The ego is nothing but memory, a set of definitions which are limiting. You strongly believe in these patterns you have yourself brought about and you mechanically repeat them. It is only habit that maintains them, makes them seem permanent. Let them go once and for all.

-- Jean Klein

The past few weeks have been fraught with vacillation regarding my future living situation, part of me wanting to take advantage of the release from my apartment commitment and take flight to the coast, maybe open a bed & breakfast along the beach and pursue new adventures. The other half was stubbornly denying my Sagittarian compulsion to wander. I've got it good, I can't deny that -- a secure job, good headway in my education, and a love larger than I thought my heart could hold.

And though the large part of indecision stemmed from the idea that fortune favors the bold and that perhaps I ought to say, boldly, "fuck it," and pursue this vague concept of adventure, leaving my life of stability and security behind, it occurred to me that allowing myself to remain where I am and commit to a path required much more bravery than I ever imagined.

I'm still scared shitless. But I couldn't have asked for more adventure than this.

Expressed on the site is one of the more common fronts -- if not the only defense -- I've faced when confronted by staunch supporters of the war, specifically: "We are not ashamed of America. We think it's the best country ever. . ." Lauren at Feministe exprienced this response in regard to her post against the war, in which she was basically told to support the president or leave the country, that dissidence was a sure sign of her not being a "native American."

When did this war suddenly become about loving the country, about patriotism? I disagree with the reasons for war, but I do love this country and love living here (don't get me started on the idiocy of nationalism, though). Patriotism and disagreement with poltico-military aggression by one's government are two entirely separate things (I can love owning and driving a Lexus -- may even be a loyal customer to the company -- but can disagree with the way the drive train is designed; that doesn't preclude my admiration of the car itself, or what the company stands for) (Update: Best slogan seen yet is, "No Bush, No Saddam, No War" pointing out that being against Bush or the war doesn't necessitate your support for Saddam and vice versa).

This is the problem I have with the way the Bush administration has pushed their cause, the way the media has enabled such an ignorant mindset to be propagated throughout the population. We are not warring against Iraq because we love America and they do not. We are not even warring against Iraq because they are responsible for the 2001 attack. This has nothing to do with patriotism (perhaps pistachios?) (Update: The president's real goal in Iraq. Wow.)

I may not support the reasoning behind the war or the way it has been executed, and I certainly don't advocate initiating a war as a means to any end ("Warring for peace is like fucking for virginity"), and even though it was pure chance that I was born in America, as a US citizen I love my country and what it stands for. Just for the record.

And this is my last post on the war. Until it ends, that is.

posted Wednesday, March 26, 2003

al-Ternative

Arab news network, al-Jazeera published an English version of it's website Monday, offering an alternative view on the events in Iraq -- often in striking disagreement with what's been reported here in the US -- and disturbingly provacative photos of dead US soldiers. It's no wonder then that the site was hacked on Tuesday, which would explain why I haven't been able to access it since (at first I'd wondered if it had been blocked by the US government).

I question the extreme nature of many of the articles, seemingly aimed at antagonizing American readers with editorials on the influence of the Israeli lobby in Washington and "the joke" that is the US's coalition of "obscure" countries, all compounded by the fact that many of these opinionated stories remain without reporter by-lines. After watching any of the US news channels, however, it is an interesting change of pace. It makes you question the integrity of our own news sources.

As with anything, I'm sure the truth lies somewhere inbetween.

Earlier in the day, I'd gone to buy groceries in the face of an impending whiteout. Colorado weather is annoyingly, ridiculously fickle (and I wonder if the reason I feel such animosity is because it reminds me of myself) but recent storms have managed to last for days covering the state with an enormous amount of snow and so I took advantage of the early signs to head it off and make for groceries. A five-mile drive down the interstate and the car parked in the store lot, the snow had stopped, the sun was smiling and a bluebird landed miraculously on my shoulder, which I quickly swatted off with this cook book I bought last month that plans your week in advance, complete with a pre-week shopping list. It's great. No more last-minute, Dorito-Twix-Totino's impulse purchases, just your simple old-fashioned staples for some traditional home-cooked meals.

And so here we are in the kitchen. It's all so domestic -- M washing potatoes while I mangle the goddamned tomatoes -- and I'm wondering how the hell this happened when, after all, I've always been like Colorado weather, never managing any kind of interest in a guy for longer than two or three months (those stocky German cooks wagging their fingers at me) and, sure, maybe the storm will lift any time now but the more we're together, the further and further into the future the forecasts stretch, gradually immobilizing us in the drifting snow, and I shrug and look over at him and we smile and make small talk and he tells me he loves me and I hand him the knife to finish off the tomatoes because I'm sure I'm getting carpal tunnel.

It is a myth universally accepted that a people suffering under a single despot in possession of a good moustache must be in want of invasion.

The national sentiment was uniform, each conversation as implicative as the next, a waiter or a hotel clerk or a boy leaning against the bar, casually explaining how he'd never been especially proud to be Canadian, a nationality that had always seemed like a shadow of its neighbor in politics, economics and culture. With Canadian officials denouncing American military action in the Middle East and increasing anti-war protests in the Great North, he now smiled and proclaimed, "I'm proud to be Canadian."

And I found myself apologizing profusely in every conversation as though I'd somehow unreasonably shouldered the responsibility for recent worldly events, being an American in a foreign country and all (but ultimately what are we responsible for besides our treatment of the few people we come in contact with daily?). It did prove for some rich opportunities for conversation with strangers, though. The French-Canadians are beautiful.

Returning from Canada was surprisingly uneventful. Hadn't security been beefed at one point with fears of terrorists raging against the recent war declaration? I checked my own bags and boarded with no search, and once inside the country, inside the quarantine of airport security, I was free to flirt with every gate, passenger, and carry-on. I imagined myself freely planting bombs of opiate with civility and kindness and an understanding smile.

Resolutely:

What if instead of becoming democratized by the Pax Americana the whole Middle East blows up and the cancer multiplies? As a proud defender of the West's civilization, without reservations I should join Mr. Bush and Mr. Blair in the new Alamo.

I'd be much more willing to support this administration's aggression and defend America's Alamo with my life if I didn't feel like I was being led along by Bush and the media, however -- being told to look one way and believe in the propagandized rhetoric of freedom, security, unity, and Happy American Family Values or be labeled "unpatriotic." If they'd cut with the thinly-veiled humanitarianism and come clean about their true intentions regarding the threatening instability of Islamic extremists, they'd garner a great deal more support from people who are tired of being urged to play along in this make-believe Hollywood-scripted Greek tragedy, I'd imagine.

posted Friday, March 14, 2003

D150wzed

This site was hacked sometime last night by a particularly friendly individual who was kind enough to leave everything intact, while placing a startling, yet rather docile notice in its place. (To the culprit: Thank you for (1) a job well done and (2) your keen sense of civility about the matter, the mark of a true gentleman (or -woman (you never know these days)))

The Department of Justice's Computer Crime site is linked at the bottom and, while everything looked to be very official, and thus very surprising, the title of the page -- "0wned by the federales..." -- revealed it for a hoax. Political statement? Public alert? A few weeks ago, Ashcroft declared sites selling drug paraphernalia and infringing on copyrights would be siezed by the government, raising novel legal questions. Even though federal law prohibits selling any product that is primarily intended for use with illegal drugs -- including water pipes and small spoons used with cocaine (my mom used to collect small silver spoons) -- I'm extremely wary about this, particularly in regards to privacy and freedom of speech. I don't necessarily disagree with the move, but I sense intense slippery-slope potential.

posted Thursday, March 13, 2003

Stipply Amazing

The Wall Street Journal is well known for its stylized sketches known as "hedcuts," which have graced front pages of the paper for more than two decades. Hand-drawn by a small staff of artists, each portrait takes approximately 5 hours to complete and is composed of hundreds of tiny dots and lines, a technique known as stippling. This produces pictures that closely resemble engravings on stock certificates and currency, apt for the wordbound appearance of The Journal, which adopted the illustration technique during a makeover in 1979. The drawings have since become an American icon.

The technique was actually invented by Dutch artists in the early 17th century to engrave glass. Using a diamond or tungsten-steel point, artists would carve countless dots into the delicate medium, building up dense areas as highlights that would show white against the plain-glass shadows. The technique loses none of its appeal on paper, however, complimenting paper's monochromatic aesthetic and offering a number of practical benefits, such as enabling The Journal to use a wide variety of photo sources without regard to the picture quality.

Having developed a systematic method for creating hedcuts, the paper has been able to maintain a uniform style over the years and allows multiple artists to finish one portrait. This looks like it would be fairly easy to accomplish in Photoshop. I've yet to find a good method for doing so, however. One possibility is creating an outline using a pencil filter, and overlaying another layer that has been bitmapped. Besides whipping out the trusty pen and paper, anyone have any other ideas or filter suggestions?

Audio Version, 8m54s, 3.0Mb (Mistakes and inconsistencies can be safely ignored; I just didn't feel like re-recording. Enjoy!)

Part 1
Mike and I went to the mall on Saturday, sort of as an excuse to spend time together, partially to shop, and in some measure to whittle down the hours from a listless weekend filled with interiors of chess and NPR. Toward the end of our excursion, we stopped at Babbage's to check out the latest and greatest in PS2 paraphernalia. Mike wanted to buy The Getaway, and did so on recommendation from the man at the counter, a lively but unfortunate fellow posessing a tongue of lisp-inducing proportion and a grossly unfair complexion. Seeming rather knowledgeable, though, I asked him if Xenosaga was also worth shelling out half a Benjamin for. He hastily endorsed it. Then again, he seemed to be under the impression that everything was "fabulous." Mike and I looked down at his wedding ring and then smirked at each other.

Part 2
I woke up with a song by Tiefschwarz in my head this morning. I've also been thinking a lot about death recently; not in a miserable or morbid way, but a way that could be likened to wondering what I'll have for lunch today or whether I've left the garbage for curbside collection. Sometimes these thoughts turn to speculation and I piece the most unrelated events together in various formations looking for the final combination that links them to my inevitable and, most likely, rapidly-approaching end.

So I had this song in my head this morning, you see, and I woke up to an incredibly cold room but Mike was in no mood to cuddle. It's not that the Tiefschwarz repertoire is particularly memorable, either, so while I fought furtively for an inconspicuous location near Mike's side of the bed, I contemplated the implications of such attentions, but to no avail.

The human mind is an amazing liar. It decieves itself with such deft that I marvel at how we are able to function in any kind of truthspace in the first place. I had somehow convinced myself, long ago, that the world operates on an anti-Panglossian, tragic fate. Once passive acceptance of this logic -- or illogic -- had been induced, my mind fine-tuned itself to seek out potentially tragic situations. For instance: waking up to the person you love, who, for inconsequential reasons, is disconsolately torpid, quiet, and impassive; thus relegating you to a most certain, inescapable tragedy later that day on the highway commute to work. Tragic, indeed.

Later, however, we dressed, made coffee, discussed the night's melancholy, kissed, hugged, bid farewell, and got in our cars, leaving for the day relieved that the air of dejection had been absolved and the radar of tragedy forgotten. But as I shuffled the CD deck in preparation for my half-hour drive, I felt a vacuum form in my lungs. An influx of inferences scattered inside my brain like released marbles because, out of 120 possible alternatives, my CD player had chosen to land on Tiefschwarz.

Part 3
It had been a really disappointing game. Our team had tied 2-2 in a single, uninvited overtime that seemed to do nothing but extend our weariness after a late-night start and two hours of an unswerving, exhuasting outpour of mental support for the team. "Sixth man," my ass. Dejectedly, we left the stadium and headed home. The ride home was quiet, and it was the second round of a curious silence that would only deteriorate into the subsequent languor of this morning, but we joked about the flashing lights on the interstate and talked about my upcoming trip this weekend in short, calculated sentences.

"Are there going to be drugs there?" he asked me, referring to New York City and Montreal.

It was an honest question, although it struck me as being rather silly. When, in the history of gaydom, were drugs -- however concealed and unspoken -- ever not involved? I answered affirmatively, although overlooking the additional consolations that I'd most likely not be partaking. Later, I discovered that however honest my answer might have been, it did not please him to know it.

We drove for a while in silence, and Mike was driving very fast. By the time we had approached the grey Jeep Cheroke doing sixty in the seventy-five lane, conversation had switched to a more inconsequential topic and Mike flashed the brights to prompt a quick clearance of the left lane, but instead of the expected, graceful acquiescence, something surprising happened. The Jeep was suddenly very close to our front bumper. I saw red, but it wasn't the red of anger or fear; it was the red of illuminated brake lights as an unseen pedal was pressed hard. We swerved to avoid a sixty-mile-per-hour collision and Mike's brights flashed along with his anger. While traffic continued to our right, seemingly unaffected, we slowed and pulled into the right lane to pass, but the driver of the Jeep was not finished with us yet. With a violent tilt, the SUV careened into the right lane with such force that I found myself simultaneously fearing and admiring the viscosity of the tires as they compressed and flexed on the pavement at such merciless speed. Mike swore and swerved to avoid another impact.

I remained relatively relaxed. After all, this couldn't be that dangerous. It wasn't tragic enough.

Part 4
Forty square miles of metropolitan London is replicated in The Getaway and even though I've only been there for two weeks, I can confidently verify the accuracy of its reproduction. It's that good. Graphical rendering technologies still have a ways to go, as entire sides of buildings disappear at certain angles and people are still relatively featureless marionettes, but it's nevertheless an attractive, addicting game.

A reluctant vigilante-hero, you drive the streets recklessly (or perhaps that's unavoidable due to oversensitive controls), indisciminately colliding with street lamps, fellow drivers, decorative railings, medians, statues, and pedestrians without any immediate consequence other than the randomly selected recording of a cockney'd voice exclaiming that insurance "details" are needed or that you should get off the road.

Ultimately, if you accrue enough vehicular damage, acrid, black, computer-generated smoke begins bellowing from the hood and if you're not careful, the car will explode into flames. The ensuing scene is strangely surreal, as a well-dressed man calmly, nonchalantly exits the burning wreckage, responsibly closing the door behind him. Avoiding firey death in such a manner is accomplished by simply pressing a button.

Speaking to the few of the locals in Mexico, it was an eyeopener to discover a general opposure towards any war on Iraq, since I'd assumed our southern neighbors would happily, sycophantically follow in our footsteps. Most don't know the details, but are siding with the growing international opposition. I don't blame them. Our government's recent moves smack of rash, agressive vengeance.

Military strategist, Thomas Barnett, convincingly argues our reasons for war from an encompassing, socio-econo-political perspective:

The reason I support going to war in Iraq is not simply that Saddam is a cutthroat Stalinist willing to kill anyone to stay in power, nor because that regime has clearly supported terrorist networks over the years. The real reason I support a war like this is that the resulting long-term military commitment will finally force America to deal with the entire Gap as a strategic threat environment.

While immediately against a Bush-slap on Iraq, I'd be remiss to ignore other perspectives on any world-wide radical encounter. And to think, I've been supporting them all these years (submitted: Exhibit A - Leather Two-Pocket Jacket in Brown, purchased yesterday)

All human beings want happiness, but they don?t know how to go about it. They don?t even know that there is work to be done and a discipline to be observed in order to obtain it. They think that just because they are here on earth they only need to eat, drink, sleep, earn a living, and bring children into the world, and they should automatically be happy. But animals do pretty much the same things, so what is the difference? To be on earth is no guarantee of happiness. . .

If you want happiness, don?t just sit there and do nothing about it. You must go out and start looking for the elements that nourish it, and as these elements belong to the divine world, that is where you have to look for them. Once you find them, you will love everyone and everything and be loved in return; you will understand things better, and you will have the power to create and achieve your aspirations.

-- Omraam Michael Aivanhov

     Yen Hui said, "I am making progress."
     Confucius asked, "In what way?"
     Yen Hui said, "I have given up doing good and being right."
     Confucius said, "Very good, but that is not quite enough."
     Another day, Yen Hui saw Confucius and said, "I am making progress."
     Confucius asked, "In what way?"
     Yen Hui said, "I have given up ceremony and music."
     Confucius said, "Very good, but that is not quite enough."
     Another day, Yen Hui saw Confucius again and said, "I am making progress."
     Confucius asked, "In what way?"
     Yen Hui said, "I just sit and forget."
     Confucius was startled and asked, "What do you mean by sitting and forgetting?"
     Yen Hui said, "I am not attached to the body and I give up any idea of knowing. By freeing myself from the body and mind, I become one with the infinite. This is what I mean by sitting and forgetting."
     Confucius said, "When there is oneness, there are no preferences. When there is change, there is no constancy.
     "If you have really attained this, then let me become your pupil."

--Chuang Tsu: Inner Chapters (p 140)

Every time you fill up the car, you can avoid putting more money into the coffers of Saudi Arabia . . . Nothing is more frustrating than the feeling that every time I fill-up the tank, I am sending my money to people who are trying to kill me, my family, and my friends.

I was shocked, not only at the disagreement, but at how violently it was expressed, unnerved by the skewed perception that these respondents have of American history and, dare I say, American values. It suddenly occurred to me, however, that I've lived in somewhat of a bubble of like-minded individuals -- coworkers, friends, and webloggers -- who all share my anti-war sentiments and that perhaps I had set myself up for such a response by blinding anticipating a wash of agreement.

The glimpse of these people's perspectives frightens me. However I must decisively agree to accommodate their opinions for that is the crux of such freedom afforded thought and speech. And, yet, when an opinion threatens my sense of identity as an American citizen -- even my sense of well-being -- where is a line drawn? I refuse to give in on this matter.

Those who want comfort in life have to seek conformity. The result is false compromise and hypocrisy, and the life without integrity becomes a patchwork.

-- Swami Avyaktananda

Apparently this whole thing started when Jim Flanagan made a connection between a talk given by Sun Microsystems' Guy Steele and a group of French artists (for some reason, the description of the group's founding reminded me of the rules of Fight Club). I'd say that Steele's paper is less artistic wordplay and more a systematic approach to semantics, however. (It's very similar to FORTH, a programming language that relies heavily on defining new words based on previously defined words, creating a pretty compact application that basically folds in on itself.) Neat stuff, though. Writing an entry using only one vowel (With nihilistic insight, I, Chris, will pimp this minxish gimmick) or other similar system of rules seems like a good exercise for creativity.

Oulipo meme success can be verified at Daypop.

I've been thinking a lot about death lately. Maybe it's because I've been hooked on Six Feet Under the past few weeks (I'm glad you're watching it too), or the looming possibility of war, or having read J.R. Norton's The Smiling Archipelago, or the balding of my tires, or all of the above. It's not that I've been thinking of it in a bad way, no. Death isn't good or bad (well, nothing in the universe is good or bad, it just is). But, I mean, death as in: I wonder if I'll have a chance to look back once more or if it will be flash-bang sudden. Will I have a chance to contemplate it before it happens? Will I be scared? Will I be relieved? In a way, I'm sort of anxious to experience it, even though you can't really experience death the way you experience the taste of spicy food or the thrill of weightlessness on a theme-park ride, since death implies an end to experience. So, I naturally wonder what no experience feels like, which is a completely contradictory.

I think I should build a snow gun before spring hits.

And work is calling me out to Mexico next week, but I'm working on a new layout that should be done before I leave. I'd be interested in hearing your opinion.

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