Follow The $$$

During the last US presidential elections, I received plenty of grief for supporting Ralph Nader from my Democrat friends. No matter how I tried to convince them that the Democrats were just as guilty in the crimes of gutting the American working class and tainting American politics, they held their ground and claimed the Democrats were the party that would save America from the clutches of the Republican war-mongers.

A few years down the line, it seems that besides not doing a single thing to stop the Bush administration’s rampage on America, (see judge appointments, war funding, tax cuts) they have been quietly laughing all the way to the bank. Yep, you guessed it, the Democrats are making some big time cash in a war in they can’t decide to support or oppose.

When you want to find out who is winning a war, just follow the $$$.

Here is a nice place to start:



Click on Iraq/Afghanistan Contracts: A comprehensive examination of who won contracts to do business in Iraq and Afghanistan. It's like a real life Syiriana of who's who in politics and business. Apparently Senator Feinstein’s husband Richard Blum has racked in millions of dollars from Perini, a civil infrastructure construction company, of which the billionaire investor wheels 75 percent of the voting share.

For more on the Senator do some research yourself or check out BrickBurner for a great blog on Feinstein. While at BrickBurner, snoop around; it's a great site.

Acting Lesson #1

This has been a long week and a very short weekend. The stress, anxiety and eventual payoff of Friday night is fading and after five hours at acting class, I am a bit drained. Well, totally drained. And so this post will be brief. But please don’t read into my terse prose and come away feeeling that the class has diminished its appeal in anyway. It was indeed another exhaustive and intensive bout with my personal comfort level and tolerances for humility. But I did walk away from the class with one concrete lesson, which I will present you in haiku form. And the more I think about it and let my teachers words sink in, the more I realize that this lesson goes beyond acting. It is something that can be applied to everything we do:

the more vulnerable
you allow yourself to be
the stronger you'll feel

If You Want To Sing, Sing Out.

Being a teacher is very similar to being a performer. Day in and day out, we stand in front of a room and try to entertain, motivate and inspire you. Our students. We try and show you that it is vital that you become bigger than you are, be better than you think you can be. We try and show you that the world is for you to enjoy and that dreams need not be only fantasies. But what you do not know is that as we slave and pour our hearts out everyday, you equally inspire us. Your enthusiasm, your creativity and your innocence is enough inspiration to keep us going for a lifetime.

This reminds me of a particular experience I had last year. I was sitting where you are now, in this same theater watching a variety show. One of my fifth grade students, who was learning English, was sitting in front of a huge piano and sang a song she had written herself. Her delicate voice faltered between timidity and valiancy. I was floored by her performance. It has always been my dream to play music in front of an audience, but fear, embarrassment and insecurity have always held me back. Last year, Anna made me realize that my life is too short to be crippled by my own lack of faith in my talent. She inspired me to take a chance and make my dream come true. So, as you can see, you are crucial in keeping this inspiration circle going. I am here tonight to let you know that even adults are afraid. We don’t have all the answers; actually we have far fewer than you would think. We are figuring it all out with you. But what is important for all of us to remember is to never let this fear stop us from achieving what we know we are meant to accomplish.

The last couple of weeks, we have been working on poetry in my class, and I have made my students stand on chairs as they read sonnets and other poems. I say that I want them to feel as if they own the room and be brave. Well, you guys, I have always told you that I don’t expect you to do anything I would not do myself, so this is me, standing on the chair and reading my sonnet.

This may not be exactly what I said, but it is what I had planned to say before my nerves swallowed me whole. I am standing on a stage in the theater of my school in front of over four hundred students, parents and other teachers. The strong spotlight blinds me and envelopes the audience in darkness. I can hear my words echo through the microphone and the back wall, but I am not certain where they are coming from. They sound good. I continue. All week I have been worried that I would blank out, but this is it. My speech is over. The clapping has stopped. It is time to begin. I strum a few G chords. Remember start slowly. I am off…come gather round people…wherever you roam…wrong chord…keep going they won’t notice…hit this chorus with some emotion. Don’t be so mechanical…loosen up…there it is. YES, nice one…come mothers and fathers through out the land….don’t criticize what you can’t understand…your sons and your daughters we’re beyond your command…get out of the road if you can’t led a hand…nice belt that one out…is that feedback…keep going, you’re in a groove. You are no longer even looking at your fingers…I look around, but all I see is the darkness…I hear some screams…I hear my voice…it sounds okay...I am on fire, but there is no pain…this will end soon…Why can’t it go on forever…I forget the last line…strum the G, strum the G…there it is…the first one now will later be last.

I have always thought that I wanted to be onstage, because I have an ego that is a bit self-obsessed. Sure, I meditate and read books about trying to diffuse it, but my ego needs affection. It needs to be told that it is understood. It likes to be reassured that it is unique, that people love it. But as I stood on that stage, I felt it disappear. I was not singing to those people because I wanted anything from them- no acceptance, no reassurance, no applause. I was on that stage giving everything inside of myself so that I would no longer exists. And for the four minutes I stood onstage and sang my song, as the blackness filled with hundreds of faces staring out at me, I felt completely alive. I am no longer alone, because I feel that I have finally connected. I cannot say specifically to what, but it is out there in the darkness- cheering and clapping. I smile, raise my hand, wave and walk off the stage.

Note: All proceeds of this event will go to help hurricane victims in New Orleans. A DVD will soon be made, and depending on my technological expertise, I will try and post some clips on Intrepid Flame.

1.2.3.4…hands down and walk

The fog machines are spitting out clouds of smoke. The lights rotate: red, yellow, blue, green. 1.2.3.4…hands down and walk…1.2.3.4...bye bye bye…hip thrust, twice…and turn and walk.1.2.3.4…down-left…down-right…down-left…down-right…kick right…shoulder, shoulder, shoulder…out, in, up…and 1 and 2 and spin and clap and pump the fists.

This is the second act. The void where the audience was is now a cauldron of screams and applause. I am at the front of the stage, in a basketball jersey, pumping my hands to N’Sync. Four other teachers and I had agreed to do this. We practiced choreographing the song all week, and now here we are going through the steps. The one thing that makes me more self-conscious than singing is dancing. I never do it. But out here it feels okay. How did my shoulder just do that?

Spin…clap…left, than right…pony right…pony left…and break-off…shoot, shoot, shoot and 1 and 2 and finale. The crowd goes nuts.

Things I heard walking out to get something to drink at intermission:

That was amazing...Can you guys do that again?...You have such a great voice...I didn’t know you could sing like that...That was so great, Mr.Raisdana...We should start each class with some singing...Can we take a picture?...I loved that song when I was young...That was great...Thank you.

No, Thank you.

We performed the dance number again at the end of the show. The students ran up to the stage, screaming and waving their arms. It was surreal. Monday morning, we will be back at work and ready to start work on planning our poetry reading in two weeks.

I'm on the Simpsons

Want to see what you would look like on The Simpsons?

Check out this site

Acting For Beginners

Three of the walls are made of glass, and outside half the sky is decorated in varying shades of grey. Deep pockets of coal, smudged between strengthened steel, lead and industry. The other half of the sky, however, shines with light emanating from a buried sun, giving the raindrops, being blown back and forth, a feeling of life and vibrancy, each drop a dancing iridescent rainbow dubious of its fate. The KL tower audaciously penetrates the atmosphere, while the Petrona’s towers blend easily onto the shifting palette.

Inside the studio, my hand is on my diaphragm, focusing on its tides as I breathe. It is the first day of a ten-week acting class I have joined. There are twenty-four of us in this glass bubble, beneath the rain, breathing and chanting. In the next four hours, we will learn the following:

The actor’s stance: feet shoulder-length apart, arms by the side, looking forward, relaxed, focused waiting to move; a variety of warm ups. At one point, I will be chewing like a hungry lion as I roar; how to give an appearance: walk forward, stop, turn, face the teacher and simply stand there looking at him, making direct eye contact. We will do this four times. The first time we present ourselves simply as we are, the next with joy, then sorrow, anger and lust. With each take, we will alter our body language, our breathing; we will be asked to find a partner who is our height. Then we will stand on the opposite side of the room from each other and imagine that we have had an intense seven-year relationship with this person, and now, we will never see the person again. We are told to make eye contact with the person, and when we feel comfortable, we are to walk toward them, meeting in the middle of the room. We will then turn and walk away still staring at the person. The teacher will play Pacbel’s Canon in D. My partner will be a slightly effeminate Malaysian man. I will breathe and look outside, noting that the rain has stopped. I will concoct a scenario about how our love affair must end because he has not told his family that he is gay. I will be proud of myself for being the type of person who can do things like this on Sunday afternoons whilst living overseas. The music will play. Our eye contact is intense. We will be standing face to face. I will think, “acting is not learning to be someone else; it is simply learning to be yourself. Fully. It is much like mediating or writing.” We will walk away. I will be emotional and will have a hard time breathing for a few minutes. I will like the sensation of submerging myself so deep into these foreign emotions. We will then switch partners. My new partner will be a young Malaysian girl. It will be easier because I will be freed from my own homophobic insecurities that no matter how I try to ignore still blur my vision. The exercise will be the same. The music will be playing, and I will act like I am in love with this girl. For a brief moment, the line between acting and reality will disappear and nothing will exist in the world but her two eyes staring at me. She will start to cry, heavier the closer we get. I will reach out and hug her. She will hug me back. I will hold her hand as we part, never severing eye contact. We will walk away. She will be sobbing. I will wonder what is happening. Who are these people? Who am I? I feel such pity for her. She appears to be in so much pain. We will not be allowed to talk, so I will try and contort my face to say, “You will be okay. Love will not always hurt like this.” I will smile, tying to comfort her. She will stop crying. Later, when we are discussing what happened, she will say she was imagining a family member leaving her forever. The teacher will admonish her for deviating from his assigned task. “You have to be able to put yourself in any situation, no matter how uncomfortable. Only then can you understand the emotion you are trying to evoke.” The music will stop. The exercise will be over.

But right now, I am learning how to say, “ba ba ba ba ba, cha, cha, cha, cha, cha, da, da, da, da, da from my gut and not from my throat. But more importantly, I am learning how not to be embarrassed. I am learning how to not judge myself in the face of others. I am learning how to be free from the shackles of humiliation, judgment, and ego. I feel silly and alive. I am smiling as I look around the room and see twenty-four other people doing the same thing, as half the sky shines golden and a slow falling tropical rain is washing the other half.

No Signs of Pain

Your insecurities are causing me pain. Stop projecting your guilt and weakness upon me.

For the complete photo essay click here

Journey of Highs and Lows

As an aspiring writer, I am habitually cognizant to avoid clichés as much as possible. So please accept my apologies for starting this story with the most flagrant cliché used to illustrate a turbulent emotional experience. Please allow me this one act of laziness; I hope to make it up to later in the piece.

Having a baby is like riding a roller coaster. The fluctuating sensation of intense euphoria suddenly spliced with debilitating anxiety is not for the faint of heart. The long nine-month journey of highs and lows rises and falls with every four-week doctor’s visit. And our last visit was no different.

Mairin had felt Kaia move, slightly, last week much to our delight, but then suddenly nothing for a week. What had happened? Was she all right? Through this time, anxiety slowly builds night after night, until finally you go to the doctor and he points to a small pulsating bronze blob on a high tech contraption and everything makes sense again, until something else comes up in the next four weeks to reek havoc with your emotional equilibrium.

The obstetrician’s office is always full of smiling faces and resounding pride. Every couple is anxiously waiting to see their little one. As fathers we smile to one another, sharing our amazement at what is growing in our wives’ bellies. We share an unspoken bewilderment that somehow we have created something out of nothing. Looking at each other’s wives we come to terms with the miracle, but find it difficult to hide our admiration. The room is awash in elation and trepidation, much like the womb itself I imagine.

Doctor Guna tells us that we shouldn’t start to worry about irregular movement until the 24th week, at which point, Kai should be moving regularly. Our worries alleviated, we stood around the machine and watched her throw little jabs and kick her feet. Everything looks perfect. Amniotic fluid levels: check. Placenta thickness: check. Spine: check. She is now 14 cm long. What does that mean? I quickly make the calculations in my head. Six inches. Still nothing…a remote control, bigger than a soda can; that makes sense. He pushes on her stomach and we see the indentation on the screen, helping us realize that they are one and the same place.

Mairin has been playing music for Kaia every night as we read in bed: Mozart, and World Lullabies. Yesterday, we dropped over one hundred dollars at the bookstore: Shel Siverstein, Where The Wild Things Are, The Hungry Caterpillar. We will start reading to her soon. She can hear our voices now; she can taste, breathe. How did we create this life? Out of nothing, where did she come from? We are faced with so many choices now. Careful not to smother, but not to ignore. Make sure she is, honest, kind, compassionate, independent. With so many people getting it wrong, how will we know what to do?

I had a dream the other night. It went like this:

Mairin was a sleep somewhere else. Kaia and I were alone in a dark, red room. She was tiny. Newborn. It was warm and she had just woken up. I grabbed her from her bed and rocked her back and forth. Gone was the uncomfortable feeling one has when holding other people’s children. Gone was the distance. We met for the first time in my sleep. She was warm and I could feel her breath on my cheek as I sang to her quietly. She smelled like me, but without the insecurities. My lips pressed against her soft forehead. Not a kiss but simply a physical connection to match the other ones. She purred as we paced the room, the soft lights glowing. Soon this dream will be real. I am ready.

On the drive home, the sun seems to burn extra bright, the greens greener, the wind itself carries life. This most natural act reminds you that magic is still at the root of it all. You contemplate concepts like god, reincarnation, oceans, evaporation, clouds, rain, oceans.

When I mentioned my roller coater analogy to my aunt, she said, “ Well get ready because it will last for the next eighteen years.” And judging by the way she treats my cousin, and how my own mother still worries about everything I do, I am starting to realize that they are right. When you create a new life, suddenly nothing else matters but its well-being. From this day on, we will be constantly riding this roller coaster.

Maybe The Laws Are Different In Texas

I received the following email today:

Where are you? What have you got to say about Cheney's hunting accident?

After I got over my inflated sense of importance, I did a little research, thought about it all day, and came up with very little that hasn’t been said all over the internet. I simply have this to say:

A lying, gun toting, by the looks of it drunken Wyoming cowboy shoots his buddy in the face on some ranch in Texas- weren’t these the same characters lurking in the background that we hated in Brokeback Mountain? Next you will tell me that the guy gets off scott-free. Oh! This is the vice-president of the United Sates, and the White House decided not to tell anyone about the accident until some rancher in town leaked it to the press, thus not allowing the perpetrator to be questioned till the next day, so if he was drunk no one would know. Why weren’t there police on the scene of a gunshot wound? That doesn’t sound like the open, have no secrets White House I have grown to love.

What can one say? Everything is becoming so absurd with this administration and our country. Nothing surprises me anymore. However, I was left with one question that my wife brought up; if this were someone else, wouldn’t they get into some kind of legal tangle for shooting someone, albeit by accident, else in the face. Maybe the laws are different in Texas.

Or maybe if you are building permanent bases in Iraq or planning the biggest oil and gas giveaway in history it would make sense to get the press of your tail, even if that means that they are laughing at you for shooting a hunting pal.

Love, Sonnets, and Hamsters

I thought it would be challenging to see if my eighth graders could write sonnets. We are knee deep in the poetry unit, and I figured just because I am not a fan of metered verse, doesn’t mean that they shouldn’t be exposed to it. Therefore, as we make our way through imagery, figurative language, and all the other great things about poetry, we are also following a more traditional metered tangent.

They pretend like they hate it, but they are coming around. At least that’s what I tell myself. In the spirit of Valentine’s Day, I assigned a group of thirteen year olds to write a love sonnet. I told them to get as romantic and melodramatic as they could. For those of you not familiar with the form here are the details:

The sonnet is a metered poem in Iambic Pentameter. Which means each line has five feet, or ten syllables, with the accents falling on every other syllable starting with the second one. (Good times in Mr. Raisdana’s class) There are fourteen lines following the abab/cdcd/efef/gg Believe it or not I would say about 80% of my class could tell you that, well definitely 70%.

Whenever they whine and tell me that whatever we are doing is too hard. This is what I tell them: “Imagine that there is a little hamster in your little heads. He likes to run on his little wheel, but with all the MSN chat, video games, TV, and mindless conversations you have, he is too weak to run anymore. He just sits in the water dish getting fat and lazy. It is my job to resuscitate your little hamsters, and nothing will get him or her running like writing a sonnet.” They laugh. I laugh. We laugh together. We write. Our hamsters running.

I also told them that nothing says love like an original sonnet written by their own hand. Never one to follow the do as I say- not as I do philosophy, I decided to try my hand at writing a sonnet. After all if it is worth teaching, it is worth doing right? It looks like my hamster could have used a work out to. How is yours doing?


i told them a hand written sonnet would be a good gift

somewhere behind your eyes i find my home
you’re why i’ll be who i was meant to be
safe from the road i have no place to roam
you are my roots my trunk you are my tree
before we met i was a ship so lost
with compass in hand i was led astray
on open ocean oh how i was tossed
my wishes granted because i had prayed
your love has been for me the perfect cure
it is in your light i will always bask
in the world nothing else can be so pure
an empty vessel i will be your cask
i am not sure how i have passed this test
but everyday i wake feel i am blessed


note:
1. please notice that writing a sonnet was one of the items on the previous post titled: to do.
2. I was right. My wife loved the poem

to do

get the progress reports finished and printed. make sure all the re-write essays have been corrected. read and comment on the new batch of poems from students. listen to some of the new music that jeff sent.22 new cds. wilco. jens lekman. plan lessons for tomorrow. finish ordering books for next year. pay the bills. send the 22 cds to ari. redo politics and photography page of website. print off a copy of the red wheelbarrow and this is just to say for &*^@%$! because her poems sound like his and she will enjoy them. start work on third draft of vietnam story. start first draft of new story idea. write a poem. maybe a sonnet. why isn’t kaia moving? start swimming laps. get the motobike tuned-up. call grandma, make sure she isn’t being harassed. say hello. take more photographs. start writing rubric for chapbook final project. plan the night of the student poetry reading. print new photos for coffee shop display. drink more tea. make cd for ari proving elliott smith has a pretty voice. make sure to include pitseleh. learn to play atlantic city by the boss. read and edit jeff’s memoirs. read and edit ari’s poems. write cortney an email asking about ilha. buy in cold blood, naked and the dead and armies of the night. start buying some shel silverstein books for kaia. try writing a children’s story. stop making a worthless list and start doing:

Cartoon Violence

I hope the readers of my writing recognize that I have been relentlessly trying to afford myself the luxury of absorbing information before reacting to it. I am slowly learning that knee-jerk, reactionary thinking can only lead to further conflict and is never practical when trying to disentangle a crisis. Consequently, I have given myself a few days before I responded to the cartoon debacle.

It is easy to read a few articles, watch some CNN, gather a batch of half-truths, assume we have the facts, and immediately start discharging ignorant proclamations: Islam is a violent religion that encourages fanaticism, and the Muslim world’s reaction to a cartoon is simply evidence that they are a backwards people unable to adjust to the modern world. Or maybe: The West, drenched in decadence, indecency, and pornography is so drunk with sin and immorality that it has become indifferent to its colonial past and imperial present. So much so that it feels it is beyond the power of god.

It would, however, behoove us as concerned, intelligent, compassionate citizens not to jump the easy trains of ignorance, but rather to look at all sides of the story before we come to a conclusion. Even then we should be weary of any such idea that a resolution is always possible. When we are constricted to perceive the world as good and evil, or right and wrong, we are forced to make choices. On the other hand, if we can recognize that we inhabit a world of compromise and negotiation, we will be better prepared to truly comprehend not only the problems we face, but also their roots and eventually their solutions. We are never right or wrong, good or bad, because these concepts are false. We simply are. Truth is an arbitrary idea in which too much value has been placed. Humankind must begin to understand that we co-inhabit a planet swarming with notions of truth, but we are all liars. We must simply learn to understand what each of us considers true and find a way to live with the results we uncover.

The way I see it there are four points of view to this debate (after I began writing this, I realized that there are an infinite number of points of view, but I will focus on these four):

1. From the side of the West: the cartoon illustrator, the newspapers that back him, proponents of “Western” ideals, such as freedom of speech, the press and the enlightenment of the entire Western world. I think it is important to define the Western world before we continue. The Western world= the winners of the colonial game played out over the last five hundred years. For evidence of this, see the G8, the IMF, the World Bank, the UN, and all the countries littered with evidence of a free market. Places that speak English and are white, Christian, and value “democracy”.

2. From the side of the East: the angry, fanatic, usually bearded, beheading-enforcing militant, brown person (feel free to enter terms like Arab. Iranian can be used indiscriminately here, because most people do not know or care that the people inhabiting the country known as Iran are in fact not Arabs), Muslim, Palestinian, insurgent, or detainee. Places still mired in sixth century dogma where woman are slaves and no one ever smiles, tucks their children into bed, or understands concepts like tenderness, compassion and love.

3. The person who sees the hypocrisy of the West. The people who know that the right wing owners of the Jyllands-Posten refused to publish anti-Christian cartoons several months ago. The ones who know that a cartoon with, let’s say, the Pope sodomizing a small boy and saying, “Now you are saved,” if published in a Muslim paper would bring the fury of every Catholic in Europe. Or the person who can recognize that if a cartoon making fun of the twin towers was released after 9/11, every redneck from Idaho to Alabama would grab their gun, flag, six-pack of Bud and would drive up and down their under-funded street or Wal-Mart parking lot, cursing the fact that God was stupid enough to build his Garden smack dab in the land infected with those god damn sandniggers.

4. The person who see the idiocy and futility of the Muslim world reacting to these cartoons with such fervor. Where were these demonstrations when the British first occupied Iraq in the 30’s, when the French carved up Syria, the Dutch enslaved the Indonesians? If that is too far back in history to be awarded recognition or relevance, then how about the fact that the US has vetoed over one hundred resolutions trying to address the issues that a country was stolen from the Palestinians. Still too far back? Let’s look at the last few years: where was the global outcry when the US led an illegal war into the heart of the Arab world, Abu Graib, Guantanimo Bay, the theft of Middle Eastern oil, the privatization of the region? Why now? Why is the Muslim world (a term I find ridiculous, by the way) acting out now? How is burning Danish flags going to help bridge the gap that seems to be expanding daily? Ignorance on both sides of the argument makes it difficult to find solutions.

As you can see, this discussion is not a simple one, and I have yet to state a position, because until we can look past the caricatures that the media is making of us, we will be forced to live inside these cartoons. Until there is genuine dialogue between our two worlds, until we realize that there is truly only one world, we will be forced to choose sides. And for someone born in the Middle East and raised in the West, this can be a very difficult choice. I have seen the best and the worst of both worlds. I do not want to choose between Radical Islam and the New World Order. I refuse to be made a puppet in this dichotomy.

I believe in freedom of speech, of the press, and of thought. I believe that people should have the right to publish those cartoons and that they serve a purpose. I believe in the fact that West has made some fantastic strides in understanding the world in which we live: Van Gogh, Kerouac, Miles Davis, Truman Capote, are the names spat out by my subconscious, but the list is endless. I believe in a world where woman are goddesses and our only saviors, I believe in a world where my daughter will be free to do anything she wants, where my mother walks like a gentle giant even though she only weighs 98 pounds. I believe in a world where homosexuality is not punished, where movies that promote homosexuality are accepted and talked about. I believe in a world that is free, and I don’t mean George Bush’s idea of freedom, where many of the ideals I just spoke about are just as restricted as in the Muslim world. I believe in a world where I can take my daughter to the country where I was born and she can walk freely, not ashamed or afraid of her body, her hair, and her sexuality. I want, in my lifetime to see a free Iran, a place where the people can make their own choices and not let them be made by the international community or by an idiot president, or by a group of money-hoarding clerics. It is hard for me to argue on behalf of the Muslim World because their leaders have robbed me of a nation. They have robbed that nation of a future, of freedom. On the other hand, as soon as I heard about the global reaction over these cartoons, I immediately saw my grandmother living in Sweden. She is my representative of the Muslim World. How is some drunken Swedish skinhead going to treat her?

While I have my beefs with Islam, I understand that the Middle East is not filled with so much anger. We are the heirs to a legacy of culture. Let us not forget that civilization began in the Middle East. We gave the world algebra, astronomy, Rumi, and Jesus. It is an incredible land of music, art, philosophy, culture, and food. It is a land of family and hospitality. Vivacious, seductive and passionate, it is one of the most beautiful places I have ever been.

Growing up in both worlds, I have seen more similarities than differences. I have seen the major flaws of both religions. They are both filled with intolerance, hate, and rules. Rules are the exact opposite of freedom. The ignorance of the West and East stems from the same river. Islamic fundamentalism and terrorism are a direct result of our shared colonial past. Until the issues of inequality of the international community are addressed, this gap between the civilizations will continue to grow.

I am not sure if I have said anything here that hasn’t been better said by other people a million times in the past. I am not sure if I even have a position on this issue. I do know that it angers, saddens, and frightens me. My only advice is to not allow yourself to be forced to a side. It is not us against them. Take it from me, because I am us and them, and let me reassure you that you are, too.

Further reading:
Orientalism by Edward Said
The Clash Of Fundamentalisms by Tariq Ali
Fateful Triangle by Noam Comsky
and
Open Secret by Rumi

Zen And The Art Of Juicing

A friend gave me a juicer last weekend, so I bought two bags of carrots. I love carrot juice. It makes sense. I have finished putting away the groceries and left the bags of carrots on the counter. After assembling the machine I am pleased to see that the carrots have already been peeled. It’s strange; I hated carrot juice until I moved to Africa. Don’t be confused, Mozambique is not the land of carrot juice by any means; in fact I never once saw carrot juice there. Sure there were carrots but the means to extract the juice was a luxury we weren’t afforded. For some reason during my stay there, my body or maybe it was my mind began to crave the orange nectar. So as soon as I returned, I occasionally enjoyed an ice-cold glass of carrot juice.

Back to the kitchen: The appliance is plugged in, the spears have been quartered, a small glass sits patiently waiting for the liquid. I will juice all the carrots and put the juice in a large pitcher to be enjoyed in the next couple of days. Four carrots later, I have half a glass. I am annoyed. I have already made quite a mess. Orange shavings litter the counter and the machine looks difficult to clean. My mind races: life is fast, convenient, make in bulk, prepare for the future, efficiency, this is a waste of time, I have to laboriously clean this whole thing and for what? A tiny glass of juice. This sucks, why have I done this, I am in a hurry to do my next task, I don’t know what that is, I seldom do, I want to finish so I can start, start, start something else, what happened to now? Another three carrots evaporate leaving the glass brimming with froth and a receptacle filled with not-carrot. Everything is orange.

My eyes are closed. The juice is warm but somehow cool like soil beyond the reach of the sun. I can taste the worms, small rocks, burrowing moles, onion bulbs, the earth. Before I know it, the juice is gone. Liking my lips, I savor the taste. It is perfect. Nothing has ever tastes so real, so right, so honest.

I walk to the sink and begin to wash the machine. Slowly. My mind unhurried: so what if I have to wash all this stuff, I have nothing else to do, if I am opposed to fast food nation I must make my own juice. I am half way done. It seems simple, why was I so anxious. I don’t need to juice in bulk. I will make a nice glass of juice whenever I crave it and then I’ll wash my tools. Leisurely. Maybe next time I will add some apples, maybe a bit of cinnamon. The possibilities are endless.

Sunshine Has Been Keeping Me Up For Days

It’s strange sometimes, even when everything in life seems to be going exactly as planned, when one can even stop long enough and revel in something resembling happiness-the birth of a child, a job you love, witnessing the spiritual growth of some one close to you, great health, success, creative outpouring, accomplished goals, comfort- you still find joy in listening to really disheartened music. As if in your abrupt rush to profess victory and triumph, you may have missed something in the gloom.

When I was younger, my band of choice was Nine Inch Nails. I found comfort in Mr.Reznor’s self-deprecating pain. Many tortured nights I sat in dark rooms, a bottle of something filled with answers in hand, screaming into the void.

But we grow, we mature, and hopefully appreciate the fact that hating yourself is easier an activity when not done with so much zeal. One might even suggest doing it sober, in the light of a reading lamp, in front of a keyboard, and with a mind not prone to writer’s block. And the soundtrack, ladies and gentlemen, for this new, more mature brooder should always be Elliott Smith. I strongly believe that even as you live each day appreciating your swimming pool, the ever-growing attention span of your students or your wife’s growing belly that you should put on a few Elliot Smith songs every now and then and let your sadness take you to the places that you may have not visited in a while, but nonetheless need to stay in touch with.

I have been sober now for over seven months, and while by and large I think it is the best decision I have ever made- I have never felt better emotionally, physically or spiritually in my life- sometimes I get to reminiscing about the feeling of drinking all alone in a smoky room and listening to Elliott Smith songs. For those of you who may not be familiar with Mr. Smith, he was a singer/songwriter/guitarist/piano player who after a marginally successful career and a lifelong battle with alcoholism, depression, and drug abuse finally ended his life by stabbing himself in the chest with a knife.

A friend of mine first introduced me to Elliott Smith’s music in 1999 just before I left for Africa. I remember the night we drove to the store so he could buy the Good Will Hunting soundtrack because “some guy does all the songs and he is amazing.” I scoffed at the idea and refused to even listen to it (this is a bad habit I have since remedied- not listening to people when they suggest new music). I left for Mozambique, and for some reason I thought it would be okay to simply take about 5 cassette tapes of music for two years. Thank god that this same friend had made me two tapes: Elliott Smith’s Kill Rock Stars, X/O and Roman Candle.

Many a day was spent draining time in training, off to the side watching my peers wait out their various levels of shock and assimilation. As I scribbled lonesome poems in my journal, I listened to the prettiest voice I have ever heard whisper over a blend of finger-picked, strummed guitar chords and piano. The songs told stories of loss and desperation- misfits skirting the edges of the ordinary. Here was a soundtrack for everyone not fit to understand. Period. Life in these songs was an album filled with old photographs of people looking down, their eyes begging for you to look away, but still daring you to make contact.

Day after day, I listened to these confessions of vulnerability and obscured strength. The lyrics were more than poetry, more than prose. The music itself was soft and aggressive, like a character to be considered in each narrative. The melodies helped tie the days together, and suddenly two years had gone by.

Smith’s music, like Charles Bukowsi’s poetry, brings the listener down to the foundation of life, at the bottom with the depression, the feelings of inadequacy, and the pain. But from the underside of our emotional worlds, they both elucidate our next destination. There is nothing more dejected, and in turn nothing more hopeful, than an Elliot Smith song. He left us a substantial collection of amazing songs, ranging in subject matter and emotional landscapes.

Every now and again, I don my sullen cap and lose myself in his stories. I imagine myself- eyes barely open, a cigarette burning in an ashtray, a half bottle of Johnny Walker on the table, melting ice cubes, a guitar sleeping on the couch, and me- pen in hand dead set to prove that beauty comes in many shapes and sizes.

Before leaving New York, I saw him perform live at the North Six, a tiny bar in Williamsburg; he was sullen, mumbling and disconnected. This was months before his suicide. A girl yelled out, “We love you Elliott.” To which he answered, “What am I supposed to say to that?” Tell us you love us back, is what I wanted to hear him say. Listening to his music now, I realize that is what he has been saying his whole life.

My days are of drinking and glorifying my pain are gone, and for my wife’s sake I hope for good. But the emotional journeys that his songs afford me will always play a pivotal role in my day-to-day life. I recently came across a website that is filled with unreleased music by Elliott Smith. If you are a fan of his music, I suggest you investigate Elliott Smith B-Sides dot com and have a field day. If, however, you are new to his music and have been inspired to hear for yourself, I recommend you start with his self-titled album Elliott Smith , X/O , Roman Candle , and Figure 8.

Thanks Chris

Animals Are Not Ours

No one likes to have his or her actions brought under scrutiny and judged. It is a natural human tendency to feel aggressive when we are told that we are acting inappropriately, even if-especially if- we are acting immorally. I am slowly learning that self-righteousness is a blunt tool that can cause damage, and it is more beneficial to use the sharp scalpel of an understanding tone. We are never more off-course than when we claim to be moral in the face of another’s immorality. As a species, we are in a constant state of negotiation of what is good or bad. Buddhists argue that the dual concepts of right or wrong have very little meaning, and that maybe we need to simply look at our actions and see how they affect our environment, and in turn our lives, since we are part of the environment.

We often become very defensive when our ethical choices are questioned. Although I have been a vegetarian in varying levels of seriousness for the last several years, I have been cautious not to preach my beliefs to others. Firstly, because carnivores are a very protective group and they often feel the need to defend their choices, but more importantly, because I know that personally, it has taken some very complex and personal experiences to get to where I am now.

Day by day, I am learning the difficulty that one faces when becoming totally vegan, and I want to share my kudos with the people who are committed enough do it. I also realize that the reasons why I cannot accomplish my goal is due to my own personal weakness, habits, and inability to inconvenience my life by making choices that would make it harder to eat what I need. At the end of the day, I have grown fond of certain food items, and I am too weak to let them go-mainly cheese and ice cream. However, even when I look at my own choices, I am not judging them and assigning labels of good or bad; I realize that change takes time, and I am working toward my own personal level of comfort when it comes to living not only for myself, but also with the animal world.

I didn't want to write this post as a pro-vegetarian blurb. I want to re-emphasize that I am not here to judge or to evaluate anyone’s lifestyle. I am not here to make anybody feel guilty for what they do or do not eat. I do not want to inundate the reader with statistics or facts, although they are out there, and I’ll warn you now- they are not pretty. I am simply here to share some ideas, images, and facts about something that most people consider harmless: milk.

I am writing this post because while I am conscious not to allow self-righteousness to cloud my words and actions, I feel it is vital that I stay aware and keep myself informed about what is going on. If I choose to have a pint of ice cream after learning the facts, than that is for my own morality to deal with. All I am asking and hoping that people will do after reading this post is look at the information, watch the movies, and make your own choices. There is no reason to become angry or defensive, unless you feel you are doing something wrong. And if you do, then it may be time to start asking yourself some questions. Which questions you ask are for you to decide, and how long it takes for you to answer them also depends on you.
Watching the images, I felt such a strong sense of violence. I just kept saying to myself: peace starts inside each of us.

Watch Milk Gone Wild here Make sure to watch the section called Meet Your Milk.

For further information check out the PETA website or read:
Beyond Beef by Jeremy Rifkin
The Dreaded Comparison by Majorie Spiegel

Wooster Collective Still Kicking Ass

Wooster Collective is a great site featuring street art that makes you stop and think.

State Of The Union

I was halfway through my shower when I realized that the State of the Union address might be on the TV. I finished washing off the lather and turned on CNN, “the most trusted channel in news” only to see that I had missed it. No big deal. Modern technology allows me to not miss anything. I punched State of the Union into Google, and, within seconds, I was on the White House web site reading the text of the speech. I was more than half way through when I realized that it sounded very familiar: freedom, evildoers, rouge regimes, weapons of mass destruction, war, war, America, America blah, blah, blah, when I realized that I was inadvertently reading the speech from 2003.

I share this quip only to show how irrelevant and ridiculous this speech has become. As I was reading the president's ideas on: tax reform, the economy, and the environment, I said to myself, “These are all lies. He will not do any of these things.” I had to laugh when I realized my mistake, because I had proven myself right. He hadn’t done any of the things he promised in 2003. And here we are three years later listening to him try and pawn off old lies as new ones.

For the last year, I have been trying to shed a bit of my anger toward politics, because it was turning me into the type of person I didn’t want to be mainly jaded, bitter, cynical, depressed, and helpless. Although, I still read articles and feel my skin crawl, I am trying not to react as vehemently as I have in the past. I want to be able to face the world and its crisis with more poise and optimism. So with this new sense of lightness, I began to read this year's speech, and I promised myself that I would not become angry.

This proved to be impossible, but, rather than sit here and go through a point by point breakdown of the flaws in the presidents speech, I have decided to take a step back and observer my reactions to his lies and misinformation. My indignation derives from the fact that I have a basic understanding of reality, and when what I see in front of me: a list of half truths, propaganda, and for lack of a better word bullshit, clash with the facts I have read about in history, I become angry. And so when Bush says things like:

Let me speak directly to the citizens of Iran: America respects you, and we respect your country. We respect your right to choose your own future and win your own freedom. And our Nation hopes one day to be the closest of friends with a free and democratic Iran.

I think of the staged coup in 1953 that led to a downward spiral of a fledgling Iranian democracy, to a US backed-dictatorship, to the fundamentalist theology W. so hates today. One that, I may add, has been in power my entire life, and one who Reagan had no problem dealing with the in 80’s.

However, I am not angry anymore when I hear that Bush wants to be my friend. Instead, I pity him. Please let me explain. We are usually only confronted by people who have lost touch with reality on the streets. They are usually covered in their own urine and are spouting off gibberish; these poor people suffer from varying degrees of mental disability and are in need of help. Normally, we do not become angry when they say things that are untrue like: Saudi Arabia has taken the first steps of reform – now it can offer its people a better future by pressing forward with those efforts.

If a lunatic in the street says something like: We are the Nation that saved liberty in Europe, and liberated death camps, and helped raise up democracies, and faced down an evil empire. Once again, we accept the call of history to deliver the oppressed, and move this world toward peace…

We would not seethe with rage at the absurdity of their comments. We would uncomfortably smile and shirk away becasue we know they are deranged. We would hope that someone would help the poor fool come to terms with reality and maybe give him a brief history lesson on imperialism and the CIA.

And so as I read George W. Bush's speech, I came to a very comforting epiphany. The president of the Untied States is at worst a deranged, delusional idiot who is playing his part as simpleton cowboy goes to Washington, and at best he is a clown, a fool, an imbecile who knows not what he says more than a drooling psychotic in some mental ward. So how could I have directed so much hatred toward such a dupe? I must wish him well and hope that maybe he will get some help. Just as I do when I see a raving lunatic on the street.

The problem I realized, with this sort of thinking, is that most people ignore the raving lunatic in the street, but for some reason people listen to this jackass mumbling in the Capitol. I have realized, thank god for my own well-being, that I cannot go into every house in America armed with a copy of A People’s History of the Untied States and slap the viewers silly with the truth. I must have faith and realize that a country led by a crazy person will at some point implode, at which point I can only hope that there are plenty of people cognizant enough of the truth to start re-building. I mean there are enough of us to see past this right?

Despite my newly found ambivalent view of the president’s words, however, I am terrified because I know that while the puppet dances the masters plot. And their schemes this time around will mean turning my homeland into another desert wasteland, resembling the ghost of a nation that is now our not so cooperative neighbor. This time around the speech hits more at home, literally, like my fathers condo sitting in the heart of Tehran or maybe my aunt’s house waiting to be turned into rubble. This time when I look at the news and see raw sewage running down the streets, gas shortages, and suicide bombers killing innocent people, my ninety year old grandfather could be one of the faces I see crying on my television screen.

So although I try to stay clam as I hear the idiot speak, I know that his words will have consequences, and those consequences are seldom funny.

When he says:

By applying the talent and technology of America, this country can dramatically improve our environment … move beyond a petroleum-based economy … and make our dependence on Middle Eastern oil a thing of the past.

I bet his father and all of his oil buddies are laughing out loud. Laughing at their little puppet, their little fool. Laughing at dead Iraqi children, at the Iranians yearning for freedom, laughing at us the American people.

I may not be as angry as I once was, but I still feel the need to quote a very cross young man from the band Rage Against The Machine:

Wake Up!

You can scream it or whisper it, but until we do, the puppets will say things like this, as their masters laugh and laugh:

So the United States of America supports democratic reform across the broader Middle East.

and think we believe them.

Maybe You Are That Happy

It is 2003. I am working my regular double Sunday shift at Snack, a trendy Greek placed owned by two young NYC hipsters, in SOHO. Outside the regulars are bathing in the sun and talking on their cell phones. Inside, I am alone with a strange man on table one. Adam is making baklava in the back as I read the paper. The cretin on table one chews very slowly and talks even more so. Something about him gives me the creeps. His skin is pale and soft and looks like it may smell of an abandon attic or worse a morgue. I am relieved when he leaves.

“You missed the freak on table one.” I tell Adam as he dusts his apron of cinnamon.
“That was Todd Solondz.”
“You don’t say? Well he is a shitty customer and an even worse tipper." So that was the mind that had given the world all of those uncomfortable yet memorable moments in films like: Welcome To The Doll House, Happiness, and Storytelling.

I was thinking of his face and translucent skin while watching Palindromes, his latest movie, in my bedroom last night. The movie itself is bizarre and, like all his films, deals with the theme of people who live on the periphery of “normal’ society and their views on issues, in this case abortion. The notion of the "freak" is a theme, that after waiting on him, I can understand why he gravitates towards.

The movie itself was discomforting, funny, and bizarre to the point of me often thinking: Am I really going to be able to sit through the whole thing? At one point a ten year old is looking through the trash to find aborted babies, so his mother can give them a proper Christian burial. I did not intend for this to be a review of the film. There was one part that I thought was beautiful that I wanted to share. But if pedophilia, born again Christians killing abortion doctors, blind albino crack babies, and characters named Mama Sunshine are your thing, by all means have fun watching the whole thing yourself.

Here is the scene:

Two prepubescent teens are sitting on a bed looking through a photo album. They are about to have sex and the tension is being built as they ponder the images they face in the album. It is the boy’s album and so the pictures are of him as a child.
Flipping the pages he says, referring to one photo, “Look at how happy I looked. What sucks is that I didn’t even know it at the time.”

To which the girl replies, “Maybe you are that happy now and you just don’t know it.”

End Scene.

We look to art to help us realize the simple truths that should be obvious in our everyday lives. So sitting through one hour and forty minutes of Todd Solondz’s creepy vision of the world was worth it, for this one idea. Maybe we are as happy in the present as we look in the photographs of our youth, and we just don’t know it.