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November 12, 2004

The Beast

And lest we forget the evil which emanated from within this creature, and that such evil never remains contained, rather spreads, plaguelike, consuming all in its purview and extending its tentacles beyond:

Arafat the monster

Perhaps his signal contribution to the practice of political terror was the introduction of warfare against children. On one black date in May 1974, three PLO terrorists slipped from Lebanon into the northern Israeli town of Ma'alot. They murdered two parents and a child whom they found at home, then seized a local school, taking more than 100 boys and girls hostage and threatening to kill them unless a number of imprisoned terrorists were released. When Israeli troops attempted a rescue, the terrorists exploded hand grenades and opened fire on the students. By the time the horror ended, 25 people were dead; 21 of them were children.

Thirty years later, no one speaks of Ma'alot anymore. The dead children have been forgotten. Everyone knows Arafat's name, but who ever recalls the names of his victims?

Let us, indeed, today pray for and mourn the thousands of victims of this monster's practices, his sick ideology. The evil he harbored will not die with him.

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The Body

The body of the beast will soon be paraded through the streets of Palestine. We only can hope that those who attend the funeral of this monster do not choose to do so in the manner of past mourners:

The death of Ayatollah Ruhollah Musavi Khomeini on June 4 was mourned by millions of his followers with an extravagance that surprised even the Iranian authorities. Time and again, funeral plans were disrupted by gigantic mobs unwilling to give way either to schedules or politicians. The scene in Tehran was one of unrelieved chaos...The height of frenzy occurred at the gravesite itself. Bringing the body by land vehicle was out of the question, so it arrived by helicopter. The first time the helicopter landed, the crowd swarmed in and grabbed pieces of the shroud, causing the corpse actually to fall to the ground. After fifteen frantic minutes, the coffin was put back on the helicopter, which then bore the body away. In an attempt to thin out the crowd, it was announced that the funeral had been postponed by a day. The trick worked, as many went home. Then, six hours after the first attempt, a second effort at a helicopter landing was made. This time more guards were around and the body was placed in a metal casket. Still, it was not easy. As the Iranian news agency described it: "The grave was only ten meters away but the pushing and shoving of thousands made it seem like kilometers. It took ten terrible minutes to be able to put the casket down near the grave." Once the body had finally been buried, concrete blocks were placed on top of it.
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November 07, 2004

The Ballad of the Itinerant

In the movie, Pulp Fiction, the character Jules talks about what it is to have had what alcoholics refer to as a 'moment of clarity.' From my own conversation with friends who have attended AA, I have heard that such a moment is more often referred to as 'hitting bottom.' At AA meetings, often a new member will attend a number of meetings and be too afraid to tell his own story: from fear, insecurity, shame, pride, usually a combination of all of these. Often, when the new 'alcoholic' finally screws up the courage to speak, to admit to his disease, to confront this affliction in that most naked, courageous, even audacious manner in which one exposes the soft whiteness of his underbelly like a fish jerked from the sea, flapping in the soft brown muck, it is often easiest to tell the story of his 'hitting bottom.' And by no means will this be the only time the story is told. Indeed, there is no limit to the amount of times it could, should be retold, for that story is a reminder of where he had led himself, in those moments of dark uncertainty, gripping at the cold slickness of an unseen wall to feel his way forward toward a further blackness, jerking back in retreat only as the hairlike legs of some ghastly creature steeped in filth scuttle across the back of his wrist, roused from its terrible slumber to make its presence known without ever revealing itself, it is through this revelation of himself that he can, indeed, remake himself.

In a way, I think that those who have hit bottom and were able to recognize it were blessed in a way that others of us must struggle more arduously for. Choosing to live in Japan has been one of the best decisions I have ever made. I have a life many would dream of having. Many do dream of having. Enough money to not have to worry about anything and have fun doing so. A wonderful, beautiful fiancee, a rewarding job. And yet, there is something unfulfilled. Some hunger which eats at my belly, pervades every aspect of my life and struggles to manifest itself in my various passions: drink, food, art, lust for knowledge, aknowledgement and fulfilment of vanity. I am gripped night and day with an unslakable thirst, a hole in my belly like a rat gnawing there, deeper the more I strive to fill it. And I know whence this well springs forth, or, rather, the source of its sucking. I want to write. And I feel like I waste, have wasted, moments of every day, have given aways great sections of my life which I will never recover in the manner that those with crippling afflictions, with malefic addictions, do.

I feel that the essence of my writing has been drained by the very disconnectedness I have imposed upon myself in my apprenticeship in this country. I have almost no American friends to whom I can talk. Most of the people I know are Japanese and that was one of my intentions in coming here but it necessarily restricts the amount of English I speak and, even when I am speaking English I am purposely limiting myself for the benefit of the hearer or am not talking about something which serves to further this art.

But I do not feel as if I have 'hit bottom.' And, in a way, I feel as if I have been robbed of something necessary to restart the process by which I can begin again filling that hole in the middle of my belly. Robbed, or cheated out of some image of myself at 300 pounds, or lying face down in a pool of my own vomit in my boss's daughter's bed, that would allow me to keep in mind what it is I am working toward. Instead it is easier to ease along in mediocrity, never pushing away from the strong negative image of myself toward the great one, rather allowing myself to be contented with this plump and happy one. Neither Falstaff nor Cassius.

I am trying not to complain, rather feel my way toward the light, to the exit from this alleyway which opens onto the big street, the clear signs and grid pattern that lets me know where the hell it is I am going. I have not hit bottom. There does not seem to be one. Indeed this place is warm and comfortable, and the insects, though large, keep largely to themselves. But I am trying to find my way. An astrolabe is no use when you cannot see the sun.

Continue reading "The Ballad of the Itinerant"
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November 06, 2004

Inspiration

I'm thinking of trying to dedicate more time to this weblog...getting back into posting. One of the hangups I have is that I have absolutely no clue what I am doing. I managed to delete every post I had ever made (which still exist in search engines...just not my own) and I would like to have those back for posterity but have no idea how to go about doing that.

The reason I deleted everything was, further bungling, I was getting too many parasites (read:advertisers of adult products in their many manifestations) clinging to my leg and, rather than taking the time to shave it and disinfect it, just hacked the whole thing off. Rash, I know.

I am not asking for help, or answers, by the way (hell, no one is even reading this...I have the opposite of Steven den Beste's problem), but conducting a dialog with myself in the hope of reaching an answer. Do I want the stress of messing with this thing again?

Posted by Shawn at 12:32 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack (4)

November 02, 2004

On the eve of this fateful day

I have effectively stopped posting on this weblog. Whether I will continue to do so after this post, or ever again, is up in the air. I have struggled with the fact that there are, out there, a lot of people more qualified than myself to explicate the finer points of politics who have a lot more time on their hands than I do. A lot of them.

But I am compelled today to break my indefinite hiatus, this once, not in the interest of swaying the course of history in one direction or the other: I believe that decision was made months, if not 3 years and 2 months ago, when 19 murderers finally tore the scales from the eyes of our sleeping populace with our own Western created machines, with fire, billowing oily black clouds of poison, smoldering gristle, falling bodies, arms and splintered bones of corrugated steel piercing the sky like a negative of a post apocalyptic landscape, insane and obscene backdrop against the confident powerhouse of American production, creation, New York City. I know that it is too late to change those minds, that no one knows me and that the opportunity I had to influence others was forfeited when I chose to focus upon things other than this weblog. But, if nothing else for posterity, I would chronicle my thoughts.

Many people, many I have talked to, have expressed either confidence or fear that, because of his bungling, because of his stupidity and inability to properly reason us through the situation he led (dragged?) us into, that it will be the will of the majority of the American voting people that George W. Bush will become, like his father, a one-term President. That John Forbes Kerry will enter the office of President of the United States, that he will proceed to withdraw our forces, our presence from Iraq and Afghanistan, and that we will settle back into the isolated position we began (relatively) occupying starting around 1975. And when this happens, for good or bad, those creatures who saw with dull blades through the cartilage in men’s necks, who explode bombs packed with nails on busses filled with school children, who blow up hotels, who explode cars in front of lines of human being waiting to apply for jobs, who then laughingly take credit for such atrocities, who revere death as we do life, all of these men, these creatures, whom some would have us believe are the result of American intervention overseas, as if our meddling in South American politics caused anything resembling the aforementioned horrors. If this happens, know that those creatures will celebrate in the streets as they did after their spiritual brethren crashed planes into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. They will be encouraged in their efforts for they will see that they work, and they will kill more of our soldiers. They will kill more people around the world because they will see that their strategy is effective. That we are effete bourgeois, more worried about dirtying our fingernails than saving our necks when it comes to the hard work of reforming societies replete with hundreds of years of corruption and evil rule. And they will have beaten us. And if we never are attacked again and John Kerry’s Clintonian strategy of policing against the nuisance of terrorism proves the correct path where it did nothing to stop the hideous atrocities of September 11th or any of the numerous smaller attacks that led up to that definitive one, even if we are allowed to slip again into that credulous sleep, we will have failed at one of the great opportunities history so seldom grants. We will have withdrawn in our passage of leading the greatest, most benevolent army in the history of the world in the liberation of millions of humans, who yearn for freedom as much as we revere it, and who are right now, though they may not express it, too, praying for a Bush win.

But I do not believe we have to worry about this. I believe the American people are the light to the world, that America is the symbol of freedom and greatness that all of the oppressed peoples of this world look toward, strive to attain, dream of living in, and fear to whisper for the threat of the tongue which shapes the word being cut from their skull. I believe that the American people will overwhelmingly, I repeat, overwhelmingly reelect George W. Bush, and that he will lead us in one of the greatest reforms, the greatest liberations, the greatest expanding of freedoms this world has ever known.

God Bless the United States of America.

And if you have any doubts as to the opinions of the people of Iraq, whom will be most affected, please read the words as written by the men themselves.


Posted by Shawn at 10:17 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack (0)

September 09, 2004

Testing

Rumblings from a cavern within a cavern heard from the floor of the dark forest which stands upon it. What emerges, if ever. If ever...

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June 02, 2004

Two Roads Diverged in a Wood

and I stood. But I'm now toying with the idea of taking a step, that initial process of moving one's feet always being so much more difficult than the actual walking of it. This is just a test but hopefully the first of many a new post.

Fair warning, however, where we end will in no way resemble the place where we began.

Posted by Shawn at 09:42 AM | TrackBack (21)

February 14, 2004

Mutability

Listen closely and you will hear the sound of metal on metal. A dim hum underscores the clacking of workings shadowy and unseen, dim figures or the shapes of figures in fuzzy silouhette, attempting to delineate shape from their own malformed amorphousness. The amber glow of cauldron fires adumbrates without illuminating. Soon something new will rise from this molten underworld. Something new. Peer hard enough and your eyes will adjust or else will see what they decide to see when sight itself is unobtainable.

Wait for it. It comes.

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