April 26, 2012
"I should be used to it by now," the Little Girl says. Because the loneliness is acute tonight.
"Some things don't change," replies the angel.
"Obviously...But I grew up and things are still the same. I've been waiting my whole life for my generation to catch up, or for me to move backwards. But it's the same. I'm still alone. And there is still no one to talk to except for you."
"I don't count to you?"
"No. You are nothing more than the air I breathe and the voice inside my head."
"You know I am more than that."
"Shut up," she says. "I can't feel you."
"I cover you," says the angel.
"I know."
"You can come with me if you choose to."
"No. That is running."
"And you are not used to running?"
"I wouldn't call it running. More like attempting new frontiers. There are some things in life I couldn't live with anymore. New scenery was not a desire. It was a necessity."
"Are you afraid?"
Fear is consuming. Of course. But it is an emotion I turn off. At least it is one I put aside. Fear paralyzes. So I do what I have to do."
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Letter
January 14, 2012
I often find that I write in my sleep, casting words and ideas out into the unknown. But upon waking, I knew that you were meant to be the recipient of this letter. [ -- ]
Occupy Wall Street is a symptom of American societal and political degradation and decadence. I hope that it is not the result of the country's first death throes and collapse. But the scene isn't pretty.
I hope it is the start of a proper revolution, the most American action I can imagine, but I am pressed to find enough structure holding it all together. Rather, I see scaffolding hoisted against a burned building--in other words, merely the preparation for repair. No blue print. No clear plan of remedy.
But the organization surrounding the protests of the Congressional legislation, SOPA and PIPA, does demonstrate structure. I am thoroughly impressed and proud. The organized demonstrations in protest of these two cousins of proposed law give me reason to doubt my certainty that the United States has doomed itself, buried itself alive under miles of apathy, ignorance, and (ultimately) stupidity. Perhaps there are enough of us left to organize with a purpose, to produce a concrete focus of opposition, to halt the country's race towards a fascist era that hides behind the thin gauze of democratic rhetoric. What a republic we are!
From abroad, I do my part. I sign petitions, I send revealing articles to friends and family to make them aware of the cesspool of which they are in the midst. Interesting, isn't it, how one can be just as involved in revolution from abroad as those remaining within specific geographical borders. One could argue that those involved via virtual platforms are even more potent than those standing physically on the ground--on Wall Street, or in front of the Capitol.
If the online boycott successfully shuts down Google, Reddit, Mozilla, Facebook, Twitter, you name it--this Wednesday, tell me, how is this less damaging than causing the ground beneath our feet to disappear? [ -- ] The virtual platform is more crucial to the survival of governmental and societal integrity in today's world than physical ground.
And from this position, I cannot help but wonder: Am I a coward? Did I flee? Did I give up too soon? A country is not a playground from which we can enter and exit with abandon -- I still carry the burden of my citizenship and everything that means, whether I am aware of all implications or not. The country still carries me. And now another. I possess the passports of two nations now, fully aware of the fact that with those citizenships I both enjoy the privileges and accept the responsibility of histories, atrocities, and glories of two nations.
My heart is with Israel but my mind is with America. My mind is with America's rise and fall while my heart is with the miracle of Israel's desert-turned green.
Perhaps it is time for me to come back. There is something to be said, after all, for those of us who can create real-world results. from the virtual "other side". The pen is a sword and true patriotism cannot and will not be silenced even coming from an ex-patriot.
The Modernists wrote very loudly, indeed, from beyond their own borders. And Joyce (though not American) only found home once he left.
I often find that I write in my sleep, casting words and ideas out into the unknown. But upon waking, I knew that you were meant to be the recipient of this letter. [ -- ]
Occupy Wall Street is a symptom of American societal and political degradation and decadence. I hope that it is not the result of the country's first death throes and collapse. But the scene isn't pretty.
I hope it is the start of a proper revolution, the most American action I can imagine, but I am pressed to find enough structure holding it all together. Rather, I see scaffolding hoisted against a burned building--in other words, merely the preparation for repair. No blue print. No clear plan of remedy.
But the organization surrounding the protests of the Congressional legislation, SOPA and PIPA, does demonstrate structure. I am thoroughly impressed and proud. The organized demonstrations in protest of these two cousins of proposed law give me reason to doubt my certainty that the United States has doomed itself, buried itself alive under miles of apathy, ignorance, and (ultimately) stupidity. Perhaps there are enough of us left to organize with a purpose, to produce a concrete focus of opposition, to halt the country's race towards a fascist era that hides behind the thin gauze of democratic rhetoric. What a republic we are!
From abroad, I do my part. I sign petitions, I send revealing articles to friends and family to make them aware of the cesspool of which they are in the midst. Interesting, isn't it, how one can be just as involved in revolution from abroad as those remaining within specific geographical borders. One could argue that those involved via virtual platforms are even more potent than those standing physically on the ground--on Wall Street, or in front of the Capitol.
If the online boycott successfully shuts down Google, Reddit, Mozilla, Facebook, Twitter, you name it--this Wednesday, tell me, how is this less damaging than causing the ground beneath our feet to disappear? [ -- ] The virtual platform is more crucial to the survival of governmental and societal integrity in today's world than physical ground.
And from this position, I cannot help but wonder: Am I a coward? Did I flee? Did I give up too soon? A country is not a playground from which we can enter and exit with abandon -- I still carry the burden of my citizenship and everything that means, whether I am aware of all implications or not. The country still carries me. And now another. I possess the passports of two nations now, fully aware of the fact that with those citizenships I both enjoy the privileges and accept the responsibility of histories, atrocities, and glories of two nations.
My heart is with Israel but my mind is with America. My mind is with America's rise and fall while my heart is with the miracle of Israel's desert-turned green.
Perhaps it is time for me to come back. There is something to be said, after all, for those of us who can create real-world results. from the virtual "other side". The pen is a sword and true patriotism cannot and will not be silenced even coming from an ex-patriot.
The Modernists wrote very loudly, indeed, from beyond their own borders. And Joyce (though not American) only found home once he left.
Sunday, January 01, 2012
"Happy New year," says the girl on the corner,
"Wouldn't know what I'd do without you, my love."
"Happy New Year," says the boy across the street
as he waits for the man on the sign to turn from red to green.
"I'll be coming on over to you soon, my love."
And meanwhile, the construction crews set up shop,
place a new layer of tar under our shoes.
The girl waits at the corner, reads up on her New Year's news.
The crew blocks her view of her
boy by the light--
It's been hours now and she just can't wait all night.
So she turns, heads home,
pours herself some scotch,
only cure that works, blocks out the things she's lost
until the morning when she wakes
to the clock, singing "Noon!"
She goes down again, waits for the boy, 'cause he
said he'd be home soon.
"Happy New Year," she says, a year gone by now,
"I wouldn't know what to do without you, my love."
"Wouldn't know what I'd do without you, my love."
"Happy New Year," says the boy across the street
as he waits for the man on the sign to turn from red to green.
"I'll be coming on over to you soon, my love."
And meanwhile, the construction crews set up shop,
place a new layer of tar under our shoes.
The girl waits at the corner, reads up on her New Year's news.
The crew blocks her view of her
boy by the light--
It's been hours now and she just can't wait all night.
So she turns, heads home,
pours herself some scotch,
only cure that works, blocks out the things she's lost
until the morning when she wakes
to the clock, singing "Noon!"
She goes down again, waits for the boy, 'cause he
said he'd be home soon.
"Happy New Year," she says, a year gone by now,
"I wouldn't know what to do without you, my love."
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
You asked and I answered: One times one is itself.
You answered when I asked: Your horizon is clear through the veil of wings.
You said: I will carry your doubt, the seed and the Wood in waiting,
the question and the answer unseen.
You asked: why sit in empty fields when the harvest is plenty?
And I said: A drought is a flood in waiting,
and the fallow fields a feast.
You answered when I asked: Your horizon is clear through the veil of wings.
You said: I will carry your doubt, the seed and the Wood in waiting,
the question and the answer unseen.
You asked: why sit in empty fields when the harvest is plenty?
And I said: A drought is a flood in waiting,
and the fallow fields a feast.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
October 13, 2011
"The heart you do not have breaks again and again, Little Girl. If an angel could feel alongside you, my heart would breaking, too."
"I never understood you, Uriel. I never understood your envy of pain. Or your envy of joy."
"We can only feel one thing, Little Girl, and that is an ebb and flow like water. But it is not something from which we gain sustenance. The ebb and flow is only a circle that encapsulates Time. We bear burdens that we cannot feel and the burden of the ebb and flow translates into observance. We observe the outcome of our messages. The ebb and flow is a cup that spills over and a basin that is dried up. We cover you when you cry out but there nothing to cover us. The universe is vast, open space, a reconciliation with chaos from a perspective up above. From here, we can see the pattern, but we cannot know the texture of the weave."
"Uriel, you break my heart all over again. For all I complain, you know I love you more than anything. And of course, it's unrequited. An angel can't feel. I am more than ebb and flow. I am a pebble in the current. And like you told me once, a pebble amply placed can change the course of the river. I weep for both of us. I feel for both of us. You are right. I am wed to you and nothing else. My efforts with humanity are spent. I fight in vain. I try to be a whole when I am half. I was born just like you said: one foot in and one foot beyond the earth."
"Take a chance, Little Girl. Logic, for all its appeal, has never proven steadfast as is claimed. Take a chance and go with your emotions. Ride the other river that we cannot ride. Ride the current that angels are not privy to. We will sail upon you as if you were a boat and spread our wings vicariously across your vision and your lifetime. Remember, Little Girl, what you are so apt to forget: that your pain would be nothing if you had never felt joy. Your agony would be nothing without the ecstasy to juxtapose it.
"You have the ability to feel the texture of the weave. Guide your palm along it and be thankful. Even a fray is something to envy. And here you have an entire tapestry."
"I will give you everything."
"No. Do not give us anything. That is a waste. Take the gifts you have granted upon yourself. Your paths, your small moments. Fulfill your role as a channel and feed us vision. You are the only creature who can impart that small amount of earth into us so that we have, at least, a nascent ability to comprehend beyond the theory."
"Take it all. The door is open," she says. "The labyrinth was waiting and I entered. There is no going back."
"The heart you do not have breaks again and again, Little Girl. If an angel could feel alongside you, my heart would breaking, too."
"I never understood you, Uriel. I never understood your envy of pain. Or your envy of joy."
"We can only feel one thing, Little Girl, and that is an ebb and flow like water. But it is not something from which we gain sustenance. The ebb and flow is only a circle that encapsulates Time. We bear burdens that we cannot feel and the burden of the ebb and flow translates into observance. We observe the outcome of our messages. The ebb and flow is a cup that spills over and a basin that is dried up. We cover you when you cry out but there nothing to cover us. The universe is vast, open space, a reconciliation with chaos from a perspective up above. From here, we can see the pattern, but we cannot know the texture of the weave."
"Uriel, you break my heart all over again. For all I complain, you know I love you more than anything. And of course, it's unrequited. An angel can't feel. I am more than ebb and flow. I am a pebble in the current. And like you told me once, a pebble amply placed can change the course of the river. I weep for both of us. I feel for both of us. You are right. I am wed to you and nothing else. My efforts with humanity are spent. I fight in vain. I try to be a whole when I am half. I was born just like you said: one foot in and one foot beyond the earth."
"Take a chance, Little Girl. Logic, for all its appeal, has never proven steadfast as is claimed. Take a chance and go with your emotions. Ride the other river that we cannot ride. Ride the current that angels are not privy to. We will sail upon you as if you were a boat and spread our wings vicariously across your vision and your lifetime. Remember, Little Girl, what you are so apt to forget: that your pain would be nothing if you had never felt joy. Your agony would be nothing without the ecstasy to juxtapose it.
"You have the ability to feel the texture of the weave. Guide your palm along it and be thankful. Even a fray is something to envy. And here you have an entire tapestry."
"I will give you everything."
"No. Do not give us anything. That is a waste. Take the gifts you have granted upon yourself. Your paths, your small moments. Fulfill your role as a channel and feed us vision. You are the only creature who can impart that small amount of earth into us so that we have, at least, a nascent ability to comprehend beyond the theory."
"Take it all. The door is open," she says. "The labyrinth was waiting and I entered. There is no going back."
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
"Don't cry, Little Girl."
"I know, Uriel."
The angel waits, but reaches out, rests a hand on her shoulder.
"Sometimes I can't help it," she says. "It's too much. And I miss them."
"We shall cover you."
"Don't. Not right now. I can take it."
"You are strong, Little Girl."
"For reasons I wish didn't exist. What will be taken this year? What will be given?"
"That, as you know, is the beauty of life. It is all a mystery until you live it. You can follow us down paths of possibilities, but you will never know until it passes."
"I'm afraid to go back there. It is too much open space. Too much noise. Too much beauty wasted and too much pain ignored. Everyone alone together and nowhere to turn."
"You are strong. You can now come home."
"Yeah. I can come home."
"I know, Uriel."
The angel waits, but reaches out, rests a hand on her shoulder.
"Sometimes I can't help it," she says. "It's too much. And I miss them."
"We shall cover you."
"Don't. Not right now. I can take it."
"You are strong, Little Girl."
"For reasons I wish didn't exist. What will be taken this year? What will be given?"
"That, as you know, is the beauty of life. It is all a mystery until you live it. You can follow us down paths of possibilities, but you will never know until it passes."
"I'm afraid to go back there. It is too much open space. Too much noise. Too much beauty wasted and too much pain ignored. Everyone alone together and nowhere to turn."
"You are strong. You can now come home."
"Yeah. I can come home."
Saturday, October 08, 2011
Athenian I
As usual, Harrison taps the pen on the table, trying to chisel through writer's block at the usual cafe. It's been a year now, but there's no tap running inspiration. The pipes are dry. He never paid the bill.
"Refill?" the waitress asks him.
He picks up the cup and taps it against the saucer. She pours him another cup, strong. He stares at her expectantly.
"Yeah, yeah," she said and dumps a handful of cream on the table after rummaging through her apron pocket.
He stares out the window at the building across the street. Faces have been graffitied and graffitied over on the walls.
As he makes his way down the street, the character hits him like a brick wall. A lifetime is filled in, pieces fall together like a game of Tetris. Nuances, expressions, childhood impressions.
Time stops and he stays still as vision sweeps him. He has known him all his life, lived with him. The picture forming is new, and like the oldest friend he'd ever had, slowly forgotten and reintroduced in one moment of clarity. He is fit to burst.
"Wait. Wait for me to get home. There is paper there. Wait," he says aloud.
A woman eyes him strangely as she passes him by. Men in sharp suits aren't wont to talk like the stereotypical homeless madman.
"You want me to wait?" the voice answers him. "I have waited all my life, just to be born. But I suppose another few blocks won't hurt."
Harrison runs home. He fumbles with the key in the lock but manages to get it open.
"It's about time, Harrison," the voice says. "Must I remind you?"
"Sorry, sorry," Harrison stutters and flexes his fingers over the keyboard, even before he's sat down. He wiggles the mouse and the screen lights up.
"Not now," the voice says. "Let's just chat. You know me."
It isn't a good time to write, so Harrison sits and listens, answers back.
"Jesus Christ, I'm going crazy," he says.
"Madness is relative," the voice answers.
"Do you have a name?"
"Of course. You know it already. Just like you know me. Say it." Harrison is prompted. The name is right there, dancing around the edges of his mind, skipping on the tip of his tongue, but it won't come clear. It will have to wait, just like he had.
The picture is filled in.
The man is fidgety, wears khaki-colored slacks and a pine-green t-shirt. His brown hair is slightly unkempt, a rich brown. He has a slight elbow fetish and likes curvy women with green eyes. Once, when he was fifteen, he'd dreamt of giving up on life and almost jumped off the roof of his father's fifty-story apartment building after the messy divorce with his mother, but something stopped him. He said it was Zeus, and ever since has claimed to be a Greek polytheist. When asked if he really believed he would find gods on Mt. Olympus, he'd answer with a sly smile and change the subject so deftly that no one ever noticed or remembered they'd asked the question in the first place until he was long out of sight.
"Refill?" the waitress asks him.
He picks up the cup and taps it against the saucer. She pours him another cup, strong. He stares at her expectantly.
"Yeah, yeah," she said and dumps a handful of cream on the table after rummaging through her apron pocket.
He stares out the window at the building across the street. Faces have been graffitied and graffitied over on the walls.
As he makes his way down the street, the character hits him like a brick wall. A lifetime is filled in, pieces fall together like a game of Tetris. Nuances, expressions, childhood impressions.
Time stops and he stays still as vision sweeps him. He has known him all his life, lived with him. The picture forming is new, and like the oldest friend he'd ever had, slowly forgotten and reintroduced in one moment of clarity. He is fit to burst.
"Wait. Wait for me to get home. There is paper there. Wait," he says aloud.
A woman eyes him strangely as she passes him by. Men in sharp suits aren't wont to talk like the stereotypical homeless madman.
"You want me to wait?" the voice answers him. "I have waited all my life, just to be born. But I suppose another few blocks won't hurt."
Harrison runs home. He fumbles with the key in the lock but manages to get it open.
"It's about time, Harrison," the voice says. "Must I remind you?"
"Sorry, sorry," Harrison stutters and flexes his fingers over the keyboard, even before he's sat down. He wiggles the mouse and the screen lights up.
"Not now," the voice says. "Let's just chat. You know me."
It isn't a good time to write, so Harrison sits and listens, answers back.
"Jesus Christ, I'm going crazy," he says.
"Madness is relative," the voice answers.
"Do you have a name?"
"Of course. You know it already. Just like you know me. Say it." Harrison is prompted. The name is right there, dancing around the edges of his mind, skipping on the tip of his tongue, but it won't come clear. It will have to wait, just like he had.
The picture is filled in.
The man is fidgety, wears khaki-colored slacks and a pine-green t-shirt. His brown hair is slightly unkempt, a rich brown. He has a slight elbow fetish and likes curvy women with green eyes. Once, when he was fifteen, he'd dreamt of giving up on life and almost jumped off the roof of his father's fifty-story apartment building after the messy divorce with his mother, but something stopped him. He said it was Zeus, and ever since has claimed to be a Greek polytheist. When asked if he really believed he would find gods on Mt. Olympus, he'd answer with a sly smile and change the subject so deftly that no one ever noticed or remembered they'd asked the question in the first place until he was long out of sight.
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