On Holiday

Pict Grooving will return in 2007 with an all-new writing project.

Happy Holidays!
 

Tannenbuam

Trimming the Tree

I remembered the Christmas tree was originally a pagan symbol.

I'm putting mine up.
 

Reflecting

Reflecting on
hauling Cerwin-Vegas
7 floors up.

Polytechnic, me
long-haired and
skinny.

Reflecting on
four-dimensional-trigonometry,
physics pizza party,

suicidal thoughts.
A damn fine
twenty-first.

Reflecting on
entrapment, or
late night taco runs

never taken. On
Pink Floyd mug shots
confiscating youth.

Reflecting on
mushrooms
in autumn:

faces
and fists
in the rock.

Reflecting on
poetry in the corner
by the quarry,

now concrete.
Smoking cloves
in the afternoon.

Reflecting on
Poe and Thoreau,
on Kafka's chitin,

or Ginsberg
smoking marijuana
every chance he gets.

Reflecting on
giving up, on
waiting. Then

starting over again.
Reflecting on
finally being done.
 

S.C.U.B.A.

It's Alright

Them that must obey authority
that they do not respect in any degree
who despise their jobs, their destiny
speak jealously of them that are free
raise what they grow up to be
nothing more than something they invest in.


Bob Dylan, "It's Alright Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)"
 

They All Look the Same

Mississippi's Republican senator Trent Lott, last September after a meeting between the Senate Intelligence Committee and George Bush.

"Why do Sunnis kill Shiites? How do they tell the difference? They all look the same to me."
 

(House) Intelligence? (Committee)

A few days ago journalist Jeff Stein interviewed incoming House Intelligence Committee chairman Silvestre Reyes, a Democrat from Texas and a Vietnam Veteran. Here's an excerpt from their conversation.

---

Reyes stumbled when I asked him a simple question about al Qaeda at the end of a 40-minute interview in his office last week. Members of the Intelligence Committee, mind you, are paid $165,200 a year to know more than basic facts about our foes in the Middle East.

We warmed up with a long discussion about intelligence issues and Iraq. And then we veered into terrorism’s major players.

To me, it's like asking about Catholics and Protestants in Northern Ireland: Who's on what side?

The dialogue went like this:

"Al Qaeda is what," I asked. "Sunni or Shia?"

"Al Qaeda, they have both," Reyes said. "You're talking about predominantly?"

"Sure," I said, not knowing what else to say.

"Predominantly—probably Shiite," he ventured.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

Al Qaeda is profoundly Sunni. If a Shiite showed up at an al Qaeda club house, they'd slice off his head and use it for a soccer ball.

That's because the extremist Sunnis who make up al Qaeda consider all Shiites to be heretics.

Al Qaeda's Sunni roots account for its very existence. Osama bin Laden and his followers believe the Saudi Royal family besmirched the true faith through their corruption and alliance with the United States, particularly allowing U.S. troops on Saudi soil.

It's been five years since these Muslim extremists flew hijacked airliners into the World Trade Center.

Is it too much to ask that our intelligence overseers know who they are?

"And Hezbollah?" I asked him. "What are they?"

"Hezbollah. Uh, Hezbollah ... "

He laughed again, shifting in his seat.

"Why do you ask me these questions at five o'clock? Can I answer in Spanish? Do you speak Spanish?"

"Poquito," I said—a little.

"Poquito?!" He laughed again.

"Go ahead," I said. "Talk to me about Sunnis and Shia in Spanish."

Reyes: "Well, I, uh ... "

I apologized for putting him "on the spot a little." But I reminded him that the people who have killed thousands of Americans on U.S. soil and in the Middle East have been front page news for a long time now.

It's been 23 years since a Hezbollah suicide bomber killed over 200 U.S. military personnel in Beirut, mostly Marines.

Hezbollah, a creature of Iran, is close to taking over in Lebanon. Reports say they are helping train Iraqi Shiites to kill Sunnis in the spiraling civil war.

"Yeah," Reyes said, rightly observing, "but ... it's not like the Hatfields and the McCoys. It's a heck of a lot more complex.

"And I agree with you—we ought to expend some effort into understanding them. But speaking only for myself, it's hard to keep things in perspective and in the categories."
 

Right Where it Belongs

See the animal in his cage that you built?
Are you sure what side you're on?
Better not look him too closely in the eye:
are you sure what side of the glass you are on?

See the safety of the life you have built,
everything where it belongs.
Feel the hollowness inside of your heart,
and it's all
right where it belongs.

What if everything around you
isn't quite as it seems?
What if all the world you think you know
is an elaborate dream?

And if you look at your reflection,
is it all you want it to be?
What if you could look right through the cracks?
Would you find yourself,
find yourself afraid to see?

What if all the world's inside of your head?
Just creations of your own.
Your devils and your gods all the living and the dead,
and you really are alone.

You can live in this illusion.
You can choose to believe.
You keep looking but you can't find the woods,
while you're hiding in the trees.

What if everything around you
isn't quite as it seems?
What if all the world you used to know
is an elaborate dream?

And if you look at your reflection,
is it all you want it to be?
What if you could look right through the cracks?
Would you find yourself,
find yourself afraid to see?


(Words and artwork, Trent Reznor: Nine Inch Nails)
 

On Burning Tires

I, like many people, have recently found myself unusually interested in the saga of James Kim and his family. The story has all the elements of a good novel: the typical fish-out-of-water (a techie stranded in the wilderness), a struggle for survival, a call upon basic human instincts.

The first time I heard of James Kim's story, shortly after his wife and children were rescued, I knew he was dead. All I needed to hear was that he left the vehicle. Survivalists (even lay ones like me) know that you never leave your vehicle. You stay there and starve if you have to. You do not leave. Ever.

Some of you may even know about the rule of threes: In extreme climate (hot or cold) you can survive for three weeks without food; You can survive for three days without water; You can survive for three hours without shelter.

Three hours.

It is understandable, then, that Kim's 10 mile trek has been called superhuman. He was a motivated man and he deserves acclaim for that.

Even still, when I heard about the Kim's trail of clothing my instinct was confirmed: Hypothermia asserts itself in dastardly ways, with dementia and a false sensation of heat. Kim was stripping down to his bare skin because he was freezing to death, and his disrobing obviously accelerated the process.

I'm sure the rescuers were as aware of this as I, being well trained and more knowledgable in the effects of hypothermia. They must have, even as they suggested Kim's intelligence and creativity (characteristics which are utterly irrelevant in the face of hypothermia, a biological process) might be at work.

None of this is meant to suggest that Kim was foolish or incompetent. Hypothermia is hypothermia. And the fact that he set out from his car was an unfortunate but understandable choice: After nine days, I doubt he valued his life over that of his wife and (especially) his children. Certainly he understood the likelihood of his own death, but accepted it in the face of a thin hope for his family's rescue.

In the end, his gamble paid off.

But what about those tires? You know, the ones we've been hearing so much about. The ones which Kim and his wife have been praised for burning. In my opinion cautious understanding does not excuse the fact that this poor decision has been elevated to the status it has.

Their vehicle—the gas it contained and the tires on which it rode—is what allowed a series of mistakes and misjudgments to strand Kim and his family. These were the things that got them into their situation; these were the things that could have gotten them out.

When Kim burned his tires he made a foolish mistake, and I think it is time we called a spade a spade. With a forest of timber—much of which was dead (and even wet dead wood will burn given enough time and heat)—why in the world would anyone be advised to burn his vehicle's tires. (I'm not getting into the fact that I would have saved my gas too, in the first place.)

Smoke signals? Be realistic. Smoke signals do very little good unless helicopters are circling overhead, and even then, fresh green pine needles thrown on a hot fire do a sufficient job.

Kim's experience illustrates a fundamental lacking in our society today: a lacking in understanding our place in the world, and how we must sometimes think from an ecological standpoint. Our ignorant praise and unquestioning approval—motivated by grief and respect though it may be—illustrate that failure in ourselves.

Burning the tires was a mistake, and we should learn from it instead of proliferating the kind of bland thinking that allowed it in the first place.
 

A Christian Monopoly

I'm torn. On one hand, I enjoy the festivities of Christmas and the atmosphere created by lights on trees, by warm cider and a fireplace, by candles in the windows. On the other hand, I am not a Christian. I was raised Catholic and—like so many people today—have since drawn my own conclusions about the dogma.

I wonder how many others find themselves facing the same uncomfortable situation: caught between endorsing a religious celebration and enjoying the salve of tradition.

Several billboards throughout San Diego declare that Jesus is the reason for the season. They have a point. Iterating it forces me to face my own beliefs about December 25th. If there's anything I can't stand it's hypocrisy.

The billboard renters are reminding me it's us or them.

Adding to all this divisiveness is the (recent) hubbub about "Happy Holidays" vs. "Merry Christmas." I think the whole thing is rather childish. In my wife's office some disgruntled Christian insists on vandalizing all the "Happy Holiday" banners—edifying them to read "Merry Christmas." Personally, I think he or she should get back to work and stop proselytizing on company time.

What is it with this new, self-justified intolerance? Can't the rest of us celebrate the holidays? Can't we say it to each other? Can't we all acknowledge that it is the more inclusive greeting?

Have these people ever thought about the fact that they might be offending me? Or maybe it doesn't matter to them: Jesus is still the only reason for the season, I am reminded again.

Pick sides. Choose.

All this patriarchal black and white intolerance is sapping my love for the season. The Christmas season as well as the holiday season. All it does is tire me out and make me wish for January.
 

American Dream

"It's called the American Dream because you have to be asleep to believe it."

-George Carlin
 

On Preparing

Tonight a dear friend of mine—a mentor and a teacher—retired from CSUSM. Sue Fellows, a professor of Literature and Writing Studies, bid farewell to a long and productive career. Fortunately, she has lots of friends to join her in toasting a remarkable career spent fostering creativity, critical thinking, and literary advancement.

Many of the readings tonight were quite moving. Some brought me nearly to tears, and each was a reminder of the mark Sue has made on some many lives. It has been my privilege to work with Sue not only in a student-teacher relationship, but in a professional one as well. Her input and dedication to Perigee have been instrumental in its success: though she often, selflessly, redirects the credit onto me, without Sue I doubt Perigee would have made it to the level it enjoys today.

All of which I failed to say. It isn't that I stumbled over my words. It isn't that I forgot them—perse. It's just that I didn't prepare.

I wasn't, in fact, scheduled to speak. Ha. That was my first mistake: Trusting that not being scheduled meant I wouldn't have to.

The words I wrote on my card to Sue were personal and heartfelt. When she discovers them, she will no doubt see this. Even without them she knows the esteem in which I hold her.

The words I spoke—when prompted by Jensea, my fellow Perigee editor and friend—were fine. They were succinct and emotional and entirely appropriate. Do I sound like I'm trying to convince myself?

What I mean to say is, they weren't prepared.

In this there is always a kind of electric spontaneity: an "Oh shit, is this really happening to me? Am I really here?" feeling. It's the kind of thing that makes you know you're alive, as my brother-in-law would say.

I'm not very good at the spontaneity thing yet. My father—whom I consider to be the smoothest, most enjoyable and naturally talented, orator I know—has got it down.

Then I think, maybe this is how he got his start. Maybe it isn't always about preparing; maybe preparation is a safe mediocrity. Maybe you have to burn your feet before you can cross the coals.

Mostly I think—listening to the convergence of appreciation—this is what can be done. These are the lives that can be touched, when we remain true to ourselves and true to each other. This is what life should be about.

And I am thankful.
 

Jonny Has a Moment

With acoustics like this, the next Radiohead album is going to kick ass!

(Photo from their blog, Dead Air Space)
 

The First Rule

21st
century smells
funny and looks

worse.
Tech advances
and all, even

we
have forgotten:
Never get injured.


(This poem follows the Hay(na)ku form. Biology teaches that the first rule of nature is "never get injured.")
 

78 Percent Water

When the joy had
left your body,
and you were locked in
to your own thoughts,
you used to love
to sit by the water
and watch it lapping
on the rocks.

And every time you
put your feet in
you'd cry out and
you would pray,
but it's all downhill from here baby,
so naturally, I can't stay.
 
 
First you roll your
eyes to heaven,
say you never had love
so divine.
But it will go from
more than ever
to not enough
in no time.

You will push and
you will push un--
'til you push me
away.

I hear you cry out
for your water
and I know you'll curse it
someday.
 
 
I guess for me
there's been a few
who've walked up smiling
and drawn a line,
'tween so far
and from now on,
yes a big glowing
line in time.

And I've been disappointed,
I've been heartbroken,
yes I too have
loved from afar.

But we are
seventy-eight percent water,
even our
pumping hearts.


Ani Difranco, "78% H2O"
 

Got Justice?

Recently a nineteen year old San Diego Mesa College student, Whitney Young (pictured), was hit and killed by twenty year old Joseph Leeman. There has been a lot of talk about the incident in the media here, and rightfully so. After being struck by Leeman's 1997 BMW 527i, Young suffered severe brain trauma, never regaining consciousness before dying at a local hospital.

Was Leeman drunk? Probably.

Of course that is speculation. Speculation, however, based on common sense. On his "myspace" page Leeman is pictured drinking alcohol and calls himself "Steemin' Leeman" and a "drunken idiot."

Self described.

Adding to the reasonable presumption of intoxication is a previous DUI.

But that's not entirely my point here. It's bad enough a life has been snuffed out: someone's daughter, sister, someone's future wife, someday a mother. It's bad enough Leeman fled the scene (later claiming he thought he'd hit an animal). What's really bad is that Leeman faces a maximum of four years in jail.

Four years, which means he'll be out in two.

We put drug addicts and small time drug dealers away for ten times that amount.

Got justice?
 

A Word About Theories

Every now and then you'll hear a particular politician call evolution a theory. "It's a theory," he'll say, shrugging his shoulders and insinuating "Some people believe it, but it's not proven—it's just a theory and I've got my own."

Making this mistake illustrates the fact that the speaker in question has no understanding of basic scientific process.

Yes, evolution is a Theory. Do you know what that means?

Clearly, the politician who couches his disbelief in this way has no idea what a Theory is. A Theory is a law (and yes, it's capitalized). It is the last stage of the scientific process—a lengthy and thorough process involving meticulous research, repeatable experimentation and results, eventual publication, and rigorous peer review. A Theory is the antithesis of a hypothesis.

In biology a Theory is not a "theory," it is a proven law. It is a fundamental, undisputed truth.