Latin America, to Antarctica even? What if we created a gigantic brain drain, labor drain, people drain? What if we just refused to work for money, if we only did charity, or community service, if we all said, we don't believe that paper can make us happy? What if we reinstated a barter system? What if we all laughed at the government and said, we believe in equality, we are going to perform our own marriages, or no marriages at all, no one will be married, you can not track us. We will not report our race, we will not record our sex, our income. We will disappear off of your radar. What if we camped out en masse on the White House lawn? If we stopped working altogether, made it difficult for others to work, to concentrate, to do their useless paperwork until our cries were heard? If we called for impeachment, for full release of their policies, all documents passed by the government, translated by a liberal, unknown lawyer, unbribed and untouchable? What if we took our country back? Because we need to take it back, out of the hands of those who would wish us ill, who would laugh at our funerals and would rather fake a bow to the ignorant masses then help those who need it most.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Unhelpful song quote of the day: "Let's all take showers in Windex. We all look the same inside, what have we got to hide..." RLS
BFC made me want to get out of this country while I still can. It made me incredibly sad, even as I sat shaking my head in wonder and bemusement at the stupidity that the U.S has at its core. Bush must not be re-elected. Environmentally, politically, economically, he couldn't give a fig about the people of this county -- except to take their money and to keep them in the dark -- and he has proved this time and again. His environmental record is apalling. Terrorists (as S. said) want him in office, he's a convenient figure for them to present as the evil corporate oppressor. His bombing program (a continuation and expansion of Clinton's, I realize) gives them reason to attack us and to keep the people united in a common enemy, and so busy with their program against us that they don't notice that none of these leaders risk their own lives for the country. Is Sadaam helping the Iraqi people? He fled. Threw them to the wolves and left.
Is Bush helping the U.S.? Have you been helped? The tax cut helped the wealthiest only. The work for welfare program brings tragedy. But I digress.
Is the purpose of a president to reflect the will of the people or to do the best thing for this country? It is a philosophical dilemna, one that has human life as its ticket price. Don't believe me? Watch BFC, read between the lines of the corporate and government sponsored newscast, read the articles from Green groups, check out the government's proclamations and boil them down. We are kept in a culture of stupidity and ignorance because it would blow our minds, we couldn't handle the truth? We let our access to information on our own lives be controlled by a faceless bureaucracy, hiding its tracks and denying anything and everything that puts its employees' jobs in jeopardy. How long will we give these rulers, these monarchs, the opportunity to say, you can't handle the truth, you're not mature enough, you don't know enough, that you're happier stupid, that ignorance is bliss. Ignorance is an iron wall that crushes you when you turn your back on it. It is the single united state of America. How long will we let those whose fates are not dependent on law rule ours, make the laws that determine our lives.
We are too busy, we are just surviving, we have worked long and hard for our rest, we deserve respite. What about the billions of other people who worked just as hard, and never got anywhere? What about those who pulled themselves up and then turned around and gave back to the community, to the nation, to the world? What rest do they get? What is their reward? We love them, until we have to be like them. They are not saints. They have no special powers. They just opened their eyes and saw, and realized that to close their eyes again would be ignorant bliss, but a bliss tempered with guilt. WIth memories of wrongs unrighted, of justice usurped by power. With thousands, no, millions of voices crying out in need, day and night, fretful, restless, plaintive, hopeful. And the hope undoes you every time. There should be no false hope. There will be a brighter day, if you have to do it yourself. It hurts to give yourself up, to want to help, to help and to put your own happiness on hold. But there is a peace, a final sense of something is right with the world, a belonging, that comes with helping others. With taking a stand. With saying, I don't believe your culture of stupidity, I don't believe your stereotypes, your way of making us hate one another, of silence and rape, of torture and apathy. I am just a human. Just a mass of flesh and bones, of tendons and muscles, organs and blood, always blood. My veins are open and you are bleeding me dry, bleeding us all dry, you cut open our veins at birth and catch our blood to make soup you sell back to us, tempered with water, misinformation, a veil that helps us take our medicine without question. We are all just humans, the same ratios, the same parts, the same species. None of us is born better or worse than any of the others. But we do not all have the same chances to live, to flourish, to love, to die and live happily. And until we do, we can not call ourselves a wealthy society, a civilization, or even a people.
I have been to two of the places listed in BFC as sites of U.S.-sponsored overthrows of democratically elected presidents. These leaders were not overthrown because their policies were hurting the people, but because the U.S. wanted stronger economies, better friends, because the dictators that the U.S. put in their place smiled at our country and promised huge deals at the cost of thousands of lives. The statistics are startling, but so are the actual places, faces, and even one person who experienced either event. I've been to Santiago, Chile, I've lived there. I've walked down Avda. 11 de Septiembre, the date of Pinochet's 1973 coup. I've heard the stories of those whose family members disappeared. I've seen the footage of executions. I've learned that everything that has been since is a reflected shock, a rebuilding, a deal with Pinochet the lifetime senator, a deal with themselves. I've been to a town in El Salvador where government-sponsored soldiers raped and murdered thousands of women, where people were lined up outside of a church wall and shot with no mercy, no questions asked, all civilians, basically for the fun of it. Where the crater left by an exploded bomb is bigger than some of the refugees' tin or cardboard houses. Where they dropped babies down a well to crack their heads open on the rocks below. Where children wander still, with fleas and bare feet, giving you a tour of the burned-out shell of a house (to earn any small price) and repeating a story that no 8, or 10, or 11 year old should know, should have to know that it was true. These events occurred in the 70s, in the 80s, in the 90s. These are not tales from long ago. There are people, there are children who lived through these U.S. government-sponsored annihilations, the survivors, those who lived and promised to tell their stories.
What would happen if we all left this country in protest? If we fled to Canada, to Africa, to Europe, to Latin America, to Antarctica even? What if we created a gigantic brain drain, labor drain, people drain? What if we just refused to work for money, if we only did charity, or community service, if we all said, we don't believe that paper can make us happy? What if we reinstated a barter system? What if we all laughed at the government and said, we believe in equality, we are going to perform our own marriages, or no marriages at all, no one will be married, you can not track us. We will not report our race, we will not record our sex, our income. We will disappear off of your radar. What if we camped out en masse on the White House lawn? If we stopped working altogether, made it difficult for others to work, to concentrate, to do their useless paperwork until our cries were heard? If we called for impeachment, for full release of their policies, all documents passed by the government, translated by a liberal, unknown lawyer, unbribed and untouchable? What if we took our country back? Because we need to take it back, out of the hands of those who would wish us ill, who would laugh at our funerals and would rather fake a bow to the ignorant masses then help those who need it most.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Unhelpful song quote of the day: "Let's all take showers in Windex. We all look the same inside, what have we got to hide..." RLS
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