Simply Reeling...

If you could see my heart
You would see trees of light
Abundantly glowing white
in a dusky thicket
Of shadow and shade

If you could see my heart
You would see blue-gold songbirds
Flutter
and dance through the boughs
Of the trees that give light

If you could see my heart
You would see millions of
Phosphenes gliding and floating
And rising
Like clear, carbonated bubbles
Of celebration

If you could see my heart
You might see the shapes of dreams
That never seem to fade
Or fall
Like stones and leaves in autumn
that drift to the ground and burrow thereunder

If you could see my heart
You might behold with your eyes a scene of august beauty
Captured
in stained glass artwork, framed and
hanging on a limb of the luminous tree
whose brilliance sets the panes ablaze
with refracted angels

If you could see my heart right now
Your eyes would simply melt,
Yet still would you weep—
Not for the loss of sight
But for the acquisition of the vision
That rendered any future seeing impossible
And unnecessary

The Subtle Shortcomings of Jimbone

Jimmy sat on the floor of the carport carefully spraying oil on the chain of his bike, a Schwinn 12-speed, his first with actual hand brakes. He turned the pedals with one hand while he used the other to cycle through the gears. He passed through all twelve, taking care to run the full length of the chain on each sprocket. He flipped the bike upright and inspected the finish. Even after half a year of neighborhood expeditions, it was still spotless. And so it should have been; he cleaned it after every ride. It was a unique opalescent color, and Jimmy couldn’t imagine it tarnished by rust or splattered with mud. He would wash it with soap and water when he got back today, then re-apply the thick film of WD-40 to guard against rust and keep that virgin glow. He popped out the kickstand, still complete with the rubber foot, and gently leaned the weight of his beloved bike.
It was summertime, finally, and looking out at the dry grass of the front yard, Jimmy was happy to have no chores or homework to do. He looked up at the pines towering above him, the blue and white sky passing through the frames made by the needles overhead. Cars zipped by intermittently on the highway outside the subdivision. He could hear the crickets chirping rapidly nearby, reminding him of the muggy heat. There was no breeze; the air was still and heavy. He wanted to go for a ride, but Donte had yet to arrive. HHe recalled how e had planned on getting in shape this summer, had hoped to do something about his absurdly skeletal body, which he was just becoming aware of. Maria Golson, a seventh grade classmate, had recently informed him that he had “goofy knobby knees”. From his less compassionate classmates, he had acquired the nickname “Jimbone”. He didn’t mind so much, laughed along with them, though he had become more conscious of his own imperfect body because of it.
His mom often tried to cheer his anxiety about his knees by pointing out that he most certainly had the softest, whitest, smoothest, most delicate legs of anyone she had ever seen. And it was true. All around those swollen knees was white, glowing, hairless flesh, and behind them, his pure, untarnished skin was like a silk hammock stretching across the beams of his ligaments.
Jimmy dropped into the prickly grass of his front yard, growing impatient. Inspecting his only attractive feature, Jimmy caressed his legs, running his forefingers back and forth over their smoothness. Suddenly, out of the distance, there came the hum of rubber on pavement and the clown-like honking of a bike horn followed by a short skidding sound right into his driveway. He opened his eyes to see Donte braking into an endo near the edge of the grass.
“Jimbone!” Donte hollered in a bright smile. He looked over his handlebars at Jimmy stroking his legs and leered, “Boy, you’re always touchin yourself.”
Jimmy threw his hands to the ground in embarrassment. He let his knees fall to the earth and looked down the main thoroughfare of the subdivision as it descended away from his house into the darkness of the shaded cul-de-sac. Turning back to Donte, he said, “Are you finally ready to go for a ride?”
“I think so.” Donte squinted, drawing his hand to his chin the way a professor might. In his best British accent he said, “So, where might we be traveling to this fine afternoon?” He’d always been such an actor.
Jimmy shrugged. “Around. We can ride over to Mr. Norton’s. He just got two new Dobermans.”
“He won’t be home yet, and if he was, I wouldn’t step foot on that place.”
“So. We can see them from the fence.”
Donte glared at Jimmy.
“Come on, Donte. All the other dogs in this neighborhood’re just mutts. These dogs are tall and strong.” Jimmy jumped up and prowled toward his friend with his hands erect on either side of his head. “And the way their ears stick up. It’ll give you chills!”
Donte smiled and punched Jimmy lightly on the arm. “How ‘bout we race to the bottom of the hill instead?”
Tempted by another chance to finally show Donte up, Jimmy dusted off his shorts and pulled his bike into the driveway. In the street, they stood over their bikes parallel to the mailbox, the same ritual lineup they assumed before every race. Donte observed Jimmy’s whitish bike shining above the black asphalt. “Man, you ain’t even broke that thing in yet, Jimmy. How you expect to compete with a bike like this one here?” Donte smirked, patting his own bike like an old friend. Next to Jimmy’s Schwinn, Donte’s bike looked rather poor and maltreated. It was a straight-pedaler, chain brake only. He didn’t clean his religiously like Jimmy, but he had modified it by replacing some of the heavier parts with aluminum pieces, making it lighter and faster. It was the color of a Radio Flyer wagon bleached by the sun. “You wanna take a head start?” Donte joked.
Just then Jimmy’s mom appeared at the door. She held her hand up to shield her eyes from the afternoon sun. “Where are ya’ll going Jimmy? You know we’re eating supper in an hour. Hey, Donte. How are you, honey? Did you eat yet?”
“Hey, ma’am. I’m good, ma’am. I’ll be eatin’ with my family. Don’t worry about me.”
“Well, you’re welcome to join us if you want.” Her voice took on a sterner tone, “Jimmy, don’t be late, now.”
“Okay, Mom. We won’t.”
“Ya’ll be careful.” Then she went in, closing the screen door behind her.
Jimmy looked over at Donte, “Just like every time, okay? To the curb.” Jimmy set his eyes on the stretch of road below. “You sure you’re ready for this?”
“Please, Jimmy! You know I win every-,” and just then Jimmy took off pedaling, barreling down the hill and clicking through his gears as fast as he could.
“Hey!” Donte bolted after him.
They raced down the hill bound for the cul-de-sac. Jimmy was ahead, passing streets left and right, zooming past the sparsely parked cars of stay-at-home moms and high schoolers still sleeping. He could see the dark dead end approaching rapidly. The air was fuming in his ears. I’m going to win! he thought. He slowed down to come to a stop at the curb, depressing his hand brakes slightly.
At that moment,though, Donte rocketed past him and skidded sideways into his path until he was facing him, halted. “Wanna go again?” he said, heaving triumphant breaths.
“What the hell!” Jimmy blurted, annoyed by his own caution and tossing his bike to the ground. He walked around on the black tar mouthing curses at his bike. “No,” he said, looking at Donte, “I don’t want to go again. I almost had it this time!” He bit his lower lip. “Next time, next time I’ll win it, for sure.”
Donte laid down his bike and strode over to him. “Maybe so, and maybe not. We been doin’ this ever since Christmas and it ain’t happened once yet!”
Jimmy looked down.
Donte put his arm around Jimmy’s neck. “We’ll just have to see.”
Jimmy looked at Donte’s chubby, black cheeks beneath his long, thick eyelashes. Felt his sinewy arm against his skin. It gave him an odd feeling, like the night, the deep Georgia woods, the unknown. He shrugged off the feeling and smiled, throwing his arm over Donte’s shoulder and walking toward their bikes.
“Now, can we go see the dogs? You won’t believe how big they are for only eight months old. I saw them just last week and they were huge.” His eyes widened. “I mean, they are really tall, Donte, but they’re so graceful when they move!”
Donte laughed at his friend’s enthusiasm, “Alright, alright, but you sure he don’t care if we’re there? You know he’s racist.”
“He’s not even there, Donte.” They both picked up their bikes.
“What about Chris? I hate that sombitch.”
Jimmy remembered the last time they talked about Chris. Donte told of how he’d been straggling back to P.E. class after the ropes course, minding his own, he said, and smelling the new flowers. He was taking his time because he’d fallen and bruised his cheek on a tree during the ropes course. He could see his classmates on the other side of the football field racing into the gym. The field was quiet then. He heard some snickering coming from behind the bleachers, and he stopped, noticed a group of older boys, white boys, and soon recognized Chris, the biggest among them. He tried to walk by without paying them any mind, but they started making fun of him, fuckin’ with him, as he put it. According to Donte, he cussed them out, put them in their place and went on about his business.
Jimmy knew if there was any chance that Chris might be there, Donte wouldn’t go along, and he certainly didn’t want to go alone to that jerk’s house. “I think he’s at some summer camp,” Jimmy lied.
Donte eyed him skeptically, rubbing his cheek. “Alright,” he said finally with a huff. “Let’s go, then.”
They pedaled back to one of the multiple side streets, turned off into the woods behind the abandoned singlewide, and came out on the shaded street where the Nortons’ two-story brick house, the only one for miles, stood big on a hand-trimmed green lawn. There was a house on either side, dwarfish in contrast, their colored vinyl siding making them look cartoonish and temporary. Jimmy and Donte left their bikes in the street and wandered up the driveway, Jimmy in front.
When they got to the edge of the fence, the Dobermans were in the back corner, their lean bodies stretched out in the shade of a Bradford pear.
“Why ain’t they coming at us barking?” whispered Donte.
“They’re not mean,” Jimmy said.
Donte raised an eyebrow. “Hmmph. Yet.”
After calling the dogs and only getting them to lift their heads, the boys decided they’d have to walk around on the grass to the back of the Nortons’ big lot to get a closer look. Donte said he wasn’t so sure about that, but Jimmy reminded him that no one was home and they were only going to take a quick, close look. Then they’d walk back to their bikes and race home. Besides, Chris wasn’t really that bad, he told Donte. He had some issues, sure, but who didn’t? The landscaping company Chris’s father owned was known, or at least advertised, all over town. Chris was athletic like Donte; he liked basketball, too. Jimmy reminded Donte of the intramural basketball game they had played last year, before Chris went on to the high school.
“And was that the last time you saw that punk?” Donte asked skeptically.
“I’ve seen him. I just haven’t had the chance to talk to him since then.”
Donte showed no signs of empathy, and Jimmy began to realize that he, too, was a little afraid. Yet, he was unwilling to show his fear. Jimmy felt strangely bold in front of his friend, determined to convince him that it was alright. Chris, or any other white boy for that matter, wasn’t just out to get him. What happened at the football field had just been a misunderstanding.
They heard the slamming of a car door and looked at each other in apprehension. Jimmy pointed across the street to a woman in her driveway. “It’s just the neighbor. C’mon.” Then they tread carefully, quietly now on the soft grass, Donte in front this time, drawn by the awesome beasts. They called to the dogs again. The closer of the two put his nose in the air, sniffed, made eye contact with Donte, and climbed to his feet. When he was halfway to them, the other followed. Moving into the sunlight, their black coats shone like onyx. The muscles bulged beneath.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?”
“Yeah.”
The boys stared through the chain-link. The juvenile purebreds stared back.
Several moments passed.
“Hey Jimmy,” Donte whispered.
“Yeah?”
“Do you think they might want to hurt us?”
“Nah. They’re just interested. Like me and you.”
“Do you think they’re scared?”
Jimmy looked over at Donte, and Donte turned to face him. In those brown eyes Jimmy saw a terrible omen.
THWACK! SHWIZZZ! Something flew past the boys and tore through the woods behind. They looked up to the house. There was Chris. He held a plastic bat cocked back in one hand; his other hand was tossing something into the air. He connected. THWACK! SHWIZZZ! The rock missed again. “Get away from my dogs, nigger!” He pursed his lips and drew back for another swing.
“Dammit Jimmy! I thought you said he wasn’t here!”
Turning around and waving, Jimmy hollered hurriedly, “Hey Chris, wait! It’s me, Jimbone from school!”
Chris threw up another rock, missed, and then smiled broadly. He was looking right at the boys.
And in that sly smile, Donte must have recognized something sinister. He tugged Jimmy’s arm toward the woods. “Come on, man! He ain’t givin up!”
Jimmy turned to follow him, but his spindly legs got tangled, and he fell down, face first. The dogs were barking, now. There was a white pain in Jimmy’s eyes from the impact of the ground. The bridge of his nose ached; he couldn’t see. A gate somewhere swung open. He heard booming footfalls, hard, fast, and hollow through the ground.
“Jimmy!” Donte screamed.
“Go Donte! Run! I’m comin’!” He scrambled to get up, things slowly coming into focus. He was running, now.
“Sic!” he heard Chris shouting. “Sic ‘em!” He felt something catch his shirt sleeve, but was able to jerk free. “Hey! Nigger-lover! What the hell are you doin’ in my yard?”
As he ran on, Jimmy didn’t answer. But looking back over his shoulder, he saw one of the Dobermans running right for him. The yaps and snarls filled his ringing ears. They were gaining on him, teeth bared, and as he reached the tree line, the second dog lunged toward him. Jimmy felt claws like dull knives in his back and tumbled to the ground. The Doberman was on top of him, barking in his ear. The first dog caught up again and tentatively bit Jimmy on the back of his leg. “Ahhhhh!” A thick pinch of pain surged up his leg. His muscles reacted, and he kicked the dog with the back of his foot.
“Heel! Heel!” he heard Chris now shouting. The dogs went away. He wanted to bury himself there in the grass, clutch the pain, push it in, rub it away. He wanted to cry. He held back his tears as he jumped up and ran on, following Donte’s path through the woods.

Before he knew it, Jimmy was back to his street. He rested his hands on his boney knees. And as the tears began to stream down his flushed cheeks and the blood trickled down to his sock, the throbbing pain began to fade away, and a new pain welled up from somewhere within him.
Why? How could this have happened? What did Chris call him? A nigger-lover? His mother had taught him that love was a good thing, a necessary thing. But that’s not at all what Chris meant. Jimmy tried the words out in his mouth, gave voice to them. They sounded so ugly he couldn’t bear to repeat them. Oh, he had been such an idiot! Of course that bully Chris was a threat. Not just to Donte…but to him, too. If Donte hadn’t been there, though, would Chris still have called him that?

....................................................................

When he came limping to the edge of their acre lot, Jimmy saw Donte sitting in the front yard. He had both bikes.
“Jimmy! You alright?” Donte rushed over to meet him.
Jimmy glared. Would Chris still have attacked him if Donte hadn’t been there? No. No! Donte was to blame. “Get the hell away from me!”
“What? What d’you mean? You said to go on! Plus, I got your bike and mine.” Donte scowled, his arms spread wide over both bikes.
“This never would ‘a happened if you hadn’t been with me!” Jimmy felt certain of this. After all, nothing like this happened when Jimmy was by himself. And now here he was, limping home, his lily white legs mangled and bloody, scarred, probably, for life. If this was the price of being nice to some black kid who moved in a year ago, well…His eyes were welling up again, but his frown showed determination.
Donte stared. The crickets chirped. “Alright, Jimmy. I don’t have to take this. Specially not from no Jimbone Parker.” He pulled up his bike and began to walk it toward the street. “You know,” he said without turning around to face Jimmy, “I always thought you were better than most folks here. This whole time, ever since I came to this hillbilly town last year, you always treated me like a friend. Even in school.”
“Well, maybe it’s not gonna be like that anymore,” Jimmy said, hardening.
Donte dropped his head then turned toward Jimmy.
“Remember that time I told you about cussing out Chris and them other boys on the football field?”
“Yeah. So?”
“I got a perfect score on the ropes course that day.” He waited a minute for this to sink in. “I didn’t fall. I didn’t cuss nobody out, Jimmy! Soon as I opened my mouth that ogre popped me across the face.”
“Well…maybe you got what you deserved.”
And at this Donte dropped his bike and tackled Jimmy. Both boys tumbled to the ground, limbs flailing. The pines above bled into the afternoon sky. All the world was a colorful blur. Jimmy felt the strength in Donte’s shoulders as he grabbed at them, reached out to control the onslaught. He felt Donte’s fingers wrap around his wrists and shove them off. Saw his wooly head coming towards him, felt the scruff of Donte’s short hair on his tender face, Donte’s smell profuse in his nostrils. As his head passed by, Jimmy struck out with his right arm, trying to get Donte in a headlock. He held him sloppily before Donte jerked loose and pulled back, trying to get to his feet. Jimmy dove towards the shrinking Donte and knocked him back on the ground. Both their heads hit the hard red clay at the lawn’s edge. Dazed, they scuffled for a few minutes, struggling to grab the other, reaching out, striking nothing, both too tired, or maybe too uncertain at this point, to really put up much of a fight, and after a few minutes of fruitless grappling, they lay on the ground panting.
Jimmy could hear Donte grunting and breathing heavily beside him on the grass. “Damn,” Donte said, “you got to cut your nails, boy. Now, I’m bleedin’, too.”
Jimmy, crushed by the burdens of the day, his leg numb and heart aching, could only muster a quiet, barely audible moan. Then he grew strangely silent. He opened his eyes, vision blurred with unfallen tears, lifted his head, and looked down between his feet at the bikes. There was his. And there was Donte’s, right beside it. Donte had been there. Donte had been beside him. And he, Jimbone, the kid no one took seriously, had lied to get him there. The weight of this seemed to pull Jimmy deeper to the earth. He reached over and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“Hey. I’m…I’m sorry, Donte.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout it…Jimbone. Just, well, next time you wanna go riskin’ my life, I’d appreciate it if you let me know ahead of time.” He sighed as he got up, “Come on, let’s get you inside so your mama can fix you up.”
Jimmy nodded. “Looks like we both need fixin’ up.”
Donte helped him up, pulling his arm across his shoulder and supporting his weight. Jimmy’s leg continued to throb.

A Rocky Trial, act I by Hollis Butler Ball

Here's the beginning of a little drama. The material has become flotsam and needs some new energy. I hope you enjoy and maybe experience a laugh or a smirk. (And don't worry, the explosion today near the Khan didn't harm me or anyone I know. Businesses there will suffer more than anything, which means Egyptians will bear the brunt of the attack. Peace.)

Scene 1

Judge: State your name for the record.

Hussein: I am Hussein Hussein al-Magrab, the president of the Arab Republic of Dubja.

Judge: You mean former president of the Republic of Dubja?

Hussein: No, present. Current. It’s the will of the people.

Judge : You are the head of the Clan Party that is dissolved, defunct, former commander-in-chief of the army. Residence is Dubja. Your mother’s name?

Hussein: Sobha.

Judge: You are hereby charged with the following crimes against humanity: ethnic cleansing of the Kurdish population in the town of Hallaburj, illegal arrest and detention of Dubjaeen citizens, and ethnic cleansing of the Shia population in northern Dubja. You are also charged with the summary execution of five Shia religious leaders, for the murder of tens of thousands of Dubjaeen political activists, for the revenge killings of southern rebels following the ’91 war, and for the ’90 invasion of Oiliat. How do you answer these charges?

Hussein: My fellow citizen, I’m talking to you as a judge, and a Dubjaeen. These accusations against me as president of the republic regarding Hallaburj are heard in the biased Western media. In fact, you can hear them just as you stated them. These ridiculous charges refer to an attack on Hallaburj during a regime that was headed by Hussein Hussein; am I right?

Judge: You misunderstand. How do you plead to the charges?

Hussein: How do I plead? I plead with you, a fellow Dubjaeen, to denounce this farce of a trial arranged by the invaders.

Judge: I ask you to answer the crimes with which you are charged. Guilty or not guilty?

Hussein: Concerning my invasion of Oiliat, the seventh charge, unfortunately it is coming from a Dubjaeen. Is this just?

Judge: But this is law.

Hussein: Law? What law? Law that puts Hussein to trial because the Oiliats said that they would make every Dubjaeen woman a ten dinar whore? And I have defended the honor of Dubja and revived the historical rights of Dubjaeen against these dogs.

Judge: I discourage you from using coarse language in my courtroom. Do not insult anybody, this is a legal session.

Hussein: Yes this is a legal session, and I am taking responsibility for what I say.

Judge: Any impolite statement is not acceptable.

Hussein: So the seventh charge against Hussein Hussein is that of being the president of Dubja and commander in chief of the armed forces. The armed forces went to Oiliat, right? So is it legitimate to raise accusations against an official, and the official being accused away from the assurances by the constitution and laws including the one that you are trying me according to? This is the core of the issue. To raise accusations because it was acted upon during a regime headed by Hussein Hussein, but without providing the assurances to the president. Is this legitimate?

Judge: What assurances are you seeking?

Hussein: I am talking about myself. I am talking about the whole process. I want assurances that a fair and just trial will be held. And this is part of the process, the legal process…You are a Dubjaeen judge?

Judge: A fair and just trial is your right.

Hussein: You have not introduced yourself to me.

Judge: Mr. Hussein, I am the head judge of the central court of Dubja.

Hussein: Because I have to know, you are an investigative judge of the central court of Dubja? What resolution, what law formed this court? Oh, the coalition forces? So you are a Dubjaeen that is representing the occupying forces?

Judge: No, I’m a Dubjaeen representing Dubja.

Hussein: But you are ...

Judge: I was appointed by a presidential decree under the former regime.

Hussein: So you are reiterating that every Dubjaeen should respect the Dubjaeen law and the Dubjaeen regime. So the law that was instituted before represents the will of the people, right?

Judge: Yes, God willing.

Hussein: (shouting) So you should not work under the jurisdiction of the coalition forces.

Judge: This is an important point. I am a judge. In the former regime, I respect the judges. And I am resuming and continuing my work. You, as any other citizen, you have to answer to any accusation or charge, that’s true. This is an arraignment, a charge. If it can be proven, then you will be convicted. If not, then everything is fine. The judicial due process is to bring back rights. If there’s evidence, you’ll be convicted. If there’s no evidence, you will not. Until now, you’re accused before the judicial system. So according to that ...

Hussein: If no evidence, then everything is fine, you say? You mean, if not, then you will hand me over to the coalition, led by the Americans, who will send me to be tortured in some faraway secret prison. (laughing) No, no, no…but that’s not even a possibility in your mind, is it?

Judge: I urge you to answer the charges and stop complicating the situation.

Hussein: No, please let me — I’m not complicating matters. I’m clarifying. Are you a judge? You are a judge. And judges, they value the law. And they rule by the law, right? Right? For us, right is our heritage in the Koran, sharia, right? I am not talking about Hussein Hussein, whether he was a citizen or in other capacities. I’m not questioning you in order to hold fast to my position, but to respect the will of the people that decided to choose Hussein Hussein as the leader of the revolution. Therefore, when I say president of the Republic of Dubja, it’s not a formality or a holding fast to a position, but rather to reiterate to the Dubjaeen people that I respect its will. This is one. Number two, you summoned me to levy charges — no — you call it crimes.

Judge: Along with the occupying forces, the Iraqi government calls you to account for these crimes. As the investigative judge — if there is evidence, then I’ll defer it to a court of jurisdiction.

Hussein: Let me understand something. Who is the defendant? There should be an investigation before any defendant comes to a trial.

Judge: This is not a trial, this is a hearing. This is to hear your charges.

Hussein: Let me clarify this point. Then I hope that you remember you are a judge empowered by the people. It doesn’t really matter whether you convict me or not; that’s not what’s important. But what is important is that you remember that you’re a judge. Don’t mention anything about occupying forces. This is not good.
You mention the people. Then that’s good. Then judge in the name of the people. This is the Dubjaeen way.

Judge: Mr. Hussein, this is a declarative process before you stand trial.

Hussein: From the legal standpoint, you were notified that I have lawyers, right? Am I not supposed to meet with the lawyers before I come before you?

Judge: Let’s finish the formalities and I’ll come to that. Then if you wait, you will see that you have rights that are guaranteed.

Hussein: Tayyab…go ahead.

Judge: According to the law, Mr. Hussein, the head judge has to give the defendant the charges that are levied against him. And then read the rights of all the charges according to the law, Articles 123, 124 and 125. The first step is these articles. Were they not signed by Hussein Hussein? Yes, this is the law that was in ‘73. So then Hussein Hussein was representing the leadership and signed that law. So now we are using the law that Hussein signed against Hussein.

Hussein: Please, the constitution mechanism — I’m not a lawyer but I understand — I am originally a man of law. Is it allowed to call a president elected by the people and charge him according to a law that was enacted under his will and the will of the people? There is some contradiction, no?

Judge: The judicial process — let me answer this clarification — first, I’m not deliberating a case against you, I’m investigating, interrogating you. Second, the president is a profession, is a position. He is a deputy of the society. That’s true. And originally, inherently, he’s a citizen. And any citizen, according to the law in the constitution, that violates a law has to come before the law. And that law you know more than I do. (Pause) So the crimes, the charges, how do you answer them?

Hussein: No.

Judge: You have the right to answer and defend. These are the guarantees, but you must reply guilty or not guilty.

Hussein: Not guilty.

Judge: Now we come to an important matter. You will have heard the court read the crimes that you’re charged—or were attributed to the accused, Hussein Hussein. And you were told the articles of the law that apply to those cases. And the court has read to you the rights and the guarantees that any accused is entitled to, which includes the rights of defense and representation and also the right not to answer any question asked, and that will never be used as an evidence against the accused. And the court also presented to the accused the right to argue the evidence. The accused requested to meet with defense lawyers, his private defense lawyers, to be present with him in the investigative sessions. And in light of that, the minutes were concluded and the investigation is postponed. (Strikes his gavel)


Scene 2

Judge: Good morning, Mr. Hussein. I trust you had ample time to consult with your lawyers.

Hussein: Yes, but I will not allow them to speak for me.

Judge: They are not required to speak on your behalf.

Hussein: No, they are not required and they will not do so. But let me ask you; is it right that a defendant should be brought before his accusers in chains? Am I a common criminal? I am innocent until proven guilty, right? Right. So, there is no reason I should be shackled like a despicable thief. Go ahead, have your trial, convict me for being a leader of the Dubjaeen people, but a man who only stands accused should not be treated like a convicted criminal. Any basic law book can tell you that. Where did you attend law school? America?

Judge: That is quite enough, Mr. Hussein. I will be asking the questions here.

Hussein: Are you saying I don’t have the right to defend myself?

Judge: Counselors, I urge you to inform your client that any outburst or personal attack can and will be used as evidence against him. Now, to the trial.

Hussein: One moment, one moment. (he whispers to lawyer 1)

Lawyer 1: Your honor, the defendant would like to know whether he will be sworn in.

Judge: We’re getting to that counselor.

Hussein: Ah-hem… (he whispers to lawyer 1)

Lawyer 1: Your honor, the defendant would like to know whether he will be sworn in over the Koran or over the Bible.

Judge: (obviously annoyed) Counselor, we will follow the guidelines set forth in the Dubjaeen constitution, which requires any defendant to be sworn in over a copy of the Koran. Now, if there are no further questions about procedures that will reveal themselves as we proceed, I’d like to begin.

Hussein: ah, ah, ah-hem…(he whispers to lawyer 1)

Lawyer 1: Defense requests, your honor, a glass of water.

Judge: Counselor, there is a pitcher of water on the table in front of you.

Lawyer 2: This water is not cold, your honor. (Hussein whispers in his ear) Also, the defense requests a box of chocolate chip cookies.

Judge: Mr. Hussein, first you demand that your lawyers will not speak on your behalf, then you delay our proceedings with inane requests spoken by your lawyers on your behalf. I am warning you, if you persist with this behavior, I will be forced to charge you in contempt of court.

Hussein looks concerned at this and whispers among his lawyers. They nod in affirmation of the judge’s words. Discouraged, Hussein smoothes his suit out and takes a seat.

Judge: Thank you. Now, if we may begin. Bailiff.

Bailiff: (stepping forward and holding out a copy of the Koran) Do you swear to God?

Hussein: (standing and placing his hand on the Koran) I swear to God.

Bailiff: Thanks.

Room to Grow by Hollis Ball

Are we holding firm to air?
(How it comes and goes)
Are we overburdened with our cares?
Now it sometimes shows
us the lines, the mirror 'gainst the wall,
on the face that tells all the stories
of past woes and foregone glories,
But is mere flesh after all
and will sag and droop and fall
from these bones
right along with everything we've ever thought we've known
into the depths of the Earth -
But she, too, cannot last.
The Sun will swallow her whole
from north to southern pole
and burn out like the embers of dying coals
when that lamp has gotten all too old
and this spot, this dot in the Milky Way
will no longer have night or day,
but shall surely fade away
in the great silence of speeding space.

But they say
(and I think it comfort to believe)
that life is likely hidden in another place
in that vast, eternal space -
in that black and blessed dark
where bodies move without will or art
and things hurtle on in their mutable sleep
weaving our dreams in that boundless deep.

A Good Day with Baba and Me by Hollis Ball

Baba and I are going to the market today, as usual. We take our newly-made baskets. Some we sell to the fruit vendors. Some we trade for food. We also collect scraps from used baskets. I carry all these in a sack I throw across my back.

“Let’s go, my boy,” Baba says. I fold up my mat and put it in the corner, put my ship-ships on. Mama gives me a cactus-fruit, my breakfast. I grab my cloth sack off of my great-grandfather’s stone sarcophagus and Baba unbolts the door. The sun is bright when we step out of the tomb. A cat darts across our path, chased by a boy, smaller than me, wielding a long stick. Mr. Helmy is waiting on his daughter to get back from the market. He’s seated outside his family’s tomb and waves as we pass. I smile and he shows me his toothless grin.

When we pass by the mosque (of Qait Bey) that sits in the middle of the City of the Dead, there are some tourists. They have their cameras out and are talking to some other kids. One of these kids is my friend Omar. He speaks good English. Omar is always able to get something out of the foreigners. Money, candy, trinkets. And when they don’t offer, he takes it, unnoticed. Omar sees us passing by and he runs up beside me.

“Going to the market?”

“Yep.”

“Look at this!” He shows me a twenty-dollar bill, his bushy eyebrows raised. I reach out to touch it. He quickly snatches it out of sight. “I don’t think so, Fizo. This baby is all mine.”
“You should give that to your poor mother,” Baba says.

“Yes sir,” Omar quickly spurts, rolling his eyes, then runs off. Baba and I leave the neighborhood and cross under the freeway bridge. Even there, the traffic is dense. Baba has a hard time with the curbs, because of his leg. He broke it when he fell making our palm roof. We couldn’t pay for a doctor, so Mr. Helmy helped Baba straighten it. They used our basket wood and yarn to make a splint. I think they did a good job. He was walking again after only a week.

We reach the market after a few more kilometers and Baba sends me to last week’s buyers. From these, I collect the scraps of broken baskets. While I’m doing this, Baba goes around with his sample basket. He offers it to any new vendors and tells them he can bring them as many as they want the same day. Sometimes, the vendors show up with their trucks by our front door. Baba doesn’t like this though. One time a vendor showed up before me and Baba got back. He harassed Mama, saying her husband was a cheat and he wanted his money’s worth, one way or another. I don’t know hat the man did to Mama. When we got back, she was huddled into the corner on her mat. Whatever it was really changed Mama. She made Baba get her an all-black burka, and now she wears it anytime she leaves home. Baba changed, too. Whenever we leave the market after mahgrib prayers, he races all the way home. Even with his bad leg, I have trouble keeping up with him.

When I finish my rounds, I go over to the fountain at Al Hussein mosque and get some water. It’s cold and refreshing. I rinse and eat the cucumber one of the vendors offered me as a tip, my lunch. Though it’s small, it feels good in my grumbling stomach. I look around. Baba’s supposed to meet me here. I sit on the steps, put my bag of scraps behind me. I lean on it, and re-arrange the thin pieces of wood until it feels pretty soft. I decide to lay down, using the half-full sack as a pillow. Before closing my eyes, I ask a man going into the mosque for the time. It’s 3:30, still a couple of hours to go before mahgrib. Exhausted from the day’s work, I doze off pretty quickly.

When I wake up, I’m in a strange place that reminds me of home. Omar Khairat is playing the background, and I’m dressed in fine clothes. For some reason I feel like dancing, so I do. I see Mama dancing, too. And Baba. We’re all three dancing; all three wearing bright, colorful clothes. First alone, then together, like there’s some kind of unseen force turning us and pulling us toward and around each other. The music increases in tempo and it starts to rain. All the dirt beneath our feet is washed away. The walls around us fall down and suddenly grass springs up beneath our feet. The sun is obscured by fluffy white clouds, and the rain has stopped. Baba lifts me up and he and Mama are dancing with me. We’re moving in slow motion now. The whole world is spinning around us. I look at Baba, feeling small in his strong arms. The smile on his face is big enough to see white teeth through a freshly trimmed beard. When I look at Mama, I see her beautiful face smiling back at me, her hair flowing in raven locks in the light breeze as we turn and turn. She’s smiling and she’s laughing. We’re all laughing. Then we fall on the soft, bright green grass. Baba kisses ma on the head and pulls Mama close until there’s no space between us.

Then, somewhere in the distance, I hear the call to prayer. I sit up and look around for the mosque, but I’m laying down in the grass again. No, it not grass, it’s the floor. I’m at the mosque already. The call to prayer…what time is it?

I’m awake with the realization that the mahgrib is sounding. I sit up, searching for Baba. I rub my eyes. No sign of him anywhere. He’s late. Then I see him coming toward the mosque. He spots me. “Yalla!” he says. I hop up quickly, almost forgetting my bag. “O son, what a great day for us! I sold all of our baskets, as well as the extra ones we’ve been storing at Mr. Helmy’s for three months!”

“That’s great, Baba!”

"Come on, now. We’ve got to hurry. Three men are on their way to our place soon.” He’s worried about Mama. But I don’t think she’ll unbolt the door for anyone but Baba and me. Not anymore.

We reach the underpass and Baba is dragging me. My sack is bouncing uncomfortably on my shoulder. He stops abruptly at the curb. Cars are zooming by, horns blaring. We start and stop a few times, then make a run for it. I’m running, Baba’s hopping, though he’s faster than me. He stumbles a little and I run past him, carried by the weight of my sack. I think I hear a horn and look back to where the sound is coming from and see a car stopped, Baba in front, splayed out on the road. His eyes are not open.

“Baba!” I panic and start screaming like an infant. “Baba!” I rush over to him and he’s completely still. His head is bleeding. I’m soon surrounded by a crowd of people and vehicles. “Baba! Get up! Babaaaa!” I scream uncontrollably. I pound on his chest. “Baaabaaa!” Then, like a miracle, his eyes flutter and open. His eyes dart around and fall on me.

“Fizo…where am I?”

“Oh, Baba, you’re okay! You’re in the street, Baba. You were hit by a car,” I say. He shakes his head, wipes the blood and looks at the red smear on his palm.

“What time is it?”

“What?”

“What time is it, son?”

“Six o’clock,” say several voices from the crowd that had gathered to offer any help they could. Baba tells me to help him up. I try, and some of the men help. He wipes his head with a cloth from the driver.

“Thank you,” he says with a laugh. Then to me, “It’s a good thing we slowed down traffic, but we’ve got to get home right away.”

“Are you sure, Baba?”

“Am I sure? This is your father speaking, my son. No bump on the head is going to slow me down. Yalla!” So we take off again. Some of the crowd follow us for a while. A few offer to take Baba to the hospital. He tells them he’s fine, and we’re soon on our own again. As we’re getting closer to home, Baba’s running out of energy. His face is white. I don’t know if it’s the accident or his concern for Mama. I do what I cAN to support him on my shoulder. When we reach the family tomb, the door is open. A thousand dark images go through my mind. “No,” Baba says in a kind of whisper. “God, no.” I’m too afraid to follow Baba. He leaves me standing in the dirt outside. My sack falls off my shoulder and I just stand there as he limps through the open door.
Minutes pass. I’m frozen staring at the door. Seeing, but not seeing. My mind drifts off to another time and place. An open field, the three of us dancing…


Baba appears in the doorway. “Son. You better come inside,” I hear him say. I walk up slowly, dread increasing with every step. The blackness of the doorway grows, then lightens as my eyes adjust to the scene inside. I see Baba, Mama, and Mr. helmy. Mama is seated on the floor counting bills.

“One-hundred ninety-nine…two hundred!” she announces with joy. “Oh Mahmoud, that’s wonderful! What a great day!”

“Mama, Mr. Helmy, Fizo,” Papa says slowly and importantly, “tonight we feast!”

Good Fruit

Positive Contact


I was holding a kiwi
And the fuzzy skin tickled me, naked
Was my hand in the touching

I thought that the fruit
Was talking to me through its hair
That is there for reasons I can’t fathom

I spun the mini melon around through my digits
And it seemed to ripen my awareness
Of its texture, it

seemed to elaborate on a thesis of contact
Through my arm’s handle, like together
We were writing a silent conversation.

The fertile instant lasted longer than I had expected
And our talk progressed to more affirmative topics,
Such as mice and cheese and motivations,

And further on to less pressing matters such as
Whale songs at dawn, and dolphin dance moves—
This kiwi stroked me as being very bizarre, yet

We continued our chat longer, a while.
And in that time, during our nonverbal colloquy
It occurred that the mutual brushing gave way
To impatience

So I set down my juicy friend
Plucked up a blade and cut, sliced
The guy open—

He didn’t protest for he knew that
His nourishment for me extended beyond
Mere talk and embrace.

So we faced this fate together
And I ate his green meat
And we both reached our destiny in this way.

Fertile Chaos = Flaming Imagination

Be Still

The rooms of my heart sigh,
Cry in songs
Of the possibilities—
The nails that remain who
Once held paintings of oil
And water,
Scenes of sunlight captured
In boats and on mountaintops

The rooms of my mind wonder
And whine,
Echoes bouncing in place—
Stacks of books line the walls
Volumes taking up space,
Stories not to be read again,
Dreams are dead tree pages

The rooms of my soul clothe
And dress in furniture,
Are lined in soft carpets green
And crimson—
No feet shall touch the patterns
Again,
No bodies share the shapes,
No more spirit within

The rooms of my sun burn,
Char the necessity
That lit the fire initially—
Central heat consumes
And turns to ash the missing pictures,
Absent matter still blazes
And life is lost energy

The rooms of my darkness retract
And implode, a
Vanishing act of location—
Hidden corners flicker still
Hard to see
The tiny flame in the void,
The viable spark of what could still be –
come

Newly found from last year

Personal Easement

Huddled into my robe—
An ochre room of warmth
For my body—
I sit up lie down

On my thoughts
On my couch—
A real estate of cool
In the soughing rain breeze

City outside in the rain
Awake
In the dark dripping
Instants of night

Me in my leveled flat
Awake
And away from my bed—
A spot lacking easement
Towards sleep

A cornerstone of echoes
From a blacker deepness—

Echoes of the coming day
Splash out from each
Drop of rain
And I ask:

“Why does my couch
Like me more
Than my bed?”

Inspired by Robert Bly

Addiction

We love this body that is our house,
Love the juice we pour into it, the nectar
Drawn from ripe strawberries in the field,
From orchard peaches and apples borrowed from a neighbor

We love this tomb that is our darkness,
Love the walls we beat with our hands,
The boards we paint in hues of pomegranate
With the blood of our days and nights, when
We danced alone to forget or remember
The sights of our past

We love this light that is our vision,
Love the flame that tickles our eyes,
The hermetic campfire songs we breathe,
Only to have them leave and soar the skies
Finding quicksilver lanes to the moon

We love life,
Love breathing and going inside when we can see
Our breath in the gelid air
Of an early February morning.
The budless tree, the migrating geese, the huddled branches
Remind us that incarnation is addictive,
That we’ve forgotten to dance.

Dealing with Feelings

I usually don't write stuff like this (or at least I think I don't), but this one just started coming out, so I let it keep coming...




Being Lost and Found

You want to find the street that calls your name,
To lose the sense of being lost within
The dermis maze of heat and fear and blame,
But street lights dimly offer welcomed help


You look for signposts hidden in the dark,
Some beacon signals calling out in words
And names and sounds which ring in tones that spark
A memory image clear as sapphire water


You see the carbon copy of the thought,
And hear the mica tingling of a stone
That stimulates the breaking of the sought
From isolated objects that you seek


You peer into a shallow fluid face,
A pond of blue and black, of cold and wet,
Attend the gaze you see as made of ice,
Of frozen water, white and grave and flat


You taste the arctic breath as not your own,
As hints of frigid angst against your tongue
That nip and stiffen skin and hair and toes,
But fin’lly fan the flames in native hearth


The images become the sounds again
And melt the floes of pain that float across
The sea; the ringing bells that answer, “When
You reach the shore, stop swimming—I’m here,
And have always been.”

Pantheism in America

Writing in 1835 after a nine-month trip to the U.S., Alexis de Tocqueville was critical of some of the potential abuses of the American government. His first volume of Democracy in America did a lot to describe and record the ideas of the founding fathers in French, then in English. This excerpt is from the second volume, which is more sociological in nature. It is the majority of a two-page chapter titled “On the Cause of a Leaning to Pantheism amongst Democratic Nations.”

Is there a leaning toward pantheism in American literature or philosophy? Closer to Tocqueville’s time, there was Whitman. He was something of a pantheist. The last sentence of the chapter lets us know just how much of a romantic Tocqueville was. I respect his ideas, but I think he’s a little off the mark in including America's historical thinkers in pantheism. However, I think it's far more relevant today, and I was struck by the accuracy with which Tocqueville describes some of my own ideals.

…It cannot be denied that pantheism has made great progress in our age. The writings of a part of Europe bear visible marks of it: the Germans introduce it into philosophy, and the French into literature…This appears to me not only to proceed from an accidental, but from a permanent cause.
When the conditions of society are becoming more equal, and each individual man becomes more like all the rest, more weak and more insignificant, a habit grows up of ceasing to notice the citizens to consider only the people, and of overlooking individuals to think only of their kind. At such times the human mind seeks to embrace a multitude of different objects at once; and it constantly strives to succeed in connecting a variety of consequences with a single cause. The idea of unity so possesses itself of man, and is sought for by him so universally, that if he thinks he has found it, he readily yields himself up to repose it that belief. Nor does he content himself with the discovery that nothing is in the world but a creation and a Creator; still embarrassed by this primary division of things, he seeks to expand and to simplify his conception by including God and the universe in one great whole. If there be a philosophical system which teaches that all things material and immaterial, visible and invisible, which the world contains, are only to be considered as the several parts of an immense Being, which alone remains unchanged amidst the continual change and ceaseless transformation of all that constitutes it, we may readily infer that such a system, although it destroy the individuality of man – nay, rather because it destroys that individuality – will have secret charms for men living in democracies. All their habits of thought prepare them to conceive it, and predispose them to adopt it. It naturally attracts and fixes their imagination; it fosters the pride, whilst it soothes the indolence, of their minds. Amongst the different systems by whose aid philosophy endeavors to explain the universe, I believe pantheism to be one of those most fitted to seduce the human mind in democratic ages. Against it all who abide in their attachment to the true greatness of man should struggle and combine.

Story 1

Well, I figured I would get things going here. This is my first summer post. The first time Ghada and I ever went out, she told me of the 'stipulation' I faced as a non-Muslim getting involved with a Shalash girl. In this story, Lawrence is in a similar situation. Also, I couldn't keep Hesham out of this story. He keeps making cameos in my stories set here in Egypt. I guess he's a compelling character. He's also been a fixture in my life since the very beginning here. The other characters are composites, I suppose. So this is the first. I want to read yours, and I want your feedback. I expect to put more over the next couple of months, so check back regularly.

Space for Prayers

Lawrence had known Ahmed for one year before the wiry cab-driver asked him to pray with him. Ahmed had his doubts, well-founded doubts, about Lawrence’s reasons for considering conversion. After all, Lawrence had explained it was only upon the insistence of his fiancée’s father that Lawrence might chose to visit an emam, might complete the requisite paperwork, might swear his belief before officials. Yasmin’s father was a stern man, a businessman who had made a name for himself in recruiting. Through his own efforts and decades of hard work, he had managed to provide for a considerable family of four girls, two boys, and his adoring wife. He was a peaceful but determined man, one used to getting what he wanted.

“I will not permit my grandchildren to be raised ignorant of their heritage,” he had said.

Lawrence respected Mohamed’s conservative stance. “Neither do I.” He had hesitated briefly. Then, “but what do some signatures on a document have to do with it?”

“No, no. The paper is not important. This is part of our…our tradition, ehh…customs. If my daughter is to marry a man, he must be, ehh… accepting to that.”

Biting his lower lip and summoning all his patience, rather than giving in to his impulse to fire a recriminatory remark about the mere symbolic nature of ritual, Lawrence had tentatively assented. He and Yasmin had also discussed it, talking on the phone as he drove home in the dense nighttime traffic of Nasr City.

“Look, Yasmin, I don’t want to sound like a jerk, but your father is living a century and a half in the past.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He’s following the rules of a…a desert tribesman, his namesake, who, okay, he civilized an entire region, but he had delusions of hegemony!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Baba just wants to be sure I’m taken care of.”

“That’s not what he said.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he wants his grandchildren to be raised in the traditions he was raised in.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“I mean, that’s not all he meant. He wants me to be Muslim so they’ll be Muslim.”

“Larry, we’ve talked about this. You knew from the beginning.”

A motorcycle loaded down with masonry tools careened towards the car. Lawrence laid into his horn. “Idiot!”

“What?”

“Nothing…not you. Okay, so I knew. I knew. But it’s not just that. It’s his expectation. He expects our kids, if we do indeed have kids, to be raised within the confines of the religion. I’ll not limit them to one world view. Particularly not one so…archaic.”

“Whatever, Larry, you know I’m not like him. I mean, I love Baba, but he’s a little old-fashioned sometimes. And don’t get me wrong, I believe in pretty much everything he believes in. He never asked that I put on the veil…my sisters either; he’s always loved us unconditionally, always made sure our needs were met, always supported us in anything we did…I think he just wants what’s best for me. For us.”

Lawrence pulled into a gas station and yanked up the parking brake. He looked over in the seat beside him. The Qur’an that Ahmed had given him rested firmly in the passenger seat. “Yeah…I know. He’s your father; I can’t blame him for that. Just promise me you won’t have an aneurysm if you see our child with more than one book in his…or her… hands. They’re going to read whatever they want.”

“Funny. Of course, I won’t. I can’t expect to marry the son of two teachers and have a child who doesn’t read. Right?”

………………………………………….


Soon, Lawrence would legally be Ahmed’s brother. At least that’s the way Ahmed saw it.

“Congratulations,” Ahmed said with a bright smile, leaning in to kiss Lawrence on his right, then his left cheek. Ahmed knew the marriage would now have the blessing of Yasmin’s father, though it was Lawrence’s conversion he was commending. From dozens of Ahmed’s previous didactic but genuine rants, Lawrence knew this and warmly smiled at his brotherly sentiment across the threshold.

“Ready to go?”

“Sure, let me grab my keys.”

Ahmed had come to drive them both to the mosque. Lawrence had offered to meet him there, but Ahmed had insisted upon driving them both.

“TGIF,” said Lawrence with a wry smile, once they got on the international highway.

“Ehh?” Ahmed squinted, cocking his head to the side. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“It’s an acronym; the first letter of each word of the saying ‘Thank God it’s Friday’.”

“Hah, hah! TGIF! Great, my friend. Yes, TGIF.”

The yellow sun was high in the blue-grey sky while here and there about the black-and-white cab, beamers and Mazdas galloped along. Lawrence rolled down his window, taking in the barely detectable essences of flora in bloom along the international road. Springtime had come with only one sandstorm this year, a mild season, Yasmin had assured him. They saw no city buses coughing up their bilious black smoke, no rickety, wooden carts stacked high with watermelons, oranges, or apples dutifully pulled along by decrepit donkeys. They didn’t hear the sometimes sonorous, but mostly unnerving honking of neighborhood wedding parties as they drove through the streets sounding out that familiar rhythm of two long honks following by three successive staccato ones: beeeep, beeeep, beep, beep, beep.

What they could see, what they could hear, could only be seen and only be heard on Fridays in Cairo: empty streets and the noon call to prayer.

The car came to a halt and Lawrence was snapped out of his reverie.

“Yalla, my friend?”

“Yeah, sure. Let’s go.”

As they climbed the stairs to the Sultan Hassan mosque, the megaphone-shaped speakers atop the towering minarets sounded the takbeer, reminding the faithful that God is great. After dropping their shoes with the elderly man at the entrance, Ahmed and Lawrence entered the hallowed sanctuary.

“This was the first madrassa ever to teach all four sects of Islam,” Ahmed, who had paid for his son’s private school by working as a tour guide, announced.

Lawrence marveled at the soaring, domed ceilings and the massive middle age stones stacked in solidarity. They were like the will of his future in-laws, towards whom Lawrence could not help feeling a little hostile, a little injured. If it weren’t for their rigid prejudice, he would have made more productive use of his time. His IT work with Egyptian businesses was physically taxing; he needed to take full advantage of every moment of leisure time. He would have joined that squash league the guys at the office always talked about, he would have picked up his Arabic study more vigorously, have done more pleasure reading. Instead, he had been studying the religion he had legally adopted. The conversion had to mean something more than a free pass to marry a Muslim girl. He raised a belief in the message from its conception, through infancy, and into its adolescence. Then the idea, the faith, stopped maturing. He felt rebellious and mistrustful of the religion. He had studied some Qur’an; these stories struck a chord of familiarity within his long-stoic heart. They whispered faint and suspicious tunes from his church-going youth. He respected a small body of what he supposed to be the teachings of Jesus and entertained the idea that he could accept the teachings of Mohamed, but these texts, these gathered fragments were interlaced with commandments that made him wary with their threatening, authoritarian tone. He was thrust back into his boyhood nightmares, in which he had imagined a Hell worse that the Sunday school teacher had ever described.

Before he left home, he would often argue with his parents about the damage they had done by subjecting him to such mental anguish. If an earthly father tormented his children with fire and, say, molten lead, he would be imprisoned; yet a heavenly father does so with impunity?! Has He no conscience? Is there no oversight? No checks to His power? This God, The God of the Old Testament, Abraham’s God, was a tyrant. No, he had long ago rejected God as a celestial king with a subterranean dungeon for disobedient subjects.

Ahmed led Lawrence to the fountain in the center of the main prayer hall of the mosque, then began to remove his socks. The fountain was a ring of spigots in two neat rows, the top for the hands and face and the bottom for the feet. Lawrence crept up barefoot, rolling up his pants in imitation of Ahmed.

Speaking low tones, Ahmed instructed, “wash your face three times, the top and the bottom.”

“Okay. Where’s the soap?”

Ahmed studied him quizzically. Then he raised his bushy eyebrows, his big brown eyes looking to the side and said kindly, “no, you don’t need soap. Water only, my friend.”

“Oh.”

Lawrence began to wash his face. The water was cold and smelled of new-turned earth. It rolled off his comparatively slight blonde eyebrows. He splashed a second cupped dose of the fountain to his face. The water doused his dry cheeks and nose. When the third splash kissed his eyes, lips, and chin, he tilted his head upward, pulled back the veils of his eyes, and gazed into the space shaped by the great dome above. The space seemed to enter him, to penetrate him, and to expand. He felt the breath linger in his lungs, stretching him from within, and he was lost in that temporary moment of stillness between beats. It filled him with the nothingness of a starless night sky, its emptiness obliterating him.

Trance-like, following Ahmed’s lead, he thrice washed his ears and neck, thrice his feet. Then, cradling the space before him as a gentle infant, he rocked it back and forth as the earthy water ran over his fingers, palms, and arms. Dripping like a spring vegetable after the rain, he looked to his right where Ahmed was flinging water from his hands. “Now, my friend, we pray.”

Lawrence wiped his hands on his jeans, took a deep breath, and once again looked to the space above. He then turned to Ahmed and nodded his consent.

Surprisingly, the main hall was not crowded. Lawrence and Ahmed tread across the carpet to the front of the prayer hall where the emam, dressed in a long black galabaya, was reciting the first lines of the opening verse of the Qur’an. The incantation brought the men scattered about the hall together, and the disparate bodies thronged to complete the row Ahmed and Lawrence had created behind the emam. Others made parallel rows before and behind theirs, like an army, Lawrence thought. The previously silent stone surrounding them echoed the chorus of whispering voices as they intoned, “In the name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful…” Standing there among the assembly, Lawrence looked to his left and right. He saw some beards, not much longer than his own, some cleanly shaven faces, and a plentitude of mustachioed men. Some were dressed in the traditional galabaya, while others, like Ahmed, were wearing jeans and long-sleeve shirts. Every head was bowed in solemnity. Lawrence closed his eyes and listened to the poetry of the Mohammedans.

At the end of the second verse chosen by the emam, he felt a tugging on his sleeve. He opened his eyes to see the men bent over beside and in front of him. No sooner had he bent over than the others were rising to full posture again. He sprung up, then down to his knees for a second time with the multitude. Placing his head to the ground, Lawrence breathed carpet, infused with the rank, but intoxicating scent of human toil, the smell of sweat, of scores of generations who had trod, had prayed, had whispered their silent wishes into space. He breathed and lifted his head, as did the others, to a kneeling position. They bowed again. Now, Lawrence paused. Closed eyes. Feeling the stillness. Of slow breath. He breathed. He filled the dark and undefined emptiness with one word. It was a word he had heard uttered more times than any other by the Muslims with whom he lived and worked. “Salaam,” he whispered. “Salaam,” he mouthed again with finality.

………………………………………….

As the emam sounded the final God is great, Lawrence rose to kneeling and breathed deeply the tranquil air. He heard the faint mumbling of other prayers all about him, looked to see Ahmed silently pronouncing his own requests, his eyes closed tightly, his face intent. With the group, this time in perfect harmony, Lawrence then wished peace to his right and his left, hearing the words of his own mantra repeated by all in the assembly. He remembered Yasmin. Her father. These, too, were prayers.

A Writing Regimen for the New Year

Guildensterns,

The title above links to Florida State University's literary magazine's writing regimen, beginning September 15. That's just in time to give us something to do in those long Ramadan afternoons. Writing is a form a prayer, of meditation, I believe. In that light, we could 'pray without ceasing' for the whole month. The spirit of Ramadan is self-discipline. This would require us to channel that spirit.

You can check out the details of the program for yourself, but essentially it's daily writing, reading, and podcasts. And it's cheap.

Call for Writing

This post is to all Guild members:

Make a new post within the next month; give us all something to read over the summer!

peace,

HB

Lex is on a roll!

I Almost Seem

Wild melodies sing along
the veins of my blood;
I can almost reach them
if I try

Layered stones in the hearth
hold the ashes
not wanting to let them go,
or sigh at the loss of flame

I sit and I wonder
if the songs of my youth
still smolder

I seem to hear them
in the distance

Of my still beating heart

Night Light II

O, lucid crow
in the lucent glow
of my neighbors incandescent light,
you stir a fear of my passage here
when I see you coalescent nights.

My spirit roams
through darker youth
(told by ancient myths and gnostic tales)
of man akin to his murd'rous sin
represented in your image pale.

Yet I see you black,
the moon unwax'd,
Damned porchlight defiant of nature.

Refulgent bird
on a wiry perch,
would the sky were my only aperture!

Yet these fires sear my bristles,
these lamps lucubrate and fume,

and all humanity assays to light
the darkest days of doom.


Thanks, Lex

Lex is back on the Guild!

Again, “Home…”

Exchanging whispers with an old pillow,
caresses
with a still youthful mattress
I dream of vacations
away from the revisable revenants
of my life

The teapot greets my morning,
its flambent handle
ignites into alacrity
my slumberous feet
as they tend
to wend back into bed

In the mug swirl shadows
of unforgotten fevers,
shapes of unlost damage;
corrective need mixes the blend into
a mending elixir of similarity
resembling haler days

My friends, wooden chairs
and glass-top surfaces,
grant the space
for my appliances of healing:
like shears for trimming
anger’s beard
and clippers
for paring the nails of fear

Still dreaming, familiar chairs
lend supporting legs for burdens
past; no,
for employed grievances
let go,
and later re-hired

Opening reminiscent doors,
hands conversing with handles,
unstraying fingers
embracing entryway latches
like they themselves
could impart
the ingredients of dreams

Night Light

The lucid crow in the translucent glow
of my neighbor's incandescent light
stirs in me a fear of things to be
when I see her perched there solemn nights.

My mind races through the darkest pages
of ancient myths and hand-me-down tales
as I scan - the horizon of the land
interrupted by this image pale.

Still, she's blue in the moon gone new
a picture defiant of nature
a mere shade that would permanantly fade
if the sky were my only aperture.

Yet these candles glow, and these lamps burn on
showing the shadows of our doom.
How much light do we need to see
the darkest days illume?

The Feats of Strength by Lex

In the times of yore, ‘tween the hills of yonder and ‘tiwxt the days of yesteryear…there lived a man and a woman, together. These two people inhabited a region of the Earth to this day still unknown to all who hear or tell this tale. And yet they lived, together.

Of the woman it must be said that she was rather beastly in appearance and stature. Her arms were akin to hewn trunks of prodigious oak; her legs analogous to the mighty, chiseled crags that surrounded the province of their demesne. Her face reflected a gaunt yet haughty gruffness. Everywhere grew hair of the darkest and most stringent sienna. She had to shave in the most unspeakable of places (as well as in those of which may be openly spoken) no less than two times per day so as not to be mistaken for the ‘man’ of the household.

Now of the man it may be said that he represented a stinginess of striation and bone. Though he ate prolifically of all the fodder that the woman produced for him (of which separate legends are known), he nonetheless managed to remain a complete lankard of somewhat less than complete height and breadth. It is said that he looked like a dwarf with the girth of a malnourished elf. Though the man was intensely insecure about this juxtaposition, he nevertheless maintained his role in the house as its head. (Admittedly, this arrangement spoke more of the woman than the man; but she dared not speak of it for fear of persecution from the neighboring folk.)

Once a year—on one day of that period of time then known as “the white climes”—the man was allowed to command the woman to produce a feed worthy of human consumption—a meal fit for an actual person. The man waited, secretly and impatiently, all year for this day. While he grubbed and munched at the dry horridness that the woman oft procured for him, he would dream of the one day on which HE could choose what to feed upon. As the years wore on, the man’s commands for food on this day became increasingly demanding and taxing for the woman to prepare.

Each year the woman’s desire to maintain the traditional arrangement between herself and the man eroded slightly. Her fear of an unknown (and at that time unknowable) persecution weakened in her. It emasculated (as it were) the fear that held her in position.
And so on one of the days during “the white climes” when the woman was out bare-handedly toiling and tussling to wrestle a feral mountain oryx to the ground (for that is the beast that the man wished to feast upon this particular year), she received an ominous and altogether preposterously presented message. Once bested and pinned beneath her, the feral mountain oryx spoke thusly:
“Most unfair woman, what manner of motivation drives you to wrangle with me and yourself so? You seek to please a man whom you could squash ten of whilst keeping me restrained upon the icy Earth. Cease this foolishness within and without yourself. Take me to the man. Make of him a bargain. If he may affect feats of strength sufficient to pin me in the manner you have managed, he may command of you each day the same task that you allow him on this one—though admittedly, you would starve within hours if this were the case. Be that as it may—if not, may the roles be forever reversed, and may the sturdy and hairy one be forever known as the ‘man’ of the house.”

The woman agreed without thought or hesitation; she bound the creature and dragged its manifest ferocity back to the abode which she shared with the man. Upon gaining sight of them, the man rose to spout obscenities at the woman for the inordinate amount of time she spent collecting his trophy meal. When she dropped the flailing mountain oryx onto the ground before him, still violently wrangling to set itself free, the man was aghast at what she had done. The fact that it was still alive was itself enough for the man to become enraged. But upon hearing the bargain most unflinchingly offered by the woman, his ire became hardened and turned to stone.
His rocky resolve forced him to try his hand at besting the beast. But his feats of strength were pathetic. He was killed instantly and violently.

Exactly what became of the woman is not truly known. And yet the story survived. It has been rumored that the woman is betimes seen in a deep thicket of woods and forest not oft encountered by the ‘civilized’. Of course, this particular legend has been monumentally difficult to substantiate. All that is known are the tales of a hairy beast that walks on two legs…
Though this tale is long and ludicrous, it has amazingly been the cornerstone of a long held tradition: The Feats of Strength. This tradition has seen many manifestations over the years, has undergone many mutations to reach us in this time. It is still honored once a year in the period that was once known as “the white climes”, but which is better known today as “winter”. Once a year, family members, friends and/or acquaintances try their hand at besting…something, either each other, or, in purist circles, still feral mountain oryxes (wherever they may still be found).

Being non-traditional in nature, and rather violent in origin, The Feats of Strength became most associated over time with a celebration known as Festivus. And thankfully, due to the emergence of this tradition known as Festivus, The Feats of Strength continue to be re-enacted each year by only those who are stout of heart and limb…

Thoughts on the Heart by Lex

Thoughts rest on the heart.
A pump of active passion
it carries the force of joy with
zip along the veins to the core;
quiet chambers fill up with a thrill,
a fervent-found stir in the stillness

Thoughts trace lines on the heart.
Leaves of marks and signs,
fancy paths of footless prints
that tread unbeaten tracks
‘cross sweeps of gold-white shores of snow
from hoof-made trail to
nestled spots of inky loss

Thoughts fashion frames for the heart.
A border for the seat of secrets
they invent the limits for the scenes that
grow up from the film of original likeness;
spectral images drain the rushing tide
‘long the coast of known animation

When thoughts rest on the heart
the heart just strives for rest.

Sweet Rush by Lex

The wall draws the heat
from the surface
upwards

Warm and wet
depressions
collide on the face,
organize

Their waters
band
together
in a latent dance

Above

Earth’s blue
ceiling of liquefied power

The cycle builds and elevates
in pressure
further dividing the partners
in a unified
waltz of condensing speed

Together
the whorls of wind
extend
their rapid movement
across the floor
outwards, and back
up

Unwilling,
unwitting partners
have their hands taken,
yanked into the fray;
they whip together
swing apart,
blow waves across
a coastline graze

Axis of vision acts
as an anchor
for the surge of destruction;
The undefined walls
dissolve;
stillness ripples
in its wake;
cool
descends and remains
a wealth of heat

On Reason and Religion

In much of the Western world, particularly in Britain and the United States, there has been a recent assault on religion. Writers such as Christopher Hitchens, Sam Harris, and Richard Dawkins are asserting with great energy the evils of all religion. This attack comes at this point in history, at least in part, as a reaction to the destruction visited upon Western civilization on September 11, 2001. Men of action, like George W. Bush and Tony Blair, immediately turned their attention toward the Middle East, toward Islam, and toward a society they instantly deemed inferior. Men of reflection, like Hitchens, Harris, and Dawkins turned their attention inward, toward their own society. This led them to consider the human condition as a whole and its relationship with religion. Their resultant, unanimous conclusion is that religion is inherently foul, imparting innumerable woes to mankind, thus it must be abandoned. According to their convergent arguments, religion deprives us of personal freedoms, subverts scientific progress, breeds fanaticism, and blinds us to the suffering of others.

Concerning personal freedoms, we Americans like to think of our society as a beacon of liberty. Less than two weeks after September 11, Bush argued that America was “a country awakened to danger and called to defend freedom.” The current American regime also claimed it was out to “defend freedom” by preemptively attacking Iraq. All subterfuge aside, over 1 million mothers and fathers are willing to send their sons to die for this presumed value of freedom. We accept its defense as justification for atrocities. Apparently, we hold it very dear. In what way, then, does religion inhibit this freedom?

First, it’s helpful to acknowledge that we derive many of our ideas about sexuality and the reproductive process from religion. The vast majority of churches and mosques reject homosexuals. They are deemed sinful targets of the wrath of God, ala the original Sodomites (the charge of “hate crime” has become official in U.S. courts in recent years, applied to homophobic zealots who inflict suffering upon homosexuals.) Further, arguments in favor of the recently debated gay marriage ban in the US often reference the Abrahamic texts: “It was Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.” Concerning heterosexual relations, even in southern Africa where increasing populations are only worsening the blight of starvation, the Catholic Church forbids the use of contraceptives to this day. As Sam Harris points out, Christians “preach against condom use in sub-Saharan Africa while millions die from AIDS there each year.” In 1973 the Supreme Court of the United States judged abortion to be a right. Yet American women seeking to undergo the procedure, legally and legitimately, could face harassment or proselytizing when they visit a known abortionist. With extremists like Eric Rudolph out there, they could also face death. This religiously inspired violence and interdiction is a threat to personal liberty and human rights. Whether we follow a particular religious doctrine or not, the powers that be can sequester the rights of a man or woman to marriage, to family planning, or to life-saving surgery. If we value our rights and the rights of others, we must abandon or alter our attitude towards religious texts and the beliefs they inspire. Religion asks us to impose parochial value systems that contradict our ideas about suffering and happiness. Our holy books, particularly those in the Abrahamic tradition, incite violence. Our religious communities deny life-saving contraception and surgery. Life in the 21st century requires a much more nuanced morality.

According to the atheist perspective, religion stands directly in the way of scientific progress. Controversial issues such as stem-cell research, the reality of global warming, and the teaching of evolution in public schools are all repudiated by the dominant religious cultures. Their mouthpieces in the American bureaucracy, members of the religious right, helped to restrict the present possibility of stem-cell research in the States.* These same members flatly deny the verity of the imminent catastrophe that is global warming. Pointing to the myth of Judgment Day (present in both Christianity and Islam), they support their denial with a literal reading of their texts. Even religious moderates will often abashedly remark that ‘it’s all part of God’s plan.’ To know divine intentions based on readings of a single anthology must be liberating. It seems to free one of all responsibility for the present. The faithful can drive around alone in their SUVs feeling confident that the depletion of the ozone and the melting of the icecaps are predetermined future events and are in no way connected to their present choices. Similarly, Christianity and Islam condition their followers to reject the biological fact of evolution. This fact is not only attested to by the vast, ever-growing fossil record, but is also buttressed by genetic science. Yet it is not taught in many schools throughout the developed world. It is the myth of creation, lifted directly from the earliest religious dogma, which is taught to young, impressionable minds. The brain has evolved to understand more complex and comprehensive explanations of the origin of life, but religious fanaticism discourages the next generation from using its faculties.

When these deluded minds then fall victim to the other uncompromising teachings beneath the religious umbrella, they too begin to practice fanaticism. This obsessive-compulsive behavior can disrupt entire societies. In the heads of powerful men and women, it leads to oppression, destruction, and death. In his biography of the late Catholic matriarch, Hitchens asserts that Mother Teresa helped keep the African poor destitute and subservient. He argues that she was not a friend to the poor, but “a friend of poverty.” Hitchens’ point-of-view was not well-received, yet to think of a woman who spent much of her life living among the poor, consoling them while simultaneously discouraging them from participating in the political process should give us pause. Fanatic Protestants like George W. Bush have proven to be far more dangerous. Turning the struggle to control the world’s resources into a war of good versus evil, he has invoked a kind of divine right to war. Admittedly, he doesn’t read, so his religious notions aren’t drawn directly from religious texts, but probably are gleaned from a presentation of these values comparable to Christianity for Dummies. Among fanatics in Islam, I only need mention Osama bin Laden. There are also zealots throughout the Middle East who use their power through more public spheres, labeling ideas and actions as “forbidden” and passing laws that require citizens to comply with their interpretation of the Qur’an.

The conformity, violence, and ignorance supported by many religions no doubt add up to a great sum of overall suffering. Men and women lose their human rights and die undeserved deaths. Are we to ignore our own morality, our own sense of social justice? Paul and Mohammed were writing for a different audience in a different time. A sense of history and knowledge of other, diverse cultures can only inform morality. We must change our attitude toward religion and its texts. It is time we treated the Bible, the Qur’an, and similar revered writings as we do the writings of Socrates, Machiavelli, or Shakespeare. They are written words transcribed by men. They are certainly valuable, but are they irrefutable? Religious followers claim so. Christians believe the Bible is the absolute, eternal “word of God.” Muslims believe the same of the Qur’an. Dawkins and his ilk demand absolute abandonment of faith. Their commands, however, often read as uncompromisingly as Paul to the Thessalonians.

It isn’t constructive to desert religion altogether. Over ninety-five percent of Americans claim a belief in God. Religion is very much a part of identity in Islamic countries. And no one can ignore the incredible body of art, architecture, and literature inspired by religion. We would benefit most, then, by changing our treatment of archaic religious texts. Scholarship such as that of Dr. Bart D. Ehrman, professor of religious studies at UNC Chapel Hill, addresses Christianity in this way. Ehrman details the history of the “proto-orthodox” construction of Christianity in his chronicle of Lost Christianities. Among other facts that today’s Christians ignore, Ehrman reminds us that the current collection of Judeo-Christian writings that make up their holy book was selected by a group of influential men at the Council of Nicea, over 300 years after the death of Jesus and his apostles. Dozens of other Christian writings were discarded and most of them were deemed heretical. After weeding out their dissenters in this way, the Catholic Church became the defender of the faith, a faith defined by their selective, but still contradictory interpretations found in the best-selling book in the Western world. Of course, it is appended by various edicts and pontifical commands. We don’t accept other arguments on the basis of a single source. Why treat those in the religious mode differently?

In the end, these texts we consider ‘holy’ were transcribed by men, selected by men. What if man's writings about God are wrong? I’m not being presumptuous when I assert that you, reader, firmly believe the Greeks and Romans, purveyors of magnificent civilizations that laid the foundations of western science and government, got it all wrong when they imagined Mount Olympus. To think that your answer, your centuries-old answer, is the right one is somewhat vain and discernibly insular. If God exists, could it be that he doesn’t want us to simply believe in him? Assuming he does exist, wouldn’t he be more honored if we use the faculties he gave us to pursue knowledge of him? The true enemy of mankind is not religion itself. We must no longer accept religious texts as the only support; they’ve lost their credibility. Religious leaders should be treated as no more than literary critics and approached with due skepticism.

Yet, in the journey towards truth, we cannot ignore the footprints of those before us. Ideas of the divine have been evolving for centuries. The notion of atheism is but one interpretation of existence, one way of understanding the universe, one path (to site a Hindu text). Belief in a god or gods, faith in a god or gods, is another, however trodden it may be. I can easily say that the scientific method is flawless, but human error is a recognized factor. Experiments conducted in a laboratory setting often provide puzzling or divergent data. Our observations of the world around us, the galaxy, the universe, are often inconsistent. Newton's Laws of Motion precisely describe the motion of objects in our tiny corner of the universe, in our moment in eternity. However, on a grand scale, they become irrelevant. Einstein expected that his theories would be superseded by more accurate representations of time and space. He emphasized the progressive nature of man's long march towards truth. No more than a single religion does atheism have to be viewed as an end unto itself. It is but one step closer to a unified understanding of all existence. To presume that the rejection of a god ends a compassionate search for truth and understanding is to alienate our atheist brothers and sisters. We are on the verge of a dialogue that will dispel the myth of the great dichotomy of science and religion. We are human. That is our common ground. We cannot progress further until we accept our own diversity. It is this very diversity that has allowed us to survive as a species. It is this very diversity that has given us our incredible body of ideas. Diversity is possibility. In our diverse thinking, we choose different paths; our nature insists that we do so.

*http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2005/08/09/AR2005080900578.html

Other References

Dawkins, Richard. The God Delusion. 2006
Harris, Sam. Letter to a Christian Nation. 2006
Ehrman, Bart, Dr. Lost Christianities. 2003
Ehrman, Bart, Dr. Lost Scriptures. 2003
Bible, The. King James Version.
Tajweed Qur’an.

Naming

Time or food
labels breakfast?
Do stomachs know
the layout of hours?

Croissant
neighbored the 5 o'clock tea.
Exuberant traditions marinate
a currency of a louder crowd
chanting many in a solo.

Eastern hours
need not to wonder;
rice whitens tables
ahead stranded.
The cloth made time
one toned fabric.
reproaching same taste,
chop- sticks squinted.

All meals: breakfast
All hours: time
an illusion to confine them
creates a false forth dimension,
a superfluous bitter after taste.

Out to Save the World?

The form of the mind and its resultant products—thoughts—create one’s reality. This truth can be experienced as a fact of existence. A person can both influence and be influenced by such a force of nature. How conscious of and how effectively one is thus able to actualize such a truth remains the only question...


An outrageous claim, to be sure; at least I thought so when I first encountered it some ten years ago. I was in college, caught in the passive flow of classes, concerts, homework and apathy. I was in a hurry to get nowhere, busy allowing my life to live me, letting my days glide by unintended, unaffected.

Though I then read books specifically to encounter just such ideas, I hadn’t yet acquired the practical attitude towards them that is necessary to utilize and enact their inner content. The simple truth was that I found obscure books about philosophy and religion ‘cool’ because of the things they spoke of, and so I read as many as my automatic functioning then permitted.

I encountered many such ideas during those days, and they, like seeds, found their way into the different soils of my mental and emotional fields. Left to sit in the dirt, unaided and uncultivated, some found nourishment and sprouted while others supped at the dearth of me and either atrophied or perished.

However, this particular idea discovered an apparently fertile area of my unconsciousness, rooting itself strongly. Over time it grew, ultimately branching its way into the brighter atmosphere of my consciousness, forcing me to grant it an intended attention, the necessity for which I had never quite tasted before. All of a sudden this idea-tree had become a dominant force in the ecosystem of my being, and I had little choice but to notice and observe—almost revere—its presence and how it was beginning to shape and inform the inner landscape of my continued existence.

So I made a decision; I decided to bring this idea with me into the situations of my life (as often as I could remember to do it) as a guiding focus, a context of meaning, for my thoughts and feelings. In the months leading up to this lasting choice, my reasoning began to successively unfold in the following manner:

I am becoming aware of the fact that due to a combination of influences in my life—some of which flow from myself and some not—living has become a non-participatory endeavor of aimlessness for me. Initially, the seed lies dormant beneath, softly speaking to the soil. This is scary. I am beginning to see that not only do I bring little consciousness to my actions, but the pattern of not doing this has built up over time due directly to decisions I have made with little or no consciousness present. As the dialogue between the seed and the earth progresses and grows, the seed is nourished and germinates outward… I exist, I do not live. This needs to change, but…

Permissibility, a wet breath, encourages the germ to come wiggling out of its fleshy coat. Newborn arms slither out and up, pushing earth aside to touch the light. It is then that a fresh conversation begins between the sprout and the sun.

I have allowed these ideas to slip into my mind. I can almost feel a number of them directly altering the pattern of functioning my mind has acquired over the course of my life. It is interesting to observe the changes these influences are causing in my functioning, all quite independent of me somehow.

The organic exchange between organism and environments, both terrestrial and celestial, generates a trialogue of expansion. The sprout takes root in the earth while reaching for the sun. All three profit and are enriched by participating in the dance of awakening.

This idea in particular exists strongly in me. It is becoming a catalyzing force in the current of my vitality. I know now what I must do; I must embrace this idea, I must…


*****


Ishmael began with a man finding an ad in the newspaper about a teacher seeking a pupil with “an earnest desire to save the world.” This whole saving-the-world bit had always confused me. What was meant by the world? What would it mean to save it? From whom? What? How would a saved world look?

During the same college days already mentioned, I came to see this issue in a simpler and more personal way, no doubt as an attempt to make sense of this world-saving urge found in many people, including myself. I came to take the world as meaning simply: myself, the inner cosmos.

Believing a human to be a microcosm of the universe as a whole, this approach seemed all too apt. I reasoned that if an individual could manage to affect constructive or positive change in him- or herself, no matter how simple, then he/she could manage to guide others to affect similar changes in themselves. Put less simply, changing the world did not involve some special arrangement of external actions and consequences, but rather an inner capacity to actualize constructive elements in your own life; and the faith that if one can show others the benefit of this by how one lives, then others will be motivated to apply similar principles to themselves, thus futhering and expanding the beneficent activity of humans in general. More to the point, though, the faith that actualizing such a change will itself create the special arrangement of externalities needed to alter outer events. But the whole thing hinges on consciousness.

Another seed – or perhaps fertilizer for the one – came from an interest and study in dynamical systems science during the aforementioned collegiate period. Ervin Laszlo, a Hungarian philosopher of science and a systems theorist, speaks of the importance of the “realization of the primacy of consciousness as a causal reality.” (1)

His paper is a call for a different kind of thinking that would lead to a different kind of commitment towards finding lasting and effective solutions to humanity’s multifarious problems. But the whole argument centers around the necessity for a transformation of consciousness as a prerequisite to making such solutions workable.

David Bohm, a quantum physicist, “stressed that the way to bring about effective social change is through an overall change in meaning.” (2) For Bohm, “a change of meaning is a change of being,” quite literally. As an example, he described the following: When realized that the dark attacker seen at night is really just a shadow, a whole host of electrical and chemical changes happen in the mind and body, subtly shifting and re-informing neural pathways and connections, whereby a thing usually taken to be purely subjective – meaning – winds up having objective consequences to physicality. (2)

The illustration above is meant to show that the mind is capable of causing or creating physical reality. While Laszlo uses the term consciousness and Bohm uses the term meaning (something made by the mind), both men speak of a transformative process. Even looking at the world in the ways they are suggesting requires and is a transformation of its own.

The difference between mind and consciousness continues to be a topic of debate amongst scholars; and attempting to make such distinctions is really beyond the scope of this paper. However, for the sake of this argument I would like to draw distinctions between consciousness, mind, meaning and information.

Since information has to do with facts and knowledge as well as the shape and form of a thing or process, we will consider information to be a fundamental element of both mind and meaning.

Meaning we will take to be the context or parameters of understanding, understanding itself being the process of the mind identifying, defining and digesting experiences and their constituent parts.

The mind’s job is to assimilate particles of information, to arrange them into shapes of understanding, to put these shapes together to create new wholes, particles of understanding, all of which is used to become more or better. And consciousness we’ll take to be the source of illumination enabling the mind to do its job.

This source exists independently of the other three and acts more like a current of transformational energy that flows more or less readily through each of us. How much of this current an entity is able to tap into or receive remains the only variable. Since the presence of consciousness in the universe is more or less permanent, we are never truly abandoned by it, no matter how much of it our personality filters keep out.

Ishmael sought to guide his student’s mind to create new meaning by presenting information in a new way, which in effect amounts to new information. To this extent, the teacher succeeded. However he failed to tell his student that he already had access to the oldest transformative force known to earth: consciousness. Ishamael’s failure to grasp this left his student unsure of what to do with the newfound meaning. He was unable to “save the world.” And yet, converting the content of the mind into manifest reality is the very path or creative method to achieving what Ishamael wanted to teach.

To illustrate this point more fully, I will here include a short excerpt of a dialogue between David Bohm and Rupert Sheldrake, a biologist with a novel theory of evolution:

Sheldrake: The thing that’s involved in this creativity seems to be something which links things together, a wholeness which embraces parts and sets up relationships between them. They’re linked together within a new whole, which didn’t exist before. In this creative realization, two previously separate things have been linked together within a whole.
Bohm: Yes. They’re now seen as mere aspects of the whole rather than independent existences. You have realized a new whole, and from that realization you may create an external reality as well.
Sheldrake: So the creative process, which gives rise to new thought, through which new wholes are realized, is similar in that sense to the creative reality which gives rise to new wholes in the evolutionary process. The creative process could be seen as a successive development of more complex and higher-level wholes, through previously separate things being connected together.
Bohm: And being realized now as not only independent parts, but aspects of a greater whole that has new qualities.
Sheldrake: Right, and that realization of a greater whole is what actually creates the greater whole –
Bohm: Yes, and… (3)

Sheldrake’s position is clear: the forms of the mind give rise to the forms of the world. Mind and world are causally interrelated. (Whether or not this is a linear dynamic will have to be a separate discussion.) The more integrated the forms of the mind, the more harmoniously it functions, the more coherent wholes will there be found in nature, human nature to be specific.

And yet, perhaps Ishmael did not ultimately fail. If we instead take consciousness to be the entire process of consciousness and mind waltzing with meaning and information to create and unfold reality, then maybe Ishmael succeeded despite himself.

New wholes will always develop in nature – whether external or internal – given enough time and the right circumstances. Intention is not always necessary. And one change can lead to another. Habits can build up.

However it happens, the point remains: a change of consciousness is needed to affect a change in the world. Ervin Laszlo articulates this point thusly: “Without an evolution of our individual and collective consciousness it is unlikely that we could avert deepening economic, social, and cultural conflicts and ecologic breakdowns. But with the evolution of consciousness from the ego- and nation-centered toward the global- and planet-centered dimension we would have a real prospect of matching the growth of our technological sophistication with corresponding intellectual and emotional maturity.” (1)

I agree with this statement wholeheartedly. The only question it leaves me with is this: Does humanity have enough time to achieve such a state?


*****


I must use this idea to change aspects of who I am, of my being. I must use the understanding I’ve gained through this realization to test this idea, to experiment with reality. Real results may take a lifetime. Am I ready for that? If I am, is a lifetime enough time? What if it isn’t…



References

(1) Laszlo, Ervin. Planetary Consciousness: Our Next Evolutionary Step. www.cejournal.org/gpage2.

(2) Peat, David F. Alchemical Transformation: Consciousness and Matter, Form and Information. www.cejournal.org/gpage.

(3) Sheldrake, Rupert. A New Science of Life: The Hypothesis of Morphic Resonance. Park Street Press, Rochester, VT. 1995. Appendix, pp. 244-5.

Prime

For some reasons or none
The brown rocky mountain
Cracked
Gave life to Green

For same ones or may be
The peaceful sleeping
Snapped
Ceased reality to Dream

For others or again
The glued sealed lips
Parted
Cried “halt” to Feet

Gapes of astonishment
Intervals in proceedings
Knots through timeline

Reorientation of destiny
is to decide

Teaching to the One

The modern world has not encouraged hope for the future. One does not need amazing powers of discernment to see modern man’s destination is calamity. Our weapons are too powerful, and our penchant for short-sightedness is too great. Instead of striving for unity and understanding with our technology, which we often point to as proof of man’s greatness and coming-of-age, we find a world where this technology is used to spread misinformation and ourselves mobilizing into homogenous national, ethnic and religious factions. We don’t want outsiders. Despite the apparent certainty, we continue to convince ourselves the world is void of alternatives. What other way could it be? We ask ourselves this question in a passive stance toward life. We repeat factoids to ourselves: history has directed this life with little regard to our wishes, we are powerless to change society, so the best we can do is play its game well, and the alternatives to this life are so repugnant that they are not worth investigating. Obviously, modern society, or “mother culture,” spread these platitudes as a means of protecting itself from outside enemies. We willingly feed on these lies for fear of the unknown, unpredictable alternative. We fear endless toiling in harsh unforgiving environs. We believe our leisure time will disappear and our desire for pretty people and gossip will go unfulfilled.

As a teacher, I see, through my students, how deeply entrenched these ideas are. My goal as a teacher is to help my students critically view their individual worlds. This should be the desired outcome of any worthy education. Even if I found myself living in a utopian society where individuals did as they pleased yet always kept their fellow man’s needs in mind and respected them, I would have my students question all. Any sound idea will withstand any and all scrutiny because it has proven results. So each year begins, and I spend the first quarter establishing trust with my students. I welcome their views regardless of how thoughtful or impulsive. Slowly, I test those ideas through general application. The more local (i.e. relevant to their lives) I can make it the more likely I am to reach a broad audience. Otherwise, I satisfy myself with the one or two students in possession of a dispassionate view. The final stage consists of the class critically viewing the state of world in an attempt to examine if mankind is on the truest and most beneficial course. If it is not, students brainstorm on what changes could be made and how to implement these changes. All of this is done using diverse genre of literature as a means of developing each student’s humanity through each piece’s varied themes.

I admit, I’ve reduced the teaching profession into a simple mathematical equation. My explanation may appear insulting for all those teachers who have suffered and struggled trying to accomplish in a school year that which I have over-simplified into eight sentences. I assure the reader if I have ever completed the above task it would only be by the most generous assessment and in the narrowest of margins. A teacher’s day is usually spent addressing one absurdity or another with content scavenging the scraps of time left over. Nevertheless, the teacher, who is stubborn by nature, presses on despite the resistance. To illustrate, I will write of my current teaching post, teaching American Literature to upper-class Egyptians in Cairo. I love these kids even though I left many school days cursing them. They are the establishment. They benefit the most from the current world order and have the most to lose if any disruption happened to it. How do you convince students that subjugation is harmful when their own country is subjugated toward them? I have spent many hours meditating on this idea. They have drivers and maids and cooks and other servants. While my status as a foreign teacher, specifically an American teacher, pays enough to expose me to such a life, my egalitarian background makes interaction with “the help” quite awkward. I still prefer doing it myself save doing the dishes and cleaning the bathroom. I recognize immediately that this is due to cultural influence, and as I bend to these influences, I must allow my students to bend to them, too. Nevertheless, I still have the goal for my students to question everything, yet tenaciously, they defend their way of life. I point out their privilege, and they believe I’m attacking them. I point out the suffering of others, and they claim some class of people has suffered throughout history. Actually, the reference to history with its pillaging, malfeasance, and rape provides the basis of most of their arguments. It has happened before, and it will happen again. This belief breeds inactivity and a lack of compassion. This battle has brought anger, sadness, apathy, and laughter at the ridiculousness of their statements. I’m trying to change the world and finding the world doesn’t want to change. At these times, I’ve learned over my teaching career to target the “one.” This is an idea, planted in my head during my teacher training, that a teacher may only influence one student in the class. While all teachers have loftier goals, often a teacher must resign himself or herself to the reality that only one student will appreciate the lesson. This gloomy assessment deceives most not in the teaching profession, for it can still motivate and excite the teacher because no one can ever predict with absolute certainty who that one student may be. Therefore, a teacher must continue to teach to every student as if he or she is the one student who will pass on the lesson.

I would love a forum where my accumulated ideas and experiences were heeded as sagacity. With one speech, I could address an injustice, and battalion of followers would rush to rectify it. But reality and history, to follow my students’ lead, teach that every demagogue started with similar ideas. As a teacher, I must change the world one student at a time. With the world’s population exploding, my task grows more daunting daily. Again, this is not a bleak outlook, for life is full of surprises especially when one makes peace with fighting a battle that he or she can’t win. This year, once I focused on teaching to the one student, my students started rewarding me. Almost verbatim, they were recalling statements I had made months ago. Statements I believed simply bounced off the walls into oblivion, but that is the draw of teaching. The profession changes the teacher. I don’t know the future. I can only attempt to create a future. It will not be as I planned, but it will have its share of rewards.

Smacking the Ass (more finger-wagging)

Remember the story of Ishmael. A bastard son of an Egyptian princess and a religious patriarch, he finds God far from home. Abraham, at Sarah’s behest, reluctantly banishes Ishmael for tormenting his brother. Ishmael wanders the desert with his mother Hagar, becoming a skilled hunter. One day, lost and dying of thirst, he appeals to God to have mercy on his sad state. Guided by an angel to a natural desert spring, he and Hagar settle there. Ishmael later returns home to aid in the burial of his father, making peace with his estranged brother.

Religious texts differ on the details, but this is the essence of the tale. Ishmael becomes penitent because he realizes that he is subject to forces beyond his control. He is a pre-classical Odysseus of sorts. After hardship, he discovers an essential truth that governs all life: there is a will greater than his own. In describing this truth in such terms, I must eschew any immediate tendency to interpret this as a purely religious statement. It is not a refiguring of dogma, though any dogmatically religious person might easily accept it. Rather, this truth is one that has been known long before our increasingly divergent interpretations of history’s recorded prophets. To think that it simply repeats religious dogma is to put the cart before the donkey.

This truth is not a tool invented by man; rather it is a description of how life proceeds. This greater will directs the course of each of our lives slowly and stubbornly, pressing on like the familiar donkey. Of course, I realize my choice in using the donkey, or ass, for my vehicle in this argument at first may seem odd. After all, the donkey is known worldwide as a stupid animal. When we call someone an ass in English (or a 7omar in Arabic), we refer to someone who is foolish, inept, or dim-witted. Yet, is this true of the namesake? There are a few variations in the breeds, but the typical donkey looks something like this:

Notice he has some of the same features of the horse: the noble snout, strong neck, broad shoulders, and that sensitive gaze that reminds us of our own. However, we often satirize his big teeth and longish ears. Flashes of a 1980’s American television show called Hee-Haw come to mind. It was a sketch-comedy show starring “reg-lar country folk”. The logo of this show was a buck-toothed donkey wearing a straw hat and a big, goofy grin. Exaggerated features are comical. I can’t explain why. Yet, these features have evolved over centuries in the African desert. Though like most of us he loves roses, the donkey can eat practically any plant, and those ridiculous-looking ears serve to cool his circulating blood in the hot desert. We also tend to make fun of his annoyingly recognizable braying, his “hee-haw,” if you will. This too came of necessity. Wild donkey herds in the broad desert live and travel in widely dispersed groups; they have to split-up to find sustenance. They use their loud voices, which can be heard over three kilometers, to keep contact with the herd. Compared to the horse, the donkey needs less water and less food. He is more perceptive, more adaptable, and more enduring. In an environment that offered little in the way of fortune and comfort, the donkey evolved.

But what about this animal’s notorious reputation for stupidity? After all, isn’t he a dumb ass? This misunderstanding is due in great part to the donkey’s stubbornness. He has a highly developed sense of self-preservation. It is quite difficult to get him to do something that is contrary to his own interest. Though there are few formal studies, those who work with the donkey find him to be intelligent, cautious, friendly, and eager to learn. Living in Cairo, where the ass has been domesticated for over 6000 years, I regularly see brave donkeys pulling carts in the streets alongside speeding Peugeots and Mercedes. Waiting at an intersection, the typically young masters can whip the donkey unceasingly, but cannot force him to walk out into oncoming traffic. I recall one incident just last year that involved a rather tough and patient young donkey with an ass of a driver. On the often deadlocked street near my flat, I observed a donkey pulling a cart full of bright green cucumbers. These cucumbers were stacked higher than the head of the driver reclining against them. On this particular Saturday morning, the car traffic was heavy and swift. The donkey seemed to be waiting good-naturedly for his opening to cross the two-way speedway, but his adolescent master was apparently running late to his father’s vegetable stand. He began with a light smack to the back. When this didn’t work, by degrees, he resorted to flailing the beast on the nape of the neck. This small and resilient donkey simply put his head down, flexed his neck, closed his eyes, and let the child tire. The poor boy wasn’t going to get his way. Finally, after three to five minutes of the boy’s waiting patiently with the donkey, there was a lull in the flow of speeding metal beasts and without the slightest prompting, the donkey dug in and slowly crossed the intersection to the sound of horns honking in the closing distance.

Like the donkeys of Cairo and the world over, truth is stubborn. Truth is persistent, insistent even. You can strap your cart to it, load it up with whatever accoutrements you like, whip the hell out of it trying to make it work for you, but you cannot alter its nature. What Ishmael, Odysseus, and the young donkey driver learned is that there is a will other than their own, a greater will. This Law of Greater Will seems to have escaped the majority of humans in the twenty-first century, however. After centuries of thirst, famine, and hardship, we are still whipping the natural world to suit our desires. We are continually defiant. We tear down forests for ‘community development’; we buttress thousands of tons of equipment to drill holes in the ocean floor; we fuse and split atoms! Yet, we lack the foresight to interpret the significance of such degradation of resources. And when we find we have consumed all available resources, we depose sovereign kings to gain control of theirs.

Why do we pursue this Sisyphean task? Why do we continue the struggle against natural law? Perchance it is simply because our individual wills drive us. The German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer suggested our will is a power to which we are ever and always slaves. Freud, whose interpretation of this force offers more hope than Schopenhauer, would call it our Ego. Yet another interpretation could be Darwinian in spirit. It is as if Nature has programmed us for stubbornness. Perhaps she has. We have proven to be innately persevering, consuming to not only allow for the survival of the species, but to create the circumstances under which a way of life can be preserved. This way of life is a gratification of our desire for control, what Nietzsche called the Will to Power. We must have our internal combustion engines; we must have our plastic, fantastic, electric cities; we must have climate control. This philosophy is endemic, to the extent that it even appears in our language. I can purchase a car with power windows, power locks, even extra horsepower. When our homes are deprived of electricity, we experience a power outage. Squirrelly young professionals seek to enjoy a power lunch with the powers that be. A sixth grade teacher of mine, Mrs. Barnett, often remarked that her son, who was a med school student, would take power naps to get him through his studies. The ambitious young Barnett could control his natural tendency toward sleep by waking before entering REM sleep. Similarly, our collective consumption is motivated by an innate desire for control. The human mind is relentless in its undertakings.

Yet, I don’t perceive this as a product of our biological evolution. Our minds and bodies are capable of far more than we demand of them on a daily basis. Defiance then rests on the will. It is your choice to live the way you do. You have accepted this way of life, a life of brash consumption, as the only one. In the dominant culture, this way of life is taught as the only one. It need not be taught explicitly. We teach the next generation far more by our actions than we do by our words. We teach it as it was taught to us and our fathers before us. There is no way but my way. There is no will but my will. Of course, there are others, but that would be the second and third person. I am first. This philosophy is the main product of the social evolution of the dominant culture. Our writers, philosophers, poets, and scientists have progressively focused on the self. Though we have our cities, though we work with others, we live in isolation. As Joseph Conrad’s narrator Christopher Marlowe says, “We live as we dream – alone.”

We are alone. We are isolated. When one hears only the demands of his own will, he is deaf and dumb to others. Each of us lives out a lifetime of quiet struggle against forces we cannot control – beating, pulling, and pleading with a patient Will that we refuse to trust.

Assignment

After reading Ishmael, many held before themselves the same question that the narrator poses: What can I do? Typical of the socratic method Ish uses throughout, he responds with a question of his own, "You're a writer, aren't you?"

Authors throughout the past century gave warnings and presented the worst outcomes. Though edifying, these messages were disciplinary finger-wagging. As teachers, you are all aware that the human psyche needs reinforcement to know what is right.

What message is worth passing on? What are we doing right? Is there a future before us that is not dystopian in essence?

Address one or some of these concerns with an inspired piece. Post to the blog within the next month.

112- Scary Sacred

To the idea of eternity,
Humanity is fooled to believe
that tomorrow carries cherries
and today is bitter sweet;
a never ending story
where pages their lines to keep:
keep abuse from the meaning
keep closure from the beginning.

Hasting the hour of reality
to that of assumption,
people fertilized their brain soil
growing nationality and religion;
meekly upholding sameness to condition
applicants for the intended grace.
Hell is other people as Sartre states
and hence heaven is loneliness
disguised in faith
of a once failed mind
muzzled by the cortex it made.

Soon my brother suspected my laudable deed
and I, his seemly status, saw as greed
to get there before me scoring more points!
I keep an eye open
He cracks his joints
ready to fight martyrs approaching a crime
at the squeaking doors of heaven to keep it divine!

Reham
1/11/2006

Dogs of God

Trinkets
and ‘crossed staves’

sketches, sculptures
of heavenly bodies

forms in cold stone.
stories of inspiration.
shapes and some old runes.
songs of redemption.

count petals
And number days
imagine riddles
And oneday Fly Away.

God is
Good
(god is good)

evel knievel was
Death in disguise
or
supposed devil of
deviance, devaluation, and defiance.

Atheism is self-righteous indignation.

Religion is estimation
over-simplified equations.

We are dogs of god –
He
A master for a lonely race.
A collection of Hope somewhere in space.

December 13, 2006

two versions

Here is a piece I've had for years that I've been reworking.






Behave (version 1)


Draw deeply from the well
steeply rooted in the foundations
of watching
and sensing,
of being in stride
with the vein tide

Once learned that how-you-are what-you-have
always reflects why-you-have what-you-are,
it then becomes merchant necessary
to breathe the being of the knew
with resonant harmony
into the dying of the sold

And when the cadence takes you in-
to outer space
and you realize that you’ve been
already there,
a comet vies to steal your face
‘fore mind-left-body states appear
as vacant caravans,
satient and full,
that ride dark starlights’ current true

The journeys of distances,
of A to B,
fluidly crystallize in time’s geography
where there and here
balance together over the T

Get into touch
with the old friendly vibrations;
there scale is their own,
a self-balancing act
where pure stillness can
send you surfing great undulations
into the outer reaches
of innerspace

Become what you have!
Be it: not just half but the gamut;
embody possession and make it matter
for yourself, for others,
for old friendly beat of time.









Behave (version 2)

Draw deeply from the well
steeply rooted in the foundations;
limbs are needed
but the spring moves
the traffic
of lifeblood

Once learned that
how-you-are
what-you-have
always reflects
why-you-have
what-you-are
It then becomes merchant necessary
to breathe the being of the knew
with resonant harmony
into the dying of the sold

A to B covers only so much,
how when why
then
is the essence of the whole
exchange

And when this
cadence takes you in-
to outer space
and you realize that you’ve been
all ways there
a comet vies to steal your face
‘fore mind-left-body states appear
as vacant caravans,
satient and full,
that ride dark
starlights’ current true

The journeys of distances,
of A to B,
fluidly crystallize
in time’s geography
where there and here balance together
over the T

Age is scaled
along the line
between two points;
birth death dust
weigh out

Make contact with
the deep
friendly foundations;
there scale is their own

Become what you have,
be it.
Embody possession and
make it matter
for limbs
that breathe the blood

Mama teach us to love (revised)

Mamas teach us to love
by their heavenly forgiveness.
Yet, in these troubled times
what seems in our dreams to be the things of timely need
can’t reach into reality
and wake men from their Sleep

Mama, we need your guidance
Mama, we need your mediation
when brother unto brother
delivers desperate bullets to backs
he falls into the reichs of Ideology, the ranks of The Dispossessed

and your cries and wails and screams of pain
bemoan the Blackness of men’s wrangling.

(where were you when the sons of man
waged war on one another in desert sands-
drove Death to the streets in Humvees
and Limousines parked in phat oases,
sucking your lifeblood from the ground
to power his Power and put his brother down?)

Mama, we need you with us
Mama we need your care
Homes are so lonely-
our sisters are starting to disappear
Lost in the flood of blood-soaked streets

and your cries and wails and screams of pain

absent.

Mama, you taught Me to love
dear Mama, you taught Me to forgive
and live withal.
With All.

The Fiction of the Paranormal? (Tip to Sabat)

I visited this site just yesterday, and I have to say I'm slightly skeptical. Though I've heard of this before, an Egyptian friend of mine recently sent me the above link. In fact, there have been a few films about it in the 1980s, as well as a few made-for-TV movies. This is the first evidence I've seen in a long time claiming it to be true. The first clue that this particular piece of evidence by Drue Cunningham, edited by his wife or sister, may be fabricated lies in the numerous grammatical errors present. This man claims to be a scientist. Not your average scientist, but a top scientist of his day chosen by one of the most powerful militaries of WWII to conduct a series of top-secret experiments. Shouldn't he be aware of current grammatical structure, especially the difference between singular and plural in nouns and verbs?

Also, Cunningham makes mention of Einstein's Unified Field Theory, which current physicists attest was not completed by Einstein, and is still not plausible, according to today's most advanced studies in physics. However, the other prominent, contemporary scientist Cunningham mentions, Dr. Nikola Tesla, did conduct experiments on the cutting edge of electromagnetic theory. Tesla is credited with the invention of the radio and was a pioneer in wireless communication.

In his later years, Tesla experimented greatly with radical scientific theories and his work has been used to support highly controversial theories and paranormal claims. Along with this evidence, my natural skepticism towards the paranormal led me to seek other sources of information.

http://www.history.navy.mil/faqs/faq21-1.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philadelphia_Experiment
http://www.v-j-enterprises.com/drueintv.html

A friend of mine in the States who is a mechanical engineer became intrigued with Tesla and has read a number of books about him. He has said that current researchers have been unable to reproduce most, if not all, of the controversial experiments Tesla claimed to have executed. Like my friend, I tend to believe that Tesla became something of a mad scientist interested more in illusion and the distortion of reality in his later years.

Upon further research into the integrity and reliability of the author, I found Drue Cunningham, who has a business selling products about his experience, also claims only to possess the DNA memory of a participant in the experiment. The details are vague, but his story is apparently that he's not in the same physical body as he was in 1943 because he has mastered time and space travel as a bodiless collection of energy! This absurdly bizarre, cloudy recollection from a .com site has proven once again the vast amount of noise and static on the Internet cannot be leveed.

The good news is that the flow of the truth cannot either. Though, as Bush Sr. might endorse, it trickles down:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/6130514.stm
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/default.stm

111- Run

Angels of death
Come to earth
To take the lives of those-
On time.
Shouldn't they be called Minions of Malice,
If they pick up souls,
Flowery buds,
From both sides of the fence?

“Pray” the grandmother faithfully says
To invite angels to
Fall from heaven.
Shouldn't an angel escalate down
To earth,
So as not to bend the halo
Or break the wings?

“Fight” the father emphstically urges:
Make your fellow brother
Bleed,
If through your voice
He can't speak.
Shouldn't brothers be each other's backs,
Take the knife,
If it dawns to stab?

“Run” the panting sister yells:
Don't try to understand
The missile has no eyes
no escapee looks up
while hustling.
Within that passing block
for one more breath,
you are wrestling.

“Nothing” mumbled the child's aching mind
Orders carved his face
In disbelief of absurdity.

Doesn't utter the name of any god
Can't fight a sibling of same blood
But ran in its mind,
cries shrieked along its spine .

Security and Civil Liberties

This is an essay by my brother, Jeremy. He's a freshman in the Journalism program at Kennesaw State. I think he presents some problems we've discussed before, and offers some new evidence of the American police state.

With the current situation of war and the cracking down on homeland security, there is a question that most Americans are asking themselves. “How much of my freedom, privacy and civil liberties am I willing to relinquish to feel safe?” In the sense of preserving national security, especially during a time of war, the government has pushed the envelope on American citizen’s privacy and freedom. There is no doubt that America is a target for terrorist attacks and has already been a target for attacks, as seen in the acts of September 11. But when is the government going too far? When is it time to respect the ideals this country was based on and give true freedom to all American citizens?

In Mona Charen’s editorial titled, “We Should Relinquish Some Liberty in Exchange for Security,” she urges liberals, concerned about their privacy and civil rights, that more security is better than a terrorist attack and/or innocent deaths. Innocent deaths are inevitable. There are thousands of innocent American soldiers who have died in this fight against terrorism and maintain homeland security by keeping the war out of the country. Besides it would be nearly impossible and quite costly to have security in every public place (i.e. malls, stadiums, subways). There are way too many public areas to have guards standing outside the doors with AK-47s frisking everyone that enters and interrogating any suspicious characters. It would be atrocious and sad to see “the land of the free” almost turning into a police state where all communications are monitored by the government. Another problem with the overwhelming amount of security is ethnic and racial profiling. When you see a Middle Eastern man walking through the airport, what is the first thought that comes to your mind? Here are some answers from the fear-mongers: maybe the word “bomb”, “terrorist”, or even the thought, “I hope he’s not on my plane!” This is what the immense amount of security is doing to our country, our country which “is” based on equality and egalitarianism. I find myself overwhelmed by the irony.

When the gap is narrowing in security differences between the United States and Israel, that is when the American government is going too far in keeping the country a safe place to live. Matthew Brzezinski questions this narrowing gap in his article, “The Homeland Security State: How Far Should We Go?” Brzezinski notes on what America would be like in the future if this security issue continues to heighten. Basically, the government would be able to have access to everything about you and every aspect of your personal life. They already have some access to what you are doing, where you are going, and who you are going there with, by the vast amount of video and surveillance cameras. You may say to yourself, “These are private circuit cameras though.” But the government has access to all of this with the help of the Joint Operations Command Center (JOCC). The JOCC is a video surveillance super center that can display live feeds, digital simulations, and city maps. These cameras are set up on helicopters and can zoom in as far as your very own backyard. It is kind of scary knowing someone could be watching you all the time.

As a supporter of civil liberties, Alan M. Dershowitz seems to be supportive of national ID cards. He states in his article “Why Fear National ID Cards?” that a national ID card could reduce the worry of the government taking away civil liberties by reducing racial and ethnic stereotyping. A national ID card could also be a wave of revolution for the government to kind of ease into more intrusive actions. There is no definite way national ID cards could prevent threats of terrorism. It would make terrorism a more difficult task, but if a terrorist wanted to commit a violent act then I’m sure they would be able to find some sort of loophole.

In this time of war and concern for security, it is important to keep the country of America and all of its citizens safe. But when it gets to the point where our privacy and civil liberties are being taken away to give a little unneeded comfort to us, it betrays the ideals and principles on which this very country was founded.

Your Concept of God

This is a test that tells you about your set of beliefs when it comes to God. It is based on logical questions that might be tricky in the way they are stated. It is fun to check out.

fresh off the press...

Consume

Taken together
the sum
of what’s to come
tells some
of all that is—

Two ways: in and out.
taking from out and
in turn
returning to out,

Out
being the natural
realm
where the raw
is separated and
assembled

In
is the factory
where the inpressing is taken
apart and reassembled
into the outpushing

Feed the skin
the heart will then support the organs
who, in their wisdom
make rise in the system that,
like yeast,
transforms the stuff
it is given and
makes new food
to give off
to others who need different foods

remember that
poison for one
nourishes another

Even the eating
of the
prechewed cud of the mind
can promote
substance,
vitality; but who
would willingly
gnaw such gnarl?

Basically:
eat,
become
and be eaten—
That is all

19- Tradition

Broke in
Started to steal
Liked the place
Moved
The house is home
The thief is owner
The neighbor is threat

Under the skin of a generation
Tradition slips
Into the blood melts
It takes uninfected hero
To break it
One who is as brave as
a Human

Reham
December 1, 2005

A spirit of co-operation

Dr. Allan Combs was a Psychology professor of mine like 8 or 9 years ago. He is still actively involved in consciousness research. Attached is an article from a journal he edits. I have posted it because it speaks about some of the issues that have come up in recent posts and replies. It is a bit long, but worth the read. Enjoy.

If I Deign to Trust

Gifts offered to Horus

If I deign to trust
What has been said
In the confines of simple perspective
In the absence of the mass collective
Before man knew of every brother
Before every one knew of every other
When science was belief
When sweet hymns were sweet relief
From time gone past
These words that last,

I rest in mere faith
And shudder to think

Of a lonely stone
Of an only home
Where man is beginning and end
Where laws are neither broken nor bend
In infinite space’s desolate death
In time marching to entropic rest
From this my hand
These lines that end.

H. Ball

October 18, 2006

Atheists and Politics

"Atheist and Politics"

The last couple of weeks one of my favorite website, onegoodmove.org, has steered toward atheism. The site is ultra-liberal focusing on news clips, articles, books, etc., that paint George Bush and his ultra-conservatives and other Republican hijinks in a bad light. These days, clips are abundant. I’ve never taken it too seriously for I‘ve known the slanted view. As I don’t think this is a good administration by any standards, the site helps me laugh at the absurdity.

What prompted the atheist blogging was the release of a book entitled The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins. I heard this man speak about the book. He has made his way around the talk show circuit and made a strong case for his stance. Still, he is not willing to say without a doubt that God doesn’t exist, but interjects that he cannot disprove the existence of a “spaghetti monster” either. Nevertheless, people visiting onegoodmove.org are more than willing to attack Christian America and religion at large using this work as a springboard for pointing out the stupidity of believers. In one of the pieces the author writes how 80% of Americans believe in a higher power. Immediately after, he assaults those 80% as idiots who are ruining his life. Bear in mind this is a political site meant to provoke thought about a new direction for our country. Therefore, I believe this man needs a math lesson. I doubt many of that 80% were willing to read past the accusations to the political endorsements.

My first thought is “why does this man ( Dawkins or anyone else) care about believers so much?” I recognize the world has gone mad with religious extremism, but doesn’t this argument of no god follow the same rhetorical lines as the religious fanaticism? To believe your reasons for insult and acrimony are better because you don’t claim righteousness through “a false truth” overlooks the cause of our chaos. The absurdity of fanatical proselytizing of religions doesn’t pale to atheist absurdity of dismissing the very people they need to vote for their candidate who will make change. They are the same. Both are insensitive and counterproductive.

This ebb and flow of religion and politics haunts mankind’s history. I understand the combination of politics and religious fanaticism puts the weapons in the hands of those waiting for the final battle, but man is not bereft of a will to endure. I doubt the majority want the world-as-we-know-it destroyed, so before we prove our mettle by going to the edge, we could first try changing our lifestyles. The destruction of the world is always an option. Let’s not choose it in the beginning of our modern age. Ideas are flowing in an exchange unknown before now. Only before we act, let’s examine our ideas. Let the good ideas go to the public for discourse. I agree with most of Dawkins complaints about religion and politics. To suppose God’s position on political topics is absurd whether you are a theist or not, but I’m not willing to isolate those that believe God does belong. I need them to help enact change. As an American, I celebrate Mr. Dawkins right to write and defend such a book. I only ask, by doing so, are you going to bring about the change that you want? I would think he targeted this book at people who are ambivalent about God and religion. Are these the people swayed by religious political talk? A better use of effort would be the targeting of religious sector who waver about the validity of politicians bringing up divisive religious and spiritual issues.

It seems humanity keeps making the same mistakes. Histories confirm this. Art depicts this. Yet, we can revisit old theories and modify them into new ones. Schools should devote themselves to preserving that which works and rectifying that which doesn’t. With a sense of propriety. Whose propriety? The species. Our ancestors. Our descendents. Ourselves. Benjamin Franklin and others used the Iroquois Constitution as a basis for our own constitution. When making decisions about tough issues, the tribe would use this question to model their solution: how will this affect our people seven generations from now? Our founding fathers felt the constitution was a reliable idea to frame a new country. Why can’t we still use these ideas?

Good people still walk among us. People with integrity. People we admire. Does it matter if their example comes from Christ, Allah, or an innate sense? Instead of engaging in debates over what Jesus was or was not with guns in our hands and animosity in our voices, let’s drop our insecurities, pride, and wrath and rally around our humanity. All will be known, and if it’s not, we won’t know the difference.

The new Rising Sun

A View of the New Rising Sun
A Brief Analysis of an Effective Interpretation of Marxism in a Global Society
by Seif Sobki
It was the beginning of a new era of revolution and policy-wise people that was founded by the great thinking machine Karl Marx. All the countries were eager to join the system of communism, for when it was offered many countries were suffering. They wanted what it could achieve, believing that it was the only solution for countries like Russia and China concerning the inner corruption economically and politically.
The basic idea of communism was complete equality for everybody and in everything, till the time when everything was again under control and when everyone is equal in richness and wealth, so that the government would build up again establishing new rules of treatment and living. And as said by www.wikipedia.com "communism is the concept of communal living where all are considered equal". It was meant to limit a person’s money, wealth, and land to exactly what he needs for living a normal life, that the different levels of society and sub cultures would disappear completely; everyone is the same from the day one is born till the day of his death. So simply everybody owns the same property as everybody does, earns the same money as everybody does, for instance a professor in a university owns the same as the major, the plumber and the janitor disregarding different levels of reinforcement. So no one would treat the other in a different way, no racial prejudice which actually leads one to have full confidence while for example walking to work no matter what religion, race or nationality. One of the main questions that would pop into the readers' minds is what does racial discrimination has to do with communism? Well simply racial discrimination is based on criticism of race that represents or symbolizes a level of social culture which is mostly referred to the blacks as poor, but in communism every body's just the same level in richness and wealth as everybody else. Accordingly, racism and discrimination would decrease to a minimum.
One of the provisos of communism is that all extra opulence and land that might conceed someone to be richer, poorer, or different somehow, would become the property of the government, planted or cultivated lands by farmers who actually work for the government so as everybody (working for the government). There are taxes except a few paid by the society because the government controls all the lands and extra sources of money. All that in return of services for the society, health insurance, life insurance, work insurance and all the types of insurances provided by the government to the society.
Up till now it sounds promising and great, but for ignorant ambitious countries was their only chance of escaping the system of the 3rd world countries. Thus practicing communism was their aim. For Russia, they had all conditions that defined a country full of nothing except inequality, different sub-cultures, broken sociological facts of
culture, and closed minded, aprenticed people.
Thus Marxism was their solution being practiced at first by Lenin then Stalin, After the Russian revolution to encourage communism and Marxism. They simply just set rules of communism that were supposed to be in conformity with the basic idea of communism but with in a different way of practicing it. They were interested in the welfare of the system and their main goal was to prove that communism is the right system for all ages and all countries. But the actual application of the system turned out to be misleading. As a result of experiencing communism or might I say wrong communism, for more than 75 years now has Russia been the one of the latest technological countries based on the new era of technological warfare, culture, and electronics. It has once again returned to being a 3rd world country and still is sticking to communism. The whole issue is that they practiced it wrong, the system is not fully perfect but the factual mode of the system sets forth other aims and objectives other than those which were the result of practicing the wrong communism. On the other hand,
China is now one of the leading countries in industry, all kinds of industry establishing new ways of industry that uses less money and produces more and better goods. This is called the efficiency system of production, using less input and producing more output. Now after experiencing the exact right way of communism but for a very long time China now is recovering and becoming increasingly capitalist moving up to their economy more than the US. It’s just only a matter of time before their quasi-communist government falls.
In the end, it is fair to assert that communism could have been the future of many countries and the path to the new tecknologised and informed world of man. But it’s simply an idea which was perfectly conceived but hard to achieve, especially for those who need it…until now.
Seif H. Sobky

45- A Shovel

A shovel
To dig a hole in my memory
Intention to lose
Consumed scenes of illicit past
The waste of the hole
Shoved to my mind

A shovel
To dig a hole in my thoughts
Persistence to dissolve
Logical streams of illusionary reality
The waste of the hole
Dusted down my heart

A shovel
To dig a hole in my feelings
Fantasy to deconstruct
Unfathomable strings of overly stretched compassion

Memory,
Mind,
Heart
Reconcile
Only Peace is my lusty desire

Reham
February 28, 2006

Would you?

Now the change has occured to the better side
and my heart is now filled with love and pride
no shame,disgust or hate shall be
between us only beautifull memory
now shines an embrace of happiness
i picture you with a mighty guess
missing me thats the amour itself
i can see it smell it and hear it
shining on my soul like heaven's goal
to me you're something language could never send
to me you're a fragrence that has no end
gazing through windows of light
wishing you were here in sight
of all these friends and lovers
god only knows no one compares with you
In that instant of love and passion
we share in a reason of confession
Its never easy to fulfill a mission
but its always trivial to take permission
to love you
i marvel you idolize you and cherish her
in a wonder if im a prolonged dreamer
the sence of blitheness and delight
vanishes into darkness like a kite
when we have a conflict or a fight
i ask thee a vigorious quest
would you love me always and
for the best?

It takes a religious atheist

An article written by a Jewish atheist in response to the Pope's words on the spread of Islam "by the sword." Enlightening, though his conclusion about the Pope's intentions is questionable.

Deep Fried Poem

Poetry don’t always require proper utensils
Sometimes, (just sometimes, mind’ja)
it’s gotta come out all greasy and slippery
and soppin’ wet with gravy
You lean in to lick it’s goodness wid’ja nose hairs,
exhale it’s fried fragrance, say
goddamn, that’s gon’ be good!
Dig in, but don’t forget to say grace –
Good food, good meat, good God, let’s eat!
Break off a chunk widja hands,
Use them teeth the lord gave you and tear into it,
You gotta chew good, ‘cuz poetry’s got bones sometimes,
but don’t you worry none, here,
Ain’t no bones in this poem,
Matter fact, ain’t hardly no meat neither,
but I give you plenty’a gravy

H. Ball
May 28, 2006

Dr. Sheldrake Speaks

A biologist on belief vs. proof, sort of

The White Desert

90- Cookies

Draw the analogy and try to understand
A sense of logic no longer banned

Like cookies
Smoothed ingredients together;
Flour and Sugar- white pearls
in unlikely physique,
spiced with sweet cinnamon.
They unite.
All promises precious
Of delicious rounds to eat
Cookies;
Suns daily circled in delight.
Scared is fear of a luminous taste of tomorrow.

Speak the benighted thoughts

Cookies burned and raw in the inside

What happened in the dark oven?
Wasted flour and sugar
In their embrace,
they died

Can’t find it in me to head to the garbage.

Some analogies bring no comfort, though
Double the puzzle of an original and a copy

I am to drink my tea with no cookies
Wondering

Reham
15/5/2006

for interest (hollis esp.)

From the Mined

Anyone can be quiet in quiet,
but to be quiet in noise
is something else entirely

someone can be ignorant in theory,
but to be ignorant in fact…
well, that’s yet another story

and everyone is blind with sight,
asleep by day
with naught a wake by night

(What kind of world’ve we prized
when sight by night’s not recognized?
when silent comments don’t get heard,
and all the knowledge that is learned
is limply sown into a ground
that fruition has never,
may never quite have found?)

yet,
at least this much’s still known to a certain few:

The lids unclench enough for those behind to see
that winter without snow is just as much a freeze
as awake without affect
or a sleep without the rest

novel bridges, found to’ve been prior created,
make new-places travel feasible for the fated;
yet mapless, many lose their daylight
and night morphs into all they do, think and say

They sought and seek to use
the ancient Ion Lore,
but like many two-tongued
they use L to drag R through the mud,
and thence,
like clockwork wind-up
digging iron ore;
seeking folk who’ll both listen
and reciprocate,
they encounter only silent types
who work
and everything static state

They rant and rave and
fake a fuss about the situation
‘cause then, it seems, to them at least,
that for all they’ve worked and sought,
the least they’d hoped to expect to receive
is assistance from their employees,
whose services already’ve been bought

Uprooting becomes their gig,
as deep into the Earth they dig
to establish
a base in the mined
from which to fashion their
metallic ages of density
and matter so unkind

“The governed aren’t worth a cent,” they say
from their peculiarly unbecoming dent of reason,
a particular blend of mind pollution
whose cause and heart won’t seek a solution
for that which they need
and have so heedlessly spent,
like the landlord who insists on it,
but who himself’s forever unwilling
to pay any rent

Inside the mind –
that cavernous trap of
soot and night –
they elect to remain,
while those very few,
the fated –
the feast-all-day
and still unsated –
remain in light
to knowledgeably dance
with their self-shadow,
to generate new and ever clearer sooth
and might of day

(To the mined do even they return
where self-shadows
dance alone and burn.)

The Shepherds' Guild

The Shepherds' Guild

Mr. War
Seif H.Sobky

Tip top crossing the borders of the empire,
and bam they go off like a blaring thunder,
corps on this side and corpes on the other,
both slammed and spread on one another,
yet minuits later more of them are wasted
but no one cares, they havent tasted.
And there it goes for thousands of years.
parents and lovers burst in tears
of disgust, revenge, and disdain,
then comes the menacing rain,
with rounding bullets drilling in the spots
with red coloured wind filled with bloods
blowing them down like big black spots
on white paper, and busy thoughts.
while its a busy time for the dark life taker.
no words for him than greed and hunger,
he seeks lust which soon he finds,
in tyrants' possession in their darkened minds
how long has it been as such,
was it the english, the arabs or the dutch,
of selfless minds they do not miss,
in this world of doom and not for bliss.
then they declare their notorious win,
and their hearts it bites that sin.
decades, centuries, and they have passed,
yet shines a new dawn with its craving for the past

no hope or aim in a treaty there is,
Hence, they say goodbye and send kisses
wives and childs are thrown on streets,
for Mr war wants to play trick or treats,
day after day and their forgotten,
held dear by their faithfull kin.
decades, centuries, and they have passed,
yet sparkles a dewy dawn with its craving for the past
earth has endured and been abused,
by those traitors to all who have misused.

Palestinian Militants?

More airstrikes. More deaths. This is Israel's way of negotiating peace with Palestine. 200 Since June. Over 4200 have been slaughtered since 2000. The international community is silent.

Consider this word, "militant."

89- Nobody can make anybody SEE

1- What is he doing?
That Israeli soldier
Feeling threatened by stones
And hence runs down the schoolboy
With humongous wheels splashes blood
Out of the boy’s mother
Isn’t this the inhumanity faced before
Burned alive, in the history most unforgivable crime
Ancestors blacked by dead consciousness,
Your descendants are avenging the wrong way
How is justice carried out by sinful acts?
As true and clear
Poor soldier, he can’t see

2- What is he thinking?
That Palestinian young as dawn
Tying death explosions around his waist
Those made by ignorant hands
Attached to a body of no brains
And a heart with a 60 years wound
Made fresh every morning
A school boy whose homework became
house wrecking
Lest he reconsiders
Young as a rose, old as a rose could be
No one can give him eyes to believe
For seeing is innate, not made

3- Who is god?
Is he mute, or his language is of no words?
People dressing in kaki and marching
Rambling lines, they believe, of that god
Some rhyme and some are best values
Of a rather understandable religion:
Humanity
Moses, Christ and Mohammed
What have you done?
Respecting no making of that god
When people commit suicide
On behalf of each other; genocide
In the name of “a wrong set right”
What kinds of eyes do those people have?
With an iris black and a white blank-literary
Someone’s heaven is the other’s hell
Yet, earth is the reality of it

Nobody can make anybody SEE
Nobody can make anybody SEE

2 journal entries from a lifetime ago

3.3.99

On the train leaving Zürs for Regensburg with Duncan. Two days of skiing in the Alps definitely tops all other skiing I’ve ever done. These mountains are indeed magical with a certain flavor and texture which doesn’t lend itself well to a linguistic description.
I recall the ride into these mountains. As the train rounded a curve this “thing” exploded skywards from the earth with a silent, energetic, almost electric rapture for which I have no comparison. It was as if I were actually seeing the formation of this mountain, as if the earth’s plates were passively crashing together for time immemorial as I witnessed the terrestrial marriage force their relationship (their baby) towards the firmament.
The mountain energy thrives here as elsewhere, but not the same. I recall feeling or thinking that I belonged in the mountains, or perhaps that the mountains belong around me. Just now as I’m looking, watching in awe at the immensity, serenity and all other words unfit for description of these “things” I forget all else. My mind is to a shallow extent silenced, put at peace. My petty troubles seem to melt away into the snow that glistens with a soft morning greeting.
I speak to share this feeling, and not only does that fail, but I lose the feeling myself, and yet it takes but another brief glance to regain. A sense of adventure has, however feebly, befallen me on this trip. I recall trying to read, wanting to read on the way into Zürs, but the mountains would not allow me to concentrate. They kept saying, “Hey! Look at me! You may never see me again, but you can renew your damn book!” And so it was.
And now I’m noticing the pristine stream flowing through the valley. Fed by melted snow in a true winter wonderland, the water glows with an iridescent, pale green mixed with a tint of earth-brown creating a color I’ve not seen to date. Super pristine, or strangely polluted, the color is still extremely pleasant and enjoyable to experience.



3.9.99

And now that I’m in Füssen, at the foot of the Alps once again, I see this warm aqua-marine green glowing from the cold color stream that gently swims by. The ride over was grey and numb just like my emotions, but when I stepped off the train I was greeted with a nice sunshine hello, and immediately my mood brightened. (What will it take to “observe” this state of perception which is due to external conditions instead of always just noticing it in passing which will never give anything?)
So, I locked my things up in the hostel and strolled through the town for hours. I sat on the river bank watching the ducks swim about, trying to lure them over to me, but in vain. Probably because I didn’t have any bread to feed them. I bought postcards, looked in shops, bought fruit at a market, and visited a couple churches, in both of which I was the sole visitor at the time.
And now I’m at the highest point in the Füssen park where there is not a soul to be seen, and hardly a car to be heard. I’m simply writing quietly in my journal letting myself be serenaded by the birdsongs whirling about me in anticipation of spring while the luminescent river below washes itself blissfully as it winds through the valley of magic.

Reason to Vote

“Why should I vote? I don’t keep track of politics. The whole system is a bunch of bullshit anyway. You can’t tell me it makes much of a difference if a Republican or a Democrat is in office. Big business and special interest own both sides. It’s just a different set of people getting rich. There’s still going to be poor, unemployed, and homeless. Wars will still happen, and money will still rule the world. I show my disapproval by not voting. My vote is not to take part in the process.”
I have heard a variation of this argument my whole adult life. I have a strong voting record. A month after I turned 18 the Clinton-Dole election took place. I cast my vote and took part in the process. I swallowed the rhetoric. I accepted that a democratic society required its citizens to participate. The specifics were for others to worry about. Voting was enough for me.
Anyone’s development and maturation is a process. Mine took especially long as it was hamstrung by alcohol and drugs. I was discovering the limits of my body and mind, so I wouldn’t harm myself in later years. All the while I did my patriotic duty. I voted in primaries, general elections, local school board elections, and the election for the greatest athlete of the twentieth century (I voted for Dan Gable. He didn’t even make the top 50).
I let one presidential election pass without voting. It was the 2000 Gore-Bush election. My reasons were similar to the above excuses. I didn’t mind Clinton, but I was upset about the Lewinsky scandal. It didn’t bother me that oral sex was performed in the Oval office or right before a meeting with a foreign head-of-state. I was upset that Clinton’s carelessness allowed our political process to come to an abrupt stop. One could blame this on the Republican, who do share culpability, but he should have known they were waiting for a scandal ever since they couldn’t make the pot-smoking, draft-dodger label stick during his first presidential election. If he has a penchant young, husky women, who am I to judge? But when his actions precipitate a governmental standstill, then I care. Gore was associated with him. Combined with his wife’s push to ban free speech (in the form of music), I didn’t want to vote for him. I didn’t want to vote for Bush either. To make that claim now seems an understatement, but at the time, I just saw him as a Republican pawn whose last name had political clout. I scoffed at his speeches and sound bites and privately believed his malapropisms would be his undoing. I never saw him as a war-monger or a seizer of civil liberties. My doubts were pacified when Dick Cheney joined the ticket. Collin Powell joined the Bush camp, too. I was sure that if the people chose Bush these men would prevent him from doing anything too drastic. Still, I wasn’t going to endorse him. Ralph Nader didn’t get his petition to my state before the deadline, so he wasn’t even an option. Nothing on the ticket excited me. Also, I was to be out of town that day, so an absentee ballot needed filing. In the end, I was too lazy.
This negligence didn’t stop me from encouraging others to vote. I did this in a very unobtrusive way. I didn’t pass out pamphlets or bumper stickers. Whenever politics came up in social situations, I asked people if they voted. If they said no, I asked them why not. If passive apathy was the reason, I informed on various government intrusions into everyday life and suggested that they should have a say. If it was active apathy, I told them the situation was “fucked up” because no one voted. I doubt I swayed either one, but I still felt better about encouraging others. This was civic responsibility to me. I was moderate. Fanaticism about anything turned me off. I didn’t want to be the person that everyone avoids because he breaks into a diatribe about his crusade with the slightest opening. Besides, a cause would interfere in my personal experiment.
Another election motivated me in a new direction in my life. Bush, the sequel, had me very depressed. I decided to move overseas. Teaching doesn’t pay much, but it does give you some options especially if you teach English. I should thank the British Empire, but I won‘t. I came to Cairo, Egypt. I still follow American politics, but now I have the luxury of avoiding it. I’m not assaulted by 24-hour news shows or ubiquitous campaign advertisements. Somehow, living in Egypt has taught me the real importance of voting. The democratic system is a mockery here in Egypt. It is no secret. It is a common theme in novels and movies. Children know it. No one grows up thinking about becoming political. If your family is in politics, you will be in politics. If your family isn’t in politics, then politics is no place for you.
Yesterday, I went to an Egyptian friend’s home for iftar, the traditional breaking-of-the-fast meal during Ramadan. As I am not Muslim, I was honored to join his family for the meal. Ramadan is holy month meant to bring families and other Muslims closer together by fasting from sunrise to sunset in sympathy with the poor people of the world. It may surprise some that they would invite a non-Muslim American to such a meal, but I find this is not rare at all. The Egyptians are a convivial people eager to be hospitable.
My friend, Mohamed, is a cab driver. He does well enough for himself. His family is in no peril of starving. Still, a great disparity in housing exist in Cairo. I knew his neighborhood would pale compared with the neighborhood my school provided me. He lives in a section of town called El Mohandaseen, a place known for its wealth and foreigners. Unfortunately, his neighborhood sit on the wrong side or the tracks, literally. As we crossed the bridge over the tracks, the smell became rank with sewage and the air heavy with pollution. It sits in a lowland that catches the spillover of waste from the more affluent part of town. The streets, alleys anywhere else, were rough and rutted , and standing water occupied the lowest areas. Cairo sits on the edge of a desert, and it hasn’t rained in the two months since I returned from the states. Therefore, I knew the water was coming from drain pipes that didn’t lead anywhere in particular. Not many foreigners make it to this part of town, so my roommate and my presence attracted the eyes of the residents. As with most poor people in the world, the neighborhood had its tell-tale signs of religiousness from the mosques to the manner of dress and facial hair. These were devout Muslims, yet as my roommate spoke his broken Arabic to citizens and we said the standard Arabic greetings, we were greeted with smiles that revealed a lack of a balanced diet and proper dental care. Getting out of Mohamed’s cab, I delicately tread across the ground in my sandals keeping to the high ground.
Mohamed lived on the fifth floor of his building. As you enter his flat, you enter a living room with a sofa against the far wall. A love seat and chair are to either side, and a coffee table sits in the middle of the arrangement. His youngest brother made this furniture. I found it befitting many Egyptian households. Across the room a television and refrigerator occupy the wall. The master bedroom and kitchen are off the north side of the living room while his son, 8, and daughter’s,15, bedroom is on the south wall. Through the children’s room, a small balcony provides a view of the building across the street and the street below. The bathroom is off the kitchen.
In typical Egyptian manner, Mohamed wife cooked a meal that could feed three times our number. The meal was heavy and delicious. I’m not fond of some Egyptian foods, but I could have eaten this meal often.
As we sat with full stomachs, I noticed Mohamed’s entire family had running noses and coughed regularly. Mohamed has always coughed, but he is a smoker. His son’s nose ran profusely. I started to think about the health conditions of this neighborhood. I started feeling hot, so when my roommate suggested stepping out to the balcony, I willingly went. Thinking that fresh air was to be found only showed our ignorance to their plight. The air only made me feel light-headed and sick. Soon, we went back inside.
Before we left, I used the bathroom. I saw a scene that would make most Americans call the sanitation department. The bathtub was full of water for the times when the water wasn’t running. When I entered, the water wasn’t running. The toilet appeared not to have flushed completely for some time. Feces, urine, and water in equal parts occupied the bottom of the bowl. I tried by best not to think or breathe or look. Just as I was about to flex my will power, water came back to the flat. Someone had left the water handle to the built in bidet turned on. Water shot out of the bowl all over me. Americans have a tendency to hyper-sanitize everything. In my first year living in Egypt, I constantly battled with this preoccupation. By year’s end, I had made progress. The progress made could not match the repulsiveness I felt at having water from the inside of that toilet bowl spray me, and an inner battle raged. All I could think of was getting home to wash my hands, but I didn’t want to offend my host. They invited me into their home and fed me during a time traditionally devoted to family, yet I was fighting a gag reflex. Fortunately, my roommate made the suggestion to leave.
On the way to the car, we saw a group of neighborhood kids who showed interest in our presence. Foreigners were rare, and they came to investigate. Their excitement amplified when they discovered we were Americans. They wanted to talk, but Mohamed sped away.
The ride home I thought about the night’s events. I was glad to leave for health reasons, but I could not help thinking about Mohamed and his family’s condition. I didn’t want to pity them. I don’t want people to pity me. Pity implies people are helpless or dependent somehow. Mohamed was a capable man. His family seemed happy. They talked and laughed. They enjoy life just as people in other neighborhoods across the world do. Nevertheless, resentment is a human reaction. Knowing his neighborhood doesn’t receive the same government services or healthcare as the more affluent neighborhoods has to cause some level of outrage.
These thoughts caused me to think about the situation on a larger level. Egypt takes the most U.S. Aid of any country behind Israel. Their current leader has been in power for more than a quarter of a century. He has maintained power by deflecting most of the country’s problems toward Israel and America. The American government doesn’t care about this as long as he acquiesces when given a command. As much money as American taxpayers give this country, they should possess some say about where that money goes. Instead, nothing is done, yet I look at Mohamed’s neighborhood as being a microcosm of America’s foreign problem. You have many poor Arab neighborhoods throughout the Middle-East. In the dissolution of life, many of them turn to Islam for a light or some kind of guidance. Often, it provides the only truth in these people’s lives. Combine this with the information they receive from their government telling them the reason there is so much pollution and economic instability is because America and Israel control the marketplace and world standards. Pile on the ideas from Muslim clerics that America is in Iraq and Afghanistan because it wants to wipe out Islam. This makes a grim assessment for the future. It doesn’t matter if you believe these facts to be completely false or a little true. It is what is happening, and as we have been told, perception is reality.
Instead of pitying people living in these kinds of situations when an election comes, get out and vote. Do it for Mohamed, his family, and his neighbors. Vote for those disenfranchised in the world. Vote knowing this election won’t immediately change the world for the better. Do it because you want elected leaders held accountable now and in the future. Let them know you are willing to vote in every election for the rest of your life because they cannot act on your behalf without consequences. Vote knowing the system is bullshit. Vote knowing that both side cater to special interest. But on behalf of Mohamed and those around the world like him, take time to study politics for none of us will spared its touch. By staying informed you also acknowledge people like Mohamed. They want to be acknowledged by Americans. Mohamed is truly helpless politically in this situation. It only seems like we Americans are. Vote demanding something better not something perfect. People en masse are a powerful force, and the people from the most powerful country in the world can be the most powerful force. When enough incumbents are voted out of office, both parties will understand the need to give people substance and not just sound bites. Even if you are apathetic, the rest of the world might not be. We can no longer let people tell the world what America wants without first going through the American people.

Dedicated to the one, true constant

Whole in One

Two walls on two sides.
nothingness outside,
somethingness in

Two halves in one wall,
and two in another
each matching each half’s single side brother


Four in all, they stand as two
-- a he and she, an I and you --
untold heights, a hard placeless floor,
with sumless fjord of innersection
therefore

Bookend vision, the only they know,
the outer with view of the harvest
the inner pent up in the sow,
but both of whom come pre-required

Statically vibrant-deep throughpiercing eyes
bend and accord to the form
and the size
of their constitutional capacity

Rounded sector, ovoidal necklace
that by all members is circumvested,
a means to a means, no end to the opus
deep nourishing food for the sage ion-quest

Is strange how walls ovate
can by their being bought create
an in-finite station of space,
every timeless point of which an open
door to newborn faces

And rememorantly unforgotten
that balance of the four is two yet one;
in fact ‘tis more than four,
a shoreless sea of more
while one it remains
its unity retaining
the sun’s riddle of itself

as circles only circling tend
to start
and with beginning end

the members deathless die to do
but what
their hearts conceive as truth

the poem feels the Alpha nigh
Omega
and therewith good-bye

Jesus Never Lived, says Columbia Grad Student

Mama teach us to love

Mama teach us to love

Mamas teach us to love
By their heavenly forgiveness.
Yet in these troubled times,
What seems in our dreams to be the things
Of timely need
Can’t reach into reality
And awake men from their sleep.

Mama, we need your guidance,
Mama, we need your mediation,
when brother unto brother
Delivers wounds after the pain of a fallen reign
Into the reichs of ideology, the ranks of the dispossessed,
And your cries and wails and screams of pain
Bemoan the blackness of men’s wrangling.

(Where were you when the sons of man
waged war on one another in desert sands-
drove death to the streets in Humvees
and Limousines parked in phat oases,
Sucking your lifeblood from the ground
to power his Power and put his brother down?)

Mama, we need you with us,
Mama we need your care,
Homes are so lonely-
our sisters are starting to disappear
Disappear into the vacuity of getting and taking and making all Mine,
And your cries and wails and screams of pain

absent.

Mama, you taught me to love
Dear Mama, you taught me to forgive-
and live withal.

With All.

H. Ball

Please post one piece of writing before Friday's meeting.

Hello fellow shepherds. We'll be meeting at Flat 10 in Masr El Gedida on October 12 after sunset. Bring at least two works you would like to see published here. Also, I recommend bringing some current piece for evaluation. Ramadan karim, and may peace be with you.