Something Ventured

*This is about a universal "she"...I thought this was unfinished, but maybe not...

It's not said to be tainted
Mahogany when stained
Something like the saying,
"Nothing fractured, nothing gained"
But sawdust covers ground
And splinters impale skin
She sweats and toils and strives
For victories he'll win
And she keeps running dry
From deep drinkers at her well
And sings a secret lonely song
Inside a holy hell
She seeks for certain purpose
More than lonely's cure
She mixes homegrown bitterness
To bake a dish that's pure
Maybe someday he'll notice

Language is Obsolete

*I wrote this my freshman year of college to share at a poetry reading for my intro to lit class. I feel like a was much more naive then, but somehow in a good way. Although it's probably not a style I'd opt for now, I think it's still where my heart is.

Language is Obsolete

A path: forsaken, uncharted, and new
A color: an indistinct, unnamed hue
A question: rhetorical, hanging in the balance
On a shapleless frame, a translucent valence
An answer: perplexing, yet somehow clear
A voice: far away, yet strangely near
A song: the universe moves to the tune
The music, it flows though the sun and the moon
The wind and the rain begin the encore
For this familiar song I've never heard before
A dance: we all are moving along
To the unknown beat of this unlearned song
A presence: invisible, breaking the shell
Tangible enough to see and to smell
A light: a glow in the deepest places
It strangles the dark and shines on the faces
A mother: care without demand
A father: strength with an outstretched hand
A glass: foggy; a window: unclear
But still the face will not disappear
A face: features I cannot see
But I know it so well, it's a part of me
A clock: it ticks but tells no time
A poem: so lovely, but without rhyme
A treasure: once lost, but now it is found
A square: without corners; a circle: unround
A picture: brush strokes lacking their paint
With a pigment so bold that used to be faint
An ocean: storming, raging around
An island: a piece of solid ground
A breeze, a peace, a shadow, a flame
A very close friend without a name
A concept, a feeling, a reality
Surrounding and inside of me

You make words feel so empty and vain
A paradox verbiage cannot explain
Like a secret whispered I cannot repeat
As you have made language obsolete

tears are secrets and they hide in basements

i’m not a builder
my awkward tool-clenched hands
to build a house up to the sky
without any plans
blank white blueprint
i heard there was 'help wanted'
could have misheard
it’s hard to make out a whisper in a wind tunnel

that night I stood outside alone
looked up into the black
and whispered a blank check
and cashed it in for a foreign denomination

my home is in your heart
come and make my heart your home
if I take the 'for sale' sign down
from this piece of real estate
bought before it went on the market

unless all these metaphors
are futile analogies
i’ll put an apology
on my epitaph
and hope for a nice eulogy

Sweeter than bleeding
Closer than breath
Warmer than fading
Wider than depth
Rawer than feeling
Stronger than pain
Dreaming to wake
Waxing to wane

Higher than falling
Walking to crawl
Heavy to soaring
Nothing to all
Scratching to stroking
Crying to sleep
Flat to reforming
Shallow to steep

Purer than breaking
Wholer than white
Clearer than blindness
Louder than sight
Aching to groping
Fighting to free
Ugly to fragrant
Hiding to free

Raquel Aparicios

A lovely illustrator I stumbled upon...








http://www.raquelissima.com/

US Foreign Policy and Media: A Patriotized History?

This has been my obsession over the past couple of weeks...an exam for my American Government class. I doubt anyone will read the whole thing, or even any of it or that matter, but I had to put it out there because there was a lot of time, energy, thought, and turmoil put into all the learning that led up to it as well as its composition. It was sprinkled through my conversations and was even literally haunting my dreams.

The unit we were studying concerned the media, U.S. foreign policy, and my professor's theory, based upon Herman and Chomsky's assessment found in their work Manufacturing Consent. A summary of those ideas can be found in the first question. Number two concerns the questions as to whether there is a such thing as "ordinary thinking" or objective facts when it comes to media. Number three speaks to the range of debate and criticism of the U.S. government. Number four speaks to the "why"- why a patriotized picture of history and now is painted. Number five are some excepts from articles that demonstrate these assumptions.

Feedback would be welcomed with open arms. And a kiss on the cheek. And a banquet. And probably a bangin afterparty.


1. The basic premise of Herman and Chomsky’s theory is that we, the American people, are presented with a patriotized history by two types of changes: misinformation and misrecognition. Misinformation occurs when information is withheld and/or false information is presented. Misrecognition, a more difficult concept to define, occurs when the facts are shown, and although perhaps true and actual, are intentionally manipulated so that they are “misrecognized” in congruence with a U.S. patriotized history. Misrecognition has more to do with the patriotized filter through which Americans take in the media that is presented than the material itself. Herman and Chomsky address several assumptions that lead to the formation of the benevolent superiority ideology of U.S. patriotism and a skewed view of actual history. In this class we were presented with six core assumptions, condensed points taken from thoughts of Herman and Chomsky. A brief overview of these six assumptions are “U.S. Self Sacrifice”, that the U.S. is the victim and hero in its ventures abroad, “U.S. Benevolence”, that the U.S. is out to help the people of the target country, the assumption that “Target People Support U.S.” where the people of the country are redefined as only those who support the U.S. agenda, “U.S. Self Defense”, the assumption that violence by the U.S. is only for self-protection, “Democratization”, the assumption that the U.S. aims to spread democracy and support human rights, and finally “U.S. Jurisdiction,” an assumption that Chomsky calls “we own the world, or the idea that we are the world police and any opposition is a criminal act.

I have been very intrigued and unsettled by all of the ideas and information presented based on Herman and Chomsky’s assessments. When I look at cases like Iraq, it seems undeniable that many people saw the U.S. occupation there through the lens of a U.S. benevolent superiority ideology. When looking at actual documentation, it seems that that endeavor was based much more on oil than it was on the suspicion of WMDs and bringing democracy to the Iraqi people. It is easy to see that even the critics of the U.S. occupation assume that the U.S. has jurisdiction there, as most arguments point out instances where U.S. military forces killed “innocent people,” meaning those that were not resistant to the U.S. agenda. It seems to me that the term “insurgent” has been assigned incorrectly, not to mean those rising up against their own government, but those who are resisting U.S. occupation. To paraphrase the Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary definition of “insurgent”, an insurgent is one who revolts against an established government. Many articled from the U.S. media concerning Iraq use the term “insurgent” to the Iraq forces resisting the U.S. in Iraq. Therefore, I agree with the idea that an ideology of world jurisdiction has affected not only the way these stories are told, but also the way we, the readers/viewers interpret them. After being presented with examples of case after case of U.S. dealings abroad and its foreign policy- examples where the whole story was never presented or stories that were written in such a way as to mislead about the truth of U.S. activity- I could not help but agree that these theories supported in class, influenced by Herman and Chomsky, must have at least some validity.

Despite this, I’m not ready to jump on this train of thought that the U.S. is always an evil, self-interested, deceitful monster that tries to cover up its dirty deeds as it tries to take over the rest of the world. We have seen numerous examples where the U.S. has supported rebellions to overthrow democracy to install a puppet dictator or leadership that caters to U.S. interest (Iran 53-79, Suharto in Indonesia in 65-mid 60’s, Congo and Zaire from 1960-1997, the Dominican Republic 1930-1978, and the list goes on), but according to my experience with family members in the military, dialogue with peers, and a general sense of the American public, I don’t think that the six assumptions are false all the time. Yes, many assume U.S. Self-Sacrifice and that the U.S. was the victim and was wronged in instances such as Vietnam and now in the current conquest in Iraq, but I do not think that the U.S. is always the perpetrator when portrayed as the victim by the media. Yes, many would assume that the U.S. is always benevolent and acting in the interest of other nations and peoples where this is clearly not true, illogical, even, when realistically looking at the nature of humanity and its tendency to look out for “number one” first and foremost. U.S. benevolence may be a false idea to assume, but it does not mean that the U.S. never acts or has never acted in benevolence.

It was said in the “6 Assumptions” handout that we falsely believe that the U.S. is unique or special, but I think in some ways the U.S. is just that. Our history as a people is different from that of most other countries is the world in that it is a young nation founded largely by “immigrants” looking to establish a nation that allowed for a better life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness than existed in the places from which they were immigrating, or at least that was the goal for many- to make a better life in a new land. Again, I submit there were many aspects of hypocrisy including colonizing through the domination and violence toward indigenous people, unjust actions committed because of arrogance and hunger for wealth, the existence of slavery, many atrocities in the name of the Christian religion such as the Salem Witch trials and the attitude toward “pagans” and more. Despite these, I would argue that many people did and still do adhere to ideals not commonly held by other nations.

Perhaps it stems from what has been passed down to me. From the time of elementary school we are trained to place our hand over our heart and pledge allegiance to the American flag every school day (something by which I am
disturbed upon reflection). We are taught that we live in the greatest country of the world and are instilled with a sense of patriotism which is probably where these assumptions that are under scrutiny here are rooted. It seems to me, though, that whenever a catastrophic event or disaster occurs abroad, the U.S. does and is therefore expected to step in and help. It seems that there have been situations where aid was needed, and the U.S. had the means to help where other nations could not and/or did not. Maybe in this way I have bought into a false assumption, maybe this is a burden the U.S. has placed upon itself, reminiscent of Rudyard Kipling’s poem “The White Man’s Burden.” Taking into account what I now know, I disagree with the assertion that the U.S. government should step into conflicts involving other nations without the support of the U.N., considering its track record with supposedly “helping.”

Either way, I cannot so quickly disregard people I know personally in the U.S. military who argue that this is the greatest nation in the world and are fighting to support it, putting themselves at risk because they believe in what is good about this nation. If it is true that power corrupts, maybe it is the “higher ups” and the leaders of administrations that begin to make poor, self-interested, corrupted decisions. The military is very much a chain of command and many actions that are carried out are done so by people following orders from another who was following his or her orders, and so on. It seems to me that many people on the ground genuinely are benevolent and genuinely do believe in democracy and would support its spread throughout the world. I can’t so quickly discount them, saying they’ve been brainwashed through false assumptions and a patriotized history, although I am also not failing to acknowledge that these also are true in some (many) cases. Perhaps this is problematic because of situations like Nazi Germany where the reality of the atrocity that was happening was lost in the bureaucracy, objectification, and dehumanization of information. Murders became simply numbers. It seems that many people on the ground truly fall in line with these assumptions, but perhaps corruption start with the people in power who do not see reality but make decisions based on cold data, aiming to further the ultimate goal.

In the end, I would say that there are parts of history that have been patriotized and that the “6 assumptions” have been wrong many times, but not always. There are some sources of media that are more accurate than others, some stories that misinform or manipulate with misrecognition, most commonly in the mainstream media, but not every story. I guess I would consider my hypothesis to be a “both/and” situation, though leaning toward the assessment given by Herman and Chomsky and Dr. Brichoux. I agree that it is so important to fight this ideology itself because as long as it remains unchallenged, this problem will never be stopped. One student argued that we cannot blame the U.S. as a whole because each administration has killed different people and has committed different evils abroad. I would argue that this further supports the opposing position that if the same problem is seen in different situations, then it is a larger ideological problem. I agree with the assertion that we need to get to the point where we the people see that if we can justifiably take a certain action, then so can other nations, and if we are making decisions for other nations, then we should truly allow for democracy and allow these people to vote in our elections.

2. I believe that it is possible for us to have a more accurate view of reality within U.S. policy than that with which we are presented, but I do not think that there is a set “ordinary” way of thinking or an objective reality that exists in and of itself. It seems to me that the more true information given and the more we hear from different angles, the broader picture of reality we can achieve, rather than the myopia of hearing one voice or accepting the final product that emerges from the various filters within the media, the government, and ourselves. Every story is subject to language, and language is subject to interpretation, which differs from individual to individual, and also from people group to people group, depending upon values, experiences, opinions, etc.

It seems to me that language is a very important part of having the most accurate view of reality possible. We see many problems with terminology such as “terrorist,” “security forces,” and “insurgents.” One necessary filter for discerning the most objective reality possible would be to closely scrutinize the meaning behind these loaded words. It is obviously important to maintain the integrity between how one party (i.e. the U.S. mainstream media) uses a term and how another party (i.e. the American public or other nations) interprets that term.

An example of a problem in this area is the word “insurgent.” Problems with this word were very common in the articles with which we were presented in class. One is found in an article that speaks of “twin dangers facing the country: insurgent violence against Americans and Iraqi security forces.” Merriam Webster Dictionary defines insurgent as “a person who revolts against civil authority or an established government.” If we agree upon this definition then, in this case, the U.S. has asserted itself as a civil authority or established government in Iraq, which is far from reality- the resistance is coming from the people of the real established government. This type of redefining is a common occurrence. Another example is the word “terrorism.” It is often argued that U.S. involvement in the Middle East was motivated by the fight against terrorism. Again, the dictionary defines terrorism as using violence or fear to coerce for political purposes. I’ve commonly heard it said that most Iraqi people support U.S. occupation, and the terrorists are the people who are resistant. A small example of how this differs from the truth can be seen in some polls taken by “WorldPublicOpinion.org.” These polls showed that 79% of the Iraqi public thought that the U.S. had a negative effect on the situation in Iraq. 62% said they had no confidence in the U.S. to protect their security, and another 22% said they had little confidence. On the other hand, the U.S. is a foreign power that has killed many Iraqi citizens, so it seems that it is more in line with the dictionary definition of terrorism. It is examples like these that show that the necessity of agreement upon definitions by all parties involved in order to form an objective reality.

Slants and bias are inevitable, though, and due to the bent in the human nature toward self-interest, every reality will be slightly skewed. Words are merely symbols or tools to communicate ideas, and every interpretation may be different, as I said earlier. Bias is seen even through which stories are told. It would be impossible to publish updates on or find out about everything that happens in the world and every minor conflict, therefore the selection of the story itself takes away objectivity. Despite this, I do think it is possible to get much closer to “ordinary thinking” or objective reality than what we see now with U.S. media.

3. It is undeniable that both political parties during the 2008 election took positions within patriotic assumptions. Despite the fact that Obama was the more favorable candidate for leftist anti-war supporters, the Obama and Biden administration stated their policy had the goal of building up special operations forces that would allow for “a more robust capacity to train, equip, and advise foreign security forces” to confront “threats,” as well as aiming to swell the size of the military by tens of thousands. The motivations are clear when they state that they want to “ensure the agility and lethality to succeed in both conventional wars in stabilization and counter-insurgency programs.” These kinds of statements say much about their mentality. Revisiting the dictionary definition of “insurgent,” statements like these seem to say that the U.S. wants to step into conflicts against the governments in foreign nations. First, I would say that the U.S. has no business intervening in these situations, on our own at least, unless the U.S. had the backing of the rest of the U.N. security council if the conflict falls under what the charter had deemed an appropriate situation in which to intervene. Not only that, but it directly states that they seek to “ensure...lethality” in these situations- they seek to safeguard our ability to murder those that resist their agenda. Obama’s Iraq policy clearly shows that the reason for backing out of Iraq has nothing to do with human rights on a global level, but shows that patriotic assumptions have been made because the reason for withdrawing only relates to the cost to the U.S. through money and casualties (“We know that the war in Iraq has cost us in lives and treasure, in influence and respect…”).

McCain’s stance is also within patriotic assumptions, and is even more overt. His policy stated his administration’s goal to “maintain our military leadership, retain our technological advantage, and ensure that America has a modern, agile military force to meet the diverse security challenges of the 21st century.” This simply reeks of a superiority mentality. He also advocated the expansion of the military, the development of missile defense (“to allow American military forces to operate overseas without being deterred by the threat of missile attack from a regional adversary”), and modernizing the armed forces. Perhaps the most honest statement he makes is when he says that he would use force when “our nation’s values and interests absolutely demand it.” The problem with this idea is that because of the superior “we own the world” mentality, these said “values and interests” are an insatiable quest for U.S. interests under the guise of “spreading democracy” or the idea that we are the “good guys.” Our values and interests constantly demand that we invade and overthrow and dominate other nations by force.

All these support the claim that we are indoctrinated by our own patriotic assumptions and benevolent superiority ideologies. It also indicates a double standard in the minds of the American people. We rejoice at the civil rights victory that was the election of Obama, a minority, as President of the United States, yet three days later that same administration murdered people in Pakistan with drones. We have become so indoctrinated and accustomed to this kind of behavior that allows for atrocity and injustice to occur in the same way that it did in Nazi Germany. These things are accomplished through the normalizing of totalitarian and imperialist behavior. It is seen clearly through the article “Drone Attacks in Pakistan Planned” by Eric Schmitt and Christopher Drew. In the article, a Senator Carl Levin acknowledged that “the price is very heavy” when civilians are killed but that the strikes are “an extremely effective tool.” The article goes on to state that these drones “typically supply the weapons targeting officers with enough information to avoid civilian casualties” and that mini-satellites can be used “to help confirm that the right people are being singled out for attack.” I would question whether the killing of the actual targets being “typically” the outcome is enough to justify their usage, but furthermore, we are assuming that we have the authority to justify the killing of people we have deemed are “the right people.”

It is also clear that even within the realm of debate and criticism on U.S. foreign policy, the same assumptions are still made. Even critics assume that the U.S. invaded for the purpose of spreading democracy, and criticize on the basis of whether or not the Iraqi people wanted our democracy. Critics still assume that the U.S. is there to help and that they are suffering because of it. Criticism rests on the basis of American casualties and cost and American motives are rarely questioned. I agree that within the supposedly “lively” debate that goes on, criticism only occurs in a very limited realm because presupposing party lines and holding unarticulated assumptions held by both opposing parties.

Perhaps this divide is inevitable for those in power in government, that is until these assumptions are brought into light, although I have seen more enlightened discussions coming from those that are less involved and less knowledgeable about these situations. I remember having debates in my high school government class regarding issues of foreign policy, and many, if not a majority of my classmates were asking the same questions that Herman and Chomsky were asking. Many of us questioned why the U.S. had the right to have military bases in other countries all over the world and why it had the right to go into Iraq unsolicited, and why it had the right to decide who should live and die in countries that have absolutely no say in the decisions we make. Maybe it takes some separation from the issues to see clearly the reality of the corruption. Perhaps it takes fresh, minds that have not yet been indoctrinated to rationalize about these issues, minds that have not yet bought into patriotized assumptions.

4. There have been three theories presented in this class as to why media is patriotized. W. Lance Bennett’s theory, which he calls the “indexing hypothesis,” can be summarized by saying that the media will only present options or criticism that has already filtered through the U.S. government. His theory says that the media follows the government’s lead when it comes to describing situations and in the range of debate. His stance is that the news media lacks the ability to creatively frame a story, and therefore what is projected is not really news but information put out by the government itself.

Robert Entman’s theory, which he names the “cascade model” presents the idea that the participants in the telling of each present information through a preferred frame that emphasizes specified aspects of issues or events and making connections that manipulate the interpretation on the side of the recipient. Each differing part- the President, Congress, the media, the masses- want their frame to be dominant, yet there is a hierarchy the leads to this cascading effect, where the the President and his administration has the most powerful frame, and the hierarchy descends to the people at the bottom who has the least accepted “frame.” Although Entman’s theory is very adaptable in not defining what the media will say or not say, he submits that even within this, there are certain limits that the foreign policy debate stays within. He highlights the fact that those events that are culturally congruent or psychologically comforting and discards those that are not.

The Herman-Chomsky Model is then referred to as the “propaganda model,” which is a market-based theory that explains the false picture of reality that results. They hold the idea there are five filters that screen out what does not fit into patriotic assumptions. These five assumptions are size- the ownership by a few mass media firms and their profit orientation, advertising as the primary source of income of mass media- audiences are sold to advertisers so numbers and buying power are to be maximized, source bias- much of the information put out by the media comes from government sources, major corporations, and experts who receive support and funding from these sources, flak- backlash when media sources draw too close the line of the invisible limits on debate and criticism, and anti-ideologies as a “national religion”- where anti-ideologies such as anticommunism or antiterrorism and campaigning for these issues result in an almost religious environment allows for emotionalism that lessens the need for weight of evidence.

The simpler claim that a patriotized history flows from the media producer’s own belief in the benevolent superiority ideology is clearly seen through the example of the article written by Kevin Sites that recounts his witness of the killing of unarmed, injured Iraqis by U.S. Marines. Sites’ disclaimer at the beginning of the article that he simply wants to give an account of what he saw “without imposing on that Marine-- guilt or innocence.” After telling the story, he said that he places trust in the U.S. news organizations to “handle a story responsibly,” logically interpreted to mean that these organizations will put these stories in as pro-U.S. a light as possible. Even taking this into account, Sites received a great amount of flak because of the negativity the story inspired toward the U.S., and he apologizes for not having a pro-U.S. bias.

How could it be possible to logically disagree with the fact that the media is bias when a reporter openly acknowledges that it is, and then apologizes for not being biased enough? He expresses that his pondering his decision to report these events “led to an agonizing struggle—the proverbial long, dark night of the soul.” I am then taken aback by his direct quote, saying “When NBC aired the story 48 hours later, we did so in a way that attempted to highlight every possible mitigating issue for that Marine’s actions.” Sites and NBC took every effort to make this injustice committed by the U.S. Marines look as favorable as possible, and it would be ignorant to think that this scenario is an isolated incident. This kind of behavior can be seen in the media throughout politics and the U.S. activity abroad.

As far as my own theory, I would say that I resonate most with the Herman-Chomsky assessment, especially the fifth assumption which speaks of anti-ideologies as a “national religion.” This assumption as well as an overt benevolent superiority ideology can be clearly seen through the quotation found at the end of the article of Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Colonel Willy Buhl: “We’re the good guys. We are Americans. We are fighting a gentleman’s war here—because we don’t behead people, we don’t come down to the same level of the people we’re combating.” Sites goes on to say that he believed these words. This is the kind of thinking that we are indoctrinated with from a very early age. We are taught that we are the good guys, that the U.S. military is a valiant force that spreads democracy and liberty throughout the world, and all the six assumptions that Herman and Chomsky say lead to a patriotized history. We are led to glorify the U.S. government is an almost religious way and carry out “holy wars” against terrorism, or those whom the government has deemed terrorists, despite whose behavior could accurately be characterized as terroristic. Sites speaks of his inner struggle surrounding his decision to publish the story, and seems to feel that is some sort of heroic figure, following his conscience despite the fact that this story butts head with these false ideologies. Even apart from the fact that these Marines were killing unarmed, injured Iraqis, the fact that this labeling mechanism of appropriate behavior and this assumed authority we have over who should live and who should be killed in another country remains unchallenged. An analogy given in class as to the mentality of Sites and presumably most of the media when criticizing the government was especially rousing when it was said that it was as if Sites was apologizing to the American people like a cheating husband, “I’m sorry, honey, I tried to hide it from you, but she’s living in our garage.” To me, this seems to be the dominant mentality of the media.

5. This analysis looks at examples of misrecognition through redefining terms, instances of assumptions theorized by Herman and Chomsky, as well as a general benevolent superiority ideology, concentrating on the U.S. action in Iraq.

“Detainees, some innocent, but many of them former insurgents long held in American military custody, are being set free every day, potentially increasing the insurgency's numbers. The American-Iraqi security agreement requires the release of all detainees in American custody unless there is sufficient evidence to bring charges in an Iraqi court.”-- This has several assumptions. One is that the U.S. has the authority to determine which detainees are innocent or not. Another is that the insurgents are that if they are being held in U.S. custody.

http://www.lexisnexis.com.ezproxy.mnl.umkc.edu/us/lnacademic/results/docview/docview.do?docLinkInd=true&risb=21_T6481546534&format=GNBFI&sort=RELEVANCE&startDocNo=1&resultsUrlKey=29_T6481546537&cisb=22_T6481546536&treeMax=true&treeWidth=0&selRCNodeID=14&nodeStateId=411en_US,1,13&docsInCategory=125&csi=6742&docNo=1

“They reflected an acknowledgment that more has to be done beyond the city's bounds to halt a relentless wave of insurgent attacks that have undercut attempts at political reconciliation.” – This assumes that the U.S. is the vessel that will bring reconciliation and fails to acknowledge that these “insurgents” may just be Iraqis resisting the U.S.’s involvement.
http://www.lexisnexis.com.ezproxy.mnl.umkc.edu/us/lnacademic/results/docview/docview.do?start=9&sort=RELEVANCE&format=GNBFI&risb=21_T6481546534

“For two weeks, in meetings with a score of members of Congress, Muhammad al-Daini, a Sunni Arab member of the Iraqi Parliament who says he has survived eight assassination attempts, has offered a well-practiced pitch that emphasizes the need for American troops to withdraw….He has publicly praised the Sunni insurgency for taking on American troops” – This article frames a man speaking on behalf of Iraq who opposes U.S. occupation as a suspicious negative figure. It presents alleged allegations against him where he seems clearly to simply be a voice of Iraqis who want a withdrawal of U.S. troops.
http://www.lexisnexis.com.ezproxy.mnl.umkc.edu/us/lnacademic/results/docview/docview.do?start=6&sort=RELEVANCE&format=GNBFI&risb=21_T6481829641

“Would the pullback of American forces unleash an even bloodier round of civil conflict that would lead to the implosion of the Iraqi government? Or would it put pressure on Iraqi politicians to finally reconcile their differences?” – These questions allow for misrecognition by a giving a false dilemma. It leaves out the option that the U.S. could be the source of the conflict, and is loaded with an almost paternal superiority ideology, asking “Are these little children going to hurt each other, or can they work it out themselves if we let them?”
http://www.lexisnexis.com.ezproxy.mnl.umkc.edu/us/lnacademic/results/docview/docview.do?start=7&sort=RELEVANCE&format=GNBFI&risb=21_T6481829641

“Some other analysts do not object to Mr. McCain's portraying the insurgency (or multiple insurgencies) in Iraq as that of Al Qaeda. They say he is using a ''perfectly reasonable catchall phrase'' that, although it may be out of place in an academic setting, is acceptable on the campaign trail, a place that ''does not lend itself to long-winded explanations of what we really are facing,''” – This is an example of this “national religion” and the anti-ideology of which Herman and Chomsky speak. This is basically saying that McCain should not have to explain our reasoning for occupation or what, exactly, we are fighting. It seems to sat that we should not be so skeptical as to question the details because of this ambiguous, looming statement about “what we really are facing.”
http://www.lexisnexis.com.ezproxy.mnl.umkc.edu/us/lnacademic/results/docview/docview.do?start=11&sort=RELEVANCE&format=GNBFI&risb=21_T6481829641

“It is very likely any president would use air power to try to separate the sides. But whom do we target? If there are no good guys, do we bomb some civilians to save others?”—This is interesting as it demonstrates this “we own the world mentality” stated by Herman and Chomsky, as well as another false dilemma. The problem is presented as whose side the U.S. should take and fails to question whether the U.S. should be involved at all.

http://www.lexisnexis.com.ezproxy.mnl.umkc.edu/us/lnacademic/results/docview/docview.do?start=12&sort=RELEVANCE&format=GNBFI&risb=21_T6481829641

“But Democrats seized on the report, issuing a flurry of press releases portraying the administration's Iraq strategy as having failed.
''Further pursuit of the administration's flawed escalation strategy is not in our nation's best interests,'' said Senator Harry Reid of Nevada”-- This is another demonstration of misrecognition as it misrecognizes who is truly the invader. In ordinary circumstances, the question asked would never be whether the best interests of the invading country were being served.

http://www.lexisnexis.com.ezproxy.mnl.umkc.edu/us/lnacademic/results/docview/docview.do?start=13&sort=RELEVANCE&format=GNBFI&risb=21_T6481829641

“We are led to believe that resistance to our presence in Iraq stems from al-Qaeda, but insurgents don't carry membership cards with their rifles. In reality, the violence represents an age-old internal struggle for power among Sunnis, Shiites and Kurds. We could place a guard in every doorway in Iraq and reduce the violence to zero, but that would be little help in the long term.”—Even this criticism of our occupation demonstrates this assumption of jurisdiction. This critique asks whether it would help the peace to have guards there, and fails to question if we should be occupying the country, and whether we should be trying to help in the short of long term.

http://www.lexisnexis.com.ezproxy.mnl.umkc.edu/us/lnacademic/results/docview/docview.do?start=2&sort=RELEVANCE&format=GNBFI&risb=21_T6482081188

“Now that he's president, Obama has to do what's best for the nation. In the case of Iraq, that means disengaging in a way that preserves hard-won gains and vital U.S. interests. If the cost of a stable Iraq involves narrowing the definition of "combat" troops and leaving thousands as "trainers" or "advisers," it is a price worth paying.”—This is a misrecognition example as the reader is led to misrecognize the U.S. an the invader. The only reason for withdrawing is for U.S. gains and interests, and no thought or value is given to the interests and gains of the Iraqi people.

http://www.lexisnexis.com.ezproxy.mnl.umkc.edu/us/lnacademic/results/docview/docview.do?start=6&sort=RELEVANCE&format=GNBFI&risb=21_T6482081188

“Violence in Iraq has declined since the White House launched the "surge," a counterinsurgency strategy backed by 30,000 additional U.S. troops more than a year ago. The surge was meant to protect Iraqi civilians by moving U.S. troops off large bases and into neighborhoods.”—This is another example of a Herman-Chomsky assumption, assuming that the U.S. is benevolent in moving from its bases and into Iraqi neighborhoods, that they are protecting Iraqi civilians self-sacrificially. In reality, the U.S. is exercising control over the Iraqi civilians and claiming authority in a country that is not their own, often by violence which it claims to be standing against.

http://www.lexisnexis.com.ezproxy.mnl.umkc.edu/us/lnacademic/results/docview/docview.do?start=11&sort=RELEVANCE&format=GNBFI&risb=21_T6482081188

From Creative Writing- found while organizing

poetry goes over
over my head
head over body
mind over matter
body intro conclusion
conclusion jumped into
over my mind
mine doesn't matter

thoughts become words
words become empty
empty wasted ink
ink writing repeats
redundant and repeating
rebounding and recycled
wrangled restless verbiage
verbiage rendered rubbish

verbiage into writing
writing into poems
poems on a page
page proving empty
paper empty full
full end beginning
middle entrance end
end beginning body

body under head
head under words
words into language
language escaping me

Harmoniously together we stand alone
And preach our lack of dogma via trendy microphone
Assert our individuality and blazing independence
Tolerance and equality with fashionable transcendence
You’re my fellow human, father, mother, sister, brother
Draw a circle around all of us who are nothing like each other
But who coined the clichés and the stereotypes?
And why are you so far left if everybody’s right?
What did all these abbreviations stand for originally?
Who are we indigenously,
Homo sapiens and individually?
Who are “we the people,” specifically?
And what are the ideals realistically? Pluralistically?
What’s the rule if it’s all an exception?
Or was that just a suggestion?
And where’s the real image of all these reflections?
We’re all so good at avoiding projection,
Going green and turning out at elections
Open minds leave thoughts free for convection
So we can hide and deny our fear of rejection
How are we to compromise when nothing’s left to give?
And how to catch liquid truths with holy mental sieves?
And what if I can’t tolerate anymore?
Who had the most points seven and four score?
What’s the playing field tomorrow, now, and before?
Antebellum, antecedent, anaphor
Broken hearts and lipitor
And if living the dream was so majestic
Why am I disgusted by this product gross domestic?
How to manufacture organic
Suffer accident, act like we planned it?
Loop holes and black holes
Left us less than whole
What’s the profit margin if you gain the world?

The Chromatic Portent

Martin’s eyes shifted quickly to the left. It was there, in the pale, electric glow cast by the lamp rod, that he saw the strange blur, the crimson fluttering of wings that caused the rare disruption of his thoughts. It was indeed an uncommon thing in this city to see anything worth turning your glance for. The source of the crimson fluttering had disappeared leaving nothing but the vague image in Martin’s mind of a bird flying off through the smog.
Martin’s eyes shifted back to the lamp rod, the supposed evidence of progress. What was progress anyway? Because it surely had not hit this city yet. The lamp rod just floated there above the sidewalk, bouncing subtly in the slight breeze. The light it cast was a dead white, electric, no color, just like the city. Why did they even place those lights along the streets? No one really wanted to see each other anyway. The whole population’s past had been spent building up steel walls around themselves, hiding who they are and showing who they “ought” to be. All this city really was, in fact, was a masquerade ball without the festivities or the color. The day was as dark as the night and filled with the connect-the-dot hustle and bustle of hollow souls. The night life was a poor imitation of life and even more hollow than “life” during the day.
Martin lifted his eyes to the so-called “majestic” skyline. It was really nothing but a bunch of pale, electric lights in the midst of a hazy layer of thick smog. Dark and hollow. Those were the two words that summed up the entire city. Martin wondered if genuine life would ever come to Thanopolis.
A cold raindrop hit his nose.
Someone above him was weeping.

Behind the Ribcage

This burning
paper dreams
kindled
brittle leaves and twigs
fell after all was
lush and green before
the season began to undress.
Dying, drying
but now fuel for fire
raging, growing
lustfully consuming
blaze of purging tenacity.
Ashes drift upward
burn throat and eyes
make tears fall downward.
Smoke dances
into the night
into the atmosphere
i breathe
you breathe
and fills the lungs
joined to windpipes
conduit of vocals
yet to listen
faces
yet to touch.

Whispers of the Beautiful

When I look back, all I can see now is glimpses, images. Faded and worn memories. That’s all there is left. I can still feel the cushioned bounce from when I dropped onto my bed, exhausted from another day in the world. The lights were all off. I remember the soft tick…tock…tick…tock of my wall clock numbing my thoughts as it lulled me into sleep-like stupor. The next event was much hazier. I still can’t tell if what I saw was in a dream or if I was awake. I remember it being a state like nothing I had ever felt before. I saw a white room, a blue stream softly cutting the room down the center, a man in white, his face shrouded in brightness. It was supernatural; I knew it. The voice was the man’s but it whispered from every unseen wall of the room. “You’re weary. You’ve been fighting. It’s time that you listened. Your ears are now opened. Awaken, silent sleeper.”
After that, my eyes opened, literally, and daylight flooded my vision. I was on a plain, carpeted in lush green grass, canopied by clearest blue skies with very few clouds in the sky. Around me were people, wandering, sitting, lying, jumping, running, weeping. Every single one I recognized.
The first one that caught my eye was a girl a few yards away. She was my age, at sixteen; her name was Talia. As I stepped up to her, my footfalls silenced by the grass, she turned her head and looked at me, looked right into my eyes. Her eyes were wet and red. She had been crying. This was the girl that I would see at lunch, middle table, surrounded by all the “important” people. Her face was always bearing a smile. Her mouth was always agreeing with their laughter. Who was this girl here? She was different. She spoke to me in a soft, lilting voice, “At home, my parents make it clear that they would never love me. They make it clear that I am the major blemish of their life. They’re struggling financially. They make it clear that that’s my fault. I sometimes feel like if I was gone, no one would even notice. I’ve thought about ending it.” She lifted up her pant leg. There were criss-crossing lines. Scars. “I did these to myself. I thought, ‘I have caused everyone else pain. I deserve this pain.’ I can’t see anything worth living for.” She turned away from me, back to her pain. A tear rolled down my cheek.
I drifted off to the next person, an older man. The same man I saw on TV; the man I saw arguing for evolution on the science program. He was standing up, looking at the sky, the grass, the world. He turned to me, his face distraught. “I do not know what is real anymore. Honestly, I hope that what I believe is wrong. If it is true, then what is the point? I hope I am wrong; I know I am wrong. But I cannot let them know that. I have been fighting much too long. I suppose all there is left for me is blind seeking.” He turned back to his observations of the miraculous. My heart broke for him.
Next, I came up to a guy a couple years older than me. He was on his knees, rocking back and forth, back and forth. He was the guy that I saw with his friends behind the school, smoking pot. He was angry, but also suffering. His face was red; his hands were in his sweaty hair. He turned to me, anguish filling his face. “My best friend died a year ago! Does anyone know the pain I feel? Does anyone care? I just want to get away! I just want to escape this miserable life! No, I’m too afraid to die. I’m so afraid, oh, so afraid. That’s why I use my drugs; they help me escape. A moment of pleasure and release, a moment away from this misery. Oh, I miss him! I would never let anyone know this. I t would make me look weak, un-masculine. But he understood me! He saw past my skin! Why can’t anyone be like that anymore? Why can’t they just once look past themselves and see me, just see me? I’m really not a bad kid! I just can’t see any way out!” He screamed, and I felt like I wanted to take a step toward him, but my feet wouldn’t move in his direction.
Finally, I was swept off to meet one last person, the person farthest from me, past everyone else, sitting alone on the grass with his head drooped to his knees. He was still, except fir his shoulders, which shook subtly. He was trying to hide his weeping. I stepped silently up to him. I reached out ever so slowly. After a slight moment of hesitation, I put my hand on his upper back. He turned to me. As soon as I saw his face, I recoiled. I was shocked to my core and couldn’t, wouldn’t, believe my eyes. I shook my head, and thought that this was impossible. The one staring emptily back into my eyes, with the pallid expression on his face, the broken soul sitting in front of me, was…me. He spoke, “Why do you deny it? Why do you deny me, the deepest part of you? You could be so much more. The world needs me to shine on the outside of you, not the dark corners inside. You can’t leave this behind. You can’t ignore this. It will be unrelenting. Quite holding back! Let me free, so you can be who you were meant to be. Stop keeping me suppressed. I need to get out. Let me be seen.”
I fell backwards. I got up and moved away, slowly, faster, until I realized I was running, running from myself. I could not stop. Suddenly I realized I was not outside anymore. I was running through the white room with the stream. The man was still there. His voice echoed down my spine, in my heart, in my mind. “It’s time to stop running. Now that you have heard, now that you have seen, will you stop running? Will you go to my beloved and tell them who they are to me? Will you keep your eyes open? Will you keep listening? Will you just go back to sleep? Love is the truth. Love will be the way. Remember what you have heard… remember… remember… remember……… remember……………………………remember…”
I woke up. And here I am today. Seeing life unblind. Taking that extraordinary step to see, to listen, to love. I am seeing people deeper than the surface. I am listening to what their hearts are truly saying. Life is much too short to not take it as it is. No masks. No makeup. This is real, this is raw. This is who we are, everyman, the beautiful.

By Myself

My family is getting ready to put the house on the market to sell, so my mom has been excavating the dark abyss that is our basement. Last night she unearthed an interesting specimen...this (cheesy) (embarrassing) poem I wrote sometime around fifth grade:


By Myself
When I'm by myself
And I close my eyes
I'm a dreamer in a place
I'm a bird flying free in an open space
I'm a joyful tune to the ear
I'm a beautiful voice for all to hear
I'm a friend
I'm a smile to lend
I'm a peaceful river bend
I'm a glorious sight for all to see
I'm a flag that's flying high and free
An anything I care to be
And when I open my eyes
What I care to be
Is me.









I guess some things don't change...and yet I wonder if I'm still her...

Shoreless Ocean, you stretch far before me.
The nearest and farthest reaches of sight
Are filled with pristine blue and foamy white,
The mirror of the vast sky above thee.
The birds drink your water that makes blind see.
Your surface glows even at dark of night.
Your tide ever sweeps with glory and might.
If drowned in your depths, alive I would be...
Yet I lie here in my arid sand pit.
Like a beached whale, I sit here and wait
For the tide to come and wash me away.
If I could only get one finger wet...
The tide waits on me and it's getting late.
I fear I'll yet thirst at passing of day.

Italian Sonnet: attempt number one

As Sister Winter gently plants her kiss
So nonchalant upon my naked face
My frosted heart retreats inside this space
To long after the right she did dismiss
The sky is dead, life's cycle seems amiss
Wrapped up, look out the window's frosty lace
Shut up inside this somehow sacred place
And wonder how a season such as this
With frozen ground now armed with icy shield
And how closed doors and insulated cracks
Could fragile hope here gently incubate
Do not forget the green it soon will yield
For soon we'll stretch our legs, unfold our backs
Bare heart, you will no longer hibernate

The Prototype: The Message (very rough draft)

It looks like an ocean, no, an infinite slab of glass. Yes, the smoothest obsidian glass, with little holes where the ocean of pure light that lay behind is able to escape through. The pressure behind is building. Now, all we see is the droplets. Soon, I feel, we will see the ocean. The obsidian gate, no, curtain will disintegrate. The purest ocean of light will stretch forever and ever. That is what it looks like. Hope. That is what it feels like.
Those were just a few of the thoughts going through Pathos’ exceptional mind. He sat there on that hill alone, always alone. His only companions were the sea of tall grass brushing and blowing against him and the clear night sky above him. Nature had always been Pathos’ favorite companion. It was usually his only companion. It was not that Pathos did not want anyone’s company. He just wanted to be in the company of those that understood him, those that cared for him despite his eccentricities. Nature understood. Nature cared. Nature brought with it a sense of peace.
A soft breeze flowed through the air around Pathos. It caused the tall grass to dance and his chestnut hair to skip. It whistled in his ears a tune of utter serenity but also one of dark mysteries. The kind of mysteries that make you wary and exhilarated at the same time. The kind that makes you want to jump to your feet and dance, shout a restless chorus from your mouth, and run, run in any direction with no intent to cease. Pathos would have done just that had he not been captivated with the stillness of the moment. Those were the moments he treasured. Those were the only times he felt at least a little bit of release from the bitterness of life. Pathos was one truly weary of the world. He was a diamond in the rough and was constantly battered and bruised by the harsh environment. He was a sixteen-year-old prodigy in a population of barbarians. In a time when people, in their near-sightedness, refrain from looking and judging beyond the surface, Pathos longed for his heart to be heard.
Pathos dropped his head to his knees, which he held against his chest. Why must I be this way? Why must I be so different? What caused me to be like this? A single, heavy tear rolled silently down his cheek. It was like the warming touch of a good friend when they wrap their arm around you. It brings a subtle, unquestioning comfort, but also proves that something must be wrong. It brings out the pain and dulls it at the same time. One tear is never enough to really comfort, but one tear is enough to cause one to accept that the pain is real. Pathos’ pain was real.
Writing and literature had always been Pathos’ true love. It was that love that, at age five, caused him to choose that name for himself. It seemed fitting to him. It was true, at least to himself. The story of his life had always carried with it a deep pathos, and if anyone cared to read it, they would not be able to help but feel a strong sense of compassion and sorrow. Actually, most people’s stories carried with it the same sort of pathos, but the world tends not to read one’s story. The world tends to focus on only their own story, and sometimes they even feel that their’s is the only story. One of the extraordinary things about Pathos was that he did not dwell on his own story. He knew that there were so many other stories out there to be read. He could look into someone’s eyes and read their story. He could see them and know them at the same time. That was one of the reasons he spent so little time around people. He found that when he was around other people often, he became much more depressed. By reading so many stories and feeling so much emotion for those whom the stories belonged to, he wanted very much to do something for them. The fact that people were so closed to outside help stopped Pathos from being able to do anything for them. This was what caused his depression.
That night, Pathos sat there on the grassy hill underneath the star-filled night sky in contemplation. Something had happened earlier that day that caused him to sit in wonder. It was surprising that a mind so extraordinary as Pathos’ could ever be caused to wonder by anything, but this flummoxed even his mind.
Where did that voice come from? It can’t have been actually born in my own mind. Why would I send a message like that to my own mind? I do not even quite know what the voice in my mind spoke of. “At the point where nothing meets nothing, there you will find something. Come, come to me. I hold a perspective that you have not. Two halves shall become one soul.” That was what the voice spoke to me. If I was not the one sending the message, than why was the voice in my mind my own voice? It sounded just like something I am thinking now, but that thought was out of the blue and in the second person. My mind will not rest until I have discovered the answer to this message. From inquisition through toil does illumination birth.
Pathos slowly arose from his spot on the rolling hill. He savored the beauty of movement. Pathos ran, not hurriedly, but quick and gracefully. He was not rushing. No, Pathos never rushed. He knew too much about life and beauty to ever rush. As he ran over and past the flowing hills that seemed to wave to him as he passed, he thought. Pathos spent every waking moment thinking, contemplating many things of a vast variety. He had come to many conclusions in his young lifetime, but he had come to many more questions than conclusions. He thought a lot about that strange feeling he sometimes had. Every now and then, a feeling would come over him that made him question himself and wonder if there was something more. He wondered if there was something about the universe that was more immaterial than the wind but more powerful than the tempest. More fearsome than fear itself but more beautiful than the purest essence of life. More lovely than love. The more he thought about it, the more he longed for it; the more he longed for it, the hollower he felt. Pathos very much wanted to have faith. He was tired of relying so much on intelligence, but he was given so much intelligence that it hindered his path to faith.
As Pathos ran through a forest of strong oak trees, he decided he would practice having faith. He decided he should start out small and work his way up. Pathos made a firm commitment in his mind and will and heart that he would have faith that he would find the answers to this strange message he received. He would never stop until he found the messenger and the meaning of the message. He would go where nothing meets nothing and find something. That was the essence of faith, wasn’t it? To go where there is nothing and find something? To believe there is something there? Pathos believed.
He kept running and running and running. Pathos was a good runner. He ran often and for very long distances. He had decided quite a while back that he had legs for a reason, and he would use them to their extent. Pathos had never ever ridden in a car or a train or a boat or a plane or any vehicle. He had never had need to travel very long distances. Wherever he truly needed to go, he could get to by natural means.
After Pathos cleared the forest and crested a rather tall hill, he looked out and saw small houses with lights in there windows in the horizon. Before the houses were fields with crops growing and a country lane dividing the fields in half. He went through the options in his mind and decided that the best one would be to travel to the nearest farm house and offer to work the fields the next day in exchange for a meal and a bed to sleep that night. Pathos could easily steal some food without getting caught, but the thought never crossed his mind. Strangely, wrong thoughts never really did cross his mind. Pathos never actually thought, said, or did anything wrong. The option to do wrong never entered his thoughts. Since he never thought wrongly, he never became prideful of his morality. He was never self-righteous, but always righteous. He was quite an exceptional young man.
Pathos did exactly what he planned to do. He jogged down the other side of the hill and down the country path until he reached the first farmhouse. He knocked on the door, and an elderly, jovial man answered. He introduced himself as Hank Wilkinson and gratefully accepted Pathos’ proposition. As Hank led Pathos inside the small cottage, he explained that his wife Molly had just made up a nice big pot of baked beans. They also had an open bedroom since their son Jacob had moved out to search for success in New York. With a smile missing a couple teeth, Hank said to Pathos, “All the success I need is right here, in muh nice, peaceful farm. Nuthin’ but the soft earth, the flyin’, twitterin’ birds, and muh lovely wife. Mmhmm, nah them’s success.”
Pathos ate his fill and lay down on the comfortable mattress in the spare bedroom. As he was contemplating his next move towards the answer to the strange message, a thought popped into his mind.
Hmm, I wonder. Could it be possible? Would he hold the answers? He did make me the way I am, after all. He raised me until I was five, albeit I was in permanent sub-conscious. I suppose I have no other ideas at the moment. Yes, that is what I will do.
Pathos decided he would pay a visit to Dr. Erwin Gallagher.

The Proverbial Killed Cat

(from Dr. Cotton's class)
I'm not proud of this, it's painfully cliche...I don't do short stories well. But here it is anyway.



The wind tossed my hair around as I set my sights on the green newspaper vending machine across the street, across the raging current of traffic dotted with busy yellow taxis that were resolutely migrating their way upstream. I pulled my hat down more snugly onto my head and wrapped my long brown coat a little bit more tightly around my body. Crossing my arms over my torso to protect myself from the cold and the rest of the world, I stepped intentionally onto the crosswalk. Hurrying across the street, I got an eerie feeling from the cars that waited hungrily for the next green light.
Somehow, I survived my pilgrimage to printed news. I fumbled around in my pocket for loose change, enough to buy what would probably be a biased perspective on reality—recycled ideas to match the recycled paper. Despite this, I do what I can to support this industry, I try to make some kind of statement to society that readers are not extinct and there is still a place for words and graphics other than on a screen. I figure that if all else fails, the crossword puzzles are at least worth my time and money. I only left three blank yesterday and I’ve been dying to see the answers.
A penny, a dime, a couple nickels; everything except quarters is equal in value with pocket lint. Finally, I arrived upon a couple of quarters so I popped them into the coin slot and opened up the machine. To my dismay, there was nothing, nothing but the back of the vending machine. I gritted my teeth. They would be out of newspapers, I thought to myself. Just as I was about to close it and walk away, something caught my eye in the back of the newspaper machine. Thinking it might be a crumpled paper, I reached for it and to my surprise pulled out a smallish black book.
That’s odd. I cracked it open and saw handwriting scrawled across its pages with dates at the top left corners. It was a journal.
I’ve always had a problem with nosiness. I’m one of those medicine cabinet kinds of people—I like wearing sunglasses so that I can watch people without being seen watching them, and sometimes when I’m wearing headphones I turn off the music so I can listen to people’s conversations. It’s something I’ve been trying to overcome. Because of this, I didn’t quite know what to do. This would be a golden opportunity to satisfy my urges of curiosity, to read a journal containing a complete stranger’s most private thoughts. It had, in fact, come to me. And yet, how low could I stoop? In junior high, this would be one of the ultimate transgressions any girl could commit against another. I was bigger than this. It was not my business, and I would never overcome this snoopy habit of mine if I didn’t start making choices against it.
To keep myself from trouble I tossed it back inside and closed the machine. Sitting myself at my bus stop nearby, I was quite satisfied with my own willpower. Good job. Well done. I deserved congratulations. It was better just to let things be, to let life progress as it had intended, and to mind my own business. I glanced at my watch. At least 15 more minutes until the bus. That’s okay, you could use some time just to sit and think.
I was sitting and thinking quite nicely, but through a series of unexplainable events, I found myself having scavenged my person for two more quarters, and was now sitting with the book back in my hands again. I couldn’t help myself.
I opened up the book again and began reading. The handwriting seemed to move across the page in a familiar sort of fashion. It gave me a peculiar feeling that I couldn’t put my finger on. The way the “y’s” looped below the lines and the letters slurred together as if the author could not decide on cursive or print seemed almost recognizable.
I read, and as I read my suspicion evolved into shock and bewilderment as events that were detailed were far too similar to my own experiences to be coincidental. Each name that appeared on the page was that of someone I knew. Each place was a place where events of my own life had once taken place.
The pencil lines sparked my curiosity. Pencil was not my usual weapon of choice with which to assault a page. What if… I fumbled around in my coat pockets, my backpack and the pocket of my jeans until my quest was put to a halt by a man’s voice that came from behind.
“Here, I have what you’re looking for.”
I twisted my head around to see a tall, slender man wearing a long black coat. He was all wrapped up in a scarf and hat, and the only features I could make out were dark eyes and ebony skin. He nonchalantly extended his hand to offer me a classic-looking pencil with a bright pink eraser on the end. Because of the confusion that already surrounded my situation I asked no questions as I took the pencil from the man. I flipped to a blank page of the journal and wrote a single sentence: “I am confused.” I braced myself.
I sat there waiting for several seconds. I don’t know what it was that I was expecting to happen, but whatever it was, it didn’t.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” asked the man.
“I don’t know. I thought I would try something to…”
“Try again,” he said with a smirk scrawled across his mouth.
“Try what? All this is crazy and irrational and I…”
He cut me off mid-protest with an upraised palm. “Ah, but if I witnessed the scene correctly, you’re the one who couldn’t let it be. Think of it as an assignment. What do you do if you make a mistake on a test?”
Normally I would have taken offense to the manipulation of a complete stranger, but I could not help but feel a secret gratitude for any amount of direction in such an oddly ambiguous situation.
I thought for a moment and then flipped the pencil around in my hand and placed the eraser to the page. I rubbed out the word “confused” and replaced it with the word “angry”. Suddenly it was as though a switch had been flipped in my emotions that caused me to become engulfed by a fury, like rushing waters that had exploded through a broken dam. This unexplainable rage came over me for no apparent reason and I was left with the possibility that it had something to do with what I had just written. Quickly, I erased the entire sentence. The rushing waters inside me stilled and I quickly returned to my placid state.
The man who had been standing behind walked around and sat himself on the bench next to me. “Remarkable, isn’t it?”
I was flabbergasted. “I don’t understand. Tell me what’s going on,” I demanded.
The man chuckled to himself, an action which irritated me all the more.
“Hey, I don’t know who you think you are, but I don’t appreciate being the butt of this joke, whatever it is.”
He turned to look at me. “Well, perhaps you should appreciate it. People don’t come upon an opportunity like this everyday. And who I think I am is of no consequence. Perhaps you should be asking yourself who you think you are. Or, you could just read about it,” he said, with a grin and a nod of his head toward the journal I was holding. “Then again, be careful. You never know what you might find.”
His smug attitude nearly provoked me to tell him what I really thought of him, but I reluctantly decided to bite my tongue. I started flipping through the pages of the journal and witnessed the unexplainable records of my life, chronicled by my own hand. It made me feel quite uncomfortable, a naked sort of feeling. I flipped to a recent date, February 4 of this year, three days ago:
I lost my cell phone today. This disconnection from my digital leash leaves me feeling helpless. The more dependent we become on technology, the more I wonder what people ever did without modern conveniences. What if someone needs me? What if I get lost somewhere? It’s quite inconvenient, but an interesting reminder that as much as we try to control our lives, our environment, our reality, we are not God and are left at the mercy of things bigger than ourselves. Profound thoughts, all because of my lost cell phone. Alrigh, God, I get it. I’ve learned the lesson. Can I have my phone back now?
I turned to the annoying man of mystery. “It’s talking about my lost cell phone. This just happened a few days ago. These are my thoughts, this is my writing, but I didn’t do this. You seem to be so knowledgeable, so why don’t you let me in on your little secret.”
The man was gazing off into the distance, watching the traffic pass.
“Or not, you know,” I said, my tone a little sharper, “no big deal. Don’t inconvenience yourself.”
He sighed and shook his head, “Some things aren’t meant to be explained. Some things should just be accepted and experienced.” His low, leathery voice seemed to calm my racing thoughts despite the lack of explanation.
It was an odd experience in and of itself finding this book in a newspaper vending machine, but even more strange was meeting this man I’ve never seen before who had this insight into me, into my life, and into this paranormal event that had imposed itself upon my day. Yet, for some reason, my irritation was subsiding and I found myself warming up to him. There was something soothing in his voice, something in his demeanor that reassured me.
“You could keep exploring,” he said, “but again, be warned.”
Why does he have to be so cryptic? I sat and pondered for a few moments, the book in my lap and the pencil in my hand. Again, I put the eraser to the page, the February 4th entry. I rubbed vigorously until every trace of writing was gone and the page was left blank. A startling tickling sensation caused me to flinch and let out a squeak of surprise. This sensation continued, a tickling, something like a buzzing.
It was vibrating. Immediately I recognized what was happening. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my ringing cell phone. Incoming call: Mom. She would have to wait.
I stared with disbelief at the phone in my hand. “Ok, this is getting too weird.”
The man smiled at me. He began rubbing his hands together, “Weird, or exciting? You can’t deny that this is much more interesting than your typical morning.”
I couldn’t keep myself from smiling in agreement. “But if what just happened really happened, I mean, if I now have my phone after I just…”
He looked intently at me saying nothing, although the look on his face encouraged me to continue my thought. “Well, then I can just erase things and rewrite them, and they really happen. I can rewrite my life.”
The man nodded.
“Wow. This reminds me of something one of my English teachers used to say. ‘There’s no such thing as writing, only rewriting.’ Perhaps he had it more right than I ever realized.”
The man laughed, “Apparently so. So, what are you going to do now?”
What was I going to do now? This was not an experience for which I had planned, nor did I have any examples to follow. I continued to read the journal, and to add yet another twist to an already tangled plot I realized that the dates recorded extended past the current date. I began to read tellings of events that had not yet taken place. I read the beginning of the entry that would have been today’s:
The bus was several minutes late today. How am I supposed to portray a prompt, professional persona when I am at the mercy of the city’s flawed transit system?
I glanced at my watch which read 7:31, already a minute after the bus’s scheduled arrival time. Things were getting more peculiar with every passing moment. I continued reading. Tomorrow I would have an unexpected meeting with my boss: a promotion. Friday I would find twenty dollars on the ground. This coming weekend the concert my friends were planning on attending would be cancelled.
“It tells the future too?” I exclaimed.
The man was silent.
I kept reading and was suddenly taken aback by an entry dated sometime next week.
One never expects these things to happen, and when they do, the world seems to freeze around you. Suddenly all the fluff blows away and all that matters is what really matters. Mom’s accident has really shaken me. The hospital is a cold place; she doesn’t belong here. The beeping rhythm of her heart rate monitor seems to taunt me as I sit waiting, not knowing what’s going to happen.
Immediately the trite predictions I read previously paled in comparison to this foreboding prophecy. “Oh God, oh God,” I said to the man. “Did you know about this?” My tone had escaladed from perplexed wonder to panicked distress. I felt sick to my stomach.
“It’s time you stop questioning me and start answering yourself. For some reason fate has whispered a secret in your ear. With knowledge comes power, but as they say, ignorance is bliss. I tried to warn you.”
I was so overcome by everything that my eyes welled up with tears. “So what should I do?”
The man shrugged. “The choice is yours. Keep reading and risk reading more than you bargained for. It also seems we’ve reached the conclusion that you have the option of making changes. And then there’s the third option.”
“What’s that?”
“What you almost did already. Walk away.”
He was right, I almost did walk away. I should have walked away, and now I was the proverbial killed cat. Now I knew of my looming fate, or rather that of my mother, and I was faced with a decision.
I watched an elderly man slowly crossing the street at the intersection I had crossed earlier to get to the newspapers and my bus stop. Time waits for no one and neither do people who live inside of its constraints. The cars had the audacity to honk in objection to his slow pace, even seemingly inching up, anticipating a green light. They had no respect for him and the countless slippery seconds that had slid through his wrinkled fingers, seconds they had yet to experience. Time had slowed him down, passed over him like a storm cloud and left him drenched by its debilitating effects. He acted in this same drama in which I would soon be performing, whether tragedy, comedy, or both. Indeed, he had weathered the storm, and now he was crossing the same intersection that I had crossed in front of the same line of ravenous traffic. And he didn’t have a magical black book.
I turned to say something to my mysterious acquaintance, but to my surprise, he was nowhere.
I was puzzled, but it didn’t matter any more. I knew what I had to do. I saw my bus coming and gradually slow to a stop in front of me. I flicked out my watch. 7:37. I laughed to myself as I rose, leaving the troublesome black book lying on the bench. I did not want to be a confidant of destiny any longer; that was not my job. It was none of my business.
I boarded the bus and situated myself in a seat next to the window, breathing a sigh of relief. The hiss of the air breaks and groan of the bus’s tired engine signaled our departure, and I looked out the window to see a young man about my age who had just seated himself on the bench. He had picked up the book and the look on his face morphed into that of baffled confusion as he was leafing through the pages, just as I had. I smiled as we drove away.
The woman across the aisle from me was folding up a newspaper she had been reading.
“Excuse me, are you done with that?” I asked her.
She looked over at me. “Yeah, you want it?”
“Anything interesting?”
She shrugged and handed it over. “Eh, same old same old.”
I grinned. “That sounds perfect.”

Neruda Plug

This is not really in line with our typical postings that are categorically original, but I can't help myself. If you have never read the poetic works of the master craftsman of language that is Pablo Neruda (all two of you that actually read this), run, don't walk to your nearest library, half-price book store, or black market vendor of literary merch and read some of his "verses of pastry which melt into milk and sugar in the mouth, air and water to drink, the bites and kisses of love," to use his own words (Sweetness, Always). Read that one. And then read the rest. And then try to catch your breath. Even if you don't, trust me, you'll die happy having been so moved by his unmatched workings of thoughts and images.
Robert Bly said it well in my Riverside Anthology of Literature when he asserted, "Compared to him, most American poets resemble blind men moving gingerly along the ground from tree to tree, from house to house, feeling each thing for a long time, and then calling out 'House!' when we already know it is a house."
I would commit myself to the Spanish language solely to experience the works of Neruda in their truest form. Actually, I am learning Spanish now, although it's my least favorite class. The professor is lame. But that's beside the point. The point is that it just might be worth it thanks to my dude, Pablo.
So yeah, it's possible everyone already knew how grand he is already and I sound really ignorant right now, but it doesn't even matter. I love him. I want to travel back in time and have his Chilean, beautiful, communist babies. Maybe you will too, if you don't already.

Betrayal

This story was written at the prompt of my friend, Allison Plummer, who goes attends the University of Missouri Ralla. There is a radio contest there for $50 in gas money for the person to write the best story/reason as to why they should receive the winnings. Here is my attempt:

Betrayal is a hard thing to stomach.
Stranded on the side of the road, out of gas—this was not the position in which I thought I would find myself when I left the house this morning. The alarm went off at the sinful 6 o’clock hour. The day was premature, only having existed for those six puny hours. Yesterday seemed so recent and sleep was something I somehow missed out on when I blinked last night. Now I had to peel myself out of my nice, warm bed and put my feet to the cold, unwelcoming floor and face another day.
An hour later, showered, dressed, and bitter I got into my car and turned the key in the ignition. The engine reluctantly turned over and the slow rumbling grew over the course of a few seconds.
“If I can do it, you can do it, Esmerelda.” Her exotic name seemed appropriate for her luscious, rusting 1992 Honda civic exterior in a dull but endearing navy blue tone. She’d been faithful over the years. What began as an embarrassment to my 16-year-old need for image maintenance grew into something like an annoying, quirky friend that grew on me while I wasn’t looking and now I can’t imagine myself without her. I think we have a sort of mutual understanding, a sort of symbiotic relationship, if you will. She takes me where I need to go and I keep her sheltered as much as much as possible and hydrated with gasoline. It’s a relationship characterized with joint respect and concern for one another and I had no reason to think that there was any sort of beef between us.
Esmerelda rolled down the driveway slowly, letting me in on her discontent at the trip commencement with a cloud of lavender-gray smoke streaming from the tailpipe in the rear. My dad’s diagnosis was that this was a symptom of burning oil; I knew that it was more of a physical manifestation of inner emotional unrest. “I know, Ezzie, momma knows...” I said patronizingly as I gave the dashboard a few loving strokes. A small flash of orange light in my peripheral vision caught my attention and my eyes migrated across the dash to my fuel meter. The low fuel light had just blinked on. This did not surprise me as I usually keep it filled in small increments based upon whatever small amount of cash I can reason with myself to part with for this obnoxious, environmentally unfriendly, money-guzzling cause. I often compared myself to the Biblical widow who miraculously always had just enough oil to get her and her hungry child through the day with nourishment. She emptied the jar to cook their bread for the day, and the next day she would wake up to find that there was miraculously just enough to do the same thing all over again. This comparison had made me feel noble although the pathetic puddle in the bottom of my car’s gas tank was something short of supernatural. It didn’t feel quite so miraculous when I was at the gas station, outside in the cold, fingers aching and lacking blood flow as they grasped the cold metal pump, cursing the day that this God-forsaken horseless carriage was invented.
So I found myself at the commencement of the daily commute trusting that this small amount of fuel in the tank would somehow be enough to get me where I needed to go until I was able to break out of my lethargy and find my way to a pump once again.
“Esmerelda, I’m sorry,” I said apologetically, “I know that it hasn’t been easy lately, I know that you’re probably frustrated with me, but I need you to do this for me today. Just this once, I promise I’ll do better. I promise to keep your tank fuller and not to leave you outside all night so that the ice accumulates and you have to be scraped in the morning (I know how you hate that). I really promise. Please just get me to work, please, please. I ‘ll make it up to you.”
I continued the drive out of my neighborhood with my fingers crossed (more mentally than literally as it often proves difficult to drive with one’s fingers crossed, especially when driving a stick). The further I drove, the rougher the engine sound became. The car seemed to be progressing in a fatigued, forced manner and my anxiety began to rise. Esmerelda had been a moody vehicle form the start, never one to put up with any crap. I’d let the coolant get too low lately, the last oil change was overdue, and the gas situation wasn’t helping either. She certainly did not hesitate to let me know that she was, in fact, quite peeved.
Despite my requests, despite my angry threats, my reminders of my quality traits as an auto owner, and finally, despite my desperate pleas, Esmerelda would not be appeased. It wasn’t long before she sputtered and slowed to a stop on the side of the road at a jaunty angle, as I had barely managed to get the car out of the steady stream of traffic in time.
That, my friends, brings us to my initial sentiment, that sickening feeling of betrayal referenced at the commencement of this story. In the argument between my car and I, my fickle, beloved automotive of Japanese descent had the last word. Betrayed—betrayed after all these years together. My nonchalant and lazy actions had culminated into this final act of animosity, this final statement of her exasperation. I found myself at the side of the road, wallowing in regret, wishing I would have done a better job of respecting my car. The problem is that the lightness of my wallet contributes to the heaviness of the obstacle that lies between the two of us, Esmerelda and me. I have not the funds to keep the tank full.
I recall this emotional saga to beseech, to ask, to beg, really, with those to whom this issue concerns to take this story into account when deciding the recipient of the gas money. I love my car very much, and I especially love the transportation she provides me. I desperately long to right that which has been broken, but the lack of gas money has created quite a rift. For the sake of our love, for the sake of my wonderful, piece of junk vehicle and the relationship between us, for the sake my livelihood, and for the sake of all that is good and holy, please grant us the gas money. I believe it will be money virtuously spent, and I think I can speak for Esmerelda (someone has to) in saying that she couldn’t agree more.