The evening plan had been to finish up some chinese food left over from last night’s study session and then get back to the thesis and some other papers and projects that have kept me away from here for so long. The last few days had been a maddening bout of regression analyses on historic confidence levels of congress, interacting terms and sometimes even a quadratic, hoping to make sense of something in the data available.

As I started to sit up from the couch to head to my desk I saw an email come up on my phone, and just before the notification screen went dark it showed me the name. “Ben?” I thought, “haven’t seen him since high school…I wonder if he’s in town or something. That’d be nice…”

But Ben’s news was terrible. Our friend, Chris, had been killed in an Avalanche in Washington just a few hours before. Ben had found out about it while checking the weather report and looked in to it before contacting me and the rest of our old group from high school. We’d mostly drifted, the time and the distance coming between us, as is so common. Life I guess. But sometimes things really get smashed into perspective, don’t they? Shit, in the face of this, who cares about the weather?

Fuck, that was hard news to hear. It’s the closest death to me yet, and even though we hadn’t seen each other in a few years, I took it much harder than I ever would have guessed. It sucked the breath right out of me and I sat there, motionless on the couch, the TV screen I was about to turn off still flickering images of something that now seemed about as irrelevant as the macroeconomic class I have in the morning. I didn’t know which one of the thoughts in my head to focus on, which one to pull out of the tazmanian devil whirling around in my mind to start processing.

I spent the next few hours on the memories, the bike trails, the backroads, the views from the roads on which we drove. They help. The upswells in my chest heaved unexpectedly and unpredictably though, and each time the tears started to dry I wondered if there would be more.

The room was cold, but I wrote a letter to his parents, feeling disconnected, far away and empty. Nothing sounded right, everything seemed trite or cliché, and despite the slap I had just endured, I couldn’t imagine what his family was going through. I know the smiles will come again, but somehow that seems a long way off now the world has a little less in it. Dammit…

I called friends from high school for whom I had phone numbers, and we talked, reminded each other that though the years and the miles had had their way with us, the past is still safely tucked in the fondness of memories, and that, too, is as good a reason to cherish someone as any. I told them the things I’d thought of over the years that I always meant to say at the next reunion, or under whatever circumstances it was that we’d see each other again. I always thought I’d get to tell Chris those things someday, perhaps in a log cabin somewhere, over a Jameson 12-year, or maybe under it. As we talked we all realized we had other phone calls to make.

Facebook lit up with thoughts, feelings and reactions. Mostly we were united in our bewilderment, and I couldn’t help but notice something on his facebook page that put a twist of satisfaction on my lips. Of the hundreds of posts on Chris’s facebook wall, not a single one failed to contain some element of pure excitement for just having KNOWN the guy. Comments like, “The heart and the smile are your tools. Thank you for teaching us how to use them,” and “thank you for all the good times! We’ll keep the shred alive for you!” rang of stoke and celebration, of awe and the amazing contentment of meeting one of those people whose smile doesn’t fade. Somewhere in that, I knew, I would need to find solace.

Now I stare into the dark of the East River and think about some of the exchanges I’d had with Chris over the years. Lights reflect off the water but I can’t seem to figure out where they’re coming from. We talked a lot about who we were and who we are becoming. About how we can steer this boat, because we’re perfectly capable of seeing where we’re fucking up along the way, if we want. When I think about Chris I am keenly aware that I recognize and know perfectly well which friendships I’ve had a hand in messing up along the way, and that I’ve let some of them go, focusing my energy on how I can better my life without depending on others, who have so often fallen short of my expectations. Were they too high? Was I hypocritical? Was I too chicken shit to admit it and fix it? Maybe.

High time to revisit that little character flaw, I’d say.

And now that it comes to it, I’m reminded of what he used to say when things got foggy and thick: “it’s gonna turn blue any minute!”

Yeah. I hope he’s right. But maybe it’s got nothing to do with hope. And that seems like the right attitude about now.

I couldn’t get images out of my head of an icy roar, of a murderous wave nature uses to maintain equilibrium. That’s all that matters to nature, really - heat transfer, and maybe gravity.

And I bet that mountain is real quiet now. Serene and beautiful, even. What a contrast.


I’ve delved into the old ways again. But this is not a confession.

Like mountains hanging above the horizon, I simply am what I am — without apologies, even though it causes a lot of confusion. For months I’ve been out on the road in crazy ways, in the air, seemingly everywhere — just like old times.

A few weeks ago I crossed the Atlantic Ocean four times in as many days. Or was it a few months ago? Whenever; it was for logistical reasons, and I learned the hard way that the human body cannot cross the Atlantic Ocean that often without violent consequences. The dry air of the airplane cabin cracks your lips and sucks all moisture from your pores until there is no water, just oil. Sometime after the first twelve hours your skin starts to smell like cannola and your hair becomes weighed down, thick and disgusting to the touch. In the fun house mirrors of those tiny airplane bathrooms, you realize your facial hair grows at an alarming rate at altitude and that there is no amount of water you can throw on your face to feel awake. So you go back to your seat and ask for another scotch…

Yeah…

At duty free shops across Europe I bought many liters of various whiskeys, running amok and going crazy between New York, Reykjavic, Barcelona, Amsterdam, Dublin, London and then a quick hop to Copenhagen. For reasons no one can explain, they kept sending me back to the Dutch water capital, the one place I’m still trying to leave behind. It was all a matter of finishing the work I owed to a complex client, a hydra of an organization with serious self-identity issues. They never knew who was in charge, and I couldn’t talk to anyone there long enough to figure out just who it was that wanted me there so badly. But they never seem to be satisfied, the word always coming down from above, calling me back.

Idiots.

For months this went on. JFK to Schiphol, and back. Layover in Heathrow. Stop in Iceland. Back. JFK to Schiphol, through Zurich. Through Brussels. A reprieve in Barcelona. In Bruges. A quick drive to Göteborg, and back. Newark. And then back. Jesus. I know it’s because they just don’t know what it is they want, but now that it comes to it, I start to wonder if maybe it’s because I don’t either.

No longer a matter of just direction & purpose, the satisfaction I draw from all this seems once again, bound only to my ability to define why it is that I’m here (or there) well enough to take the right steps and make the right demands. At this juncture I need to convince certain powers to sign the right forms. And I could do it, I think.

But my schedule these days makes me tired just documenting it in my calendar, which is so full it can’t possibly still be accurate. It’s time to consider other, more serious prospects than this Bourne-esque meltdown of a fantasy I’ve been scrambling to maintain. The Job, as it were, is paramount to the continued existence of this lifestyle, but it’s entirely unreliable and every time I accept another assignement it feels like taking another drag from a pipe whose embers have long since gone out.

Meanwhile, deep mysteries of curiosity and doubt stir in dark waters that rise and drop for no apparent reason. I do not trust the tides any more than I trust the sea, and when it seems that all things are floating down the river in a manner most becoming for the passenger, I start to wonder…

Questions of purpose, fate, ethics and other forces creep in; riddles in the dark. Notions of what may be next adorn my lists and notes; most words that I put down, in fact. The blocks are falling into place, I think. I’ve made no arrangement with the powers that be as of yet, but a trip down to Orlando a few months ago took me places I did not intend, and the results were, well, momentous, if nothing else.

For a trip I’d not intended to make, it was fortuitous down to the last leg, where I found a $5 bill in the backseat of the cab.

I have been to these conferences before. I’ve clapped at meaningless statements of teamwork and future success for all. I’ve cheered whatever lame cheer we decided we’d all yell to show our intent to rise and succeed in the coming year. I’ve whooped with sales reps and middle level managers over drinks that their fat expense accounts were paying for. I’ve heard these powerpoint presentations before.

Shit. I think I wrote some of them.

So I wasn’t excited about this latest money-spending fest, even less so because they’d scheduled it around thanksgiving, the busiest travel holiday of the year.

But when I finally got over what my purported duty was at the event and left my executive suite to walk down the hall and play Beirut with some old acquaintances that just happened to be at the same hotel, I was forced to do some serious thinking…

“I tire of this,” I thought. It’s fine to have a life that provides so much time, but that is not freedom. It’s my own signature I really seek, my own approval — I just don’t know which forms to fill out yet.

But you know what I hear is good for learning to fill out forms? Grad School.

…yeah.


The Last Leaf Hanging

13:05 in Lerum, Sweden
by Dylan Cormack

2010 Jan 24

Yeah, those other two are off trying to write a book like two right hands with one pen between them. No word yet how long they’ll be.

And I wish them luck, of course. Writing a story is a daunting task if you want it to be even remotely readable, let alone good. For me, though, the great and all untouchable novel is an animal I’d rather not have to deal with no matter how much coffee I drink. I can’t imagine taking on that amount of work voluntarily.

So they’ll be gone a while. But that doesn’t stop the ugly and the weird from showing up in the world of government, politics and economics. And shit, that’s my turf. So let’s get started.

First of all, I’m not talking about Haiti. I’m certainly not talking about John Edward’s illigitimate child, and god-damn you if that’s what you wanted to read about. You know what’s happening in Haiti by now. You know what the problem is. Poverty. Destitution. Inequity. Unfair extortion from France, and a general disinterest from the rest of the world. A lack of roads from the airport is just a symptom, as are the riotous crowds that form whenever someone tries to distribute supplies or food to those dying from things much worse than crumbling buildings. You don’t need Anderson Cooper showing you these things over and over for ten days; what you need is to know what policies have been in place that supported these conditions, who enacted those policies, who might have benefitted from them and which of these people are still running for re-election? And if they’re appointed, who appointed them or might reappoint them or someone similar? You need to know how you can vote to avoid these kinds of conditions. That’s political free speech, and that’s what runs a Democracy.

In any case, I digress. Or do I? What I really meant to talk about here is how our leaders don’t really work for the left any more than they work for the right. If you don’t see this, you’re probably getting your news from exactly where they want you getting it from. You’re probably watching CNN, or reading without thinking, maybe even wondering where you could possibly find the time to learn about any of these big issues enough to take an intelligent stand on it, assuming you had time to do that.

But that’s exactly the problem.

Look: after what happened this last week in the Unite States Supreme Court I was all ready to vituperate the general voting public. I was nonplussed at first, struck dumb with disbelief at the blatant criminality of what I’d just heard. It can’t be true, I thought, this must be left-wing spin. My sense of irate disgust kicked in and I wanted to set the internet on fire. But I couldn’t get it all down before my reason got the best of me and the next thing I knew I was scouring left and right wing news sites looking for details, as well as noting which sites didn’t mention the damn thing at all.

To be fair, I suppose there are just too many indirect leads into the roots of the causes of this latest bit of very grim news for me to berate everyone but people like Howard Zinn for not seeing this outrage coming…especially given the standards to which I typically hold the general public. This is the Supreme Court we’re talking about, and all you do is vote for the guy who would appoint one or two of them. And they have to be confirmed by…oh, right — the other people you get to vote for. But, man, that’s a lot to consider when all I’m trying to decide is whether this person agrees with me on major issues.

Yes, being a citizen is hard work, eh? But maybe if people who’d voted for a pimp like Bush could’ve considered more than just what he was like to have a beer with, such as what dangerous things might he do in office, we wouldn’t have decisions that endanger the very foundation of what makes a democracy made along a corner of the government that gets almost no attention.

But this is, after all, the year of the Rat. Maybe not on the chinese calendar, but certainly in the US Congress where the scurvy bastards on both sides have been doing nothing but stalling for the better part of a year now, on pretty much everything they touch. No leadership, no leader, and no action. And down the hill at the courthouse, Kennedy, Scalia and Roberts, along with the other two — who I’m daring you to look up yourself right now — are carrying on the pro-business agenda almost in the dark.

I say almost because yes, it is in the papers that the 5-4 Supreme Court ruling overturned about a hundred years of legislation preventing corporations from deciding between them the results of the Amerikan “democracy”. It is in the papers that the court ruled that money is a form of free speech and that corporations too, have a right to it, amazingly. It is in the papers that purely legal entities, while still prohibited from giving directly to candidates to further their own agendas, can now spend unlimited amounts on television ads and radio time, or any other form of public influence. But aside from a couple of pundits here and there that are pointing out how much this limits any individual’s ability to make a voice heard over the billions that oil and insurance companies will certainly pour into campaigns now, there is very little noise made about what this ruling means. The urge of a few people to scream their fiery hearts out into the black empty abyss made wider by corporate money now amounts to a fart in a hurricane.

But this is and always has been the logical progression of things. When the voting public participates in the political process only enough to claim as much, people with actual interests will surely win out the disinterest of the masses, even if they are the majority. And when those few people aren’t people at all but legal entities with all but unlimited cash, the interests of the disinterested won’t go forgotten, or ignored…they’ll simply cease to exist.


Too Long in Beta

5:34 in Manhattan, NY
by Pedro Ávila

2009 Dec 5

I put my drink back down on the little plastic foldaway airplane table. In the dark of the cabin, the thin golden liquid disappears into the blackness, which is enriched and deepened by the contrast of the bright screeen staring back at me. I’ve sifted through hundreds of channels beamed in via satellite, live voices telling me things, none of which carry even a whiff of importance, a mild fart of novelty.

The sky beneath us was distant. A falling ocean, a waterfall of plumes and sprays, with murderous roars muffled by the thick glass of the airplane windows.

Crazy vibrations in my head, but not from the airwaves. And no, not politics, I’m tired of politics. It’s the Israelis and the Palestinians, and Healthcare and the Republicans putting it down and the Democrats sitting on the sidelines jacking off as they always do…they just took 8 years to replace Clinton with Obama, and the results couldn’t be more similar…no, I don’t want to talk about politics.

The noise coming at me is of a different type, filling me with anxiety and a paralyzing fear. There is possibility on the horizon again; the scent of purpose within my grasp, like the smell of warm apples you can tell are coming from a pie in your oven.

There is the new apartment, of course, a new skyline to call my own, and the city will be my canvas. No strings like bookdeals come attached, but there is whatever potential I can draw from it, I suppose. Lurking around the bend there are also new whispers of employment, direction, maybe even academia again…

That’s enough, I thought. There IS no news, and there will never be any again. It’s time to get back to the project on which I’ve fallen so desperately behind. It’s time to write. And it may take a while.

So be it.


It doesn’t matter what you think of MSNBC or Rachel Maddow or Keith Olbermann or their sometimes annoying little band of political correspondants selected to agree with them on the air. It doesn’t matter that they use the same news show equations as Fox News or that they have their own moments of embarrasing journalism, no different from Bill O’Reilly’s or Sean Hannity’s except that the left is a bad comeback to the right and tends to be more infantile and less condescending.

But never mind all that. What we have to deal with now is that ugly little rodent of journalism, gnawing on words like a skunk under your porch. That inconvenient liability that facts are — after all — facts, and that by the last period of any story, nothings stands on its own without them. To wit, the myriad facts presented by Olbermann and Maddow since August of this year have been well-checked, their investigations have been conclusive and relevant and their message has been clear and consistent. Not to mention cohesive and sane, with a touch of intelligence not seen on most other networks.

Mind you — in fact, BEWARE! I make no defense for network news. They are all of them feeble and vapid wastes of time, a sickly portal for information, constipated and obtuse. The 24-hour news cycle does for relevant information what a swollen prostate does to a stream of urine. And nobody likes to get up five times a night to barely squeeze a trickle.

Why the hell do we put up with this shit?

But as we’ve seen with the two-party system in this country — which is really just a one party system that is, before it is anything else, pro-business — facts don’t always go hand in hand with reasonable reactions. And sometimes the strategies on the white board must simply be turned upside down.

It was odd to watch Olbermann, the newsman turned poet writhe and pulse with tones of anger and a menacing darkness about his gaze, filling the airwaves with his own pitch for health care, his own story. It was weird to be moved by a journalist’s pitch, to have his bias slap me in the face like a clown beating a piñata with the small end of a baseball bat. Using his father’s battle with age and infirmaments, he spoke of every one’s fear and resistance to death and pain. Bias be damned, he implied, if I can’t reach you buffoons with the logical progression of facts and guided journalism, by god, I’ll reach into the pits of my own desperation, my own human battles if I have to. And not in a pathetic and phony plea like that idiot, Glenn Beck, who would, if he were any kind of decent, at least take acting lessons before attempting to stir my pity.

And, he continued, if it doesn’t satisfy your need to be entertained, then fuck you, because this is about action, not rhetoric. If the facts won’t stir you, and the poetry won’t touch you, well, then I’ll spell it out for you. And whether mindless viewer or devoted activist, I WILL TELL YOU WHAT TO DO.

And then he did.

A call to action. An honest-to-god initiative by the left, something not seen since Vietnam, and even that might be a little naíve to consider. Hold free health clinics in the states of the 6 or 8 democrat senators who are seemingly siding with republicans on the public option issue of the health bill. Hold those dogs accountable for what you need from them. Show those miserable pro-business miscreants giving advantage to the health-care giants at the cost of human pain that what we want is possible, and that we know it is THEY that stand in our way. And then, goddammit, vote accordingly when the time comes, eh?

And with that, he returned to the regular programming, of filling up the airwaves with another 24 hours of informatioin, and we, the viewers, the citizenry, were left to do with that message what we will. I only mention it because it was weird to remember just how much inane chatter is out there in the ether to spill into our minds if we’re not selective of what we bother wasting our time with.

I was moved by Olberman’s near soliloquy on MSNBC. Well, not on TV, and not that night since I watch and read my news on the internet, when I damn well please, and in a way that I can spend the time to form my own opinions, on my own terms, without having Lexus, Jack Daniels and Boeing commercials splashed at me with ridiculous fervor, without having my thought processes constantly interrupted by by a jangle of clowns. I’m sure that the darkness and the settled air of 8pm prime time generates its own air of propriety for his words, but what the hell? One in the afternoon was good enough for me.

In any case, it stirred me. For a moment I even considered that there might still be cogs within the machine that are acting on behalf of the very principles they claim; our principles — the ones that serve that almost mythical creature, the citizen. It was a weird feeling, to be honest.

…though it fades just as quickly.