courage...

Is a rare enough quality these days that even I, skeptic and cynic as I am, was moved by the picture of Iraqis walking along dusty roads through the desert to cast their votes. One man was missing a leg from an attack--by which side, they didn't say--and said, "I would have crawled here."

new music

Found good music over the weekend which I've listened to obsessively. Normally once through is enough for me--but this new stuff I've discovered (alone among humans, naturally, otherwise it wouldn't be cool) is good for multiple play-throughs, especially since I'm learning iMovie and editing sound to go along with the slides...amazing what my little Powerbook can do.

As life gets longer
awful feels softer
and it feels pretty soft to me
and if it takes shit to make bliss
well I feel pretty blissfully
if life is not beautiful without the pain
well I'd rather never ever see beauty again

Anyone want to go to Bonnaroo this summer? It's right after my intensive Dutch program...

old journals

I'm reading a journal of mine from four years ago. It's amazing to look back and see the same themes, the same people--even the same preoccupation with shoes. In the journal I also wrote down dreams, and here's one of the most vivid dreams I ever had. I still remember it, like a memory, and rereading the account of it most of it comes back. It felt like a deeply archetypal dream. Any Jungian 101 interpretations are welcome. I'm putting it up exactly as I wrote it, the morning I woke up.

Big Dream
Somewhere in France--not Paris--along a river. 2 families, one with a young son and one with a young daughter. Both children have dark hair and dark eyes, though the boy's skin is more pale. Both families are tourists. There is a museum and an African restarant that figure prominently. The boy and girl's paths cross, but they do not meet. I buy the girl a white bicycle at a grocery store which she rides around. Her parents are dead and she is taken care of by her aunt and grandmother. So throughout the dream the boy and girl see each other. The boy is accompanied only by this father. His parents are divorced (the African restarant is where they met?). The little girl and I are meeting the grandmother and aunt at the African restarant. A black woman near the door tells us that the food isn't nearly as good as in Tangiers and I don't know if she means the country or the restarant. I am very concerned that we haven't remembered the right restarant when I finally see the girl's guardians. The boys father is having what looks to be a business meeting while the little boy plays. The boy's father is not respectable. Later he gets into an argument on the roof and it turns into a gunfight, which he survives thanks to a bulletproof vest. After it is over he loooks for the little boy, who has run away up the hill in fight. I find his hiding place and give him the bicycle. He steps out of the hiding place the next morning and grabs the hand of a country woman walking by with her husband and children. They are on a day trip to town. Julian (for some reason this is the point where the little boy is named) doesn't speak French. They take him with them home. The next day they return to town with the bicycle and try to find who he belongs to, but his father has been arrested and the little girl and I have left. In the end the family keeps Julian, though they rename him Michel.

Many years later, everyone converges on the town again. Julian still has the bicycle and has ridden it into town. On it he nearly runs into the little girl, who is no longer little. They spend the day together and eventually discover that they have the same memories of one day in their childhood. They go back to the museum and meet Julian's father, who grabs Julian by the hand and the wrist and says, "You must be my son. Julian denies it, saying his father is a prosperous farmer from the village.

Weird, isn't it? So detailed. I see it like a movie in my mind...

firefox is cool.

check it out.

this is why I bought property in North Carolina

Private Summer Cabin Tucked IN The Redwoods of Nisene
Marks Park. This 'Out Back' Cabin Has No Electricty OR
Telephones. Cabin Is Located 3.4 Mile Off The Main
Road And Off Grid. Power Is By Generator. View Only
After 2/10/ 05. State Park Has First Right of Refusal.
Call Agent Before Writing Contract.
Note: forwarded message attached.
2 Forest Drive, Soquel, CA 95073
Price: $385,000

motherfucker

Is a term we use rather casually these days. I'd like to suggest it be reserved for people who really are motherfuckers, by which I mean to say that they distort, devalue and dismiss the feminine, especially those who do so in the name of "honoring women." Frankly, I'm starting to become allergic to our "allies"--male and female--who have papered over good-old-fashioned chauvinism with nouveau biological determinism. Just because someone is a leftist and telling me that my purpose is to have babies "put into me" doesn't make it any less offensive. And if anyone would care to read Emma Goldman's autobiography, one could see that this battle has been fought repeatedly among progressives. The men in her life supported her politics, but not her radical rethinking of gender roles within those politics. In other words, they wanted to change the economic basis of society, but not the gendered basis of society. Ultimately, all of the men in Emma's life wanted to possess her and subordinate her, and they were all, every one of them, radical communists.

It is my belief now that the struggle in our society--and to greater or lesser degrees around the world--is a struggle over who will define and control women: women themselves, or men. It seems to me that the men who are currently in power would literally rather annihilate us all than see a significant revisioning of who we are, as men and women. As the next four years progresses, I suspect that we will see more an more discussions of "why men and women are really really different" and why that means that women can't/shouldn't do this, that, or the other thing: major in sciences for example.

Consider the furor caused by the comments of the President of Harvard University, who suggested in a speech that women aren't as successful in math and science because their brains just work differently. After vigorous protest by women in and out of the academy, he issued a half-assed apology. My feeling is, he's not sorry he said it--he's sorry it got reported. It was that kind of "oh, were you offended? Apologies" kind of apology. Unfortunately, this will not be the end of this, oh, no, my little kittens, it will not. Here's what a Washington Post editorial said (thanks to Kos for the heads-up, and check out the debate on this post--it's informative):

"Is it so heretical, though, so irredeemably oafish, to consider whether gender differences also play some role? As the daughter of two scientists and the mother of two daughters, I think not. After all, scientists are reporting day by day about their breakthroughs in understanding the genetic basis of diseases or personality traits. Brain studies of men and women show that the two genders use different parts of their brain to process language. (Men tend to be left-siders, women both-lobers.) . . . Biology may not be destiny, but as we Brio-buyers and truck-swaddlers have discovered, its effects also can't be discounted.

Many of the same people denouncing Summers, I'd venture, believe fervently that homosexuality, for example, is a matter of biology rather than of choice or childhood experience. Many would demand that medical studies be structured to consider differences between men and women in metabolizing drugs, say, or responding to a particular disease. And many who find Summers's remarks offensive seem perfectly happy to trumpet the supposed attributes that women bring to the workplace -- that they are more intuitive, or more empathetic or some such. If that is so -- and I've always rather cringed at such assertions -- why is it impermissible to suggest that there might be some downside differences as well?

Summers (even in his earlier, unexpurgated form) wasn't saying that no individual woman could be a stellar scientist, or mathematician, or engineer, only that overall one gender might be more inclined in that direction than the other. Indeed, if that did prove to be the case, it would be all the more important for educators at every level to nurture and encourage girls and women with scientific promise, and it would make those who achieve at the highest levels all the more valuable in a modern university, or any modern workforce conscious of the cost of gender disparities.

The Summers storm might have been easy to forecast. But it says less, in the end, about the Harvard president than it does about the unwillingness of the modern academy to tolerate the kind of freewheeling inquiry that academics and intellectuals above all ought to prize rather than revile."

Yes, that freewheeling inquiry into why women just can't seem to get their pretty little heads around physics. Let's just ignore all the "freewheeling academic inquiry" that reinforced, for hundreds if not thousands of years, racist, sexist, and homophobic ideologies. Let's ignore the fact that "freewheeling academic inquiry," more often than not, confirms the biases of the observer. Let's ignore the fact that women have only been allowed to freewheel for the past 40 years, and even then, it's often a choice: child, or freewheeling academic inquiry? Because the academy expects that one will be able to work 80 hours a week for a top research position because the academy expects that you have a wife to do all that mundane, worldly bullshit every week. In other words, if you don't have a support staff, don't apply.

And while crusing the Temple of Consumerism yesterday with two of my favorite people, we noticed that apparently, we all need to dress like Laura Bush now. Twinsets. Pearls. Full, knee-length skirts (comes with apron free!). Heels. It' the return of the housewife, and it's going to get ugly, because I'll tell you one thing: I'm not going back into the Happy Homemaker box, MOTHERFUCKERS.

abandon hope

Tomorrow that man will be sworn in as President of the United States of America. At noon tomorrow, the work begins. It will be as bad, and worse, than we think. We cannot hope for a reprieve. We cannot hope that the American people will turn. We cannot hope that they--we--will ever understand the consequences of what they have done. Their votes will be paid for in blood and pain. All because they don't want to pay taxes, and because they are so cowardly that they will do anything and follow anyone to feel safe. Is there any greater and more alluring allusion than security?

What has happened to us? I have loved my country for so long; I have loved being an American since I can remember. I was proud of us. I believed in our essential goodness. I believed that we Americans would never, never succumb to the banality of evil. In that, I expressed the arrogance of all people who believe that they would be able to resist, that they would be different, outside of history. I believed that the face America presented to the world would be that of the soldiers who helped turn the tide in WWII, who liberated Auschwitz, who fought on the side of angels. I never thought the face of America would be the face of a masochist like Charles Graner or Lindsay English, leading a prisoner on a leash, grinning. I believed--and despite certain evidence to the contrary, provided by Reagan and Bush the First--that we were not torturers, that we were not killers, that no American would stand by and let concentration camps be built and say nothing, do nothing. Certainly I never thought that we would enthusiastically approve of such camps, that we would approve of such torture, that we would believe it to be necessary, that we would be able to dehumanize others in such a way that we would pile them naked on floors, have fathers watch their sons be sodomized, terrorize them with dogs, beat them to death.

I was wrong.


To abandon hope is not to give up. It is, in fact, a place of freedom. We can no longer take refuge in futile dreams of a just America, outraged, rising against these totalitarians, these fascists, these men whose dreams are dark and full of power, these men who welcome--nay, seek to hasten--the end of the world. For what it is worth, I will not be silent. I will not be a bystander. I will not pretend to objectivity in my classroom. I just saw a picture of one of the torture techniques the Nazis used against Polish Jews and dissidents, and we are using the same techniques today, right now, in Guantanamo, in Abu Gharib. To remain silent in the face of evil is unconscionable. It is a betrayal of those who have come before us, upon whose graves we walk and whose memory we dishonor with our complacency. Let us acknowledge what actually is, not what we hope will be; what the American people have actually done, not what we hope they will do. We must have, as Gramsci said, pessimism of the intellect and optimism of the will. It will not be different. It will not be better. That is where we begin.

americans are really compassionate, except when they're not

Found this on Altercation:

On the tsunami:


Barbara Walters: "Do you think that, because of the kind of aid that we're giving, because of the leadership that we're giving, that this could make a difference in the Muslim world?"

Bush: "Absolutely. I think it can.  Our public diplomacy efforts aren't . . . aren't very robust, and aren't very good, compared to the public diplomacy efforts of those who would like to spread hatred and . . . and vilify the United States.  And, uh, but in the … responding to the tsunami many in the Muslim world have seen a great compassion in the American people.  Our troops are providing incredibly good service.  I mean, we are saving lives, and flying supplies, and I … people … aside from the propaganda, many people, outcasts, are coming over some of those stations, um, apart from that, or in spite of that, I guess is the best way to say it, people are seeing the concrete actions of a compassionate country."

angel dreams

I briefly lived in Santa Monica, 10 years ago, and hated it. I hated the superficiality of L.A., the thin layer of glamour that lies like show-biz make-up over the ugly face of vast inequalities. I hated that everyone knew what--and who--was in, and out. That fashion seemed to be a determinant of success. And so on. Basically, I hated everything about L.A. that everyone else hates about L.A.

Over Christmas, I went back to Los Angeles. And, unexpectedly, I fell for the city this time around. It was like meeting someone who, in high school, you couldn't stand, but who is now unexpectedly interesting. The city pulsed with energy, with possibility. It is vast, and contains multitudes. Thinking it over, I realized that Los Angeles is (forgive me for the maudlin cliche) a place where dreams come true. Most don't, of course; 98% of the waiters I had in L.A. are never going to get the big break they're hoping for. But there is something about being surrounded by people full of hope, and there is something about being surrounded by beauty, that filled me with energy. I stood straighter and opened my eyes, and even though it was raining, it seemed bright to me. On my last day there, I saw a double rainbow that appeared to end at the Hollywood sign. And I forgave L.A. for not being what I thought it should be, and just looked at it as it is, and found it strangely good.

too smart? too bad.

Normally I dislike Maureen Dowd's columns. Somehow, they always seem kind of flighty and gossipy. Today's column, however--entitled "Men Just Want Mommy"--caught my eye for obvious reasons. And here's what I found out:

**"Men would rather marry their secretaries than their bosses, and evolution may be to blame" says John Schwartz of the NY Times. Actually, I think men may be to blame, but whatever. I love how all our metanarratives about evolution favor men over women. Perhaps bears do have a disciplinary social structure after all! (Inside joke.)

**"A new study by psychology researchers at the University of Michigan, using college undergraduates, suggets that men going for long-term relationships would rather marry women in subordinate jobs than women who are supervisors." Dr. Stephanie Brown, [unmarried, presumably] the lead author of the study, said, "Powerful women are at a disadvantage in the marriage market because men may prefer to marry less accomplished women." Women, by contrast, didn't show a difference in their attraction to men who might work above or below them. Generously, "men did not show a preference when it came to one-night stands."

**A study at four British universities suggests that men with demanding jobs would rather have "old-fashioned" wives, like their mothers. AND HERE'S THE KICKER: The study found that high I.Q. hampers a woman's chance to get married, while it is an advantage for men. The prospect for marriage increased by 35 percent for guys with each 16-point increase in I.Q. For women, there is a 40 percent drop for each 16 point rise.

I'm not sure if this is 16 point increase from the mean, or from 0; either way, it looks like my chances of getting married have just dropped about 100%.

Now accepting donations of cats.

so long, and thanks for all the fish

This Armstrong Williams thing is bloody ridiculous while simultaneously totally predictable. How shocking: The Administration paid a conservative, black commentator ($240,000) to promote the No Child Left Behind program in the African-American community. Needless to say, at no point did the man mention that he had been paid to promote this program. No, he was just a journalist doing his job. Luckily for him, Rupert Murdoch just consolidated his control of Fox, so I'm sure he won't be out of a job long.

I guess I have to go back to relying on the messages I receive through my amalgam fillings.

now, when the waters are pressing mightily

Now, when the waters are pressing mightily
on the walls of dams,
now, when the white storks, returning,
are transformed in the middle of the firmament
into fleets of jet planes,
we will feel again how strong are the ribs
and how vigorous is the warm air in the lungs
and how much daring is needed to love on the exposed plain,
when the great deangers are arched above,
and how much love is required to fill all the empty vessels
and the watches that stopped telling time,
and how much breath,
a whirlwind of breath,
to sing the small song of spring.

--Yehuda Amichai

in memory

Witness
(for Jenny Sue, December 26th, 2004, age 30)

We were children when we met
you are one of the first people I remember clearly
I was 5; you, 6;
we had white blond hair
blue eyes
and paperthin skin
on my first day of school
we wore matching outfits
in the pictures of that day
we look like sisters.

So there you are, a child, in mind and memory
I see you with multiple vision, though,
adult eyes through child eyes
and back again
who you became and who you were
at six, a singer and dancer
already playing 3 instruments
Jenny Sue, starring in her own musical,
full of laughter.

What happened later? I never knew--
I never knew the source of the wound
that you curled yourself around, your
voice gone, your once graceful body
puppetlike, strung out.
You came out to me, defiantly;
expecting me to be shocked, I think,
but I remembered the girl I knew,
and I wanted her to be at peace
at last. I don't think peace ever
found you.

I read of your partner dying,
last summer, and I thought of you,
your fairness and your fragility.
So when I read, yesterday, of your
unexpected death, 24 years after we met;
your unexpected death, alone at your home;
it was as if I was 5 again, losing
a treasured playmate.

With your death I am no longer your witness,
and you're no longer mine. No one else will
see me through your six year old, musical eyes.
And it often seems to me whatever else we do
this is our most essential function--
to stand, to watch, to remain steadfast
we bear witness; we bear others and are
borne by them.
We tell each other "You are seen."

When you died, Jenny Sue, when you died
alone in your home, did you think
no one saw you?
I saw you, friend.
I saw you, fair and dark
awkward and graceful
singing and silent.

and so it is

just like you said it would be
life goes easy on me
most of the time
and so it is
the shorter story
no love, no glory
no hero in her sky
--Damien Rice, "Blower's Daughter"

"But to go deeper, beneath what people said (and these judgements, how superficial, how fragmentary they are!) in her own mind now, what did it mean to her, this thing she called life? Oh, it was very queer. Here was So-and-so in south Kensington; some one up in Bayswater; and somebody else, say, in Mayfair. And she felt quite continously a sense of their existence; and she felt what a waste; and she felt what a pity; and she felt if only they could be brought together; so she did it. And it was an offering; to combine, to create, but to whom?

An offering for the sake of offering, perhaps. Anyhow, it was her gift. Nothing else had she of the slightest importance; could not think, write, even play the piano. She muddled Armenians and Turks; loved success; hated discomfort; must be liked; talked oceans of nonsense...

All the same, that one day should follow another; Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday; that one should wake up on the morning; see the sky; walk in the park;...then these roses; it was enough. After that, how unbelievable death was!--that it must end; and no one in the whole world would know how she had loved it all; how, every instant...

The door opened."

--Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway