Intrepid Flame

Quantify

2012-01-30T21:27:00.004+07:00

tell me what kind of gauge
can quantify elation?
what kind of equation
could i possibly employ?

Ani Difranco

I get in these moods, left over from my angst filled drinking days I suppose- these bouts with an unnameable loneliness, an unpalatable malaise that can barely be assuaged by low hanging E minor chord or a thick bass line. Marinated in a blues yet to be discovered, I wallow in a state of morbid funk that oddly resembles joy. Knowing I am a wilting flower waiting again to bloom. I bow my head and patiently wait.

cc licensed ( BY NC SD ) flickr photo shared by sleepinyourhat

I burn with the desire to create, but opt out and allow apathy to man the jukebox. Long dirges fill my ears as I ignore the words I could be writing. This garden is sown with boredom and rarely blooms, but it is a field to which I have grown accustomed. I first laid roots at the age of eight and have tended and watered the muddy field ever since. It is home. Comfortable. Familiar.

I am not unhappy here. Not by any means. The sick part is that it is in this very depression that I often find the simplest mirth. I play my sad songs...gone is the wine, the air clear of smoke, a beautiful wife to my side, a growing family upstairs, and me and my state.

Words help. The strum of a guitar. Lost in a book. A few hours of sleep. In the end, I know that this is where I will always return.

Both Pools

2012-01-20T20:34:00.002+07:00

Thought that I'd been on a boat
'Til that single word you wrote
That single word it landlocked me
Turned the masts to cedar trees
And the winds to gravel roads

It is no secret to people who know me, that I can be weirdly stubborn and obstinate about a great variety of things, only to become obsessive with the very things I was apathetic about a short time before. Let me give you an example- My friend Ari over at We Buy Balloons, was in love with Josh Ritter. he implored me to check him out, and although I had heard and loved Long Shadows from Bored to Death, and in spite the fact that I had downloaded several of Ritter's CD's I was still lukewarm about his music.

Every few weeks Ari would ask if I had listened to this or that song and I would reply with an tepid shrug of my shoulders. Somehow, somewhere Bryan Jackson sent me a cover of Girl In The World, and my curiosity was ignited. I have another terrible habit of needing more than one person in my life to love something before I get into it. This drives my wife crazy, but where was I....oh yeah my sudden obsession with Josh Ritter.

I began to listen to everything. His songs were like photographs, no like films. Stories? Plays? They were simply perfect snippets of art that told tender tales of being human. I became lost in the simple yet beautiful harmonies. I was engrossed with the prose of his lyrics.

That was several months ago, and since that day, Josh Ritter is played in my house at least once a day. You can imagine how excited I was when I found out that he has written his first novel Bright's Passage. It was difficult for me to find it here in Jakarta, so I bought a ciy when I was in NYC. I just finished it today.

Bright's Passage is a simple, well written, and perfectly paced debut novel, by a talented songwriter and observant storyteller. Reading like many of Ritter's songs, it is a story of survival in the face of war and destruction. A master of obscure and bizarre situations, Ritter places us in the hills of Virgina at the end of WWI. A small band of shallow characters are brought to life by his lyrical prose. You can read a much better review and synopsis here.

I simply wanted to take this time, use this space to share this delightful little book. This is the kind of novel that makes us aspiring writers think, "I can do that." But on closer inspection, one realizes that it reads so easily, because it is so carefully written. With an astoundingly economical prose and poetic flair, Ritter does what we all want to do- he turns a simple song into a timeless novel. If you don't know Josh Ritter as writer or songwriter, I suggest you jump in both pools.

Pretty cool to see Ritter himself respond on Twitter:

cc licensed ( BY NC ) flickr photo shared by Intrepid Flame

Celebration Not Deprivation

2012-01-16T21:34:00.002+07:00

When I first quit drinking nearly seven years ago, going to bars and being social was very difficult for me. I had built my identity by being "that guy," at the bar. I was fun, loud, and I often drank more than anyone. After I quit, I became the quiet one who would nervously watch everyone else. I hoped that the real me was still worth hanging out with, but I wasn't really sure. This social anxiety coupled with my strong physical need to drink, and the missing longing for nursing a drink or slamming a shot made bars not so much fun. So for the most part, I stopped going.

But then, I decided to take control of my life and my addiction. I wasn't going to allow alcohol, or in this case the lack of it, dictate how I socialized. I brainwashed myself to thinking that I was going to be okay. I decided to place greater value on a clean cold glass of water.

cc licensed ( BY NC ND ) flickr photo shared by Oliver Degabriele

Amidst the smoke and grime and stink of booze, whenever I felt wanting, I would focus on the crispness and the clarity of the water. It was a metaphor of sorts for my mental change as well a physical affirmation of my choice. I would sip the water and really feel and taste it going down my throat. Every glass was a cleansing of sorts.

I am sharing this story, because I am using the same technique with my attempt at going vegan. This time I have substituted the booze for dairy, and the water with clean crisp vegetables. I am hoping that instead of trying to find complex recipes that try to substitute things that cannot be replaced, I am going to focus on the perfect flavor of a raw cucumber with salt. Or raisins with shaved carrots. Maybe some garbanzo beans and mint.

I want to simply enjoy the flavor of food in general, but particularly vegetables. My goal is not to deprive myself of anything, but to celebrate the things I love, mainly fruits and vegetables. Of course I still miss a great glass of wine and no glass of water will ever be a tumbler of scotch, but we make choices to help clarify our lives, and this choice for me is just that. I want to remind myself how good fresh, well-cooked and simple vegetable dishes can be.

Food like all things in life is a habit (addiction) so if we want to change old habits, we need new ones.
I had a great dinner tonight. One that I made up on the spot and pieced together with what we had in the house. Nothing fancy, but it was tasty. I am full. I enjoyed it. Just like a clean glass of water in the midst of a bar. Day one...so far so good.

Butter bean, garbanzo bean, and edamame salad with bean sprouts and golden raisins. Just a regular green salad, toast and corn. I am looking forward to payday, so I can play with some herbs and other fresh flavors.

Those Who Don't

2012-01-10T20:17:00.002+07:00

I am not big on New Year’s resolutions. I deal with enough self-imposed guilt on a daily basis, so that I don’t need to burden myself with additional goals I will not achieve. I see my entire life as an evolutionary marathon. I know where I want to end up, who I want to become. I have known who I want to be since I was about eight. I know I am on the right track. The twenty year old me would be shocked and amazed that we made it this far, but we are chugging along. I am content. I am pleased. I am proud. I do not need a list of targets to remind me of where I am deficient.

Having said that, you knew there would be a but, right? I have two things on my plate this year that have been waiting in the wings for some time, and it is time to give them some attention. The first is a left-over from last year- I swore last January that I would complete a first draft 50,000 personal memoir book project by the summer. I got to about 44,000 words and lost steam. I had started a new position at my school and never really caught my breath. One goal remains the same, I want to write at least 50,000 words, although I may up the wordage a bit in the spring if I am on track, by summer.

My book, however, is not what this post is about. After years of being a pretty devout and loyal vegetarian, I am finally ready to give veganism a try. I have been making excuses for years:

Too hard with a family
I love cheese and ice cream
Where will I get protein
Too expensive
Too time consuming
What will I eat.....

I am now ready to try it. At least for a month, though I think/hope that I can make it permanent. The impetus has been Brighde, a new teacher at my school, who has about thirty people on our staff excited and motivated to give veganism a go by participating in a 30 day plan-based-diet challenge. I am so inspired by her passion and knowledge that I couldn’t live with myself, if after so many years of wanting to try it, I passed up this opportunity. When else will I have a coach and mentor, in addition to a supportive group of peers to help me find my plant-based-diet feet.

Brighde has asked that we share some reasons for why we have chosen to give her challenge a shot; this post is my testimony. I have written about my vegetarianism before, and I try not to be a guilt pusher when it comes to my not eating meat. People ask me all the time, why I choose not to eat meat, and honestly my reasons have changed over the years: a dedication to Zen practice, wanting to rid my life of violence, environmental concerns, love of animals and more... but honestly the reason is pretty simple.

cc licensed ( BY NC SD ) flickr photo shared by _Loaf_

I find the act of eating flesh grotesque. The act of killing another living being for my own sustenance seems wrong. There are people who kill and those who don’t. There are people who fight and those who don’t. There are people who hate and those who don’t. I simply want to be the kind of person who chooses love, life, peace. Being a vegetarian is a simple act of love for the planet and the beings that inhabitant it. Too hippy-dippy for you? Sorry, but it is the truth. Remember the evolutionary marathon? I am on my path and of course I still feel hatred and anger and violence, but not eating meat, at least for me, takes me closer to the person I want to be. It is a spiritual choice for me. There are so many choices I make that I am not proud of. There is so much consumption and consumerism I cannot free myself from, but not eating flesh is easy for me. I never feel I am missing anything.

The problem for me, over the last few years has been, justifying how I can participate in the dairy industry, feeling the way I feel and knowing what I know about where our dairy comes from. I simply cannot believe the things I do and say what I just said, and still eat dairy. But like all creatures of habit, I have found my comfort zone and stuck with a vegetarianism that works for me. This challenge is an opportunity for me to force myself into a state of disequilibrium to see where I stand morally.

cc licensed ( BY NC ND ) flickr photo shared by andjames26

I am not sure how “militant” I am going to get. Milk, no problem. I hate it and think the concept of drinking the milk from a cow is revolting. I rarely (never) drink it now, so no worries. Eggs...meh. Not a huge fan, rarely eat them on their own. No problem. Cheese and Ice Cream will be tough. but they are luxury items and I think I will be fine. I plan on learning to make vegan ice cream and cheese...well sometimes we just don't do what we like in an effort to better ourselves. Hell, I gave up drinking six years ago and haven’t looked back.

I am not a big fan of substituting items to try and fill the hole of meat and dairy. I choose not to eat those things because I don’t like them. I don’t want fake meat. I prefer a salad. Brighde is an amazing cook and is spending a lot of time informing us on how to supplement our diets, and I will do my best to find my comfort zone, but I want to focus on simple vegetables and grains. Roasted veggies, rice, fruits, salads, nuts.The hard part for me will be things like pasta, baked goods, cake, desserts etc....My plan is to take it slow and see how I feel day by day.

Another reason, I am doing this is because I am so disconnected from my food. My wife, bless her, does most of the shopping and cooking. We have fallen into a habit, and it is just easier. We have about ten meals we rotate and life is easy. With kids, after a long day at work, dinner just needs to be on the table...but I am hoping that I can reconnect with my body, my food, and my tastes. I don’t see myself stocking the cupboards with all of the things that Brighde is recommending; I just want to focus on simple food, with simple flavor.

We start next week and I am very excited. I have wanted to try this for a long time and I think this is a great time in my life to do this. The only obstacle I foresee is that my having a different menu will make shopping and dinner time at our house too complicated.

Are you a vegan, vegetarian, carnivore...what are your thoughts on all this? Suggestions? Advice?

Certain Levels

2012-01-07T22:20:00.002+07:00

There's a certain level of loneliness that will never go away. That's okay. Get to know it. It will be all you have when you leave this world. Shouldn't make you sad. Rejoice in it. It is where you were born. It is the source of your voice....

I Am Right Here

2012-01-07T20:23:00.000+07:00

I saw E.T. for the first time when I was eight. Like most things from my childhood, my exact age had to be verified by a quick IMDB search, one that reveled the film was released in 1982, some simple math further tells us I was eight. Strange, felt younger.

In any case, the film, no matter when I first saw it was a milestone in my young life. Tonight, I watched it with my daughter Kaia. I wasn't sure if she was ready- it can be a bit intense- but she loved it. She was in a bit of a mood, so she acted silly and nervous for the first few minutes, but once we settled in, she was entranced.

She asked great questions:

"Daddy why are the scientists trying to stop Elliot if he is doing the right thing?"
"Is there anyway we can connect with other people and feel their feelings?"

I looked over at her as we watched the famous bike scene and found her jaw agape. We held hands. I nearly cried.

Sure as an adult, it is a bit melodramatic and over the top, with the John Williams score and all, but in that moment as the bike ascended, I was transported back in time. The two of us were transfixed by the power of imagination and the wonder of film.

I was worried how she would handle the sickness and confiscation of the house scenes. I remember those scenes as very dramatic, but she did fine.

"Are you okay?" I asked as E.T. lay pale and dying. She had tears in her eyes. She nodded, but wasn't sure.
"It's okay to let movies make us feel sad sometimes. Reminds us that we have feelings."
"I feel how I felt when that little blind kitten died." She said. Long Pause.
"But I am okay. I just hope he feels better soon. I know why Elliott is so upset. I can feel what he is feeling." She smiles. My heart breaks.

I started to think about all the films she has seen so far in her young life, so many animated sagas, but none of them have ever inspired such emotional connections. Yes, she is older now and more attuned to her emotions, but I can't think of a single Shrek movie that can fill a child with such emotions. No computer animated Toy Story film has ever grabbed her so intensely.

We both cried again as Elliott and E.T. said good bye. This time smiling and hugging.

"See I told you he would make it home."
"Yeah, but they won't be together. That is so sad and happy at the same time."
"I know. How does that feel?"
" I don't know."
"Me neither Kaia, but that is okay. We can just smile, cry and hug each other till we figure it out."

Send Your Eggs

2011-12-24T10:39:00.000+07:00

I am in a strange mood. What's new right? Part of me is swimming in gratitude and merry holiday cheer, while the other side is drowning in the same weirdness I always feel when I come "home." I use the term home loosely, as I no longer really feel at home in America. After ten years overseas, the States have become just another destination for me, just another port I enter and explore, a place I people watch, a place I try to find my way, a place where I usually end up more disillusioned then when I started. What's more, I am not even in California, where I grew up, but at my wife's home town- Milwaukee, which feels even more foreign.

Driving around today and interacting with people, I couldn't help but feel deflated. People seemed tired and worn down everywhere I went. There is always something depressing about being home for me. I can never put my finger on it, but there is an element of imbalance that tweaks my equilibrium for the length of my stay. I wish my emotions were more profound, better articulated, but I am only left with a malaise that meanders and goes nowhere- into blog posts like this one.

I am sure, as per usual, I am allowing little uncomfortable ideas and thoughts grow into bigger ideas and thoughts. Perhaps, I should just stop thinking so much, or at least re-train my thoughts: I am with my family; my girls are so excited to be with their grand parents; I am relaxed and calm, letting work drift away for a few weeks, and life is good.

I won't allow America to work it's obsessions and depression on me. I know I don; have to live here. I can leave in a few days. In the meantime, I can't help but think of ole Allen G:

America why are your libraries full of tears?
America when will you send your eggs to India?
I'm sick of your insane demands.
When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?
America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.
Your machinery is too much for me.
You made me want to be a saint.
There must be some other way to settle this argument...

Winter Is Coming

2011-12-12T21:57:00.000+07:00

There is gaping whole in my life that I am not sure how to fill...

It started last summer. My wife said there was a new show on HBO that she had heard of, and she felt we should watch it. Some fantasy medieval show ala Lord of The Rings. I am picky about the number of shows I watch, you wouldn't know it by the sheer amount of television I do watch, but TV is pretty good these days. Regardless, I wasn't about to add some lame Xena Princess show to my rotation. (My wife is convinced that I always say no, before yes just to piss her off.)

"But it is on HBO. You know I am right. Just watch it." There we were in Phuket, the kids asleep and here comes the opening scene...

I was sold! Within 30 seconds, I knew that I would become obsessed. We watched all ten episodes in less than a week, and I bought the first book as soon as we returned to Jakarta. I had my in-laws bring the other four books and I have been reading nothing since September.

Nearly 5000 pages later, it is done. I closed A Dance with Dragons last night and my time in the Seven Kingdoms, at least till about 2016, is over. I am authentically crushed by this empty feeling. I have been thinking about it all day. I am at a loss about what to write for this post, but feel I should say something, mark the occasion in some way. I wanted to write this epic blog post about my thoughts on the series, the characters, the profound power of fantasy and literature, but really all I want to do is open up a book and get lost in a world so complex and exquisite that nothing else in life seems to matter.

Maybe I will need a few days/weeks to decompress and write the post I was meant to write. In the meantime I have some advice for you:

If you have not watched the HBO series...do so immediately. If you have watch the series, but have not read the books by Martin, clear your calender for the next few months and get started. You will not be disappointed. Yes it is true, that I was a Dungeons and Dragons geek in middle school and naturally gravitate toward the genre, but this series is much more than that.

If you have any links or ways to get my Game of Thrones fix before 2016 please share. Maybe I will watch the series again...or maybe...start back from book one? It is that good.

Poetry is Nothing...

2011-10-22T20:42:00.001+07:00

Poetry is Nothing...

more than the ability to watch the rush of time
as it passes
fully immerse oneself
in the blossoming of:
awareness
the moment
the minutia
appreciation of unaltered reality
seducing the senses.

Take what is there for all to see
and drape it in art.
let your actions reflect that
which burns within you

a voice,
sometimes soft
sometimes indignant,
is always singing

listen. act.

A few hours after I wrote this little poem, I was pleasantly surprised by Bryan. He has turned it into a song.

Poetry is nothing... - Based on a poem by Jabiz Raisdana by Bryanjack

Nobody Home & Mother

2011-10-22T10:48:00.001+07:00

I have always loved these songs. I have bigger plans for them, this album, and a unit I will be teaching next term. Stay tuned. Yes, I actually experimented and took some risks with some falsetto vocals etc...Liek how it turned out.

Nobody Home by intrepidflame

Mother by intrepidflame

I Need To

2011-09-23T19:43:00.002+07:00

My life has boarded the fast train, but I am still standing on the dock. I can see the cars fly by, but I am motionless. I need to walk in the rain and rub mud through my hair. I need to watch the steam rise from the earth only to return seconds later as a storm. I need to watch our orange cousins cling to the last traces of their homes. I need to watch them move slowly amongst the trees and watch for lessons in my folly. I need to see the wisdom in their eyes.

cc licensed ( BY ) flickr photo shared by NYC-MetroCard

I need to talk to kids about watching insects and digging for poems beneath the foliage. I need to ride a boat, a bus, a river. I need to jump from a height that impregnates me with the fear I cherish. I need to watch the stars and forget and remember. I need to eat rice, walk in damp socks and not shower. I need to disconnect and disappear. I need to go primal and scribble in a journal. I need to. I need to. I need to.

cc licensed ( BY NC ) flickr photo shared by onbangladesh

Time near a fire, a guitar in hand, a jungle is what I need...

I am taking 45 ninth graders to Bukit Lawang on Sumatra island for a week without walls trip. We will trek, look at apes, and do many of the things I mentioned above.

The Rajdhani Express

2011-09-01T20:42:00.002+07:00

Woke up this morning to an email that started like this

My quest to become a musician before my 33rd birthday has been a smashing success! Not only have I learned to play my ukulele, written songs, performed internationally, and even made money at it, my cd arrived 3 days before my birthday! It's been outstanding and I must thank everyone for being so supportive in all of this business.

I have been smiling all day. The email is from a friend of mine who has just released a new CD called The Rajdhani Express. I met Leslie in Shanghai last year and have been in touch with her via Twitter, where she is known as @onepercentyello. We have stayed connected through our blogs and in song. I have written tirelessly about our collaborations here, here and here because Leslie has been such an open, honest and amazing collaborate. Her love of music and the relationships built around it are contagious.

I couldn't help but take the time to share her music with as many of my friends and readers as I could. We owe it to each other as artists, as friends, and as musicians to promote each others' work, especially when it is this good! We are so lucky to live in a age where we are no longer forced to consume media or art by large corporate outlets. We can create art, consume music, and share our voices with nothing more than a laptop, an Internet connection and the raw tenacity of an artist's need to be heard.

Please support Leslie by buying her CD, liking her on Facebook, and sharing her songs with as many people as you can. Take a listen here:

<p>&amp;amp;amp;lt;p&amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://onepercentyellow.bandcamp.com/album/the-rajdhani-express"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;The Rajdhani Express by onepercentyellow&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;lt;/p&amp;amp;amp;gt;</p>
Just remeber that when Leslie gets all famous, she sang one of my songs way back in the day.

Falling out of Cars by onepercentyellow

Other Days

2011-08-21T20:44:00.000+07:00

This is my favorite part of the week: the kids have stopped screaming and fighting the inevitable- sleep. They are curled-up lost in a tapestry of slumber and books. Both of them are literally asleep on a bed of books--bound by paper and images, imaginations, stories and wonder. Silent. The house is perfect.

Earlier we went for a bike ride, a swim, had dinner, baths, teeth brushed, a little TV. There is little poetry in these activities except for when you look and realize the whole thing is the most amazing poem there can ever be-- passing childhood. A bundle of lives interwoven: a family rolling through the tunnel of time.

The music is soft and caressing the places which need a soothing touch. Tonight it is Gillian Welch. The trembling of her guitar strings and vocal chords the perfect universal vibration. After everything has been done, checked off lists, read, consumed, understood, reflected on, pondered and argued. After the information has been swallowed, regurgitated, tweeted and subdued, there is little else left but this...

This moment of time. Floating on each breath. Full-in. Full-out. The words drip like stimulated sap on the run. Sticky. Aromatic. Alive but operating on a different plane of time. Amber colored solitude draped in the need for the never-ending night. Memories of merlot and spilling ashtrays supplanted by the reality of fatherhood and Sunday nights that will never be long enough. That will not, cannot, take you where you need to go.

It is good. Of this you are certain, but beyond that it gets murky. These words have been a trusty wave. A good ride. No need to paddle out again. There will be other sets. Other days.

image by swede1971

unnameable

2011-08-07T20:24:00.000+07:00

on nights like this:
when the body is weak
and the mind soft and malleable
there stirs a kernel of something
-unnameable-
from down deep,
quivering just below the surface,
prodded by song
or romantic notions of
faint youth.

it swims in the gut
punching its way out
shifting mercury,
evaporating gasses
thunderstorms
walls of sound.

you reach to grab it
wrestle it
pin it down.

scrape words from it
carve it up or paint it
strum it

haven’t you learned yet?
close your eyes,
dance with it
bask in it
and let it go.

the fact that it was here
at all
is enough.

Beautiful and Finite

2011-08-04T20:29:00.002+07:00

Below you will find a video. It is powerful. It is beautiful. It is vital. I have a cumbersome batch of thoughts on it that I cannot seem to capture. They are deceivingly light and agile. They are connected to my recent spate of technology related anxiety. I started a post with rooted in that agitation, but my train of thought went to a different station. You can follow those tracks by reading this.

I thought I would watch the video again and see if we can’t arrive at the right spot.

I miss the earth. I am here, but feel so distant. I have escaped into screens and am making connections with texture I cannot feel. Shallow surfaces that leave no residue, but guilt and emptiness. I have forgotten the feeling of soil beneath my feet--tile to car to tile to cement to car to tile to bed. I have forgotten the gentle song of the moon. The stars blanked out by the buzz of machines. I have taken for granted the soul-shaking wonder of a living planet.

I want a change. I want a break. I want to unplug.

                 want change.       want break.       want unplug.

                                change.             break.    unplug?

Aw.. screw it. I don’t know how to steer this train. Watch for yourself. What do you think? What do you feel? Have we gone too far forward? Progressed too much? Can we get our planet back?

Miral- A Review: Book and Film

2011-07-28T20:57:00.000+07:00

So... I sort of love Julian Schnabel. I love Julian Schnabel. I loved Julian Schnabel? I don’t know where to start...

A few years ago, before I had ever heard of the man I saw a little film called Before Night Falls. The film left me breathless with its beauty and perfection.

Before Night Falls is based on the autobiography of the same name by Cuban poet and novelist Reinaldo Arenas. In the film, Arenas, who was openly gay, is born in Oriente in 1943 and raised by his single mother and her parents, who soon move the entire family to Holguín. After moving to Havana in the sixties to continue his studies, Reinaldo begins to explore his ambitions, as well as his sexuality. After receiving an honorary mention in a writing contest, Arenas is offered the chance to publish his first work. Read more.

Wanting to know what had been translated from text to film, I read the book shortly after watching the film, (The soundtrack is first rate as well) but was disappointed by the dry lifelessness of the prose. Like a magician, Schnabel has given the flat novel life and filled it with color and emotion. Completely satisfied with my first Schnabel experience, I was ready to explore.

I immediately watched Basqiuat, another masterpiece. This time about Jean-Michel Basquiat:

an American artist. His career in art began as a graffiti artist in New York City in the late 1970s, and in the 1980s produced Neo-expressionist painting. Basquiat died of a heroin overdose on August 12, 1988, at the age of 27. Read more.

Once again, Schnabel exposes the idiosyncrasies and passion of art through the medium of film. His films blend content and form, subject and medium, leaving only a bricolage of artistic sensibilities. Scenes, characters, music all layered effortlessly to create a documentary like vision of his subjects and the worlds they inhabit. Two for two. Loving Schnabel.

Next came, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly a much slower and emptier film. It is:

the true story of Elle editor Jean-Dominique Bauby who suffers a stroke and has to live with an almost totally paralyzed body; only his left eye isn't paralyzed.

What it lacks in plot, the film makes up for with signature Schnabel colors, camera movement as story teller, and a soundtrack that acts as part character/part narrator. I was not crazy about it, but The Diving Bell is a solid film without a doubt. I am only disappointed that I have yet to read the book. It is still on my list.

Wow! What an introduction. This post was meant to be about Schnabel's latest film, Miral. When I first stumbled across the synopsis of the film, I knew it warranted some research. I quickly learned it was based on a book about the life of Rula Jebreal who is apparently Schnabel's girlfriend. I read up on the story:

A chronicle of Hind Husseini's effort to establish an orphanage in Jerusalem after the 1948 Arab–Israeli War, the Deir Yassin Massacre, and the establishment of the state of Israel.

Jerusalem, 1948. On her way to work, Hind Husseini comes across 55 orphaned children in the street. She takes them home to give them food and shelter. Within six months, 55 had grown to almost 2,000, and the Dar Al-Tifel Institute was born.

In 1978, at the age of 7, Miral was sent to the Institute by her father following her mother's death. Brought up safely inside the Institute's walls, she is naïve to the troubles that surround her. Then, in 1988, at the age of 17, she is assigned to teach at a refugee camp where she is awakened to the reality of the Palestinian refugees. When she falls for Hani, a militant, she finds herself torn between the First Intifada of her people and Mama Hind's belief that education is the road to peace. Read more

I watched the trailer and ordered the book:

I wanted to start from the source this time and see where Schnabel would go. I wanted to see if I could guess what he would emphasize, what he would leave out. The novel, which is autobiographical and based on a true story, starts off a bit journalistic and dry, but quickly rushes toward melodrama. Somewhere in the middle, the story finds a perfect equilibrium and becomes riveting. I read over one-hundred pages in one sitting. The interwoven story lines and characters make for a powerful emotional web spun across one of the most divisive conflicts the world has ever known. Never overtly political or personal, Miral finds the balance between the two human conditions and begs you to define the difference.

It is a must read for anyone looking to gain a basic understanding of the Israeli Palestinian conflict. While not completely objective and unbiased, it is honest in its direction. It is a human story of love, failure, anger and eventually peace. The characters like the nations they represent must learn how to be themselves before they can ever learn to understand the enemy.

So there I was last night: research done, book read, ready to see Schnabel do his thing...and it was a disaster. How he took a text filled with life, turmoil, conflict, emotion, set against a backdrop of war and peace, and the beautiful city of Jerusalem, and create a fragmented, dull, series of poorly acted scenes is beyond me.

Schnabel has taken a group of amazingly complex characters, mostly women, and turned them into caricatures and unlikable mannequins. The plot never flows, and if I had not read the book, I would not have felt any connection to any of it.

I wanted to love it, but this film does not do this story justice. I recommend you read the book and wait for Schnabel's next work. Hopefully, he will focus on another eccentric and doomed artist, Kurt Cobain perhaps, Elliot Smith would be a dream come true, and leave the politics to those more adept.

Our Story

2011-07-27T21:14:00.000+07:00

When Ari asked me to read Obama’s book, I hesitantly bought and read Audacity of Hope. It is a lukewarm campaign book, that I actually enjoyed. It is political in nature and written on a level I could understand and appreciate. Although tinted with a personal varnish, it is still a manifesto of sorts, written by a politician climbing a power ladder. It is a face. A poster. Barely authentic. Likable. American.

After I proudly told Ari, that I had read Audacity of Hope, he curtly responded, “Oh really? That was the wrong book. I actually meant that you must read Dreams of My Father.”

I did. He was right. Now I am asking you to please read it too. While Audacity of Hope is a political soul-search of sorts, Dreams of My Father is a search of a different kind. It is the story not of a president, but of a man in search of himself. It is the story of us all. It is the story of our families and the disappointing skeletons we have dressed as ancestral heroes. It is the story of race, nation, and identity. It is the story of humanity.

Written before Obama was a Senator, the book is rough and raw and honest. Beautifully written, it reads like novel full of complex characters and plot twists. Forget everything you think you know about Obama. Forget he is even the president and read this book like you would a work of fiction. No matter your thoughts on Obama the politician, this book is a must read. That is the end of my formal review. The end of my request that you read the book.

I want to spend the next few paragraphs dancing with my own thoughts on one of the themes I found the most compelling: Identity.

I had been forced to look inside myself and had found only a great emptiness there.

As a Third Culture Kid, I have spent way too much time trying to find a balance with my hyphen. Iranian-American? Sounds like an oxymoron. Could there be more opposing forces. As a child, newly arrived in the USA in the 1980’s, I felt like a bizarrely sculpted Siamese-twin-- born of two enemies. I spent so much energy defending both sides from each other. I defended Iran from my friends and American from my parents. The pressure of animosity from American culture was compounding: angry-muslim-terrorists? Really? My grandmother is the kindest person I know. Our music is sensual. Our poetry ancient. Our cuisine complex. On the other side, Americans: fat-stupid-lazy-imperialist. Really? Berkley seems petty cool. Have you heard of Bob Dylan? I never knew who to be. It is only recently that I have erased not only the hyphen but the twins as well. You can have American, Iranian all of it.

The constant, crippling fear that I didn’t belong somehow, that unless I dodged and hid and pretended to be something I wasn’t I would forever remain an outsider, with the rest of the world, black and white, always standing in judgment.

Obama also struggled with a murky identity. Born to a white American woman and a Kenyan father, raised in Indonesia and Hawaii, Obama spent much of his youth trying to first find out who he was, later to shape that identity. The irony is that he has very little connection to the African-American community of which he has somehow been painted the symbol.

As Obama, true for me too I suppose, tried to create his identity, he repeatedly grasped for a variety of romantic ropes, lose ends really. First, he created the myth of his father, his grandfather, his tribe, his continent. Everything that was out of reach seemed to be what he needed to complete himself. Every time he leaned on some romantic vision of the very thing that he felt would complete him, he would begin to understand that his father, his grandfather and even Africa were flawed and broken. Just as he was. He is. I am. You are.

A circle was beginning to close, so that I might finally recognize myself as I was, now, in one place.

There is much more to say about this book, but I have seemed to hit a dead end tonight. I have written enough about Obama lately, so I will close by saying that this book has touched me in a way that few books have. It is an important story that needs to be shared, as it is our story. It is the story of a melding of worlds. It is the story of global citizens and cultural blends. It is the story of our new world.

Hard to Know

2011-07-19T20:35:00.000+07:00

Sifting through old posts, it appears I have written quite a bit about Barack Obama on this blog. I have spent the last hour reading old posts, at times feeling proud of my growing body of thoughts on the man, while other times I found myself feeling a bit ashamed for making such rash judgments about him, never having read his books. I am more than half way through Dreams From My Father, (I read and wrote about Audacity of Hope a few months ago) and I find myself torn about Obama and his story.

Before I continue, no matter your political affiliations, might I recommend that you read Dreams From My Father to gain a deeper insight on Obama the man, not the politician. Page after page, I am left in awe of his story, and in a weird way, I have found many similarities to my own struggles, both with politics, but more importantly simply becoming a man. Yes! I am comparing myself to the president of the United States; my ego knows no bounds.

There are many directions this post could take, but I for now, I simply wanted to write about the idea of selling-out. Last night, as I was reading about Obama’s days as a community organizer in Chicago, with goosebumps on my skin, flipping the pages filled with admiration and respect for him, I stopped and said to my wife, “I feel so sorry for him. He is too smart to be the president of the USA. He is too wise, too kind, too reflective to be a politician. He must be a mess sitting in the White House. Either he has sold out his entire set of values and now deals with the nagging guilt of turning his back on everything he believes in, in order to bow down to his Goldman Sachs sugar daddies, or worse, he sits in the most powerful office in the world impotent and powerless to do the things has worked for his entire life. Either way he would serve the world much better back in Chicago!”

Then I heard Ari’s voice in my head. Speaking about me, “I feel so sorry for him. He is too smart to be the teacher at a private school in Asia. He is too wise, too kind, too reflective to be a teacher working a corporate school. He must be a mess sitting in his huge house. Either he has sold out his entire set of values and now deals with the nagging guilt of turning his back on everything he believes in, in order to bow down to his corporate sugar daddies, or, worse he sits in the state of the art school impotent and powerless to do the things has worked for his entire life. Either way he would serve the world much better back in the Bronx or Africa!”

"It is hard to know who is selling out and who is doing their best, if that person is not you."

Who am I to sit and judge this man, when I have no idea what stirs his heart? It was much easier to call him a corporate hack, before I read this book, but now that I have, it is much more difficult to understand what he is doing and why.

I know I have justified my move from working on the ground for social justice to a more comfortable situation. We can all justify everything we do and feel fine about it, only to turn around and berate others for doing the exact same thing. It takes an open, critical and objective mind to see yourself in others and others in you.

Perhaps Obama is waiting for his second term to return to his roots. Perhaps he thought that he could do more while compromising with the obstructionist Republicans. Perhaps I feel that by educating wealthy Asians, I can create a more just and sustainable world. Which one sounds more absurd? You tell me.

The truth is that revolution, while a handy T-shirt slogan, takes a lot of guts and sacrifice. It is easy to sit on the sidelines and cheer and jeer as politicians come up short and disappoint us for not being as revolutionary as we want them to be. But the truth is that the system we want to topple, reform and change is massive.

I am not sure if writing these little posts and teaching kids about the ills of the market economy, while I myself participate in it whole heartedly, is the way toward this change, but it is the path I have chosen. Who am I to say that Obama has sold out?

All I know for now, is that the man who wrote, Dreams From My Father, has to still be alive somewhere in the White House. You cannot outgrow that kind of passion. He is very different from the man giving the State of Union speeched and sending more troops to Afghanistan, of that there is no doubt, but something about him has to be the same. I have to believe this to be true, because I know that the pieces of me--the ones that commuted into the Bronx or lived in Africa for two years--are still stirring in me.

More thoughts to come I am sure. But in the meantime, what do you think? How do you deal with the feeling of selling-out?

Gain- A Review

2011-07-18T21:33:00.006+07:00

If I don’t write this post/review right now, tonight, I will never write it. It has been festering beneath my skin, down near my bones for a little over a week. I keep telling myself to wait till the time is right. Wait until it comes oozing out and the words write themselves, but I am not sure when that time will come, so before this post becomes infected and pusses into a disgusting wound, I will try to get it out.

I am having a difficult time sharing my thoughts on the novel Gain by Richard Powers, because it could be one of the best books I have ever read. It deserves more than the sloppy stream of consciousness style post on which I am making my name. It needs a dissertation, a New Yorker article. At least a well planned essay. Perhaps I need to teach it as a graduate course novel, as Mary the person who recommended it to me, has done. But I haven’t the energy for such intellectual pursuits at this time. So let’s start with the basics:

In Gain, Richard Powers puts our modernity through the wringer once again. This time, though, he points the finger at one villain in particular: rampant, American-style capitalism, as exemplified by a conglomerate called Clare International. His novel, it should be said, is no piece of agitprop, but an intricate lamination of two separate stories. On one hand, Powers describes the rise (and fall and rise) of the Clare empire, beginning in its mercantile infancy. The author's Clare-eyed narrative amounts to a pocket history of corporate America, and a marvelously entertaining one. Lest we get too enamored of this success story, though, Powers introduces a second, countervailing tale, in which a 42-year-old resident of Lacewood, Illinois, is stricken with ovarian cancer. Lacewood happens to be the headquarters of Clare's North American Agricultural Products Division, and lo and behold, it seems that chemical wastes from the plant may be the source of Laura Bodey's illness.

These two stories are woven together with such subtle delicacy that I was left wanting at the end of each chapter. In the story about the rise of Clare, the reader is treated to a muck-raking ,journalistic narrative seeped in historical fiction. A clear and objective narrator tells the tale of a small soap company that transforms into a multi-national corporation over the course of a hundred years. The voice telling the tale is born of both Ayn Rand and Upton Sinclair, in that the reader is never quite sure what it is trying to tell about the rise of capitalism in the Untied States. At times, the narration is sharp and critical of the often ruthless purity of the American business-- “Industry’s raw inputs were endless, the land fecund enough for any machine dream. A nation come of age possessed no greater peacemaker than power.”

This is not solely an anti-capitalist tirade, however. At times, Powers begs us to consider that perhaps business, tainted with it’s altruistic hue of science and technology, only exists to make our lives better and easier. But, no matter which side of the moralistic coin you choose to dwell, this is a novel that will force you to think about the current state of global capitalism by examining it’s history.

The novel acts as textbook for American history, economics, business, class struggle, marketing, as well as chemistry, environmentalism, and technology. It is a petri dish of discussion topics. But the beauty is that, it is not a textbook, but rather a beautifully crafted novel of intense beauty and poetry. The words drift and float leaving traces of sentences that when sorted into paragraphs leave lasting impressions. The sections of the book that tell the story of Clare, undertake a more formal tone, but are accented with hints of Whitman wordplay and Dickens storytelling in their charm and civility.

Then there is Laura. There is the cancer. The anguish. Tears and soft smiles and goosebumps. The deterioration of the same dream building up on the other side of history. Just as easily as Powers unleashed his powerful lecture on the rise and sometimes awe inspiring beauty of capitalism, with a voice of unquestionable expertise and authority, he now tells the fragile and honest story of a family in crisis in a voice much like Franzen. A quick wit and humor infused with a underlying joyless reality are the back drop of the story of Laura’s cancer. The reader will be left laughing with tears in their eyes at the injustice of a disease that can only survive by growing beyond it’s means-- cancer or capitalism?

Please do not accuse me of hyperbole, when I say this is one of the best books you will ever read. I will read this book again. I will read everything Richard Powers has ever written. Someday I will teach this book. If you respect my opinion on anything, please do yourself a favor and read it.

Be warned, you will not look at the world the same again. It has altered the way I think about technology, science, marketing, America and the very objectives of our species--We have been taught to think that America is leading the train. That science and progress and technology and the cloak of marketing in which it has all been wrapped will save us from the terror that lurks in nature, that somehow the myth of Genesis married to Manifest Destiny, married to expansion and growth and progress and pre-emptive war and the American Dream will somehow save us. From what? No one stops to ask. There has to be something different out there...this novel will force you to stop and ask why you have never thought to question a system that is killing us all in one way or another.

Kabuki Democracy- A Review

2011-07-14T00:28:00.000+07:00

There is not much in this book that any decently informed liberal/progressive doesn't already know-- role of money in corrupting American politics, the obstructionist effects of the opposition party in deteriorating the very concept of government, the power of right-wing media outlets like Fox shaping what passes for political dialogue in the USA--are but some of the obstacles Eric Alterman explains in his latest book Kabuki Democracy. But more importantly, he does a more than adequate job of stringing his ideas together to create a forceful, concise, and insightful narrative to help create a grassroots guide on what to do about it.

This is not an Anti-Obama book, although he is critical of the (rightful or wrongful) feelings of betrayal that have been felt by many in Obama's leftist base. No. This is a clear look at the many obstacles that have stymied what ever candidate Obama may have wanted to do in his first years in office.

Not a book to share with your centrist friends, as they will no doubt accuse you of radical bias, but it is an effective Left-wing manual to help gather the troops and focus on what needs to be done to move America forward. Warning, it will not be easy, but it starts with all of us.

Coconut Paradise Villas- Review

2011-07-13T20:40:00.000+07:00

It’s our last night at our house at the Coconut Paradise Villas in Rawai. There is a cool breeze and bursts of light showers, and I want to write a quick review about this amazing place. Let's start with Ken and Sue the proprietors of this great outfit. I knew we were onto something special, when my wife first found the place, when I noticed that the official website was a blogspot blog and their pictures were hosted on Flickr, and like the unassuming web presence the Coconut Paradise Villas are a simple people oriented place.

We arrived to our two bedroom Coral Island Villa to a warm greeting by Sue to a comfortable, simple and well stocked house. She had stocked the kitchen with a few basics to tide us over before we got settled. The house has everything we have needed for the last four weeks: pots & pans, microwave, TV, towels, cribs, kids toys, and free Wifi. (When we lost Internet for a few days through no fault of Ken or Sue, they were more than accommodating by bringing us a USB modem. When that didn’t work because it was not Mac compatible, without even asking, Ken went out and bought a new one, until the Internet was back up. We were very impressed by how kind and attentive they both were for our entire trip.)

The town of Rawai itself gets a bum rap. It is classified as not a great tourist spot with mediocre beaches. But the truth is that, it is a quaint quiet town. The villas are situated in a low-key Thai neighborhood, surrounded by sleepy restaurants and a great coffee shop called Spoonful of Sugar.

When we are young, we often have dreams of finding the most remote and rare beach spots. Dreams of The Beach force us to turn away from such accessible spots like Phuket, but Rawai is a perfect place for families who want to spend an extended time near a beach, under the sun and in the pool. With Nai Harn and Kota Noi within a few minutes drive, this is definitely an affordable way to spend a summer. We are already thinking about coming back next year and would recommend Coconut Paradise Villas to any of our friends.

Thanks Ken and Sue for creating such a friendly and perfect vacation spot. You are doing great work and we look forward to seeing you again very soon.

Primetime

2011-07-09T20:52:00.003+07:00

I think I may be in my prime. I have felt this way before, like the time I was bungee jumping off a crane in a crowded Mexican square as Hell’s Angles types cheered from down below, or the time I was doing my deep dive in Lake Malawi, or maybe the time I was cruising the coastline of Southern France on a scooter--just wed and Asiabound. There have been many times that everything in my life has felt like a runaway zenith, but never before this summer have I felt so comfortable with the man staring back at me in the mirror.

Despite the good times, I can also recall the many moments where he was ill at ease in his skin. Sagging rings under his eyes, too thin and pale. Scratching so hard to get to the surface. Lying to himself that the bottom wasn’t so bad. Pretending the loneliness was romantic and the angst turned rage just another head of the muse.

But not today. Not this now. Everything seems to be swimming in flow. The ebbs surmountable. Even enjoyable. It feels as if everything up to now has been a direct path to this moment in time. A moment where the direction is clear--it is all just a spiraling circle. I realize now that life is not linear and there really is no destination. We wake up every morning and try to maintain the high. Not in the form of escape or even enhancement, but rather a clear awareness of reality as it is.

I used to think that everything in life could be better if I had one more drink, ran a little faster, was a little more adventurous. Life doesn’t need to be any better than it always is. A warm safe bed. A gentle breeze. The hot sun. A budding sense of humor. Her scowl as she becomes a person. A soft tune. Rubbing her back as we escape in fiction for a brief moment each night. A carefully crafted paragraph of prose. Satisfaction from work. A teachable moment. A lesson learned.

by Adcuz

I take back what I said earlier. I am not in my prime, because such an assumption presupposes that there is a limit. An apogee to our lives. I am merely at a clearing on my path. A spot where the past is bathed in the sweet summer sun and the future summits and valleys are made obvious. Perhaps being in one’s prime is the realization that there is no prime. There is no, this is how it should be. No successes. No happiness. Just a meta-aware existence that can look into the mirror of the present moment and not shudder with anxiety or fear, but smile, nod, toss the hair out of its face and carry on.

The City and the Pillar- A Review

2011-07-07T23:02:00.000+07:00

I have read a lot of Gore Vidal. I am not being hyperbolic when I say I love him. He has got to be one of the best writers of the twentieth century. A few months ago, I finished Palimpsest: A Memoir and Point to Point Navigation: A Memoir, in which he wrote at length about The City and the Pillar...(wikipedia)

...written in 1946 and published on January 10, 1948. The story is about a young man who is coming of age and discovers his own homosexuality.

The City and the Pillar is significant because it is recognized as the first post-World War II novel whose openly gay and well-adjusted protagonist is not killed off at the end of the story for defying social norms. It is also recognized as one of the "definitive war-influenced gay novels", being one of the few books of its period dealing directly with male homosexuality. In addition, it was among the few gay novels reprinted in inexpensive paperback form as early as the 1950s.

I knew I had to read it. Publishing this book in 1948 was all but suicide for Vidal, not only in terms of his writing career, but also for his political ambitions. He was advised never to publish such an overtly homoerotic book, “An editor at EP Dutton said to Vidal, "You will never be forgiven for this book. Twenty years from now you will still be attacked for it." But publish it he did.

The novel itself is nothing special, but the themes he exposes were, and unfortunately still are, groundbreaking.

One major theme is the portrayal of the homosexual man as both normal and masculine. Gore set out to break the mold of novels that up until The City and the Pillar depicted homosexuals as transvestites, lonely bookish boys, or feminine. Gore purposefully makes his protagonist a strong athlete to challenge superstitions, stereotypes, and prejudices about sex in the United States. To further this theme Vidal wrote the novel in plain, objective prose in order to convey and document reality.

One can’t help but admire Vidal’s strength and courage. This book surely opened doors for the entire Beat Generation, Harvey Milk, and others struggling to be gay and normal in America. The City and the Pillar is a timeless novel as the world comes to terms with what it means not only to be gay, but also for what it means to be a man. It is a shame that this book is not read and discussed more in schools, where it would surely help many young men pass the terribly difficult and painful experience of becoming men.

The Book of Dave- A Review

2011-07-07T22:30:00.000+07:00

Before I left for summer, a colleague at work gave me a copy of The Book of Dave by Will Self and suggested that I take it with me as summer reading. Never one to directly say no to a book, I said sure and packed it as my only summer book. Tipping the scale at nearly five hundred pages, I figured it would keep me busy.

Let’s start with a brief review; what better place to start that the Wikipedia synopsis:

The Book of Dave tells the story of an angry and mentally-ill London taxi driver named Dave Rudman, who writes and has printed on metal a book of his rantings against women and thoughts on custody rights for fathers. These stem from his anger with his ex-wife, Michelle, who he believes is unfairly keeping him from his son. Equally influential in Dave's book is The Knowledge—the intimate familiarity with the city of London required of its cabbies.

Dave buries the book, which is discovered centuries later and used as the sacred text for a dogmatic, cruel, and misogynistic religion that takes hold in the remnants of southern England and London following catastrophic flooding. The future portions of the novel are set from 523 AD (After Dave).The book alternates between Dave's original experience and that of the future devotees of the religion inspired by his writings.

As is the case with most dystopian novels, I began feeling lost and confused. I immediately regretted having strayed from my literally routine of handpicking each book I read. The novel begins in a bizarre futuristic English landscape where the characters speak in a muddled language called Mokni, an invented dialect of English derived from Cockney, taxi-drivers' and Dave's own usages, text-messaging, and vocabulary peculiar to the late 20th and early 21st centuries.

It took about a hundred pages and a trip back to the twentieth century for me to finally find my footing in the language. But once I did, I began to see the beauty of what Self was doing- Using a sharp and critical satirical prose, he carefully crafts an intricate novel of amazing depth. There is not much more to say- there is never a point where The Book of Dave is not extremely well written. The stories from the past, present and future seamlessly intertwine to create a biting mirror reflecting the hypocrisy and absurdity of religious dogma. I will end the review here, by saying that this is a novel that is worth your time. Before I end this post, I did want to make some comments about the thoughts that were alighted because of this text.

While I often expose an aggressive atheism, I like to think that I tote a robust and healthy spiritualism. I am a seeker and enjoy contemplating spiritual matters. Never one to shy away from discussions about the purpose of life, morality, or the human condition, I am always looking for conversations about topics steeped in mysticism and exploration.

What has always turned me off religious discussions is the certainty of truth. The reliance (faith) on dogma and holy books. The prescriptive rules and hoop jumping of organized salvation is not for me. Let me wallow in a Walt Whitman poem, or Rumi, or Bukowski, till I see a light that guides me through the darkness. Your “book” may be the outline that leads you to peace, but it lost me when it demanded that I should have dominion over all the creatures of the earth, or when it took it upon itself to classify certain forms of sexuality as abominations.

Be kind. Love your enemies. Show compassion. Treat others as I would like to be treated. These are ideas I can get behind, and honestly the holy books hold no monopoly on these ideas.

What does any of this have to do with The Book of Dave? Throughout the novel, Self creates a world that illuminates the childishness of relying on scripture as self-evident truth that should be followed to the tee.

I often found myself shaking my head at the idiocy of the men of Ham as they were misguided by the madness of Dave Rudman. Dave unleashes a rant at the zeitgeist of a psychotic breakdown, that becomes The Book for the future denizens of Hampstead. I couldn’t help to think how much of the material from our holy books could have been written by, if not madmen, than surely by the non-evolved minds of a tribe of desert nomads two thousand years ago. The realization that so much of our world is dictated by interpretations of random thoughts of ghosts from the past would be ludicrous if it were not so sad

Whether you are religious or not, this is a thought provoking novel that will leave you questioning how much of the holy books were meant to be questioned and how much was meant to be lived. What do you think? Do we still need such a prescriptive guideline to direct our morality? Be kind. Love your enemies. Show compassion. Treat others as you would like to be treated. We haven’t even gotten that right yet. Isn’t that enough? Maybe once we can learn to be openminded and loving we can begin to worry whether or not women are less than men because they came from a man who was made from mud in the image of a loving/vengeful god.

Random Notes From Rawai #2

2011-06-30T20:48:00.000+07:00

I am sitting on the side of the road. My eyes are closed and I can hear the gentle strum of a breeze beating against the lethargic fronds above. I come hear everyday to buy a few sodas for the dinner we have been eating with my wife, her parents and the girls. The house/store belongs to an old Thai couple; out here in Rawai, where we are staying, there are no Tattoo shops, Internet Cafes, Massage parlors, or Tour operators.

Our villa, a small house, is in a residential area and this shop operates outside this couple’s house. The man is always shirtless and wearing a sarong. He chastised me in broken English the other day for not buying beer. But back to the story, I am sitting out front getting some respite form the energy sucking commotion that comes from hanging out with two kids under five all day, everyday. It is quiet, the weather is perfect and it feels nice to let my thoughts doggie paddle in mind a few minutes each day. Here is what they said:

Let whitey have their Protestant work ethic. That dog don’t hunt down here in the tropics. Down here there is little need to get things one. There is sunbaked skin, lapping waves, and strong urges to nap and let the day pass with little angst. Yes, I know these are the musing of a man on vacation, but really what do we in “The West” for lack of a better word have stuck up our asses about schedules, efficiency, and hard work. I have been privy live in several expat communities who condescendingly chastise the “locals” for being on (Insert tropical Clime) time. As if not being led by the stress of industry is some sort of moral flaw. I'll take it any day.

I watch a young family pass by on a scooter, the youngest mouth a gape swallowing the wind by the mouthful. Her shirtless dad all smiles. Behind me an old lady naps on her porch. My muscles are sore from swimming in the ocean and my skin is sun-baked. I don’t wan to turn this into a political treatise on the misguided superiority complex of colonialism and the true nature of humanity, so I will let it go. This was a thought I had while watching the road go by.

Next one:

So much talk about reforming education. Technology, Networks, Computers. Blah, blah, blah. Here’s an idea: send kids out into the world. Forget the Skype chat, take a group of kids and have them live in Phuket for a summer. Let them waste some time on a beach, start a business, learn to surf, make a film. Let them talk to people of other cultures, not research them on wikipedia. Let them learn to scuba dive, monitor a reef, or play with water colors. Weeks without walls are good, but only scratch the surface. True education is about authentic life and experience and the classroom is about neither. I have not thought out what this pedagogy will look like, but I know that travel is the best teacher in the world.

That’s about it. It is now dark and the music is loud and festive. I am calm and energized. Just felt the need to shed some thoughts.

A Drift in the Sea

2011-06-29T21:09:00.000+07:00

Sometimes things happen in the world and are highlighted on the Internet that are perhaps better ignored. And seeing that I am awash in a Zen like state of summer sun-drenched bliss, I know I really should let this one go, but I just can't.

How can you ignore something that shows a little girl in a video who is using a day of prayer to make sure that her father loves her? I don't have much to say on the topic, except that things must be in a bad way when a government official sponsors an event claiming that the very government he has sworn an oath to uphold is in such a state of crisis that only the hand of his god can save it. He claims that as an elected official he understand the limitations of government when it comes to spiritual matters, then goes on to make a list of problems: financial crises, natural disasters, terrorism, depression- in the face of which he is powerless.

His civic irresponsibility is not even the worst part of the video. The worst part is the barrage of people questioning why this is happening to them. Who is responsible? What can they do? Their answer? Not to study history and politics and economics or to organize within their communities, but to pray. We have a right-wing republican government official telling his base not to question the actions of the government he represents.

Not sure what I expect to come of this post. I know I don't want it to turn into some kind of religious debate. I understand now that those go nowhere. I am just jaw dropped perplexed at how strange America seems to me these days. I know, I know this is not a true reflection of Americans or even Christians, but...I don't know. See for yourself and tell me what you think.

Prayer might help some people come to peace with their spiritual issues; I can respect that, but social activism needs a bit more action and education. Go ahead call me a hypocrite. Who is to say that praying is any less effective than signing a Facebook petition? Either way, seems to me we need a bit more action and organization.

Maybe you can salvage some kind of decent discussion from my ramblings. I just knew I couldn't let it go by without some comment.

Calm and Endless

2011-06-28T22:52:00.004+07:00

I am standing on the bow of a garish tourist boat called the Phi Phi Cruiser III. My mind is flush with memories and anxiety. Kaia stands in front of me, her hair alive with the wind, shines a shade of gold reserved for fairy tales. Below us on a lower deck a gang of young tanned young men bask in the ease of irresponsibility.

The ocean is calm and endless. I see such beauty in its bleak emptiness. Kaia seems a bit bored; she squints her eyes and stares forward searching for the islands I promised her. Last time I was in this spot of the earth, I was leaving Phi Phi a bit shell shocked. I am not sure why I need to go back. Not sure what I hope to see.

I spark up a conversation with a rosy red rotund woman from South Africa. She compliments Kaia on her manners and beautiful eyes. I thank her, as if I have had anything to do with either. The conversation travels to Mozambique, Madagascar and the her trip on a fifty foot catamaran leaving the Seychelles. She seems to have a difficult time deciphering our life. Usually where are you from is so much less eventful- born in Iran, raised in California, wife from Milwaukee, met in Mozambique, one daughter born in Malaysia, the other in Qatar, now living in Jakarta.

I can't help but tell her about the Tsunami. Not sure why I do it. People seem to weave such drama about that day, and who am I kidding I enjoy it. To see their eyes light up as they place themselves in the halo of what happened to us. I guess I have never really felt as blessed as how others feel when they hear our story for the first time. They concocted tales of faith and destiny. She is silent. The wind blows. I am not sure if Kaia heard the story, if she did she doesn't say anything.

"You are doing good work," she says at the end of her thoughts. "I don't know you, but I can see it in your face and your voice, by your lovely daughter, whatever you are doing...it is good and important."

I feel loved. Here is it, on this perfect Tuesday morning, but by this complete stranger I feel loved. It feels nice. "Thank you," I say. "I am doing the best I can."

"You should write a book!"

"I am!" I cannot control the excitement in my voice. We stare at the sea in silence for a few minutes more, before I head back down to the lower deck to get Kaia out of the sun. She said that she would look up my name, so she can look for the book, but I do not see her again.

Phi Phi itself was quiet and drab. The luster and the shine left behind in nostalgia and broken memories. We ate a mediocre lunch. I walked Kaia out into the lagoon, looking at where the wave came in and thought about luck. It all sounds too dramatic even for me. I was here years ago and I am here again now with this beautiful young child, what else does this story need?

Coda: The back of the boat is crazy as Arabs and Indians who have never swam, scream jumping onto the dead reef. They are covered in clothing and head scarves. Kept a float not by any sense of buoyancy, but by artificial orange devices none of them seem to trust.

Kaia and I quietly put on our masks and fins in a corner. I jump in and ask her if she is ready. She places her mask on her tiny face and deftly makes sure there is no hair at the edges, just like I have taught her in the pool. She nods her head. I can tell she is scared, but before I can double check, she is in the water and swimming away from the crowd. I can see her little finger pointing at the school of fish who flock to us and our soggy pieces of bread.

We swim away from the crowd and I have never been so proud. Here is my beautiful little mermaid swimming all on her own, without a life jacket because she said it made it hard for her to swim, in the wide open ocean. She takes a few dives and bobs effortlessly at the surface.

"Look dad! There are thousands of them."

We swim a while as I watch her gain confidence. I think about fear and what a wasted emotion it is. I watch the others bob like orange turtles stuck in their shells. I think about the work I do. I sum it up in one simple line, "Live fearlessly."

Later, some guy jumps off the deck. A little five foot jump, but I can see that Kaia has noticed. "You wanna jump? I'll hold your hand." Hands in her mouth, nervous, smiling devilishly, she nods.

Standing on the edge, holding hands, I say, "You don't have to you know. I know it feels scary. All I have to say is that sometimes, usually actually, when we do something that scares us, it feels really good afterwards. It is your choice. You have been brave enough for one day."

I am holding her hand and we are ten feet underwater. We kick our feet and shoot to the surface and hear a cheer from a young couple who watched us jump. "Atta girl!" The man shouts. Kaia smiles and asks if we can do it again to show mommy.

Who know, maybe the lady was right. Maybe I am doing something right.

Cross posted at Teacher Dad

Treme

2011-06-25T21:14:00.001+07:00

I can be a little obsessive; just ask anyone who knows me. I find something I like, and I jump in and devour everything I can about said topic or idea. It is not news that I have been obsessed with David Simon for some time. It started with The Wire, the greatest television show that has ever been on TV, then I moved on to reading The Corner. Before watching his mini-series called Generation Kill, I read the book of the same name by Evan Wright. From wikipedia:

Simon is known for his realistic dialogue and journalistic approach to writing. He says that authenticity is paramount and that he writes not with a general audience in mind but with the opinions of his subjects as his priority. He has described his extensive use of real anecdotes and characters in his writing as "stealing life".

David Simon

What's not to love? The man is a genius and whatever he touches turns to gold, so even I was surprised that it took me over a year to "get to" Treme, Simon's latest opus into the lives of a group of musicians, amongst others, in post-Katrina New Orleans. My wife and I have been catching up for the last few weeks. Watching a few episodes every night. We tap our toes and get ready for the gritty emotional roller coaster that only David Simon can deliver.

Like The Wire, what Simon does best is show the macro within the beautiful simplicity of the micro. He attacks large political issues, not with journalistic aggression, but with the simple finesse of fiction. We are allowed to see his characters for what they are- we see ourselves with all our weaknesses and courage. There are no villains or heroes in Simo'sn shows only human beings. Never one to paint humanity with shades of stereotypical flatness, Simon's characters act as mirrors for us all. The cast of Treme is no different. These are broken people who live because of the suffering they face not despite of it.

Simon effortlessly weaves their stories through a series of interwoven plot lines. The obvious connections are Katrina, music and race, but Treme is more than a show about New Orleans. Yes, the show does a remarkable job of exposing the history of the city, including rich cultural elements such as Mardi Gras Indians, cuisine, and Jazz, but more than that Treme is as authentic a slice of life as we will ever see in fiction.(Side note- He has even written the perfect character for Steve Zahn)

Now that we are caught up to the most recent episode, and I have to wait till Sunday night for the next one, I feel the need to fill the hole left in my life without the cast of Treme. This is where the obsession begins. Never a huge fan of Jazz, I have chosen to find some music that reminds me of the Annie character. What better way to do this than to explore the music of Steve Earle who is on the show himself as a street musician? I have been pleasantly surprised by his catalog.

After a Twitter and Facebook request for a "good Cajun bluegrass folky band with fiddle, accordion, banjo, guitar, bass, and clarinet?" A friend sent me Old Crow Medicine Show, not from New Orleans, but they fit the bill perfectly; they are exactly what I was looking for. Listening to these guys now, and they are amazing.

I have downloaded a Zydeco and Cajun greatest hits, but am I still looking for any music ya'll recommend.Willing to enter the New Orleans Jazz scene so any recommendations in that field would be great.

I am now following nearly every member of the cast, including all the chefs, on Twitter and find it find cool that they all follow each other. Wendell Pierce is actually a musician and community organizer. It appears Simon has once again blurred the lines of fact and fiction. So if you love music, food, history, politics, love, suffering- in short if you have a soul, Treme will feed it.

It will be hard enough to wait till Sunday for the next episode, but what will I do when I have to wait for season three.

Best Show Currently on Television

In addition to music recommendations, I would love to foster a conversation about what you love about the show. If you have never seen an episode, please leave a comment vowing you will start tonight!

Random Notes From Rawai #1

2011-06-23T20:32:00.002+07:00

"Where are you from?"
"California, San Francisco. Bay Area. Born in Iran, but raised in a town called San Rafael, but I currently live in Jakarta."
He stares into the distance at a passing boat. We are in Rawai on Phuket Island.
"We don't get many Americans here."

That was yesterday morning as I was waiting for a few chocolate croissants and a latte to take back to the house. It is now almost eight pm; it feels like midnight. My skin is toasting to its natural color- a cappuccino shy of milk. The girls are asleep. I am listening to some songs by Steve Earle and the pool ripples beyond the glow of this machine.

I haven't much to say, but feel the need to sharpen this knife nonetheless. I was supposed to be working on the book, but I keep making excuses- focusing on these stretching exercises more than the main event. A few hours ago, Kaia and I sat on the side of the road on the motorbike watching a man wash a baby elephant. We were our way back from a reconnaissance trip to Kata Noi, before that we had surfed the waves at Nai Hern beach. I am loving this southern tip of Phuket. Rawai is a quiet sleepy town distant from the nonsense at Patong and even Kata. We are staying at a little house in a local neighborhood, a five minute ride from a nearly empty beach. It is a bit windy, so we are deprived of the tranquil aqua waters this place is known for, but a little tumble in the surf never hurt anyone.

The nights are filled with music and these words. I am missing my guitar as I usually do, think it might be time for a travel guitar. It's when we are without our instruments that we feel the need to sing.

Let this little light of mine shine and lead you against the night

Maybe someones watching and wondering what I got
Maybe this is why I'm here on earth maybe not

Not sure whether it is angst or understanding that forces me to push through these tender nights, but it feels natural to take a few minutes each night to let a few ideas spill from me. Apparently, the world rolls on beyond the waters of this island, but the events there matter little to me. The air is warm and the hours pass slowly. The mind is still running a bit too fast, worried about "doing" things, but I am sure with time it too will quiet down and halt to a slow crawl.

Till then there is little but the struggle to document each passing moment in song and poetry. There is this quickly fading and impermanent post, lost in the shuffle of so many others like it. Another pixel lost in this ever expanding eternity.

Would you hear my voice
Come through the music?
Would you hold it near
As it were your own?

Reach out your hand if your cup be empty
If your cup is full may it be again

If I knew the way, I would take you home...

I Feel Sorry For Mountains

2011-06-22T19:06:00.000+07:00

Cross posted at Dear Kaia-

We took the motorbike out to the beach again today, just you and me. You wanted to start with a quick sandcastle, but quickly gave in to the lure of the ocean. The waves were a bit big and I could tell you were scared. I had sworn to myself not to push too hard this trip, so to let you find your comfort zone yourself. The ocean can be intimidating and I want you to find your place in it on your own.

We started timidly. Holding hands. Ankle deep. Running back to the safety of the shore. Your eyes sparkled and your yelps were uncontrollable. I watched as you looked from the waves to the horizon, amazed that anything could be so vast and powerful.

Knee deep now. The water sprays your face. You lick your lips and wipe away the foam. You let go of my hand and feel the water with both hands.

"Try just swimming around here. If you feel like you are losing control, just stand up."
"I don't want to."
"Okay than, just hold my hand."
"Can we go further out?"
"We can go as far as you want."

Waste deep. You are scared and excited. You let go of my hand and quickly doggie paddle about, springing up at the first sign of a breaking wave. The weather is perfect. The sun plays hide and seek behind the clouds. The next wave knocks you down. You face is underwater. I see your feet pop up. I am sure that our day in the surf is over. You spring up, wiping the water from your face. You are laughing.

"Never fight the ocean. It is is too strong. If you try and stand up to it, it will knock you down and you will lose control. The secret is to go with its flow. Swim with the waves. Don't try to be still. Move. Flow. Kick."

You are listening. Watching the waves. Weighing your options. Next set-incoming. You turn your back slowly and jump forward to catch a wave. You kick holding your head above the water. You go under, but you spring back up. I am so proud of you. Later, we are sitting in the wet sand as the tail end of waves lap up against our bodies.

"Isn't it amazing that all these pieces of sand are just tiny pieces of rocks from old mountains? The ocean keeps smashing against the earth turning it into sand."
"Yeah, but I feel sorry for mountains turned into sand." You sift the tiny pebbles through your hands.
"Where do new mountains come from?"
"Pieces of the earth are always moving and when they bump up against each other they form mountains like this." I show you with my hands.
"Can we go back in the waves? I want to practicing going with the flow."

Wild Things

2011-06-21T20:31:00.000+07:00

The role of the writer, as I see it, is to harness the inexplicable and give shape to the unnameable. The trouble is that the act of creating images from fleeting moments of wonder is an impossible feat. Many have tried, some more successful than others, but reality is simply too grand in scope to be portrayed using petty tools such as words.

How can language ever be enough to share the feeling of riding a motorbike through the jungled roads of Phuket with your five year old daughter gripping your hands, as the tender golden soft light of the sun falls from the leaves like drops from a balmy rainstorm? Robust clouds of white and grey give chase, the wind on your faces as you whisper, "Are you okay?" You give the accelerator a gentle pull. Coming down the hill the vast ocean sparkles and waves caress the patient earth. She takes her helmet off as you stop to admire the sea. How can these words possibly explain the confidence with which she swings her hair and carries the helmet on her wrist?

Back on the bike, you smell burning garbage and coconut rusks, the grilled shellfish and roasting chili peppers. You are aware that this very moment is being engraved onto her consciousness and shaping her dreams. The notion of risk taking has been forever altered as you check and re-check the mirrors, make sure to slow down around each turn, but you cannot ever be too careful. After all it is adventure that gives these moments their brightness, you know this, but her safety comes first. Never again will you throw caution to the wind and do things just to see if they can be done.

You think back to the freedom of youth, amazed you were able to navigate the vast loneliness of all that space. You are coming down the hill, "You know I love you right?" The wind is howling, so you whisper again into her ear. The giant red helmet nods affirmative. Men often gripe about domestication and the staleness of family, but you know that these are the moments of rebirth and second shots at childhood. You will show her the world, every inch of it, in all it's wonder. She will be there to grip you tight and nod her head in affirmation every step of the way. Not only a receptacle of your devotion, but also an active agent of love. She is your anchor, your friend, your partner in this reincarnated freedom.

You pull the accelerator once again and howl as tears pool up in your eyes. Beyond the sound of the engine and the wind you here her voice echo what you already know- the things you can never explain.

Vibrating Through, or Happy Birthday To Me

2011-06-20T23:56:00.001+07:00

It’s late. I should be getting to sleep. A tender guitar plucks and strums in my earphones and a voice quivers, building up to a song, a shout, a plea. In fifty-five minutes, the summer solstice will skip across the face of our oh so fragile planet, and I will be one summer older.

My lovely wife is entwined in the sheets, eyes shut and soft of breath. I feel the voice vibrating through my fingers tip as these words flow fast. Yeah, I know quickly is the correct word, but who am I to teach the voice semantics? My mind lately has been shackled with notions of honesty and authenticity again. They say we only present our likeable selves on the interwebs, as we sculpt identities from lumps of shared humanity, but what do I know about what you will like? Who you want me to be?

I can only shed light on the secrets and gifts I have found in the dark corners after thirty-seven summer’s eves. I can only tell tales from the one journey I have chosen to undertake. I wasted so many years lost taking wrong turns and following deadends, so much time lost beneath the rubble of poorly constructed walls keeping me in. Keeping you out. Now that I appear to have found a well-lit and agreeable path, free from the shadows of useless ramifications, what choice do I have but to sing?

image by RyanBSchultz

Earlier tonight, I sat by a shivering pool, beneath the consoling darkness of an oblivious sky letting out a string of thoughts as I watched my kite disappear into the endless celestial ceiling. Too much? Too flowerily? Like a New Orleans chief, I feel the need to be pretty tonight. To strut my stuff and dance in defiance of all that is pale and cynical. The sun will shine tomorrow and damn it if I will not sing her praises.

They argue that these thoughts, these dreams, these songs, these words, these stories, these posts, these tweets, these status updates are nothing more than superficial expressions of vanity. That we are insignificant. However, irrelevant my song, I have no choice but to sing. This path I walk is too simple not to share. Too full of love and peace to ignore. The contrast to what I have known too stark.

They complain when we complain. They complain when we praise. They complain. But I will no longer listen to them, only to the voice that sings me to sleep. The one who is stirring your heart as you read. Lives are only immaterial if we hold them inside.

Perhaps I would be more germane in the pages of a book. Maybe on a stage or the grooves of a record? Staring back at myself from a flickering television dressed in fictitious dramas or grotesque commercials. For better or for worse, I have chosen this space to etch my narrative. Coming to you pixel by pixel- images, text and words. But you know all this. There is nothing new in what I say. You have heard the voice your whole life as well.

People paint success by different shades. Some color it by the car they drive or the house they occupy. Some measure the brush strokes by the numbers in bank accounts. Tomorrow is my birthday. I am in Thailand. Outside my room is a small bean shaped pool in which I will spend the day with three of the most amazing people in the world. I will feel the sun on my body and help my littlest feel comfortable in the water. I will hold her tight, until she is ready to let go and float on her own. I will most likely argue with my wife, as we get lost in the frustration and hard work of raising a family. But we will laugh about it later that night as we enjoy the comfort of sleeping children.

When I was twenty-three I joked that I saw no point in living past thirty seven. But tonight, knocking at the gates of this ripe old age, I see the folly and insolence of youth. Too bad we are so often blinded by rage and defiance early in life, when we can be so much better served basking in the comfort and peace of wisdom.

What do I choose to share? Why do I feel the need to share any of it? I just write down what I hear in my heart in hopes that next time you hear it too, you will not feel so all alone. Happy Birthday to me.

Forever

2011-06-19T00:16:00.002+07:00

Not sure where to start to really do this gift justice. I want to create something sincere and honest, something that in some way articulates all the things I so often have a difficult time expressing. I am not even sure whether to write directly to you, or to some nebulous audience of strangers and friends. What says,"I love you and appreciate you" best? A poem? Some pictures? Telling our story publicly? A whisper as we fall asleep? Maybe the best thing in a compilation of all these things.

The funny thing about dates and anniversaries is that they only celebrate and highlight that one moment in time, and for us that moment was seven years ago in Las Vegas, as we gathered with friends, had a great time, and committed ourselves to each other. While June 19th, 2004 and the weekend that tagged along with it were so much fun, they don't necessarily capture the amazing ride we have been on since or before.

Wedding Chapel in Vegas

Even though we can say that we have been married for seven years, we both know that a truer date would be sometime in 2000 when we lived together in this tiny little hut in Mozambique. Because it was during those days and nights of peeling garlic and wasting away hours in books and conversations that we were really married.

Our House For Two Years in Mozambique

How can one anniversary date ever capture our travels: Paris, Dominican Republic, Costa Rica, Hawaii, Tunisia, Vietnam, Laos, Malaysia? The list goes on and on. How can this one date capture the life we have built or the two amazing daughters we are raising? How can the date ever express the love and dedication we have shown to the building of this fine tuned team we have become?

The other day in the car, my mind was a drift, as it often is, and this thought danced into my mind, "It is not love if it is hard work." It made me think about how easy it is to be with you. How easy it is to simply be myself around you. Perhaps it is more romantic to see love as a passionate series of struggles and arguments, but I love the simplicity of our relationship. People often joke about domestication and the sacrifices that come with marriage, but honestly I have never felt that way about our relationship. We simply are ourselves. Sure, I have changed dramatically since I met you, but it has all been for the better and because I have wanted, ney, needed to make these changes. You have helped me discover the man I have always wanted to be. You bring out the best in me and challenge me to be the best husband and father I can be. And for that I thank you.

So is this spiel, this rant, this disjointed blog post doing our anniversary justice? I am quiet certain that it is not, but how can it? Would flowers, a ring, or other gifts be better? How can anything, but the very fabric our our lives really show the power of our well functioning marriage? All I can say is that I love you, probably more so than I did seven years ago, even more than I did ten years ago. Our time together is aging like a fine wine. Each day, I notice a hidden flavor here, a lost tannin there. I may not say it often enough, claiming to be too busy with "real life" but you are more than my wife-You are my best friend, my partner, and I am so thankful that you help me grow. Despite the long days, the tantrums, and quiet nights I still look at you like this:

I made a little video, and found it so funny that we don't have as many of these couple pictures since the girls were born, but fear not we can start taking them again when they are older and we pick up where we left off.

I hope this little public rambling is enough to remind you how much I need you. Apparently the "proper" gift for the seventh anniversary is copper and wool. Really? A suggestion was a desk set. How about a great month in Thailand and a life time of doing what we are doing instead?

Oh! Are the readers still here? If you know Mairin and I as a couple, leave some kind words and let's commemorate this special occasion. If you can try and incorporate some kind of copper or wool into your comments that would be great.

Somewhere Between

2011-06-19T00:08:00.000+07:00

Note: This was not an easy to post to write. Just couldn't get what I wanted to say quite right. Hoping there is something worthwhile in my textual wrestling match. Perhaps someone can help me in the comments.

A few days ago, I posted a letter I had written to my five year old daughter for her to read when she is older. I was feeling emotional and overcome with pride and needed a space to unload some emotions; they felt warm and soothing; I didn't need to put them down, but still I felt the need to share them publicly. Perhaps I feel that sharing positive emotions like pride and love can help others feel. What you might ask? Perhaps, I think that sharing our lives can help others feel connected, not necessarily to each other, but to our shared emotional pool, or maybe I wanted you to see what a caring father I am, can be, so that your admiration might negate the occasional feeling of guilt I feel for the times I am curt and frustrated and angry with my girls.

I received a few quick tweets about what a great dad I am, and instead of feeling a sense of validation, I felt like I was being dishonest for highlighting only the photoworthy events of our lives. I guess this post is my attempt to balance the notion that fatherhood is all pretty pictures and good times. I hope this post doesn't tarnish the earlier emotions or the perception that people may have of what kind of father I am, but rather I hope this post can be an honest attempt to take a closer look at what it is like to be a dad. To explore the complexity of fatherhood. It is easy to read lists like this and pat ourselves on the back. It doesn't take a father of the year candidate to understand that you should enjoy spending time with your kids. Really, I need to be reminded to tell my kids I love them? Even we can make lists of verbs list like the one below describing what it means to be a great dad:

Listen, understand, hug, ignite, play, inspire, love, guide, comfort, soothe, challenge, entertain. We can add a few inspirational photos and voila! Happy father's day to everyone.

But let's be honest, there are times when we scream and yell and say things that make our kids feel small. It isn't right or good and the side effects feel terrible. No one likes it when we see the effects of our frustration and anger reflected in our children's faces- mirrors of ourselves when we were kids. Nothing like breaking promises we made to ourselves as children, "I will never do that to my own kids!"we said!

The reality of fatherhood lays somewhere between the Hallmark card and the PSA about emotional abuse. Like most things in life, I am learning that raising children is about vulnerability and honesty. It is about not needing to win all the fights. It is about empowering others before ones self. It is about building up and giving wings. It is about patience, understanding, oh oh here come another list…Fatherhood is about learning how to let go of ego. Isn't everything in life?

It is about letting go of selfishness. For as long as I can remember, my life has been all about me. I think most men can relate to this need to be babied and adored. Who knows, maybe it is beyond gender, but women appear to have an easier time caring for others before themselves, at least the women in my life always have. This male selfishness has been the demise of many relationships. This selfishness has resulted in many lonely nights and hundreds of mediocre poems about being misunderstood.

A few years ago, I made a resolution to once and for all, try to put my selfishness to bed. I vowed to put my daughter in the place that had always been reserved solely for me. No longer would I think of my own needs before hers, but what I am learning is that it takes time and practice to be able to care for others the same way we take care of ourselves. This is what fatherhood is all about- balance. I am learning.

As I get older I am learning how to find a balance between who I am as a man and who I need to be as a father. I think this is where many men struggle. It is for me, the hardest part about being a dad. The realization that my life is no longer just my life alone; that it needs to be shared with my family has not be so easy to get my head around. I made the vow years ago, but the reality is harder to actualize. There are times when I am doing something, it can be as trivial as uploading a picture or finishing up an email, and my daughter, who may be hungry or tired and whining demands attention. I catch myself saying something like, "Just give me a minute!" I don't take pictures of those moments or write letters about them, but they are also a part of being a dad.

That is all I am trying to say.

Cross posted at Teacher Dad

Happy Father's Day

2011-06-18T23:46:00.002+07:00

Dear Dad,

Sometimes is just easier not to say too much. Not to complicate things with so many words. This year, I don't have much to say, but I love you. I miss you and thank you for helping me become who I am.

Don't look too deeply into this song and the words. I just remember it filling our house and in turn my childhood. I remember it bringing you joy and now as a man and a father it brings me joy too. There is no hidden message in the lyrics. There is no anger. Just love.

Father and Son by intrepidflame

It seems the only gifts I have these days are music and photographs. Thanks for teaching me about both.

Sara by intrepidflame

wish there was a song

2011-06-03T20:36:00.001+07:00

wish there was a song
to smear into your pores
wish there were words
to enter you:
burrow,
where you need me most.
tucked in corners
hidden in angles,
you’ll horde me.
mistake me not:

         no ordinary parasite
         i’ll feed you
        from within.

sometimes we rattle
the untouchable.
disruption is creation,
bob and dance
bang the drum
clatter the bursting clouds
breeding in routine.

sometimes we arouse
forgotten promises
crammed in the closet
crank the amp
and bleed the truth.

too much for you?
a truth
your youth?

listen to the reflective echoes
bouncing in our head,
i hear them too.

sometimes we crave for the words
to shoot from the page
and crack like thunder

bleed us dry
leave the flesh
quivering.

it was never
at the bottom of the bottle
never out there
never an escape.

always right here:
in front of us
inside of you
inside of me.

Just Put It Down

2011-05-27T20:33:00.000+07:00

It’s 8pm Friday night. It feels like midnight. The girls are both asleep; the house is warm. Quiet. I am listening to my current favorite artist. His voice is literally massaging an unnameable place in my soul. What’s that? Using the word soul is too wishy washy and hyperbolic, perhaps, but that is where these songs are playing tonight. Don’t believe me? Close your eyes and play this song to yourself. Then let some words trickle from your ________ and drip onto the paper.

Today was crazy. Won't get into the details, but I juggled equal parts fear, paranoia, frustration, and apprehension. All-in-all it was not a pleasant way to pass my time. My mind is still mired in this uncomfortable rut, hence the music and the words. Using this space and these words to clear my head. I need to hear a guitar strum and watch my fingers turn angst into…whatever you want to call this: confession, advice, meditation, prayer, poetry?

There is a list of more pressing things I feel I should be writing about- but sometimes it is okay to just put things on hold, ignore them, forget about them and tend to where it hurts. Sometimes it is okay to not focus so much on the intellectual and allow some room for the spiritual. It has to be okay. This is what I tell myself to avoid burning out, and I offer the advice to you for free. Next time you feel the world is to heavy for you to shoulder, just put it down.

Three paragraphs in and I feel better already. Next I will grab the guitar and gently sing some songs to myself, careful not to stir the sleeping house. Then I'll crawl into bed and lose myself in a book. I am warm and safe and nothing there is nothing happening that can’t be solved sometime in a vague future. There is no sense of urgency for the events of today. I’ll let them simmer and shed their skin of substance, till I am more in the right mind to tend to their needs.

Perhaps this is the wisdom they say comes with age- the ability to know when to let life sit a bit. Close your eyes, enjoy each breath and feel the power of being alive. The awareness that the only thing we have any control over is the present moment, and that hold is tenuous at best, can be very comforting.

I hope these words help anyone who came across them in what ever timezone you find yourself. No matter want mood you find yourself a sense of calm and gratitude can be very powerful. I hear my guitar calling…thanks for listening.

The Rapture

2011-05-21T21:50:00.001+07:00

I’m not gonna lie; I have been a bit obsessed with the rapture. It started with a few snarky Tweets and Facebook statuses. Then I sang this song by Josh Ritter about it this morning:

I'm not afraid of the dark

When the sun goes down

And the dreams grow teeth

And the beasts come out

Cast their long shadows

Every time that they start

I'll be right here with you

I'm not afraid of the dark

and started the day reading a little Walk Whitman.

Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not
my soul.

Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen, Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.

It’s not only that an 89-year-old Californian preacher could prophesize that the Rapture would begin at 6pm in each of the world's time zones, with those "saved" by Jesus ascending to heaven and the non-believers being wiped out by an earthquake rolling from city to city across the planet, but what I am most flummoxed by is the fact that while most people are casually mocking this preacher, the concept of the rapture is still believed by so many people.

Seems strange that we can all ridicule and mock deranged Harry Campers, but for most Christians the concept of the Rapture is still very real; sure they may not believe it was supposed to happen this Saturday, but many, dare I say most do, or at least should, believe that it will happen sometime.

by CharleHolton

I am trying to offend anyone, or pull the arrogant-atheist-self-righteous card, but really I find it hard to believe that people honestly believe:

...the dead in Christ shall rise first: Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord.

1 Thessalonians 4:15-17

What confuses me is that I am not sure what I am supposed believe literally and what is metaphorical. Seems unfair for people to be able to pick and choose. If the Bible is the truth than how or why do “moderate” Christians feel embarrassed when people like Camper preach its gospel. Either you believe that the Lord is coming to clean house or you don’t. If there is a deeper more sophisticated way of understand the end of days story (myth?) please by all means share them with me. I would love a book that looks at the Bible stories in a non-literal way. Is the rapture true is a metaphor? If the latter for what?

It is all the Rapture, Lord in Heaven, salvation, and “the believe in me or be punished” rhetoric that has turned me off religion. You want me to love my neighbor, help the poor, be a kind and good man, , a loving husband and father…well I am doing my best. I am aware of my shortcomings and trying to do what I can to be a good human being, but I will not be saved in the name of anyone and if that means that I cannot be raptured and saved, so be it. I don’t want anything to do with a heaven that punishes non-believers. I would literally rather burn in hell. If I am meant to be punished because I do not believe, and not rewarded for my actions, count me out. The world I see is much more subtle and beautiful than that.

I can understand, appreciate, and would love to discuss a deeper view of end of times as described by Mark Morford in his latest column:

Maybe the Rapture isn't meant to happen in a big megawhoomp zap, like a giant piñata filled with little candy Jesuses exploding all over the Colorado Rockies. Maybe it's actually an epic saga, unfolding slowly over time, like the world's longest vaguely depressing but beautifully shot documentary film. Fantastic lighting! Expert camerawork! Stirring, hardscrabble tales of love and hope! Too bad everyone dies in the end.

Maybe we are now experiencing some kind of spiritual downward spiral, and our salvation is not to succumbing to a lord, but to getting our collective karmic consciousness houses in order. Perhaps instead of arguing over dates when the world will end and the “winners” get to go to heaven and the “losers” burn in hell, we should decide to follow the basic tenets of all our creeds. Perhaps we focus energy on ridding our minds and hearts of violence and fill them with love and understanding.

I must say I am a bit disappointed. It would have been nice if somehow all the “true believers” would have been zapped away someplace, far away, where they can sit and read their bibles and enjoy their time alone and finally let us down here on earth get to the work at hand- living our lives as best we can.

by Karma Communications

We could final sing and dance, create our provocative art, enjoy our bodies, and hunger for knowledge in peace. No more guilt. No more sin. Just beautiful carnal animal joy. We could final begin to have a human experience here on earth. We could question everything and assign no blame. We could throw out all the dogma and gospels and listen to the earth.

I know, I know keep my hippy utopian ideas to myself…but there are more of us who are losing hope in old myths. But until more people stand up and say that we feel that it is not only Campers who is disillusioned by claiming the Rapture was meant to happen this weekend, but that the very concept of the Rapture is flawed, we will continue to be stuck in these cycles of unawareness and fear.
Tomorrow will be another beautiful day here on Earth. We will all wake up and hopefully be grateful that it all didn’t end. There is not enough time in life to waste hoping for it to end, or pining for some future reward. This is it, my one go, and I for one will do my best to cherish and enjoy it. At least until the next Rapture.

Memoir Teaser

2011-05-20T21:01:00.000+07:00

It’s been a while old friend. Friends? It has been a while since I have spilled some beans here at Intrepid Flame, but please do not judge too hastily; I have been writing quite a bit and fluidly may I add. Cranking out anywhere from 500-1000 words a night. It has felt great. These bizarre scenes continue to ooze out of me onto the blank pages. I have begun digging into old journals to help remind me of the past. When I find a terrible poem or profound idea that I scribbled across pages of the past, I stretch them out and develop scenes to add to my book.

But now, I need your help. I am not sure if the direction I have chosen for this memoir is the best one. I have been writing in a bizarre frantic blindness since January and now I need to take some kind of inventory and decide which direction to head next.

Basically, I have been picking various episodes from my life from the time I was three till the present and writing a series of first person present tense vignettes. Some are a page, others much longer. Thematically they are bound by this idea of the quiet shy boy who goes through various traumas and abuse, which affect him both positively and negatively. This broken boy uses a variety of defenses from drugs and alcohol, to an uncontrollable rage to find himself and become a man. We peak in on his life always in the present tense about love, loneliness, joy, affirmation, despair etc…Some vignettes are all descpritve, some scenes with dialouge, some with elements of plot, some nothing more than an extended poem.

How much first person present tense narrative vignettes can the reader take? Do I need to insert a sense of plot or progression? How do I do this in a memoir? I was hoping not to have them lined up chronologically. Is this a good idea? Do I need a third person, past tense narrative to tie these episodes together? A voice dictating the lessons learned?

I have also chosen one voice for all of the vignettes no matter the age of the boy/man. So the sixteen year old me sounds like the eight year old and thirty six year old me. My friend Ari says this is not the best idea. Do you agree?

That is it for now. I would love some comments, ideas or suggestions. If anything this has been an amazingly cathartic and therapeutic experience for me. I have really enjoyed revisiting these moments in my life. I just hope others find value in the lessons I hope I am sharing. A final question- why should people care about my life? Can I rely on the universality of suffering and salvation?

In closing, I haven’t shared much of what I have been writing, but here is something I wrote the other night to give you a taste. Please take a look, think about the questions above and help me out.

Stockholm is city built on several small islands. Fourteen to be exact. It is located on Sweden's south-central east coast, where Lake Mälaren meets the Baltic Sea. These islands are continuous with the Stockholm archipelago. The geographical city centre is situated on the water, in the bay Riddarfjärden. But right now I do not know any of this. I am oblivious to this knowledge. All morning I have been traversing the various bridges and waterways mapless and rudderless. The air is steel blue crisp and invigorating. Head strapped with ear goggles, the walkman filled with tiny doses of melancholy, but I am alive and my cherry red runny nose and frozen fingers prove it.

I find myself in Gamla Stan, the city's oldest section which is located on the original small islands of the city's earliest settlements and still features the medieval alleyways, cobbled streets, and archaic architecture. It dates back to the 13th century, and consists of tourist shops, bohemian cafes and a vegan diner with enticing pumpkin soup aromas wafting out the door.

Inside, we, the assorted patrons are huddle into various corners of this tiny hovel. The windows let spill thin piercing blades of light, which miraculously fill the room with heat. I am crouched over a bowl of steaming vegan soup, a hunk of bread in hand for dipping, and a green vegetable juice that makes me feel avant guard and cosmopolitan. I am a twenty-five year old college graduate, who majored in creative writing, I’m scribbling musings into a journal with sheets made form brown paper bags. I will head back to New York city soon to end a stint in the Big Apple before heading off to Africa. No one in here knows my story. I think myself wise and profound. I am at the end tail end of my current trajectory. How can I know of a future? How will I understand these passing minutes, this present time as a past? How will I look back on experiences not yet lived. We are constantly pushing the limits of our perpetual apex. The living of life is standing on the edge of a creeping present tense. And I am here. Swimming in it. On this cold Tuesday afternoon in a boho den in Gamla Stan, Stockholm.

Two hours later. Another island. A bar. A Guinness. A Johnny Walker Black on the rocks, sure make it a double. Three cigarettes. A need. Misplaced. Mislaid. Lost. I’ve come off the streets to kill some time, regroup, get drunk. Live the poem. I spent the last hour rifling through trinkets at a junk shop near the water and am now armed with a vintage typewriter, which most likely holds more promise than anything palpable. It is a sturdy machine from a by gone era. I finger each key, a romantic door into our collective never-ending story, as I watch the ice cubes shift places in the tumbler behind a rising wall of smoke. I am wake enough to realize I’ve been placed inside this dream. The same one I have always had.

Thanks in advance for your help!

Mother's Day

2011-05-07T20:58:00.000+07:00

I spend most of my days thinking. Thinking about what to write, who to be, what to think. I can’t seem to turn it off, this voice in my head who examines, explores, and analyzes every thought, no matter how trivial, that dances into my mind. Today was no different. I spent most of the day drafting some profound, loving mother’s day post for my own mom, my wife and all the amazing women I know. Lines and phrases drifted in and out my head, only to be ushered out by a running nose and a rude sneeze. I have not been well. The post is a mess.

I am, bleary eyed with a headache, running nose and a comfortable numbness onset by a giant cup of Therflu, coupled with a batch of soft tunes with a nagging need to be babied by my mommy.

I have spent so much of my life trying to prove to her that I don’t need to be babied and that I can take care of myself. She planted the seed of independence in me early on, but then hovered over me to make sure I would grow. I don’t blame her. I spent so many years veering off track, that she must have been worried that I could ever find my way back. But now that I am on a recognizable course that is more aligned with what she must have imagined in our youth, I want her to now how much I appreciated her unconditional love and support. I am so grateful for her ability to let me find my own way. While I know she must have wanted to intervene in my life, she never did. Thank you mom.

There is so much more I want to write, and I did, but you should be grateful that I have been deleting it all. I am really too sick to be writing anything worthwhile. I just wanted to thank, not only my mom, but all moms in the world- especially my amazing wife for being there for us. Thank you for keeping us on time and well fed. Thank you for taking care of the important things: doctors appointments, bills, travel plans. Thanks for shouldering the responsibilities. Thank you for carrying the weight of the world and keeping us safe. Thank you for thinking of us before yourselves. Thank you for guiding and protecting us. Thank you for being our best teachers. Thank you for allowing us to be who we are.

Happy Mother’s day to my mom and my wife and every other amazing woman out there who is the anchor of their families. We love you ladies and it is a shame we only explicitly tell you one day of the year.

Set Free

2011-05-02T19:28:00.001+07:00

I have been burdened by a series of conflicting emotions since I first heard the news, so this post could flow in many different directions. I followed the Twitter feed, which started with conjecture, moved to corroboration and weirdly ended with celebration. I did my part to quiet the simmering jubilation that was quickly spreading across the web...

...but still feel like something more needs to be said, if for no other reason than I need to clear my own head. I will start in a place that most of you would not expect me to ever venture- scripture:

But I say unto you which hear, Love your enemies, do good to them which hate you, Bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use you. And unto him that smiteth thee on the one cheek offer also the other; and him that taketh away thy cloke forbid not to take thy coat also. Give to every man that asketh of thee; and of him that taketh away thy goods ask them not again. And as ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise.
—Luke 6:27-31. KJV

This passage is the one section of the Bible I have always loved and respected. I believe the promotion of unconditional love is the very spirit of Christianity, not just Christianity but all religion. The concept of compassion and tenderness, of forgiveness and empathy is also a cornerstone of Buddhism. I find it ironic that many will read a passage like the one above and claim it to be idealistic or naive.

"It would be great if we lived in a world like that, but how can we allow monsters like Osama and Hilter get away with evil?"

I guess this is where I see values and morals and commitment to love as more than lip service. Yes it is difficult to do good to them which hate you. It is not everyman who can bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use you. But if we ever want to move toward a true peace, we must begin to understand that vengeance and violence only lead to more of the same. I also do not believe in evil or sin. Every problem, every villain is a product of cause and effect. To change mankind, we do not rid our hearts of sin or attack evil, we search for our own hatreds and replace them with love. You want to defeat men like Osama learn to forgive and love them. It will not happen overnight, but the other way has never worked. Look through any history for evidence of revenge.

It is easy to follow the pack and demand revenge. It is easy to hate and celebrate the death of a monster, but it is not so easy to stand firm and demand love when it is undeserved. It takes courage to see beauty where it is hidden. It takes strength to be able to act non-violently.

Before I am accused of self-righteousness, let me be the first to say I seldom have this strength. I too find it impossible to give love when given hate, but if we believe in the power of love, if we believe in the value of peace we can never resort to hate and violence, because when we allow vengeance and hatred to enter our heart, we immediately become that which we hate.

To celebrate the death of Osama Bin Laden is to allow him victory. He is a man who fans hatred and violence. He dwells in ignorance and a world in which ideas are black or white. Good and evil. But love exists beyond such dichotomous premises. I am in no way endorsing Bin Laden, on the contrary I am saying that to defeat him and his ideology we must face hate with love, violence with peace, aggression with calm.

I sleep tonight with a heavy heart knowing that men and woman on both sides celebrate and mourn not with love in their hearts, but with vengeance and hatred. In America, people will take pride in a military machine that has caused the deaths of millions of people since its inception, cost trillions of needed dollars, and done nothing to promote peace in the world. The rest of the world will plot new schemes and create new strong men to rally the ignorant to violence. Nothing has changed because of this act. Nothing has been made better, safer, or more peaceful. There is nothing to celebrate no one to honor, no reason for pride.If it is the young people in the military we want to honor, then bring them home. Educate them, find them jobs...free them from the cycle of death.

Now we just wait and see how the other side will react. Declarations of revenge? Suicide bombings? Is the War in Terror over? We are pawns in a theater of propaganda architects. We cheer, we sob. Our emotions are gristle for their mill. I am looking deep in my heart and trying to take back my emotions from the clutches of the mob. I ask you do the same. Ask yourself, "What does it say about me when I celebrate death? Why do I take joy in violence? Are my emotions spreading peace or violence? Will their revenge be justified? If they feel they are right?"

Going in circles so I will stop here and maybe continue in the comments...I hope the comments remain civilized.

Chicken for Supper

2011-04-23T19:22:00.000+07:00

Just a quick intro to set the stage for the following video. I met Leslie for the first time in Shanghai last September at a tech conference. She had crashed the event, but was soon one of our gang. We shared many a meal, sang songs, and connected on some bizarre dimension I find difficult to describe.

Once home we continued to chat on Twitter, share blog posts, but most importantly we collaborated on several movie and music projects. She plays a mean ukulele and sings vocals on a few of my songs. She did an amazing cover of one my original songs. In short, Leslie is a kindred spirit and far flung global band member. She is good people and one of the amazing success stories of my network. I look forward to the next time we meet, as I think we have much more to talk about since our initial meeting in Shanghai. I consider her a good friend and great conspirator. She is both a fan and a mentor. If you have never had a relationship like this, trust me your are missing out.

A few weeks ago she asked me my thoughts on vegetarianism, so I sent her this link. Today she sent me the video below. Please take a look. I have added a few thoughts below the clip.

Thanks for this Leslie. I think you have raised a very important idea to consider- food identity. Or better said a conscious food identity. I agree that no matter what choices we make, when it comes to our food, it is important that we have a conscious awareness as to why we are making the choices we make. I am vegetarian for a variety of reason, but I still suffer from a deep guilt because I am not vegan. I understand the callous, cruel, and irresponsible world of the global industrial food chain, but for reasons of weakness and an unexplainable hypocrisy I continue to eat dairy. It is important to remember that each person is on their own journey. All we can do is try to raise awareness and help people make socially considerate decisions.

Like you mentioned in the video in regards to your own meat eating, I know that eating dairy is wrong, but I choose to do it anyway. Some could argue that my actions in the face of awareness is worse than not knowing at all, and they may be right. But I see my food identity, like everything else in my life, as an evolving journey. Personal growth is all we can ask from people.

Your video does a great job of exposing feelings and thoughts that many purposefully hide. I love how you have approached a difficult subject in a light and easily accessible way. Like you, I think that people would make different choices if they were faced with the act of butchering. While living in Africa, I sometimes ate chicken and turkey because I was able to butcher the animal myself. My philosophy was that if I could kill and prepare the animal myself than it was okay. I was able to murder chicken and fish, but could not do the deed when it came to larger mammals. This act of killing and eating animals myself was a very powerful experience for me. I can respect people who farm or hunt and butcher their own meat. I can respect the relationship people have with animals before they eat them.

What I have a hard time with is the industrial system. I know it goes beyond the meat industry, anyone who has seen Food Inc or read The Omnivore’s Dilemma can attest to how screwed we are as a planet, and how we have allowed industrialization and commercialism to sour our most basic freedoms, but…..arghhhh I don’t know when it all became so complicated.

At the end of the day, I just think the act of eating flesh is gross. I think that murder in any shape is violent, and I for one, am trying to find peace in my heart. The act of not eating meat is an easy way I can fool myself into thinking I am doing something right. I do not miss it. For me, it is not a sacrifice. It is simply who I am. It is beyond my food identity. I cannot even imagine what it would feel like to put flesh in my mouth. I hope that some day soon, I can say the same thing about dairy.

Thanks for making me take a few minutes to write out these words and think these thoughts. Videos like yours are important.

What do you people think? I hope post doesn’t turn into a us versus them comment thread. It would be nice to hear what people think about their own food identities and food choices. This is not about right or wrong or conversion from one side to the next, it is about thinking about the choices we each make. So please share some thoughts below.

Arrived

2011-04-14T10:37:00.000+07:00

I sat in this room back when I was that other person. I think it was five years ago. Maybe more. Maybe less, the past is nebulous that way. It was the end of an era, of sorts, maybe it was the beginning. Who can tell? We were in Saigon, or do I call it Ho Chi Minh. They say the way we name things is important. Some tripe about language, but who can tell what they are callings things these days.

In those days, as well as all the other days, I thought of these days. The wispy streams of consciousness we call past, present, and future. Time another one of those pesky ideas we have mislabeled. Or is it they who name our language. Maybe it’s me. Words never seem enough.

I am alone at The Spring hotel, I think the same room we had last time we were here. I have my computer, all my music, a solid connection to the Internet (Read: The world) and a nagging need to wrap my world in words. I have nowhere to be, no one to meet, and no one to be. Feels nice.

I am letting my brain run a bit. Stretch out its legs. Write a bit. Call friends on Skype and actually show them what is happening. As a young man I often romanticized the men who sit alone in strange rooms with the need to turn themselves inside out. I marveled at the power they wielded to be ideas changers, world shifters, to be writers! I was in love with the vision of my heroes, of my our fathers -Men like Hunter S. Thompson and Henry Miller, Charles Bukowski, let's not forget Steinbeck and Dostoevsky sitting in rooms dipped in madness.

But as, I watched the sunlight move a slow geometric dance on the desk, I look around and notice I am here. I have arrived. I am who I have always dreamed of being. Leonard Cohen softly fills the room and these words slowly drip out. Trouble is, now all I want is to be home to hold my wife and play with my kids.

Happiness how can we express that with words?

Inside Out

2011-04-05T15:30:00.000+07:00

I got a heavy metal mouth that hurls obscenity
And I get my check in from the trash treasury
Because I took my own insides out

Elliot Smith

Make a photograph from an unusual point of view.

Sweet Potato Ice Cream

2011-04-04T18:48:00.000+07:00

My mind is a buzz with ice cream flavors! Having already had some success with mint, I wanted to try something a bit more exotic. I had this idea of this pumpkin pie idea, but pumpkin is hard to find here in Indonesia, so I decided to go with sweet potato instead. I also wanted candied pecans for texture, but couldn't find those either. Let's walk through the process, look at some pictures, and discuss what worked and what didn't.

First problem was that the Japanese sweet potatoes I found were not as orange or as sweet as I would have liked. They had more of a potato flavor and I was worried that my ice cream would taste more like french fries and less like a sweet pie. I thought I would simply sweeten them with some maple syrup, so I carried on and began boiling the bad boys up!

Looking a bit more rosy, but the flavor was still not there.

I peeled them, whisked my yolks and prepared my custard.

I am learning more about custard. There is a trick to making it creamy and it involves a steady warm heat so the eggs don't cook or curdle, but turn into a creamy custard. There is a lot of stirring involved.

I mixed in the potatoes and the custard and into the ice cream maker it all went. I also added some syrup for sweetness, cinnamon, nutmeg, and a bit of fresh ginger. Even a tiny bit was too much and nearly cut all the sweetness I had created.

Finally, I still needed some crunch so I caramelized some sugar candy like my grandmother used to make and sprinkled it on top.

All in all it is not bad, but not as creamy as my previous my batch. I am pretty sure this has to do with the denisty of the potatoes. It is also pretty hardy. A whole bowl feels a bit like having a meal, so this might be best on a slice of apple pie or something. I would be interested in trying this again with really sweet orange potatoes next time. Not bad for my first time and it will be yummy to eat, but not as good as the mint.

I want to try a nut based flavor next. I am thinking pistachio or almond, but I have no idea what that entails. I also found some rose water and as soon as I can afford some Saffron, I can make some Persian ice cream which is delicious.

Do you have any flavor ideas?

Symmetry

2011-04-04T16:37:00.000+07:00

I raise my glass to symmetry
To the second hand and its accuracy
To the actual size of everything
The desert is the sand
You can't hold it in your hand
It won't bow to your demands
There's no difference you can make
There's no difference you can make
And if it seems like an accident
A collage of senselessness
You weren't looking hard enough
I wasn't looking hard enough at it

Bright Eyes

Illustrate symmetry in a photograph today.

Process

2011-04-04T16:21:00.000+07:00

It's all part of the process
We all love looking down
All we want is some success
But the chance is never around

Morcheeba

Make a photograph of a symbol today.

Attraction

2011-04-03T17:15:00.000+07:00

It's as simple as something that nobody knows
That her eyes are as big as her bubbly toes
Jack Johnson

Illustrate attraction in a photograph today.

Taking Requests

2011-04-02T11:14:00.000+07:00

Every Saturday morning my wife goes grocery shopping with Kaia, while I watch our youngest. I usually spend that time messing with my guitar and singing as loudly as I can, since I cannot really do that when people are home.

This week I took a few requests from Twitter. Nothing spectacular, but had some fun strumming about.

Freebird- Called a bluff by Msstewart

Was reminded how much I love Boss DJ by Sublime by cristinamoreno

And struggled my way through one of my favorites by Pearl Jam thanks to John Spencer

There is nothing here that will get me a record deal, but it was a fun way to sing and connect with a few random people out there. I hope to record a better version of Boss DJ soon. I really like it and think I could do it some justice with some practice. Thanks everyone who played along.

We Lead And Are Led

2011-04-01T20:35:00.000+07:00

At some point in the nineteen nineties I was registered for a political science class at Mesa College in San Diego. I don’t remember any thing I learned from my time there besides how to consume large amounts of alcohol on a very limited budget. I was little more than a ghost hunched in the back corner trying to stay awake. I am not sure why I ever went to class, as I do not remember ever taking a single note, doing any assignments, or even paying for classes. I was on the winning side of my twenties and fueled by a rage I could not name.

I only bring this up because at some point during the haze that was my experience at Mesa College, I remember the professor, or whatever you call people at community college said, “Politics is the study of power.” That simple statement has stuck with me ever since. Through all my years of schooling that is the first statement that comes to mind when I recall what I have learned. Years of my own experiences later I have also learned that politics on any given level is the ability of one person to exert his or her power to make another person or other people to do something. So in this sense the human experience is a series of political experiences. The constant shifting and balancing of power- within a psyche, a relationship, a marriage, a family, a school, a community, states, nations, the world.

By understanding politics on such an intimate level, I feel I have been better able to understand politics on a larger scale. I do not understand people who claim not to understand or be interested in politics. To utter such a statement is to claim not to be interested in or to feel one is affected by the movement of power. We are all constantly perpetrators of political jostling from the moment we are born till we die. We begin as children, and depending on which set of cultural baggage we are forced to carry, are given a small amount of political capital.

As we grow older, we challenge, fight back, acquiescence. We rebel and conform. We are schooled. We are broken. We are radicalized. We are jailed. We are taught. We lead and are led. Life is nothing more than our individual balancing act of political clout. We join together in unions to demand better wages. We join together to stop wars, or we stand alone to stop abortion with a gun. A single gun can carry more political punch than a well-organized herd.

We marry. We divorce. We raise families. We join school boards. We tune out and shop and give our power away. We demand it back when left holding a heavy bag of emptiness. We are all political. We have no choice. There is no reason why we should shy away from politics. There is no reason why we should feel it is beyond us, or that we are not involved. You are either pushing or being pushed. That is politics, either way you are involved. I am involved.

Sorry for this lengthy introduction, but I needed to clear my head a bit before I jumped into my Audacity of Hope post. Yes, I have finished the eloquent manifesto written by Barack Obama, and I am proud to say that I am a better person for having done so. I would recommend this book to every American, or person trying to understand America in the modern age.

There are so many directions I want to take this post, but my eagerness and lack of focus will force me to take you on a somewhat wild ride of thoughts, ideas, and epiphanies. I apologize in advance. If you are looking for a well-organized five-paragraph essay, I suggest you look elsewhere. I do, however, hope that you will join me as I work through some ideas through text.

Let’s start with values. We have them. We lose them. We need them. Everyone…wait, let this post not deal with grand ideas of you and them and everyone else, let it simply deal with me. I like to think I have a core set of values that guide my life. I like to think that these values are clear and that I stick to them. I like to think that I am a moral man and that I am passing my values onto my family, my friends and my students. I begrudge others when they “sell-out” or turn their backs on their values, but the truth of the matter is, if asked to name my values I am not sure what they are. I have not thought deeply enough about them. Of course there is a loose cloud of ideas that I hold dear.

I am a big fan of the Golden Rule. I believe in treating others, regardless of their class or status with respect, honesty and trust until they prove unworthy. I believe in honesty, fairness, self-reliance, self-improvement, risk-taking, creativity, personal responsibility, humility, kindness, and compassion. The list could go on and on and for me it seems to do just that, but what does it mean to say you value humility? What does it meant to claim to be a compassionate person? Is it responsible of me to continue behaviors I know are causing damage to my environment? Which values are most important to me? How am I making sure that I am not simply paying lip service to this nebulous list of values? (There will be an upcoming series of post that explore my values which may be the backbone of my memoir)

This close look at my own personal values is the single biggest lesson I learned from Obama’s book. It is easy to stand on a soapbox and begrudge a politician for not doing the “right” thing. Who hasn’t acted the hypocrite when they judge the actions of others before looking closer at their own actions and deliverance of values?

I would often challenge leaders by asking them where they put their time, energy, and money. Those are the true tests of what we value, I’d tell them, regardless of what we like to tell ourselves. If we aren’t willing to pay a price for our values, if we aren’t willing to make some sacrifices in order to realize them, then we should ask ourselves whether we truly believe in them at all.

My first reaction was that of glass-house stone-thrower. “Come on Obama! Where have you been putting you time, energy, and money?” The cynic in me could list page after page of incidences when Obama has betrayed his values through his actions, but as Ari reminded me last month, who am I to speak on the actions of others before I have put my own house of values in order. What are my values? What do I sacrifice? Where is my time, my energy, and my money being spent?

Suddenly, I am the blowhard anti-corporatist who works at a profit driven corporate school educating the very class I so often deride. Suddenly, I am the environmentalist who travels by airplane three or four times a year. Suddenly, I am the compassionate person who drives by street kids in Jakarta hoping my daughter doesn’t ask me why. Suddenly, I am the vegetarian making ice cream using eggs and milk. Suddenly, I am the sell-out. It is much easier to project our values on politicians only to attack them when they let us down, then to look hard in the mirror and make sacrifices and choices that truly reflect for our values.

This simple realization made me see Obama as a human being. I put myself in his shoes and wondered how I would be attacked for my shortcomings. Before reading this book, I saw him as a shrewd manipulated/manipulative brand designed to assuage the left wing of American politics, and while this may still be true, I now see that beneath the veneer of the messiah is a man. A man who seems to share many of my values. A man who is on a similar path of growth and understanding. A man who may have chosen the wrong profession.

I will save that for next time. This book has made me think that perhaps the American political system is beyond repair, that perhaps a new form of government is needed, but that train of thought must leave a different station. For now, this book has me seriously rethinking my own values and politics. I will continue to use this space to work through my journey. Thanks for listening. Got any ideas? Share’em below.

Rinds

2011-03-31T16:51:00.000+07:00

we'll keep working on the problem we know we'll never solve
of love's uneven remainders, our lives are fractions of a whole.
but if the world could remain within a frame like a painting on a wall.
then I think we would see the beauty.
then we would stand staring in awe at our still lives posed like a bowl of oranges,
like a story told by the fault lines and the soil.

Bright Eyes

Make a photograph dominated by the color orange today.

Machine

2011-03-31T09:17:00.000+07:00

Filling holes with tiny sounds
Shining from the inside out
Picture of you where it began

Low

Make a photograph that features metal or a metallic surface today.

Top Chef

2011-03-29T20:44:00.001+07:00

There is no reason why I should like Top Chef. There is actually every reason why I should hate it. The nauseating product placement, the orchestrated and unnecessary competitiveness, the hyper-tense melodrama, and yes the weird gongs and terrible music, but alas none of these aspects make a damn of difference because I love this show. I mean love, couldn't be more entertained. I never want it to end, love!

Late to the game, my wife and I started to download the series from season four and have been on a steady diet of episodes for a few weeks. Every night after the kids are in bed and the rest of our lives are in order, we snuggle up on the couch and watch a bunch of strangers talk about food. It gets us excited. We discuss the merits of each Cheftesitant (Lame I know, don’t judge me), talk about various cooking vocabulary, (Did you know that Sous Vide means to cook something slowly in a bag?) and of course we drool over the amazing art form that is fine dining.

As a college student, I worked in several fine-dining restaurants in my twenties (One restaurant was Aquavit in NYC. I was surprised to see Marcus Samuelsson as a guest judge, as I remember him expediting food one night when I was working.) As a former waiter I have a soft spot for the restaurant world. I pride myself in starting as a busboy and working my way up the food chain. (Pun intended) I learned about wine and flavor and things like Radicchio. In some sick way, I still miss my restaurant days. I have always enjoyed eating out and food culture. I was never a professional, but I enjoyed understanding food and giving my diner's a pleasant experience. My wife says, I am a terrible person to go out with because I am the guy wondering why our drink orders haven't been taken yet or why there are stains on our silverware.

Watching Top Chef has awakened something in me. I am making my own ice cream and pasta and really thinking about food in a whole new way. Yes, it is cheesy and dramatic, but it is also very entertaining, funny, and mouth watering. If you haven’t watched this show and you like food, you are missing out. I joke with my wife that I am in love with Padama and that she is my new TV wife, and I must admit that I have a bit of a man crush on Tom Caliiclhio. I have said too much. Looking forward to starting season eight tonight. Yes all-stars! Do you watch it too? Who was your favorite? What stories do you have to share about food?

Interaction with Dough

2011-03-29T19:45:00.001+07:00

You can tell a lot about a person by the way he/she interacts with dough. Just watch a man as he pounds and dances with a ball of flour and egg and you can read right into his soul. You can watch insecurities morph into frustrations only to magnify into neurosis. Let that dough remain unyielding for long enough and a man may go mad. Or he may tenderly and firmly knead the dough, pull it, stretch it, find its (his) limits.

I decided to make fresh pasta today. I need a meditative practice. I need a new hobby. I need to see myself with dough, in dough, through dough? I need to tend to my anxiety and assuage my patience. I need to do something with all my soul. I need to not multi-task and work with deliberation. I need to cook.

One of the easiest Zen tenets is to act with awareness and determination. Be here now and be into what you are doing. Take the simplest task and give yourself to it fully. When I say easiest, of course I mean easiest to understand, but nothing in Zen is easy. One can want to make fresh pasta with his four year old daughter during spring break, but to actually make it happen takes a lot more_____________?

I am not sure what it takes, but I do know that when you find a simple task like making food, and you bring love to it, and surround yourself with music and sunlight, and you talk to your growing child about what you are doing, and you talk and knead, and roll and need each other, beautiful things happen.

This is all there really is. This is the happiness so many people find elusive. A man and his child standing in the kitchen making lunch...

More pictures here

Inside

2011-03-29T16:21:00.001+07:00

It's funny how things make sense when your lonely
It's funny how you want more when your happy
I'm coming over will you open the door for me
I'm better off inside

Hayden

Make a photograph that illustrates being inside today.

Audacity Indeed!

2011-03-28T21:27:00.000+07:00

I am in a state in which I often find myself- too tried to write a fully thought out, well written post, but wily enough to want, nay, need to say more than a few Tweets. So what to do? Write the half baked, get it out of my system, more than 140 characters post, and move on.

After a thought provoking and mind opening chat with my friend Ari, I am reading Audacity of Hope by none other than B. Obama himself. And honestly, I am loving it. It is too soon for me to make any grand political epiphanies or sweeping judgments, but the book itself is an absolute pleasure to read. Flawlessly written and honest in spirit, it is a book that every American should read if for nothing else a firm understanding of how politics works in our current age.

The prose is fluid, well crafted and a pleasure to read. His ideas, while wildly centrist and bipartisan, can't help but make you, no matter what your political persuasion, think about your position in a more open-minded way. It is a dispassionate, realistic, and honest look into the mind of a politician.

As I mentioned earlier this is not the soul bearing post in which I closely examine some fundamental shifts in my thinking due to the content of this book. This is merely to say that I am really enjoying the ride. I will definitely be reading his earlier book if for no other reason that I love his style.

More soon. I am about half way through it...

Names and Things

2011-03-28T17:09:00.000+07:00

But you, you can't be found when the bell rings
You weren't there that day for the naming of things

The naming of things
The naming of things

Andrew Bird

Make a black and white photograph and go monochrome today

Happiness

2011-03-27T13:57:00.005+07:00

Your love is better than ice cream
Better than anything else that I’ve tried
And your love is better than ice cream
Everyone here knows how to fight

Sarah McLachlan

I have a little more to add to this Daily Shoot assignment. Last night, I spent a little over an hour making fresh mint ice cream from scratch, and this simple act of creation made me very happy. My mind was swirling with cool mediative thoughts on simplicity and freshness. Rather than try to recapture them all now, I will open the flood gates and let spill some of the ideas that I remember:

We have forgotten how simple creation can be. Fast and easy has overtaken slow and deliberate. We allow others to make everything for us because they have made it appear to be difficult and while they have promised to make our lives easier, really they have only made our lives more shallow.

Flavor comes from the earth. All of it. Everything else is processed chemicals. Everything tastes better homemade. To say we don't have time means to make time for other things. Food is important. I enjoy stirring cream. I like the smell of fresh mint. This is meditation. I am learning right now. I can feel the tingle. Learning how to make a custard. Learning how to infuse flavor, learning how to slow down and breathe. These are the lesson we should be teaching in school.

I hope sharing this experience will connect me to like-minded people and/or inspire others. I like it all by myself here with the spinning iced cream. What flavors are next: Saffron, rosewater, pumpkin, peach? Tomorrow night I will make fresh raviolis. Something inside me is alive and growing. I will nurture it with the love I put in this food...

Here are some images from my Saturday night.

Body Rockin'

2011-03-26T17:01:00.000+07:00

The sound of the music makin' you insane
You can't explain to people this type of mind frame
And like a bottle of Chateau Neuf Du Pap
I'm fine like wine when I start to rap
We need body rockin' not perfection
Let me get some action from the back section

Beastie Boys

Make a photograph of something in motion. Use blur to help convey the motion you are capturing.

Way Home

2011-03-25T16:44:00.000+07:00

Have you found your way around the down and out?
I know it must seem long so long
I'm still trying to keep this time from running out
head down
always moving on and on and on

Foo Fighters

Make a photograph featuring a path, road, or trail that leads the eye through the photograph.

You Are My Face

2011-03-24T20:20:00.000+07:00

I am looking forward
Toward the shadows tracing bones
Our faces stitched and sewing
Our houses hemmed into homes
Trying to be thankful
Our stories fit into phones
And our voices lift so easily
A gift given accidentally
When we're not sure
We're not alone

Wilco

Make a photograph today that uses layers as a compositional tool.

Opportunity

2011-03-23T16:38:00.000+07:00

I've been wrong before
And I'll be there again
I don't have
any answers my friend
Just this pile of old questions
My memory left me here
In the field of opportunity
It's plowin' time again.

Neil Young

Illustrate the rule of thirds in a photograph today.

Home

2011-03-22T17:01:00.001+07:00

Home, with our bodies touching
Home, and the cameras watching
Home, will infect whatever you do
Where home, comes to life from out of the blue

David Bryne

What reminds you of home? Make a photograph of it today.

The Empire's New Clothes

2011-03-20T19:39:00.000+07:00

A few days weeks ago, I wrote about an exchange I had with Ari about a book I am reading about Obama. Our conversation, rightfully, caused a shift in my political equilibrium and personal values. Ari really made me rethink the expectations I have of my politicians and examine my own actions and morality. Basically he said that, it is easy to rant against X and Y, but we should be careful not to actually be acting like X and Y ourselves.

I have a few new insights on our chat, but will hold on to them until I finished Audacity of Hope, which is now on my bedside table. I will give Obama the benefit of doubt and read his point of view with an open mind. In the meantime, I have scratched out this quick review of the Paul Street book. I hope to revisit my thoughts, our chat, and both books when I finish the Obama book. This review is tepid at best, but I felt I needed to get something now at this juncture.

A review of The Empire's New Clothes by Paul Street

A bit skewed left, but rightfully so, many will claim this to be an unrealistic, utopian rant by a left-wing radical, but really the one question the writers asks repeatedly is this, "Has president Obama moved toward a peace and justice agenda based on the wants and rights of poor and middle clas Americans, or has he been a puppet of big moneyed Wall Street and big industry interests?

The book does a great job of breaking down every aspect of Obama's failure to even come close to the "progressive" agenda his campaign sold to Americans. It would do apologist Obamaist well to take a look at these claims and rather than blindly defend "Brand Obama's" short comings, start asking new questions: Is this false reform what they want from Obama, or is it time to cut their losses and move in a new direction? A movement that actually force Imperialist, corporate America to shift radically left. Time for us as a nation question the very nature of our values. Time to admit that no man shackled by the office of president, beholden to a broken free market system will ever work for the needs of the people. It is time for us to work actively building alternative grassroots movements...

I know, I know...what the hell am I doing working at a corporate private school in a foreign country? I guess I should just move home and get to work or stop my bitching. I am off to read The Audacity of Hope so as not to be called biased. Let's see what the man himself has to say...

In The Window

2011-03-20T18:37:00.000+07:00

I know too many people unhappy
In a life from which they’d love to flee
Watching others get everything offered
They’re wanton for discovery
Oh my brother my sister my mother
You’re loosing your identity
Can’t you see that it’s you in the window
Shining with intensity

Sarah McLachlan

Make a photograph that incorporates a circle.

All Around The Light

2011-03-20T15:05:00.001+07:00

Now I see my father, he's so small against the sky
The child, the tree, the shadow's on his eyes
He doesn't know who he's supposed to be
Father you are free
And all around the light
And all around the light

Alexi Murdoch

Go somewhere you've not been to in a while and make a photograph of something that grabs your interest.

Carry Me Down

2011-03-19T13:46:00.000+07:00

Miles and miles of nether worlds I roam
Settle for love you're never far from home
Carry me down into the waters of
Carry me down into the water of love
Two of us were made of angel's dust
I've been around
But not around enough

Red Hot Chili Peppers

Convey warmth in a photograph today.

Hands of a Prayer

2011-03-18T20:35:00.000+07:00

Am I the man I choose to be, choose to be,
Or just the man I used to be, used to be
Am I the man I want to be, I want to be
this question, it keeps haunting me, haunting me

Ben Harper

Show your own hand in a photograph today doing something. Reaching, holding, touching, or making a sign.

Translation

2011-03-17T23:11:00.000+07:00

What do you do with the pieces of a broken heart
and how can a man like me remain in the light
and if life is really as short as they say
then why is the night so long
and then the sun went down
and he sang for me this song

M. Ward

Make a photograph outdoors without an obvious horizon line.

Worried Shoes

2011-03-16T16:58:00.001+07:00

My shoes took me toward crooked path.
Away from our welcome mats, my worried shoes.
I looked all around and saw the sun shining down.
Took off my worried shoes, my worries shoes

Karen O

Today's color is green. Make a photograph dominated by green today.

Fresh Knowledge

2011-03-15T17:20:00.001+07:00

I swear to you
That I would never feed you pain
But you're staring at me again
Like I'm driving the nails...

Soundgarden

Make a photograph today that illustrates the idea of freshness to you.

Badfish

2011-03-14T20:42:00.000+07:00

Ain't got no quarrels with God. Ain't got no time to get old
Lord knows I'm weak
Won't somebody get me off of this reef

Sublime

Make a photo of two complementary objects arranged in a pleasing composition, one large and one small.

Welcome to the Machine

2011-03-13T15:38:00.000+07:00

Welcome my son, welcome to the machine.  
What did you dream?
It's alright we told you what to dream.

Pink Floyd

Make a photograph that illustrates a role of technology in your life.

little mouse

2011-03-12T19:23:00.001+07:00

every morning a little mouse carries
a pile of books
and randomly lines her nest with
words and pictures...

she buries herself beneath the weight
of possibilities.

Make a photograph that illustrates randomness in some way today.

Close to Home

2011-03-12T10:12:00.003+07:00

I find something very beautiful, humbling, and wonderful about people sitting in rooms alone and recording their favorite songs. We so often associate musicians as extroverted performers, but the reality is that many of us are shy, quiet folk who strum chords and sing out of key, simply because the songs in us must get out.

I love watching random Youube covers. There is often such a pure innocence in the way these songs are covered. The cynic may claim that we closet singers are looking for some kind of attention, others may mock us like they do to the poor victims of American Idol, but I think there is something very brave in locking yourself in the bathroom with a guitar and singing to the world.

I have been a bit obsessed with the song Far From Home by Iron and Wine. First I remixed it with snippets from this confession by Justin Hall.

Far From Home On A Dark Night by intrepidflame

Now I have covered the song with a simple guitar track and posted it on Soundcloud, in hopes that other will add some noice, backing tracks drums etc... to my track and repost it on Soundcloud. At which time I will download the different versions and remix a collaborative version of my cover.

I have sent an invite to the following people on Youtube, so I hope you join in. Great covers! One and all.

So take this track:

Far From Home by intrepidflame

and add your voice. Upload it to soundcloud and send me the link! Let's see what we create together. To clarify there are a few things you can do:

Download this track and add backing vocals or other instruments to it and upload it or send it to my dropbox on Soundcloud. Sort of a duet.
You can play my track in the background but only record and upload your tracks. So I can then layer the various tracks to create a more layered song.Make sure the timing works to make it easier. I can then take your tracks and simply add them to a Garaband File.
Do something totally random and crazy and make me deal with it.

Let' em rip people. Here is the tab I used.

Circles

2011-03-11T17:25:00.002+07:00

When the ghostly dust of violence traces everything
And when the gas runs out just wreck it, you insured the thing

I don't need to walk around in circles
walk around in circles
walk around in circles
walk around in

Soul Coughing

Make a photograph of a beautiful simple shape, such as an egg, today. Utilize lighting and focus to make it sing.

Ripple

2011-03-10T16:50:00.000+07:00

Reach out your hand if your cup be empty
If your cup is full may it be again
Let it be known there is a fountain
That was not made by the hands of man

Grateful Dead

Make a photograph that features water in one way or another today.

Let's Grow Together.

2011-03-09T19:10:00.000+07:00

Below you will find a thread from my Facebook page about the latest book I am reading on Obama.The thread also references an article by Chris Hedges.

Half way through this exchange my good friend Ari and I had a chat on Gmail. You will find the transcript of that chat below. I have pasted the conversation in its entirety for the sake of context and flow.

8:52 AM
Ari: our stupid fight on facebook?!?
8:53 AM
me: It is blocked here at school, I have my retort all written out, but can't post it now.
But don't have more time to get into it now.
What else is up?
Are you still teaching at the Russian school?
8:56 AM
Ari: i am . why do you ask?
me: You should check out this book.
8:57 AM
Think it is an easy sell for kids. Lots of good themes etc...

8:58 AM
Ari: k. ...basically, my question about the marxist book you are reading is why you think this guy is more true in statements than obama in his books
8:59 AM
me: Don't have time right now. Leave it on Facebook.
9:00 AM
Ari: okay. can i share one small peom really quickly

me: sure. Now you got me thinking, why does Reb Anderson have more credibility to you than say Glenn Beck?
9:01 AM
Why Democracy Now over Fox?
Ari: totally!!!
me: Why Josh Ritter over Justin Beiber?
Ari: exactlly
me: I get your point. There is no truth. We all know that.
9:02 AM
Ari: well if there is no truth...we need to watch out for people who seem to traffic in "their" truths
me: but we construct meaning and narrative through a melange of ideas. I don't believe Obama like I don't believe a commercial.
Yeah, but at some point we traffic in our truths too.
9:03 AM
I believe the marixts guy like I believe in NPR
Ari: too, true....this is what the branch of epistemology is all about in philosophy
me: His narrative matches people I respect and admire: Zinn, Chomsky etc....
9:04 AM
Ari: what "counts" as knowledge, as logical
me: His story matches the one I have viewed first hand. Thus making it more authentic...to me.
Ari: yep
yep, bz
...but...
me: That doesn't take away from the authenticity of it for me and trying to share that view with others who may not have seen it this way.

9:05 AM
Ari: (i have a big life shattering point to make)
me: people who still believe other views points, like the fact that Obama is honorable and authentic.
Ari: (i guess i just got flustered when you wrote "i told you so")
9:06 AM
me: For me it is like people believing that Reagan was just folksy or that Bush was a cowboy.
I see no difference in the Obama ad.
Ari: (it was like had some special insight that only your team was able to divine)
me: Valid point. That was provocative and uncalled for.
9:07 AM
Ari: okay, thats all i was reacting to
(when i am being honest with my emotions...i was just reacting to your provoction)
me: Anyway, great book. I am loving it.
Ari: cool...the dialetic thing is

9:08 AM
me: But def check out Speak for your classes.
Ari: if you read obama's two books
me: I will.
Ari: you would come away with this idea that he is the such a nuanced, thoughtful, brave, community-organizer-y dude
me: Just to be able to have a more solid foundation on which to criticize.
Ari: so reasoned.
he read sarte
he read marx
9:09 AM
he got down with the churches in chicago
me: Yeah, I also feel that Apple products make me cooler or that having a Pyrius is great, but that doesn't change the illusion.
Ari: he grew up in indonesia. he stuggled to find himself
me: He may have been all those things, but he aint that no more.
9:10 AM
Ari: yeah, but he did this all when his name was barry and he was going out for a first date with michele to see "do the right thing"
me: He is a pawn who thinks he is king. That line!
Ari: no. bob
let me say one thing

me: go
Ari: do you know how easy it would be
9:11 AM
to make you appear as a some two-faced capitalist pig
who espoused himself to his students
as pro human rights this and pro human rights that
but in the real world...mr. raisdana
took this job here
and shopped at this mall
and this online website
and consumed this
9:12 AM
and vacationed here
and spent his money on this thing
and ate from this place
i mean
i could go on and on
i could a priori
decide you were a corporate shill
and then only provide evidence that confirmed said belief

9:13 AM
me: Great point.
Very very well said.
Ari: leaving out all the lefty stuff
me: Sort of a pow to the head!

Ari: (its called being "intellectually dishonenest)
9:14 AM
i could EVEN easier do it with myself!
me: I get where you are going: Questioning the validity of the honesty of "working within the system."
But when push came to shove how would Mr. raisdana react?
Ari: well, push comes to shove every fucking day(that line!)

9:15 AM
me: Your point is well made, but did I try to convince my students, readers, family self..that I would do one thing than do the exact opposite....yeah yeah I do.
You are right.

Ari: bob, i dont want to be "right"
9:16 AM
...i just want to say...this:
me: I mean I understand your point.
Ari: its easy to fall in love with chomsky, et al
i love chomsky!!!!!!!!
i have his god damn reader, for christ sakes
but....

9:17 AM
me: I guess the trick is to change ourselves to become the honest people we want than attack the politicians for not doing it. then

Ari: i am part of the system is he critquing
I AM PART OF THE PROBLEM I AM RAILING AGAINST
YES.
as long as i shop at target
or get a cup of joe at starbucks

me: But that is so hard. Because I feel powerless in the face of the system.
Ari: or get lazy and dont recycle

9:18 AM
me: Maybe my frustration with Obama is really a mirror of my own anxiety.
Ari: (AND YOU DONT THINK PRESIDENT OBAMA DOES??????)
me: The system has trapped me too.
Ari: AND YOU ARE A MIRROR FOR HIM
TOTALLY
..i feel so trapped, too.
i dont make much money

9:19 AM
me: Yeah, try it with a family, where your choices are not your own anymore.
Ari: and sometimes it cheaper to buy from the corporation than from the local artisan
me: They are collective. Guess much like poltics

Ari: AND, GET THIS...THE COUNTRY IS THE PRESIDENTS FAMILY
so much to think about

9:20 AM
me: And they are crazy, irresponsible, illiterate, and dysfunctional and unable to listen or agree.
I get it. Thanks for this talk. I will let it stew for a while.

9:21 AM
Ari: k. me, too.
i just want to add this very very small point
me: obv
Ari: i think one thing that makes me trust obama in the way i never did with bush or most republicans...
me: oh oh....

9:22 AM
Ari: is he doesnt come from business...he didnt get into politics as a way of advancing some corporate loop hole for his company, etc...
he was an academic, a lawyer, a professor
a community organizer
his intentions were dispassionate

me: That almost makes it worse.

Ari: when it comes to corporate self serving greed
9:23 AM
well depends on a lot of stuff...
but the moral hazard isnt there
like with cheney as ceo and then the wars, etc
me: ok
9:24 AM
I will save this chat btw and share it somehow.

Great stuff.

So there you have it! It was a pretty intense chat, and honestly I am a bit drained from it all, but I wanted to try and at least synthesize the gist of it.

The part that obviously struck me was when Ari called me on my own hypocrisy and shallow self-righteousness.

Ari: do you know how easy it would be
9:11 AM
to make you appear as a some two-faced capitalist pig
who espoused himself to his students
as pro human rights this and pro human rights that
but in the real world...mr. raisdana
took this job here
and shopped at this mall
and this online website
and consumed this
9:12 AM
and vacationed here
and spent his money on this thing
and ate from this place
i mean
i could go on and on
i could a priori
decide you were a corporate shill
and then only provide evidence that confirmed said belief

And really it is this inability to see ourselves and our choices within a political arena that causes so much anger and conflict. Here I am berating Obama for being a corporate stooge and sell-out, while I myself work at a for-profit school, make choices that I find appalling, and for all intents and purposes support the very machine I rage against.

Perhaps my anger toward Obama is that he was branded as our savior and I am disgruntled that he cannot do what I cannot do. Ari, made me realize that maybe he too is trapped within the system. I am sure if asked I could write a litney of justification as to why I work within the system, and how my intentions are in the right place and how i am trying to change minds from inside, the question than becomes: Who is to say that Obama is not faced with the same fate?

So what is the answer? Honestly I don't know. I think it has something to do with settling the storm within ourselves before we stir it up in others. I had a good run away from politics, and perhaps this immature return was a good lesson. I am just glad I have good teachers like Ari to remind me when I am acting irrationally. We should all be so lucky to have such good friends. Perhaps instead of reading inflammatory politics text, I should allow my temper to settle on these beautiful poems by Ari.

For those of you who know me, you know this will not be the last rant. Others will come and go. I am sure, but on this day it was nice to have my mind changed ever so slightly, even for a few minutes. It reminded me that I am free and not tied to any ideology or dogma. My mind is my own to change. My ideas are fluid and not set in stone.

I will continue to read and write and discuss and feel and change. Hopefully I will find others who are also this invested. What do you think of all this? A lot to take in, I know. Share your thoughts. Let's grow together.

The Jungle

2011-03-09T15:17:00.000+07:00

We got fun 'n' games
We got everything you want
Honey we know the names
We are the people that can find
Whatever you may need
If you got the money honey
We got your disease

Guns N' Roses

Make a feeling that conveys a sense of being outdoors today.

One Red Thread

2011-03-08T14:13:00.000+07:00

have to say there was a mile or two
I had the itch to fly and i flew
now at best we would make our dreams
with something used
with something used

Blind Pilot

Today's theme is red. Red hot? Red paint? Or something else? You decide. Make your photo and then reply with a link!

Swirls

2011-03-07T16:36:00.001+07:00

three crooked hearts and swirls all around...
i miss you all day

Pearl Jam

Make a photograph of a smile today.

It's funny, since my kids were born I take pictures of little else. I joined Daily Shoot to force myself to take pictures of subjects other than my kids, but seems that I have had problems with that goal for a week now. But a smile? Come on how can I pass this up?

Linger

2011-03-06T16:03:00.001+07:00

All this day long I linger here and on in through the night
My greeds, desires, my cravings, hopes, my dreams inside me fight:
My loneliness healed, my emptiness filled, I walk above all pain
Back to the breast of my woman and child to scatter my seeds again

Wilco

Make a low contrast photo today. Concentrate on other cues—such as line and texture—to create your photograph.

Amused

2011-03-05T16:24:00.000+07:00

i am a scientist - i seek to understand me
i am an incurable and nothing else behaves like me

Guided by Voices

Make a photograph of something that you find amusing today.

Candle

2011-03-05T10:00:00.001+07:00

My best friend from high school, Ari, over at We Buy Balloons has been writing some amazing poems. I want to do a long term project with his words, like record a CD, so today I grabbed my guitar, recruited Kaia and played around with a few lines. It is raw and fresh and honest. I hope to record a few more and see where these go. I will upload them all to Soundcloud, so feel free to download them add your spin and upload them again.

I think these poems offer a sweet taste of vulnerability and motional honesty that can help us all. Add your voice, let's sing together.

a candle, lit and alive,
burns within me
night and day,
rain or shine.

this flame may flare and flicker.
yet something tells me i can't be sure.

perhaps it's only when
i seek warmth someplace else
that my candle seems to fade.

when i trust my light,
this love catches fire...

Candle by intrepidflame

And of course mention anything to Bryan Jackson and get his take within 24 hours. Thanks Bryan:

Candle(s) - collaboration w/ Jabiz Raisdana & Ari Zeiger by Bryanjack

Long Shadows

2011-03-04T18:24:00.000+07:00

I'm not afraid of the dark
When the sun goes down
And the dreams grow teeth
And the beasts come out
Cast their long shadows
Every time that they start
I'll be right here with you
I'm not afraid of the dark

Josh Ritter

Make a photograph that features a shadow as your subject today.

Ashes

2011-03-03T18:09:00.000+07:00

Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.
Leonard Cohen

What kind of other art do you appreciate? Make a photograph that celebrates it today.

Buildings and Bridges

2011-03-02T17:16:00.000+07:00

Buildings and bridges
are made to bend in the wind
to withstand the world,
that's what it takes
All that steel and stone
is no match for the air, my friend
what doesn't bend breaks

Ani DiFranco

Find a repeating pattern today and make a photograph of it.

Absence of the Sacred

2011-03-01T20:13:00.001+07:00

Sometimes you read a book that you want to share with everyone in the world. It moves you in so many ways that you don't know where to start even talking about. You highlight so many passages that you do not know which ones to share first. The review remains shelved, because you so want to get it right that you become paralyzed. Problem with books like this is that if you wait too long to get "it" right, you will never write about them. The trick is to just start writing and have faith that you will write more as necessary. Sometimes these books that shift our world view and make us doubt everything we stand for, need more than a 750 word review. Sometimes they need a few years to really be absorbed. Trouble is that you want to share them with everyone right now!

Well, faithful reader, I have read such a book. In the Absence of the Sacred: The Failure of Technology and the Survival of the Indian Nations by Jerry Mander had me asking questions, reflecting on my values, and really looking closely at my relationship to technology and nature.

Mander's book is an angry protest against the uncritical adoption of technology, the expansion of capitalism, and the centralization of political power. He warns that these trends will lead to a New World Order dominated by multinational corporations, resulting in devastation of the earth's natural environment and native cultures. Mander argues that technologies like television and computers extend corporate control in society and promote the uncaring consumption of natural resources. From Amazon

Mander makes many claims throughout the book:

We have lost touch with nature and the earth.
We have created false reality through the use of technology and this disconnect from the earth is at the heart of many of the world's problems
We are only ever "sold" the best of technology by those it befits most (Corporations ) and so we never really look critically at how technologies affect society and nature.
Indigenous people's have lived at one with nature for thousands of years, while technological society is relatively young and is headed for extinction.
If we do not change our relationship with the earth we are doomed.
An economic system based on infinite growth cannot function on a finite planet.
We have a lot to learn from Indigenous people
We feel Western, technological society is better off or more advanced than "primitive" cultures
When really they are just waiting for us to kill ourselves off, so they can go back to living life on earth.
They do not enevt us or want to be like us. They pity us an dhow lost we are.
The Earth is alive, when we forgot this, we began to recreate nature to fit our technological needs. (malls, suburbs, domes, space stations etc..)
Failing to see the earth as alive we do not feel guilt or shame as we exploit her for resources for our own "comfort"
We are so disconnect from nature that we live in our own minds. Our technology mirrors our disconnect.
Most technology is born from corporate and military parents.
Television is a tool of corporate powers to influence and shape culture into a homogeneous consumerists society.
Corporations are not made up of people, but behave systemically like machines
They have grown beyond our control
We have become part of the machine so we have difficulty determining it's boundaries and shape.

I could go on and on. This book is similar to Ishmael, The Last Hours of Ancient Sunshine, and A Language Older than Words. In short, they are all warning us that the myth of technological advancement, perpetuated by corporate interest to make them money, is not the only model for our planet, and it would behoove us to begin to explore alternative ways of being human on this planet. The west is not the best, we are not number one and if we do not wake up soon, we will be gone. Please read this book, track me down and let's chat.

One final note, this really could be two separate books, while the beginning covers most of the topics I mentioned above, the second half is a brief history of the various genocides both past and present against the indigenous people of the world. From Hawaii to Alaska, Canada to Indonesia, Mander documents how technological society has always been at war against native peoples, because of the fundamental difference in worldviews. One group sees the planet as alive with humans as one aspect of a greater whole. We are part of nature. While the other group sees the planet as a dead pool if resources to be exploited for the benefit of mankind, a superior species destined to control the planet. From Manifest Destiny to Globalization, Mander claims that we have been moving in the wrong direction and that we should slow down, stop and re-evaluate our existence on this planet.

Final thoughts:

Yell Fire

2011-03-01T15:21:00.000+07:00

A revolution never come with a warning
A revolution never sends you an omen
A revolution just arrived like the morning
Ring the alarm, we come to wake up the snoring

Michael Franti

Make a photograph illustrating a sound that catches your ear today.

A Glow

2011-02-28T17:10:00.000+07:00

Come into the den, come into the den
You've got a glow
Climb into my arms with blood on your clothes
You've got a glow

Okkervil River

Make a photograph of something that is glowing today. Use any meaning of the word you like.

Your Mother Should Know

2011-02-27T11:17:00.000+07:00

Lift up your hearts and sing me a song
That was a hit before your mother was born.
Though she was born a long, long time ago
Your mother should know

The Beatles

Make a photograph that illustrates the idea of connection.

What Light

2011-02-26T14:40:00.000+07:00

And if the whole world's singing your songs
And all of your paintings have been hung
Just remember what was yours is everyone's from now on

And that's not wrong or right
But you can struggle with it all you like
You'll only get uptight

Because there's a light (what light)
There's a light (one light)

Wilco

Make a photograph featuring strong horizontal lines today.

Sleeping In

2011-02-25T16:40:00.001+07:00

Don't wake me I plan on sleeping
Don't wake me I plan on sleeping in
Don't wake me I plan on sleeping
Don't wake me I plan on sleeping in

The Postal Service

Illustrate your idea of peace and harmony--or maybe just peace and quiet--today with a photograph.

Beauty Brigade

2011-02-24T20:11:00.000+07:00

We're lining up the light loafer'd, and the bored bench-warmers.
Castaways and cut-outs, fill it up.
Come join the Youth and Beauty Brigade.
Nothing will stand in our way.

The Decemberists

Beauty is all around us. Make a photo of some naturally occurring beauty in your area today.

Spinning Wheel of Death

2011-02-23T14:29:00.000+07:00

You wait
You wait
You wait for something that'll make the waiting worth the wait
You wait

Built to Spill

Make a photograph today that illustrates of the act of waiting.

Stop Light

2011-02-22T13:06:00.000+07:00

Stop light, plays its part
So I would say you've got a part
What's your part? Who you are
You are who, who you are

Pearl Jam

Who are you? Make a self portrait today and show the rest of us what you look like.

Men of the Trees

2011-02-21T17:09:00.000+07:00

I knew you well, I know you best
A baby mouth denied the breast
A lazy bone, an eagle eye
Circling a city that's higher than the sky

Iron and Wine

Work with scale today and make a photograph that features a subject either larger or smaller than expected.

Just Get Me Home

2011-02-20T22:18:00.000+07:00

You can fly from the stuff that still surrounds you
Where home and the band keeps marching on
Connecting to every living soul
Compassion for things I'll never know.

David Byrne

Make a photograph of something that captures a small bit the flavor of where you live or your culture.

Something Beautiful

2011-02-19T17:50:00.000+07:00

Your skin
Oh yeah your skin and bones
Turn into something beautiful...
...look how they shine for you
and all the things you do

Coldplay

Make a photograph that features the color yellow in some way or another.

So Tired

2011-02-19T00:12:00.002+07:00

I'm so tired, I haven't slept a wink
I'm so tired, my mind is on the blink

The Beatles

Happy, sad, frazzled, or joyous? Make an abstract or literal photo that expresses how you feel today.