I am growing more and more annoyed at the Georgian-Russian conflict, the news coverage of it in America, and especially the Georgian President, Mikheil Saakashvili. Mr. Saakashvili, in my opinion, looks like an utter fool, standing in front of his people, begging the United States to come and have his war with Russia for him. The United States, however, would be the bigger fool if it listened.
What the American news networks like to sidestep in their discussions of this conflict is that Georgia instigated it by entering South Ossetia. The Georgian-South Ossetian dispute has been going on since before the 1920's. South Ossetia declared independence in 1990, though Georgia has not recognized it as independent. South Ossetia happens to be an ally of Russia, North Ossetia lying therein; Georgia happens to be an ally of the US.
Does this remind you of anything? Kosovo perchance? Kosovo declares independence from Serbia, and, of course, Serbia does not recognize it. The US supports Kosovo's independence, because they support the goals of the US.
Say, ten to fifteen years from now, Serbia decides to send its troops into Kosovo. Do you think the US would not respond to this? Especially if Kosovo were located on the United States border? Then suppose Serbia cries to the rest of the world that they've been invaded and are totally outraged. Who would laugh in their face?
Don't get me wrong. I understand and recognize that Russia has over-reacted, and that now they have indeed invaded Georgia proper. I also see that they are telling bold-face lie after bold-face lie to the press about their whereabouts and intentions. So, let's blame them for that. Why confuse the facts and not put blame where blame is due? Mr. Saakashvili made a huge miscalculation regarding the capabilities of the United States military forces at this time. Russia takes this opportunity to flaunt its shit.
CNN asks me, "Is Russia trying to take over the world?" Perhaps. But no more than the United States is. Russia is doing everything the United States would do. The only difference is that we live in the United States, and they live in Russia. We all want the money and the oil and the power equally. It's only weak posturing by the United States and Georgia to pretend there is anything more to this conflict.
Addendum: I later founnd out that it is not quite so clear that Georgia actually started the war; it was much more complicated and Russia was a lot to blame for it. But I still think the news coverage of the entire ordeal was confusing and lacking the depth that the situation required. I also still believe it is usually a matter of alliance, rather than objective morality when it comes to these kinds of conflicts.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Satisfied
I have a hundred loves and no love at all.
The man on the train looking at me though his paper. The clerk at the store, who now recognizes me; his hip son, who works without smiling. The men at work who smile when they see me, and the ones who don't.
Goofy men and serious men. Big boys and skinny boys. Quiet ones; rebellious ones. The ones with long hair and the ones with no hair. Intellectuals and jocks, geeks and musicians.
Glasses and beards and button up shirts. Their hands, their mouths, their shoulders.
When they let me go ahead of them. When they can't stop looking at me, even when they try.
I stand close to the men on the train and breathe them in.
Then I go home, and I feel...
Monday, July 28, 2008
Glass
I can hear their laughing on the other side of the glass. Yes, I feel envy, but also disdain. But I brush both feelings off and scan myself for deeper thoughts. I can write about my feelings all day long. It's feeling them that gets me.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Hard Blood
The hardened blood runs thick through all our veins, but it is most striking in the women of the family. My father has three sisters, Alex, Sam, and Rea. As reflected in the shortened versions of their birth-names that they go by, they are proud of the hardness in their blood.
My Aunt Alex is the most straight forward of the three, seemingly given the largest dose of hard blood. This is a woman who was shocked to hear that I'd made it to the age of twenty-four without ever being sexually assaulted; she was almost offended. She avoids one-on-one time with family members, though she likes their general presence. She only feels comfortable discussing things that are killing us and the hopelessness of the world.
At my family reunion, I obtained several wounds from drunken wrestling with my male cousins. I spent the rest of the week flaunting these wounds, bragging that, no, those boys never did get that damned float from me! I got some strange looks; someone even suggested that I was suicidal, a point I did not care to dispute. Only my Aunt Alex gave me the response I was seeking.
"They may have kicked the shit out of me" (I point at my black eye and fat lip), "but I won!" Aunt Alex's eyes flicker at this boast. "That's my girl!" she says with pride. I immediately feel the irony of my own statement, but my Aunt Alex is thrilled, and I smile.
My Aunt Rea's hardness is more covert. She is a devout worshiper of Jesus Christ, a motherly figure himself. The religion she advocates encourages love, but in classic hard-blood manner, she emphasizes the inevitable end of life:
Aunt Alex's grandson, Isaac, grabs a sand bucket to dip into the pool, and Aunt Rea's son Jude helps him gather water into it. Issac holds the bucket over his head, grinning at Jude, and overturns it. The grin doesn't leave his face for a moment as the water flattens his hair and darkens his clothes. He sees that this pleases Jude, so he goes in for another. Again he tips the bucket onto his own head. All of us at the pool enjoy this show immensely, so he continues the act until we lose interest. Seeing our growing boredom after four or five times, he looks at the floor of the pool for fresh ideas. Suddenly, he hurtles himself straight at Jude, and Jude just barely catches him in the water. They laugh hysterically. Isaac gets out for another go, and Jude is ready. They go at it like this for a while, and the scene draws a bit of a crowd. We all laugh along with them.
"Someone ought to teach him." my Aunt Rea interjects. "One of these days he's going to do that when no one is around. He needs to learn to be afraid." She's subtle, but affective. I notice Jude's smile shrink with Isaac's next jump.
"How old is he?" I object.
"Three," she turns to me with a grimacing smile; she likes a challenge.
"Hmm" I respond.
She loves it. "Don't you think he should be afraid?"
"At three?" I counter. She lets her eyes grill me. "Someone should be watching him." I offer.
"Ha!" She's visibly tickled. "No, he needs to learn. There won't always be someone there to watch him, and what if he does it then?"
"Well, why won't there be? He's only three. Someone should be watching him all the time at that age."
This is so obviously absurd to my aunt that she can barely respond. I look over at Jude, and he is no longer having fun catching Isaac, who remains in blissful oblivion. Uncomfortable with the argument, Jude passes Issac to his brother, Job, who takes up the cross and scolds the ecstatic child for being so reckless. I consider this the loss of the argument and merely smile at my aunt.
"What's he doing now?" Isaac's mother wonders up and projects to the pool.
"He's been jumping into the pool, and I was just saying that he may do it when no one is around to catch him. I was explaining how he needs to learn to be afraid...."
"Yeah! Let 'im drown!" she screams obnoxiously, as if she were drunk. "Put the fear in 'im! Job! Let 'im go! Let 'im drown!" I imagine maniacal laughter after her exhortations. All the while Issac is smiling bigger than his mouth will let him and giggling to no end in Job's arms.
"I was telling Ingrid here that he should be scared." My Aunt Rea won't let me off without a little more fun.
"No, Ingrid, he needs to know! If no one is there to catch him, that's it! He's dead!" Why is she yelling like that? So excitedly. My Aunt Rea just smiles triumphantly at me out of the side of her face, but I don't respond. I force a smile at the ground and steal a glance at Jude. He's out of the pool now.
Several years ago, I would have told them how much their envy corrupts them. They can't be carefree and happy, so they want to rob their offspring of it, the sooner the better. I would have happily dug my heals into their chests to carve out the word 'lazy'. Why watch the children and spend time with them? They're going to die anyway, and we should make sure they remember it. Let's make them as miserable as we are!
My Aunt Alex is the most straight forward of the three, seemingly given the largest dose of hard blood. This is a woman who was shocked to hear that I'd made it to the age of twenty-four without ever being sexually assaulted; she was almost offended. She avoids one-on-one time with family members, though she likes their general presence. She only feels comfortable discussing things that are killing us and the hopelessness of the world.
At my family reunion, I obtained several wounds from drunken wrestling with my male cousins. I spent the rest of the week flaunting these wounds, bragging that, no, those boys never did get that damned float from me! I got some strange looks; someone even suggested that I was suicidal, a point I did not care to dispute. Only my Aunt Alex gave me the response I was seeking.
"They may have kicked the shit out of me" (I point at my black eye and fat lip), "but I won!" Aunt Alex's eyes flicker at this boast. "That's my girl!" she says with pride. I immediately feel the irony of my own statement, but my Aunt Alex is thrilled, and I smile.
My Aunt Rea's hardness is more covert. She is a devout worshiper of Jesus Christ, a motherly figure himself. The religion she advocates encourages love, but in classic hard-blood manner, she emphasizes the inevitable end of life:
Aunt Alex's grandson, Isaac, grabs a sand bucket to dip into the pool, and Aunt Rea's son Jude helps him gather water into it. Issac holds the bucket over his head, grinning at Jude, and overturns it. The grin doesn't leave his face for a moment as the water flattens his hair and darkens his clothes. He sees that this pleases Jude, so he goes in for another. Again he tips the bucket onto his own head. All of us at the pool enjoy this show immensely, so he continues the act until we lose interest. Seeing our growing boredom after four or five times, he looks at the floor of the pool for fresh ideas. Suddenly, he hurtles himself straight at Jude, and Jude just barely catches him in the water. They laugh hysterically. Isaac gets out for another go, and Jude is ready. They go at it like this for a while, and the scene draws a bit of a crowd. We all laugh along with them.
"Someone ought to teach him." my Aunt Rea interjects. "One of these days he's going to do that when no one is around. He needs to learn to be afraid." She's subtle, but affective. I notice Jude's smile shrink with Isaac's next jump.
"How old is he?" I object.
"Three," she turns to me with a grimacing smile; she likes a challenge.
"Hmm" I respond.
She loves it. "Don't you think he should be afraid?"
"At three?" I counter. She lets her eyes grill me. "Someone should be watching him." I offer.
"Ha!" She's visibly tickled. "No, he needs to learn. There won't always be someone there to watch him, and what if he does it then?"
"Well, why won't there be? He's only three. Someone should be watching him all the time at that age."
This is so obviously absurd to my aunt that she can barely respond. I look over at Jude, and he is no longer having fun catching Isaac, who remains in blissful oblivion. Uncomfortable with the argument, Jude passes Issac to his brother, Job, who takes up the cross and scolds the ecstatic child for being so reckless. I consider this the loss of the argument and merely smile at my aunt.
"What's he doing now?" Isaac's mother wonders up and projects to the pool.
"He's been jumping into the pool, and I was just saying that he may do it when no one is around to catch him. I was explaining how he needs to learn to be afraid...."
"Yeah! Let 'im drown!" she screams obnoxiously, as if she were drunk. "Put the fear in 'im! Job! Let 'im go! Let 'im drown!" I imagine maniacal laughter after her exhortations. All the while Issac is smiling bigger than his mouth will let him and giggling to no end in Job's arms.
"I was telling Ingrid here that he should be scared." My Aunt Rea won't let me off without a little more fun.
"No, Ingrid, he needs to know! If no one is there to catch him, that's it! He's dead!" Why is she yelling like that? So excitedly. My Aunt Rea just smiles triumphantly at me out of the side of her face, but I don't respond. I force a smile at the ground and steal a glance at Jude. He's out of the pool now.
Several years ago, I would have told them how much their envy corrupts them. They can't be carefree and happy, so they want to rob their offspring of it, the sooner the better. I would have happily dug my heals into their chests to carve out the word 'lazy'. Why watch the children and spend time with them? They're going to die anyway, and we should make sure they remember it. Let's make them as miserable as we are!
I'm older now, though. It wouldn't change anyone to rant like that. I no longer fight with authority to get my aggression out. Now, I am my own authority; I fight with myself. Besides, I don't claim to know how to raise children. Let them have their ways, and me, mine.
My Aunt Sam displays the hard blood in the most complicated way of all. To me, she was always Pepsi and cigarettes, that and a blue station wagon with a German Sheppard in the back. She always seemed to be on the outskirts of everything, watching. Everyone jumped around the poker table, screaming at the one scooping up the money; she'd be outside, smoking a cigarette, staring into the dark. She was the wallflower, cleaning up after everyone, looking after the forgotten, staying up the latest and waking up the earliest. If anyone ever cared to look her way, she wouldn't stand for even a glimpse of pity from them. She didn't want recognition; she'd rather be ignored.
My Aunt Sam displays the hard blood in the most complicated way of all. To me, she was always Pepsi and cigarettes, that and a blue station wagon with a German Sheppard in the back. She always seemed to be on the outskirts of everything, watching. Everyone jumped around the poker table, screaming at the one scooping up the money; she'd be outside, smoking a cigarette, staring into the dark. She was the wallflower, cleaning up after everyone, looking after the forgotten, staying up the latest and waking up the earliest. If anyone ever cared to look her way, she wouldn't stand for even a glimpse of pity from them. She didn't want recognition; she'd rather be ignored.
Aunt Sam was always my favorite.
I throw my arms around her behind the chair. She puts a hand on the one under her chin. "You always were my favorite," she tells me, outright, in front of Jude and my Uncle Hugo. I smile in surprise. "Yes, you turned out well, certainly the most beautiful." I look around nervously, are my cousins or sisters around? Jude glances up at me, and I blush.
"Well, thanks, Aunt Sam." I give her a squeeze. I want to tell her she's my favorite, too, but I don't want to offend my Uncle Hugo or anyone he might tell. In a family of talkers, I can't believe she'd said it so openly, as if she didn't care if the whole family were standing there. Though I'm more than flattered, I find the whole thing quite strange. She gives my arm a rub, and I let her go. It didn't seem like a confession. It didn't feel like she was fawning on me. It was as if she were merely stating a fact, and there was something melancholic about it. This is the only interaction I have with my Aunt Sam the entire week.
I throw my arms around her behind the chair. She puts a hand on the one under her chin. "You always were my favorite," she tells me, outright, in front of Jude and my Uncle Hugo. I smile in surprise. "Yes, you turned out well, certainly the most beautiful." I look around nervously, are my cousins or sisters around? Jude glances up at me, and I blush.
"Well, thanks, Aunt Sam." I give her a squeeze. I want to tell her she's my favorite, too, but I don't want to offend my Uncle Hugo or anyone he might tell. In a family of talkers, I can't believe she'd said it so openly, as if she didn't care if the whole family were standing there. Though I'm more than flattered, I find the whole thing quite strange. She gives my arm a rub, and I let her go. It didn't seem like a confession. It didn't feel like she was fawning on me. It was as if she were merely stating a fact, and there was something melancholic about it. This is the only interaction I have with my Aunt Sam the entire week.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Orange Death
"See that color there? No, no, the orange, there. I love that color. I think that's my new favorite color. Yes, it's official. My new favorite color is orange."
There it is. Now there is no trace of darkness in me. I let it sink below the surface with the sun. But where is it hiding? Where is the darkness if I don't put it through my lip, my tongue, my eyebrow? Where is it if not in my clothes and my hair? Where does the darkness go if I don't put it on my back and ankles? Now it's trapped inside me. How do I get it out? Drown it in liquor. Pick fights with people bigger than me. Swim out too far. Stand close to the edge of the platform as the train goes by. Hang over the edge of the boat. Suffocate it with food, or starve it. Over-indulge it or make it suffer. Hate the world, hate the hungry, hate the powerful, hate myself. The darkness is me, and whatever I do with it, I do with myself.
"That's right, Fredrick, you're going to die!"
Whoops. I let my death wish slip out. Keep it under the surface, Inger, where people like it. They don't want to see it. Fredrick doesn't have to. I challenge myself by challenging him. Yes, you will die someday. Maybe by a boating accident, maybe a meteor, or a car accident, or cancer. Tip-toeing around death doesn't prevent it. You fear it, because you secretly want it. So maybe if I perch it on my chest, it will be my friend? Its weight makes it hard to breathe. The dark storm inside won't calm. Pressure outside against pressure inside. I feel it leaking out of my eyes and out of my mouth. I feel it in my fingers. I smell it everywhere. Death, it wispers, death. The only way to live is to live alongside death. Death on your couch, watching tv, in your bed, dreaming, on your dinner table, eating, in your child's face, smiling, and as the wings on which your prayers fly to god. My fear is my comfort. I rest assured knowing that there is rest, assuredly.
There it is. Now there is no trace of darkness in me. I let it sink below the surface with the sun. But where is it hiding? Where is the darkness if I don't put it through my lip, my tongue, my eyebrow? Where is it if not in my clothes and my hair? Where does the darkness go if I don't put it on my back and ankles? Now it's trapped inside me. How do I get it out? Drown it in liquor. Pick fights with people bigger than me. Swim out too far. Stand close to the edge of the platform as the train goes by. Hang over the edge of the boat. Suffocate it with food, or starve it. Over-indulge it or make it suffer. Hate the world, hate the hungry, hate the powerful, hate myself. The darkness is me, and whatever I do with it, I do with myself.
"That's right, Fredrick, you're going to die!"
Whoops. I let my death wish slip out. Keep it under the surface, Inger, where people like it. They don't want to see it. Fredrick doesn't have to. I challenge myself by challenging him. Yes, you will die someday. Maybe by a boating accident, maybe a meteor, or a car accident, or cancer. Tip-toeing around death doesn't prevent it. You fear it, because you secretly want it. So maybe if I perch it on my chest, it will be my friend? Its weight makes it hard to breathe. The dark storm inside won't calm. Pressure outside against pressure inside. I feel it leaking out of my eyes and out of my mouth. I feel it in my fingers. I smell it everywhere. Death, it wispers, death. The only way to live is to live alongside death. Death on your couch, watching tv, in your bed, dreaming, on your dinner table, eating, in your child's face, smiling, and as the wings on which your prayers fly to god. My fear is my comfort. I rest assured knowing that there is rest, assuredly.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Alter Ego
She stands close to the edge, so it feels like the train is going to hit her when it buzzes by. The wind feels nice. It's her city-version of going out too far in the ocean. She has a death wish, constantly challenging her life wish.
That's what she shares with him. He likes that she looks death in the face. He likes that she craves it. But it's her cowardice that keeps her alive. And he likes that, too. She's reckless, but vulnerable. And she likes it that someone is watching. It's a new sensation -- someone else seeing. Exhilarating.
They are unified, silently. Words are obsolete. After all, they share the same thoughts, why would they need to speak? Even if they don't, who cares? The thoughts don't even matter. Being matters. They share that, purely, undisguised. They don't have to muddle it with words and thoughts and muck. Not only do they accept each other, but, more importantly, they also accept themselves through each other.
She misses herself through him. The self that throws caution to the wind. The self that doesn't care about anything but adventure. She misses feeling cool and confident, open and unabashed. She misses sharing the silence with someone. The silence is still there, the someone isn't. She goes back inside herself. She could be herself with him, but not when she's alone. She looks ugly through her own eyes, plain and boring. She looked better through his eyes, strange and interesting.
Once he's gone, she easily slips back into self-loathing, stripped of that filter. All she sees now are flaws. She is a coward. She is a fake. And her life? Empty.
That's what she shares with him. He likes that she looks death in the face. He likes that she craves it. But it's her cowardice that keeps her alive. And he likes that, too. She's reckless, but vulnerable. And she likes it that someone is watching. It's a new sensation -- someone else seeing. Exhilarating.
They are unified, silently. Words are obsolete. After all, they share the same thoughts, why would they need to speak? Even if they don't, who cares? The thoughts don't even matter. Being matters. They share that, purely, undisguised. They don't have to muddle it with words and thoughts and muck. Not only do they accept each other, but, more importantly, they also accept themselves through each other.
She misses herself through him. The self that throws caution to the wind. The self that doesn't care about anything but adventure. She misses feeling cool and confident, open and unabashed. She misses sharing the silence with someone. The silence is still there, the someone isn't. She goes back inside herself. She could be herself with him, but not when she's alone. She looks ugly through her own eyes, plain and boring. She looked better through his eyes, strange and interesting.
Once he's gone, she easily slips back into self-loathing, stripped of that filter. All she sees now are flaws. She is a coward. She is a fake. And her life? Empty.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Ode to Jenny Lewis
I'd rather be lonely
"Come with me."
I'd rather be free
"Where?"
I'm as sure
"New York?"
as the moon
"To live where?"
rolls around
"You're mother's house?"
the sea
But I like watching you undress
"Stay here"
And I think we're at our best
"Annapolis?"
By the flicker
"D.C."
by the light
"No."
of the TV set
"Why not?"
Cause I can't remember why I hated you
"Because."
Can't remember why I still do
"I just can't."
But I'm as sure as the moon rolls around you
"Okay."
That I could be happy
"Okay?"
happy
"Okay."
Oh, so happy
"So, now what?"
happy, Oh, so happy
"So, now..."
so happy
"...now we say goodbye."
They warn you about killers and thieves in night
I worry about cancer and living right
But my mama never warned me about my own
Destructive appetite
Or the pitfalls of control
How it locks you in your grave
Looking for someone to be saved under my restraint
So I could be happy, happy
Oh so happy, happy
Oh so happy, happy
So happy, so happy
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