You may have noticed that I added an e-mail subscription feature to this site. Or maybe you didn’t notice, but I assure you it exists, right below the search widget in the sidebar. In any case, if you were to subscribe, instead of coming back to this site as often as I know you do, you can have a light version of the post conveniently sent directly to your inbox! Oh, the technology!
Continued…
Regarding E-mail Subscriptions
My Regular Mind, posted on April 28, 2010 at 02h56
What Would You Say?
Poems, posted on April 25, 2010 at 09h10
What would you say if we spoke
To each other between breaths in the night
If we pursued this perfect passion
And I stayed with you until light
If we both awoke together
And we never began the day
If I asked if I could stay again
If I asked, what would you say?
War of the Worlds
Thoughtful Thinking, posted on April 23, 2010 at 04h20
Recently I read War of the Worlds, and while I wasn’t particularly thrilled by the plot, its meaning was enormous. In the novel, Martians come to our planet to wreak havoc. They have no regard for us; as one character puts it, humans are to them what ants are to us… insignificant annoyances. In the end, humanity is saved when the Martians are all killed by the flu because their bodies are unaccustomed to Earth’s diseases. Sure, this is pretty standard science fiction plot — particularly now, over a century after it was written — but this wasn’t a story about Martians, it was about us.
Throughout human history, similar events to the Martian invasion have happened. When the Europeans first arrived in North America, Native Americans were inconveniences in the process of expansion and were killed with the same mass carelessness as the humans in the novel. Similar things happened to the indigenous peoples in China, Africa, Australia. Historically, this is common in exploration, but there is little to explore today and this same pattern exists: the powerful abuse the weak. We see this same common theme in all forms of discrimination — racism, sexism, speciesism, classism — and it’s unfortunate that while we can identify it, the systemic abuse of the weak by the powerful retains a darkly dominant role in our humanity.
Discrimination requires one to believe in their own superiority to another. However, since this is subjective, it is not possible to become superior without first believing someone else is inferior. This is the key to all forms of discrimination, even those that exist subconsciously. The Martians knew they were superior to humans, so destroying us was justified. The Europeans knew they were superior to Native Americans, so killing them and claiming their land was justified. The majority of the world knows they are superior to animals, and so confining and consuming them is justified. It is possible to justify one’s actions only when they believe they are morally right, even if it is their own belief that provides them the authority. Discrimination does not reveal any actual inferiority of those discriminated against.
If ever humanity prevails into a time of peace and understanding, it will come from accepting ourselves as equal to all others. There is no superiority, not by gender or race, not by community or religion, not even by species. All discrimination comes from the same roots, and as long as one form exists, they all do.
Bandit
My Regular Mind, posted on April 21, 2010 at 07h17
Last night I climbed onto the roof with a flashlight and a drill. It was dark and wet and I had to do something.
A few days ago, we were enjoying the warm morning sun in our solarium when we were startled by the sudden appearance of a raccoon on the roof. There is a small crawl space between the solarium roof and the balcony above us, and this is where we decided she must be living. We named her Bandit.
That night there was a commotion coming from our kitchen ceiling, and that’s when we discovered that Bandit was not alone. There was a whole family of raccoons living in that area of our house. Somehow they’d gotten onto the solarium roof — already a feat in itself — and then into the crawl space, into the house, and through the walls to above our sink, which is where their den is. The distance that they covered inside the walls is over 5 meters.
Yesterday my landlords came by and blocked off the crawl space that the raccoons were using to get inside. I mentioned that there was a whole family living there and that the babies were probably still inside. My landlords assured me that there were no babies; it was just two adult raccoons, and they were gone now.
And then that night, we heard the chittering of the babies in the walls, exactly where I’d indicated to my landlords. Bandit was back on the solarium, scratching at the blocked entrance, struggling to get to her family. And that’s why, right after she left, I was out on to the roof.
I called my landlords again this morning and told them why I took down the boards. There were definitely babies in there. They agreed with me that we’ll have to wait until they’re big enough to come out on their own, and at that point we will block it off from them. But for now, it looks like we have a family of raccoons staying with us. Cute factor ten.
Helter Skelter
Briefs of Fiction, posted on April 15, 2010 at 08h00
In an old tattered magazine was a full-page black and white ad that read: THE BEATLES LIVE IN NEW YORK CITY. Then, in smaller print: ENTER TO WIN. John and Paul were in the ad, but not George or Ringo — who knows why. And underneath everything, in tiny print at the bottom, the part that Dom couldn’t take his eyes off, was the fine print. It read: CONTEST CLOSES MAY 12.
No year was specified. Misprints and errors amused Dom, so what the hell, he cut the form out, filled it in, and mailed it away. He told his girlfriend. They laughed.
Continued…
Organic Lives
My Regular Mind, posted on April 14, 2010 at 10h34
Months ago I noticed a building on the way home from work, and while the name Organic Lives was interesting, I never looked into it. A few weeks ago a friend recommended it to me, and recently I decided to give it a shot.
The menu was disappointing when I first looked at it. Some of the tastiest-sounding dishes had cheeses or cream sauces, so it seemed there was little to choose from. When the server came around I told her I was vegan and had some questions. I was so completely stunned when she said the entire menu was vegan-friendly that I was sure I misheard. I had to double-check. And triple-check.
“Everything is raw food, nothing is cooked. We don’t use meat or eggs or dairy. It’s all vegan.”
I looked at the menu again. Now everything sounded delicious and I couldn’t make up my mind. Vegetable flatbread topped with a Pinoli cheese, fresh vegetables, pineapple, Peruvian sun-dried olives and fresh pesto. Lavender bread, cream cheese, chive foie gras, with a tomato and mesclun mix tossed in pecan oil. I was in heaven.
Continued…
Drifting
Poems, posted on April 11, 2010 at 07h02
on the old wooden bridge
where you and I lived,
thoughts of you passed through my mind;
like wind through the trees,
you, my casual breeze,
neither broke me nor caused me to bind;
but in the mid of October,
the river spilled over
and left none of that rot-wood behind;
so now I must drift
on remains of the bridge
but better this than to drown in the tide
The String
Briefs of Fiction, posted on April 9, 2010 at 10h43
Immediately from the moment Tay saw the frayed end of string at her bedside, she knew she had to follow it. It intrigued her. She walked beside it out of her room and down the hallway and out the front door. She didn’t have any idea who had left it or why it was there. All she knew was that there was something important at its end.
The string went down the same street she walked every day and it ended at the corner where she waited for the bus that took her to college. When the bus pulled up and opened its doors, the string continued onto it, and Tay followed it to an empty seat. The bus stopped at her school and the string lead her inside the building and to her class.
Many years later, she was used to seeing the string everywhere. It always seemed to be where she was going, always ended where she waited, always went on when she had to move next. At times she wouldn’t notice it for days, but it was there. She followed it to the end of college, to her first day of work, to where she met her husband. The string was there when her kids were born, when they graduated college, when she was diagnosed with cancer. She lived a long time after her illness, ignoring everyone’s urgent suggestions for chemotherapy and instead following the string elsewhere.
Nobody but Tay ever saw the string, and she never told anyone about it. It was her secret.
Fitting the Demands of the Occasion
Crime of Life, posted on April 8, 2010 at 10h35
On the occasion when she came home upset in part by work and in part by my presence in her apartment, she told me how unthoughtful I was. I didn’t understand the stresses of her job, or how emotionally and physically demanding it was. She was sore and hungry. I didn’t listen to her enough. I didn’t do anything to make her life easier. This is what she told me, nearly shouting, leaving me to sit quietly and bite my tongue while I took each blow.
On the occasion when the attack eased, she might have realized she was wrong. Dinner was in the oven waiting to be heated. Champagne was on ice by the tub, waiting to be filled with warm soothing water. Lotion at the bedside for a long massage. This is what I’d prepared.
On every occasion she was shown wrong, she went quiet. Never apologetic. In some small way, she was always right. It is this quality that, unchanged, could leave her as alone as I left her on the last day we ever spoke.
Frustrations Over Not Fitting In The Box
My Regular Mind, posted on April 6, 2010 at 10h31
This site isn’t yet what I want it to be. There’s a caption at the top that currently reads, “this site is in training to serve you better.” Training is taking longer than I’d like, but things in life always do seem to take longer than one would like. I’d love nothing more than to commit myself entirely to these things that make me happy but that is not a luxury I can enjoy at the moment. The belief that it will some day seems further each day.
I’m sure we all fantasize about coming into a great sum of money. Oh the time it could buy me.
Most of the writing here isn’t my ideal work. In fact, most of it leaves me feeling hypocritical. I go on about how information is important, but then I write whimsical prose about fragments of memory; things of little importance to anyone. At best I can sometimes develop a moral from them, but it’s still ego writing. I’d prefer compelling articles about politics and news, but the necessary research would occupy time I do not have.
Sometimes life feels so huge and uncontrollable that I hardly have any choices to make. Must work, must eat, must sleep. And I’m so small. I worry about this endlessly. And then the feeling of inadequacy overwhelms me. And I get smaller and smaller, until I can just about fit inside the box that we’re supposed to, the one where work and life are automatically satisfying and we want nothing more.
