My father told me that, as a living human being, I am a threat to all living things.
He told me that he hates the urban coyotes, because they threaten human beings.
Two-hundred species a day.
He looks at the shuttle launch and says, "Child, this is our future."
He says that if God didn't want us to do this, he wouldn't have given us the knowledge.
The rocket burns a ton of fuel every second. We have lift off.
He says that he only wishes he'd had the things I have when he was young.
The world is full of opportunity, he says. I can be anything, he says.
I can't look him in the eye. His lofty tone disturbs me. "How much longer?" I think.
He tells me that education is the most important thing. He says I am a fool to think otherwise.
He tells me I am a fool. He says I am immature. His IQ is very high, he says.
In the end I think it's obvious. I don't want to be like you.
They tell me to give it time, my life is just around the corner,
but no amount of imagination will free me from the maze
For this I need a hammer and a gun.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
My Scrapes and Bruises
Any scientist will tell you that random events tend to happen in clusters. I know this. I live it. I wait for weeks and weeks, tapping my fingers, until something happens. These long-awaited happenings come in like waves, sometimes sparking hope, sometimes despair, sometimes fear.
I've only been at this for about a year. Compared to most activists waiting for a collapse I am embarrassingly inexperienced. But still. A year is a year. Most activists have acquired deep wounds in their hearts and minds from the waiting, the bearing witness, and the fighting that this life entails. My scrapes and bruises are nothing compared to some. But still. I've managed to learn a few things.
This world does things to children who allow themselves to be shaped by it. (I remember verbalizing this quite well as a young child. "Dad, sometimes I wish I didn't have to adjust to the world. I wish the world would adjust to me!")The world took my parents, two young, in-love people with the there lives ahead of them, and fashioned them into hard workers and hard drinkers. They became proud and resentful. They became unconcerned with each other. And from the moment of their divorce, I felt a crack, which seemed bigger at the time, in my chest.
Sometimes I think civilization exists to make us into beasts of burden, able to tolerate greater and greater levels of pain as we grow and age.
As it turned out, the divorce was a small matter. My parents could act civil around each other, and I still got to see both of them, so I was content.
But the next wave loomed. My mother, who had been a hard drinker since my birth, had gone on a long binge and cancelled visitation. We all saw it coming. We knew what she was doing. I was scared. I didn't want my mom to die. I asked my dad to take me to her house. I was 12 years old. When we got there my mom was unconscious. I remember screaming and crying because I felt that was what my dad expected of me as he watched from the front door. If my dad hadn't been there I would have just stood there, looking. A dramatic scene followed. My mom woke up, and asked us to leave. My dad refused. My dad, I think purposefully added drama to to situation through his words and actions, "Did you hear? She you to get out! Out of her house!" My dad shook his head at my mother. "Go outside."
I went. I waited. I hate that dreadful, awful waiting. I could hear the screams echo from the living room. "Sit down! Sit down! Put the bottles in the bag. Leave you to die? What's wrong with you?"
What's wrong with you?
What's wrong with you?
I've been asked that question many times. What's wrong with you? When I allow depression to show on my face. What's wrong with you? When I make mistakes. What's wrong with you? When I do things out of the ordinary. What's wrong with you? If they had known about my obsession with my weight. What's wrong with you? To my little brother who tries so very, very hard not to mess up. What's wrong with you? To my father whose drinking surfaced shortly after my thirteenth birthday, and who nearly totaled the car, with me inside, on the day I was supposed to have my party. What's wrong with you? To my stepmother who can't help but scream at us for not mopping up all the crumbs on the floor. What's wrong with you? Say the teachers. What's wrong with you?
What's wrong with me? With us?
After the my mom's episode there was a major custody battle, during which I was expected to testify, but didn't have to. I moved to a new school. I left my friends without saying goodbye. For a while it felt like there was no place of refuge. Throughout the eighth grade I spent my days in a new school with no friends to speak of, and my nights at home with my father, who refused to admit his drinking problem even when semi-sprawled on the floor. I tried talking to the school counselor, who tried to help, but no one seemed to be able to tell me what I wanted to hear, or what I needed to hear.
High school came just in time. You know those once-in-a-lifetime teachers whose presence serves as a symbol of hope for you in your lonely teenage life? I found one. Mr. Bo was intelligent and understanding. But, I have to admit, the real reason he had my attention was that, even for a forty-year-old, he was really attractive. He had a kind of ex-hippie vibe with brown shoulder-length hair, light-blue eyes, and a sweet smile. However, this would have only held my attention for so long, because I'd had plenty of attractive teachers before. (Been there, done that twice.)
He was the first teacher who really seemed to care that we knew what was going on in the world. He talked about politics, wars, and disease. He made us all read Ishmael, by Daniel Quinn. By the end of the year I had something to care about again. I'd found a place of refuge. I was swept into an intellectual community of people who were prepared to fight for the truth. Ibsen once wrote, "I want to find out who is right, me or society." The quote applies for me as well is it did for Nora.
In the past year, as a child, as a girl, and as a human being I have found some satisfaction, a salve for my wounds. I've been liberated, like Julie in My Ishmael. Maybe there is nothing wrong with me. Maybe it's not my fault.
I've only been at this for about a year. Compared to most activists waiting for a collapse I am embarrassingly inexperienced. But still. A year is a year. Most activists have acquired deep wounds in their hearts and minds from the waiting, the bearing witness, and the fighting that this life entails. My scrapes and bruises are nothing compared to some. But still. I've managed to learn a few things.
This world does things to children who allow themselves to be shaped by it. (I remember verbalizing this quite well as a young child. "Dad, sometimes I wish I didn't have to adjust to the world. I wish the world would adjust to me!")The world took my parents, two young, in-love people with the there lives ahead of them, and fashioned them into hard workers and hard drinkers. They became proud and resentful. They became unconcerned with each other. And from the moment of their divorce, I felt a crack, which seemed bigger at the time, in my chest.
Sometimes I think civilization exists to make us into beasts of burden, able to tolerate greater and greater levels of pain as we grow and age.
As it turned out, the divorce was a small matter. My parents could act civil around each other, and I still got to see both of them, so I was content.
But the next wave loomed. My mother, who had been a hard drinker since my birth, had gone on a long binge and cancelled visitation. We all saw it coming. We knew what she was doing. I was scared. I didn't want my mom to die. I asked my dad to take me to her house. I was 12 years old. When we got there my mom was unconscious. I remember screaming and crying because I felt that was what my dad expected of me as he watched from the front door. If my dad hadn't been there I would have just stood there, looking. A dramatic scene followed. My mom woke up, and asked us to leave. My dad refused. My dad, I think purposefully added drama to to situation through his words and actions, "Did you hear? She you to get out! Out of her house!" My dad shook his head at my mother. "Go outside."
I went. I waited. I hate that dreadful, awful waiting. I could hear the screams echo from the living room. "Sit down! Sit down! Put the bottles in the bag. Leave you to die? What's wrong with you?"
What's wrong with you?
What's wrong with you?
I've been asked that question many times. What's wrong with you? When I allow depression to show on my face. What's wrong with you? When I make mistakes. What's wrong with you? When I do things out of the ordinary. What's wrong with you? If they had known about my obsession with my weight. What's wrong with you? To my little brother who tries so very, very hard not to mess up. What's wrong with you? To my father whose drinking surfaced shortly after my thirteenth birthday, and who nearly totaled the car, with me inside, on the day I was supposed to have my party. What's wrong with you? To my stepmother who can't help but scream at us for not mopping up all the crumbs on the floor. What's wrong with you? Say the teachers. What's wrong with you?
What's wrong with me? With us?
After the my mom's episode there was a major custody battle, during which I was expected to testify, but didn't have to. I moved to a new school. I left my friends without saying goodbye. For a while it felt like there was no place of refuge. Throughout the eighth grade I spent my days in a new school with no friends to speak of, and my nights at home with my father, who refused to admit his drinking problem even when semi-sprawled on the floor. I tried talking to the school counselor, who tried to help, but no one seemed to be able to tell me what I wanted to hear, or what I needed to hear.
High school came just in time. You know those once-in-a-lifetime teachers whose presence serves as a symbol of hope for you in your lonely teenage life? I found one. Mr. Bo was intelligent and understanding. But, I have to admit, the real reason he had my attention was that, even for a forty-year-old, he was really attractive. He had a kind of ex-hippie vibe with brown shoulder-length hair, light-blue eyes, and a sweet smile. However, this would have only held my attention for so long, because I'd had plenty of attractive teachers before. (Been there, done that twice.)
He was the first teacher who really seemed to care that we knew what was going on in the world. He talked about politics, wars, and disease. He made us all read Ishmael, by Daniel Quinn. By the end of the year I had something to care about again. I'd found a place of refuge. I was swept into an intellectual community of people who were prepared to fight for the truth. Ibsen once wrote, "I want to find out who is right, me or society." The quote applies for me as well is it did for Nora.
In the past year, as a child, as a girl, and as a human being I have found some satisfaction, a salve for my wounds. I've been liberated, like Julie in My Ishmael. Maybe there is nothing wrong with me. Maybe it's not my fault.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Death
It bothers me that the time we spend considering our own death mostly comes in the eleventh hour. Only until we are done, in the the dark, alone with our thoughts does it sink in. Then we sleep, ignoring all the things we didn't tell the people we love, ignoring the dreams we didn't fufill, and ignoring the fact that we may never see daylight again.
We drift, slowly, into oblivion.
And, then, redemption. The sun rises on another glorious, beautiful day. And we take it for granted yet again. We merely walk when we could run. We sit and tap our feet when we should be dancing. We eat fiber-enriched fodder and sip diet cola when we should, just once, eat as if this meal were the very last.
It seems to me that we humans are the only species who does things like this. We merely drudge on day after day, thinking that our real lives must be just around the corner. Rather than treasure each precious moment of the glorious human experience, rather than explore every aspect of ourselves and all of creation, we choose to sell our lives to Burger King or Bank of America or Exxon.
At the risk of sounding childish, that's not fair.
No fair, no fair no fair NO FAIR!
Well, says mom and dad and Big Brother, Life's Not Fair.
Know what? I say, you're right. Life's not fair. We really don't get second chances. When we choose (and it is a choice) to waste our lives on things that don't make us happy and don't help us become who we are, we are one day faced with the sad, awful truth of a life wrongly lived.
That's death.
We drift, slowly, into oblivion.
And, then, redemption. The sun rises on another glorious, beautiful day. And we take it for granted yet again. We merely walk when we could run. We sit and tap our feet when we should be dancing. We eat fiber-enriched fodder and sip diet cola when we should, just once, eat as if this meal were the very last.
It seems to me that we humans are the only species who does things like this. We merely drudge on day after day, thinking that our real lives must be just around the corner. Rather than treasure each precious moment of the glorious human experience, rather than explore every aspect of ourselves and all of creation, we choose to sell our lives to Burger King or Bank of America or Exxon.
At the risk of sounding childish, that's not fair.
No fair, no fair no fair NO FAIR!
Well, says mom and dad and Big Brother, Life's Not Fair.
Know what? I say, you're right. Life's not fair. We really don't get second chances. When we choose (and it is a choice) to waste our lives on things that don't make us happy and don't help us become who we are, we are one day faced with the sad, awful truth of a life wrongly lived.
That's death.
Monday, July 2, 2007
Courage to Act
Civilization will come down, and the sooner it comes down, the more life (and capacity for life) will remain afterwards.
Those reading this blog may or may not agree, but none of it matters because, truth be told, everyone is too scared to do anything about it. Maybe we are all just disturbed about the labels that might accompany this philosophy put to action. After all, our Commander in Chief has stated very clearly that the War on Terror is a war for civilization. It must then follow that all terrorists are against civilization, right? For people like us, who want civilization to come down, isn't that guilt by association? We are not talking about the religous fundementalists, no. We aren't talking about the religious fanatics responsible for the 9/11 attacks. Most importantly, we are not talking about those who pose a serious threat to the civilians of the United States. We are,instead, talking about people who pose a threat to men like George W. Bush. We all have a very important choice to make. It is an age-old choice. Do we choose to act, or choose to wait?
If we wait, or try to create change using only the means allowed us, things will be bad. Whatever happens, the surviving humans are going to be left to try and recover. The least we can do is put systems in place that will help them when the time comes.
If, however, we have the skills and courage to act outside the boundaries of law and class, if we can rise to this tremendous challenge and take down civilization before it destroys us, we will have many heroic stories to tell our children.
Think about your own parents and grandparents. What kind of stories do they tell you? Do they tell you stories at all? Do they tell you fantastic tales of rescue or conquest?
Close your eyes for a moment. Imagine yourself as a child, shrouded in light at your own knee. You are your grandchildren. Now imagine the world you are living in two generations from now. Does it have cars and smoke filled skies? Does it have clean rivers and coasts? Is the general population infested with disease, and do you have to get monthly screenings to check for cancerous tumors?
Think about what the next seven generations will have to say about us. Will they recoil at our memory due to they insane lack of foresight and responsibility? Or will they be inspired and awed at our ability to rise to the challenges of our time and our courage to act?
Those reading this blog may or may not agree, but none of it matters because, truth be told, everyone is too scared to do anything about it. Maybe we are all just disturbed about the labels that might accompany this philosophy put to action. After all, our Commander in Chief has stated very clearly that the War on Terror is a war for civilization. It must then follow that all terrorists are against civilization, right? For people like us, who want civilization to come down, isn't that guilt by association? We are not talking about the religous fundementalists, no. We aren't talking about the religious fanatics responsible for the 9/11 attacks. Most importantly, we are not talking about those who pose a serious threat to the civilians of the United States. We are,instead, talking about people who pose a threat to men like George W. Bush. We all have a very important choice to make. It is an age-old choice. Do we choose to act, or choose to wait?
If we wait, or try to create change using only the means allowed us, things will be bad. Whatever happens, the surviving humans are going to be left to try and recover. The least we can do is put systems in place that will help them when the time comes.
If, however, we have the skills and courage to act outside the boundaries of law and class, if we can rise to this tremendous challenge and take down civilization before it destroys us, we will have many heroic stories to tell our children.
Think about your own parents and grandparents. What kind of stories do they tell you? Do they tell you stories at all? Do they tell you fantastic tales of rescue or conquest?
Close your eyes for a moment. Imagine yourself as a child, shrouded in light at your own knee. You are your grandchildren. Now imagine the world you are living in two generations from now. Does it have cars and smoke filled skies? Does it have clean rivers and coasts? Is the general population infested with disease, and do you have to get monthly screenings to check for cancerous tumors?
Think about what the next seven generations will have to say about us. Will they recoil at our memory due to they insane lack of foresight and responsibility? Or will they be inspired and awed at our ability to rise to the challenges of our time and our courage to act?
Saturday, March 3, 2007
~Ishmael~
For those who have read Ishmael, by Daniel Quinn, the casual tone of this message will probably frustrate you. For those who haven't, I hope you take my advice and read it.
When asked what the book is about, Quinn had this to say:
"In the ten years that have passed since its publication, no one (including me) has come up with a satisfactory way of explaining what Ishmael is "about." Franz Kafka once wrote to a friend that the only books worth reading are those that "wake us up with a blow on the head" and send us reeling out into the street, not knowing who or what we are. According to thousands of readers I've heard from, this is exactly what Ishmael does for them. What makes Ishmael important is not what it's "about" but rather what it DOES to you--and this is what you need to share with your friends. If it's taken you to a new place in your life (as many people say it has), then tell them that if they want to keep up with you, they're just going to have read it. Whatever it's done to you or for you, that's what will impress your friends, and that's what you need to convey to them."
The book details conversations between an 40 something ex-hippie type and a telepathic gorilla named Ishmael. The story begins as the man looks at his morning paper and finds an ad. It reads,
"Teacher seeks student. Must have an earnest desire to save the world."
The man is sceptical. But, out of curiosity, goes to the location and finds the gorilla-his teacher.
What follows is an amazing adventure for the reader and the narrator, as he uncovers the secrets of what we are missing as a species.
Information can be found here:
http://www.readishmael.com/
http://www.friendsofishmael.org/
http://www.ishmael.com/index1.cfm
Ever Wonder What's Missing? Hear what some others just like you had to say on the subject of this book: Click Here
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