Category — Culture

 The Corporation’s New Clothes

LA resolution puts people first

By Eleanor Goldfield

Unlike most days when my lungs are filled with smog, and my east coast tongue twitches with curt, smart ass one-liners to spew at unsuspecting “dudes” and “dudettes,” today I am very proud to live in LA. December 6^th 2011: Los Angeles becomes the first major US city to pass a resolution stripping corporations of their constitutional personhood rights. And, as a side note, it’s my 25^th birthday. Not too shabby of a birthday gift. The vote was unanimous: 11-0. The line of supporters ran out the door and coiled around the block as if Splash Mountain had temporarily relocated to the statuesque old Hollywood glamour of LA City Hall.

Move to Amend, the organization that put forth the resolution, has gained significant ground in the past few months. The LA chapter co-chair, Mary-Beth Fielder (who was recently interviewed on KPFK as well as MSNBC discussing the resolution vote, as well as the foundations and goals of the group) spoke emotionally after the vote.

“This is an incredibly historic day. Los Angeles is the first major city in the United States to call for a Constitutional Amendment to clearly establish that only human beings are entitled to constitutional rights and that money is not the same as free speech…”

“This is putting us back in control,” she said on KPFK a few days earlier, “giving us the power to regulate corporations in the way we see fit.”

The idea of us, we, the people, being back in control is at the core of Move to Amend’s agenda. It is also, interestingly enough, what is behind the Occupy movement. That correlation is a major reason why Move to Amends numbers have grown from the teens to the hundreds recently. I say interestingly enough because one would think that with all the national and international attention this movement has garnered, they would be the ones using that press to infiltrate the legislative branch of government, pushing pens into politicians’ hands and demanding the rights and freedoms of people be held above the bottom line, above any query regarding pizza as a vegetable.

As you may have noticed, if you’ve followed the movement, there has been much talk but little change. The powers that be haven’t nervously acquiesced to anything. The power of the people has not risen in any form due to the tents or tenets of the Occupy camps. The good intentions of Occupiers have been tarnished by lack of organization and vague goals, something that has either pushed people away or brought people to groups such as Move to Amend. In a way Occupy has given the movements such as Move to Amend the fanfare and show they needed to grow – the same way one gains the attention of a 2-year-old with a flashy toy.

Now, the soggy, torn up grass of my local Occupy LA camp is not what one would term flashy. In its 50-some odd days, the camp can easily be compared to any tragic Hollywood starlet − starting off shiny and new, full of hope and promise. But without guidance, fading into a fleeting image adorning nostalgic coffee houses, whispering among the who’s whos until the name fades, the memory a soft impression on a bygone era.

The first march drew thousands, each subsequent march clawing at the 1,000 mark and dwindling from there. And those are the marches that came to fruition. Some nationally planned Occupy marches just didn’t happen due to lack of organization and planning. Now, with the Occupy movement at a crossroads of fight or flight, these outside movements are picking up steam and using that first flash of recognition to catapult into the political spotlight.

* * * 

On your typical November LA morning, the sun shining, a soft breeze and a comfortable temperature of 65/70, I made my third visit to the north side of the Occupy LA camp in less than a half hour. As I irritatingly turned the corner around a tent with a Ron Paul sign out front, I noticed a middle-aged man give a slight chuckle as he lit his cigarette.

“Looking for something?” he asked, shoving his hand back into his pocket and taking a deep puff.

“Well yeah. I’m trying to organize for my band to play and I keep getting bounced around like a damn pin ball. It’s ironically similar to a corporate call center.”

Move to Amend panel, Occupy LA

That produced a deep laugh. At the time, I didn’t find it funny at all. Trying to push back to solemnity I asked if he knew who I could talk to. He shrugged, sighed and scratched his unkempt beard. “I live here and still don’t know who’s in charge. Because no one is. Bitching about something isn’t the same as doing something about it. Right now we’re just bitching − in tents. I support coz I believe in the cause. But I don’t see it lasting much longer if we can’t get our act together.”

As I looked around, surveying a scene of mixed messages and little kinetic energy to speak of, I knew he was right. Not quite knowing how to respond, I returned his shrug and tried one last time to find the head of the arts committee who according to two people, but not the third, was also the head of the first aid tent. I left not too long after, seemingly with less information than I had come over with.

I live in downtown LA, about a 5-minute walk from the Occupy site, and of the dozen or so times that I went over there, I was, more often than not, disappointed when I left. Like the man I spoke to, I believe in this movement. I have based an entire band on it. I write, sing and work for the goal of a government of the people, by the people and for the people. But Occupy LA was not this movement.

Occupy LA was a collection of varied opinions, bound together by nothing more than geography and the manufactured feeling of community that a camping trip brings. It may sound harsh, but let’s be realistic. A leaderless movement has no future. The Occupy movement’s official stance on this states that they are a “not a leaderless movement, but a movement of leaders,” which to me sounds even worse. That’s like throwing a bunch of alpha males into a tent and seeing what they come up with. Probably not a clear cut plan of action…

A movement with no clear goals or plans for reaching those goals loses steam before the coals get hot. Bringing people together is a commendable feat. But once they’re there, what are you going to do with them? I first walked over, flag in hand, a journal full of ideas and plans, from events and shows to elections and business planning. At one of the GA’s someone suggested that our main focus be composting. Another time someone stopped me and asked if I would give my life for a communist nation. And still another time someone asked me if I’d like to fuck for peace. No joke.

Now, I’m not trying to come down too hard on these people. I thoroughly believe that people should believe whatever the hell they want to. And I commend the people in the Occupy movement who have worked hard, who have tried for change. But with that cluster fuck blueprint, significant political change is impossible. Not all these beliefs can live under the same movement. There is a communist movement. I’m sure there’s a fuck for peace movement somewhere, as well. But this movement, this idea based on our rights as US citizens, our freedoms and liberties, our future as a republic − this movement seeks to completely rework the corrupted and viciously powerful government corporation our nation has become. That’s one helluva tall order. And that order requires, no, it demands, fierce organization, determination and planning.

* * *

That said, the Occupy movement is invaluable. It may be about as organized as a mosh pit, but it has valuable attributes that can not be overlooked. Whether it means to or not, it makes use of the entertainment medium. Having been an activist for quite some time, my eureka moment came when I thought of adding my passion of music to my passion of political and social involvement.

Move to Amend isn’t trendy, it isn’t chic. It is what political movements should be: straightforward, determined and organized. However, that doesn’t always up your numbers. In all reality, people may say they give a damn, but until they’re either forced to or seduced, they don’t. Forced to is an awkward situation that either presents itself through a total national meltdown (not that I’m striking that from the list of possibilities) or literal force.

Neither one is something a peace loving movement should be aiming for. That leaves seduction. In the 1960s, it was literal seduction: Jim Morrison’s leather pants, Woodstock, mind opening drugs that just made you wanna dance and make out. But, be careful lest the seduction become more fascinating than the goal itself. The more solemn Civil Rights movement passed ground breaking legislation. The peace movement limped away from an arrogant government’s blood soaked retreat, embittered and hungover. But what if, looking at both strategies, we could intertwine the entertaining seduction of the peace movement with the solemn, heroic stand of the civil rights movement? If we let organizations like Move to Amend temper and focus the thrills and frills of the Occupy Movement…

Let’s learn from the past and avoid its mistakes. In the aftermath of the civil rights and peace movements, a visionary, one president and one presidential hopeful had been murdered. A war had been lost, embarrassingly so. The burnt draft cards and noble stands did not make up for the lack of diplomacy or intelligence in the halls of the mighty. The legislation of the civil rights movement was a shining positive. It came towards the end of an era, the end of a time when our country concerned itself with the rights and freedoms of its people. The haze of the late ’60s and early ’70s left the country with a sour taste in its mouth, and a depressive disdain not only for government but for popular culture. As if it were a last hurrah, the civil rights legislation signaled a move away from political and social involvement and towards apathy and distrust. Consider the timely beginnings of Neo-conservatism, free market experimentation and freedom crusades (i.e. South America in the early-mid 1970s).

Now, I don’t mean to write a lecture on the history of our fuck-ups. I’d merely like to point out that our history is the foundation for this movement. Our constitutional rights, our pitfalls and victories as citizens dictate the fight we are undertaking.

Keeping Fear Alive

There is a quote by Penn Warren, used by my father in one of his books, and used by my mother in a painting that still hangs in the living room – I can recall passing it many times as a child, and being drawn to the rough edges of the papyrus paper she used, the strong profile of my father paralleled to that of a Syrian king. I can recall dissecting the quote, filtering it through my mind each year, further wrapping its meaning with my own history, patiently pondering as if it were a philosophical treasure map: “If you could not accept the past and its burden, there was no future, for without one there can not be the other, and if you could accept the past, you might hope for the future, for only out of the past can you make the future.”

Out of our collective history, let us make a better future.

This isn’t about one war, or one right. This is about all our wars, and all our rights. This is about everything that trickles down from the corporate peaks of a stolen government. So let us use all of our talents. Let’s seduce those who see this fight either as a hippie commune party or a droll gathering of intellectuals.

I sing, I write, I speak. There are those who make people laugh (Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert), those who lecture, those who teach. Every American has some way of contributing, because every American’s future is tightly tied to the path of this movement. Every American has a different way of joining − a different way they can be seduced. I’ve had people come up to me after shows and say they are not political at all, but wow that’s fucked up about the corporations. I’ve had people come with me to marches because they thought I was good looking. They might leave with blue balls but I’m happy to say every one has left with more knowledge and a spark to dig deeper.

Not everyone is cut out to be the one at the front, carrying signs and shouting slogans. I’m not. But understand that the march isn’t what the movement is about. It’s merely a means.

Let’s make it clear. As with the civil rights movement, we need legislation. Marches and protests are great but they are not the be all, end all. Concerts and events are fantastic ways of spreading the word to people outside your circle, but they are not the point of the movement. We need to push for our rights, not as some ethereal trend but as a tangible, concrete demand. It needs to be written, and it needs to be remembered.

We too easily get caught up in the Woodstock-esque charm of a campground, and veer off the path to change. Stay with it. Don’t take any victory, any freedom or any right for granted. If we don’t care enough to take back our country, why should it be given to us? “A republic madam, if you can keep it,” was Ben Franklin’s famous response to a woman asking what form of government the Constitutional Convention had decided upon.

Right now, we’re not keeping it. We’ve lost it. We’re fighting to get it back.

* * *

The Occupy movement didn’t fight. They weren’t that movement. Now maybe they will be. The tents may have left to make way for the real occupation; the occupation that will not sit down, not disappear from the political stages of this nation until we, the people, have gained our rightful place as the deciding force behind the government of the United States.

Eric Garcetti

Together with organizations such as Move to Amend, we will take our country back, our rights; with organization and the clear cut goal of amending the constitution to firmly place we, the people, as the sole beneficiaries of constitutional personhood rights. At the post-vote press conference on December 6th, Council President Eric Garcetti, who first introduced this amendment to LA City Council said, “Every struggle to amend the constitution began as just a group of regular Americans who wanted to end slavery, who thought women should vote, who believed that if you’re old enough to be drafted, you should be old enough to vote. These are how American amendments move forward from the grassroots when Americans say enough is enough. We’re very proud to come together and send a message but more than that, this becomes the official position of the City of Los Angeles, we will officially lobby for this. I also chair a group which oversees all the Democratic mayors and council members in the country and we’re going to share this with all our 3,000 members and we hope to see this start here in the west and sweep the nation until one day we do have a constitutional amendment which will return the power to the people.”

Yes. That is the hope. That is the inspiration. That is our duty as Americans. Occupy your place in this country. Occupy the story of your citizenship. This country was great because of the people who made it so. It falls because we allow it to. It can only be lifted by the people, we, the people.

Whatever your contribution will be, whatever seduces you to this movement, this is our time, this is our fight. This is now. This is us. We, the people. In liberty and justice we trust. Think. React. Do Something.

About the author:

Eleanor Goldfield is a singer, songwriter and political activist. She is the vocalist for Rooftop Revolutionaries, comprised of Brian Marshak/lead guitar; Karim Elghobasi/bass; Lamar Little/drums. An interview with Goldfield by Ragazine Politics Editor Jim Palombo appeared in the September-October issue of Ragazine (Vol. 7, No. 5). See/hear more at:

www.rooftoprevolutionaries.com, and http://rooftoprevolutionaries.blogspot.com/ .

Occupy Resources:

http://movetoamend.org

Recognize this?

The Postmodern Economic-Social Principals

of Why Everyone Is Such a F**king A**hole

By Scott “Galanty” Miller

 Myth #1: As a society, we’re closer than ever now because of the Internet and other forms of mass media. We’re all “connected”.

Define “closer”. Define “connected”. Millions of people are “connected” to Kim Kardashian. They follow her on Twitter. They watch her television programs. They wear her clothing line. They read about her personal life. But are they “close” to Kim Kardashian? No. They’re not. I watched Kim Kardashian’s wedding on TV. I didn’t see you there. You weren’t invited. You and Kim Kardashian aren’t close.

The Internet connects us in superficial ways, via the exchange of information. But yet the Internet pulls us farther apart emotionally. It separates us. Why? Because it’s big. It’s vast.

Have you ever had to relay sad news to someone? It’s difficult. It’s an emotional experience. But now let’s say you had to give sad news to fifty people today. It’s difficult the first time… and then the second time… and maybe the third time. But by the time you’ve reached the fiftieth person of the day? Your emotions and compassion and your ability-to-empathize have faded. And your feelings of “I have an emotional connection to this person” shift to “I have a craving for burritos. Is Taco Bell still open?” By the time you’ve reached the fiftieth person of the day, you’re just phoning it in. Hence, we have the expression “phoning it in”, which means, essentially, “lacking emotional interest in whatever activity in which you are engaged”. And the Internet is – figuratively and literally – a big cell phone.

Myth #2: As a society, we’re more compassionate than ever now because of the Internet and other forms of mass media.

A story came out about a dolphin that lost its fin in an accident. So engineers built a prosthetic fin. That’s compassion. A Disney movie was produced, based on this true event. And that’s nice. But this is an individual example of the human spirit, our species’ biological ability to feel and display compassion and kindness. This is not “society”. Society is much more powerful than ‘biology’. Society guides us. It teaches us.  Society is “The Cove”, a 2009 documentary film about the annual, inhumane dolphin slaughter inJapan. Biologically, human beings have the ability to understand – to “feel” – this cruelty. So then why are people such a**holes? Because we’re being guided by a corporate “Internet” society. And this technological economy has no compassion. It can’t. The economy doesn’t have the biological ability to “feel”. Our economic system doesn’t even have a biology.

Compassion requires an emotional connection. All human relationships require an emotional connection of some kind. Otherwise, the relationship is not of humanity. It’s just a “goal”. The direct and indirect interactions we have with other people within the massive global economic system are not relationships. They’re goals. If one purchases a picture frame from Amazon.com, there are several people involved: the customer who wants to buy the frame, the Amazon employee who puts wraps the frame and ships it, the subcontracted worker in some factory in a foreign country who makes the frame. These people are superficially connected, but they don’t really have a “relationship” with each other. Instead, they each have a  goal. One person’s goal is to buy the frame. Another person’s goal is to ship the frame. As it relates to achieving their goals, these people have no emotional connection to each other. They don’t know anything about each other. As it relates to achieving their goals, they don’t really think about one another’s existence. And you can’t show compassion towards someone if you don’t know they exist.

The Hallmark Company employs writers to come up with generic words of sympathy. And they’re nice words. But do these writers actually feel anything when they string together these words? Can you mass-market sympathy for people who may or may not even exist? (I suspect that while Hallmark sells many sympathy cards, many of those same cards never wind up getting bought or used.)

Now, of course, within our own private social media world, we are aware of the people to whom we’re technologically connected. But they’re not so much living, breathing human beings as they are pictures and words on a screen. And so the compassion we show is a façade. If one announces the death of his or her mother on Facebook, hundreds of Facebook “friends” – many of whom the person hasn’t seen in years, if ever – will respond with words of compassion. But can they actually feel compassion here? Perhaps. But how authentic can this sort of compassion possibly be? One of my Facebook friends was the victim of domestic abuse. She updated her status to announce, only minutes after the real event occurred, that her husband had been taken away in police custody. Dozens of her Facebook friends added “like” to her status. “Human compassion” now amounts to the 1.5 seconds required to press the “like” tab.

Myth #3: Corporations can operate with compassion and heart.

No. Corporations don’t have compassion. Corporations don’t know compassion. By definition, any human emotion interferes with the goal of the corporation. A corporation isn’t a human being. And now, a corporation isn’t even a building or a logo or a product. Corporate America – this landscape ruled by technological machinery – is a system whose only goal is to maximize profits.

Think of it this way. How does a calculator work? A calculator is designed to achieve its goals. Any sort of “human emotion” would interfere with this goal. If you input “2+2=” into a calculator, the machine is designed to achieve its goal, which is to find the mathematic answer to the equation. (The answer is “4”, by the way.) The calculator doesn’t think about why you’re inputting this unsolved equation. The calculator doesn’t have the ability – it isn’t designed with the ability – to “think” in this way. And even if it did have the ability to think in this way, it still wouldn’t take time to ponder the “why”. Because that would slow down the process… of achieving its goal. The calculator doesn’t make moral decisions about the equation. Perhaps you want to find the mathematical answer to “2+2=” in order to help you plan out a bank robbery, or a quadruple homicide. It doesn’t matter. The calculator doesn’t care. The calculator doesn’t make moral judgments. The calculator can’t have a “morality”.

Now, human beings have emotions. And human beings are using the calculator. They are operating the calculator. But this makes no difference to the system by which the calculator achieves its goals. Whether a person is nice or mean-spirited, compassionate or heartless, the calculator still operates in the same way. The way by which the calculator solves “2+2=” is the exact same. The speed by which the calculator solves “2+2=” is the exact same. A human being’s emotions are irrelevant to how the calculator functions.

When a driver cuts you off in traffic, he or she is generally not basing this action on emotion. Rather, you are simply in the way of the other driver’s goal – which is to reach their destination as quickly and conveniently as possible. Think of a calculator as that driver. The calculator is a selfish a**hole.

The economy guides society. This is inescapable. Even if you live in isolation, you’re still under the influence of the system by which K-Mart and Burger King and ‘Bed, Bad & Beyond’ operate. The economy guides human beings. And the economy is a giant, global-reaching calculator that controls us.

Group Size vs. The Postmodern Corporate System

Have you ever been the first guest to arrive at a party? (That happened to me once. And, as it turned out, I was also the only guest at the party. This was not a good party.) When you’re the first guest at a party, you converse with the host. And if the host is a good friend, this one-on-one conversation is sometimes very personal, emotional. Maybe your mother has been ill. The host will ask you about your mother. And you’ll spend a few minutes discussing how this illness has affected you personally.

Then a couple more people arrive to the party. If you don’t know them, you’ll introduce yourself. And so now this group of four people – you, the host, and these two new arrivals – is having one united conversation. (“2+2=4”) At this point, you will have stopped talking about your mother’s illness because it’s too “personal” to share within this bigger group, especially since you barely know some of the people in the group. As the group grows, you’re already losing personal, emotional connections.

This group of four people generally engages in conversation in the living room or the kitchen. At parties, guests tend to gravitate towards the kitchen.

Then three more people arrive at the party. Once again, even if you don’t know them, you’ll introduce yourself. And now there are seven people at the party. Yet, the party still consists of a single, united (though larger) group. And the group still engages in one united conversation. And the group still forms a pseudo-circle, with each individual knowingly taking a spot within the perimeter of the circle. And the group remains in the living room or in the kitchen.

After the ninth or tenth person arrives at the party, though, that big group starts to break down, figuratively and literally. The big, united conversation transforms into several different, separate conversations within the group… usually depending on the distance the guests are standing from each other. Partygoers become disconnected with the people in the group that are farther away. Guests begin having individual or smaller conversations with the one or two other people standing next to them. Also, guests start exiting from the original party circle; they leave the living room or kitchen and go to different rooms and areas, where they continue with their individual conversations.

There is a reason for this party dynamic. It’s not coincidental. Rather, it’s impossible to sustain a human connection with ten people at one time. It’s impossible to connect on any sort of real emotion level with ten people at once. Because not only are you talking to nine other people at once. But those other nine people are also talking to nine people at once. And this amounts to thousands of different interactions.

This party dynamic explains the corporate takeover of global society. This party dynamic explains Wal-Mart’s rise to power. And within this corporatization, human compassion has given way to emotionless goals.

Dyads and Triads 

A dyad is a social group between two members. A dyad is, by definition, the smallest possible social group of human beings; it’s the smallest possible “society”. Less than two people is just one person. One person by him or herself is not a society. Rather, it’s social isolation.

A dyad is, by definition, the most emotionally and personally intense and intimate social group that can exist. It’s the most emotional. It’s the most intimate. It’s the most personal social group. But a dyad is almost the most unstable social group. It’s the least stable.

A marriage is a dyad. A marriage consists of two people: a husband and a wife. (Or a ‘husband and a husband’ or a ‘wife and a wife’, depending on which state you live.) A marriage is very personal, emotional, intimate. The kinds of things that you do with your spouse behind closed doors is much more intimate and personal than the kinds of things you do with, say, your co-worker. But yet a marriage is also very unstable. Because if just one person leaves the marriage, the marriage will disintegrate. Hence, the divorce rate is so high. (See? All topics always come back to Kim Kardashian.)   

Two friends together make up a dyad. And two friends together are more intimate, more personal, they’ll share more secrets… than if a group of five friends are together. But a dyad is unstable. For example, if you’re meeting just one friend out to dinner, and that person cancels at the last minute, then there is no dinner. On the other hand, if you’re meeting five friends out for dinner, and one of those friends cancels at the last minute… then you’ll still go out with this group of four other people.

A triad is a social group consisting of three people. In other words, a triad is bigger than a dyad.

A triad is more stable than a dyad. But it’s not as emotionally intense. It’s not as personal.

If a married couple is meeting with a marriage counselor, this is a triad: a husband, a wife, and the marriage counselor. Of course, it’s not as personally intimate as a dyad. A married couple isn’t going to do the same things behind closed doors (or, for that matter, even argue with as much emotional passion) as they would in their counselor’s office.  But a triad is more stable. For example, if one of the spouses gets upset during the marital consultation, and he or she leaves the office, a group still exists: the other spouse and the counselor.

A family of three – a husband, a wife, and a child – make up a triad. The emotional atmosphere is not as intense as if the couple were alone. The couple is not going to do and say the same sort of things in front of their child as if they were alone. But this group of three is more stable. Because if the father walks out on his family, the family still exists: the mother and her child.

The point? As a social group grows bigger, it becomes more stable. But as a social group grows bigger, it becomes less personal. A triad is not as personal as a dyad, but it’s more stable. A group of ten people is not as personal as a triad, but it’s more stable. Thousands of people together are not as personal as a group of ten, but “thousands of people together” is more stable. A corporation is “thousands of people together”. Hence, the biological aspects of human compassion, emotions, are irrelevant within a corporation. Hence, a corporation isn’t really human at all.

This has been the basis for economic change over the past 30 years. Corporations – giant, unfeeling groups – have taken over the economic landscape, leaving smaller businesses irrelevant. Individually-owned, independently operated businesses, “Mom & Pop Stores”, were personal. Everyone working in the store knew each other by their first names. But those small stores and businesses weren’t stable. Wal-Mart isn’t personal. If you work at Wal-Mart, you don’t know the other two-million employees within the corporation. You’re not going to know their names. You can’t know all of their names. But Wal-Mart survives for this very reason; Wal-Mart is big and stable and it is guided, not by individual emotion, but by its system, it’s goal.

Take, for example, a small, individually-owned business: “Joe’s Diner”. The purpose of “Joe’s Diner” is not to grow larger. Rather, Joe, the owner, operates the business with the goal of maintaining a steady, consistent profit margin and keeping the diner afloat. Plus, Joe, a human being, probably has other goals irrelevant of profit. For example, perhaps Joe wants to cook and prepare the food in the way he thinks best. Or maybe he enjoys maintaining the aesthetics of the diner’s interior; he hangs up photographs and wall art that have special meaning to him. And maybe Joe works to keep his business alive because it has a history in the community; all the folks in town have fond memories of eating at Joe’s place, and this is important to Joe. This is human emotion. But today, as a necessity to how corporations fulfill their singular goal – to be as profitable as possible, as efficiently as possible – these goal must take precedence over any real emotional, human connection.

Corporations are becoming more and more automated and impersonal. And as the economy guides society, human lives become more impersonal. The economy – this aspect of society – is, in the bigger picture, changing who we are.

The world of “Joe’s Diners” is fading. McDonald’s and Wendy’s and Pizza Hut have taken over. Take, for example, McDonald’s. McDonald’s is, by definition, a robotic system in which corporate stability comes ahead of people. McDonald’s, in order to maintain itself as a profit-making system, must keep corporate stability ahead of the individual needs and emotional of people… because people are always leaving McDonald’s. Low-level employees are constantly leaving McDonald’s. Middle-managers are constantly leaving McDonald’s. Not even the McDonald’s CEO remains the same. But yet… McDonald’s remains stable.

Conduct a five-year social study. Today, go to a nearby McDonald’s. The restaurant will have a certain “look” about it. The system used within the restaurant, like how you order your food, will be very specific. The food will have a certain taste. Five years from now, go to that same McDonald’s. The staff will be different. In five years, many, if not most, of the employees working there now will be gone. But, yet, five years from now, the restaurant will have the same generic “look”. The system used within that McDonald’s will be the same. The food will still taste the same.

“Joe’s Diner” has a certain look. But if Joe retires and someone takes over the restaurant, it will start to look different. The new owner will add his or her own personal, human touch to the diner. The new owner’s human emotions will play a factor in how the diner operates and changes. (And if the diner, now under new management, doesn’t change, it is will mostly likely be in honor of Joe. But, still, the human element plays a part.) If Joe dies, and someone else takes over the restaurant from him, the food will start to taste different. The new owners, the new cooks, will add their own personal food-preparation touches.

At McDonald’s, all of this is irrelevant. If McDonald’s introduces a new CEO tomorrow, then McDonald’s hamburgers will still taste the same tomorrow. And all corporations – all the goods and services that we use – operate in this way. Corporate stability takes precedence over humanity.

This is not to say that corporations don’t engage in charitable endeavors. But even this charity lacks any sort of human element. Corporations donate money, for example, based on how the donation functions within the corporation’s system of purpose. In other words, corporations aren’t created for the purposes of making donations to charitable foundations.

Here’s another way of putting it…

Corporations don’t give money to charity based on any sort of human element within the corporation. Pizza Hut donates a certain amount of money each year. The Pizza Hut CEO is irrelevant of this aspect of the corporate system. If Pizza Hut introduces a new CEO this year, the charitable aspect of the restaurant chain won’t really change. Pizza Hut will still give essentially the same monetary amounts to essentially the same charities as it did the year before. The new CEO’s emotions, his or her own interests and creativity, doesn’t play a factor. So when Pizza Hut donates to charity, it is reminiscent of people pressing the “like” tab after my Facebook friend’s abusive husband was arrested. It’s fake compassion. There is no real human element to it.

This “like tab” culture is socializing and affecting us – all of us. Regardless of whether you eat at McDonald’s, we’re still unable to escape the corporate element that it represents. We see it. We’re surrounded by it. We’re engulfed within it. And we’re becoming a robotic people numb to new ideas and afraid of change and without any creativity. We’re changing as we’re being guided by this alienating economic system.

“Everyone is a F**king A**hole Now” vs. The Corporate System

Ask anyone if they ever worked in a small, individually-owned store or restaurant or business. If they did, ask them if they knew the name of their boss – not their manager, but their boss, the person who owned the business. Ask them if their boss knew their name.  In all likelihood, the answer to these questions will be “yes”.

Now ask anyone if they ever worked in a big-chain, corporate business, like KFC or Target or Bank of America. If they did, ask them if they knew the name of their boss – not their manager, but their boss, the CEO of the corporation. More times than not, the answer will be “no”. Then ask them if their boss knew their name. The answer will almost always be “no”.

Let’s say you have a job, you work for a business, and you get sick for a month. If you and your boss know each other, if you and your boss know each other’s name, then of course your boss will be more understanding of your situation. That’s humanity. We feel compassion for those to whom we are emotionally connected.  Now, if you get sick and your boss has no idea who you are, and he or she doesn’t know your name, and he or she never even sees you… then he won’t care and he’ll have no problem replacing you. That’s human nature. We don’t care about what we don’t know exists.

Of course, giant corporations generally have some sort of employee health plan. But this health plan works within the structure of the system. It’s a necessary aspect of the goal of the corporation. There is no individual human emotion to any corporate health plan. There is no corporation inAmericatoday whose health plan includes a personal visit from the CEO, just to “see how you’re doing”.

If you’re close to someone – if you’re in a dyad relationship – the person means something to you emotionally. If you’re not close to someone – if you’re living within the system of a corporation, surrounded by millions of coworkers – then the person doesn’t mean anything to you emotionally. This is the nature of human beings and all living creatures.

In order to fulfill this goal, corporations must continue to grow. Corporations must continue to get bigger and to grow more powerful and to multiply their profit margins. The corporation is, by definition, a system of economic growth. The human beings that occupy the corporation are irrelevant. The individuals within the corporation come and go. But the system remains. Only a human being can say, “Our profits are growing at the expense of the environment, so let’s change the system and slow things down.” Only a person can say, “Our Corporation’s goal is causing the social ennui of this community, so we should change our goals.” Without the human element, the system remains.

That corporations have become global enterprises is simply an inevitable product of the corporation’s growth. And every corporation is global now. Every corporation is part of the international community now, if only indirectly. Perhaps there are no Wal-Marts, yet, in third-world nations around the world. But Wal-Mart’s influence is still felt world-wide. Most of the products sold at Wal-Mart are not domestic. Wal-Mart merchandise is made throughout the world, sometimes under hazardous conditions, by people none of us will ever know or see. Do you know the name of the person who made the oven mitt you bought at Wal-Mart? And make no mistake about it – these people do work for Wal-Mart. The foreigners making this merchandise are basically indirect Wal-Mart employees. And these employees are not working under any kind health plan from Wal-Mart. That’s because to offer healthcare coverage to workers, when it’s not legally or socially required, when it doesn’t harm the public relations of the corporation, contradicts the profit-making system set into place. (It’s not entirely impossible that the CEO of Wal-Mart would visit one of the company’s stores in a different state and meet with some of the lower-level employees. But I’d bet Kim Kardashian’s fortune that no CEO of any major American superstore has traveled oversees to visit the workers in the subcontracted factories who are making the stuff that his American stores sell for profit.)

Now let’s say one of these foreign Wal-Mart employees accidentally cuts off his or her hand while operating an unsafe factory machine. Of course, the worker has no healthcare coverage. Do you care? Well, in theory, of course, decent human beings are saddened by suffering. So then why don’t you care? Because you don’t know that this worker exists. You don’t know them. You don’t see them. There is no personal touch, no human element, to the products that they make – that we use. These people don’t have names. And, regardless of how compassionate a person you may be, we still can’t have compassion for what we don’t understand exists. That’s human nature.

* * *

“Why is everyone such a prick?” is not a rhetorical question. There is an answer. Human beings are social creatures. We’re not “biological” creatures. This means that we’re dependent on society, on our social surroundings. And society is teaching us to be unfeeling and uncaring. Society, which is now a vast global corporate system that is virtually impossible to escape, engulfs us. The Wal-Mart worker who cut off his hand and has no healthcare coverage? That happened. This person exists. That suffering is real. And we’re all surrounded by this reality. When you’re surrounded by kindness and compassion, you’ll be kind & compassionate. When you’re surrounded by suffering, it affects you, It affects all of us – subtly, subconsciously, indirectly. You don’t have to know a person’s name, you don’t have to know that suffering is happening, to be affected by that nameless human being’s suffering.

In other words…

If we have no personal connection to people, then we’re not going to care if something bad happens to them. But if bad things are happening to people, and nobody cares, then the world becomes a lesser place. And when we live in a lesser place, we become lesser people. We become, for lack of a better term, a**holes.

The other day, I read an article about high school Internet bullying. We keep hearing about children committing suicide due to the harassment they endure on-line. It’s not that on-line bullying is worse than physical, in-person bullying. It’s that it’s less emotionally-connected.

If a child is bullying a classmate in person, on the playground, in the parking lot, and then the victim takes out a gun and he or she puts it in his mouth, well… I suspect that at that point, most bullies would stop what they were doing, at least at that moment. (It doesn’t matter if the bully feels compassion or not. Rather, the bully is going to stop because they can see the severity of the situation. They don’t want to get into trouble.) But if a teenager is bullying a classmate on-line, on Facebook, and the victim has a gun in his or her mouth… well, the bully doesn’t know that the victim is about to commit suicide. The bully has no emotional connection to his or her victim. So the bully isn’t going to stop the harassment.

Technology and the corporate growth have brought us all together globally. Indirectly, we’re all interacting with each other. But if you don’t know the people with whom you’re interacting, if you have no emotional connection to them, then you’re more likely to take advantage of them. In other words, drivers don’t cut their friends off in traffic. Those a**hole drivers? They cut off strangers, people with whom they have no emotional connection. Indirectly, on a global scale, we’re interacting with people with whom we have no emotional connection, with people we don’t care about.

Now, you might not like your friends. Maybe you can’t stand them. But you’re not going to cut them off in traffic… and you’re not going to leave them dying in the streets. But if a foreign worker loses their hand in a factory accident, or if something bad happens to someone you don’t know… well, we don’t have time to worry about that. We don’t have time to think about that… because we’re too busy watching “Keeping Up With the Kardashians”. But of course this is affecting us – subtly, subconsciously, indirectly, gradually, and negatively – because we’re all part of the same society now. And this society is teaching us to live without compassion. And it’s turning us into such f**king a**holes!

Actually, because of technology, Americans aren’t even emotionally connected to each other through the media anymore. In the past, when a popular television program was on, folks would gather around their TV sets at the same time to watch it. This “shared” time helped to unite the country. Now everyone is watching that TV show at different times: on DVR, on Hulu, on DVD, etc. Hence, we’re losing that unifying connection.

It’s rarely noticed that Facebook users post comments, and then respond and react to each other’s comments, at different times. Or, here’s another way of looking at it. Think of the last time you had a deep, emotionally intense, personally intimate conversation with another person. What if that interaction was broken up into different time periods? For example, you said something. Then you went out to the store for an hour. Then you came back and the other person responded to your initial comment. Then that person met another friend for lunch. Then the person came back, and then you replied to their response, etc. The conversation loses its emotional intensity; it loses that “human connection”.

About the author:

Scott “Galanty” Miller teaches sociology at the State University of New York at Cortland. He is also a contributing writer for the award-winning Onion News Network. His website is at www.scottgalantymiller.com.  You can follow him on Twitter at @galantymiller

Greybeard

by Kimberly Dark

“People who are eccentric start to attract people who want to be around those who are eccentric.  And then they’re joined by people who want to be sure no one paints a chartreuse trim on a lavender house.”

______________________

He was the best neighbor I’ve ever had.  He passed away last year and I still miss his sunrise wave as he rode past on a rusty old bicycle.

Our conversations were minimal, though sometimes he’d visit, sit on my lanai for a little while and chat.  He never came to my yearly solstice party, though I’d always invite him.

“Will you come?” I’d say.

“No,” he’d mutter “but thanks.”

He was the first of my neighbors to tell me about the area when I moved to the Southeast side of Hawaii Island. And he didn’t refer to my house as “Samantha’s house” as nearly everyone in the neighborhood did for years longer than she’d actually lived there.  “This place wasn’t for her.” Greybeard said.  “So, she left.”  Simple as that. He was glad I was in that house – it didn’t always have the nicest folks living there.  I was glad too – happy to give the house a good home, so to speak.

Greybeard and I sometimes chatted over a good sunset too.  And we said hello at sunrise – me on my lanai in pajamas, he riding slowly past on his bicycle.  He offered a wave, or a “good to see you” if I’d just returned home from a work trip. During sunset, we sometimes had whole conversations.  Sometimes we just stood quietly and looked at the sky.  Often, the light called me out of the house and I’d find him, sitting on his bike in the middle of our block, appreciating the beauty of it all Sure, people all over the world perch themselves before impressive vistas in order to watch the colors of the sunset, but where I live, it’s not just about watching the colors.  There’s something about the light.  The sky may or may not turn impressive shades of pink and lavender and gold.  That’s pretty – but not the main event.  It’s the light itself that filters through the low-hanging clouds giving everything, not just the sky, a golden glow.

One time, I was sitting at the computer working when the light changed and suddenly, nothing seemed more important than walking outside to be rendered golden.  And indeed, I met up with four other neighbors out there, each of us just standing in the road in front of our houses.  This is not an intentional gathering and no polite neighbor-banter is required.  When it happens to you, it’s personal: it’s just between you and the light.

Because we live on the east side of the island, kind of southeast, the sun doesn’t set over the sea.  If I were looking at the sea, the sunset would be happening just over my right shoulder.  On the island, everything is oriented in one of two directions, either makai – toward the sea, or mauka – toward the mountain.  This directionality always works, in a basic way.  At my house, the sunset is mauka, though the golden glow can encompass everything.

The view mauka from my house is of a forested hillside.  It’s an Ohia forest near the bottom and thicker rainforest further up.  The Ohia and kupu kupu grow sparsely because we live on a lava flow.  One road is visible down the side of the mountain and into our subdivision. It’s not paved, but is clearly marked by the electrical poles that give it purpose.  This utility road isn’t for public use.  A yellow gate at the top of our subdivision marks the intention that no one uses the road without permission.  In true Puna style, however, the fence was placed strangely, just to the right of the road itself, so that effectively, it blocks nothing.

I stood staring in the direction of the sunset, everything, including me, bathed in a golden light that doesn’t seem to emanate from the sun. It is ubiquitous. The light, and the strange purple-gold color of the clouds, often resemble a Maxfield Parrish painting – one where a griffin or Pegasus is just about to step out onto a cloud, wearing a watch on a gold chain, it’s orange beak poised to speak.

Greybeard rolled slowly toward me, as I walked toward the corner for a better view.  He coasted on his bicycle – one almost never saw Greybeard walking – clad in a t-shirt and some shorts which pulled up around his legs, looked more like a diaper.  When it was hot, he wore his long grey hair in a topknot on his head and his long grey beard in a knot, accentuating the Sadhu-look.  He was mumbling as he approached. “Hrm, prhm, electrical, hrm, hrm, beautiful, prhm, hrm.”   He often mumbled quietly as he rode past, or he’d say, “Hare Krishna.”

“Hi Greybeard.” I said “The light called me outside. Beautiful sunset tonight.” I added.

He nodded a vigorous agreement and re-articulated what I believe he had just mumbled. “It’d be a lot more beautiful is someone hadn’t put all of these electrical lines in my view!”

“Hmm, yes,” I sympathized. “I know you’re not a fan of the electricity.”

It’s unusual for someone not to be a fan of electricity, but I live in an unusual neighborhood.  Greybeard lived in the area a while – I’m not sure how long, but long enough to have known every inhabitant of my house.  He was definitely there before electricity came in the late 1990s.  He and a handful of other neighbors were not pleased by the prospect of electricity coming to the Seaview community.  They protested the arrival of the Hawaii Electric Light Company and they lost.  To hear some tell it, the protest was not so peaceful.  Electrical poles, installed one day, would be sawed down by the time the workers arrived the following day.  Of course, some residents still don’t have electricity – no lines ran to Greybeard’s property, that’s for sure.  Some people operate their homes on solar or wind power, or they simply don’t use things that light-up, heat-up or get cold.

Greybeard’s home was pretty minimal anyway. I never visited his place, past the driveway, but my son was there.  He stopped by one day to deliver a can of WD40 that Greybeard requested after fixing Caleb’s bicycle.  When I asked if I could pay him, Greybeard responded with a brusque shake of his head, “No.”  And then he added “But if you can pick me up a can of WD40, that’d be great.”  I tend to forget, until reminded, that money isn’t actually worth anything. It’s what you can get with the money that’s worthwhile.  And if a person doesn’t drive, as Greybeard doesn’t, simply asking for what you need might be the better option.

“He’s got it hooked up.” Caleb nodded after returning from delivering the WD40. “Pretty comfortable and the bed’s kind of hidden.” He commented on Greybeard’s partially open-air living arrangement. His lot was nicely landscaped and his home wasn’t too visible from the street.  Only the tidiness called attention to the lot not being vacant.  I heard Greybeard call out one night to a car with its headlights fixed on his lot.  “Turn off that light!  You don’t see me shining lights into your house, do you?!”

Greybeard was a good neighbor –  the best I’ve ever had.  He was the kind of guy you want in a community – regardless of his mono-moniker and mumbling.  Or perhaps because of it. Diligent, concerned difference is a gift.  He offered a free bicycle tune-up clinic at the Saturday farmer’s market down the street, and he served on our community association board.  I feel certain he heard me and my music and conversations far more often than I heard from him.  He helped maintain our community park and the free book and clothing exchange too.  He recycled and didn’t use what he didn’t need.

And he enjoyed a nice sunset – even with the presence of electrical lines. The changes in the light are so subtle – you can’t really see them. But with a little time, standing still, just looking around, things change.  It gets darker and the miracle subsides. That’s how a neighborhood changes, too.  Little by little.  People who are eccentric start to attract people who want to be around those who are eccentric.  And then they’re joined by people who want to be sure no one paints a chartreuse trim on a lavender house.  I have redoubled my commitment to diligent difference since Greybeard’s passing. I hope to contribute even a fraction of what he did to our community.

I’m glad Greybeard died peacefully in his sleep in a home he loved.  And I’m glad he was my neighbor, and that I knew him.  I cherish every sunset where we stood silently watching, taking in the changes.  There’s so much beauty in the quiet moments.  We stood transfixed until the light released us back to our mortal tasks.

 About the Author:

Kimberly Dark is a writer, mother, performer and professor. She is the author of five award-winning solo performance scripts and her poetry and prose appear in a number of publications. For more than ten years, Kimberly has inspired audiences in fancy theatres, esteemed universities and fabulous festivals She tours widely in North America and Europe anywhere an audience loves a well-told story.  The Evening Echo in Cork, Ireland says “the balance between objectivity and intimate analysis certainly gives Dark an edge and has made her a force to be reckoned with on every level.” The Salt Lake Tribune says “Dark doesn’t shy away from provocative, incendiary statements, but don’t expect a rant. Her shows, leavened with humor, are more likely to explore how small everyday moments can inform the arc of our lives.” The High Plains Reader in Fargo, ND, says, “Dark’s skill as a storyteller gets to your heart by exposing hers.”

©Zaira Sheikh

Green fields and pastures on the way to Abbottabad.

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

Naran: To Forget Or Not To Forget

By Zaira R. Sheikh

Off To Naran

We took a long day’s drive from Islamabad to Naran. This valley is in Pakistan’s Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, which was formerly known as Northwest Frontier Province (N.W.F.P). Naran is one of Pakistan’s best tourist attractions. It has such amazing scenic beauty that I suggest you witness it with your own eyes. If you do, you’re bound to encounter Kunhar River wherever you go, because it runs all along the valley. I recommend visiting anytime between June and September. When winter arrives, all paths are covered with snow and communications are near impossible.

Huts and guest houses on the mountains in Naran Valley.

We saw some interesting places on our road trip from Islamabad to Naran. The farms, green pastures and animals only add to the picturesque landscape. I couldn’t stop clicking the shutter.

Leaving Islamabad to enter Khyber Pakhtunkhwa Province, we passed by Hasan Abdal: a small town in northern Punjab named after a saint. Hasan Abdal holds a lot of significance for Sikhs. Around 1520, the founder of Sikh religion Guru Nanak resided there. This is why Gurdwara Sri Panja (one of the most sacred Sikh sites) was built in Hasan Abdal. It’s visited by Sikhs from all over the world.

Like I mentioned earlier the routes in Islamabad and in the northern areas are quite well developed and it absolutely fascinates me how the workers are seen building the paths for a larger part of the year. Unlike many other countries of the world, in Pakistan such labor is quite cheap despite the dangers associated with the kind of work these poor people do.

View of a hut in Naran.

We also passed by Abbotabad District. Does the name Abbotabad ring a bell? It’s the infamous place where Osama Bin Laden was discovered and then killed with the world knowing little more of what happened. I find the entire Bin Laden murder episode quite strange and unbelievable. A man with such a terrifying persona, as portrayed by the western world, hiding in a compound right under the nose of Pakistani military headquarters for so long and yet no body in Pakistan knew. Next, you hear is that the US forces entered a foreign territory as if a grand party was going on there and Mr. Obama announced they have killed Osama on TV (the way Obama announced, it seemed as if he himself killed the man). And then the cherry on the top was the rather quick sea burial of Osama. All of this just looks like a fairy tale to me at least.

No, we never visited the sacred compound where Osama Bin Laden was killed. In fact, just for information purposes that area is sealed and is not really a tourist spot as yet. Anyway, coming back to Abbotabad, it is also the transit point to all major tourist regions in north Pakistan such as Naran, Shogran, Nathiagali and other awesome destinations.

We crossed the small town of Balakot, known as the gateway to the beautiful Kaghan Valley. Balakot was completely destroyed by an earthquake in October 2005 during Pervez Musharraf’s era. Although the town has redeveloped, none of the new constructions have cement roofs as per government order.

I recalled the devastation caused by the quake and the sadness that overshadowed the nation. It was a strange sight to see the nation becoming so united to help the earth quake victims. My question only remains, why do we have to wait for some catastrophe to take place to unite as nation.

As blunt as it may sound, Pakistanis should get used to natural calamities by now. A rare earthquake in 2005 is followed by heavy floods every year now. Most of these disasters are man-made (deforestation, industrialization etc) and no precautionary measures are ever taken. Pakistani authorities don’t consider planning way ahead of time. And once the disaster has hit the country, all the so called saints wake up and start asking for donations and charities to help the poor. The mis-management and lack of interest on all levels is only leading to more devastation in the country. The common people and poor in general are the ones who suffer.

If one would just look back and see how the locals themselves contributed to the deforestation in the northern areas, it speaks volumes of ignorant behavior as these basic acts are the root cause of natural calamities.

Arriving in Naran by 5 PM, we were still looking for a hotel by late night. The one we’d booked was sickeningly dirty. No hygienic person would stay there. We drove through a market flooded with motels, hotels and inns. They all sucked in all honesty. The locals seemed greedy and knew nothing about courtesy. Since it was peak tourism time, they doubled the rates without negotiation, no matter how shitty their accommodation. Furthermore, it’s not difficult or expensive to get to Naran, so it was choked with crowds especially on weekends. Thus, our first Naran impressions were simply BAD!

There are decent hotels, but they’re expensive, and one must book rooms a month in advance to be safe. However, we were in the middle of shit with no turning back. We had to find a room somewhere before our bladders exploded. We found The Trout Land Hotel. It was big with a nice view. Yet, their loo was gross to the core. They didn’t believe in changing bed sheets or pillow covers. Plus, how could I forget this one key detail: the toilet flusher was perpetually out of order. I don’t know how we spent two days there, but we did. There was no other choice.

A beautiful view of the clouds and mountains from Lalazar, top, and tourists trekking.

Incredible Lalazar

The next day, we took a 4×4 safari jeep with an expert local driver. That’s the best way to travel the bumpy regional mountains and see the major attractions. Our chauffeur was a young boy who knew the routes well. He had excellent control and was one of the finest drivers I’ve come across in my life.

Our first stop was a hill station called Lalazar, 20 kilometers from Naran at 10,200 feet above sea level. It’s breathtaking with flowers, green steppes and mountains everywhere. The best thing about Lalazar is that it’s still unknown to most tourists and is therefore quite clean. Trekking is an absolute must here. Photographers will especially love this divine work of nature.

River Rafting In Kunhar River

Rafting in Kunhar River is yet another adventure to try your hands at. Foreigners usually opt for the roughest sections, while most Pakistanis prefer smoother stretches of water. We chose a mid tier section for rafting and the charge was Rs. 500 per person. We were lucky to meet an expert guide who made us feel extremely comfortable and told us about the area in detail through his travel stories. I loved every bit of our river rafting experience. One more thing you should go for in the area is a manual trolley ride over Kunhar River. If you’re scared of heights, choose one at lower altitude. The ride costs only Rs. 25 (which is peanuts), and this is serious Pakistan fun.

Views of Lake Saif-ul-Muluk.

Breathtaking Saif-ul-Muluk Lake

Probably the most famous Pakistani tourist attraction is Saif-ul-Malook lake, 10,500 feet above sea level. The sad part is that visitors in general are trashing the place. There are garbage cans everywhere. Yet, people don’t use them. They throw empty wrappers and bottles into the lake, which is ignorant and absurd. However, observing both the literate/illiterate and the rich/poor in Pakistan it is not so difficult to realize that Pakistanis are a lost nation in more than one ways. More sadly, they don’t even know that something is wrong somewhere.

Apart from the weird crowd, I saw a lot of animal abuse going there. Ponies carry heavy tourists on their backs and as I looked at them closely the poor animals looked so sad. They were suffering for sure and yes since we have no animal right laws here in Pakistan, not much can be done about such animals. One more disappointment was the fact that the locals have polluted the natural beauty of the lake by having unimpressive wooden boat rides just to make some money, which is dangerous, stupid and ugly.

Lake Saif-ul-Muluk

For now, the glacier adds enough clean water from above to flush the filth out naturally. However, unless measures are taken, crowds will succeed in polluting this wonder within a few years. In addition, men at the site surreptitiously make videos and snap pictures of women, which is a total turn-off for me.

So, this is how I spent two very hectic but exciting days in Naran. My take on Naran is simple. It has some amazing tourist attractions (but it is a bit over rated since I’ve seen similar places that were far too peaceful and relaxing with brilliant accommodation) – Lalazar was my personal favorite but the people are as greedy and selfish as the size of Godzilla. Pollution is part of the aura and deforestation is obvious, which is a dangerous sign. Having said all that, I still recommend all foreigners to take out some time and visit these places. Every year, people from all over the world come down to these amazing places. The smart way to go about it is to plan things well before time to avoid any glitches once you’re there.

Zaira R. Sheikh is the author of “Pakistani Media: The Way Things Are”, available through Amazon.com, and “If Mortals Had Been Immortals & Other Short Stories.” Sheikh is a writer, blogger, human & animal rights activist based in Karachi, Pakistan.

Mark Levy and "Sam"

Civilization is Relative

Reflections on Life in the Slow Lane

During my recent trip to Ecuador, I had occasion to meet a gentlemen who lives in the Amazon. He is a Huaorani (Hwă răh’ni), a people who have lived in their neighborhood for thousands of years, going back to the Stone Age. It is estimated that about 3,000 Huaorani exist. This new acquaintance of mine ─ call him Sam ─ stands about 4’9” high and has dark, but not leathery skin. He has black hair and not a touch of grey, probably because he lives a stress-free life. All he has to do is spear tasty looking animals and occasional enemies, and supervise his wife, who does everything else for the family. I was going to say household, but there is no house. No clothing, either.

Sam looks 50 years old, but I could be off by 20 years one way or the other. He seems pretty healthy, considering he has no access to a health care plan. His chest has fully developed muscles that make Arnold Schwarzenegger look like Woody Allen. He also has a hole in his earlobe big enough to slide an iPhone through.

I met Sam at a rather rustic resort near a town called Mindo, Ecuador, a couple of hours from Quito. I felt sorry for myself having to drive so far to get there until I learned that Sam had traveled by foot and canoe for three days from his home in the Amazon. Now, Sam didn’t mention this fact to me directly, because he speaks only the Huaorani language, so his Spanish-speaking son did the translating.

Let me tell you about this rustic resort. A raging river borders the property, so to get across from the dirt road out of the town of Mindo, you have to ride precariously on this flat, wooden, one-person seat suspended by a rope and pulley. The seat has no sides to protect you from the raging river and its formidable boulders.

Once across the river and onto the property, I locate a common, open-aired-dining area ─ really just an unenclosed, platform and I find my wooden cabin ─ quite spacious, actually ─ with a grass thatched roof surrounded by a swarm of moths the size of pterodactyls. It could be a scene from Jurassic Park. No electricity, but there are two candles and, believe it or not, a flush toilet. That’s where technology ends.

I thought that was pretty rustic, especially for a place that calls itself a resort. But then I realized that the same location that represents a giant step backwards, civilization-wise for me, is actually a great improvement for Sam, who was quite accustomed to living without a roof over his unkempt head. He doesn’t have a satellite TV, either ─ not even basic cable ─ or a heater or an air conditioner or a refrigerator or a dish washer or even, let’s face it, a roll of toilet paper.

How can he enjoy a Barry Manilow Christmas collection on CD while munching on microwave popcorn if he doesn’t have a CD player or a microwave oven in the first place? The poor fellow doesn’t have a toothbrush or a pair of Diodoro sneakers. He has survived, day after day for maybe 18,000 days, without a cell phone and without a full-length bathroom mirror. We take so many things for granted he doesn’t even know exist.

I continued to feel sorry for Sam all the way up to the day I returned to civilization to discover my mortgage, my satellite TV bill, and two credit card payments were overdue. My electricity had been shut off, too, for the same reason.

Yes, civilization can be a relative thing. You have to feel sorry for people who don’t know what they’re missing.

About the author:

Mark Levy is a contributor editor of Ragazine.  He is an attorney with the Binghamton law firm of Hinman, Howard and Kattell.

The Truth About Love

Kyon natters softly.  His mouthful of little songs wakes Cho because it’s the sound of her son.  She opens her eyes and gazes into his copper-coin face, her devotion the precise size and density of a four-year old boy.  Uncurling from around Kyon, Cho flounders out from between lightly starched sheets – up and getting ready.  Cho brushes the black wave of her hair and then slips into a cream colored camisole and nylons her skinny legs.  A simple blue dress with long sleeves unifies her style into one appeal. 

Finding matching socks for Kyon has eaten up years of Cho’s life.  Every morning her hands become frenzied shovels scattering socks and misplaced toys in the dresser drawers until she finds a pair of matching socks and shoes.  Then it’s, “Make the ears.  Crisscross.  Into the bunny hole.  Pull them tight.” until finally, Kyon is socked and shoed and ready for daycare.   

She collects her bags and then out through her brownstone door steps into the winter street.  The sleet stopped in the small of the night but the morning is still shockingly cold.  Cho’s scarf frames her quiet face, her wool coat an ocean in which both she and Kyon swim.  They wait on the corner to hail a cab, every freezing minute stretching into the space of two.

The City is in Cho’s ears and the morning is all bang, bang, boom. Her impractical shoes make the shuttling of Kyon from taxi to the Tiny Years Daycare Center a teetering task.  Kyon prattles all the while, his voice audible but not his words.  Cho hands Kyon to an old woman with large ears, black eyes, and a “Hello.  My name is…” sticker, but there’s no name written on the tag so it’s just “Hello.  My name is… nothing.”  Nevertheless, Cho trusts the nameless old woman to keep Kyon from a thousand accidents. 

Cho jumps back into the taxi, her hair splashed across the back of the seat.  She reaches for her scarf, bracelets sliding down her arm, and realizes it’s no longer there.  How many scarves has she lost conveying Kyon from taxi to daycare, how many gloves, how many umbrellas, how many earrings?  Really, I must be more careful, she thinks.  But this is the last thought of Kyon she permits herself for the remains of the workday, rather, she concentrates on transforming herself into the dragon-lady of corporate advertising: frigid, bitchy and ready, if necessary, to use a Samurai sword to get her way.  It’s not a role of Cho’s choosing, but it is a stereotype her boss expects her to fulfill.  It is, after all, why he hired her – he likes Lucy Liu.

Stilettos punctuate Cho’s every move on the thirty-ninth floor of The Rockefeller Center with a fashionable snick.  She fires the man with horse teeth.  Snick.  She lands a multimillion dollar account.  Snick.  She moves the deadline up three days.  Snick.  She abruptly answers her own phone because she fired her horse-tooth assistant.  Snick. 

“Cho Nahm speaking.” 

“Ms. Nahm?”

“Yes?”

“This is Mi-sook at the Tiny Years Daycare Center.  I’m sorry.  Kyon is crying.”

“I don’t understand.”  Snick.

“Kyon won’t stop crying.”

“You called me because my son is crying?” Snick!  Snick!

“I’m sorry, Ms. Nahm.  Kyon has been crying for three hours.  I’m sorry.  I can’t make him happy.  So sorry.”

“Are you asking me to come and pick him up?”

“Yes ma’am.  I’m so sorry.”

Click.  Snick.

Cho leaves the office in a flurry of snicks.  And for nine blocks in the back of a yellow taxi, she is two schools of thought – corporate executive versus devoted mother.  The corporate executive orders the cabbie to stop, the devoted mother asks the driver to keep the meter running while she gets her son.  Cho enters the daycare center and the sound is suddenly overwhelming, like Grand Central Station, but diminutive.  And there, there in the middle of it all is Kyon crying.  He looks like an exhausted swimmer, red and drenched.  Kyon’s relief gathers itself in his expression as soon as he sees Cho, who swoops down to hover like a hen nestling her egg.  Together they become the still in the center of the room.  Cho gathers the familiar shape of Kyon to herself, pressing kisses into the bend of his neck.  She slowly pivots on her pointed heel to face Mi-sook who bows, hair draping.  Then Mi-sook tilts her head upward and unexpectedly the bright look of discovery makes a sunrise of her face.

“His shoes are on the wrong feet.”

Cho looks at her blankly.  Mi-sook doesn’t have the confidence to repeat herself, so she gingerly approaches Kyon’s feet, every mannerism a bowing apology.  Quick, quick she unties one shoe, then the other.  She juggles them to opposite hands and then quick, quick she ties one shoe, then the other.  She looks up for approval.  When Cho utters, “Thank you,” it also means “I hate you.”  And, “Write your name on the nametag, stupid bitch.”  

Leaning against the cold cab window on the way home, Cho watches narrow alleys and the lights on in every apartment pass.  She hides from the driver’s rearview eyes behind a curtain of hair and listens to Kyon breathing as a child will do just before falling asleep, deeply.  The cab slows, stops, and then idles in front of Cho’s brownstone.  The porcelain sky shatters just then and sleet clatters on the sheets of sidewalk ice and car glass.  Cho collects her bags, her son, and dashes to the door, splattering slush up the back of her legs. 

Cho’s coat on a chair, shoes slipped off, heavy wet nylons piled on the first step to upstairs.  Kyon’s quilted coat drenched, little hat hung, and yawning.  And then Cho notices a vacancy on her wrist – her bracelets missing.  She rushes outside in her bare feet hoping to find the bracelets between the front door and where the taxi was parked.  She tips on her toes searching in the pelting sleet, but the bracelets are not to be found.  Cho returns to the house and sits silent, rubbing warmth back into her feet.  She contemplates the significance of the missing bracelets, inventing meaning when it doesn’t become evident.  Cho begins to feel that Kyon has ruined her life.  His neediness, his mismatched socks, his culpability in her disappearing accessories.  The sharp-edged toys on the kitchen floor, the sleeplessness, the forever sticky face and fingers – all of it making her forget who she is and what she ever wanted. 

Cho’s eyes become a mystery to Kyon.  Sensing an atmospheric change, he hoards himself – mouth closed in fear, chin trembling.  In a quiet yet quick explosion of movement, Cho collects Kyon’s wet shoes and moves to him kneeling.  Without words, she positions him on the floor, his soles directed at her.  And then, like so many times before, she purposefully jams Kyon’s shoes on the wrong feet.  She yanks the laces tight while Kyon mouths the words, “Make the ears.  Crisscross.  Into the bunny hole.  Pull them tight.” 

The truth about love is that it isn’t always good.  And the particular places from which Cho’s fury erupt, makes her immune to Kyon’s painful pleading.  All Kyon understands is that his feet hurt and somehow, it’s his fault.

About the author:

Eric Bennett lives in New Jersey with his wife and four children. He loves trees without leaves and the silence between songs on vinyl records. His work appears in numerous literary and art journals including Writer’s Bloc, Fiction at Work, Prick of the Spindle, Ghoti Magazine, and PANK.

Neon Cowboys

or How the West Imagines Itself

An essay with cell phone pictures

By Elizabeth Cohen

There are places that hold out imagined versions of themselves; romantic versions, like long-divorced people who still hold onto feelings from a bygone marriage.  You can go to these places and have a dual  experience – you are in the actual place and yet you are bombarded with images of the way the place imagines itself. The idealized, iconic version that looks down at you from signs, glances at you from murals, peers out windows at you, begs for your money in little touristy shops, really has nothing to do with the place that actually is. It is easy to participate in the fantasy identity; it is usually more engaging, more palatable, far more romantic for sure, than the actual place. Hence you may walk through the grand Coliseum in Rome and ignore the impoverished surrounding neighborhoods, or to go to the Acropolis in Athens and feel like you are closer to God when the roads to get there are crumbling, the air practically unbreathable. Still you want that sensation of the other place, the emblematic one. We are willing to ignore so much to focus in on what we desire to experience in place.

Places can have alter-selves, like alter egos, that want you to believe in them. It almost is like you are being begged to participate in the fantasy version, and ignore the reality.

New York City is certainly one such place, wherever you go, the alleys of Chinatown, overflowing with odd vegetables, eels swimming in buckets; neat little streets in Little Italy that really could be in Italy, or a version of it; Harlem, Washington Heights, the Lower East Side’s diamond row, and you are surrounded by concrete, and people and buildings but see  images of the Statue of Liberty, the New York City skyline, Broadway, the Brooklyn Bridge. These are real parts of New York and also the emblems the city wants you to experience. They are embossed on tee shirts, sweatshirts, on signs, murals in restaurants, everywhere. For a time there was a restaurant on West Broadway south of Canal that had a miniature version of Lady Liberty’s head and crown, hovering over the street.  She is the patron saint of Manhattan and it sometimes seems she is worn on every possible surface.

Another such place is New Mexico, and the place I want to focus on here is Gallup, New Mexico. It is a small city in the north west corner of the state, not far from the Navajo reservation and maybe the last piece of unswept shrapnel of the wild west.  I will surely make enemies with its proud citizens when I say so here, but it is a sad burgh, downtrodden, speckled with trailer camps with circa 1970 trailers, foreclosed houses, little neighborhoods that look like they are trying so hard to hold onto what they’ve got but just can’t do it. It has a strip to end all strips, the former Route 66, that runs through town with all the standards, KFC, McDonalds, and every other possible fast food and chain joint in America.

Despite this, the city clings to this other version, a cinematic  version of the west, a cliché of lasso-wielding cowpokes and tee pees (native people of the region NEVER lived in tee pees); with neon roadrunners and every manner of western kitsch.

To drive through the town today is to see these now antique neon signs and murals, sculptures of giant Indian pots and rugs, and everywhere some antiquated visual narrative of a place that certainly isn’t the actual experience of the place today – and maybe never was. It is a surreal fantasy version. If Walt Disney were alive, it is the version he might cobble.

Yet while it is a neon lie, the images present an oddly enchanting and even at times breathtaking vision from an anthropological and a purely aesthetic perspective .

For those who live there, it probably  hardly registers, but to drive through fresh, from the high plains of I-40, red cliffs jutting like massive steam engines out of the east, the “old west” and “wild west” iconography seems quaint, even museum worthy. Like the highly referred-to Statue of Liberty in New York City or the Eiffel Tower in Paris, they are perfect examples of the way we tell ourselves a story about where we are in space and time, and even try hard to believe it, despite all evidence to the contrary.

Gallup , a town which straddles a mini range of mountains called the hogbacks, is a town that is most definitely down on its luck, a place where the population swells on the paydays and days the checks come in for dependent families. Those days the bars fill up and night finds the streets filled with stumblers. But there is a spirit of wannabe that holds out; the city is full of citizens who believe it will be, could be, might be, someday, the place it imagines it is.

Driving through fast, with nothing but a cell phone, seems somehow perfect, the technology somehow suiting the experience. Fast, cheap, haphazard, a little tipsy on the experience itself, I snapped my way through Gallup this winter. I tried to find images that captured the version the west wants us to take away. I tried to find the places that quote old western movies, the Hollywood west, the cowboy and Indians west. The generic native west. The roadrunner and coyote west. Where the landscape is so stark it aches in every direction toward the horizon. And you half think an anvil, at any moment, is about to drop upon your head.

………………………………………………….

Images taken with a BlackBerry Curve 8530 Smartphone

RHAPSODIES IN BLUE:

Miles Davis & Pablo Picasso

“Kind of Blue” is a studio album by American jazz musician Miles Davis, released August 17, 1959 on Columbia Records in the United States.  Recording sessions for the album took place at Columbia’s 30th Street Studio in New York City on March 2 and April 22, 1959. The sessions featured Davis’s ensemble sextet, which consisted of pianists bill Evans and Wynton Kelly, drummer Jimmy Cobb, bassist Paul Chambers, and saxophonists John Coltrane and Julian “Cannonball” Adderley.

“Kind of Blue” is based entirely on modality in contrast to Davis’s earlier work with the hard bop style of jazz. The entire album was composed as a series of modal sketches, in which each performer was given a set of scales that defined the parameters of their improvisation and style. This style was in contrast to more typical means of composing, such as providing musicians with a complete score or, as was more common for improvisational jazz, providing the musicians with a chord progression or series of harmonies.

Davis elaborated on this form of composition in contrast to the simple chord progression predominant in bebop, once stating

“No chords gives you a lot more freedom and space to hear things. When you go this way, you can go on forever. You don’t have to worry about changes and you can do more with the melody line. It becomes a challenge to see how melodically innovative you can be. When you’re based on chords, you know at the end of 32 bars that the chords have run out and there’s nothing to do but repeat what you’ve just done—with variations. I think a movement in jazz is beginning away from the conventional string of chords… there will be fewer chords but infinite possibilities as to what to do with them.”  This modal form of composition represented, as Davis called it, “a return to melody.”

There are only five tracks on this album, “So What”, played at a very moderate pace on this album, but always played much faster on later live recordings, while “Freddie Freeloader” is a standard twelve bar blues. “Blue in Green”, written by the great lyrical pianist, Bill Evans, consists of a ten-measure cycle following a short introduction and “All Blues” is another twelve bar blues form in 6/8 time. The longer “Flamenco Sketches” consists of five scales, which are each played as long as the soloist wishes, until he has completed the series.  All the melodies are gorgeous and each track has become a standard in the jazz repertoire.

The album’s influence has reached beyond jazz, as musicians of such genres as rock and classical have been influenced by it, while critics have acknowledged it as one of the most influential albums of all time. Many improvisatory rock musicians of the 1960s referred to “Kind of Blue” for inspiration.  Guitarist Duane Allman of the Allman Brothers Band  said his soloing on songs such as “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed” comes from Miles and John Coltrane, and particularly “Kind of Blue”. Pink Floyd keyboardist Richard Wright has said that the chord progressions on the album influenced the structure of the introductory chords to the song “Breathe” on their landmark opus “The Dark Side of the Moon”. Producer Quincy Jones, one of Davis’ longtime friends, wrote: “That will always be my music, man. I play “Kind of Blue” every day — it’s my orange juice. It still sounds like it was made yesterday”

Why does “Kind of Blue” possess such a mystique?  Perhaps because this music never flaunts its genius. It’s the pinnacle of modal jazz — tonality and solos build from the overall key, not chord changes, giving the music a subtly shifting quality. It’s very cool music!  It might be a stretch to say that if you don’t like “Kind of Blue”, you don’t like jazz — but it’s hard to imagine it as anything other than a cornerstone of any jazz collection.  Since I first heard this album as a youngster in the early sixties, I’ve never been without it, have run through at least six copies of it — and still play it regularly.  If you have an Ipod and love good music — don’t leave home without “Kind of Blue”.

Sticking with the “Blue” theme, I’d like to talk a little about painting from an earlier period – Pablo Picasso’s “Blue” period.   Actually, come to think of it, Miles and Pablo had quite a bit in common in their different spheres of art.  Both were responsible for developing their art through several distinct stages, changing the face of art and music in the process.  Miles went through improvisory be-bop, introduced modal modern jazz before moving into electronic jazz-rock and ending, in his decline, with a form of pop-jazz.

Spanish-born, Pablo Picasso (25^th October 1881-8^th April 1973) is probably the best known name in the art of the last century and started out as a realist before moving into periods labeled respectively, his ‘Blue”, “Rose”, his “African” period, “Cubist” for which he is best known, then “Surrealist”,  “Classical” and later, ceramics.  Each of his periods revolutionized art in the twentieth century, although there was a sense that as he got older, he became self-indulgent and began to cruise on his legacy.  It happened to Miles and it happens to the best of us.

His “Blue” period lasted from 1901 to 1904 and consisted of rather somber paintings rendered in essentially monochromatic shades of blue and blue-green, only occasionally warmed by other colors.  This was an interim stage in Picasso’s work, a link between his earlier realism and the structured Cubism which was to change the face of art a few years later. These slightly “Mannerist” figures, a little elongated and distorted and inspired by Spanish culture but painted in Paris, are now some of his most popular works, although he had difficulty selling them at the time.  Many paintings of gaunt mothers with children date from this period. In his austere use of color and sometimes doleful subject matter — prostitutes, beggars and drunks are frequent subjects —Picasso was influenced by a trip through Spain and by the suicide of his friend Carlos Casagemas.  In fact, he later claimed that he started painting in blue when he learned of the death of his friend — Casagemas took his own life in public at L’Hippodrome Café in Paris, shooting himself in the head — but realistically the sequence of  events doesn’t quite add up and Picasso was not present at his friend’s death.

It seems to me that Picasso went through a period of personal depression at this time.  Perhaps his friend’s death triggered the issue of mortality, which affected him for the first time — or perhaps the intense introspection involved in the gestation of his new ideas and techniques brought on the gloom of the work of this period.  Personally, I believe that the Spanish psyche, catholic and steeped in religious guilt, contributed to the heavy darkness of his subject matter and the tones used to realize them at this time. Starting in the fall of 1901, Picasso painted several posthumous portraits of Casagemas, culminating in the gloomy allegorical painting “La Vie” (1903), now in the Cleveland Museum of Art.

The same mood pervades the well-known etching “The Frugal Repast” (1904), which depicts a blind man and a sighted woman, both emaciated, seated at a nearly bare table.  Blindness is a recurrent theme in Picasso’s works of this period, also represented in “The Blindman’s Meal” (1903) and in the portrait of “Celestina” (1903). Other frequent subjects include female nudes and mothers with children. Possibly his most well known work from this period is the very beautiful  ”Old guitarist”, a bearded figure folded around his guitar and painted in deep blues. Other major works include “Portrait of Soler” (1903) and “Las Dos Hermanas” (1904).

Picasso was soon to move on to what is called his “Rose” period, which lasted for a couple of years and was characterized by a much cheerier style, lighter with pink and orange colors, featuring circus people, acrobats and harlequins.  In 1904, Picasso had met and started a relationship with Fernande Olivier, a model for sculptors and painters, and this, combined with an increased exposure to French painting, seems to have done the trick, pulling him out of depression and the “Blue” period work associated with it.

It’s amazing what a bit of good loving can do for the soul!  He never returned to this period in his work and moved onto new pastures and the brilliant Cubism and pure Abstraction of later paintings.  But the stark, hopeless characters of his “Blue” period are now some of his most popular and highly acclaimed masterpieces, defining an era in his life that he was probably happy to put behind him.

The Blues ain’t nothing but a good man feelin’ bad….

HOW DOES IT FEEL?

How does a god feel when
trees and bushes turn green
without asking for his blessing?

How does a tree feel
when its leaves start turning pale?

How do the pale leaves feel when
the tree starts letting go of them?

How does a breeze feel
when a lull stops it in its tracks?

How does a star feel when
being slowly snuffed out by dawn?

How does a window feel when night comes
and it has nothing to show outside?

How does a door feel when
there’s no one to keep out?

How does a car feel with the hood up
standing idle by the road?

How does a page feel left blank?

How does a bird feel high in the sky
on suddenly forgetting how to fly?

How does a fish feel
about the world above the surface?

How does a pen feel when words
walk off the page and fly unaided
over a puddle of eyes and ears?

How does a feeling feel
in a paralyzed breast
running out of sighs?

MY WINTER IN DEBRECZEN

(Egy telem Debreczenben)  By Sándor Petőfi,

translated from the Hungarian by Paul Sohar

Hey, you town of Debreczen,
how often you taunt my mind
with the suffering you gave to me!..
And yet you remain
a beloved and kind
guest in my memory.

A papist I am surely not,
yet I fasted there a lot.
Good thing the gods made mortal teeth
out of bone by wise design. No doubt,
had my teeth been made of steel,
they would’ve surely rusted out.

In the middle of a raw
winter of snow and sleet
my stove ran out of straw
and I slept without a whiff of heat.
Putting on my worn-out set
of rags I could easily recite
with the gypsy caught in a net:
“Must be real cold outside!”

The only help to me
was my poetry!
But how to record my riff
with fingers frozen stiff?
At last I hit upon the very thing,
kept my fingers twisted tight
around my always burning pipe,
till the welcome breeze of spring.

And what got me through the fast,
I’d fasted much worse in the past.

Egy telem Debrecenben

Hej, Debrecen,
Ha rád emlékezem!…
Sokat szenvedtem én tebenned,
És mindamellett
Oly jól esik nekem,
Ha rád emlékezem, -

Pápista nem vagyok.
És mégis voltak böjtjeim, pedig nagyok.
Jó, hogy az embernek csontfoga van,
Ezt bölcsen rendelék az istenek,
Mert hogyha vas lett volna a fogam,
A rozsda ette volna meg.

Aztán a télnek kellő közepében
Kifogya szépen
A fűtőszalmám,
S hideg szobában alvám.
Ha fölvevém kopott gubám,
Elmondhatám,
Mint a cigány, ki a hálóból néze ki:
“Juj, be hideg van odaki’!”

S az volt derék,
Ha verselék!
Ujjam megdermedt a hidegben,
És ekkor mire vetemedtem?
Hát mit tehettem egyebet?
Égő pipám
Szorítgatám,
Míg a fagy végre engedett.

Ez ínségben csak az vigasztala,
Hogy ennél már nagyobb ínségem is vala.

NATIONAL CALL

(Nemzeti dal)  by Sándor Petőfi,

translated from the Hungarian by Paul Sohar

Rise you Magyars, heed the call!
It’s now or never, do not stall!
Shall we live enslaved or free?
Choose your chains or liberty.
On the God of Hungary
We swear,
We swear,
No more chains for us to bear!

Too long we have been prisoners,
The victims of an evil curse.
Our forebears lived and died unbound,
hey cannot rest in servile ground.
On the God of Hungary
We swear,
We swear,
No more chains for us to bear!

Only a knave is too afraid
To perish in his country’s aid
And values his wretched life above
His homeland’s honor and its love.
On the God of Hungary
We swear,
We swear,
No more chains for us to bear!

The sword is brighter than the chain,
The arm looks better in its flame.
Then why the shackles tied on fast?
Let us grab our swords at last!
On the God of Hungary
We swear,
We swear,
No more chains for us to bear!

Hungary will shine again,
Worthy of its golden name;
We shall wash it clean of dirt
Smeared on it by years’ of hurt!
On the God of Hungary
We swear,
We swear,
No more chains for us to bear!

In our graveyard on a hill,
On their knees our children will
Bless our tombstones and declaim
On them every holy name.
On the God of Hungar   We swear,
We swear,
No more chains for us to bear!

Nemzeti dal

Talpra magyar, hí a haza!
Itt az idő, most vagy soha!
Rabok legyünk vagy szabadok?
Ez a kérdés, válasszatok! –
A magyarok istenére
Esküszünk,
Esküszünk, hogy rabok tovább
Nem leszünk!

Rabok voltunk mostanáig,
Kárhozottak ősapáink,
Kik szabadon éltek-haltak,
Szolgaföldben nem nyughatnak.
A magyarok istenére
Esküszünk,
Esküszünk, hogy rabok tovább
Nem leszünk!

Sehonnai bitang ember,
Ki most, ha kell, halni nem mer,
Kinek drágább rongy élete,
Mint a haza becsülete.
A magyarok istenére
Esküszünk,
Esküszünk, hogy rabok tovább
Nem leszünk!

Fényesebb a láncnál a kard,
Jobban ékesíti a kart,
És mi mégis láncot hordtunk!
Ide veled, régi kardunk!
A magyarok istenére
Esküszünk,
Esküszünk, hogy rabok tovább
Nem leszünk!

A magyar név megint szép lesz,
Méltó régi nagy hiréhez;
Mit rákentek a századok,
Lemossuk a gyalázatot!
A magyarok istenére
Esküszünk,
Esküszünk, hogy rabok tovább
Nem leszünk!

Hol sírjaink domborulnak,
Unokáink leborulnak,
És áldó imádság mellett
Mondják el szent neveinket.
A magyarok istenére
Esküszünk,
Esküszünk, hogy rabok tovább
Nem leszünk!

(Pest, 1848. március 13.)

(This poem, written in March 1848 and recited by the poet at public gatherings, ignited a revolution against the Hapsburg rule over Hungary. Footnote by the translator.)

Olaf Heine at Clark/Oshin Gallery

New York City

THE POETRY PROJECT
The Poetry Project is located at St. Mark’s Church-in-the-Bowery
131 East 10th Street at Second Avenue
New York City 10003
Trains: 6, F, N, R, and L.
“mailto:info@poetryproject.org”
“http://www.poetryproject.org/”

NYU Creative Writing Program Reading Series
All events are free and open to the public, no RSVP required.
View the entire schedule here: “http://cwp.fas.nyu.edu/page/readingseries” href=”http://cwp.fas.nyu.edu/page/readingseries”>http://cwp.fas.nyu.edu/page/readingseries
(you can also find us on Facebook at Nyu CreativeWriting).

The Writers House
NYU Creative Writing Program
Lillian Vernon Creative Writers House
58 West 10th Street, New York, NY 10011
(p) 212-998-8816  (f) 212-995-4864

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Los Angeles

La Luz de Jesus

Four solo shows opening under one roof
Opens Friday, January 7, 2011; 8-11 PM
runs through January 30th.

Last year we debuted the Art of the Lowbrow Tarot Exhibition, hosted Scott Hove‘s cakeland extravaganza, Iced Out, and made household names of Christopher Ulrich, Laurie Lipton and Fiddle Tim. So what are opening with in 2011?  Steven Daily has been working for fourteen months on his conspiracy theory, magnum opus Covenant. Part exhibition, part installation, and no secret handshake required, the work is Daily’s best, and is sure to rattle some cages.

Howard Hallis has completed his thirteen year project The Picture of Everything. It’s fifteen feet tall and has to be seen to be believed!

Tammi Otis was such a hit i last year’s Everything But the Kitschen Sync show, that we decided to give her a lot more space, and A Fertile Madness his gold-leafed, feature debut in Los Angeles.

Charles Binger was a master illustrator, working in Hollywood and on Madison Avenue for five decades. He passed away in the early seventies without being recognized for his award-winning paperback and poster art. A Pulp Life is the first ever retrospective of his life’s work, and it is an absolutely stunning collection.

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Binghamton

River Read Books, Court Street at the bridge, Binghamton

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Missouri
 
Musicians – Take a shot at fame & fortune

Kick ass on KKID, Rolla, Missouri 

Sunday Nights on KKID 92.9 FM, tune in to Nick Thomas and Bootsy Hambone
for the rockin’, rolllin’ blues coming out of Rolla, Missouri and surrounds.
This show is an open invitational to musicians who want to share
their music  — which means you never really know what
you’re going to get, but generally speaking, it’s pretty damn good.
Streaming and screaming from KKID….
Tell ‘em ragazine sent you…. 

Excerpts below are reproduced in cooperation
with Kitchen Caravan. For more delightful
and exotic recipes and cultural insights, visit
http://www.kitchencaravan.com

_____________________________

Summer 2010

By Emma Piper Burket

THE IRAQI SEED PROJECT                                           VOLUME 3, SUMMER 2010

In the days of yore a farmer gave (these) instructions to his son… Your implements should be ready. The parts of your yoke should be assembled. Your new whip should hang from a nail — the bindings of the handle of your old whip should be repaired by artisans. The adze, drill and saw, your tools and your strength, should be in good order. Let braided thongs, straps, leather wrappings and whips be attached securely. Let your sowing basket be checked, and its sides made strong. What you need for the field should be at hand. Inspect your work carefully.         - from “the first farmer’s almanac,” an ancient tablet from 1500 BCE found in Nippur, Iraq in 1949

Your gardens and local farmer’s markets are likely in full bloom as we enjoy the last weeks of summer; look around at some of the bounty: cucumbers, melons, apricots, grapes, peas, onions, okra… these crops have been growing in Iraq for thousands of years.  Maybe when you take your next bite you will think of the farmers in Iraq who are enjoying similar tastes and textures so far away.

LATEST DEVELOPMENTS

• Editing begins: Since returning from our June filming trip, we have been editing and organizing footage, photographs and audio files. We hope to share some of the material with you soon… To do this we need to build our website’s library: You can help!

• Seeds of Kurdistan: We are happy to announce the launching of our latest initiative. This website celebrates the agricultural traditions of Iraqi Kurdistan and will also provide training materials for the region’s farmers.

• Facebook- you can now keep track of the latest news of agricultural activities in Iraq as well as what’s happening at The Iraqi Seed Project by following us on facebook.

NEWS, LINKS & THINGS TO THINK ABOUT

• The Tiziano Project just wrapped up a summer workshop in Erbil, training local journalists in new media skills. Watch the video Zana Mamundy, one of their students, produced about grain growers in Mahkmour.

• Wheat Fleet: August 19-21st we are floating a portion of the Willamette River to promote local grain growing in Oregon. 

• In June we visited the Farmer Kamal outside of Erbil, after a tour of his farm he invited us for a delicious home-grown lunch. Here is a very simple recipe for bulgur, or cracked wheat, prepared the way farmer Kamal makes it:

-2 cups bulgur

-1 onion

-olive oil or ghee

-4 cups chicken (or vegetable) broth

-salt, and seasonings to taste

Chop the onions and sauté them in oil with a heavy bottomed pot, add the bulgur and seasonings, pour over the broth and bring to a boil.  Reduce heat to low, cover and simmer until broth is nearly absorbed. Turn off heat and allow to steam for 5 minutes.

ON THE ROAD

This Fall The Iraqi Seed Project is going on tour, collecting messages for Iraqi farmers and offering a sneak peak of our film; contact us about scheduling a farm visit, rough cut screening or fundraising event at a community center or school in your area. Check the website for upcoming dates in San Francisco, Philadelphia and Washington DC.

DONATE

As you know, we are in the process of editing and building The Iraqi Seed Project‘s library on our website. We are currently operating with zero funding. Please consider making a tax-deductible donation through Arts Engine, our fiscal sponsor, so that we may continue our work!

SHARE

And of course… we are still collecting images, articles, essays, videos and links for the library— remember you don’t have to be an expert to participate. Be part of our knowledge exchange and share what you know about Iraq, sustainable agriculture, seed saving, biodiversity, or home gardening.

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May-June

On the road to BAGHDAD

THE IRAQI SEED PROJECT: (LATE) SPRING 2010

Website is up and running for The Iraqi Seed Project – Visit www.iraqiseedproject.com to learn more about what Emma & friends are up to and ways you can get involved.

• Ready to go: The team left the first week of June for a filming trip to Iraq and Iraqi Kurdistan. Internet reports will be a bit spotty, but whenever possible, they will post notes and photos on the Field Journal section of the website — so check there for updates. We will be spending our time in Northern Iraq with the Kurdish Ministry of Agriculture, on small farms in the area, and visiting some USDA project sites around Baghdad.

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Mint Julep en Rose

Explore More Recipes:

Fizz à la Violette

The Andalus

Mint Tea Martini

Adapted from The Gentleman’s Companion: An Exotic Drinking Book

6 sprigs of mint
1 teaspoon sugar + 1 teaspoon rose syrup

OR

2 teaspoons sugar + 1 tablespoon rose water

1 ounce bourbon

Juice of ½ lime

Garnish: Marachino cherry and/or edible flowers

Muddle 2 sprigs of the mint, the sugar, and rose syrup or rose water in a martini shaker. Make sure you muddle well to get the essence of the mint extracted. Add in a good amount of ice. Pour over the bourbon and add 2 more sprigs of mint (unbruised) and the lime juice. Shake it up really well and pour into a glass filled with ice and top with the remaining 2 sprigs of mint and a colorful edible flower.

Serves 1.

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March April

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Freekeh and Garbanzo Pilaf

This is a very healthy vegetarian dish that is high in fiber and full of Mediterranean flavor.  Freekeh is wheat that has been harvested while still very young, and thus is very high in protein, vitamins, and minerals.  It has a slightly smoky flavor due to the way the wheat is processed after harvest, so it pairs well with mellow flavors, such as beans and chicken.  This recipe calls for cooking the beans from scratch, but feel free to use canned garbanzos for a faster version.  The “Short” sauce is a light pesto that adds a zing of herbs and lemon to sharpen the taste of the dish at the end.

For the Garbanzos:

½ cup dried garbanzo beans, soaked at least 4 hours
1 bay leaf
1 clove garlic
1 sprig thyme
a few black peppercorns

For the Pilaf:

2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
¼ cup yellow onion, small dice
¼ cup carrot, peeled, small dice
¼ cup fennel, small dice
2 cloves garlic, crushed
Pinch of cinnamon
½ teaspoon ground coriander
¼ teaspoon ground cumin
1 cup freekeh, rinsed and soaked for 30 minutes
cups vegetable broth

Short Sauce:

1 ½ cups fresh cilantro, rinsed and roughly chopped
1 cup parsley, rinsed and roughly chopped
1 sprig mint, leaves roughly chopped
½ cup pinenuts, lightly toasted
1/3 cup extra virgin olive oil
1 teaspoon lemon zest
Juice of 1 lemon
Salt to taste (about ¼ teaspoon)

For the Garbanzos:

Drain the garbanzos of their soaking liquid.

Place in a medium sized pot and cover with about 3 cups fresh water.  Add the rest of the ingredients (you can place them in a bouquet garni bag if you want) and bring the water up to a boil.  Simmer until the garbanzos are cooked through.  Drain, remove the aromatics, and set aside.

To Prepare the Pilaf:

Heat up the olive oil in a medium sized pot.  Sweat the onion, carrot, fennel, and garlic until the onion and fennel appear translucent.  Add the spices and a pinch of salt, and stir for another minute or two.  Drain the freekeh of its soaking liquid and add it to the pot.  Stir everything together so that the freekeh is well integrated, and cook for about 2 minutes, stirring gently.  Pour over the broth and bring to a simmer.  Cover the pot and let cook for 30 minutes.  Add the garbanzos and continue to cook for another 5-10 minutes, or until the liquid has been absorbed and the wheat is cooked through.  Keep in mind that these are wheat berries, so they will have a slightly chewy texture and will not be completely soft.

Make the short sauce by blending all of the ingredients together until coarsely chopped, you do not want a smooth puree.  Spoon a bit of the sauce into the pot and stir to combine.  Serve while warm.

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For more recipes from around the world, visit
Kitchen Caravan on-line.

Kitchen Caravan was started by Sophia Brittan and Emma Piper-Burket  in January of 2007 to provide an online resource for healthy eating and cultural education with quality content and a valuable learning experience.
Check it out. Archives explore foods from around the world.

On location with Ginger Liu

The Fairoaks Project

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June 12th – 27th, 2010
Opening Reception June 12th, 2010
drkrm/gallery
http://www.drkrm.com/fairoaks.html
2121 San Fernando Road Suite 3
Los Angeles, CA 90065

DRKRM gallery presents an extraordinary, never-before-seen glimpse into pre-AIDS gay sexual culture. The Fairoaks Project is an exhibit of Polaroid photographs taken by Frank Melleno during the spring and summer of 1978 at The Fairoaks Hotel, a San Francisco bathhouse housed in a refurbished Victorian building near a black ghetto.  The Fairoaks was known for its laid-back and racially integrated ambiance. Bold and unapologetic, Melleno’s images capture an aspect of gay life rarely seen in snapshot photography: sexually candid encounters that are playful, spontaneous and often affectionate. The dark storm of drug abuse and pandemic disease that would soon overtake the community is not visible in these celebratory pictures.

Melleno’s collection of Polaroids was put in a box shortly after they were shot and have not been seen until now. Many of the images contain nudity and frank erotic scenes, but they also capture men dressed in festive attire and engaged in other aspects of the counter-culture lifestyle the Fairoaks promoted. Many artists lived at the hotel, and ongoing therapy-support groups and monthly theme parties enhanced the Fairoaks’ reputation as a neighborhood center for gay men as much as a bathhouse.

A limited-edition book of photographs from the exhibit, with an introduction by Mark Thompson, is available for purchase in the gallery and on BLURB.

Frank Melleno: The Fairoaks Project
Polaroids from a San Francisco bathhouse 1978

Giving a Hand, Not a Handout

From “The Iraqi Seed Project” Newsletter, Vol. 1

Background: Iraq and the Fertile Crescent are often referred to as the birthplace of agriculture. Crops such as wheat, barley, lentils and chickpeas were first cultivated there over 7,000 years ago. After years of war, sanctions and environmental degradation many Iraqi farmers are now struggling to feed their families.  Today Iraq imports much of its food supply.  Wheat, which originated in the region, is now imported from the United States and Australia, and Iraq is now one of the fastest growing markets for US agricultural exports.

The Iraqi Seed Project seeks to document the daily reality of farmers on the ground and to honor the rich history of farming in the Fertile Crescent. The hope is to connect Iraqi farmers and agricultural policy makers to counterparts abroad who are working to promote crop diversity and environmentally sustainable growing practices. 

The Iraqi Seed Project will consist of a short film, interactive website and real life exchange; it is intended as a creative work as well as useful resource to those working in the field.  The project currently is in pre-production, with plans to begin filming early this spring.

• The film explores daily life on an Iraqi farm • The website shares  research in the form of video interviews, essays, articles, and discussions related to the history and current realities of farming in Iraq • The exchange - part of The Iraqi Seed Project’s mission is to facilitate a real life exchange between farmers in Iraq and farmers abroad.  Seed swaps, workshops and correspondence are just some of the intended ways to accomplish this.

For more information contact Emma Piper-Burket, emma@iraqiseedproject.com,  or visit the group’s profile in Grantmakers in Film + Electronic Media Database