Shmonkey's Jungle

Red

2008-12-31T12:25:00.004-06:00

Things in the jungle have been, well, a jungle. I’ve been lax about Project Blog It for many weeks now, but am trying to get back to it. As the year wraps up today, I hope everyone can look back with satisfaction, and ahead with optimism.

Project Blog It

On 14 Dec. 2008 I ran a marathon. I ran this marathon in a bright, new, red shirt bought specifically for the event. I’ve never been a fan of the color red (unlike Minerva). I own very few things that are red. In fact, I can only think of two red items that I own, and one of those items is my red marathon shirt.

So I’m left asking myself why I chose a red shirt to run in. I don’t have a clear answer, but perhaps I needed something different to mark a new achievement. Something different to mark something I had never done before. The marathon was a project I wanted to do. It was my own goal, and as such, was much more mental than physical (if you can believe that). And as a mental project, it was also internal. My choice of a red shirt, something I would likely never have worn, was external, a visible marker of something new in me.

I began 2008 by running my first distance race. Within the first three weeks of the new year, I hit a milestone birthday, which I marked with a half marathon. As the year progressed, I continued running, working towards new distance goals, and I also worked toward new personal goals of being more of the person I really want to be. I close the year having completed a marathon, and I did it in a red shirt.

In preparing for the marathon, I trained for six months. I began running in the sweltering Texas summer, and I finished running in the windy, damp, and cold Texas winter. I rose every day at 5:00 AM to run in the dark during the week. On Saturday mornings I rose at 4:30 AM to meet my running team for longer and longer training runs. I attended training seminars. I spent money on high-tech running gear. I monitored and logged my times, distances, and splits. I watched my carb/protein ratios, and obsessed about my hydration. I read running magazines. These are activities I continue pursuing even post-marathon.

I was the nerdy and hopelessly uncoordinated kid who couldn’t do a lay-up with a basketball, the kid who couldn’t hit a baseball with a bat, the kid who couldn’t throw a football with a spiral. Rather than participate in sports that I had no natural talent for, I preferred to spend time with books.

Now, in my forties, after months of training, sore muscles, and blackened toes, training that I continue even having achieved my goal, after all of that, is it possible that I’m actually an athlete?

Please check the blogs listed on the right for companion pieces to this week's prompt.

Next week's prompt: Cold

Words

2008-12-12T16:19:00.001-06:00

Over the last two weeks things in the jungle have been, well, a jungle. Shmonkey took a couple of weeks off but is back again. Hope everyone had a nice Thanksgiving holiday.

Project Blog It

“What are words for, when no one listens anymore?”
Missing Persons

Word are the very heart of my thinking. They structure and organize my thoughts. They form the fundamental basis of language. And without language, without words, what are we? I’m sure it might be possible to conceive of a way of communicating and expressing without words. But we, as humans, need our words. I may express something with how I order my face or how I move my body, but I can only understand such expressions via words. My thinking is mediated entirely by language. Those voices in my head aren’t insanity, but my thoughts being thought, speaking to me in the silent language I hear only in my mind. And it’s a conversation of words.

Please check the blogs listed on the right for companion pieces to this week's prompt.

Next week's prompt: Red.

Camaro

2008-11-21T12:27:00.001-06:00

Project Blog It

Camaro was from a border town. It didn’t matter which side of the border. In the US, everyone assumed he was from the other side. In Mexico, everyone assumed he was American, or at least a lucky emigrant.

His language was the language of the border, neither pure English, nor pure Spanish, as if either of these languages could ever have a pure form. Camaro’s border language was slightly accented in both English and Spanish. He spoke those languages perfectly, natively, but with the notes and tones that gave away his border status. It was those subtleties of pronunciation that labeled him as someone from the other side, never someone from here, never someone who belonged.

The other people of the border, people like Camaro, spoke in the same way. Looked and lived the same way; people who ate frijoles as often as they ate potatoes. They were people of nowhere, neither here nor there. Only knowing themselves what their addresses were, addresses that stopped at their zip codes, not extending beyond to the abstract idea of nation.

Camaro knew the border was a line, a political designation marking the boundary between one world and another. But the border, as lived by Camaro, was much more fluid. Not a fine line that marked this side from that side. Not a line that when crossed with a mere step meant the movement between languages, cultures, opportunities, and possibilities. Camaro saw the border as a much wider expanse than a simple line. And he wondered how wide the border was. In not belonging on either side, his border existence transcended nations. He was a man without a country, subject to no one, until it came time to pay taxes, and then both sides wanted him. But he wondered how far either north or south one would have to go before belonging. Where does the border really exist? At what point would he be regarded as one with the others, as one who is home?

Please check the blogs listed on the right for companion pieces to this week's prompt.

Next week's prompt: Words.

Let's go get our damn equal rights!

2008-11-17T12:47:00.001-06:00

Solstice

2008-11-14T16:47:00.001-06:00

Project Blog It

The solstices are both my favorite and my dreaded days of the year. The summer solstice, when the sun crosses the Tropic of Cancer, marks the longest day of the year in our hemisphere, the day when we experience maximum daylight, the official start of summer, and my favorite day of the year.

The winter solstice, when the sun crosses the Tropic of Capricorn, marks the exact opposite, the shortest day of the year. The day we experience maximum darkness, the official start of winter, and my least favorite day of the year.

Sunlight is important to me. It makes me happy, brings me joy, and makes me feel good. I love long long days that start early in the morning and last until long past evening. The summer solstice is the pinnacle of such days. It is the moment from which I can look forward and see the long, bright, warm summer months ahead of me. It is a moment of pure bliss when I feel like there is so much time ahead of me, and there really is. It is the moment I think about, months from then, looking back, and wishing it hadn’t all passed by so quickly, wishing that I still had some more time—but on the solstice, I really do have all of that time.

As the days are nearing there shortest time and we approach the winter solstice, I’m starting to feel that sense of longing, even anguish, for warmth and daylight. But on thinking about solstices, I wonder if perhaps I’ve gotten it wrong. Yes, the summer solstice remains my favorite day of the year, but that day also marks a turning point. It marks the point after which the days begin to shorten. And in the same way, though the winter solstice marks the shortest and darkest day, it also marks the point at which the days begin to lengthen. Yes, it will take months for the sun to cross the equator bringing me more light than darkness, but after the winter solstice, we’ve turned a corner and begin to move back towards warmth and light. Likely the coldest days of the year remain ahead of us, but the countdown to those long sunny days I love so much has begun.

It seems the dark and the light go hand-in-hand together, one with the other, in balance, unity, and harmony. And I guess that’s as it should be.

Please check the blogs listed on the right for companion pieces to this week's prompt.

Next week's prompt: Bitchin Camaro.

Treat

2008-11-09T20:36:00.000-06:00

Project Blog It

Apologies for the tardiness of this week's post.

A treat is a fleeting indulgence. Something given or received as a reward, but not always a reward for an accomplishment. To be a treat, the reward must be temporary—the momentary pleasure of chocolate that makes the calories and blood sugar spike worth it. Even treats that result in concrete rewards, unnecessary or costly items that are purchased, are temporary, for the pleasure they bring as treats is short-lived in comparison to the life of a new pair of shoes or a car. These items last, but we become accustomed to them. They soon cease to excite us in the way that reminds us of the accomplishment they were meant to mark. We may still enjoy and appreciate the item for its lifespan, but the immediacy of the sense of being rewarded flies away.

Treats are delights. Momentary pleasures that bring us joy and well-being. They remove us from the challenges of being, if only for a moment.

Please check the blogs listed on the right for companion pieces to this week's prompt.

Next week's prompt: Solstice.

Fright

2008-10-31T15:23:00.003-05:00

Project Blog It

I suppose it seems appropriate, or perhaps cliché, to write on fright on Halloween. So rather than focus on fright per say, I want to write about fear, something I’ve been thinking about for the past couple of days.

Fear, I think, is never actually fear of anything other than the unknown. There is no real direct object of fear. Insofar as something that we truly believe to cause fear in ourselves is not real, which is certainly open for debate. Instead, I think what we really fear is only the abstract idea of something we do not, or cannot know. It is the unknown that is the object of fear.

We fear death because we do not know what death means for us, or even for those closest to us. We think we know, but really we cannot know.

We might fear snakes or spiders, but really it’s not fear. Rather it’s a sense of creepiness and discomfort.

We might fear heights, but such a fear is more likely the fear of not knowing what it would be like to fall—the fear of not knowing what it’s like to not be in control of ourselves.

My fears derive from the unknown parts of who I am and who I will become. I was a certain kind of person at one time, and kind of person that I valued greatly. I have long hoped that that person will find a way of emerging again, but I do not know if that will happen, and that frightens me. This is not to say that I am unhappy with the person I am today. I am, in fact, very happy. At the same time, I do have ambitions and goals, and I worry that situations, circumstances, and freely made choices have worked against those goals. I do not know though, and therein lies the locus of my fear.

Happy Halloween, everybody.

Please check the blogs listed on the right for companion pieces to this week's prompt.

Next week's prompt: Treat.

Wishes

2008-10-24T08:59:00.001-05:00

Project Blog It

A wish. A look to the future. Something more than a hope.

A wish is as often unrealistic as it is possible.

“I wish 5:00 would come.” “I wish I could fly.”

Whereas as a hope tends toward something that carries with it possibility.

“I hope it doesn’t rain.” “I hope she recovers quickly.”

Wishes are dreams, fantasies of a world we imagine. They are unlimited in their possibility and their impossibility, subject only to the limitations of our own imaginations.

“When you wish upon a star. . .” “Make a wish and blow.”

A wish, at best, marks a future possibility. At worst, it marks an impossibility free of time, existing now and always in its own inability to ever be realized.

I will never be able to fly without the aid of a mechanical device, and lots of money.

A wish is an escape from the here and now. Perhaps its benefit lies in its power to move us, if only in the moment it takes to construct the wish, from the place of our existence devoid of the object of the wish. It is idealism. It is the dream of something else, something better, something magical. It is the construction of a world, a situation, an experience as we wish it could be.

And though a wish is not a hope, the fact that we can make a wish indicates that we do have some hope for the future. And I think that’s a good thing.

Please check the blogs listed on the right for companion pieces to this week's prompt.

Next week's prompt: Fright.

Migration

2008-10-17T08:55:00.002-05:00

Project Blog It

The Monarch butterflies are in the midst of their migration to northern Mexico for the winter. There, they'll stay until springtime, when they lay eggs and die. Those eggs become the butterflies that migrate north again where they too will lay eggs and die, completing a cycle across generations.

I am fortunate to live in an area of the country that sits along the Monarch's autumn migration path. In fact, the Monarchs are attracted to the Cypress trees outside of my office window. And given that I'm on the second floor, I'm treated to an amazing daily show of hundreds of butterflies fluttering by and roosting in the trees. It's truly a stunning sight, and one that I never fail to appreciate.

The Monarchs, on their long annual journey, give me pause to consider migration, the movement from one place or mode of being that is somehow marked (whether by political boundaries, climate, personal sense of self, or something else) to another, differently marked space. I've migrated a few times in my life. Not always by choice, and not always the result of good choices.

I wonder what it would be like to live the simple and directed life of a Monarch. Floating on currents, instinctively pulled across continents and then back again. Somewhere along the way leaving one's legacy and then passing out of the cycle of migration for good. Do Monarchs understand their beauty? Do they know how they fascinate us? A bit of wind and color drifting past my window. They remind me of childhood summers in the northern Midwest, the beginning and the end of their journey. There, the Monarchs marked the long days of mid-year. The orange of their wings glowing in the warm summer sun. Now, here in the Southwest, their migration marks the migration of the year itself, its own end coming closer with shorter and shorter days.

This movement of butterflies, the migration of the Monarchs, for a brief moment, shifts me out of my own inertia and stagnation to migrate with them, if only for a few seconds, before settling again into the mode of being the defines me now.

Please check the blogs listed on the right for companion pieces to this week's prompt.

Next week's prompt: Five wishes for yourself; Five wishes for the world.

Vote to Make a Difference

2008-10-10T09:05:00.001-05:00

Project Blog It

I'm an idealist. I freely admit to being so. I do have faith in the American democratic process, and I proudly take part in it.

That said, I also freely admit that the American democratic process is flawed. Citizens don't vote. Large numbers of those who do vote do so blindly--in other words they pick candidates for reasons other than a thoughtful reflection on qualifications and position on the issues at hand.

I don't believe our process, or any process for that matter, can be perfect. Sure it can be better than it is now, but despite its flaws, it is a process that I embrace and take seriously. I proudly go to the polls on election day. When I vote, I actually do feel as if I am a part of something larger. I do feel civic pride and my own sense of patriotism.

I do believe that voting makes a difference, and I'm glad that voting is a legal, fundamental part of our system. But I also try to be realistic about it. It's all a matter of degree, like my comment about the American system being flawed and imperfect. Voting does make a difference, but it's usually a much smaller difference than we might hope for or expect. Politicians, especially those running for the highest offices, like to speak with soaring rhetoric about their great plans for our nation. In reality though, any plan will, almost necessarily, by subject to compromise. It's the way we all get things done, big and small. So voting, whether it be on the PTA or for President of the United States, does make a difference because we are voicing an opinion. And those opinions determine the kinds of policies and programs that we then debate, compromise on, and implement, often to only small degrees. But they still make a difference. The path to change is usually done in small steps, not larger leaps. And for me, at least for now, that's enough.

Please check the blogs listed on the right for companion pieces to this week's prompt.

Next week's prompt: Migration

Burning Up, Burning Out

2008-10-03T10:14:00.002-05:00

Project Blog It

He rises, tired, in the dark. Tired before he's even begun the long day of using up energy that is already running at a deficit.

The burden of life, work, and responsibility carried in his slow steps in the early morning, he pads about the dark knowing each step, finding what he needs, without light, having done it the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that.

There is something peaceful about the quiet, early, dark mornings. Moving about in the stillness, long before the rest of the world rises, he finds a sense of ease. At these all too brief moments, the peace and stillness of the morning finds its way to his soul. It is that peacefulness that enables him to draw forth the strength to begin fully the long day ahead.

He moves about his day, running here and there. He fulfills his responsibilities, those he's agreed to willingly and those placed upon him, with faithfulness and dedication. Those responsibilities fill the day as the sun rises, erasing the dark that began his day, until it hides once again returning the world to stillness.

He ends his day as he began it, in the dark. He falls into bed, tired. Tired from a long day begun too early, filled with too much work and responsibility. Tired from a tired that had never really left, but was only hidden. To rest for a few hours, only to rise, tired, in the dark, to begin another day.

Please check the blogs listed on the right for companion pieces to this week's prompt.

Next week's prompt: If voting really made a difference, it would be illegal.

Love Is An Art

2008-09-27T18:30:00.001-05:00

Project Blog It

"Love is an art you learn degree by degree." I Want a Long Time Daddy – Bea Foote

I'm not quite sure what to do with this week's prompt. I haven't been able to come up with a single unified idea to write about. Instead, I keep coming back to my training in literary analysis. I've deliberately not looked up the entire poem. (BTW, Road Trip Girl selected this week's prompt.) This single line reminds of what I consider to be one of the beautiful things about English (and in truth, likely any language). There's great richness to the language and word choice with multiple and sometimes diverse meanings. And as a person attracted to postmodern theory, I like that richness and multiplicity and like to keep those many possible meanings in play all of the time.

So, what is this love that we learn? Do we learn it bit-by-bit ("degree by degree"), or do we learn it by earning degrees in love ("degree by degree")? And what would it mean to earn a degree in love? Would a degree be an instance of the experience of love? Would multiple degrees in love imply multiple love relationships, or multiple ways of loving? What does it even mean to "learn" love when love is, or at least seems to be, something one feels and experiences?

These are the questions that this one isolated line raises in my mind. And the fact that there are no definite answers to any of these questions makes the line all that more appealing. Perhaps it's time to look at the rest of the poem and put the line in context.

On a side note, the author of this poem, Bea Foote, seems awfully close to Big Foot. Hmmm, Road Trip Girl (AKA Squatch), what's going on here?

Please check the blogs listed on the right for companion pieces to this week's prompt.

Next week's prompt: Burning the candle at both ends.

September

2008-09-23T12:39:00.000-05:00

Project Blog It

Your position on the calendar
Marks the beginning of the end of the year,
The beginning of its perpetual death.
And yet, you too cycle through living and dying
To be reborn for another thirty days,
Marking death with your own birth.

The days shorten and the nights lengthen
We turn from summer reads at the beach
To the more intellectual matters of the academy.
The pace quickens in a rush towards death.
That short thirty days speeds past matching our pace,
Closing too abruptly with the first cold winds of winter.

Please check the blogs listed on the right for companion pieces to this week's prompt.

Next week's prompt: "Love is an art you learn degree by degree." I Want a Long Time Daddy – Bea Foote

The Hour of Departure

2008-09-12T11:28:00.000-05:00

Project Blog It

You left. You left in a moment. Not an hour, not a minute. It was a moment. A single, imperceptible moment. I held you and you were there, and then suddenly you had departed. That "hard cold hour" was not one of departing. It was not a process stretched out over sixty minutes. It was the empty space left by one who has already departed. And it's been much more than an hour.

Long ago, you had departed once before. It was a departure that I chose, and because of that, it was much easier to accept. But then you returned and I felt redeemed. My choice was a regrettable choice, but I believed then, or wanted to believe then, that it was the right choice. When you returned, I felt I was given a second chance. And I hoped, wished that your departing would never come forth again. Knowing all the time, that departure is fastened "to all timetables."

Departure is as much a part of arrival as history is a part of the future. We cannot have one without the other. It is the natural course of things. It is the right course of things. My welcoming of you always already carried within it my farewell. Then, the coming goodbye seemed so far away that I didn't need to think about it. Now it seems it came too fast.

Please check the blogs listed on the right for companion pieces to this week's prompt.

Next week's prompt: September

In Mourning

2008-09-10T17:10:00.003-05:00

Joy and pain are very natural parts of life. They are what makes us human. And they are perhaps the extremes of human emotion.

Right now I am on the pain side of the spectrum. Please see the memorial to my beloved Zimba over at Crash Course.

Movement

2008-09-05T16:34:00.001-05:00

Project Blog It

To move means to change. There is no stasis or stagnation in movement. It’s a moving forward and a moving beyond where one is at any given moment in time. Movement is a positive thing. It’s growth. It’s new thoughts and new things to see and do. And yet, movement can also bring pain. Change can be difficult emotionally. I often get anxious about change, fearing the unknown. But it’s also important. I fear even more becoming rigid. Without movement, the barriers get established and limits on one’s life are raised. And that is certainly something I don’t want.

All that being said, sometimes there is too much movement. Running helter skelter, here and there. Lives of stress, on the run, go go go. Such movement is not positive. On the contrary, it’s destructive, and meaningless. It’s counterproductive, setting one back rather than moving one forward into new being.

Movement in my life, unfortunately, tends to be more frequently of the latter type. One of my deepest hopes is that I’m able to distinquish the two, control the latter, and promote the former. I don’t think I’m very successful, at least not at the current moment.

It’s times like these when movement needs to slow or stop. One needs to be still both physically and mentally—slow oneself so that the world one occupies slows in response. The beauty of stopping movement in this way, at these times, is that the movement doesn’t really stop. The clarity and peace found in stepping off the train of chaotic movement allows one re-establish a productive flow of movement that benefits life.

Keep moving. Always. And seek the courage to neither be afraid of movement nor unwilling to free yourself from senseless motion.

Please check the blogs listed on the right for companion pieces to this week's prompt. Road Trip Girl is road tripping back to the blogosphere and should be posting again soon.

Next week’s prompt:
It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour
which the night fastens to all the timetables.
Pablo Neruda, "A Song of Despair"

Certitude

2008-08-29T16:20:00.001-05:00

Project Blog It

Freedom from doubt, especially in matters of faith or opinion; certainty.

In asking myself what I am certain of, I realized that the only true answer I can give is that there is very little of which I am certain. Certitude requires absolutes, and I’ve never been fond of absolutes. They pin you down, lock you in, and can limit you. I want freedom to be fluid in what I think, how I am, and what I believe.

And yet, certitude is one of those wiggly concepts, itself unpinnable. The minute I say I can’t be certain of anything, I realize there are in fact things that I am certain of. I’m certain that I love Thai food. I’m certain that I want to live in Europe at some point in my life. I’m certain that there’s value in being a decent human being. What I realize in making this list though, is that these certainties are time-specific. I am certain now that I love Thai food. I am not certain that I will always love Thai food. And so on.

So, if my certainty is time and context-specific, is it really certainty. Does certitude need to transcend any qualifiers to be certitude? I’m not sure.

Please check the blogs listed on the right for companion pieces to this week's prompt. Road Trip Girl will be posting late over the next couple of weeks as she is being true to her name and is currently on a road trip!

Next week’s prompt: movement

The Function of Art

2008-08-22T17:41:00.001-05:00

Project Blog It

The beauty of art is that it is, at once, both utterly functionless and completely filled with function.

Art is (perhaps) inessential to sustaining life. I don’t rely on it to feed, shelter, or protect me. But it does sustain the mind, the soul, and the heart.

Art is a reflection and a product of a context, a culture, and a history. And it’s a reflection that remains flexible. Art is able to shift and move among cultures, contexts, and histories while still remaining relevant.

Art’s function is to be that touchstone whereby the individual as well as the group sees itself reflected, finds a way to communicate ideas, concepts, feelings, experiences, and finds a way to challenge, honor, and comment on the very state of being.

Art is powerful and wonderful, and yes, even essential in its inessentiality.

Please check the blogs listed on the right for companion pieces to this week's prompt.

Next week’s prompt: Certitude

The Other Seven Dwarfs

2008-08-15T21:52:00.003-05:00

Project Blog It

Surly views the world as the primary source of personal torment. Rather than “whistle while he works,” Surly, in a nod to his increasingly anti-social tendencies, wishes he could WFH (work from home) permanently—so long as the other dwarfs stay down in the mine.

Sassy’s joy in life is to throw his attitude around in a mildly biting, but amusing way. Rather than selling all of the diamonds he digs from the mine, he’d rather set them into shiny pretty things to wear and catch peoples’ eyes. He was much happier before Snow White showed up and got all of the attention.

Sleazy was never more happy than when Snow White came along. Living for so long with six short men put him on edge. He spends most of his time finding excuses for climbing ladders to clean ceiling fans and change light bulbs just so he can get high enough to peak down Snow White’s blouse.

Snarky finds Snow White annoying and useless. With the other dwarfs constantly mooning over her, nothing seems to get done. He wonders why Snow White can’t at least clean the cottage and cook dinner rather than sing and dance with wildlife all day.

Sarcastic likes to comment on the “shortcomings” of the other dwarfs. None have been successful in winning over Snow White. You know what they say about small hands and feet. And Sarcastic believes Snow White clearly knows too.

Snarly is generally pissed off. He can’t understand why seven men with an unlimited supply of diamonds have to live together in a woodland cottage and perform manual labor every day. His dream is to live a life of leisure aboard a yacht in the Mediterranean with Snow White all to himself.

Superior is the shortest of the dwarfs, and yet he can’t help but look down upon them all. Snow White may be beautiful and charming, but Superior knows he can do better.

Please check the blogs listed on the right for companion pieces to this week's prompt.

Next week’s prompt: What’s the function of art?

Strawberries

2008-08-08T09:58:00.003-05:00

Project Blog It

When I was a kid, I often wondered if eating fruit seeds would cause fruit trees to grow in my belly and pop out of my nose, ears, and mouth. This wonder actually started out of fear after accidentally eating an apple seed. I was taught not to eat apple cores and seeds. I, being a naive child, believed that we weren't supposed to eat the seeds because doing so was somehow dangerous, rather than the true fact that apple seeds simply aren't appetizing. On the school playground, I inadvertently swallowed an apple seed and proceeded to enter a mild state of panic thinking I had done something wrong. My classmates warned me that an apple tree would now grow from my belly.

This wonder about eating fruit seeds eventually became a mildly amusing joke--eating the seeds of anything would incite some comment about foliage sprouting forth from ones innards. I am not unique in such humor. It seems that jokes about plant life growing from within the human body are a collective cultural experience, something parents, aunts, and uncles tease children about.

I still occasionally joke about trees and plants growing from my body. I often eat the seeds of fruits, partly because I kind of like them, and partly because I'm too lazy to pick them out, watermelon being the prime example. I love watermelon. I don't like seedless watermelons. And so I eat the watermelon seeds, only passing up those that fall from the melon on their own.

To be honest, I sort of like the idea of plants growing from my ears and nose. How convenient would that be? Simple reach around to the back of my head and pick a ripe apple. If I timed my fruit consumption right, I could harvest various fruit crops throughout the year. When my apple limbs were finished producing, I could pick cantaloupes from the vines growing out of my belly button, and so on. Although, admittedly, it might be difficult to carry around those heavy watermelons.

Ultimately though, I know that fruit trees and vines do not, sadly, grow from the human body. Cat bodies, however, are another story entirely. A few weeks ago, I fed my sleek black cat some strawberry ice cream. This wasn't strawberry-flavored ice cream. It was the full-fledged, all natural, real deal, with fresh strawberries and lots of strawberry seeds. Kitty loved it, lapping up every drop and cleaning the saucer. It wasn't too long after he ate the ice cream though, that I noticed a change. He seemed to swell a bit, and he rolled about as if someone was tickling him from the inside. Within a few hours, I saw thin whitish curls emerging from his ears. I thought he had worms, but those curls soon turned a deep shade of green and unfurled into leaves that matched the green of his eyes. By morning, strawberries had sprouted from the vines, now wrapped about his neck, belly, and tail. A giant strawberry hung from each ear like a set of earrings, and a whole cluster dangled from the tip of his tail. My cat, rather than finding this situation disturbing, seemed delighted. He merely had to turn his head slightly to take a bite of the luscious strawberries that decorated his ears. By the time he'd finished one, another had grown in his place.

I have to say, his shiny black coat, the bright red of the glistening berries, and the deep green of the vines that match his eyes made a beautiful portrait. He looked like the quintessential cat peeking out from the bushes. The only difference is that he was now also the bush.

Kitty continues to produce berries and eat them with gusto. It's actually made my job as a pet owner easier because I no longer have to put food out for him. But I gotta tell ya, it sure would be nice if he'd share.

Please check the blogs listed on the right for companion pieces to this week's prompt.

Next week's prompt: What are the names of the seven other dwarfs?

Pure and Utter Nonsense

2008-08-01T18:58:00.003-05:00

Project Blog It

Like Ivory, I can only, at best, achieve 99 44/100% pure and utter nonsense.

I am utterly incapable of fully freeing myself from what I believe to be an appropriate level of reserve. But there is that 66/100 of a percent that gives me hope that I can overcome my Puritanical tendencies and engage in unbounded absurdity now and then.

Why did the chicken cross the road?

By definition, there is no sense in careless silliness. Ludicrousness is consummately undiluted and uncorrupted.

The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.

I bought a cup of coffee for two dollars and no cents.

Me sense of smell is nearly nonexistent. My olfactory system, far from impeccable, has no sense.

I used to feed my dog Purina. It would have been unadulterated all-out preposterousness to feed him anything else.

Please check the blogs listed on the right for companion pieces to this week's prompt.

Next week's prompt: Strawberries

Seventeen Wrapped Up

2008-08-01T00:01:00.006-05:00

Seventeen years ago we made a decision. A decision to try to build a life together. It's been a typical seventeen years: joy and happiness and love, coupled with struggle and pain and frustration.

It's been a life, a very typical life, shared.

Seventeen years ago we made a decision. It was the right decision.

Happy Anniversary Francois, and thank you for bringing magic to our lives.

I Begin

2008-07-25T15:03:00.003-05:00

Project Blog It

"I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease not till death."
Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself"

"Check it out, Check it in. Let me begin."

Lil' Nix, Off the Markov

"In the beginning. . . "

Genesis, Chapter 1

What does it mean, to me and to others, that I begin?

Now, this moment, this very moment, is a beginning, the perpetual possibility of a beginning. As we move forward, each second ticking away, we begin, and begin, and begin again, ever changing, ever new, ever refreshing.

And once begun, the beginning ends. It's a fleeting, ungraspable moment. Each beginning contains its own death and destruction, for once we have begun, we are no longer beginning.

What is perhaps the most interesting thing about beginning is the very decision to begin. The conscious thought that I must start. Whatever that starting is, the conscious "I" chooses to begin. It's a rich moment filled with total possibility and total promise. What will I begin? How will I begin?

Beginning is movement. It is change and advancement. It is dynamic. It is commitment and it is scary. It is also exhilarating and affirming. And, as Whitman says, let me begin again and again until my beginnings cease and I cease with them.

Please check the blogs listed on the right for companion pieces to this week's prompt.

Next week's prompt: Pure and Utter Nonsense

Describe Your God

2008-07-18T09:54:00.012-05:00

Project Blog It

"The silence of God is God."

Elie Wiesel

In moments of silence, moments of absolute peace, those rare moments when even the mind finds a place of stillness, he sometimes sensed that he could pass beyond the veil separating himself from god. In those moments, he felt he was close to the presence of god, perhaps as close as he could possibly get. Certainly as close as he had ever been.

He sometimes thought that god came to him in flashes—moments of personal perception when he recognized that unnamable presence in another, in an experience, in a feeling, in a thought, those moments when he’d sense the greatness of others, of times and experiences that touched his soul. Never two the same, never repeatable, yet always the same in and as god.

At one point, now it seems so long ago, he believed in a god of bibles and buildings, of prayers and practices. But he no longer believes in that god, in that kind of god. At times of doubt, he'd wonder when he lost his faith. At times of certainty and confidence, he believed he'd never lost his faith, but instead had transformed it, and been transformed by it.

God remained faceless, nameless, beyond the very nomenclature "god," for any attempt to define, describe, or pin down the term led down innumerable paths until he became lost. And yet, these twisting and turning paths, paths that defy retracing and mapping, would, at times, suddenly converge. But just as soon as they converged, just as soon as he thought he could reach out and find god, understand god, they would divide again into countless possibilities.

He wondered when god disappeared from bibles and buildings, prayers and practices. He wondered when he himself became god.

Please see companion pieces at:
Travel With Road Trip Girl
Crash Course

Fire Flower

Next week's prompt:

"I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease not till death."
Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself"

Bliss

2008-07-10T22:46:00.011-05:00

Project Blog It

Bliss is subjective. It's a deeply personal experience. An experience of utter contentment, of happiness, perhaps even of joy in the very moment of the experience itself.

There is a time during the night, long after the world seems to have quieted down. It's a time of deep darkness and stillness.

Bliss comes to me at this time. It comes when I wake during that deep darkness, in a moment of disorientation. It comes in that magic moment when I think I only have a few more minutes to rest before rising to start the day, and then glancing at the clock and realizing that there are a couple of hours left before the world around rises and expects me to do the same. It is that instant when, quite naturally, I roll to the other side of the bed, find my partner, and nestle like two spoons. It is in that moment, cuddled with my partner, that I feel safe. It is in that moment that I experience pure contentment. It is in that moment that I am free from the rest of the world, free from the needs and wants of others, free from the needs and wants of myself, free from my very self. In that moment, I am wholly present. In that moment, in the dark and silence of night, I find bliss.

Please visit the companion piece over at Travel With Road Trip Girl. In addition, Skajlab has written a piece on this week's topic at Crash Course, Daisy has over at Fire Flower, and Minerva has at Vox Minerva.

Next week's prompt: describe your god

The Politics of Writing. The Politics of Oooh Feeling Good

2008-07-04T04:00:00.003-05:00

Project Blog It

We got the message

I heard it on the airwaves

The politicians

Are now "writers?"

With apologies to Paul Fishman and Re-Flex

What exactly constitutes the “politics of writing?” Sadly, long ago and far away, I wrote often about politics. But not the kind of politics currently in public conversation—US national politics about governing, domestic and foreign policy, and party differences as we head into this year’s major national election. Instead, I wrote about social, cultural, and philosophical politics: identity politics and the politics of identity, race politics and the politics of race, gender politics and the politics of gender, sexual politics and the politics of sexuality. Mind you, the elements in each of these binary pairings are not necessarily the same thing.

But what is the politics of writing? One can certainly write to be political, that is to engage in a politicized discourse about something. But such acts don't necessarily define the politics of writing. I am writing now. But what does that act mean? I am attempting to convey a set of thoughts via the written word to be read, at least by me. But it is not merely the attempt at conveying thoughts, because in that conveyance, I control the words and phrasing to convey those thoughts. Any writing is written for an audience, even if that audience is only the writer. I write in a particular way. I control my words and phrases, my very thoughts, with at least some understanding of who is to witness them. In this case, I write for an audience both known and unknown. Will that audience agree with me? Will it understand me? Do I care?

We expose ourselves via writing. But that exposure is always mediated by the conscious acts of the author and the context in which something gets written. I embrace the various levels of control at that same time that I attempt to freely open and present myself to the world. Ultimately, perhaps, the politics of writing, the politics of this writing, are the politics of self.

Please be sure to see the companion piece over at Travel With Road Trip Girl.

Next week's prompt: Bliss

Project Blog It

2008-07-01T17:47:00.002-05:00

Road Trip Girl and I have begun a project in an attempt to get us out of the ruts that our lives have become. We're both creative, intelligent people (at least I like to think so, and I believe Road Trip Girl would agree). However, we both work highly demanding, stressful jobs, and we both have personalities that lead us to give those jobs all we have. The result is a huge personal cost. We've not made time for the things we truly love and for the things that have meaning for us.

In an attempt to move us back to a place of balance, and to try to jump start better introspection, thinking, and perhaps most importantly, creativity, Road Trip Girl and I have started Project Blog It. The rules are fairly simple. Every Friday we each make a post on our respective blogs: Travel With Road Trip Girl, and Shmonkey's Jungle. The posting is based on a prompt assigned by one of us in the week before posting day. There are really no other rules. Road Trip Girl and I can discuss our writing or not. We can brainstorm together or not. We can critique one another's writing or not. The point is to always post something on Friday, and to create a mutually supportive and encouraging situation that fosters the development of our individual writing skills.

Looking forward into the future from my position in the present, I think our weekly writings will be very diverse; sometimes creative fiction, sometimes creative non-fiction, sometimes personal, sometimes philosophical, sometimes academic, and all of the other possibilities in between. As long as we write and push beyond the narrow frames that have been imposed upon our lives and our minds by our environment.

We welcome you to stop by every Friday. Read both Travel With Road Trip Girl and Shmonkey's Jungle. See how each of us tackles a topic differently. Engage us by commenting, please. Consider joining our project by picking up the weekly prompt and making your own posting on Fridays.

Forty is Where it All Begins

2008-04-03T20:37:00.002-05:00

So, I turned 40 back in January. The fact that I’ve hit this “landmark” birthday, entered a new decade of life, and officially hit middle age doesn’t phase me at all. In fact I embrace it. 40 was, and is a reason to celebrate. I’m proud of who I am and what I’ve accomplished. Yes, there is still so much more that I need and want to do, but right now, in this moment, at 40, I am happy.

2007 was a lousy year in many ways. Brain tumors, hormone problems, sick and dying family members, way too much stress—the list could go on. But I enter 2008 with great optimism. I set goals for myself in mid 2007 and I’ve achieved them. I reclaimed health, I lost 35 pounds. I’m eating healthier, exercising regularly, and living more fully.

To celebrate my birthday, I ran the 15K (9.3 miles) “Too Cold to Hold” race around White Rock Lake on 19 January. And it was “Too Cold to Hold.” The temperature was 28 degrees Fahrenheit. And those who know me, know that I’m not one to relish cold (not even cool) temperatures. I finished 15th out of 40 in my age group (then still the 35-39 group) and 112th overall out of 464 with a time of 1:17. Sorry, no picture.

Continuing with the celebration, on 9 February, I ran the Texas Half Marathon (13.1 miles). Now officially in the 40-45 age bracket, I finished 24th out of 45 (114 out of 510 overall). My time was 1:50. I was much prouder of this accomplishment than I expected to be. See below—this picture was taken about 2 minutes before the finish line. I look much worse than I felt—I was actually feeling pretty great!

The celebration of the new decade continues next month when Skajlab and I get to cross off our list one of our dream destinations when we visit Istanbul.

So, Who is this O(o)ther?

2008-03-26T20:56:00.000-05:00

I certainly have opinions about graduate education and academic work in general. And let me state from the beginning, that is, acknowledge my positionality as it were, that I am a sometimes graduate student and a wannabe academic with strong ties to higher education. And let me also state that I am aware that my opinions likely vary from the wide range of opinions out there on the subject. All that being said, I want to put forth my stance on the purpose and goals of graduate education.

Graduate school is supposed to be about preparing students to enter the realm of academia as independent thinkers and scholars. Students should be introduced to the profession of intellectual work. They should be aided in the forging of their own paths into ideas and the creation of new ways of looking at the world and its artifacts, that is, the very creation of new knowledge.

My experience is from the area of liberal arts, but I believe my opinions and views are valid across the disciplines. That being said, within liberal arts, there are far too many texts, far too many ideas, and far too much knowledge for any one scholar to have a wholly comprehensive experience of those texts, ideas, and knowledge. Indeed, our training is not in the specific experience of a text or idea, but in the development of skills at interpretation, contextualization, and discourse between and around texts and ideas. A scholar properly trained should be able to engage in contextualizing, analyzing, and interpreting ideas and texts beyond his or her immediate experience. And I acknowledge here that the depth of skill at doing these things does vary with the range of experience. Nevertheless, a trained academic should be, must be, able to examine and evaluate ides outside of his or her immediate experience, and he or she should encourage the same from students.

It has recently come to my attention that an academic on the graduate faculty of a local public university has limited the range of texts and ideas that the students in his seminar can interrogate because the faculty member is unable to evaluate them not having direct experience of them. Furthermore, he has rejected ideas that he is simply ignorant of without trying to understand them or see how they relate to the larger discussions and themes of the course. This mode of “teaching” is wholly unacceptable. It is stifling and limits the ability of the students to develop their own ideas and voices, much less create a space for themselves within the academy. A curriculum, a syllabus, and a reading list for a graduate-level seminar is only a beginning, a framework for independent thought. It is not, and should not be, a box that student and teacher must remain trapped in. What would be the point?

I am furious that such and individual is on a graduate faculty, and I’m not sure I’d be any more comfortable if he were only on an undergraduate faculty. The students being forced to conform to his pre-defined, pre-determined way of thinking are some of the brightest and promising minds I’ve recently come in contact with. It is utterly unacceptable that bright students dedicated to intellectual work should be wasting time and energy in this seminar. The faculty member in this situation believes himself to be unqualified to evaluate ideas that stem from his curriculum but that also go beyond it. I suggest that this faculty member is not qualified to be on the faculty at all. His approach to graduate instruction does a disservice to his students, to the university, and to the academy at large.

Mourning

2008-03-25T21:19:00.002-05:00

The pain of losing something so precious is nearly unbearable. But he deserved his peace.

Please see Skajlab.

The Bastards Not Leading the Blind

2007-12-09T11:54:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, the Dallas Morning News published a story about a blind woman being abused by a Yellow Cab driver (read it here). As the story goes, the woman felt the driver had been driving too far and too long for where she wanted to go. When she asked the driver about the situation, he began to argue with her until she felt compelled to call 911. At that point, the driver let her out of the cab but didn’t tell her where she was.

Finally, a passer-by told her where she was and she was able to phone her sister for a pick up.

Yellow Cab’s response was to apologize to the woman, reprimand (but not fire) the driver, and offer the woman $100 in fare vouchers. According to Jack Bewley, co-owner of Yellow Cab, the cab company’s GPS system showed that the driver was never far from the woman.

I guess that’s supposed to make things OK—the loving and caring cabbie stayed nearby presumably to watch out for the woman’s safety. Mr. Bewley’s final word on the matter, “I think that we have done what we could to try to resolve the problem.”

I scream “bull shit!” This situation and its “resolution” are completely offensive and unacceptable. In a city with a piss poor public transportation system, how are handicapped people supposed to lead independent lives if they are at risk of being victimized not only by individual drivers but also by the organizations those drivers represent. In my opinion, the driver involved in this case should be fired and quite possibly charged with abuse. Yellow Cab owes this woman far more than $100 in vouchers and they owe all people in the North Texas area a far stronger statement regarding personal safety while using their services.

I can only imagine how utterly frightened and utterly humiliated this blind woman must have felt. I am pissed off about this story. I’m writing to Mr. Bewely and to Yellow Cab, and I would urge anyone in the North Texas area to do the same. In addition, while it is fairly rare that I take a cab in my home city, it is not unheard of. To that end, I will boycott Yellow Cab and urge others to do the same until Yellow Cab makes a more reasonable and appropriate response. Please partner with me in this boycott.

You can write to Yellow Cab via their website here.

Or at their mailing address:

1610 S Ervay St
Dallas, TX 75215

How I Spent Thanksgiving

2007-12-01T22:27:00.000-06:00

Running the 8 mile Dallas Turkey Trot with 30,000 other people.

It was the best part of the day.

Time: 1:07
Pace: 8:27/mile
Position: 150 out of 332 (in my age/sex group who ran the 8 mile race)
Overall Position: 1274 out of 4239 (officially registered runners in the 8 mile race)

Next stop, Too Cold to Hold, 15K on 19 Jan. 2008

The Maddening Noise

2007-11-17T20:57:00.000-06:00

Who would have thought that a typically noisy kid from a very noisy family, and whose sister is likely one of the loudest people on earth, would turn out to be so sensitive to noise.

We have new neighbors, and unfortunately they’re living directly above us. The quality of the people living at our rental property has made a dramatic drop in recent months since they announced the sale of the property, which will eventually be torn down for redevelopment into “exclusive” townhomes. Mind you we live in a beautiful property in a beautiful part of town. Our apartments are about 60 years old, but amazingly well-maintained and exuding tons of character that you can’t find anywhere else (hardwood floors, large wood-framed windows, common spaces and courtyards throughout the property, etc.). Once the property is finally closed for demolition, a conservative estimate of 90% of the current tenants will no longer be able to live in the neighborhood. But all of that is a discussion for another post.

Back to our new neighbors. They are some of the loudest people outside of my family that I’ve ever encountered. The main difference is that their noise production isn’t made with their voices as it is in my family.

Just last week, my head was vibrating with the sounds of power tools upstairs that were shaking my walls. It was 10:15 AM on Sunday. This was after the neighbors pruned the trees in the backyard at 7:30 AM dropping limbs onto the porch, the windows, and my plants. In itself the pruning of trees might not have been so bad had they not woken us up at 11:30 PM the night before by vacuuming their entire apartment. The nighttime penchant for vacuuming has already occurred on several occasions.

Yesterday afternoon we had to endure the thunderous sounds of a movie/tv/radio being broadcast through what must have been a high-tech surround sound stereo system. Again the walls vibrated. I understand the appeal of high-tech stereo surround sound, but I would appreciate it more if the entire building were not being surrounded by that sound. The four units in my building are all only 670 square feet after all. Who needs surround sound?

On a daily basis we get to listen to their nighttime television watching from their bedroom (directly above our bedroom)—usually until past 11:30 PM. Again, I have no problem with people’s individual habits. Good for them if they have multiple televisions that they like to watch at various times and from various places in their apartment. However, it sure would be nice if it weren’t a group activity.

We have tried to be patient; understanding that moving in a getting settled can take some time. We endured their late night move-in over several nights with furniture and boxes being moved in and thrown about the apt. into the late hours. We have been awakened on more than one occasion to the sounds of hammering and power screwdrivers being used after 10:30 PM.

And yes, we have spoke to them as we moved our plants off the porch to prevent their being further crushed by falling limbs. We have pounded on the walls and ceiling in the night hours when hammering and drilling were going on. When can we expect that this noise will let up? When can we expect that our new neighbors will learn what it means to be good neighbors. I certainly do not think our expectations are unreasonable.

Easing Into Middle Age

2007-08-09T09:25:00.000-05:00

You know you're facing middle age when:

Two beers at happy hour is too much.

10:30 PM after happy hour is too late (or too late even when you didn't go to happy hour).

5:45 AM isn't too early, on any day of the week.

Sixteen Years

2007-08-01T06:47:00.000-05:00

Sixteen years in the history of the universe are nothing—a mere blip in time, barely noticeable, and fairly insignificant.

Sixteen years in the lives of two people are just the opposite, constituting a significant portion of those lives no matter how old the individuals.

Sixteen years of personal history are marked with a whole range of life experience: pain, struggle, frustration, doubt, joy, happiness, contentment, passion, and much more.

Sixteen years in the lives of two people are a long time. And it has all been worth it.

Meet Aspasa

2007-07-04T15:47:00.000-05:00

Folks,

My Daemon has been chosen. Do you agree? Take the quiz and we'll see.

It's only a few short questions regarding how you would assess my character. If you want to participate, you need to do so by 16 July 2007. Just follow the link below my Daemon.

What Passes for Professional Correspondence These Days

2007-06-28T11:47:00.000-05:00

I received the following in my inbox this morning. All names have been changed to protect the guilty and irritating:

This woman is a total loser. Like a dead fish. I’ve met heard and have spoken with her before and after meeting and she’s only ever managed a cracked smile at best. Before I rang her, I rang AAA (Hoochi…) at the big UK engineering company WWW – that XXX committee member I met at the last user group. He was nice and said he remembered vaguely YYY being mentioned several months ago, but the committee hasn’t met for awhile. So I mentioned this to sour-sack-of-shit BBB when I rang her and she was pitiful in her response. “She” would appreciate that I didn’t contact committee members directly. Well “She” can f’ing piss off. Who the hell is she? She’s responded NOT AT ALL to us. And she didn’t even want to take my call today because she was in the middle of something. That always gets me. Don’t take the bleedin call if you are busy. And they were busy selecting a venue for the next user group (..so actually my call is well timed). Loser bureaucrat no body. Anyway, I was sales-slut cheerful and all that and said “oh it was coincidental – It was in fact a lead from a reseller”. Stupid woman. How does she know I’m not a friend of AAA or whatever. ANYWHO… In usual form, I’m not giving up. And in fact we do have ZZZ as a customer AND XXX likes us including CCC of XXX who spoke at their last stupid XXX user group. Whatever…… Just to share

Boredom

2007-06-04T17:44:00.000-05:00

What is it about boredom that makes it a self-perpetuating experience? I am actually rarely bored, but sometimes, boredom sets in and I’m trapped. I always have books with me, the internet is nearly always available, I've got things to think about, and things to do, but when I hit the wall of boredom, nothing seems to free me.

Sitting here these past days, I’ve begun to realize in part where my experience of boredom comes from. These past days, I’ve felt trapped—waiting, serving, tolerating, enduring. When I feel stuck, having to endure interminable interruptions, I get bored. And then I get annoyed at the boredom and annoyed at myself for not being able to escape it, and perhaps even resentful of those whom I want to hold accountable for my boredom. Ultimately, and as a good Taoist, I really do believe that no one but myself is responsible for my boredom or my release from that boredom.

And that leads me to wonder if I really am a good Taoist if, despite my awareness of my own control of the situation, I am still unable to free myself from that boredom.

What do you think?

Hola Tacos!

2007-04-10T21:50:00.000-05:00

When I was a kid, about 7 years old, I really wanted to try tacos. Being a kid from the upper mid-west, where black pepper is considered a “hot” spice, tacos were something exotic, a forbidden fruit to be partaken of only by those with strange tastes and experimental palates. I had no idea what tacos would taste like. I didn’t even know what was in a taco, but I knew that I wanted to have one.

My desire for what I then considered a magical Mexican food (actually, I’m not sure I knew tacos were Mexican at the time) got the best of me, and I began to beg my mother for tacos. This would be my upper mid-western mother who thinks black pepper is hot and who has a completely un-adventurous palate.

On a trip to the grocery store, I found an Ortega taco kit (the only taco kit available in the area) and presented it to her with even greater pleading, still having no idea what a taco consisted of. My mother’s response was, “I’m not making you tacos. You’ve never even had them and I’m not going to waste money on something you don’t know you like and probably won’t eat.” (Looking back this seems an odd argument coming from the woman who made me eat some of everything she put on the table and everything that made it to my plate. You’d think she’d just make me eat the tacos whether I liked them or not.)

Then it happened, before I even knew what I was getting into. I lied to her.

“Momma, I have had tacos before. And I LOVE them. Brad’s mom made them for us for lunch one time. I know I LOVE them and I REALLY want some. Please, momma. Can we have tacos?”

If my dad had been with us, the taco kit would never have made it to the cart, and I probably would have gotten in trouble for asking for something in the first place, but mom’s a softie at heart and she relented.

She had to read the instructions on the taco kit, not knowing herself what a taco consisted of. We picked up ground meat, lettuce, tomatoes, and cheese, but no salsa. I don’t think you could even buy salsa in Wisconsin in the seventies.

Later that week, after a bit more pleading, tacos made it onto the nightly dinner menu. I’m not sure how she managed to slip them in without my dad making a ruckus, but she did. I think he secretly must have sampled tacos at some restaurant over his lunch hour because he actually helped her prepare them by warming the shells in the oven. Mom chopped the lettuce and tomatoes, putting them into bowls on the table. She tore open a package of grated cheese (another taboo but much coveted item in the dairy state) and began to cook the meat. When she added the Ortega season packet to the hamburger, I had my first experience of what a Taco Bell must smell like.

Finally, dinner was ready. We all sat around the table, said Grace before we could touch anything (a hard and fast rule in our house), and then we got to assemble our tacos (half the fun as far as I’m concerned). And you know what? I really loved tacos. Unfortunately, and I suppose I should have expected it, mom did not. Future taco dinners were no easier to come by than the first. Each one was a negotiation: It’s my birthday. I’ve been a good boy. I got good grades.

It was until 10 years later, when my family moved to Texas, that mom began to like Mexican (or at least TexMex) food. She in fact LOVES TexMex food. I suspect it has something to do with the sheer amount of cheese that’s included in nearly every TexMex dish. Remember, she is from Wisconsin. Interestingly, even though she now loves Mexican food, she’s never learned to like tacos.

And I’ve never told her I lied about having them before she prepared them for me.

Where Oh Where Are My Fave Three?

2007-03-31T10:56:00.000-05:00

When recently asked who the top three people from my past are that I'd like to get in touch with again, the following three came to mind almost instantly:

Daisy

Seema

Brant

If you folks are out there somewhere, give me a shout!

Who's on your Fave Three list?

It’s the Little Things

2007-03-08T11:47:00.001-06:00

Happiness truly comes in small forms, and usually unexpectedly.

My happiness today was driving to the office in my car that was probably cleaner than it’s been since I bought it. It’s no secret that I loathe driving and hate the hassle of dealing with cars. The result is that I generally keep my car in very good running condition, but I never wash it or worry about cosmetic maintenance. It’s not worth my time, effort, or money.

Yesterday, however, I was surprised with a car spotlessly cleaned inside and out and complete with new hubcaps. I never would have done it, but it has made me very happy, and mostly because it was unexpected.

I’m off to lunch now to be happy in a warm sunny day with my clean car. Hope you find some happiness today too.

A Good Postmodern

2007-03-02T17:01:00.000-06:00

Skajlab takes a view of writing and speech that only a “good postmodern” could espouse. Writing is betrayal. It contains its own suicidal death within its own birth. Once written, or spoken, that which is written or spoken is no more, eternally deferred a la Derrida. We can only approximate the reality we try to convey in our writing and speech, in our own articulation of ourselves. We can never really get there though. For once that utterance is made, once that word is written, the I doing the writing has escaped to places unknown. The beingness of ourselves, then, is in fact not being, but becoming—a process, a perpetual movement forward, a perpetual cycle of birthing, dying and being reborn.

The solace to be found then in being betrayed by one’s own words, one’s own image, one’s own mother, is the regenerative and reincarnative possibilities of language itself.

Message to an Unwelcome Presence

2007-02-17T15:04:00.001-06:00

You don’t belong here. I never invited you and I never wanted you here. So be gone with you. You’ve caused enough trouble. Now that I know who you are and what you’re kind is like, I’m done. You frighten me, but I’m stronger and I won’t let you win. I won’t give up until you’re gone. So make it easy on us both and go quietly.

My Heart-Shaped Box of Love

2007-02-14T09:52:00.000-06:00

I’ve begun to realize, as I’ve grown older, that my taste in things celebratory is fairly low brow. It’s not that I don’t appreciate genteel and tasteful elegance. It’s just that the low brow markers of celebration (those giant colored lights lining windows at Christmas, or the light up plastic figures in the yard) remind me of my childhood growing up in a low brow working class Midwestern town where everybody had big colored bulbs around their windows and plastic figures in their yards.

On Valentine’s Day, my favorite things are heart-shaped boxes of chocolates and heart-shaped cards cut from folded pieces of construction paper. And the boxes of chocolates don’t need to be the high-end “quality” chocolates. I love those boxes wrapped in cellophane with cheap silk flowers attached that you can buy in the supermarket. As a child I would beg my dad to get my mom a heart-shaped box of chocolates for Valentine’s Day. I loved how pretty those boxes were and was fascinated by the construction of a heart-shaped box. Boxes in general are fascinating. They hold secrets and surprises. They beg to be opened. I have many boxes on my desk and at home—some with secrets, some with surprises. I’m always just a little bit excited about opening them, and never disappointed even when they’re empty.

The heart-shaped box is something extra special though—it’s beautiful, decorated, interesting in design, and filled with candies that weren’t everyday candies. My sister and I would argue over who got to keep the empty box after mom finished the chocolates. On the occasions when I won out, I treasured those boxes, opening and closing them, finding trinkets and treasures to put into them, until they faded and wore out.

This year my sister gave me a heart-shaped box of chocolates. It was obviously cheap (my sister is poor), and the chocolates were terrible (which is saying a lot since I’ll gladly savor just about any chocolate candy), but I absolutely loved it. I don’t need fancy dinners with wine and dessert, or expensive gifts as tokens of love. Each year all I want is a heart-shaped box of chocolates, and maybe a construction paper heart that reads “Be Mine.”

Happy St. Valentine’s Day

Porn Royalty

2007-01-04T17:29:00.000-06:00

The route I take home from work passes by a house that is brightly decorated for Christmas each December. Last year, along the 100 foot fence lining the yard, the phrase “Jesus, the Reason for the Season” was written with lights. At the very end of the fence, however, was a large statue of Santa Clause emerging from a chimney and burdened with the requisite sack of toys. This juxtaposition of seemingly contradictory “reasons” for the season (setting aside “reasons” such as harvest festivals, the winter solstice, the birth of Mithra, not to mention capitalism/consumerism) I find amusing, and perhaps even unsurprising. Like so many of the stated values and actions that are justified with Christianity, the “reasons” for the season expressed by the owners of that home are varied and incompatible, and the homeowners are likely not even aware of those incompatibilities. And I think that’s why I have such a problem with the influence and power of “Christianity” in the United States.

This past holiday season, the same house had a new message. It was supposed to read, “A New Born King.” (Santa was conspicuously missing this year.) Instead, however, some of the lights had gone out, and were never noticed by the homeowners. The message read, “A New Porn King.” Now I’m not sure if that was a statement about the occupant of the house having launched a career in the entertainment industry, or merely a(n) (un)fortunate glitch in the wiring, but it’s definitely a celebration I could get into.

Resolving to Make Daily Resolutions

2006-12-31T19:35:00.000-06:00

This New Year’s Eve, as I look back on 2006 and look forward to 2007, I know that I am better than I was on 31 December 2005, that I have made progress on my personal journey through life. One year ago, I wrote about how I’m somewhat disappointed by the idea of resolutions made in earnest on New Year’s Eve and then abandoned by the 15th of January. Instead, I want self-reflection and self-consciousness to be a part of my daily life. How good might the world be if we all made self-reflection and self-consciousness a part of our daily lives?

In 2006, I came closer to this goal than in the year preceding it. For 2007, I resolve to get even better about my own self-awareness on a daily basis. There are many specific goals, dreams, and objectives that are part of my resolution to be more self-aware—-the usual sort of stuff: exercise more regularly, eat better; as well as the perhaps not so usual: learn to play my recorder. But ultimately, if on 31 December 2007 I can look back and feel that I am better than I was on 31 December 2006, if I am more of who I want to be and am expressing and experiencing more of what I value, then I have succeeded, even if only by the smallest measure. Today, 31 December 2006, I can say with confidence that I have succeeded this past year. And that’s a good thing.

Happy New Year to all.

Homeward Bound, I wish I weren't

2006-12-17T16:34:00.000-06:00

They say one can never go home again. I've never believed this platitude. I do believe one can go home again, it's just that home is never the same and never as we expect or desire it to be. And that's OK.

But what happens when one doesn't in fact want to go home again?

Anniversaries

2006-12-01T10:14:00.000-06:00

We tend to think of anniversaries as happy events—weddings, birthdays, and the like—and perhaps it’s good that we do. But there’s nothing inherently good and happy about an anniversary. Anniversaries merely mark the moment of an event, both good and bad events, happy and sad.

It’s been one year since Ms. Clover left. I still miss her and feel her absence sharply—today more than other days. She had a profound impact on my life and I feel love for her as deeply today as I did one year ago, and the eleven years before that.

Here’s to you Mama Cat. You’re not forgotten.

The Post Where SHmonkey Muses About the Rain

2006-09-17T18:17:00.000-05:00

An early fall rain on a Sunday afternoon in September makes the already shortening days seem dark and wintry. But the heat of the day and the sound of rumbling air conditioners tells me it’s not yet time to pull out the sweaters. I have given in on one point though and slipped into my house shoes that I only wear November through February rather than go barefoot.

The power of nature is subtle today. No wind, lightening, or rolling thunder. Just water coming down and down and down. The rain is steady and straight, filling the space between me and other objects, yet just as intangible as that space. It washes clean my path, my porch, my car, the air itself. But can it wash my soul?

Five Final Visits

2006-09-07T17:34:00.000-05:00

Last night, SHmonkey told Skajlab about a game he came up with at the office: if you knew you were soon to die, but could revisit five places you had already been to, what would those five places be? Skajlab was the first to post his list, but here is SHmonkey’s, in no particular order:

Café du Monde, New Orleans, LA
Café du Monde is one of SHmonkey's all time favorite places. When Katrina hit New Orleans, it was the first place SHmonkey mourned (aside from all of the people and animals). SHmonkey was saddened to know that its long streak of continuous operation without closing was broken by the evil Katrina. SHmonkey was also thrilled to hear that Café du Monde re-opened within weeks of the hurricane--one of the first places to be back in business. SHmonkey has spent many afternoons at the Café with wonderful dear people—Skajlab, Minerva, Blanche—watching the world go by in Jackson Square. Thanks go out to SHmonkey's assistant, a Katrina evacuee, who brought SHmonk a gift pack from Café du Monde this week and reminded him of how much he loves the place (and thus inspiring this game).

Black Forest Café, Prague, Czech Republic
The Black Forest Café is just down the road from the castle in Prague and very close to Golden Lane. Skajlab and SHmonkey spent a wonderful cold afternoon there sipping hot coffee. SHmonkey has rarely felt happier or more content.

Tecolote or Plaza Café, Santa Fe, NM
SHmonkey loves the entire city of Santa Fe, which seems odd to him since he's generally a big city monkey. SHmonkey has been to Santa Fe numerous times—always with great friends (Skajlab, LaRango, Minerva), which may explain his affection for it. Each trip to Santa Fe includes stops at these two cafes, where some of the best food is served in the mountain air.

Lake Front, Milwaukee, WI
After more than 22 years apart, nothing can change SHmonkey's affection for his most beloved location in his beloved hometown. You can take the Bohunk-Kraut out of Milwaukee, but you can’t take Milwaukee out of the Bohunk-Kraut.

Hawksnest Beach, St. John, USVI
Simply because it is likely the most beautiful place SHmonkey has ever been.

In the running for the second five:

Miyajima Island, Hiroshima-ken, Japan
Coit Tower, San Francisco, CA
Stonehenge, Salisbury, UK
Greenwich, UK
Miedzy Nami Café, Warsaw, Poland

What are your five?

We All Scream for Ice Cream

2006-09-01T09:42:00.000-05:00

Good news for the loyal hedgehog subjects of the British Crown. The British Hedgehog Preservation Society, along with the Scottish SPCA has, after several years, successfully lobbied McDonald’s to change the design of the McFlurry ice cream container. It seems that hedgehogs are attracted by the smell of the ice cream in discarded McFlurry containers. On crawling into the containers, the hedgehogs become trapped only to die of starvation and dehydration.

In a bow to animal protection, McDonald’s has now introduced a re-designed McFlurry container with a smaller opening—a hole too small for the hedgehog to enter, but big enough to get the ice cream out. As one who cuts apart my plastic six pack rings to save the birds, and who won’t release a helium-filled balloon so as not to choke a whale, I am very happy. Now if only we could get McDonald’s to bow to human protection and cease business completely, we’d all be better off. This week it was announced that despite recent efforts at educating the public about the dangers of obesity, the already fat populace is getting fatter. I’m sure there’s some overweight glutton somewhere pissed off that he now has to slow down his consumption of the McFlurry due to the smaller opening all in the name of protecting a hedgehog. I just hope that overweight glutton isn’t me!

The End of the World as We Knew It

2006-08-24T17:26:00.000-05:00

It’s the end of an era. Just like when Rachel moved out and Chandler moved in. The International Astronomical Union of Nerds has declared that Pluto no longer fits the definition of a planet.

I for one am deeply saddened at Pluto’s demotion. The very foundations of my knowledge and understanding of the universe have been shaken. Pluto not a planet. How can it be?

Since the early 70s, when I first learned about space, I have “known” there to be nine planets. Pluto was my favorite (with Saturn a close second). Pluto was the underdog planet, the smallest, most distant, and most recently discovered. Pluto was the “and sometimes Y” of the solar system, the oddball, the black sheep. Pluto was lonely out there at the margins of the solar system, never having been visited by human beings or even a human-built space craft, and likely never to be visited. Pluto needed my love and affection.

The smallest Styrofoam ball attached to the longest wooden dowel on my model of the solar system represented Pluto. I always painted it in my favorite color because of Pluto’s underdog status, in the hopes that Pluto would get the recognition it deserved, and perhaps not feel second-best to the other planets (Yes, like the astronomers, SHmonkey too is fairly nerdy having personified both numbers and letters, in addition to planets, while growing up. Fours were stupid, nines were mean, sevens were cool—and their characteristics changed based on the other numbers they kept company with.).

And now, of all the indignities, Pluto has been kicked out of the planetary family all together. Dear Pluto, you will forever remain close to my heart. I will now look at the solar system kits in the craft stores (yes, I still look at them wistfully—see comment above regarding SHmonkey’s nerdiness) and date them based on whether they contain eight or nine planets (much like I date maps and globes based on whether or not they display a Soviet Union, a Yugoslavia, Rhodesia, etc.), and I will refuse to buy a model that fails to contain a Pluto out of loyalty (it should be noted that I do buy up-to-date maps out of political pragmatism, but I do appreciate the old ones as novelties).

Who's Watching Now?

2006-05-11T13:00:00.000-05:00

The news today is that the White House’s domestic surveillance program is in fact much larger than first thought. It seems the government has been creating a huge database of phone records on millions and millions of Americans. These records are gathered from the various phone companies around the country, and while they don’t involve wire tapping and voice records, they do include data on who we call, when we call them, and how often we call. This project of record gathering has been going on since the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks.

Now, of course I am aware that phone companies keep records of our phone calls, just as libraries keep records of the books we borrow, video stores keep records of the films we rent, and so. But there is something vastly different when our government, the state itself, establishes a huge, permanent, and searchable database of the calls private citizens make. Why is there not a greater outcry against this system? Our fundamental rights to privacy and free speech are being violated, and we’re losing what distinguishes the American experiment. I for one am horrified.

Don’t think for a minute this blog isn’t also watched, or that someone, somewhere isn’t keeping track of the URLs and IPs you visit.

Knowledge Isn't Always a Good Thing

2006-02-09T17:11:00.000-06:00

Just yesterday, at my corporate job, one of my fellow employees sent an email to the entire office listing a website whereupon entering an address, a list of registered sex offenders in the area surrounding the address is returned, complete with photos. The email came with the following message:

“[X] and I don't have any kids, but if and when we do, I think this site would be pretty useful and scary.”

The email closed by inviting our office staff to visit the website and check out their local areas. This email was then replied to by numerous other employees thankful for the URL, as well as by one employee who suggested we all enter the addresses of our high schools to check on “that teacher everyone always wondered about.”

I resisted the urge to go to the site out of curiosity because I don’t want to give the organization any site traffic, and I won’t be listing the site here. Setting aside the fact that this is a completely inappropriate use of company resources, I do have to comment on the rampant fear of “sex offenders” that has developed in recent years.

In the interest of full disclosure, I am a liberal. That being said, I think the issue of sex offender registration is ridiculous and functions to breed unnecessary fear and unwarranted self-righteousness. The term “sex offense” covers a wide-ranging set of crimes, not all of which are equal. Included in this category are heinous crimes involving sexual abuse of children to be sure, but also included are “crimes” of eighteen year olds having sex with seventeen year olds, and adult men or women participating in sexual activities with willing minor partners who are fully aware of what they’re doing.

What good does it do anyone to know where registered sex offenders live? At what point do we stop the witch hunts and allow people who have paid for their crimes to go on with their lives. (These comments clearly constitute the liberal part of my post. And yes, I’m aware that just because an individual has served time in jail, paid fines, and attended some sort of counseling doesn’t mean the individual is rehabilitated and no longer a threat.)

I firmly believe that the panic I’ve seen about knowing where sex offenders live is more about parent’s willingness and perhaps desire to hand over the rearing and protection of their children to the larger society. It’s the same argument for censoring books, television shows, and many other things. Rather than be an engaged parent who looks after his or her child and monitors what the child is exposed to, many parents seem to want to require that society create a kind of insulating bubble around all children, and then the parent can be relieved of responsibility.

Knowing that a sex offender lives down the street or next door does not protect children from anything nor does it excuse parents from their responsibilities. What about all of the sex offenders who are not registered? What about the sex offenders who have never been caught and therefore don’t have records? If I had children (and I wish I did), I would want my child to know how to handle himself or herself around any kind of threatening person. I would want my child to understand how the world really operates, and I would want to prepare and equip my child to engage that world fully, rather than live in fear.

Dreaming

2006-01-29T07:20:00.000-06:00

In the haze of that place between being awake and sleeping, I saw you heading for the door.

“You going out now?”

“Yeah, I’m going out.”

You were wearing a loose summer shirt, short sleeves, un-tucked, and pair of light-colored khakis. You had on that straw hat you don’t often wear, and were sporting a well-groomed beard. You looked just the way I like you to look.

I could see you talk to the native woman, the woman who always told us where to go and how to keep safe. You crossed the ravine and began walking along the field to meet to man who would take you to where the danger is.

It was only then that my fog cleared and I realized you where going without me. I leapt from the makeshift bed in the living room of our German hosts and ran out the door, still in my underwear and barefoot. The morning light was soft, the air still sweet from the cooler night.

I couldn’t remember why we came here, what we hoped we could accomplish, or why today I had stayed in bed. I could see you on the other side of the ravine, walking quickly so as not to be late. In my panic, I realized facing the danger with you was more important than self-preservation. I began running and calling your name, my voice hoarse from lack of use. I ran and ran, calling for you, your straw hat bobbing in the distance. My lower body covered in mud from the damp earth, my face just as wet from tears and screams. I began to gain on you. My calls finally reached your ears and you turned. Seeing me, you paused. I crossed the ravine, ran the few feet between us, and grabbed you in my arms.

“Never leave without saying goodbye,” I sobbed.

You held me at arms length and smiled.

Waiting

2006-01-27T20:37:00.000-06:00

Each time I have to wait for a train to pass, I watch the windows of the compartments for my father’s face. I imagine that traveling by passenger train must be romantically pleasant—rich upholstered seats and walls (always in deep red), people dressed well in an “old world” sort of way, men reading newspapers, women flipping through literary magazines.

Most often, the trains look old and run down, graffitied and dirty. The passengers inside look even more run down—tired, weary from the day, the week, the month, the endless years of riding those trains and waiting. Waiting to get to where they’re going. In the morning, waiting to get to work, where they wait for the day’s end to wait for the trains to carry them home again. The expressionless faces at the windows expressing unconscious dreams that the interminable waiting were over, and yet not knowing what they would wait for if they believed they had a choice.

I wait too. Wait for the train to pass and the gates to rise so that I can continue on, and wait for something else. Each time I have to wait for a train to pass, I watch the windows of the compartments for my father’s face. My father has been dead for years now, and he never rode trains, but I never stop expecting that I’ll see him there, riding and waiting.

It Doesn't Pay, and Probably Never Has

2006-01-14T20:00:00.000-06:00

Last Sunday (8 January 2006), the Dallas Morning News reported that nearly half of area high school football coaches are paid twice what teachers are paid. In some areas, coaches were paid 248% percent of the average teacher salary. Does anyone find this shocking? How can we honestly pay lip service to improving education in the United States when teachers are so utterly disregarded (and yes, I realize I’m taking a local situation and applying it to the entire nation, but sadly I believe the circumstances in the Dallas/Ft. Worth area are mirrored across the country).

Before I spend too much time screaming from my soap box, let me state for the record that I do support athletics in the public education system (as well as art, music, vocational training, and any number of other subjects outside of the usual list of academic subjects). I view these “non-academic” subjects as crucial, important, and perhaps even essential to the full development of students.

That disclaimer being made, let me get back to my rant—FOOTBALL COACHES BEING PAID MORE THAN TWICE WHAT TEACHERS ARE PAID. What is the rationale for this situation? I’ve heard all of the platitudes about non-intellectual skills that sports gives to individuals such as a healthy competitive spirit and teamwork (see my comments above about valuing athletics in the public education system). But football is one sport among many and
football coaches serve an extremely limited, all-male set of students.

Do our school districts pay coaches so well so that schools can have winning teams? But what good does that do other than school spirit (valuable, yes, but is it worth 248% what teachers make)? Football programs within the public education system don’t generate revenue for school districts like they do for colleges and universities—that isn’t and shouldn’t be their goal.

I’m tired of hearing how teachers are some of the most valuable and valued resources in our country. My response is “put your money where your mouth is!” Teaching is hard labor, and it continues to get harder. Low salaries are demoralizing and often impossible to live on. Meanwhile expectations keep rising while respect for teacher’s authority over curriculum and their classrooms dwindles. As a teacher of higher education, I am often shocked at the sense of entitlement my students have. I am shocked when parents phone me about their adult children and attempt to bully me into changing my policies and requirements. I cannot begin to fathom how much more difficult these situations are for primary and secondary-level teachers. The power now sits with students and parents, as well as administrators, not with the teachers. Is it any wonder that teaching as a profession is not appealing? What are the rewards? A personal glow of self-satisfaction only goes so far—it doesn’t pay a mortgage (if one is even accessible), it doesn’t pay for holidays to recover from burnout, it doesn’t pay for the pathetic excuse for health insurance that teachers get (at least in Texas), and it certainly doesn’t pay for sizable contributions to a personal IRA so that teachers can retire in comfort.

I realize that public education is a complicated and complex institution in the United States, and that it’s not simply a matter of raising teacher salaries. But this report is a slap in the face to every educator who gets up every morning to spend the day with other people’s children, who dedicates himself or herself to carefully planning and delivering lessons, who spends personal time outside of their work day writing curriculum and grading work, and who often spends portions of their meager incomes for books and other supplies needed to do their jobs successfully.

Be It So Resolved

2005-12-31T18:00:00.000-06:00

Today is the day to make resolutions, to reflect back on past resolutions, take pride in those kept and resolve to do better on those broken or ignored. Shouldn’t resolutions be something we take stock of on a daily basis though—things we reflect on and strive for each day as part of our own personal evolution? After all, how is tomorrow really any different from today? Saturday becomes Sunday, December thirty-first becomes January first. The year changes, yes, but conceptually the change is no different than the change from November thirtieth to December first. Yet we give this shift tonight so much influence and meaning. We toast it, we stay up late to usher it in, we take the day off, we resolve to make changes, to be better, and to do better. But wouldn’t our personal development be more successful and more meaningful if we took a moment to reflect daily, a moment to resolve to do and be better each day? Then we wouldn’t need to make lists of resolutions to be posted on the refrigerator only to soon be buried by other miscellany held in place with magnets. On the eve of each new year we could take a break from resolving and take pleasure in knowing we are better than yesterday, last week, last month, last year, and that the processing of being and getting better is our continuous path into the future.

Oh the (In)Humanity

2005-11-19T13:01:00.000-06:00

I freely admit that I have been, and probably continue to be naïve and overly idealistic when it comes to my ideas of justice, equality, and human rights. But I don’t care. I think idealism is entirely appropriate when considering human rights and something that we should strive for, even if the whole time we admit that the perfection inherent in idealism is impossible to achieve.

I grew up believing, again admittedly naively, that the United States was at the pinnacle of supporting, defending, and promoting human rights. As I matured in my thinking, I came to understand that the United States is not and never has been perfect in its promotion of all things good. To believe it to be so is to be a blind patriot—unwilling to critique the shortcomings of one’s nation, and even, perhaps, unwilling to strive to be better. How would my belief that the US was right and good because I’m an American be any different than citizens of the former Soviet Union believing their system was right, or Iranian citizens believing their system is right? We/I need to be more objective and critical when it comes to issues like justice, and human rights. These things supersede nationalism.

I have been deeply disturbed of late over what seems to be regular lapses in the United State’s stated commitment to human rights: our treatment of the elderly and poor needing medical care, our treatment of victims of disaster, the Abu Ghraib scandal, the issue of torture, the ongoing issue of prisoners at Guantanamo and other secret prisons in Eastern Europe and who knows where else—how long can this list go on? Today in the morning papers, I was deeply disturbed to read that United Nations inspectors have decided not to inspect the US prison at Guantanamo because the US refuses to allow inspectors to interview prisoners privately. UN inspectors charged with checking on rights abuses around the world by the UN Human Rights Commission had been invited to inspect Guantanamo by the US. Privately interviewing prisoners is regarded as standard operating procedure. The UN experts have said that interviews monitored by the US would “undermine the principles” of seeking to provide neutral, independent assessments of respect for human rights. Let us also not forget that the inmates at Guantanamo are being held has “enemy combatants,” a category of prisoner the US regards as not possessing the same rights as prisoners of war under the Geneva Conventions.

UN experts have wanted to visit Guantanamo since 2002. Earlier this year they said they wanted to go because they had reliable reports that inmates at Guantanamo had been tortured, and many of these allegations had come to light from the US’s own declassified government documents. The UN says that it is, “particularly disappointing that the United State government, which has consistently declared its commitment to the principles of independence and objectivity of the fact-finding mechanisms, was not in a position to accept these terms.” I am particularly disappointed as well, and I firmly believe that we all should be so. The US government must be held accountable.

To date, the US has only allowed the International Committee of the Red Cross to have unsupervised access to prisoners at Guantanamo. Sounds good, right? Unfortunately, the Red Cross’ reports are confidential and only submitted to the detaining power. UN reports would be made public.

If the US is truly committed to defending human rights, then it must open access to prisoners at Guantanamo, and elsewhere. It must clearly and directly denounce torture. It must admit its own shortcomings and commit itself to correcting those shortcomings and to doing better in the future. Yes this view is idealistic and perhaps naïve, but I firmly believe it is necessary.

All Animals are Equal, But Some Animals are More Equal than Others

2005-11-09T16:49:00.000-06:00

Frank Deford, senior contributing writer at Sports Illustrated magazine, has an essay every Wednesday on NPR’s Morning Edition. I am quite a fan of Deford’s essays. His thinking is insightful and his writing is quite good. His perspective on the world of sport goes beyond the usual scores, rankings, and stats to examine the whole culture of sport within our culture.

Today, however, I must take issue with his essay. Today, Deford wrote about a growing horse slaughtering industry in the US. According to Deford, there are currently three horsemeat processing plants in the United States where horses are slaughtered and their meat exported to Europe and other areas of the world. Deford is offended by this fact, not only because he personally finds the thought of eating horse meat both literally and figuratively unpalatable, but also because, according to Deford, horses, unlike cows, pigs, and sheep, are physically different making the slaughtering process cruel and inhumane.

It’s no secret that not only am I a vegetarian, but I’m also extremely empathetic, particularly when it comes to animals. That being said, I generally don’t have a problem with people eating meat, at the same time that I hope the slaughtering process is done as humanely as possible. I do, however, have a problem with Deford valorizing horses over other animals. I don’t find the consumption of horsemeat to be any more or any less offensive than the consumption of other animal flesh. Deford equates the eating of horsemeat with the eating of cats and dogs. But at its most fundamental level, there is no real difference between eating cow meat and eating cat meat, despite the fact that cats and not cows are generally kept as pets. If animals are to be slaughtered and consumed, I hope they’re all treated humanely. Furthermore, there seems to be a matter of utility to this issue. If horsemeat can be used as food for people who want it, then why not use it as such? It seems to me to be related to issues of resources and recycling. There are after all thousands of cats and dogs euthanized in this country everyday. I’m not suggesting that all unwanted animals should suddenly be used as food products, but let’s not start creating classes of animals whereby some are worthy of reverence and respect while others can so easily be sent to market. If it’s so easy to rank animals, is it any wonder that we haven’t been able to eliminate inequalities among human beings based on race, class, sex, sexual orientation, religion, and so many other characteristics?

Will it be Black Tuesday?

2005-11-08T12:05:00.000-06:00

Today, the state of Texas is voting on a proposed amendment to the state constitution banning marriage between same sex individuals. I have been thinking about this day and dreading it in a way, but I’m not entirely clear as to why the dread. Texas outlawed gay marriage through legislation several years ago and that law didn’t seem to affect me in the same way the proposed constitutional amendment has. I think I’m only now beginning to sort it out.

The language of the amendment goes far beyond merely banning gay marriage. In effect, the amendment would prohibit “this state or a political subdivision of this state from creating or recognizing any legal status identical or similar to marriage,” thus the state would be barred from granting any legal protection or recognition to any sort of same sex relationship. In addition, the amendment is so broadly worded so as to make it possible for mutually agreed upon legal contracts (wills, power of attorney agreements, medical directives, etc.) to be challenged and quite possibly overturned. What’s left then, in a material sense, is that any relationship other than a single man/single woman partnership seeking legal protection must go to the trouble to hire a lawyer, spend hundreds (possibly thousands) of dollars to establish a set of legal rights far more limited than those granted through marriage (at the cost of $41.00 for a license), and then those legal rights could still be ruled null and void.

Despite these very real, material, functional repercussions of the amendment, they are not what disturb me most. I am most bothered by the idea that this ban is being entered into the state constitution. I have long valued the structure of a constitution as a framework for laws and social organization. I believe the US constitution fairly successfully functions as such, and should, rightfully so, be difficult to amend. As an American, I believe in the rights of justice, freedom (including the right to self-determination), and equality for and of all people, and it is a constitution’s job to protect these rights. By amending the Texas constitution to ban gay marriage, and for that matter any legal recognition of same sex partnerships, the state of Texas is building discrimination into its organizing document. This fact, above all else, disturbs me and frightens me.

How does one fight against this sort of discrimination? How can Texas, or any government and people, institutionalize injustice? How is it possible that some individuals (many in fact) can view my life and my partnership as threatening? How can those same people so easily and comfortably not only deny what I believe to be basic rights, but also make it impossible for individuals of the same sex to make agreements between themselves? What are our rights, then? If this is the environment I have to live in, then I don’t want to be here. But who wins then?

Día de los Muertos

2005-11-02T16:18:00.000-06:00

Today is Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead), a holiday of sorts in Mexico to remember and honor the dead (also All Soul’s Day according to the Roman Catholic calendar). Living in the Southwest for the past twenty years, I have become more and more aware of this day and more and more fascinated by it. On Día de los Muertos, the graves of loved ones are cleaned and decorated, family and friends keep watch through the night at the gravesites, and ofrendas (altars) are created to honor and welcome the dead. The ofrendas are decorated with skeletons, sugar skulls and other symbols of death, as well as flowers, candles, personal belongings from the dead, photos, and food to feed the souls of the deceased who return on this day to visit.

When my father died five years ago, I began to create an ofrenda in his honor each year. It seemed a more personally compelling way to remember him than the annual memorial mass at the Catholic church my mother hosts. The ofrenda is personal and intimate to me, and in putting it together each year, I feel connected to my dad. While I believe our spirits/souls only exist in our living bodies, it is nice to think that the spirit of my dad comes to see the altar I create for him each year.

On his altar you can see a photo of him and me in a public garden in our hometown. That photo is a happy memory for me and is one of my favorites of my dad. The pocketknife and rosary that my dad carried in his pocket everyday are also there as well has his high school class ring. There are edible treats and a glass of one of his favorite liqueurs.

Also on the altar is a photo of Mila (short for Milagro, "miracle" in Spanish), Clover Leaf’s little daughter. I nursed Mila through a difficult kittenhood before she left to live a wonderful life with my best friend Kris. Mila died several years ago after a developing kidney disease. A lock of her fur is on the altar and there are some kitty treats and kibble alongside the edible treats for my dad.

In past years others who have touched my life have made the altar in the first year after their deaths: Mark’s mom Joan, Kris’ dad Wayne, and Theo. But it’s first and foremost for my dad.

Halloween 2005

2005-10-31T10:29:00.000-06:00

Happy Spooky Day

Shock(ing) and Awe(ful)

2005-10-28T09:29:00.000-05:00

This morning, driving into work, I was physically and emotionally sickened by NPR’s report of how Manadel al-Jamadi died at the hands of the CIA in Abu Ghraib prison nearly two years ago. John McChesney, the NPR reporter, had obtained classified CIA documents detailing eyewitness accounts of al-Jamadi’s treatment in Abu Ghraib. It seems al-Jamadi died as a direct result of torture.

News of torture out of Abu Ghraib is not new, and I’m not so naïve as to believe that torture doesn’t exist in many forms throughout the world. But I am deeply disturbed by the mounting number of incidents of torture perpetuated by the United States, and the ways in which the US government justifies the use of torture. I grew up believing that freedom, liberty, equality, and justice were values lying at the very core of America—that these values above all else defined America and set it apart from less-enlightened nations. What’s more, I grew up believing these values were rights not by virtue of citizenship, but by virtue of one’s humanity, and that this reasoning was behind the United States’ efforts to spread democracy and freedom. I also believed the United States operated in such a way so as to defend and preserve these rights among all people worldwide and to recognize the essential humanity of all people. I recognize that this perspective is grand and likely overly idealistic, but I am also deeply saddened and disturbed at the realization that the United States operates counter to its own principles, and does so on what is becoming a regular basis.

I’m not attempting to be an apologist for Manadel al-Jamadi. He may very well have a been a “bad guy.” But I cannot allow myself to believe inhumane behavior in light of someone else’s inhumanity is acceptable. To do so would destroy something in me that is at my very center. I’m above that, and better than that, and I want my country to be too.

Shoot to Score, in More Ways than One

2005-10-27T17:31:00.000-05:00

So Sheryl Swoopes, the WNBA superstar for the Houston Comets, is a lesbian. She is only the third lesbian to come out while actively playing professionally (the other two women came out very soon before entering retirement from the sport).

Perhaps it’s insensitive to say, but is anyone really surprised there are lesbians in the WNBA? Yes I’m buying into a stereotype about female athletes, and I’m not making any apologies. She’s from rural Texas and played college ball too. What are the chances she drives a truck, likes big dogs, and drinks domestic longnecks?

This is news?

It's Their Own Fault, or Is It?

2005-09-02T10:14:00.000-05:00

The situation in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina continues to shock and disturb me. Is it really any surprise that in circumstances where people are driven to their limits, without food, clean water, shelter, or any plans for the immediate future, that chaos would break out? Think about it, sitting in front of your computers. How you would react if suddenly you were uprooted and had no idea how to fulfill your most basic necessities. In New Orleans, it's not just a matter of finding a faucet to get some water and carrying a pack of trail mix. And this has been going on for days. I'm not excusing the chaos and violence in New Orleans, but I also am not surprised at it.

Now, Michael Brown, director of the Federal Emergency Management Agency, has the gall to suggest, in the midst of ongoing recovery and evacuation efforts, that those stranded in New Orleans are responsible for their own fates. A classic case of blaming the victim for his or her own situation so as to not admit one's own culpability in creating the crisis. Brown argues that residents of New Orleans should have heeded warnings in light of a mandatory evacuation order (I may have misspoke in my earlier post about the evacuation not being mandatory, regardless however, the authorities failed to render assistance to those who couldn't evacuate because they lacked the means to do so). Brown states, "I don't make judgments about why people chose not to leave but, you know, there was a mandatory evacuation of New Orleans." Yes, Mr. Brown, we do know. We also know very well why those still in New Orleans didn't get out. And yes, Mr. Brown, you are in fact making a judgment. Brown has also stated that, "Things are going relatively well." Relative to what? Perhaps what he means is that the burning, drowning, and dying of New Orleans is going "relatively well."

Is Brown making an excuse for the utter failure of the federal government to react swiftly and decisively? It offends me that some in positions of authority can so easily disregard poor minority folks who are so "unlike" those who have the power to do something. Let me state that I am well aware of the complex and complicated nature of managing an effective response to the situation throughout the Gulf region.

President Bush has stated that the results of the effort to address the crisis are "not acceptable." Well, Mr. Bush, as the leader of the free world, as you're so often referred to, how about some leadership? We need something more than a couple of Tom Cruise Top Gun fly-bys. Oh, and thank you for cutting your month-long holiday short by two days. I'm sure the working poor of New Orleans who couldn't afford to evacuate and likely rarely get a vacation appreciate it. Perhaps they're enjoying the time off from their jobs they're getting now, but I doubt it.

The Answer My Friend, Is Blowin In The Wind

2005-08-29T17:08:00.000-05:00

New Orleans and other parts of the central gulf coast region were hit by hurricane Katrina today. The storm was preceded by plenty of warnings to evacuate, however the authorities fell short of ordering an evacuation. What this meant was that individuals wanting to evacuate had to do so via their own devices. Who then was left in the city to ride out the storm? People without cars and people without means to hire transportation, whether it be bus, train, or plane. Those folks unable to evacuate were invited to spend the night in the New Orleans Superdome, but not after waiting in line outside of the stadium as the edges of Katrina began to touch New Orleans bringing torrential rains.

In an interview with an individual staying in New Orleans during the storm, NPR asked why he "chose" to stay. His answer was that he didn't have a working car. My immediate assumption (and I'm actually ashamed to admit this because it both buys into a grossly shallow and consumer-based notion of identity, and because it denies the reality of my own class background and experience) was that he was some poor homeless or near-homeless person. As the interview progressed, the individual let it be known that he was in fact a working high school teacher. The NPR correspondent questioned him further regarding whether or not he had heard from any of his students. In response, this vehicle-less, employed teacher, said that yes, he had in fact heard from a couple of students whose families wanted to evacuate. Those families weren't evacuating because they didn't have enough money to fill their working cars with gasoline. In response, the vehicle-less employed teacher abandoned to the forces of nature, gave his students' families money for gas so they could flee.

Where are our priorities? Poor people left in the path of a potentially devastating natural disaster. Teachers who can't afford to keep their cars running. Working families who can't afford gas for their cars and turn to their children's teachers, who then in turn give them money. Does anyone besides me see a huge problem here?

The winds are blowing, unfortunately they're not really the winds of change.