My Morning

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I awoke this morning from dreams about my mom as a destitute field worker, taking me around the dust bowl of a poor yet magical America. My alarm went off at 9:15 and I felt gross. My skin was oily and I could feel a zit by my right eye, which was crusted with sleep. A 212 phone number rang and I quickly composed myself and hopped out of bed, hoping the call was from my photo editor. Instead, it was a woman from Scottrade asking about my account transfer. I did not want to deal with that so I got off the line quickly, threw clothes on and headed outside to sit in my car to prevent a street-sweeping ticket.

The right side of the road was completely full. Usually it's completely empty from 9:30-11 on Tuesdays so that the gutters can be cleaned. There must've been a memo that I didn't get saying that cars wouldn't be policed today for some reason. At 9:45 the street sweeper drove by, accomplishing nothing. What a pointless city service. Why deploy the street sweeper and not the parking enforcement? I watched the trash collectors do their more valuable job before heading back inside.

I collapsed on my bed and contemplated giving in to my tiredness, but decided to stay up and possibly go to yoga at noon. I felt ambivalent about yoga because it's such a hassle, but wanted its benefits all the same. I ate a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, took some Sudafed and sat on the couch for an hour, watching the romantic comedy Someone Like You. At 11am I decided that I was wasting time and went to my computer to handle an email from my old professor George. He forwarded me a job opportunity, so I thanked him for it and then applied to the photo researcher position. That felt like an accomplishment. I then made up my mind to go to yoga, threw on my yoga outfit and left.

The song playing on my iPhone was The Decline by NoFX, one of the most epic songs ever made. This was my favorite band in 8th grade. They released this EP (1 song long) in 1999 or 2000, as my love for punk rock was fading. This was the final triumph of the genre. It is still a pleasure to hear.

I missed the Q train by seconds and wondered, where could I have recovered that time? If I had caught the walk signal on Livingston? If I left moments earlier instead considering an email sent by another old prof, Simone, to whom I debated responding? Regardless, the express train was gone so I decided to take the R to 8th street, which was closer to Yoga to the People. On the train, I decided to replay The Decline over and over between the 13:17 min point to the 14:53 min point. The song is 18:21 minutes long, but it's that section that really does it for me. The lyrics are about the decline of western civilization and gives me chills every time I listen to it, the way a great movie does at its climax. I decided to type up the lyrics from this section of the song, as they are incredibly poignant and moving.

After typing up the words on my notes app, I closed my eyes to enjoy the music and subsequently missed my stop. I mean, I never get off at 8th street, let alone take the R train, so I had no sense of things. I got off at Union Square at 11:50. It's best to be at least 15 minutes early for yoga, as it fills up fast. I considered walking from Union Square, but decided I'd definitely miss class that way. I considered going to the downtown 6 train to Astor place, but that seemed risky as well, since the 6 train was on the other side of the station. I crossed the platform and a downtown N express came. I considered abandoning yoga and salvaging this excursion by going to school and transferring some scanned files to my flash drive, which I brought with me for this exact circumstance, but I felt gross and didn't really want to go to school. I then decided that if another express train came before the local, I'd just go home. The Q showed up a minute later, at 11:53.

Lyrics from the section I typed up:

Save us!
The human existence is failing,

Resistance essential,

The future written off,

The odds are astronomically against us
Only moron and genius
Would fight a losing battle
Against the super ego
When giving in is so damn comforting

And so we go on with our lives
We know the truth but prefer lies
Lies are simple simple is bliss
Why go against tradition when we can
Admit defeat. Live in decline.
Be the victim of our own design
The status quo built on suspect
Why would anyone stick out their neck?

Fellow members of club "We've Got Ours"
I'd like to introduce you to our host
He's got his, and I've got mine
Meet the decline

The Lost Coast

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The Lost Coast Trail, Northern California

It is almost the one year anniversary of my first and so far only trip to the mysteriously named Lost Coast of California inside the King Range National Conservation Area. Therefore, I thought I would share my experience as best as I can recall—mainly because, as you will see, it was quite impossible to keep a journal of our time on the trails and because it was such an amazing and intense experience it is just difficult to describe what happened.

File on the beach, early on the journey

Sex Is Stupid

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I didn’t feel particularly ruttish. On the contrary, I felt rather passionless. But I also felt despondent and wanted physical attention. People get like that, right? It was probably a mistake. It was a mistake. I wasn’t attracted to this girl. Not at all. I mean, she was okay. She was cute-ish. I liked her body. I was drinking steadily.




Matt and Jesse and Neil met me at this little spot at 8:15. That itself was quite taxing. Why do plans not just make themselves? Emails turn into such goofy threads. I suck at finding spots to eat. I’m the worst. It happened though, thank god. The possibility of having no plans puts me on the verge of tears.

"The Gregorian"

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(2 intros to the same story... for my fiction class.)

His speech at the Northern Front had been a success, and he knew it. From flashing his now trademark smile to throwing his muscular arm from above his six-foot frame and crashing it against the unsuspecting podium, he had controlled the separatist audience as a conductor would a symphony. When he first began calling for deurbanization, his Ivy-shaded vernacular and Boston accent betrayed him. But he had learned a lot from those failed campaigns. Rather than speak on the presumption that the separatists would listen to his like-minded ideas of revolution in spite of his pedigree, he now spoke as if all that his pedigree provided him was spite; ideas had become an afterthought. Now, when he demanded that the Metropol bombers be executed, he heard the heckling and the threats from his first campaign; when he ordered that capita-maximums be enforced throughout the Central Territory, he saw his commanding officer killed in the failed mutiny; when he called for mandatory immigrant deportations to Canada, he felt the pangs of Maryanne breaking their engagement; when he denounced the Treaty of Cincinnati, he smelled his son’s burnt flesh from the South Side bombing. Only by wearing his past as if it were a crown of thorns, he knew, could Gregory Bender succeed in winning over New America. Now, as he waved to the adoring crowd from his helicopter, six days before the Territorial Councils would choose a new president, he delighted in sensing that the punctures were deepening. There was no turning back.

_____________________________________________

The hardest part about pulling the trigger, I knew, would be that he remembered my daughter’s name. It’s always what’s worst about undercover work, having to get to know the guy, realizing that they personally aren’t that bad as they say back home. But this is war and I have my duty. There are three separatist leaders competing for control over New America and Gregory Bender is the only one who has the power to inspire its permanent disillusion from the Union. No doubt, with his experience, intelligence, and presence on the stage, he is the most dangerous man in either country. His conviction is astounding and his intense face and large build makes it seem that he is willing to take on the Union with his bare hands. With all the fighting and sacrifice that these people have gone through, they need to believe in someone like Gregory; what’s worse is that he knows this better than anyone and is perfectly willing to exploit it. If I could not see the destruction he’s causing, I’d say there was a beautiful dependence in their symbiosis. The trouble is, after having been in his inner circle for the past two years, I can see that he has given up on any reconciliation between New America and the American Union. It doesn’t matter if he’s discussing military operations with a general or rallying a hall full of widowed housewives, he’s only concerned with making them an extension of his will, a means by which he can satiate his torment. He has witnessed too much and lost too much because of this war to see anything past it. He is beyond compromise. Like me, he is on a suicide mission. That’s is why I must kill him. I just wish the poor bastard would stop asking about my daughter.

Today's Sharp Sparkle, or Say It Plain

I think there's too much burden placed on the orgasm, you know, to make up for empty areas in life.
- Woody Allen, Annie Hall

It's the Wednesday morning after the inauguration. Depending on whom one asks, the party is over or the party has just begun.

School began last week, but I feel as if today is the first day. There is a lot of work to do, from here on out.

I felt many emotions during the inauguration. For some reason, I began the day thinking that something extraordinary was about to occur; whether it would be good or bad, I did not know. I packed a lunch that I did not eat; I packed a phone charger, which I did not use, in case there was some catastrophe; I brought my iPod shuffle in case I was stuck in the immovable crowd that never appeared. For some reason, I thought that sensationalism was the name of the day.

Instead, everything happened without surprise, without mysticism.

The potentially groundbreaking message I assumed would come from our new president was muted by pragmatism, history, and wisdom. Although I never thought negatively of the speech, critics said that it lacked the "umph" that other inaugural addresses contained. Maybe, for us who pray to messiahs and bow to the shock and awe, withholding the "umph" was exactly what we needed. Much of what Obama promises is far-fetched and could be construed as pandering. What he does less of, though, is promise that solutions will be easy. Instead of creating the catch phrase, he chose to retell our story with a comprehensiveness that we have not seen in a long time. Obama could not start out with fantastic solutions because his plans for us first require us to reacquaint ourselves with our past, with our identities. Only by knowing ourselves, both individually and as a nation, can we begin to consider what we need to accomplish to reach greater heights. President Obama invoked Lincoln and Washington; he referenced slavery and the hopes our relatives had when they came to this continent. He tried his best to reintroduce us to ourselves, which can only be accomplished by remembering that we are not mainly 9/11, Pearl Harbor, the Super Bowl, the season finale, or the orgasm. Instead, as the inaugural poet laureate Elizabeth Alexander said:

Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks,
raised the bridges,
picked the cotton and the lettuce,
built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Instead of shiny solutions, maybe we need to relearn what a solution looks like and for what reason it's sought.

Maybe we need to relearn that it is us, not Him, who should do the striving.

"Soar, Loser"

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I am trying to get into this awesome looking (legal) fiction writing class. The assignment for next week is to write a 100-word story. Here are some initial attempts:


Gregory did not know what to expect when the plane landed. Last time, reporters outnumbered supporters. Still, he thought that his chances here were good: Many of the candidates were relatively unknown in Phoenix. Gregory’s vocal support of the Cleveland riots won him appeal among separatists, but he had much to prove to the Western Frontier. There was greater fervor here. He thought that he had done enough by calling for Chicago’s immediate conversion to Urbtowns, but his obvious pedigree betrayed his statements supporting the Yeomen.

When his entourage reached the terminal, Gregory was shocked to find General Scarve waiting.

Smear

This is the beginning of a short story I started in February 2006 and have probably not touched since then (except the last paragraph, which I just wrote). I am going to try to finish a respectable draft in the coming weeks.

Smear

This is what you get when you mess with us.

I.

“Hold my calls for the next hour, Alicia.”

“But what if he calls, Senator Augustine?”

“I don’t imagine him calling, but if he does just tell him that I have nothing to say that he wants to know.” It’s touching that she thinks that the President—that anyone—has anything left to say to me or want from me, except my head.

Before I close the door to my office, I consider something; I turn back to my loyal secretary of eight years.

“Actually, Alicia, there’s really nothing left for you to do here. How about you take the rest of the day off. I am sure Leo would be elated if you picked him up from school.”

“Are you sure, sir?”

“I am.”

“Okay. Senator Augustine?”

“Yes?” For the first time during the conversation I look directly at Alicia and notice that her glasses are foggy. Her lips are quivering.

“I am very sorry that this all happened.”

“I know. Me, too.” I muster a half-smile, faintly patting her shoulder, hoping to relate my appreciation for her kindness. She is probably the only person left in this city who truly feels sorry.