Rhetorantical Bloviations

Changing Perspectives

2007-12-27T18:56:00.000-08:00

While I remain an Atheist insomuch as the existence of an actual sentient deity is concerned, I have involved myself to some degree over the years with spiritual matters- that yearning in humanity to become more, and to arrive at a better understanding of the world. It is an issue I have wrestled with for many years, the attempt to distinguish truth from falsehood, to understand what is referred to as enlightenment. Maugham was correct in his evaluation of enlightenment in The Razor’s Edge in which he quotes the Katha-Upanishad: "The sharp edge of a razor is difficult to pass over; thus the wise say the path to Salvation is hard." I understand Salvation in this context not as the Western concept of life after death, but rather as an abandoning of suffering and attaining enlightenment. Not something to be had in the afterlife, but something to be enjoyed now, in this world.

The discovery of the Buddhist notion of mindfulness, also present in Stocism (which comes as close to my beliefs as any system I have thus far studied), helped me to somewhat escape many of the preconceived notions and to approach at least an initial understanding of the universe. This notion of “god", at least as I understand it is not a sentient being, it is more like nature incarnate. It is nothing more than the “way and order of the Universe“. It is difficult to express really. It simply is. It is as water, fleeting and insubstantial; an ever-changing substance that changes even as you attempt to grasp it in your fist. From the Tao Te Ching:

The tao that can be told
is not the eternal Tao
The name that can be named
is not the eternal Name.

As the origin of heaven-and-earth, it is nameless;
As "the Mother" of all things, it is nameable

Free from desire, you realize the mystery.
Caught in desire, you see only the manifestations

These two spring from the same source but differ in name; this appears as darkness.
Darkness within darkness.
The gate to all mystery.

I am at last able to begin to understand this passage and much of the rest of the Tao Te Ching. The whole notion of the yin and yang, where each aspect of reality has its counterpart that both opposes and compliments it. It is not some far fetched concept at all (as I had thought for so long). It is no more complicated than saying this: without something to compare it to, a thing can not be said to exhibit certain characteristics. Strength cannot exist without weakness, else how could the fact that it is strong be ascertained? And as long as the two exist, and they do and must, there will be varying degrees of strength and weakness. A thing can be said to be strong only to the degree that another thing can be measured as weak, and vice versa. It is the same as saying that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. It is also possible to cast the notion of reincarnation in this same light. Matter is never lost- everything returns to energy, a continuous cycle.

And none of these ideas are incompatible with Atheism, or with science for that matter. Both science and mindfulness are methods of understanding the universe. Science consists of categorizing objects and phenomena based on certain criteria and in giving names to these objects and phenomena. Mindfulness consists of analyzing the universe, but in a manner that involves discarding the manmade nametags so that one can see each object in its true light; unhampered by preconceived notions, but no less rational.

While I lend little credence to theology, the monotheisms in particular, it is possible to look at the various religious texts as feeble attempts at understanding the universe; analogies made by people with imperfect tools for observing the mysterious history of the universe. While there are nuggets of truth, and wild exaggerations, there is also much evidence of various agendas and rather distasteful clinging to tradition in the face of the discovery of new evidence. Additionally, there is much evidence of man’s baser characteristics in these works (greed, intolerance, the need to feel superior, etc). I believe that where theology errs is in assigning attributes to this “force” (read: god, Tao, Gaia, Logos, etc). It is in the details, the specifics. Particularly in fundamentalism, where adherence to even minor details and differences can inspire hatred to the point of murder. In a more global outlook details about something as enormous and thus far mysterious as the universe would have importance only so far as their veracity is concerned. When these details are arrived at rationally, with right thinking and proper contemplation, one will see that there is no reason for contention, because everything is one, all part of the “Tao“, and ultimately all will return to it- even if one‘s conscious self is no longer in existence. It is less about faith and more about…acceptance. It is not a clinging, it is a release. It is about arriving at a point where faith is a null issue, where one no longer needs to have the final answers, even to the point of manufacturing them. It is simply about being. None of us are important enough that the universe would pause even for a nanosecond to accommodate us, and we are all of us made infinitely important by the mere fact that we are an insignificant part of the greater whole.

I think I may have come across as sounding vaguely “cosmic” and new age, which was not my intention at all (and which is not necessarily a bad thing in and of itself). It is really just a matter of a rather abrupt change in perspective. I hope that I have conveyed my view in some small way.

California-Texas Trip: Part Two

2007-12-07T10:22:00.000-08:00

This journey has left me nothing if not more thoroughly convinced of the sanctity and majesty of the world’s remaining natural areas, heavily-touristed though they may be (and as one of those very tourists, I suppose condemning would border on hypocrisy). I am equally certain of the need to protect these areas from the encroachment of society at all costs. The beauty of Yosemite is truly staggering, rivaled in my journeys only by the great limestone peaks surrounding Yangshuo and Guilin in southern China- enormous, verdant pillars of stone which seem to have been dropped randomly upon the patchwork of terraced rice fields and simple villages. Yosemite, by contrast, consists of a glacier carved valley surround by a series of granite behemoths. Towering high above the valley floor, these silvery peaks jut into the cerulean splendor of the sky in a violent clash of unyielding stone and scintillating sunlight.

The valley itself is a forested collage, a delicate imbuement of greens and yellows, spattered with the erratic, titian brushstrokes of autumn. A number of meadows and small lakes dot the landscape. Also scattered about are the various camp sites as well as a charming wooden chapel and the community of Yosemite Village. It was near this small village at Camp #4, perhaps a mile distant, I set up my tent. After Jen’s departure and a very wonderful, very hot shower, I returned to camp and fell into a fitful sleep.

The next day was my last, and I intended to take in as much as possible. Waking early, I struck camp, packed my belongings, and drove to Mariposa Grove along Highway 41. I cannot recall the length of the drive, but it was at least an hour. Upon reaching the grove, I set out on foot along the trail to explore the many giant sequoias. Though there were some few other tourists, most of the time I had the place more or less to myself, a fact that only intensified the isolated, otherworldly tranquility of the grove. Located along the trail are various signs offering insight into the trees and the other flora and fauna in the park. Sequoias are born of seeds from the smallest cone of any conifer, yet they grow into the largest. They are aided in this endeavor by a number of creatures, who seem to live in a sort of symbiosis with the trees. Among these are a particular type of squirrel which obtains its sustenance from the covering of the cone and subsequently scatters the seeds which will sprout new sequoias. The sequoia has a very shallow, easily damageable root system. One of the placards in the park compared the tree to a nail standing on its head. Quite a amazing actually, particularly when you note the immensity of the trees.

I spent some four hours or so in the grove, and, but for misreading a sign and taking a wrong turn which resulted in my walking some three miles or so in the wrong direction (and observing some rather large, somewhat disquieting bear tracks- there are no more grizzlies in Yosemite only black bears), the hike was quite easy. Upon completing my exploration of the grove I drove up to Glacier Point (a trip of about thirty to forty minutes), a vantage point offering perhaps the best view in all the valley. It is here that one truly develops an idea as to the vastness of the park. I believe it was possible to view a fourth of the park from this point, though it could have been more. At any rate, even this portion of Yosemite is enormous. A great many of the pictures I took are from Glacier Point, including most of the pictures of Half Dome, perhaps the most readily recognizable feature in the park. While it is possible to hike up to Glacier Point, it is a rather formidable hike of some 14.5 miles and my legs were in no shape for another strenuous hike.

And so, with a renewed since of the beauties of nature, I left Yosemite and returned to Yosemite Bug Rustic Mountain Resort Hostel. I was greeted in the dorm by a young(er than me) Englishman, a technical wizard studying for his doctorate in computer science. We talked for some time about various subjects and then I took a shower and set off for the hostel’s restaurant. The meal consisted of mashed potatoes and roast beef, served up with a hearty helping of vegetables. Add to this a couple of Newcastles and I was in heaven. Enter our young English gentleman (I do not recall his name, alas I have slept since then- and several times at that- you may think of him as Ringo if you so desire) again for a few more beers and some conversation. With all due respect to my new friend, this was perhaps the dullest exchange I have ever been forced to endure (plus he was all but deaf). But for the beer, I likely would have excused myself and retired to count the tile in the dormitory bathroom.

The next morning I had breakfast (unfortunately without the presence of the fascinating young waitress from my previous stay), and set out for Arizona.

California-Texas Trip: Part One

2007-12-07T10:17:00.000-08:00

And so the cross country extravaganza ends with me safely back in the bosom of my kith and kin, in time to participate in the ritualistic slaughter of not one, but two awkward, flightless birds.

I began my journey on the ninth of November in San Fran where I attended a Swell Season concert with Annie, a young woman I met in Africa, her partner Zeb, and their friend Sarah. For those of you who do not know, Swell Season is a band consisting of Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová, the two leads from the greatest movie of all time, Once. The concert was brilliant (to quote Hansard's favorite expression of approval). With the help of a couple of additional musicians (bass and violin) the duo performed spot on renditions of many of the songs from the movie as well as a number of other originals. Perhaps the highlight of the show was Irglová's stirring delivery of "If You Want Me," during which she exchanged her usual instrument, the piano, for Hansard's battered guitar (the same used in the movie). They proved every bit as charming in person as they do on screen. Utterly untouched by the corrupting elements of stardom, Hansard's is a genuine aura of confidence steeped in humility. Irglová displays a quiet bashfulness that adds an affecting intimacy to the entire event.

Perhaps the only incident to mar an otherwise perfect concert was the treatment afforded the opener, Martha Wainwright (sister of Rufus Wainwright) by a congregation of revelers huddled near the bar. Their chatter grew to such a level as to interfere even with Wainwright's vehement delivery. Clearly perturbed, she was forced to stop several times and ask that the conversation be kept to a minimum. While I was not particularly moved by her music, such behavior is reprehensible; an affront not only to the musician, but to the other concert goers as well. Though he said nothing of the incident, Hansard countered with his first tune, a fiery rendition of "Say It To Me Now," a song whose lyrics could not have been more appropriate if they had been written expressly in retaliation for just this offense.

I stayed the night with Annie and Zeb in their apartment near Haight Street and they treated me to breakfast the next morning. I cannot imagine a more interesting place to live. After saying our farewells, I spent the remainder of the day wandering around the Haight-Ashbury district in a light drizzle (as far as I know, this is the only form of precipitation to fall in Northern California). I ducked into the occasional bar for a beer before moving on to the next. Along the way I managed to find a Nepali/Tibetan ring I have been searching for, and for a very reasonable price. While the area has lost the glory of its sixties heyday, having become much more up market (like the rest of San Fran) it still retains an atmosphere of bohemian zaniness.

From here I proceeded to the Globetrotters Inn, one of the many hostels in San Fran. Not the greatest hostel by any means, but the only one with available space. The next day I set out for Marin Headlands, a former military post located just over the Golden Gate. I ventured to the nearby resort town of Sausalito where I had breakfast, washed some clothes and did some shopping for camping supplies. Later I returned to the Headlands to the hostel, located in a former military building. The area has been transformed into a park and has lovely views, and the hostel is warm an inviting, with an unmistakable hippie quality. The next day I headed out for Yosemite and got some wonderful shots of the Golden Gate.

I arrived in the small town of Mariposa, some thirty odd miles from Yosemite where I stopped for a rather uninspiring lunch and a much better haircut, before heading to yet another hostel, Yosemite Bug Rustic Mountain Resort, located about nine miles out of town and twenty five miles from Yosemite. After checking in, I was greeted by one of my fellow dorm-mates, Rodrigo, a young Frenchman who had been living in Chile for some time studying. He had a rather contagious exuberance about him and we talked at length about a wide range of topics, including the fact that he had been searching for an American who was not a dissenter ( i.e. did not think Bush is a moron and that the U.S. is headed down an insane path). Unfortunately, I was no help in this area, other than to suggest possibly widening his search to areas outside California.

This ranks as one of the best hostels I stayed at during my travels. It is located in the mountains and has a wonderful restaurant/bar, operated by an incredibly friendly staff and with some of the best and most wholesome food around (though this night I limited myself to a few beers). I spent the rest of the night studying up on Yosemite. I awoke early the next morning and had a hearty breakfast (the "American Breakfast") and was treated to the sunny, larger than life personality of the waitress. The food was outstanding, though she added an entirely new dimension to the experience, such that I think even a simple meal of hardtack and what passes for coffee in most American restaurants would have been transformed into an incomparable feast before her radiant smile and charismatic banter. After breakfast I lit out for Yosemite. While the drive to the park is stunning, it does little to prepare you for the majesty that is Yosemite.

After driving around a bit to get my bearings, I at last tracked down Camp #4, one of only two camps open in November, and set up my tent. Armed with a considerable amount of daylight, I set out on my first hike, Vernal Falls and Nevada Falls. According to the guidebook the whole affair was supposed to take six to eight hours, though I completed it in a little over four, so I think perhaps the literature provided in the park takes into account such things as age, health and physical ability (as I was to discover the next day, my own physical ability is somewhat more diminished than even I had suspected). At any rate the hike is beautiful, and, I think, a wonderful introduction to the park. Unfortunately, the falls were little more than trickles, but fantastic nonetheless. One of the best things about visiting the park in November is the lack of crowds. Indeed, there were few people present in the whole of the park. This, coupled with the cooler weather, make this an ideal time to explore Yosemite. I would be afraid even to think what it must be like in summer with the endless throng of tourists and the relentless heat of the sun.

Upon returning to my car I was surprised to find what I initially thought was a ticket fixed to my windshield. As it turns out Jen, one of my classmates in Monterey, was also in Yosemite and had somehow managed to find my car (not certain of the odds here, but I am sure they are quite a bit higher than tracking down a nondissenter in America). We met up later and I gave her directions to the camp where I was staying. I built a camp fire and feasted on one of the MREs (Meal-Ready-To-Eat) I had purchased for the trip from the commissary in Monterey. All I can say about MREs is that they are vaguely food-like and will do in a pinch, but that I would not go out of my way to try one, and certainly would not live on them by choice. Jen joined me later, set up her tent (in the dark, to her great credit), and we passed the night engrossed in wonderful conversation (hers, not mine).

In the morning we awoke early and Jen struck her camp as she had the leave that day. We set out for the top of Yosemite Falls at about nine, a hike described in terms ranging in degree from "very strenuous" to "highly strenuous" in the various guidebooks. The "very" did not kick in until about halfway, and at about the three-fourths mark, when we encountered a rather steep switchback trail located between to peaks, I think I might have append the description with a few adjectives of my own (none repeatable here). At last we reached the top, where we were greeted by magnificent views of the valley. Though a tad easier, the return trip was still quite intense. Toward the end our legs were shaking with exhaustion and I was near collapse (I think breakfast would have been a good idea). We treated ourselves to a sandwich at the deli in Yosemite Village and then Jen lit out for points unknown (actually for Maryland, Fort Meade to be precise), and I headed for the kitschy, overly touristic Curry Village Campsite for a shower.

Across the Universe

2007-10-15T18:14:00.000-07:00

Set against the majestic, turbulent backdrop of the Sixties, Across the Universe plays out like melodious acid trip. The story is, at its heart, a simple love story between Jude (Jim Sturgess in his film debut), a young manual laborer from Liverpool, and Lucy (Evan Rachel Wood), a young woman from a privileged, conservative family in Ohio. Through their adolescent eyes we watch the civil rights movement unfold- from its unfortunate causes, to its gentle roots, to the point where it explodes into violent struggle and suppression, and all told by way of lush, familiar melodies from the Beatles songbook. Indeed, it is these songs which serve to fuse the movie into a cohesive whole and to imbue it with its fascinating magic. Perhaps my favorite performance is T.V. Carpio’s touching version of “I Want to Hold Your Hand.” This sequence in itself, in my opinion, was worth the price of admission. The scene featuring “Dear Prudence” is a close second, for both its literal and figurative meanings. The film truly grabs hold from the first moments, and only lags on a few occasion, and even then not enough to lose the viewer.

While not overly political, the film does offer some delicate anti-war messages, nothing at all like the ham handed attempts of some other recent releases. Sprinkled throughout are various memes and cultural references from the Sixties, including, but not limited to: Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters (and the Electric Kool-Aid Tests), Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and numerous allusions to Beatles iconography. Particularly interesting is a highly fanciful, reimagined telling of the relationship between Joplin and Hendrix.

The cast quite competently supply their own vocals, delivering innovative interpretations of the timeless melodies of the Beatles. Sturgess and Wood are believable and charismatic in their roles as the young lovers. Relative newcomer Joe Anderson is a veritable firebrand as Max, Lucy’s rebellious brother, delivering perhaps the most inspired performance of the film. Martin Luther McCoy is superb as Jojo and Dana Fuchs equally so as Sadie. Both are accomplished musicians and deliver perhaps the strongest musical renditions in the film. Bono gives a brilliant, surreal turn as hippie guru Dr. Roberts, and, quite appropriately, Joe Cocker plays three equally bizarre characters.

The film is yet another installment in a recent wave of musicals (perhaps only a ripple at this point- the first faint flaps of butterfly wings), a genre I am happy to see return to the limelight, particularly the rather avant-garde approach utilized by contemporary directors. Compared to the recently released Once, this film is far closer to a traditional musical, though with more than a few wonderful surprises. Also unlike Once (which is a far superior movie), Across the Universe remains a bit more superficial in its exploration of the characters, never delving too far into their psyches, though the final result is nevertheless charming and wholly captivating. Considering some of the content, I am practically giddy that this film earned a PG13 rating.

For all its majesty, the film nevertheless remains a flawed masterpiece. Its shining moments are many and beautiful, though it does on occasion fall somewhat flat. It is at its most powerful when depicting the relationships between the various characters, though it somewhat falters during some of the scenes employing special effects. Though they often work, at times these scenes come off as uneven, hastily planned, and poorly executed, almost as if they were added as an after thought. The film threatens to fall apart near the end, before pulling itself together for a well delivered finale. All told, the wonderful moments far outweigh the few ragged edges and the result is a thoroughly enjoyable experience.

Into the Wild

2007-10-07T22:36:00.000-07:00

If the Into the Wild comes to a theater anywhere near you, please take the time to go see it. The film tells the tale of Chris McCandless and is based on the book of the same name by Jon Krakauer. I have not had a chance to read the book yet, but it is now on my list. You will likely recall hearing about McCandless back in 1992, when his body was discovered in a bus in the Alaskan wilderness. I was in my last year of high school at the time and dismissed the incident as a random case of foolhardiness. Both my subsequent experiences and this film have caused me to reevaluate my opinion of this "crazy" young man.

Sean Penn directs an utterly absorbing, heartbreaking retelling of McCandless' journey. Overall it got excellent reviews, though I have heard it panned, mostly for its nonlinear presentation. I believe this is an incorrect evaluation, and that, if anything Penn's technique enhances the story. It flows very smoothly from scene to scene, and never is there a moment of confusion or a lack of cohesion. I do not think a chronological format would have worked nearly so well. The cinematography is nothing short of breathtaking. The film is obviously a labor of love on the part of Penn, who co-wrote the script. He manages to capture every detail. There are some wonderful touches- moments of surprising insight and tenderness.

The cast is perfect, particularly Emile Hirsch who plays McCandless. Brian Dierker and Marcia Gay Harden deliver powerful turns as an aging hippie couple. Dierker so thoroughly captures the role that I wonder if he is not an actual hippie (I use the term quite affectionately here by the way). His laid back nature and sage-like wisdom are so instantly recognizable that I was overcome by the feeling that I had met him before. He is the perfect amalgamation of so many I have met in my travels (and in my life apart from my travels as well).

I am of course biased. To say that I identify with the protagonist is to wander into the realm of extreme understatement. Where many will no doubt see a confused, lost, even angry soul wandering through life without purpose, I see an educated man disillusioned with the status quo. There was a fire within him, a thirst for the truth that cannot be quenched with all the learning in the world. Prepackaged answers and a carefully mapped out life will simply not suffice for such a man. Was he careless an ill-prepared? Certainly. Though I actually find this thrilling, necessary even, in this age of fear and meticulously planned, cautious living. As a friend pointed out, everyone cannot lead such a life of wild abandon and freedom. Perhaps this is true, but those few who are able are the very ones who maintain the flame of man's spirit. To attempt to bend such a man into some corporate manikin is to attempt to fit a grizzly bear into a tutu. Even with all the many adventures I have undertaken, this fellow makes me feel a mere poser by comparison. He may have lived only to twenty-three, but how beautifully he lived. We are of the same spirit.

My own travels are similar, to be sure, though I have only ever lived as he does during my first trip to Europe when I was hitchhiking, living in fields, bathing at gas stations and living off very little money. And that was only a month. Of course this only goes as far as his "leather tramping" days, not the point at which he actually goes into the woods. This is not to say that I have not done similar things (trekking, whitewater rafting and such), only that I did not quite go to the extremes he does.

The Alaska trip is not something I would undertake at this point in my life, My knowledge of wilderness survival is nowhere near adequate, and living in the wild is not quite my cup of tea. That said, I can definitely see the attraction, and I might be tempted to try if at some point, or something similar anyway. Certainly, four or five months would not be difficult. For now, brief camping and hiking (or as I call it walking in the woods) excursions are sufficient. At any rate, my destiny lies on the other side of the world. If you do not know and want to understand what motivates such individuals, see this film.

Like a sailor, sailing over Jordan

2007-09-06T11:48:00.000-07:00

Well, the last day is here at last. Actually the last couple hours. I fly out from here back to Frankfurt for a six hour layover. If you have been watching the news you know about the foiled attack on the Frankfurt airport and the U.S. military base there. Hopefully this will not cause too many difficulties with security and such. We have one paranoid Sgt with us (my roommate actually, and second in charge) who thinks there is a conspiracy around every corner- born a tool, lives as a tool, will die the same. Hopefully he will not interfere too much. I learned to wipe my own ass long ago...

Speaking of which, I finally discovered what all the hubbub is surrounding the stomach cramps and diarrhea that have been going around. Reminds me of when I was in India. I was afflicted the other day while we were in the middle of Petra. None of that wimpy getting sick in the hotel for me. Good thing I have to get on a plane in a few hours.

Petra is amazing by the way. I took some really awesome pictures (I hope). Anyway, the walk out of Petra was interesting to say the least. Oddly, or not, it turns out that the Bedouins speak amazingly fluent MSA. We spoke to some of the vendors and camel guides at Petra. On guy looked almost exactly like the guy in the Mummy (the new one), the one who was charged with maintaining the secret of the location of the temple. Anyway, what is interesting about this is that most people in the Middle East speak a dialect. What we learn is the language of the Quran, the language if the educated. I have no idea why they speak it, but I have had it confirmed by a number of source (mostly other Bedouins and taxi drivers). Maybe I will return and live with the Bedouin for a year or so. Set myself up in a nice little bayt sh'ar ("house of hair"...tent), buy a few sheep, some goats, a camel. I am sure my Arabic would shoot through the roof.

I have a new pen pal as well, a girl named Souad who accompanied us on the trip to Petra. She works at the University in the English department, though her English is not the best.It was interesting talking to her. She said that talking with us was the first time she had ever actually spoken Modern Standard Arabic in her life. Everything is written in MSA, and most can read it, but dialect rules the day as far as speaking. While Dialect is certainly more practical, I find MSA to be far more beautiful. You might find a similar difference comparing the language of Shakespeare with Cockney. Frankly, I have a difficult time with the dialect, though the Jordan dialect is fairly close to MSA.

After class today, we (Jeremy, Niz, Jen and me) went to the Dead Sea, an adventure in itself. We hired a taxi for 30 Dinars (40 USD), but he decided he wanted to switch out with his brother due to his being tired, so we waited by some random bridge for about thirty minutes. When his brother didn't show up, he finally gave in and took us himself. We went through numerous checkpoints, and he managed to get himself a fifty dinar speeding ticket. Not his best day, though through it all he remained calm and collected. Truly an easy going guy. He waited for us while we played in the sea for thirty minutes. It is difficult to describe the sensation of first having your body rise and then floating effortlessly in the sea. It is also hard to describe the level of burning that much salt causes to a certain part of the body due to constant diarrhea, a feeling we all shared. We gave the driver fifty dinar (71 USD) due to his being such a good sport about it all, which covered his ticket, but left him with only a random trip to the Dead Sea with a bunch of crazy foreigners snapping pictures of random camels, goats and Bedouin tents to show for it

Furses, Coiled Again

2007-09-01T19:50:00.000-07:00

All,

Our plans were once again thwarted due to illness. Upon waking this morning, we discovered that a few others had been stricken with whatever bacteria is going around. So far, out of eleven, only two of us have managed to escape the dreaded ashal and tqa'ya (diarea and vomiting), myself and one of the girls (Nabila/Amber). She is one of those crazy types who was reared in a closet somewhere and believes that the world is only 8,000-10,000 years old and that it will end soon and all of people who do not share her extremely narrow world view will end up rather toasty of the rest of eternity. She condemns the Muslims, but does not hesitate to eat in their restaurants or shop in their souqs. She also believes, for some reason that there are still dinosaurs in Africa, though how this fits in I haven't the slightest idea. Perhaps as some feeble attempt to justify the existence of fossils. Insanity or religion? It's a thin line really.

I suppose this seems intolerant, though I am not sure if not tolerating intolerance in others is a sign of intolerance in oneself...hmmm...It is a tad difficult not to feel at least a tinge of intolerance for someone who tells you to your face that you will burn forever in hell and who sits in class and whispers "die, die, die" under her breath. Of course, obviously, some Muslims aren't much better, and others are much worse. It is always the crazy fringe; the terrorist suicide bombers raised and "educated" in the madrasas, or the Christian nutballs I saw in Texas who protest in the streets against gays and maintain shooting ranges and bomb abortion clinics...same mindset exactly. Fortunately, whatever they believe most people are moderate and just want to live out their lives and not hurt or change anyone else.

Yesterday, one of the other girls mentioned something about Islam being a cult without realizing that Christianity can as easily be considered the same. It is all a mere matter of perspective if one takes the time to step outside of oneself examine the entire picture objectively. "When you understand why you dismiss all the other possible gods, you will understand why I dismiss yours." (Stephen Roberts)

I will have to go with the Buddhists though. It is rare indeed you hear of Buddhists condemning people or bombing anyone. When something irritates them, they set themselves on fire.

Anyway, we all voted to stay in Amman this morning rather than go to Petra without our comrades. We are hoping that we can change the schedule and go sometime later in the week instead of going to class (hopefully missing the class on tribal laws...). If not, oh well, next time. Wadi Rum is a no go no matter what. Tomorrow's subject is Arabic Literature and I finally gave up after 30 or so pages of the 40 pages of Arabic we are supposed to read. I may resume at a later time. It is actually a rather interesting subject, but the information we have is extremely high level stuff, and, frankly, my poor brain is fried.

Earlier in the day, our teacher, the one who came with us from the states and whose family lives here, took us to the Mecca Mall. Not terribly exciting, it is just like any mall in the U.S. Mostly a day for resting and such. I think Wednesday we will take a trip to the Dead Sea after class, In Sha' Allah.

The other day Jen (Inas) and I were talking to a guard at the University and he asked if we were Christian. Jen said that she was, but that I was not. This did not leave me with many choices. Quick lesson- Most Muslims respect the "People of the Book" ( i.e. Jews, Christians, and other Muslims), but not other religions. Of course there are those who are more tolerant and understanding, but...It's like being in some weird club. He jokingly asked if I were Jewish, to which I of course replied that I was not. I finally settled on Buddhist (Buthi), rather than reveal that I am an Atheist. One of my Lebanese teachers (a member of the Druze religion, a small esoteric group that splintered from Islam and includes beliefs from various other religions in the region, including a belief in reincarnation, very secretive religion) cautioned me to never, under any circumstances, tell anyone in the Middle East that I am an Atheist (or even Buddhist actually). Craziness, to be sure, but not a huge deal. After all, the Dark Ages weren't so bad. They gave us all manner of innovations in torture devices.

All in all, Jordan is a wonderful country with amazing people, all very generous and friendly. I wish I had some time here alone to simply wander around and talk to people. As it is we are limited to groups of at least two, which is usually fine, but somewhat limiting. Being the introverted soul that I am, it is at times tiring being around people all the time (at least people that I know and cannot escape). In my travels I seldom travel with others, only those I meet in country, and then only for limited amounts of time. More than two (sometimes more than one), almost always eventually leads to conflicts and differences in opinion and desires. This is not hard if the group can split up for periods of time, but we are rather shackled to one another. I am extremely laid back and don't much care, but this is sometimes misunderstood, and the others are irritated by one another much more easily than I am. Plus, in that we are all in the military, the vast majority are extremely independent and of the take charge/I know best sort (and young), always with something to prove, though I am not sure what that is exactly. All in all it is rather draining and ridiculous. It has taken some getting used to, but I think it is a good experience. I am ever trying to increase my understanding, tolerance and patience.

-Joel

Jordan Class Day Four Email

2007-08-30T19:06:00.000-07:00

All,

Class was nothing special, but still interesting. We talked about Roman and Islamic architecture and our teacher was much calmer and more lenient with us because tomorrow is Friday, the Muslim day of prayer and rest (our Sunday). After school we went with our teacher to Mount Nebo, the mountain where this fellow named Moses or some such supposedly got his first glimpse of the "Holy Land." After that it was all downhill (no pun intended), and people have been fighting over it ever since, and for the silliest of reasons...Anyway, it was actually quite breathtaking. We had an Arabic guide, like we do every time , and he explained everything quite well. We also visited a church in Madaba, a primarily Christian town- The Church of Saint George. We attempted to visit some Mosques (sing- Masjid/ pl- Masajid), but we weren't allowed to enter. There are a few that are open to non-Muslims, and hopefully we will visit one of those. Not a huge deal as I have seen a mosque in Morocco, but would be good for everyone else to have the opportunity.

One of the girl's and I (Jen/Inas, the one from the desert training pictures) had a small adventure last night shopping for supplies at a local super market.

I didn't have a chance to send the above yesterday...

Just woke up and discovered that two of the girls (Jen and another girl) have been throwing up non-stop since the middle of the night, one of the guys has a rather unpleasant case of Montezuma's Revenge (Asahal in Arabic which means a case of the "easies). Also another guy was sick yesterday, but no throwing up and no "easies." Thus far I am doing ok. Slight change of plans. We were going to visit Petra today, then Wadi Rum (Valley of the Moon), a beautiful stretch of desert to the south. Instead will wait until tomorrow so everyone will be able to go (or we will all be sick...). I might seize the opportunity to explore Amman a bit, and to finish my homework. These things happen during travel. I once had the old ashal on a 35 hour bus trip from Golmud, China to Lhasa, Tibet, along with headache, fever, etc. F-un. I think it was dysentery, but I will never know for sure.

-Joel

Jordan Class Day Three Email

2007-08-30T19:04:00.000-07:00

All,

If anything, today's class exceeded even my rather generous expectations, and, with the exception of our visit from Laila Al-Atrash, was even more interesting than yesterday. We had the same teacher, Ustatha Suhail, and the subject was the Arab family, in particular Bedouin customs and the phenomenon of people moving from the countryside to the cities and their effects on the family structure. This teacher is perhaps the best I have had. She speaks clearly and calmly and I can say with all honesty that I understand 100% of what she says. There is no English, even for word definitions, which is hugely beneficial.

The Arab view of the bedouins is a romantic one, perhaps best compared to Americans nostalgia for the "Old West." That wild sense of adventure, lawlessness and freedom, all but lost now in this modern age of urban sprawl and the choking fumes of diesel engines. It is the last faint stirrings of the pride and honor of a nomadic people now relegated to a sedentary existence of business suits and fast food restaurants. Hearing it explained in such a moving way by one who truly feels this passion, it is easy to see the attraction. In truth the whole of the Bedouin's code was tied to survival in the harsh environment of the desert. I will not bore you with the details, but the lesson was definitely entertaining and informational.

After class ended at noon, we accompanied our teacher (the one who came with us ffrom the US) to his hometown, where we enjoyed a wonderful traditional meal prepared by his mother. Only about 5% of the population is Christian and my teacher's family is among them (not terribly important, but...). After this we shared a class of mint tea (Shai Na'Na') with his father and his father's brother (and a rather lovely cousin, who served us the tea..yeah, yeah, sue me...). His father drove us back to Amman in his school bus. Though TV does nothing for me whatsoever and I have not watched it for some eleven years or so, looking out of the window of a bus is a fine substitute. Little gives me the same sense of inner peace than simply sitting on a bus watching the world pass by, tucked away in the great crush of my fellow human beings, secure beneath an impenetrable cloak of anonymity (this sounded better in my head on the bus..I will fix it later).

Below is a link to Laila Al-Atrash's sight. She is the author we met yesterday. Sorry this is not terribly well written. I am extremely tired and still have forty odd (very odd) pages of Arabic to attempt to read, in addition to some other homework.

Laila Al-Atrash

Take care all,

Joel

Jordan Class Day Two Email

2007-08-30T19:02:00.000-07:00

All,

Today was rather interesting, and our teacher proved to be a welcome change of pace. She was calm and more focused on teaching than on drilling us on the previous night's reading. Our subject was honour killings and while she certainly considered them deplorable and not in anyway in keeping with Islam, she is definitely conservative in her views. She did not support unjustified honour killings, but there was an implicit message that a girl truly guilty of "dishonouring the family ( i.e. committing adultery), might very well warrant such an action, or at the very least some sort of legal response. It was interesting to be privy to this point of view. The entire idea of Sharif (Family Honor) is foreign. The word Sheriff comes from this word. The root means to oversee.

To balance it out, we had a meeting with the journalist, Laila Al-Atrash, I mentioned before. She is definitely an outspoken proponent of women's rights, and she had some wonderful insights into the issue from an Arab perspective. She was a broadcaster in Qatar for many years, and writes a column in Dustur (a Jordanian Paper) on women's rights. Needless to say we agreed on quite a few things (everything actually), including sharing a rather a dim view of American foreign policy (blaming it quite justly for many problems in the Middle East), a near outright condemnation of globalization (which she likened to a form of economic domination and certainly not a solution for the world's problems), and the fact that the true method of achieving change in the Middle East (or anywhere) is through education of the young. When asked by one student what she would do to help realize women's rights were she the Wazir (minister- Vizer in Farsi) of Education of Jordan she replied that she would distribute books on equality and understanding to various schools (to be included in the curriculum), and make them widely available. Possibly the best answer ever to that question. During speaking hour I always get (from one of our teachers) "If you were the King of Saudi Arabia, what would you do to achieve world peace?" To which I usually reply, "Ummm..."

At any rate, it was a wholly interesting, if laid back, day. Tomorrow we have the same calm teacher. Thursday we have psycho teacher again. I think she might actually resort to rapping the old ruler across our knuckles for wrong answers. It is beneficial though (I keep telling myself).

We finished off the day with a small adventure to the sports track. My friend Inas (from the desert training photos) is a dedicated runner and so I was going to accompany her and finish my homework while she ran. Unfortunately, it was closed, but the security guy bought us a cup of coffee and we talked to him for a bit in Arabic. The adventure part was crossing the road on the way back. All for now, take care.

Joel

Jordan Class Day One Email

2007-08-30T18:59:00.000-07:00

All,

Well, I am pretty much established here in Jordan and more or less adjusted to the time difference. We had our first class yeasterday, and let's just say the teacher was a tad intense, but a rather remarkable teacher. The lessons are entirely in Arabic, and she moves extremely fast (but is quite understandable), so it is impossible even to pause to think before answering. We are supposed to read 40 pages a night of rather difficult Arabic to prepare for the next days lesson, but this is impossible unless we wish to forgo sleep altogether.

The trip in was quite nice, if long, with a seven hour layover in Frankfurt. This was nice as I was able to see Marlena, the German girl I met in Africa last year, and will probably see again on the way out. There were a few rough moments at the beginning of the trip when we first arrived in Jordan. Some of the senior guys were somewhat paranoid and one (my roomate) seems to have allowed his new rank to go to his head. They attempted to put us on a rather short lease. Had to flex the muscles a tad and bitch quite a bit, but they pretty much leave us alone now. We had some briefings which said pretty much what I already knew, that it is not particiularly dangerous.

We have been existing primarily on Shwarma sandwiches and fries, but last night a few of us went to a really nice restaurant and had some hummus, baba ganoush and heaping plates of mansaf (bedouin dish consisting of rice with lamb). Of course using the language is awesome, and the dialect among the more educated people is close to Modern Standard Arabic. The less educated are simply impossible to understand. There is a considerable Iraqi refuge population here (700,000), and most of the population is actually Palestinian.

We also went to Jerash yesterday, which has possibly the best preserved Roman ruins I have seen (lots if pics), better than Volubilis in Morocco, but without the wonderful mosaics. Today's subject is honour killings and we are going to talk with a reporter and women's rights activist, which for me should be the highlight of the trip. I hope to pick her brain a bit about working in that field in the future.

Take care everyone.

Joel

Superbad actually pretty good...

2007-08-19T20:43:00.000-07:00

Though this is hardly the type of movie I am accustomed to watching, I thought that it had garnered enough satisfactory reviews to peak my curiosity and merit a viewing. Despite the vulgarity of much of its subject matter and its lowbrow humor, both of which will generally put me off a movie, the film works. I attribute this to the adroitness of the director and the charisma of the young stars. It has heart and an underlying intelligence, attributes generally missing in films of this genre. The crude exchanges of one-upmanship between the two leads (and their foil Fogell) is particularly entertaining, and there are some wonderful one-liners, often improvised by the actors from my understanding. Though it is at times a tad over the top, it is evenly paced and balances the ridiculous and really, really ridiculous with amazing delicacy. Only rarely does it drag, and even then not enough to lose its audience.

Make no mistake, this is a film based on gags, and on subjects which incur gagging, but they are carried out with enough panache and ingenuity that they do not end up seeming forced and out of place. In other hands this film would have failed miserably, as such films have so many, many times (in fact you can probably count the good films of this type on one hand). Keep in mind also that this is not a rave review of a four star movie. This is simply a highly entertaining two hours, and much better than much of what passes for comedic entertainment these days.

While it is not as good as Dazed as Confused or American Graffiti, or probably even Summer School for that matter, all similarly themed movies, it is certainly one of the most accurate depictions of high school awkwardness I have ever seen. If you are like me, and registered somewhat underneath the social radar during high school, this film will conjure fond and not so fond memories. If you were not this fortunate then you will likely still find it enjoyable, and can take comfort in that the film probably does not contain any words you will need to waste time looking up. Though the clothing and style of speech have changed somewhat since the eighties, nerdiness remains an immutable part of the high school experience, and rarely has it looked this hip.

Meaning of Agnosticism Revealed at Last

2007-08-16T19:57:00.000-07:00

While I no longer consider myself an agnostic, having fully embraced my atheism quite impenitently at this stage of the game, it still fills me with equal parts disgust and irritation when I overhear people of faith misusing the term agnostic. It would seem, for whatever reason, that these individuals are simply unable to fathom even the remote possibility of an honest declaration of utter skepticism. How many times have I heard it assumed, by some misguided believer or other, that agnostics do actually believe in some “higher power,” and that they are simply not certain which higher power or of the details involved. Agnosticism means nothing of the sort. It means, quite simply, that one is wholly uncertain as to whether or not God, gods, or any other form of higher power exist.

From Wikipedia:
Agnosticism (from the Greek "a," meaning "without," and Gnosticism or "gnosis," meaning knowledge). is the philosophical view that the truth value of certain claims—particularly metaphysical claims regarding theology, afterlife or the existence of God, gods, deities, or even ultimate reality—is unknown or, depending on the form of agnosticism, inherently unknowable due to the nature of subjective experience.

Agnostics claim either that it is not possible to have absolute or certain knowledge of the existence or nonexistence of God or gods; or, alternatively, that while individual certainty may be possible, they personally have no knowledge. Agnosticism in both cases involves some form of skepticism.

It’s that simple- “I don’t know.“ Not only does this not imply some automatic, vague form of belief, it does not even allow for it. Any other definition is incorrect. So, please, for my sanity. For the sake of logic. For the preservation of the language. For whatever reason you care to entertain. If you are reading this, and are of a disposition to utilize this word incorrectly, to unite the world in implicit fellowship under the banner of shared delusion, I beg you, refrain. The agnostics of the world are quite comfortable with uncertainty.

Transformers- The Review

2007-07-26T19:35:00.000-07:00

Against the gentle nudging of my better judgment, and with the numerous shining reviews by various colleagues and family members spurring me on, I went to see the Transformers last night. I will probably catch some flack for this, but I was decepticonned out of nearly eight bucks to watch a glorified automobile commercial.

I kept waiting for the film to transform into more than meets the eye, though after the first thirty minutes or so I was ready to roll out of the theater. With a movie such as this it is difficult to know what to expect, and with such an implausible plot- awkward teenage blunderer manages to attract super hot model-type…um, I mean, ordinary vehicles transform into enormous robots intent on world destruction- it seems almost ridiculous to nitpick over such trivialities as a decent script or some degree of depth. That said, whoever wrote this script should never work in Hollywood again. Well, maybe in Hollywood, but never for a studio with even a shred of good taste or integrity. It is a formulatic bromide that is actually painful to watch at times. The characters spew forth a near endless stream of cliché-ridden, prozaic (intentional misspelling), subliterate banality. I actually cringed at some of the more obvious, insipid one-liners. The heavy handed moral lessons, constant reminders of good versus evil, and the condescending, self congratulatory treatment of the human race inspired in me only the urge to vomit into the nearest trashcan. And what is with the constant reminders of seatbelt safety?

The jokes are simplistic and the film telegraphs every punch (including a few political jabs at current events). There is absolutely no character development, even among the robot stars. I seem to recall in the original series a certain rivalry between the cowardly Starscream and the leader Megatron, both of the Decepticon faction, perhaps the only truly interesting element in the history of the cartoon. Even this is missing, given only a vague nod in the film.

I found the actors to be little more than shiny, plodding, automatons- and that was just the humans. Heavy hitters Voight and Turturro appear in roles they will wish had been forgotten (and probably will). Every character is a stereotype, or maybe a stereotype of a stereotype. Some might argue that the this is merely an introduction for the unavoidable sequel(s), but that seems little more than a copout for terrible movie making.

This is standard children's fare, though I fear the language and a certain degree of innuendo may prove prohibitive to the age group that might actually relate to the film, perhaps the six to eleven year-old category. Personally, I have no problem with children watching pretty much whatever…I did, and I turned out alright...mostly. Actually, I think the children today deserve a bit more credit, and that they are capable of understanding and appreciating a much more sophisticated film than is presented here.

I recall enjoying the cartoon when I was a child- A series designed to sell toys, with clumsy moral lessons and which basically used the same plot for each episode. Compared to the movie, that series had imagination and vision. If you want to watch a cartoon about shape-changing robots that actually has some depth, and a huge amount of character development, I recommend the three Robotech series produced by Harmony Gold back in the 1980's (roughly the same time frame), rewritten and spliced together from three separate failed Japanese anime series.

Perhaps the only area the film shines in is special effects, and they are truly impressive examples of computer animation- one of those rare occasions when CGI meshes almost seamlessly with real world elements. But so what? It is almost impossible for me to find entertainment in mere flashy action sequences. Sue me, but I want at least a little depth, even in a film about giant transforming robots.

I so seldom watch big blockbuster summer fare that it is difficult for me to gauge just how bad this movie really is by comparison. I could resort to Van Helsing, my usual benchmark for huge, multimillion dollar Hollywood garbage. Transformers is by no means that bad (but then, what is?). Having thus fulfilled my quota of big Hollywood crap for this summer, I will, as usual seek refuge in a number of smaller budget indie gems.

Once

2007-07-09T07:04:00.000-07:00

I have just returned from watching Once and I cannot recommend it highly enough. Falling somewhere between a romantic comedy/drama and an extended music video, this is easily the best film I have seen in years. The two leads, both musicians and neither professional actors, deliver solid, believable performances, made still more charming by their lack of polish. In fact, the whole film has to it an almost unrehearsed flavor, though there is nothing unpolished about the songs. The soundtrack, almost wholly written by the two leads, is perhaps the most engaging part of the movie- a soaring, emotionally packed collection of songs that remains with you long after leaving the theater. I even stayed on until the end of the credits just to savor the beauty of the music. An utterly romantic, exhilarating, feel good masterpiece of a movie. This may be my new favorite film.

Trailer

...unto dust you shall return.

2007-04-26T21:31:00.000-07:00

Having recently attended the funeral of a close relative, I had the opportunity to reacquaint myself with the banalities of our funerary customs. In my mind, a funeral is a solemn occasion, a time for reflection and mourning. At the same time, it is an opportunity for celebration and laughter, for sharing in the pleasant memories of a life well-lived. I do not deny that both the viewing and the funeral provided this release, and had to them a certain therapeutic quality. They served as a farewell of sorts, by which we were able to come to terms with our grief and to fortify ourselves against the loss, while simultaneously honoring the passing of a fellow creature and loved one. Yet, pervading this natural process was something wholly contrived and rather sickening, overlaying the entire affair with a cloying veneer of kitsch.

The baroque vulgarity of the funeral home, meant to provide comfort, offered little more than a terribly tragic fashion statement from a century long since past. The earnestness of the preacher as he espoused his ridiculous nonsense was unbearable; his faith imparting him with a smugness of which he is wholly unaware. His heartfelt entreaties failed to mask the insidious, asinine nature of his faith, born of nothing more than blind fear, desperation and years of conditioning. It is almost as though he were perpetuating some enormous hoax, one whose reality depends upon maintaining some delicate suspension of disbelief. It is an inside joke shared by everyone gathered, and each depends on the one next to him not to point out that the whole congregation is naked.

Is it not enough that we are born, we live out our lives as best as we are able, we perhaps feel a certain spirituality- a sense of awe at the complexity of the universe- then die? Must we be forever inventing such things as religion, altruism, and nationalism; adding coat upon coat of falsehood to our once natural existence? After so many centuries of growth and scientific discovery are we not at last strong enough to stand without a net?

The true enemy here is kitsch. It is the maudlin varnish of deception swathing the heart of mendacity, be it religion, mawkish concern for the welfare of others, or overzealous patriotic fervor. It is the very real feeling of spirituality, compassion, or belonging taken to its grossest, tackiest conclusion, exaggerated until it hardly resembles the original emotion. It is humanity’s desire for the garish and insincere. It is emotion embellished to the point of nausea. It is the step too far. It is a tacky frame on the Mona Lisa. That the greater majority of us live with such vulgarity is revolting, must we also die with it?

Lady in the Water

2007-01-14T16:47:00.001-08:00

I posted this recently in response to an online discussion of Lady in the Water. Since I never got around to reviewing it (and so saving a few bucks for those select few, like myself, who are too stubborn to take good advice). So I thought I would post it here as well. Here goes:

I really wanted to like this film, and went to see it against my better judgment, a host of terrible reviews and the urgings of practically everyone I know. I loved the Village, and was rather impressed by The Sixth Sense and Unbreakable as well. I wanted to be seduced into this magical world, as I was with the Village (a flawed movie, to be sure, but one that was able to capture my imagination nonetheless and hold it until the end). Alas, It was simply not possible. While the concept is fantastic- a modern day fairy tale- the execution falls far short of even slightly entertaining. There were moments when it seemed possible that it might develop into something more, but each time it failed. There wasn't even the characteristic Shyamalan twist at the end (or, if there was, I was so numb by that point that I did not notice it).

Threadbare plot, clumsy direction, uneven camera shots, silly names, and a highly unbelievable premise. Worst of all the film does not really draw the viewer into the world, and fails to achieve that sense of suspension of disbelief necessary to creating a watchable film, particularly a film of this genre.

Another problem (the biggest problem in my opinion) was the ham-handed telling of the fairy tale, it was far too forced. It should have been allowed to flow naturally, revealing itself a bit at a time, in a very subtle manner, rather than being told between poorly filmed phone conversations and grossly self-indulgent scenes of Giamati hamming it up for the camera (which was actually one of the more watchable parts of the film). It seemed as though the director was very pleased with the modern day fairy tale he had wrought and really wanted to be absolutely certain the viewer understood that it was a modern day fairy tale. It is rather (extremely) condescending to the audience, and I admit to leaving the theater with my intelligence somewhat bruised (and my pocketbook somewhat emptier). It wanted to be E.T. it just didn't have the heart...or Spielberg. Still, it was probably much better than Eragon (which I am going to give a wide berth).

Giamati is a fine actor, but he is wasted here. Howard does passingly well, much better than her performance in the Village. With time I have no doubt she will blossom into a actress of some talent. The remainder of the cast may as well have been sleeping-walking through the film, no doubt taking a cue from the director. The ending was ridiculous.

I think Pan's Labyrinth, another movie about fairy tales, will be a far superior movie, and I cannot wait for its release.

Children of Men

2007-01-14T16:32:00.001-08:00

Just got back from watching Children of Men, and it is easily one of the best movies I have seen in some time. A masterpiece! The premise, script, acting, cinematography, direction- everything- is incredibly well done. It is gritty realism at its best, and maintains a steady, tense pace throughout, while never wavering from its sense of realism. The characters do not degenerate into your typical thriller clichés, there is a depth to them, and they are all portrayed very delicately and with an amazing amount of subtlety to their personalities. While the protagonist is something of an antihero, he does not come off as your usual self-seeking guy who ends up reluctantly doing what is right only after having endless guilt trips thrust upon him by the noble underdogs. He's just an ordinary guy reacting to an unexpected, if violent, set of circumstances. No judgments are rendered.

Additionally, there are some truly poignant scenes, one scene in particular (without giving anything away) is one of the most moving of any film I have seen, and time just sort of stands still as you watch it- almost moved me to tears by its originality and the sheer beauty of its execution. I highly recommend this film, this is four star caliber material.

Godlessness, it's not just for breakfast anymore.

2007-01-06T12:02:00.000-08:00

I find myself becoming increasingly atheistic as I grow older, though there is still that nagging agnostic portion of being which I cannot seem to shake. That quiet, yet insistent, part that asks, "what if?" and does not wish to commit to absolutes. I suppose I must allow for a (very) slight possibility that there is some higher power, some deity or other, though if there is, he/she/it is highly disorganized, and possibly little more than a bully.

Again, I fear I must abandon even this pitiful attempt at hedging my bets for one very simple reason…no proof. Not a single shred. Nope, notta. Despite much literature to the contrary, despite numerous proponents of the "one true way" (whichever one true way that happens to be for that particular individual or individuals), despite a great many things offered as proof, the simple fact remains that no one, not a single, solitary soul on this globe has the slightest idea as to whether or not there is a god/dess, and entertaining fantasies will not change this. Attempting to maintain a rational conversation with someone convinced of the existence of things which cannot be proved has been a continuing source of irritation throughout most of my life, and is possibly the reason I am slowly going bald (actually this is genetics- though people who refuse to accept the logical conclusion of genetics- i.e. evolution, cause it to fall out at a much faster rate).

Faith and other vague feelings will not save us from this situation of no proof, for, no matter what we may "feel" or what we wish were so, we still cannot prove it, and so it should be abandoned. Faith is ridiculous, especially in the face of facts. Not that asking metaphysical questions is unhealthy. On the contrary, it is necessary and often leads to wonderful truths (all provable through science). Unfortunately, one of these is not proof of the existence of god It is when we begin answering these questions without proof that we stumble (or more often charge full force) into dangerous ground. Once we have convinced ourselves of the existence of something which cannot be proved, we are free to assign to it any traits we wish, and thus are free to create our own reality, however ridiculous it may be. I think that, if there is a indeed a god, he/she/it is fully knowable through the scientific process, and can be fully quantified and explained. Otherwise it is mere theory, and probably would not be sufficient even for an entertaining science fiction yarn.

I do firmly believe in evolution. I can say, with full conviction, that we (humans) began as some form of single-celled organism, and gradually evolved to our current state at the top of the food chain (not as grand a place to be as one might at first believe). I believe the purpose of the universe is for matter to create more of itself. It has been proved that the universe is composed of energy, though I by no means believe that this is a sentient energy, not in the new age sense. I think that when we die, we as individuals cease to exist and all that is left is energy. This energy is changed into something else, and so on. So herein lies this eternal life, though not one we shall ever know, for, as I said before, in the end we die, end of story. And, I think that this is entirely sufficient; not only is there no life after death, there is no need for it.

One could conclude from the above that I believe in nature and the Gaia theory. To an extent this is true, but only on the level that nature is not in any way a sentient being, but rather the pure mechanics of the universe. There is no connectedness, no great pool of energy we all return to and cohabitate in unending joy.

I think much, if not all, of man's need for faith, religion, etc, springs from one or more of the following: man's fear of death (or rather his fear of not existing any longer- I am guilty of this on occasion), the fact that man cannot stand the thought (or reality) of losing his loved ones, and man's uncontrollable need to be right. You may notice that most of these stem from either a now obsolete system of survival instincts or from man's not inconsiderable ego; the feeling each of us has that we are the only reality. Are we justified in feeling this, perhaps, in the sense that we cannot help it, it is all we know (and all we will know without proper education and a conscious effort toward not believing this nonsense). Are we actually the center of the reality, not a chance. Each of us is one tiny, insignificant speck in the immensity of the universe. And, again, this is as it should, and must, be.

"...and Maude loves Harold."

2006-10-10T17:08:00.000-07:00

The following is from Ruth Gordon's autobiography, My Side. Any fans of Harold and Maude will likely find this excerpt particularly touching:

At the Winnebago, Bud knocked. 'Can I come in?'

'Come in.'

'Here, Ruth.' Bud put a square package in my hand.

'I love you. See you at the party.'

He was gone. The blue leather box from Shreve's in San Francisco opened, on a white satin cushion was a violet pansy with a diamond dewdrop set on a petal. I pinned it on my sweater.

Sy's party looked as though he's planned it for thirteen weeks! As we went in, Carl in a Santa Claus suit scattered snow over us, reminder of our chilly schedule when we were mostly cold for three months. The house was strung with icicles., snowbanks in every corner, wet slickers and umbrellas here and there. A sign said, 'Over here for your ginger pie and oat straw tea.' What Maude served Harold the first time he paid a call. 'Organic hashish,' said another sign. A hookah puffed smoke like Maude's. A tape played Cat Stevens' song that we'd just done for the closing shot. Everybody and wife or husband or girl or feller showed up.

'Look,' I said to Bud, and pointed to my beautiful flower with the diamond dewdrop pinned on my sweater.

'You know what it's supposed to be?'

'A daisy.'

'They didn't have daisies. I knew you'd know.'

'I did.'

'Did you read what it says?'

'The card?'

'The pin.'

I took it off. 'Where?'

'There.' He pointed to the back.

Why put on glasses at such a moment? Garson understood. 'Read it, Bud,' said Garson.

'I love you, Maude. Harold.'

Emails from Recent Trip

2006-10-10T10:17:00.000-07:00

Here are the collected emails from my last trip, raw and unedited. Additionally I have posted the photos from the same trip, if anyone is interested.

All,

Yeah...24 hour layover..wow...anyway, I am incredibly tired at the moment, will write something more cohherent soon. I am off to Dubai shortly, then finally to Africa. I did get to see Trafalgar Square, Westminster Abbey, and Parliment (again). More later...

~Joel

All

Well, I made it. I am in Kigali, arrived yesterday from Kampala. I had originally thought I would explore Uganda first, but I decided that it would be easier to shoot down to Rwanda and then head back up, since my flight leaves from Kampala. At any rate, both countries are beautiful, particularly Rwanda, with its lush landscape and magnificently terraced hills. There were times on the bus ride during which I could very well have been in Nepal, so similar are the landscapes. I have decided that if I am to do much traveling in Africa, I must learn French, much as I would rather learn Portuguese. Though English is understood widely enough to get around, I think fluent French would enable one to arrive at a more meaningful level of intimacy.

The people are amazing, supremely friendly and polite. Rwanda is quite a charming country, and it is difficult, judging by the smiling faces and genuine beauty of its inhabitants, to imagine the extent of the atrocities committed here a mere twelve years ago.

I did finally break down and make out an itinerary last night, though much of it depends upon when and where I can schedule a gorilla trek. I had hoped to do so in Rwanda at Parc National Des Volcanes (where Diane Fossey did her research and was subsequently murdered for it). It is set against seven volcanoes. The other choice is Uganda at Parc Bwindi. There is a third choice in DR of the Congo, though with the current tenuous state of the elections this is probably not an option...leetle dangerous for my taste... (the plus side to this trip would be the ability to see active volcanoes). The only problems are that there are a set number of permits available each day in each country.

Tomorrow, I will take a bus down to Butare to see a memorial of the genocide, and to watch a traditional dance troupe. From there probably will go up to either lake Kivu or to Parc National des Volcans for a trek or two (hopefully the gorilla trek. Then it is on to Kibale on Lake Bunyoni in Uganda, and then to Bwindi Impenetrable National Park (if I am unable to see the gorillas in Rwanda). From here it is on to either Murchison Falls or Gulu (maybe both depending on time limit). Finally to Jinja to whitewater raft the source of the Nile on Lake Victoria (one of the three disputed sources). There are other possibilities here and there, it all really depends on the gorilla trekking. Anyway, take care, more later.

~Joel

All,

Just had a harrowing experience coming back from a place called Butare...my Lonely Planet East Africa guidebook slipped out of my pocket on the bus and I almost lost it. Fortunately, it was still there when I returned to bus. Anyway, my day consisted of traveling to this town for the express purpose of visiting a genocide memorial in a nearby town. The actual memorial is one of the most gruesome, tragic things I have seen in all my travels, a very powerful, very vivid reminder to future generations in all nations.

Returning from the site, the guide walked with me the 2 km back into the small township of Gikongoro (the site is at a former University). Along the way we met up with some middle school girls who also accompanied us. Unfortunately, they all of them spoke mostly French, so the conversation was limited, but we had a nice rapport despite this. At the bus station the young children were absolutely fascinated by this Mzungu (white man), particularly by my hirsute arms which they insisted on touching. Mzungu might as well be my name here, so often do I hear it. It is not a term of derision, more of a name marker, and sometimes even used affectionately. Anyway, I found this delightful, and took a picture of them, then showed them the result. They were entranced.

Yesterday, I visited another genocide site here in Kigali. I am not sure how to describe it, it is all so sad, consisting of descriptions of Rwandan history, German and Belgian colonization, and progressing gradually through the events leading up to the genocide and then the actual genocide itself. This is interspersed with videos of the actual violence and testimonies of members of the victims' families, culminating in a room filled with photos of the victims and a very powerful video of people who had lost whole families, as one man recalled his last meal with his mother, or husband how he had met his wife (slain) in middle school, etc. It all catches up with you here. There is another room, upstairs, containing pictures of children killed in horrific ways, and listing their favorite food, favorite toy, nickname, etc. This was too much, I felt suffocated by the senselessness of it all.

Upon leaving, I followed a trail back down to the main road. Along the way were children and women on their way to collect water (people somehow manage to balance all manner of things on their heads, as though it were second nature, I have even seen women carrying backpacks this way). On the way down, a man hugged me for no apparent reason, and then the children with their "Bonjours." The heavy spell of desolation was lifted, though the terrible images remain and the single, unanswerable question: "Why?"
I did manage to purchase the gorilla checking permit and I leave tomorrow for a town called Ruhengeri which lies on the edge of Parc National des Volcanes. If all goes well, the trek should commence on the morning of the 13th. I have just supped on traditional Rwandan fare: matoke (mashed plantains- looks like banana, tastes like potato) and meat stew, and now will search for a hotel.

~Joel

All,

Ok, I am back in Uganda now, living it up on a quiet lake called Bunyoni near the town of Kabale. I am traveling with some of the people I met on the gorilla trek, American couple from Austin- Martin and Sarah, both electrical engineers, and Mike, a teacher from Maryland who has been volunteering in Tanzania. Anyway, not much going on just now, mostly relaxing and reading...and currently listening to insipid, maudlin evangelical protestant music because I don't have the heart to ask them to turn it down (as I did yesterday), if I had some food on my stomach it would be easier to take, it is making me nauseous. But that is not terribly interesting.

I think I am going to head up to Murchison Falls in the Northwest on Sunday. These are the most powerful falls in the world, and there are also chimpanzee tracking possibilities in the surrounding National Park, as well as the chance to observe elephants, lions, etc. Much of the wildlife was wiped out by Idi Amin's retreating army, but it is making a comeback. An alternate route might be to head up to Kampala and arrange an all-inclusive trip there through one of two guesthouses. While I am loathe to sign up for such package tours, I think it may prove rather difficult to arrange it otherwise, particularly for a lone traveler. I am still deciding- once I move farther away from this "music" and get some food I will be able to think more clearly.

More soon...

~Joel

All,

I am in Kampala again, having just returned from a place called Murchison Falls in Uganda, way up in the Northwest corner. Sarah, Martin and I joined an older French couple and two British girls in a three day package deal. The first day consisted of a game drive during which we observed all manner of deer, antelope, buffalo and a wide variety of exotic birds. We also observed giraffes (at a distance), quite a few elephants, and a large male lion (he was quite a ways off, and walking away). This was followed by a river trip up the Nile to the foot of the falls (the most powerful in the world). There were technical difficulties with the boat and so we divided ourselves up into two multi-national groups (among the many participants were a group from Israel, and some people from the Netherlands). Our boat looked rather like the boat in Apocalypse Now and its passengers included Sarah, Martin, me, three of the Israelis and two Germans: Daniel and Marlena. Along the way to the falls we observed dozens of hippos, quite a few crocs, buffalo and many types of birds. Pretty amazing. All in all, a very nice trip.

The night prior was an interesting one for me. We had been warned that hippos (a rather dangerous animal) were apt to wander through the camp at night, and that we should give them a wide birth. My tent was near to the bathroom, and I awoke ("Funky Town" is playing in the background now...what a song!...Lipps Inc... anyway...) in the middle of the night with a sudden urge to visit the W.C. Unfortunately, one of the many things I forgot is a torch. So, as I get to the pitch black bathroom doorway, still groggy and half dreaming- vaguely concerned about stepping on a hippo, I hear noises inside, sounds of someone (or something) moving about in one of the stalls. I assumed it was a person, then there is the sound of hooves on cement, as something runs toward me with a grunt and runs into me on its way out the door. I did the only logical thing a fully grown Air Force man can do at this point...I screamed like a little girl and turned and ran away...into a thorn bush. Glancing back, I saw the vague shape of what was either a very large wart hog (very common in the camp), or a very small hippo. My first, hazy thoughts had been that it was a baby hippo, and that the mother would now destroy me (I am almost 100% certain now that it was a wart hog). Upon extracting myself from said bush, I calmly walked back to my tent, the urge to urinate having been forgotten (no, I did not do what you think), and went back to sleep, nursing my many wounds and hoping that no one had observed my actions. In retrospect, this incident had no small amount of comic elements. I tried to consol myself by remembering that adage that the animal is much more afraid of you then you are of it. All I can say to this is that I ran into possibly the most terrified wart hog in the history of the species.

The day after the drive and trip to the falls, we drove to the top of the falls, which was amazing. The entire Nile runs through this narrow crevice and the result is a waterfall of incredible power. From here we proceeded onward to Kampala. I had considered remaining an extra day, as the Danish girls were coming that day, but decided against it. We did see them as we stopped for lunch at a small restaurant, their number doubled, M'tta's beauty undiminished...*sigh*....*double sigh....*

Today's plan is to go to some islands on Lake Victoria with Marlena, the German girl (actually originally Polish), a wonderful person, and quite lovely as well. We are to meet at 11 to see if it is possible to go today. I have responded to as many emails as possible, and will respond to the rest soon, this computer is very slow.

~Joel

All,

I am safely arrived (natch) back to...umm...beautiful Augusta. All in all, I would have to place this trip up there with my initial journey to Asia back in 1996, where it would come in a not too distant second. There was adventure, excitement, romance, danger (ok, maybe not so much by way of danger), intrigue (yeah...yeah, no intrigue either). If pressed (when has that ever been necessary?) I would say that this trip chanced to fall amidst a great serendipitous confluence of cosmic forces, transforming a mere three week jaunt into a expedition of epic perfection.

Though the tail of my journey was rather lacking in the way of wild adventures or exotic flora and fauna, it was the ideal culmination to the perfect trip. Marlena and I spent a wonderful few days on the largest of the Ssesse Islands, in a banda (a small hut) at the rustic Shoebill Resort near the village of Kalangala. Actually, rustic might be a stretch. The Shoebill took primitive to a new level, though the experience was more than pleasing. The entire venture is run by an older Dutch expatriate named Luke, you know the type: crusty, been-there-done-that mentality He spoke with what sounded like a Russian accent and was exceptionally funny (think of a bald Jubal Harshaw with a matted beard, a slow, carefully pronounced Russian accent and a wry humor, and you are halfway there). He had worked in Africa in various NGOs for 15 years or so, and had developed a rather lighthearted cynicism about it all. I thought he was great.

As it turns out, the banda was infested with rats, many of which had made their nests between the paper-thin walls and took great delight in depositing small black gifts on our beds and pillows during the day. I must admit that sleeping among so much twittering and squeaking, rustling and scraping, was somewhat unnerving that first night. To her credit, Marlena marshaled through like a champ, though I could tell that it got to her. I suggested we could possibly sleep in the boat moored in the lake (Victoria), but she would have none of it. The next night it was much easier to sleep, having conquered our initial unease.

Dinner at the Shoebill was quite the experience, very warm and intimate. The owner and his Ugandan girlfriend (or wife…not sure) ate with us, as well as a couple other guests. All the dishes were placed in the middle of the table just as they would be were we all family. The food was possibly the best I had during all my time in Uganda and Rwanda. On the second night we were joined by an older (late 40's/early 50’s) couple from Belgium (not married, more like life partners) who were also working for an NGO- the man, Bery, as a sexual health consultant for the island. It was apparent that the couple and Luke were fast friends. Add to this another Ugandan couple and a young Dutch couple (also volunteers) and you have a wonderful evening filled with interesting political banter along with Luke’s wild stories and humorous quips.

At one point during our stay we observed a local baptism (Ugandans only), which was spiced up by Bery and his girlfriends irreligious comments. Talking to no small number of Europeans during this trip, I have come to the conclusion that at least 90% of Europe is secular (as much as I would like to pretend that this is an inevitable worldwide trend, I feel that the belieif is likely merely a result of my unshakable optimism for a better tomorrow). I have also come to the conclusion, and not only for this reason, that I want to one day live in Europe. None of us gathered to watch the baptism were religious, all ranging from agnostic to atheist (Marlena believes in something, but is by no means x-tian). Bery and his girlfriend had me laughing out loud with their comments. All told, it is perhaps the most sublimely ironic thing I have seen in all my travels. Luke feels that the Europeans are converting the Africans in order to keep them down so they can rape the continent of all its valuables, and I cannot but agree (though my experience is certainly not the match of his). Not sure what a soul goes for these days, but I am pretty sure it is nowhere near what it would have fetched at the turn of the century, supply being what it is. I do know that preaching abstinence over condom use in a country in which AIDs is so wide spread is unrealistic, irresponsible, and evil. Kids will, after all, be kids, and condoms are cheap. I will say it again; the future lies in education, education, education....

The rest of our time was filled with swimming, eating, taking boat rides and sipping wine by campfire light. Also, the first night we watched a local drum circle around a large bonfire accompanied by traditional dance. A fantastic experience. Marlena is nothing short of stunning; 24, German of Polish decent, with long golden hair and piercing blue eyes- she could easily be a model. She is also gifted with a remarkable, introspective personality, a fierce passion and independence, as well as a kind heart.

After taking the ferry back to the mainland, we returned to Kampala, and settled on staying at the Red Chilli Guesthouse (my third time at the place) which has a very nice, relaxed atmosphere. As I was nearing the end of my trip, and had spent very little, I decided to splurge on a cottage for a few nights (still very cheap). This is possibly the nicest room(s) I have stayed in my travels, with the exception of a hotel in Paris, and Marlena‘s company made it more wonderful still. I soon met her friends, all volunteers at the project she was working at: Peter and Gloria (both Ugandan) and Vanessa, a twenty eight year old lawyer from Spain. Peter was fun and highly energetic, especially after a few beers. Out of curiosity, I asked Marlena if he was religious (i.e. x-tian), as some 99% of Ugandan population seems to be. “No,” she replied with perfect, matter-of-fact innocence, “He’s educated.”

The first evening back we attended an outdoor concert at the national theater- Peter, Gloria, Marlena, Vanessa, myself and Dudu (hey, I didn’t name him), an Israeli engineer we had just met at the guesthouse (great fun, though Marlena was not feeling particularly well), followed by dancing at a local club. As it turns out Kampala is quite the city for night life in East Africa. The next day was dedicated to shopping, though I left this part up to the girls, and merely served as an observer. On my last day, Marlena and I went had a leisurely breakfast and she helped me do a bit of whirlwind, last minute shopping, after which we went together to Entebbe and said our goodbyes at the airport (I thought I was ok, but as I approached the customs table I must have had something in my eyes, as I had to perform some extensive blinking exercises- the air pollution is really bad in Kampala…yeah…).

The plane ride was nice, aboard Emirate Air out of Dubai, an airline far superior to anything America has (but then, what foreign airline isn’t?). We stopped over for an hour in Addis Ababa, Ethopia to take on more passengers. I must admit that this was the most culturally diverse air journey I have ever been on: Arabs, Ethiopians, Japanese, Europeans, Various other African nationalities, plus the various members of the crew. A small group of young Ethiopian women boarded. Clad in dresses and head scarves, they presented a rather haunting picture of quiet, graceful, doe-eyed innocence. One of their number was assigned to the seat next to me, and this was clearly her first airline journey. She spoke maybe a handful of English words, and I spent much of the trip teaching her how to use the various gadgets so familiar to frequent airline travelers (including the seatbelt, the food tray, and the plastic wrapper around the napkin). In turn, she helped me clear my tray and dispose of my trash, we adopted one another. It was apparent that the women were from a rather distant, unsophisticated village, and I could but hazard a guess as to what they were doing going to Dubai (hopefully to meet their husbands already working there). Unaccustomed as she was to air travel, she handled it all very well (all of them were remarkably quiet and unexcitable, taking it all in), only growing a little nervous when the landing gear were deployed, and again as we landed. I think my smile reassured her somewhat.

We landed in Dubai airport, a massive, incredibly modern structure, filled with travelers from all over the world. Then on to London, where I uncharacteristically did some shopping, before boarding yet another plane. For most of this journey I spoke with an older woman from Cali named Jan who had just come from a trip to Greece. She was somewhat mystical and had a wonderful outlook. She actually helped me sort some things out. This whole trip has been wonderful for my mental process, and I have done more soul-searching than I have in years. I think all the pieces are finally coming together, I am learning to let go, to embrace that “unbearable lightness of being“- if you will pardon my heavy-handed plagiarizing of the phrase. I think I know what I want to do now.

The rest of the trip consisted of a rather mundane series of planes rides, buses, and aimless wandering around the Atlanta airport and bus station...I won’t bore you further with all the myriad details. I am now in a dizzy state of elated fatigue.

~Joel

300

2006-10-10T09:24:00.001-07:00

I have had multiple people send me blurbs for the upcoming movie "300" about the Battle of Thermopylae, one of the most amazing battles in history. I watched a great History channel documentary about it a while back, and after finally breaking down and watching the film‘s trailer for the tenth consecutive time, I must say that it really gets the blood pumping. Basically, 300 Spartans and 700 Thespians stood against a force of between 60,000 and four million Perians (there is some dispute over the numbers), killing between 20,000 and 50,000 of them (including the elite bodyguards of the Persian King known as the Immortals).

The movie is based on Frank Miller’s graphic novel of the same name, which, unfortunately, I have not had the pleasure of reading (something I intend to remedy in the near future). I have not read comics since dropping the X-men back in late junior high, though my recent infatuation with the film V for Vendetta, as well as a certain project I am working on, have served to rekindle my interest. I find the medium to be a rather elegant means of conveying a story, particularly the works of Alan Moore (V for Vendetta, The Watchmen), Neil Gaiman (the Sandman series, MirrorMask) and Frank Miller (Sin City). I highly recommend watching the trailer, it looks incredible, like Gladiator on acid. It has been some time since I was this excited about a film.

2006-10-09T18:16:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, in an instance of pure dumb luck, I discovered Mark Osbournes 1998 stop motion short film More. Though only six minutes long, I found it to be one of the most affecting and relevant pieces of art I have come across in some time. The film is viewable, albeit within a very small, rather blocky Quicktime format. For anyone who has dared hold on to that inner child, this is a must see.

Gobelins L'Ecole de L'Image

2006-08-22T17:08:00.000-07:00

I recently discovered the wonderful world of Gobelins L'Ecole de L'Image, a school which has produced some remarkable animation. Of particular interest are the first five animated short films listed on this page, all viewable on the site.

More Shrapnel From the Front

2006-07-09T14:32:00.000-07:00

I am embarking upon a quest to become published. I am not certain the form this shall take, though it will likely be either poetry (slim chance) or fantasy (short stories). I have been attempting to hone my writing somewhat, and I now hope to focus my efforts even more, refining until it hurts. Thanks to Kevyn for introducing me to the wonders and necessity of the rewrite, and to Sean and Jenna for yanking me from my vapid state of drooling complacency. From about 2000-2005 I consider myself to have been nothing more than a sonamulist, merely going through the motions of living a life. Then I discovered writing in mid 2005, and finally, this year, the coup de grâce slapped me across the face like a limp and bloated carp (Thanks guys! What about the project? Hello?).

I have some projets in the works, but nothing within the time limits I have set for myself. One of these is the graphic novel I mentioned which I am working on with some incredibly talented individuals. The other is crafting lore for a fantasy project. I am most excited about the graphic novel, because it is, well, novel.

I should like to make it my goal within the next year to have something published in some format, or to at least to make every effort to do so. Consider it a late (or early) New Year‘s Resolution. I am also considering a possible (very tentative at this point) career in journalism (preferably some type of travel writing). I have once again put in for Monterey, and if I get it this year, I think that wondrous clime shall serve to inspire me even further. It will also relieve me of most military duties, and afford me more time to dedicate to the pursuit of my goals. I may return to school this fall, or next Spring (depending on the Monterey thing), and finish that English degree, I really want to take some creative writing classes. I am, dare I say it, excited (could be indigestion).

In the grand scheme, I have three years to decide what I want to do with the rest of my life, and I have two things to go on so far, I want to write, and I do not want to live in Augusta (or even anywhere in the southeastern U.S.). This place is stifling, it chokes the spirit, that they should station us here is a gross joke, I‘d rather be stationed in Baghdad, or the moon. It is impossible to grow here. I feel myself drawn to either of the coasts, perhaps Washington state or Northern California (I have never met a disagreeable person from this area), or New England. New York has its own appeal, some cosmopolitan city on the sea at any rate. My long term goal is, of course, to live outside the U.S., though this will likely have to wait (still saving up for that backpaker's haven I will open someday in some obscure spot on the map).

I am working on reforming myself, serious soul-searching going on here, people. I lost sight of something somehwere, and I aim to get it back, and I at last realize that it is not going to drop out of the sky into my lap, I've got to shoot it down. There is a trip on the horizon, September perhaps (maybe the entire month). I have not worked out all the details, but then I have never been overly concerned with those. I'll let you know when I get there.

Life in Augusta, Georgia...No Exaggeration

2006-06-29T10:04:00.000-07:00

I do not know how it happened, and I often marvel at my infallible sense of really bad timing. A few days ago I decided to vacuum the glass from the interior of my car (more on this later), and, as it turns out, I happened to choose the very day they decided to release all the freaks from the show. I of course do not know this to be a fact, it could well have merely been that there was a sale on ammunition or on off-brand diapers at the never-too-distant Prole-mart. Whatever the reason, they descended upon me like trash to a trailer.

You know it has happened to you, too. There came a day when you were so thoroughly engaged in some task or other that you did not see the figure rapidly approaching, knuckles dragging, in the periphery of your vision, and were caught unawares by some awkward grinning sack of barely contained insanity. Ordinarily, with only a modicum of effort, such a thing can be avoided; pretending not to notice, glancing off into some unspecified place on the horizon, acting as though you do not speak English, etc.

In one fell swoop my assailant circumvented all of these preventive measures, sneaking up as it were form behind, as I was engaged in gathering up the objects in my back seat. There he stood, looking like a cross between Ernest Borgnine, Willow, and Radar from the television series M.A.S.H., a creature who, a few decades earlier, might very well have auditioned successfully for a part in Deliverance (“Once more with feeling: ‘You shur do have a purty mouth.”).

As he greeted me, he called out for his mother, whom I could not see at the time, and suddenly there flashed before my subconscious mind the picture of leather-faced nightmares, dangling meat hooks, and the withered remains of some fleshless skeleton in a rocking chair. Positioned as I was between my car and this banjo-picking version of Rainman, I could do nothing but stare into that grinning and vacant visage. Even now I tremble to think on it.

As he espied my uniform hanging on the fastener in my backseat, there was suddenly manifest between us that certain bond that can only exist between unwashed, sub-literate conservatives and those members of the military charged with maintaining their freedom to remain so. Satisfied that we shared some automatic and unspoken connection, my new friend set to work emptying the trash bins beside each vacuum cleaner. Left alone with “mother“, who sat in the front seat of her dilapidated, filthy automobile, perhaps incapable of standing due to some genetic disease or other, I contemplated escape.

Without so much as removing the malodorous Doral from her stained and grubby lips, the creature communicated to me, quite offhandedly, some remarkably offensive comment about her disbelief at “our troops being accused of torture” and her sincere desire to have certain sharp pointed objects jabbed into rather unpleasant places on the bodies of the majority (if not all) of the Iraqi male population, insurgent or not. Though her phrasing is lost on me now, I do recall that her language was quite vivid. She then turned to me, cigarette dangling from jaundiced, stubby dwarf-fingers, gaudy cross of gold hanging between great sagging breasts like socks stuffed with tennis balls, and cackled hoarsely, “What do you think about that?”

“Actually ma’am I think that both you and your baroquely grotesque son are likely the primordial throwbacks to some earlier stage in man’s evolutionary development, and it would not surprise me in the least to find the vestigial remains of a overlong coccyx protruding from the base of each of your hunched backsides, though truly I have no wish to see such a spectacle, even if your webbed fingers were able to locate them for the no doubt abundant protuberance of fur.” The words lingered there upon my tongue like overripe dates, sweet and syrupy, and… I swallowed them. Best not to play the rogue with these rustic types on the off chance they might understand even an eighth of what I said, and might have about their persons various firearms, chainsaws, and/or pits full of ravenous, omnivorous swine. The woman had already chosen to procreate, in apparent rebellion against all known natural laws, to say nothing of good taste and common decency. I shuddered to think what other horrors she might have been capable of. I can only assume that, like so many things, the laws of natural selection have not yet made it this far into the “Dirty South” (what an incredibly apt, yet markedly gross understatement that phrase is, by the way), and I attribute this factor to the profusion of such fringe-dwelling, bottom-feeding undesirables.

No, it was painfully apparent that flippancy was not called for in this situation. I instead decided to delve deeper into the woman’s superego, that internal sense of morality imbedded within each of our psyches. I had not probed far when I came to the abrupt conclusion that she was not possessed of such an attribute, or even of the regulating aspects of an ego for that matter. Like so many of her ilk, if I may use so euphemistic a word, here was a creature of pure, unadulterated id. I doubt sincerely that any of the baser appetites had ever failed to tantalize this misshapen mound of flesh, nor any of the more inelegant emotions to content her malevolent inner self (what might be called a “soul” in beings a bit higher up on the food chain- although personally I have little use for the term), though how they could, all of them, bypass entirely what passed for the woman’s conscience is rather beyond my mental faculty. Perhaps grossest of all is the fact that, had she known she was talking to an atheist, she would no doubt have immediately considered herself my better, based wholly on her irrational belief in some supernatural being. It is amazing what passes for self-esteem these days. Get it where you can, I suppose.

The answer came to me in sudden wave of understanding when the beaming troll at her side enthusiastically invited me to some Republican luncheon or other (I do not think he used the word luncheon, I do not think he knew the word luncheon). As if the cross had not been evidence enough, now all of the pieces were beginning to fall into place. At last I was able to placate them enough to carry out an amicable, if rather abrupt, getaway.

Regarding the reason I was vacuuming broken glass from my car in the first place, it seems Augusta is a veritable haven for miscreants in one form or another. On the Saturday night prior, I had decided to join certain of my comrades in a bit of a tipple at a bar downtown. Parking in the parking lot of a local apartment building, as is my habit occupied as it is by one of my close friends, I proceeded into his apartment. Exiting a few moments later, I discovered that a rock had been lobbed through the glass of my passenger side window. I will not bore you further with useless details, but, needless to say, cops were called, papers signed, and we proceeded with our night out on the town.

I had at first thought nothing had been stolen, but upon a more careful inspection the next day I found that the reprobates had indeed taken a pair of my old ratty shorts. In a rare bit of irony, these very shorts were actually destined for Goodwill, and, if the criminals had but bided their time, they could have mugged some kindly old lady and bought them at a pittance. No need to break my window. Even this did not really make me mad, it was only when I discovered that they had chosen to leave my recently purchased and prominently displayed copy of Bob Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks (buy it! While not quite as good as Blonde on Blonde, it is superb) that I became really perturbed. I could have at least been robbed by thieves with taste.

Looking back, I suppose it was inevitable, what with all those indigents milling about, and those rocks just lying there unused on the ground. I was asking for it, really.

I have since had the window repaired, at a not inconsiderable cost, and can only wonder not only at the mindset which allows for such behavior, but also at the attitude of parents who allow such aberrations to wander the streets; far better to drown them at birth, but what can you expect.

Update of Future Plans

2006-04-28T07:10:00.000-07:00

This is just an update. The flames of my most recent conflagration have since extinguished themselves, my anger is now little more than a smoldering heap of ashes with which I shall endeavor to fertilize a new crop of hopes and dreams.

As luck would have it, it seems some people were ineligible, and I may have actually been given the Morocco class after all, by default of course, but this makes the victory no less sweet. If it goes through, it will be an amazing experience, I may even get to stay with a Moroccan family. The dates for the class are 21 June-31 July. I will probably (not guaranteed though) come home for week before or after this. This will be a whirlwind tour as I wish to see as many people as possible. I am currently studying for my Sgt exam as well as my DLPT (annual language test).

I recently realized that I need to pass this Sgt thing, as it will allow me to exact certain changes, to increase my monthly salary by a not inconsiderable amount, and most important it will keep certain people off my ass, inspiration enough in and of itself. True, this new rank will bring with it a significant increase in responsibility, but this is inevitable even without the rank. I want to see what great mysteries lie beyond the golden doors of Sergeant-hood (well...). To this end I have begun reading the dreaded PFE. I may very well not make it again this year, but I am not overly concerned (this could very well be the mantra for my life).

I am undecided as to what course I shall take during after these next three years, though I have not dismissed entirely the possibility of seeking employment with the NSA. The job will be similar (better), and more focused, and I will not have to deal with the same massive amount of Administrative and Military demands. I have come to accept that anything beyond mono-tasking is, for me, not a realistic aspiration (though I am remarkable in this capacity) and I am ok with that. The retirement will transfer, if that is still a concern. Additionally, I intend to obtain my associates degree from D.LI. (got the paperwork yesterday) and my Baccalaureate (some odd, hybrid liberal arts thing probably) from somewhere. Education beyond this seems futile, for me at least, as I despise going to school. I am considering a wide array of possible future career paths, including working to further womens rights in particularly dreary and unsavory places, so who knows where I will end up. Having recently discovered an activity I love more than life, I have rediscovered that indestructible sense of optimism for the future.

I was unable to secure a refresher class this year, so I am attending classes in my off time. A new program has been implemented, whereby hourly classes are offered to military personnel who need help with language training. I attended three today and found them tremendously beneficial (not least because I think I am in love with the new Iraqi teacher (from Iraq), whose enthusiasm, intelligence, and self-depreciating humor are irresistible- to say nothing of her obvious physical beauty- and she speaks Aramaic which is quite interesting in and of itself- hey, I can dream...dammit). Ordinarily I am rather averse to the organized classroom setting, though as these are not mandatory and are generally attended by sub-two linguists who do not really want to be there (making me one of the abler ones in class for a change), I do not seem to mind them so much. These factors actually help to make me look motivated, and at times something vaguely resembling cheerful. The only downside to this is that we move at the pace of the slowest common denominator, meaning that we get about one two-level passage done in an hour, causing me to want to throw myself out the window out of sheer boredom.

On a down note, we were all herded into our pen for our monthly morale-boost, and I was forced once again to listen to that "Boot in Your Ass" country song, while simultaneously having my attention focused on a rather enormous screen depicting large objects being turned into smaller objects by massive bombardments of various types of bombs conducted by various types of aircraft (all interspersed with a vibrant array of jingoistic symbols). I have been informed that this is why we (AF people) exist, though I am uncertain as to whether they mean the dropping of the bombs or the watching of this insipid, heavy-handed, propaganda-laden film and listening to this revolting, kitschy, barely literate hillbilly song. I think any red-blooded American up to the age (and/or I.Q.) of say, fifteen, would have found this quite stirring. For my part, I become slightly nauseous at even the faint suggestion that I might have to hear this song again, and I think at the very least this Keith fellow needs a lyricist, at worst he is using up valuable oxygen and might be better employed as a Soil-Relocation Technician. It is now official, I hate this song more than I hate anything else in this world (including Wal-mart). I turned and articulated to the airman beside me that I sincerely wished to put out my own eyes (and ears) to end the agony, but he just drooled on my shoulder and upped his medication.

My Travel Plans...Hopefully.

2005-12-23T07:08:00.000-08:00

I have been putting off planning my next trip for some time now, though I did have a vague idea as to where I wanted to travel. Well, I have finally decided, and, though it is not set in stone, it looks like the lucky winner is, indeed, Tunisia. Israel and Egypt are still in the running, but I think I would rather save these countries for a later date. Now, I have but to submit my paperwork and gather my resources, and I am off. A few weeks ago I attempted to clean my bedraggled backpack, which smells as though a giant, rancid cigarette butt has been toting it around and urinating into it. Which only goes to show what two trips to Asia, three years in the trunk of a beat-up Toyota Celica, followed by four years of confinement in a box will do.

I hope to take this excursion sometime within the next few months, preferably in March or April, but possibly as early as February. There are some minor issues which could cause me to postpone my trip, but here’s to hoping. I had wanted to go in October, though to my dismay I discovered that Ramadan is being held during that month, and I am not thrilled at the idea of experiencing this holiday a second time. Nothing against it, as holidays go it is actually rather interesting, I had simply rather be able to eat during the day as it is more amenable to sight-seeing. Too, inhibitions are at there highest during this time of year, and I prefer them near the bottom.

The only catch is, with the current state of the world (which isn’t good at any time), and of Egypt in particular, I may be unable to secure permission for such a trip (for example- Lebanon was my first choice, but my request was summarily denied). If this turns out to be the case, my backup plan includes a trip to either Prague, Vietnam and/or Laos, or St. Petersburg and Moscow. Failing that, I am going to Savannah, where I shall shamelessly drink myself into a coma for three weeks, wearing an enormous grass hat, speaking with a Russian accent, and doing whatever people in Prague do (when I find out what that is exactly).

So far, I have only worked out the cost for Tunisia, and it is very agreeable. I chanced upon an incredible ticket: only 750USD (I haven‘t bought it yet), of course this does not include bus fare to Atlanta, but that would only tack on another $50 or so. As for expenses, I can budget up to 100USD a day. For Tunis this is a bit extravagant, though for Prague or Russia it might actually prove insufficient. I may have to shorten my stay by a week or so if I choose one of these countries. For the same amount in Vietnam and/or Laos I could probably rent a palatial colonial mansion, and have an eighteen-year-old girl feed me grapes, while another sings “Vive Le France” in her underwear while juggling great, flaming pineapples. Not that this is necessarily my thing. I’m just illustrating a point. I don’t even like grapes that much.

I fear you have been victim to one of my wild fits of insomniac verbosity (and, no, I did not make this word up). Ever since I purchased this damn machine, it has proven the bane of sleep. I am a slave to the keyboard. As the only things I use it for are writing, e-mail, and saving unreasonable amounts of hardcore, deviant, at times improbable, pornography on my hard drive, I feel I could have done with a much less powerful computer (and a much larger hard drive).

Anyway, these are my plans for the time being. I will keep you informed. Please feel free to write back with any comments, the more unusual the better.

P.S. The pornography comment was a joke, people. I would never save it, that’s evidence.

I Would Rather Eat My Own Liver Than Try Sea Urchin Again

2005-12-18T07:07:00.000-08:00

Last night some friends and I went to a local Japanese restaurant for a birthday celebration. Although I had not tried sushi before coming to Augusta, I have developed a growing fondness and appreciation for it, though my knowledge of the various types is far from perfect (very far). At any rate, since I had already eaten, I decided to instead settle for a few bottles of Sapporo. As I was sipping my beer and perusing the sushi menu, I came across quite a few exotic items which I had not tried before, and, since I have rarely been able to resist the allure of new experiences (and especially that of strange foods), I ordered the following: octopus, eel, jellyfish, conch, and sea urchin. I didn’t even know it was possible to eat the last three, and by failing to heed this harbinger of destruction, I prove once again that I am not possessed of an overly developed intuition.

After some minutes, my order finally arrived, beautifully arranged as only Japanese food can be. Each item was placed neatly upon a small dollop of rice to which it was fastened by a thin smear of wasabi.

Diligently taking up my chopsticks, I charged audaciously through each uncooked morsel. The octopus was the first to fall victim to my insatiable curiosity. I found it rather bland, though the wasabi very nearly reduced me to tears. Next came the jellyfish, which looked like sautéed onions and tasted quite a bit like you would expect a jellyfish to taste- rubbery and full of brine. Overall the taste was not an unpleasant one, and I would probably order this again. The conch, too, proved rather bland, but not displeasing.

Now I was faced with eating either the eel or the sea urchin. I chose to save the eel for last because it actually looked as though it might be rather tasty. The sea urchin, on the other hand, resembled a cross between the orange brain of a mutant and a fresh pile of baby excrement, and smelled only slightly better. I should have listened to my roommates advice: “Good luck with that.” Undaunted (well, perhaps only slightly daunted) I placed the entire glutinous mass in my mouth at once, as instructed by my colleagues.

I am not exactly sure how to describe the taste of sea urchin, though I can say that if I had been in less genteel company I would have spit the entire, foul-tasting glob across the room. I suppose, if pressed, I would say that it had the exact consistency and flavor of an enormous ball of vomit-flavored snot with slight fecal undertones. Since I had decided spitting it out was out of the question, I instead slowly chewed the disgusting blob over the course of five minutes or so, loathing each nauseating swallow. When I had finished the last of it, I briefly considered excusing myself and nonchalantly vomiting it into the men’s room toilet, but this would have been an obvious admission of defeat. I wondered aloud why this particular item was on the menu in the first place. The only possible justification I can see for eating sea urchin is in the event that everything else on the planet (to include cockroaches, earth worms, and maggots) has become extinct, and you are possessed of an overly strong will to live. The only saving grace was that I still had the eel to help kill some of the taste in my mouth.

I have tasted a great many outlandish dishes in my travels, including, but not limited to: fried buffalo tongue (delicious!), fried grasshoppers (great with beer, much better than potato chips), snake bile (to cure a cough in China- it had a sweet, syrupy taste), a bag of raw bug larvae (not terribly good, and from the way the Thai gentleman selling it to me grinned, I think it may very well not have been intended for human consumption), yak butter tea in Tibet (definitely an acquired taste, but once you have, it is addictive), and some mysterious foods in China better left unknown. Almost without exception I have had wonderful luck. Sea urchin has caused me to reevaluate many of my old beliefs. For example, my old motto: “I will try anything twice.” has been amended to include “except sea urchin, or anything remotely resembling sea urchin..” The only possible reason I can see for any rational person to partake of this abomination is if there is (a considerable sum of) money involved. If, however, you are ever in need of a good practical joke, or really wish to test someone’s fortitude, I heartily recommend a heaping order of raw sea urchin.

Collected Emails From Morocco Trip

2005-12-12T12:12:00.000-08:00

I decided to collect all of the emails I sent while I was in Morcco in November 2004, and post them here. Here they are in all their ungrammatical splendor.

Hello All,

Well I made it, I am in Marrakesh now having come from Casablanca yesterday,
and Tangier before that. Everything is going well. I will write more soon. I am
typing on some weird hybrid french/arabic/english keyboard, so it is taking me a
long time to type this. (I only just found the comma). Hopefully I can search
out an English keyboard tomorrow. Take care all,

Joel
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Well, I am in a city called Meknes now, nothing too exciting, though tomorrow I think I an going to Fez. I just bought some camel meat from a butcher and had it cooked at a small sandwich place. It was actually pretty good. I tried snails the other day, which are not as tasty as I had been led to believe. The only thing left is sheep brain...I'll let you know. Otherwise the local food is excellent, and now that Ramadan is drawing to a close I will be able to sample a bit more of it.
All in all, it has been a fantastic trip, hardly anyone speaks English and I have been able to use my Arabic for just about everything (of course most people don't really speak what I speak, but it is close enough). Take care, more soon,

Joel

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hello All,

Well, I am still in Fez. Probably I will go to a place in the mountains called Chefchaoen tomorrow, because it just isn't cold enough here. To give you some idea as to why typing on this keyboard is so difficult and why I am on the verge of throwing it across the room: the A and Q keys are reversed, as are the Z and W. The M key is where the colon should be and there is a question mark-comma-tammarbuta key where the M should be. Every key has between two and four uses, including an Arabic letter, though I have, as yet, been unable to determine how to use the Arabic. Additionally there is a double arrow key which changes the direction of typing from left to right to right to left, but does not change it back (this is, as you may have guessed, my favorite key). The keys also include: é,ç,²,µ,ù,§, and £ to name but a few. Leave it to the French, not only are they snobbish about their language, they need an entirely different keyboard. Presumably Americans can't even type French correctly. And the English drive on the wrong side of the road (Note: I like both the English and the French, and every other nationality, this is merely my feeble attempt at humor).

I was going to keep a journal, but it took me two weeks to find suitable material (something with blank pages), and when I did, I found I had purchased shoddy pens. Perhaps it is Allah's sick attempt at humor for my not believing in him. I got him back though, I gained access into one of his mosques while he wasn't looking. Chalk one up for the Infidel (I ate bananas during Ramadan, too). So I guess that makes us about even. I mean, sure, he created the universe and everything, but can he find his way through 9400 winding streets and alleyways to the Fez tanneries without a guide, and back (eventually). I say, "Bring it on!" (of course I do still, on occasion, get lost going to the restroom).

Take care,
Joel

P.S. If you received another, very similar message, it is due to my having to retype the entire, wonderful thing again, due to a lovely computer error. On the plus side, this version is, I think, the better of the two.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Well, I did it. I changed locations. I know you didn't think it was possible. I am now in Chefchaoen, a nice, quiet little town. All the buildings here are white and the doors are painted blue. It is a shame that I do not have more time here. It is getting close now, just when I am getting into the swing of it. I think it takes about three weeks to acclimatize oneself to traveling, then the rest is gravy.

So, I took a bus here, and if you have never taken a bus in the third world, you can but dream of the experience. It started out well enough, at about one thirty in the afternoon. Of course before boarding the bus I had thought to maybe take a grand taxi. The only grand taxi I could find wanted 800 dirhams (about 100 USD). Needless to say this was on the extravagant side, the trip should have cost 40 DH tops (a bit over4 dollars).

So, I boarded the bus. Things were going well, until the seats filled up, then the aisle, and I think they would have started cramming people into the luggage racks above the seats, but alas the hour of one thirty struck and we were off. The first bus ride was not so bad. four hours or so. It was during the second that things took a turn for the worst. After waiting about an hour for the second bus in a lovely little hole called Ouazran, we boarded. This bus was also filled to the gills and I, of course, had given my seat to a rather elderly lady. Chivalry would not permit me to do otherwise. It is fortunate for most of the rest of the world that I do not control the buses, for if I did, none would be permitted to travel an inch until every women and child had been secured a seat. I will never understand a country that does not put women and children first, though the general rule throughout most of the world seems to be everyone for him/herself. Fat, spoiled baby boys and deprived baby girls. Of course I am a bit biased, girls are much lovelier, softer, and rounder (in all the right places). But I (always) digress. So there we were (some of us standing), on board the bus. It is only after we had been packed like sardines and the bus had started moving that the little ticket taker guy decided to start checking tickets. At this point, such a strategy actually seemed to make a sort of sense. As he pushed and squeezed past us, first from the front to the back and then in reverse order, I asked him if this brilliant tactic was of his design (in my best MSA Arabic). I think my inquiry was somewhat less than welcome. Of course by the look on his face you might have thought I had asked him his favorite color. The interesting thing about saying things in another language is the very liberating feeling of being able to to spout utterly surreal, potentially iconolastic phrases, and then to completely distance oneself from actually having said such a thing.

Fortunately the driver had a liking for (extremely loud) chantings from the Koran, and as luck would have it he just happened to have a copy of his favorite chanter. This was actually quite atmospheric at first, very Indiana Jones (with a third rate sound track): We have the intrepid adventurer, adrift in the vast sea of foreigners. It had something of the feel of the end of one of those movies in which the last scene finds the hero on just such a bus, and there is much the same melancholy, thematic music in the background. The scene slowly fades to black and we see the little blurb telling us that the bus crashed and the hero died during this trip, and how much good he had done for the world, etc. And finally the little dedication: In Memory of Joel Hardin 1973-2004. I was rather engrossed in the moment, actually, picturing my own end, the fragility of life, how it can end so suddenly, so easily. This feeling lasted, on the generous side, maybe 10 minutes. An hour or so into the trip, I was thinking that maybe it just isn't that easy. Would death end this? Or would the music continue, after death. Perhaps my own little private hell would involve listening to the very last thing on earth that I had heard for the rest of eternity. Truly, it had become an entity in its own right. Corporeal, you could taste it. And just as suddenly as it had come, the "music" ended, replaced by a sound that could only have come from heaven itself, the static-filled noise indicative of the ending of a cassette tape. Undaunted, our driver did the only logical thing, he flipped the tape. I wept tears of pure ecstacy, oh blessed auto-reverse! Oh wondrous, exhalted technology! My observations (mostly in English) were totally lost on my audience. Casting out pearls and not getting so much as a pork chop in return (I lifted this phrase from Ayn Rand in the Fountainhead by the way, but it is one of my favorites).

At some point, (somewhere between singing Elvis Costello songs to myeslf- "Mohammed's Radio" for those buffs out there- and total insanity) the driver actually changed the music to the pleasant chanting of a choir of women. Fortunatly I understood maybe every 10th word of this new music, where as before I could understand most of it, but I would usually miss the most important words. "For Allah said those who ___ will ___ forever, and their ___ satan. And we must fight __ great differences between them ___ the prophet of Allah." Over, and over, and over. We did finally arrive, by the way. A mere 6 and a half hours later we had covered the entire 60 miles or so. It staggers the imagination, really. Of course when you think of it in terms of dollars verses miles, it is not such a great deal. I paid about 45 dirham for the entire trip, this comes out to around 10 cents a mile. But when you look at in terms of time, it is more like a dollar an hour, a bargain really. You can't pay for entertainment like that. Take care,

Joel
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hello again,

Well, what started out as a trip to a ruined mosque turned into a mountain climbing expedition. I climbed up this small hill to see the mosque, and thought to myself, "I can go a little further up the mountain." So the next thing you know, I am almost at the top. I didn't quite go all the way as it was becoming a bit steep and the footing was not the best. The view of the city was amazing. Took some great photos, if they turn out. These (the Rif Mountains) aren't the highest peaks in Morocco, but they are tall enough to be called mountains.

It is a good thing I did not make Chefchouan my first destination, else I may never have left. It is great here, the town is beautiful and very clean, compared to some. The white wash with the blue make the Medina (the old part of the city enclosed within walls) quite striking. The air is crisp and clean, which is a welcome relief from the horrid air pollution of the other cities I have visited. I think most Americans have no idea how clean the air is in America (The air of Moroccan cities is by no means as polluted as say that of Kathmandu or Xi'an, however).

Joel
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I know I spelled third incorrectly on the header of my last message, but that is hardly any reason not to write, now is it?... Anyway everything is still going well. I spent most of today just walking around, browsing the many shops and markets. I am torn, half of me wants to come home, the other half wants to stay. Tomorrow I hop on yet another bus, this one to Tangier. Tuesday I should be on the ferry to Spain and then on to Madrid and finally home Wednesday. We will see how that goes. Had a few drinks last night with a lovely Austrailian woman, and with a little luck, maybe I can find her again tonight (there is only one place in town to get a drink).

Speaking of ladies, there are some absolutly gorgeous creatures here. Of course, as it is a Moslem country, I have not been able to talk to many (one Berber lady on a bus who decided that we should elope to America). It is not quite as conservative as I had thought, but much more so than the west. What a racket. These guys have these amazing ladies walking around all covered up, and don't want to share. Can't say that I blame them, though. As for the dress, the usual Muslim cotume for females is about as becoming as a potatoe sack, but the jellaba (kaftan) is in the running for the most attractive native dress, particularly when accompanied by calf high black high-heeled boots, large round dangling earrings, and ample eye-makeup (kohl). I am by no means a fan of excessive makeup, though I do find that a certain degree of eye make-up does wonders by way of accentuation. As lovely as it is, the jellba can by no means compete with the Sari of India and Nepal (in my somewhat humble opinion) as the most attractive garment.

On the feminist side, there are inroads being made. I have noticed a not inconsiderable number of women dressed in western clothing, sitting in the cafes alongside the men. It is only a matter of time before equality between the sexes finds its way here, hopefully. I shall forever remain in equal parts a staunch supporter of equality of the genders, as well as a great admirer of the inherent beauty of women, and ever the twain shall meet. If you are of a persuaision to find an incongruity in these two traits, I offer my condolences in your rather limited scope, and I wish upon you Allah's blessings and a supreme desire that She may pull your head out of your ass.

Anyway, I am off to bigger, and hopefully better things, many of which, with a little luck, I won't be able to talk about. Maybe a little trip down under, if you will. Wish me luck, adios,

Joel
---------------------------------------------------------------------------

All,

Well, I'd like to say that my walkabout with the sheila went as planned, but let's just say I didn't throw another shrimp on the barby and leave it at that. I did however meet an incredibly intoxicated Morrocan guy who was so drunk HE actually forgot how to speak arabic. In the morning I boarded another bus, and a strange one at that. Everyone had a seat, and they weren't blasting Mohmmed's top 10 from the rafters. It was a quiet uneventful trip into Tangier.

I have decided that Tangier is not my favorite place. Everyone, and I do mean everyone is on the make. Everybody wants a little bit of your money, I actually got taken today by this old guy, although he did show me a place to change traveler's cheques, which was worth it. Basically, anyone who approaches you, for any reason, is a) an unofficial guide, b) wants to sell you hash, c) wants to know if you reaquire any of the myriad other "special" things this bastion of seediness has to offer, or d) any combination of the above. At any rate, you know the son of so-and-so wants money from you in some fashion or other. The usual game seems to be taking you to one of the billion or so carpet/clothing/trinket shops in order to get a commision from your purchases, a game I refuse to play. And after three weeks in country, I still get taken, I lust be slipping.

Today, a few minutes ago, I almost got in a fight with this 19-20 year old kid. I was looking for a way to skirt the horde of faux guides in order to send this e-mail in peace. So this little piece of camel dung starts following me. I start walking faster. He is calling out to me: "Excuse me, sir, my friend, sir...blah, blah, blah". I start walking even faster, and so he starts running. I refuse to lower myself by running and he catches me. I am usually a calm, collected kinda guy, though on occasion I do lose my temper. This was the worst occasion of this trip. I told him to go away in Arabic, which immediatly got his dander up, as he is "only a student", who "wants to practice english and help people." Let's just say I called him on these points, and a few others as well. I think I told him that a smart man would have known that my walking fast was a sign that I did not want to be bothered. It degenerated into a yelling match in Arabic, but no further. I have seen it countless times, I even read about it before I came. Arabs will have these crazy outbursts, but they will almost never come to blows, and of course I'm not going to take the first punch. I really wish he had though.

Anyway, I was beyond angry, but managed to calm down a bit and try and talk to him, until the guy tells me that I am doing this because I am American and he is Muslim (a common tactic, though this is the first time I have actually heard it used), then I really went off on him, told him that he knows that isn't true and called him a liar (or a rabbit, I am not sure). His friends did not seem to wish to take sides. It never came to blows, but I finally walked off, and the little shit has the nerve sends these children after me chanting something about Bush. I am actually still a little mad, although walking here I realized that it was kinda cool, having a shouting match in an entirely different language, and rather fluently if I do say so myself. It actually felt pretty good. That is the closest to fighting I have ever come in all my travels (there were a few in Nepal ((of course one of those would have looked more like 20 Nepalis kicking the shit out of one American and a Brit)), and of course the time I pushed that guy in India when he grabbed me and started pulling me toward a bus). I simply refuse to play this stupid game, "You're the Foreigner, This Isn't Your Country, So You Have To Deal With Whatever Stupid Shit We Decide to Pull". Pardon my french, but fuck 'em. Anyway, I am sure I will meet him as I walk the gauntlet back to my hotel, which is good as I was only getting warmed up, maybe the rest will join in, we'll have a little educating the guides seminar. It is amazing what a bad taste a few people can impart. Wow, that was a long rant.

On a lighter note, I am taking the ferry to Spain tomorrow, then jumping immediatly on a bus, and should arrive well before plane leaves. The only thing I have not done that was on my list is to visit a hammam (publc bath), maybe next time. Oh, yeah, I didn't get to try sheep brain, but I am not terribly disappointed. There is a lot more I want to say, some stuff about the results of my soul searching and a huge rant on (all) religion, evolution, and the meaning of life, but I will spare you for now. I am not going to let Tangier sully an otherwise great trip. Take care, I probably won't write again until I get back, Happy Thanksgiving and all that,

Joel

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Just wanted everyone to know that in my last message, when I typed "I lust be slipping", there was nothing Freudian (or even fraudian) about that, just a little slip of the lisp.

Joel
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
All,

Well, I survived. For those of you who harbored no doubts that this would indeed be the case, I feel I must append my previous tirade regarding third world buses. I need to insert a description of what, in India, I refer to as "Karma Driving" (Although, in Arabic speaking countries this would of course change to "In Sha' Allah Driving" or "God Willing Driving"). whereby the driver of the bus hopes that his karma is better than that of the driver of the other vehicle which is rapidly approaching from the other direction. At the last possible instant both drivers swerve, hopefully avoiding a head-on collision, and pass one another with mere inches to spare.

At any rate I am arrived safely and more or less unscathed. The small backpack which was my constant companion throughout my journey is battered, stained, torn, and smells faintly of incense, perfume, garbage, horseshit, and inexplicably toothpaste. Of the two of us, I fear it got the better of it. Though I have managed to wash most of the Euro-stench from my clothing.

I must say that after spending time with various pimps, con men, drug dealers, beggars, and other equally colorful characters life here seems, at best, mundane by comparison. Even the names of our restaurants fail to impress when matched with similar establishments in Morocco. Take for example the aptly named "Carrion", or how about the ever popular "Donner King" where they serve you while they serve YOU. Count your kids before leaving this place. And after a fine meal you can retire at the Hotel Asmaa (Asthma I am guessing), appropriatly located in the mountains. It is equally humorous in Arabic, as asima means crisis.

I cannot express the great joy I experienced at being able to converse in a foreign language. This was definitly the high point of my trip: ordering food, finding accomodation, having everyday conversations. I actually learned of Powell's resignation from a taxi driver, in arabic! How mumtaz is that? I even got a haircut in Arabic (which actually looks quite a bit like a haircut in English). The barber was of Berber desent and, once he knew that I was able to speak Arabic, proceeded to talk incessently about life in Morocco, religion, and countless other subjects, of which I understood maybe 60% of the 40% I actually listened to. I even made up a tongue twister in his honor: Berber Barber Bored a Bunch of Battered Backpackers.

The trip back was exhausting. I began tuesday at about 8 a.m. I had intended to purchase a four volume set of "A Thousand and One Nights" which I had fallen in love with the previous night, but unfortunatly the shop didn't open until 10 a.m. Earlier, however, I had managed to snag a copy of the travels of the famous Tangier born Arab traveler, Ibn Batouta, as well as a wonderful Arabic translation of Indian fables.

Anyway, I headed down to the wharf and purchased a ticket on what the man behind the counter ominously refered to as the "Slow Boat". Two and a half hours later I am in Algeciras on the southern coast of Spain. The name Algeciras is actually a bastardization of the Arabic word for island, though it can also mean penninsula. It is located next to the rock of Gibralter (Jebal Tarek in Arabic, named for the Moorish conquerer of Spain. It actually means Tarek's mountain).

I then ate and purchased a ticket (notice: I bought the ticket, I did not eat it. I ate lunch) on the 4 o'clock bus to Madrid. This bus took about 11 hours, arriving at 3 a.m. As I had about 8 hours to kill before my plane, and since I found the company at the bus station somewhat less than desirable, I decided to take the metro to the Airport. I will pause in my story long enough to explain that in all of Spain maybe two people speak English. I never realized what a profound ignorance of Spanish I am possessed of until I actually traveled to the country. I can say hello, thank you, good-bye, I want a beer, and I can also count to ten. I mean what else do you really need to understand, right? A lot, let me assure you, there is a lot. When I learned to order "cafe au lait" and they actually brought me a coffee with milk, I felt as though I had reinvented the wheel, and "cafe au lait" isn't even Spanish. So, I was changing trains in order to get to the airport, when suddenly the Metro decided to shut down, and the attendants expelled me without so much as a "porfavor"(sp-?). There I am in the middle of Madrid at 3 a.m. in the freezing cold. Fortunatly I noticed a group of Spanish guys huddled near the Metro entrance. With their help, an accent, and a few "a's" tacked onto the end of my words (airpuerta), I was finally in a taxi headed to the airport, and it only cost me the monetary equivalent of two days in Morocco.

I got to the airport, sprawled out on a bench, and slept. Actually, any sleep aquired in an airport, bus station, or train station hardly qualifies as sleep. I awoke at seven, took a cat bath in the restroom, and proceeded to get properly sloshed at the airport cafeteria. I boarded the plane at 11 a.m. after being "randomly" chosen (along with every other American backpacker) for a baggage check. I had to unload my carefully packed backpack and then cram everything back into it (and all of this drunk to top it off). I of course subtly hinted to the attendant at my mild displeasure.

The plane took about 10 hours, arriving at 10 till three. The bus to Augusta was to depart at four. I waited 30 minutes for my luggage and thought to myself, "Wow, I'm actually going to make it." As I was heading toward the exit and a taxi, a woman stops me ans tells me that my baggage must go thru airport security, and that I can pick it up in the south terminal, at the other end of the airport. No subtle hints here, just a string of unrepeatables and a few backpack tossing incidents. Needless to say, I missed my bus and had to wait 3 hours at the wonderfully atmospheric Atlanta bus station for the next one. For those of you unfamiliar with American bus stations, all I can say is that I am glad there were several large, armed police men in the vicinity. I boarded the bus at 7:30 p.m. and arrived in Augusta at 12 a.m. I then managed to find the slowest cab driver in all of Augusta (and that's saying something). Fortunately, I discovered upon arriving at the barracks that we had the night off. What a trip. Take care,

Joel

A "Brief" Bio

2005-12-10T11:52:00.000-08:00

I have decided to begin by giving a brief personal description in order to lift myself from the realm of anonymity. I am a native of Nacogdoches, Texas. I am in the Air Force, currently stationed at Fort Gordon in Augusta, Georgia, and I truly enjoy what I do (most days). I have a wonderful, brilliant sister named Kim and a beautiful seven-year-old niece named Lauren, both of whom live in Florida.

My main passion in life is travel, with the study of languages being a close second. Thus far I have traveled to a great number of interesting places: England, France, Italy, Switzerland, Belgium, Spain, China, Tibet, Nepal, Thailand, Morocco, and quite a few places in the United States. I intend to take one three or four week trip each year to a different country. While I do not believe that this is adequate time to immerse oneself in a culture (six months or more is optimal), it is what I have, so it is enough. I think either Tunisia or Egypt is on the list this year. Other future destinations include, in no particular order: Russia (and esp. St. Petersburg and Moscow), Prague, Lebanon, Jordan, Kenya, Brazil, Laos, Vietnam, and just about everywhere else.

To me, the great joy of travel lies in meeting new and interesting people, and in the sense of freedom it allows, as well as its propensity for broadening the mind and removing prejudices. Nothing can prepare you for that first thrill upon exiting the aircraft onto foreign soil. Usually it is the minutest aspects of any culture that I find interesting. For example, I am more interested in a countries eating habits and how its garbage is disposed of than I am in its museums and other historic sites. Not that I am averse to visiting such sites. On the contrary, I have seen some amazing monuments and incredible works of art in my travels. I find people watching particularly interesting, and I can sit for hours at a coffee shop or café doing just that.

As for my personal beliefs:

1. I do not, nor have I ever, believed in a higher being, though I will allow for the (slight) possibility. I tend to regard religious feelings as stemming from one of the following: 1. fear of death 2. a desire for conformity 3. a feeling of inadequacy and subsequent resentment of all things adequate 4. a desire for superiority over another segment(s) of society. 5. guilt (almost always unearned). That said, I am fascinated by the great variety of religions, and, as long as they refrain from promoting harmful messages, remain accepting of all, and preach equality and compassion, I find them tolerable, interesting, and maybe even (again, slight chance) beneficial.

2. Politeness, Compassion, and Magnanimity top the list on my hierarchy of values (and I strive to emulate these qualities, though I do not always succeed)).

3. I believe everyone is capable of reinventing himself or herself by merely cultivating a complete knowledge of self (know thy self), and simply discarding negative ideas and replacing them with positive ones.

4. I think too many people regard the world in terms of simplistic stereotypes, and that an even larger percentage allow themselves to be pigeonholed as such. True daring flies in the face of all convention, and rejects all attempts at conformity.

5. I believe that women are absolutely fantastic creatures.

6. I hate sports (unless they feature graceful women in skimpy outfits).

7. I cannot fathom how someone can judge another based on skin color, sexual preference, or religion (despite my previous statements regarding religion).

8. I do not think I have a competitive bone in my body, last time I checked we all tie in the end.

9. I have no love of material wealth (to include fancy cars and gaudy mansions) beyond that which will allow me to travel.

10. I believe that Visions of Johanna by Bob Dylan is quite possibly the greatest song ever written.

11. I prefer a knowing smile to raucous laughter.

12. I am pro-choice.

13. I believe the meaning of life can be summed up in a simple statement : “Life is a Persian rug.” For the meaning behind this I encourage you to read Of Human Bondage by W. Somerset Maugham

14. I believe in the unqualified equality of the sexes.

15. I am much more shy than anyone ever realizes.

16. I believe that this brief description has taken on a life of its own, and as such has exceeded my initial intention.