It Seems Like a Thousand Years Ago

07MAY09 – Within sight of Spain. Had a cup of hot black at the rail this morning, impatient for the sun, anxious to get off the boat for a few days. Nothing else to say at the moment. Words fail me at the worst of times.

Later, wandering around town. Hissing palm trees and strange plants line winding roads. Memories flood back, feels like I’m watching the vacation films of a stranger. Duck into a movie theater. Just before the previews roll, the audience clambers to their feet and the national anthem comes booming through the speakers, accompanied by a slide show of imagery. Fields of bright flowers, jets taking off, eagles in flight, pretty picnics, fluttering flags, smoldering Towers. When it’s over, we take our seats. No one speaks, the movie begins.

08MAY09 – I’m tagging along with a group who’ve opted to rent hotel rooms in Cadiz. A hot shower and a firm bed never sounded so good. Getting here was an adventure: we were looking for the ferry to take us across the harbor, meanwhile there’s a huge local party called a ‘ferria’. (Public service message: putting an ‘a’ on the end of an Anglo word does not immediately render it Espanola.) My hand/boat/seagull pantomime gestures did nothing to aid our cause, but we figured it out. Half walked, half ran to the rail station and caught the last train to Cadiz. I had a few drinks and collapsed clean on the comforters with my notebook. Wrote in my journal, fell asleep.

09MAY09 – Continental breakfast in the café, used my mostly forgotten Spanish to order a double strong coffee, a banana milkshake and a kiwi (devoured whole, not bothering to peel). Listening to the Scorpions “Still Loving You,” while chewing concentrated caffeine. It’s goddamn delicious. My mood is decidedly optimistic.

10MAY09 – Now on the high-speed ferry to Tangier. We’d planned to catch a pre-dawn bus, turns out said bus didn’t run on Sundays. If you’re wondering, a one-way cab ride to Tarif will cost you €123.00. The road was lined with cattle and crumbling buildings, sprawling pastures, miles of scrub land, giant pointy windmills and enormous black bull silhouettes which glared down over the valley. Middle Eastern males appear to have a thing for Cosby sweaters. A man in the smoking lounge looks just like Borat. I’m tempted to take his picture, but he’s situated in just a way as to make it impossible. Besides, what would I do with the picture?

Off the ferry in Africa. Everything is hot, loud, dirty, confusing and colorful. We’re met at the terminal by an elderly Frenchman in a heavy woolen suit with a three-day beard. His plastic ID certifies him as a tour guide, and for a nominal fee he’ll show us the best parts of the city, and insure that we have a good time. “Is good, much to see. We see many beautiful things, I take you to good restaurant.” Sold.

He herds us into a tiny cab and we climb the narrow winding streets toward our hotel in the Kasbah, the oldest part of the city. My jaw is practically in my lap; I’m taking a cab ride through the cradle of civilization. Ethnic music and strange smells flood in through the car windows at every stop. The range of color and textures visible is overwhelming.

There is no such thing as organization on these streets, and madness is the only rule; walk in the streets, play in the streets, eat in the streets, drive against the traffic flow, and remember - always come within an inch of every available surface with your side mirrors, and don’t even consider your brakes. Do it now!

Dar Sultan is hidden in an anonymous alleyway near the highest part of the old city behind a heavy black door decorated by a large brass knocker in the shape of the Hand of Fatima. The lobby is full of plants, baskets of fruit, candles, tiny statues and flowers. Everything is indescribably perfect, placed just so and I know immediately that I’ll never be able to make anyone understand what I’m seeing. Just thirty-five minutes south of modern and efficient Spain, and yet I feel as though we’ve traveled back in time.

Our rooms are not yet ready, so we’re offered refreshments. Hot water is poured from a steaming brass kettle covered in delicate carvings, and we sip fragrant tea called Moroccan Whiskey from tiny red glasses and sample a plate of colorful sweets. The room and its contents are unlike anything I’ve ever seen before, and I’m awed. The room is decorated in stars, each point representing one of the five points of Islam: Shahadah, to affirm that there is only one God, Allah, and that Muhammad was his messenger. Salat, to pray five times a day. Zakah, to give alms to the poor. Sawm, to fast during the month of Ramadan, and Hajj, to go on a pilgrimage to Mecca least once in a lifetime, unless prevented by ill health or poverty.

Everywhere we go, there is something incredible to behold. I follow our guide’s example and give generously to the poor; tarnished copper colored coins tumble into outstretched and sometimes deformed hands. “Salaam Alakim,” I mumble, feeling overwhelmed. Around every corner, someone has something for sale and apparently the entire city is seeing the same cruel dentist. Teenaged salesmen mumble with bloodshot eyes, offering jeweled daggers, packs of gum, silver bracelets, colorful necklaces, television remotes and leather wallets on spindly arms. They won’t take no for an answer, but it’s the only answer I know. I have a limited budget of what I can spend and carry. (Later, I learn to say la shu-krah – ‘no thank you’.)

Our guide shoos them away, shaking his head and wagging a disproving finger at us. “Is no good,” he says. “Garbage. Come, I show you better.” The beggars shout and plead after us, but only a few go so far as to call us names, or mumble something about ‘your kind’. My liberal white guilt is kicking into overdrive...

Later, he leads us to a local pharmacy where a baby-faced man in a cotton candy beard, gold spectacles and brown leather sandals gives us a rushed rundown of the various herbs and potions available for sale; pick-me-ups, inhalers, digestive aids, boner aids, hair gels, spices, fragrant creams, and dozens of small vials full of incredible things designed to be sniffed, tasted, spread on the skin and otherwise enjoyed. My travel companions were rather squeamish on this point, and they gave me strange looks as I held out my hands and presented my tongue for each and every item as appropriate. I was eager to try them all. How often does one receive such an opportunity?

Later that night, I review my notes over a glass of red wine on the rooftop, shaking my head at the result. None of my words do justice to what I saw today. My mind is scattered like rocks flung across a pond. A rooster crows in the distance, and laundry dries like colorful tears shed from a thousand haunted windows which encircle me on all sides. I’m being serenaded by feral cats, and I can’t throw a rock without striking cobalt blue tiles, crumbling brick, bubbling fountains, fresh flowers, wrought iron, colorful mosaics, and dazzling parapets. Even the filth is somehow attractive. Earlier in the afternoon, we saw camels on the beach, and I watched an old man charm a cobra. A snake was placed around my neck, a photograph taken.

Later, as we sat beneath swaying palm trees sipping over-priced beer, our accents were overheard by a man named Mouhissine Chane, a native of Morocco who lives abroad for ten months of the year, but comes home to Tangier each summer. At first, I was leery of his generosity. It’s typical for someone here to approach you, offering to take you on a tour or provide some service with the unspoken understanding that you’ll cross his palm with a few coins in return.

This was not the case with Chane. He told us he’d met many people who’d had a rotten time in Tangier because they didn’t speak the language, or didn’t know where to go. He was determined to show us a good time. He introduced us to his three beautiful sisters, his brother, and even offered to take us to his home to feed us. Sadly, his mother was ill, which I suppose is a good thing. After all, how exactly does one repay that kind of generosity?

He took us to the best place in the city for breakfast, showed us the best places to shop, and taught me simple phrases in Arabic, which is as complicated to speak as it is to understand. His sisters sang like angels, and when we parted ways that night I expressed my thanks and kissed each of them on both cheeks, as is the custom.

The next morning, we enjoyed a sultan’s breakfast on the roof. I didn’t know half of what I was eating but I tried it all. Crepes, omelets, different juices, thick black coffee, three different kinds of bread, fruit, jams, honey, and goat cheese. (One minor disappointment - I chomped into a piece of fruit that looked like the cherub-cheeked love child of a cherry tomato and a Georgia peach, but tasted like it’d been hate fucked in the mouth by a rancid chili pepper. That one didn’t go over so well.)

I packed my bag and took a few pictures – one of our group had brought along his skateboard. I clicked away while he performed plants, skids and jumps in the ancient streets. It was fun to watch the different reactions of the people. Old men with missing teeth and red fez hats clapped and laughed, complimenting him on his skill as he landed each trick. Five minutes earlier, they'd have claimed to speak no English. Laughter is a great ambassador.

Caught the fast ferry back to Tarif, and the long bus to Rota. Next stop, Monaco...

Planeside Baggage Claim Ticket

20MAR09 - Frost patterns on my window at 15,000 feet resemble Kanji as rendered by an alien hand, a million miniature characters painstakingly etched on frozen glass. Instructions for a DIY Mandelbrot set, some assembly required? This trip was a pleasant one, an overnight gig to New Orleans. I stayed in a B&B near the job, a sprawling two-structure in what once was probably a magnificent part of town. Dropped off my gear, got straight to work. Walked the quarter mile to the site, relishing the heat on my cold Northern bones.

That evening, I addressed postcards to friends and loved ones over a cold bottle of dark beer and a bowl of seafood gumbo, before heading out to observe the city’s Dramatis Personae. Popped into Madame Laveau’s for a new vial of patchouli and something ugly for my desk, Spent the evening wandering the French Quarter drinking Guinness and absinthe mojitos, side-stepping those more inebriated than I, memorizing each brick and gaudy storefront with equal curiosity. The next day went off without a hitch. Cats: corralled, fears: assuaged, locally caught fish: devoured. Met this guy.

Homeward bound now. My body has reached the end of patience, yet I find five minutes more in a hidden pocket, discover five beyond that, and so on. What I really want to do is lose it. I make a list in my head. Profanities: shouted. Seatbacks: punched. Headlines: made. (Temper, temper. A gentleman is always in control of his emotions.) Instead, I think about the train ride home, dropping my bags, kicking off my Chucks, taking a satisfying crap, enjoying a scalding shower, unwinding with dry British comedy and partaking in a bowl of Stephen Hawking (part of a complete balanced breakfast!)

Sun sets softly in a sea of scarlet cloud off our starboard bow. We’ve seen into the furthest reaches of outer space with our powerful telescopes (finding only more stars for our questions), while a darkness of electronic listening machines orbit the Earth in a vigil of constant snoopery. What I wanna know is: where is Heaven? If it’s in the clouds, does it vanish on sunny days or follow the migration of weather patterns? Maybe they’ve got Heaven mixed up with S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters...

Returning his seatback to an uptight position, it's...

TWM

State of No-State

You've probably noticed I haven't posted anything in awhile. Far from implying an empty mind! Present topics of interest include: glossololia, modern manners, Gemini herbalists, near-Earth asteroid strikes and, of course, the Pale Blue Dot.

Ladies and gentlemen, it is high time for an upheaval. I've been 27 for nearly a decade now, and next month I'll turn 38. For all my experiences, travels, adventures and headstrong attempts to achieve an altered state or even come close to understanding sensory overload, I'm still trapped in the same animated meatbag I was born in, allowing for cellular regeneration and growth. (The concept of our body as a fixed, frozen sculpture in time is fictitious, for what we think of as our solid body is really just patterns of intelligence briefly precipitating into tangible sensations. Furthermore, the reduction of reality to material properties is a myth. We are not physical creatures having intelligent thought; we are, in truth, the very intelligence which generates this physical experience. We now return you to 'The A-Team, already in progress.)

(Effort involved in that paragraph: 8 minutes, 4 versions, 3 sips of Red Bull.)

Truth is I've been busier than a (insert clever analogy here) balancing school, work, and a social life. At present, there's nothing I can tell you that you don't already think you know.

(Effort: 15 minutes, 2 versions, finished 16.9 Oz can of Red Bull)

Possibly I'm finished with writing, or maybe writing is finished with me, one. Nothing lasts forever, except nothing and forever. Don't kid yourself. You're just as stuck as me.

See you soon,

Convenient Parking

22FEB09 - Had an American Moment recently - nearly run down by the texting driver of an SUV as was I crossing a Target parking lot. Looked up, alarmed. Suddenly everything was visible, in focus. Commercial airliners streaking overhead, arriving at and departing from Ronald Reagan International approximately five minutes apart, each one carrying an estimated eight-thousand gallons of fuel. The river of package-laden consumers flowed forth from the mouth of the Best Buy, as panicked screams of multiple car alarms filled the air. Moments later, a friend of mine would confess that she flies so often she considers 'In Flight' magazine a viable shopping option.

Don't tell anyone - I love getting my hair cut. There's something so comforting about closing my eyes and letting the tender weight of cloth gently pin my arms and hands to my lap. I like the scratchy grip of tissue paper snug around my throat, the heat and gravity of an orbiting, invisible body invading my normally well-protected bubble. My favorite barber in Juneau had the endearing habit of humming unconnected singsong notes as she trimmed me back to humanity. I could count on Nina Simone or the soundtrack to Amelie to be playing softly in the background, a recording I find hypnotic. And how did she know I enjoy being spun in the chair? Left then right, my equilibrium momentarily lost in the woods. Every two weeks, I become the star of an imaginary 60s era astronaut training film.

There's also nothing like a close shave and a fresh haircut. It's a nod to respectability and while it lasts, there's a kind of 'plus' on my balance sheet. I love the feeling of the clippers against the sides of my head as it vibrates my brain. I love the rolling claw of steel fingers against the back of my neck, shearing me like a sheep. Sounds odd, but I kinda look forward to having a strange pair of hands manipulate and tilt my head as needed. For those brief moments, I am a sculpture - albeit, one in which the same statue is described every two weeks. Off with the old, all is forgiven. During these moments in the chair I feel safe and protected, to the point that I've actually dosed off.

Deeper into the experience, I love getting my teeth x-rayed - the awkward gag of strange latex fingers working a hard plastic bit into place as I struggle to control my breathing, my eyes rolling back like a spooked horse, fingers gripped tight against the armrest. I find safety in the solid, restrictive pressure of the lead apron on my lap holding me down, and the way the tech flees the room in order to cook my skull. Looked at through the wrong kind of eyes, I suppose it's a bit like having sex with technology.

(*clears throat, looks for way to end blog on graceful note, can't find one, ends anyway.*)

TWM

The World On Time

Before me was a large floor safe. One of those fancy types with the big chrome wheel, and the gold letters on the front. I found a map that had led me to it. As luck would have it, I also had the combination to open it.

The interior was so dark that no light could ever hope to love it. When I felt a warm wind coming from somewhere inside, I got down on my hands and knees and crawled forward into the black. It seemed a perfectly reasonable thing to do.

Presently, I arrived in a land covered by heavy fog. After a time, I discovered a long wooden pier extending out over a lake of calm.

At the end of the pier, loosely tethered with the kind of white cotton line normally reserved for hanging laundry in suburban back yards, was a FedEx jumbo jet bobbing gently in the water.

When I finally pried open the hatch and climbed in, I found the cargo bay full of people covered in sheets, sitting upright on old wooden chairs. Men, women, children, laid out like terracotta soldiers in gowns of crisp white linen, like something out of a Christo exhibit.

The only sounds were the creaking protests of a plane full of questions (her wings were full of water, her dying heart longing once more for the sky) and the playful applause of the lake as the curtain came down on an act most serious and somber.

When Are You Gonna Learn?

I spent four years on the Moon, thinking that life would be better when I returned to Earth. When are you gonna learn? The sun has been out for three days now and I can't reach the bulb. When are you gonna learn? Doogie Howser is a sex symbol, David Hasselhoff lives on, but I stopped watching television years ago. When are you gonna learn? Every time I call, your answering machine picks up and while I always enjoy the message I hate to leave my own. I don't know what to do anymore, and sometimes I think I've forgotten how to have a relationship. When are you gonna learn? It's never wise to date anyone below your age (divided by two plus seven.) When are you gonna learn? Something in the wall behind my bathroom door is ticking, I keep telling myself it's the towel, it's good to have mystery in one's life. When are you gonna learn? My lovers have all moved on, but I am frozen in amber. When are you gonna learn? I'm supposed to be taking St John's everyday, but I always forget. When are you gonna learn? My best friend in this town is a picture of lethargy and is slowly sitting his way into history. When are you gonna learn? I have reached the moment where I can't remember ever being anywhere other than here; it happens when I move to a new place and spend enough time there. When are you gonna learn? I'm tired of being told how clever, how polite, how sweet, how charming I am. When are you gonna learn? I wrap my arms around a pillow at night, trying not to remember the smell of her hair. When are you gonna learn? I can only read the first twenty pages of any given book before I get bored and I'm sure the good parts are always at the end. Nothing seems to hold my attention for very long. When are you gonna learn? I don't remember what my favorite movie is, I've seen too many. When are you gonna learn? It's been cold for too long, I'm starting not to care anymore. When are you gonna learn? I can't wait for Spring and Summer, the feel of fire on my skin, the sight of women in shorts. When are you gonna learn? I fail to follow my own advice, forgetting that there is no such thing as the 'you' in there and the 'me' out here. When are you gonna learn? I spend too much time in my head. When are you gonna learn? I'll never get those blackberry stains out of the carpet - I can rearrange the furniture all I want but they still remind me of her. When are you gonna learn? My job has gotten smaller and smaller. Luckily there's a new one on the way. (You only have eight years left!) When are you gonna learn? I'm not as smart as I think I am. When are you gonna learn? I used to write until my hands went numb and dropped the pen, but I seem to have run out of words. I come home in the evening intending to write, having found myself with an unlimited number of ideas on the train, but I can't seem to get them down. Whole plots evade me. When are you gonna learn? After years of deliberation, I think the most useful super power would be knowing what women think. When are you gonna learn? I have dirty dishes in my head and my brain is in the sink. When are you gonna learn?

Soon.

Where Were You When the Nightmare Ended?

20JAN09 - So here's how it went down. When I woke up this morning, I decided I was gonna do it different.

As some of you know, I’d been given what I thought amounted to a Golden Ticket – photographer’s credentials to shoot the Inauguration. Turns out the pass was only good for the north parking lot of the Pentagon, which, I compare to horses playing ice hockey – oddly amusing, somewhat aesthetic, but not really what I was after. No, clearly this event would be best observed among the people, and there were a lot of them on this freezing Tuesday in January. A look into the future told me an estimated 1 million people would brave the cold in order to witness this event in person. I dressed warmly, checked my gear and Shazam! Off I flew.

OK, so I didn’t really fly. Instead I took the Yellow Line all the way to Chinatown, because L'Enfant Plaza was closed. The trains were packed with people, and there were lines for all the trains, the escalators, other lines, you name it. People were jamming themselves into the cars, blocking the doors and getting the stink eye from other passengers – wait, did I just say what sounded like ‘dirty looks’? Let’s go back and see, because that one sort of stumped me.

Here we are, waking up from the nightmare, on our way to the biggest ‘feel good’ (not to mention historical) event we've had in recent history, one of those things that people will remember what part they played in it for years to come, and people are grumbling? I feel certain that anyone willing to do mortal combat with the pneumatic doors of a Metro car would also very much like to witness the son of a goat herder become president. This is, after all, a magical time. Can’t we just get along? (Have we been spoiled by 'gimme'?)

In days to come, the heartwarming ‘Where Were You When’ articles will begin to trickle forth. Why not? There is money to be had. So which one of these would make for a better headline? "I shoved my way on a train because I wanted to hear Obama speak", or "Well, some people were rude..." That’s not a question without an answer. It’s not even a fucking question.

Where was I, indeed?

Vendors, vendors, hawking every manner of Obama related souvenir! I heard one man call out, "Don't hesitate to commemorate!" I bought lo mein and chicken from a cart, juggling my chopsticks through fingerless gloves while clutching the Styrofoam container in my free hand, my bag slung over one shoulder, trying to protecting my phone and camera whilst making best possible speed for my destination, where ever that might be. I listened to my headphones on the way in, because I wanted to keep my space a little while longer. I knew it was gonna get dense. I didn't really strike up a conversation with anyone, if that's what you wanna know. I spoke a little here and there, and for whatever reason.

We were packed like cattle, but the mood was energizing. People were laughing and smiling, and there was a sense of friendly excitement in the air! Everyone was chanting his name, and shouting, “Yes We Can!” Can you possibly imagine that dream for yourself, and not think about sex?

Essentially, I just followed the heaving throng. Gave them their lead as it were, spanked their haunches and rode the beast. Many useful streets were cordoned off, so we were directed through the tunnels instead. Walking, walking, walking in my normal fashion; stretching mighty legs far, digging deep, falling through the crowd, watching for openings, never losing momentum. I didn't have a ticket, so I just kept moving, making snap decisions that I hoped would get me closer to a monument or a specific area, something I could tie my photos to.

Wound up at the west side of the Washington Monument just within sight of a jumbotron. (Just added the word ‘jumbotron’ to my custom dictionary, in addition to ‘Barack’ and ‘Obama’.) Thanks to the guy next to me, giving a play-by-play on his cell phone, I could barely make out what was being said. ("Dear Carl Sagan," I prayed. "If, against all probability, the words 'poor event etiquette' are found randomly painted on the side of an enormous asteroid speeding straight for Earth, please, let it hit this man.")

I saw only fleeting images on the jumbotron. The sight of George Bush brought forth an ugly reaction from the crowd; catcalls, boos and jeers, which I didn’t find surprising. Perhaps uncalled for in light of the ceremony. But that crazy Dick Chaney and his props! What a show stealer, a real card to the end.

The odd part was hearing hundreds of thousands of people mutter the Lord's Prayer. The sound of the thing hit me from all sides, and for a moment I felt like a fish swimming through an open-water baptismal. My opinions of religion aside, it was a genuinely moving experience to wade in that river of belief.

Finally, Obama was sworn in and everyone was excited, ecstatic. For a moment, there was a feeling in the air that we could really pull this off if we all worked together. It would require hard work, renewed effort, rolled sleeves. The speech was good – I wonder if Obama writes his own stuff?

But when the golden words ended, the spell was broken, and the excitement in the crowd began to fade. Suddenly there was nothing but faint echoes, as though we’d been dreaming about something utterly wonderful, and had been awakened by our neighbor’s car alarm. People around me began muttering, pushing to get out of the crowd. Again with the dirty looks. I guess I was hoping for something more. But then, we are encouraged to be the change we wish to see in the world, are we not?

On the way back out, no one was waving merchandise. It felt as though we’d worked really hard to have Aerosmith play an enormous free concert, and now that the show was over we could go back to being our rotten crummy selves. (I don’t really think that’s gonna happen.)

I floated with the crowd headed south, making important phone calls and sending a flurry of frozen text messages to different friends around the globe, eventually washing up at the Waterfront Metro entrance. I bought three small bottles of Odwalla from the Safeway, and waited for the mob to thin before braving the trains. I am very a patient man, possibly one of the most patient you will ever meet. But even I have my limits.

The nightmare of the Bush administration is over: He’s not pining! He’s passed on! This parrot is no more! He has ceased to be! He’s expired and gone to meet his maker! He's a stiff! Bereft of life, he rests in peace! If you hadn't nailed him to the perch he'd be pushing up the daisies! His metabolic processes are now history! He’s off the twig! He's kicked the bucket, he's shuffled off this mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin' choir invisible! THIS IS AN EX-PARROT!

Well, maybe not dead, but we’ve chased him out of town with few prospects, even fewer book deals, and very little fanfare. There are those, even now, who maintain that history will side with Bush once the roar of the media disapproval dies down. Do I want the 'truth of history', or do I just want to continue to hate George W. Bush because he was the easiest of targets, and a vile waterhead at best?

We interrupt this blog to make a confession -- I've never had much trust in politicians, finding it much easier to assume they are all corrupt before they were ever found guilty of wrong doing. Reagan the Actor, Bush the Elder, Clinton the Con Man, Bush the Younger. I refused to see the good any one of these men might have done, always looking for the bad, and accepting at face value that hundreds of talented liars were hard at work upholding and protecting their bosses' respective reputations. (I'm a spin doctor, it's only natural.)

Chalk it up to change (no pun intended), but for the first time in my life I am ready to accept that maybe not all politicians, not all presidents are born scum. When Bush the Younger took (literally) office, I owned (literally) one pair of pants. I was working two jobs at the time, and still couldn't afford a car. The world was a scary place back then. I took one look at what W. represented, saw the kind of people who followed him, put 2 + 2 together, and figured we'd probably get a postcard from the End Man at some point during the next eight years. We damn near did. And we aren't clear yet.

The HMFIC has a long road ahead of him, but I feel better about him being at the wheel than I have any other leader. Something just feels right.

What matters now is that WhiteHouse.gov is the official web site for the White House and President Barack Obama, the 44th President of the United States. What matters now is that the word ‘former’ now precedes the phrase ‘President George W. Bush.’

"Long time coming, but now the snow is gone." - Josh Ritter

TWM

P.S. Shazam! proved to be a popular program of its day, and for a time the comic book was altered to match the format of the series. Michael Gray found himself typecast after the series ended production, and had trouble finding acting work, leaving the profession until the late 1990s.

When Neurons Fire

Thought process: Tuesday, 1151, 13JAN09

DESIRE: Ham sandwich on wheat, cucumbers, carrots, tomatoes. Oatmeal raisin cookie, coffee (black). [Paid: debit card, music: DJ Shadow]

CONSUMED sandwich, stared at new iPhone, fascinated. Wondered how such an amazing device ever came about.

THOUGHT: "There are too many people in the world. Getting harder to shelter, feed, clothe, educate them all..."

(LOOKED back at my sandwich, THOUGHT about all the people who played a part in feeding me today. Without them, I'd still be hungry...

EMOTION: humility, gratitude. Posted thank you to Twitter. Unfortunately, my voice doesn't carry very far.)

MEMORY: article: "I, Pencil"

THOUGHT: 'crowdsourcing', term first coined by Jeff Howe in a June 2006 Wired magazine article. [Crowdsourcing: a neologism for the act of taking a task traditionally performed by an employee or contractor, and outsourcing it to an undefined, generally large group of people, in the form of an open call.]

IDEA, SHORT STORY:
10 Child enters local fast food establishment, orders meal, gets free game.
20 Child solves game, returns game, awarded free meal and new puzzle.
30 Clerk takes game, downloads to larger machine.
40 Game 'solution' is tiny fragment of one of the World's Problems.
50 Over time, child solves many puzzles, is awarded many games.
60 Child gains attention of benefactor (see also: silent partner, guardian.)
70 Benefactor quietly ensures child gets into good school, is taken care of.
80 Child flourishes, fulfills potential, becomes benefactor to next child.
90 GOTO 10.

REALITY: 'ESP Game', an idea in computer science for addressing the problem of creating difficult metadata. The idea behind the game is to use the computational power of humans to perform a task that computers cannot yet do (originally, image recognition) by packaging the task as a game. (Originally conceived by Luis von Ahn of Carnegie Mellon University)

SEE ALSO: Google Image Labeler

Train of thought: derailed, 1201 (Probably cause: shiny object, thoughts of sex, good song, etc.)

The Story of Joe and Me

27JUN08 - It’s 3 p.m. on a rainy Friday afternoon in June and they just put Joe in the ground.

The cemetery was hot and still at high noon, and the three of us who'd been tasked with this duty made small talk while we waited for the procession to arrive. The YN1 would stand about twenty yards off and hold an electronic bugle that played a mournfully perfect version of taps at the touch of a button, while the MST2 and I tended to the flag. No gun salute, no fighter jets roaring overhead. Just an administrative specialist, a marine science technician, and a journalist. We were all the send off Joe would get.

The ground was uneven, and the folding metal chairs at the gravesite were covered in sagging green velvet cloths. The tarps covering the mound of earth were ragged and torn, and I saw a clump of fresh chewing gum stuck to the leg of one of the chairs. I can’t believe they put a human being into the ground with so little fanfare. I suppose it’s because it happens so often, but that doesn’t mean it should feel so mass produced. I peeked down into the crypt before the mourners arrived and it gave me the chills. ‘So that’s what it all boils down to,’ I thought. ‘A tiny bedroom in the ground.’

I don’t even know Joe’s last name. I only know that he was a WWII vet, that a lot of people came to see him off, and that some of them cried. Eight strong men carried his coffin downhill from the hearse to the site, and I heard some of them grunt as they struggled to lock it into place on the rollers. That’s a funny thing about guys – we find mechanical devices in the damndest places, and there’s always that impromptu conference of the best way to go about the job.

The heat rained hard as I stood next to the MST2, waiting for him to give the quiet command to salute as the casket passed us by, carried by members of Joe’s family. I brought my hand up slowly, feeling sweat trickle down my arms and back. The thermometer in the car said it was 95 degrees outside. My eyes found a spot about twenty feet ahead of me in the grass and I stared at it while listening to the remarks, which were brief. When the last pre-recorded notes of taps faded away into the trees, I walked slowly toward the coffin and took my place at the foot. I was nervous, but determined to do this right. Joe deserved at least that.

The flag was new and stiff like burlap, and the white ceremonial gloves I wore gave me no sense of touch. Hands up and together, thumb down along the groove. My hands did all the work, keeping the shoulders stiff and unyielding. Flip and repeat, until I was looking at nothing but red candy stripes. Here comes the hard part.

I managed the cheat fold OK, but the first triangle resisted me. I thought for sure I was going to drop it, but I managed a second and a third, pausing to smooth and adjust along the way. Complete a triangle, take one step forward. I had to stop my glasses from sliding off my nose at one point, and I felt bad about that. Things didn’t quite match up with the field of blue the way they should have and we had to work hard to stuff everything in properly, all the while maintaining some sense of military bearing and somber airs. But it looked OK, and according to the laws of military tradition there was no red showing.

I don’t think Joe’s widow cared one way or another. She was a tiny little thing in a purple dress who lacked the strength to look at up the MST2 who presented her with the flag after I’d folded it, offering the thanks of the president, and the gratitude of the nation. I barely heard her murmur her thanks and I was only four feet away. I can’t imagine what was going through her head as her trembling hands accepted that flag. The first time she and Joe met? They last time they kissed? I thought about how her best friend of many decades wouldn’t be there when she got home, and they’d never share a bed again. A lifetime's worth of inside jokes were now lost. It no longer mattered how he took his coffee, or whose side of the bed belonged to who. Never again would he call her that special name. There would be no more anniversary cards. Maybe she'd follow him soon after as the victim of a broken heart.

Once she'd accepted the flag, we marched slowly off to one side, turned and waited for the ceremony to end. As the crowd broke up, some of the attendees thanked us for doing a good job. Afterwards, the MST2 drove to an old school Italian deli on Pennsylvania Avenue and bought us lunch. Just like that, we were swimming in the river of life again. A pan handlers gave us hard luck stares outside the deli, and we talked about the funeral on the drive back to the office. Soon it began to rain.

But Joe is in the ground now, and that's where he's going to stay. I'm in an air conditioned office sipping a bottle of water and listening to music of my choice. In an hour, I'll catch the train home. Meanwhile, the body of Joe, total stranger, war hero, late husband and dear friend lies in a tiny subterranean bedroom in the earth, waiting for whatever religious or spiritual event he believed would happen next.

I don't know how else to end this story, so I will.

TWM

Her Daddy Was a Killer

The damndest things go through your head before a drop.

15:36:08

In hindsight, I think she really wanted a Killer. Her daddy was a Killer and her brothers were Killers, too. It makes sense. But I'm not a Killer. I'm a Watcher. I thought she wanted me regardless. So where did I go wrong?

14:11:45

But this is not the place for such thoughts. Once you're sealed up tight in a Cap, there's nothing but the faint red glow of the LED timer, the intermittent hiss and rubbery taste of your oxygen supply, the hard caress of the fifteen-point safety harness across the map of your body, and the odd burst of radio traffic in your ears to keep you company. The wait is everything.

13:50:11

Some claim visits by astral well-wishers. Still others think of the family they left behind; maybe for one trip, maybe forever. It all depends. All I could see was the goodbye letter, still rich with her perfume. Pretty cruel if you ask me. She wrote it on paper. Who bothers with paper anymore?

12:27:43

I mean, to send me something like that? Here? Now? Before a drop? Fuck! She watches the Feed, she knows what its like. But she sent it, nonetheless. She said I was 'interesting', but not 'interested'. She said I was 'good-looking, but not 'attractive'. She said my job took me too far, too long, and far too often. She said it had begun to 'catch up with me, physically'. She said she needed a man who could keep pace with her 'changing needs', whatever that meant. And of course, she ended it saying she hoped I would be mature enough to understand, but that she didn't expect me to. The whole thing was so down-the-nose. But I must say, I admire her pre-emptive approach, cutting me loose at a time and place when I was largely unable to mount a counter-attack.

11:19:36

Especially when I'm strapped chin, belly, arms and legs inside a vacuum-sealed, ceramic-alloy Capsule in the firing tube of an orbiting Destroyer, just 15 seconds from the drop window, with very little opportunity to respond to the obvious flaws in her argument. Perhaps it's for the best.

10:15:25

Man, I really wish I could cover up that LED! There’s nothing worse than watching the seconds creep by. I'd prefer not knowing when it's gonna happen, you know? I've been in the launch bay gathering B-roll before, so I know what happens: Hundreds of thousands of Caps hang from gleaming metal rails that snake along the launch bay, just waiting for the word...

09:50:36

...and upon that word, they drop one by one through a hole in the deck, drifting aimlessly toward the shimmering GravCloud hovering along the belly of the ship, before a sudden force snatches them with invisible hands, hurling them toward the planet below. The sudden increase in momentum slams your stomach back around your spine, and its not uncommon to pass out on the way down.

08:20:11

I'm told the 'Cloud is a mirror image of the gravity found on the planet below. I'm not sure how it really works - something about introducing sudden directional gravity to a weightless object - but it makes an invasion like this possible at a fraction of the energy cost.

07:08:15

In just a few more seconds, swarms of caps will punch through space, skimming along the atmosphere like flat rocks on a still pond. But right before I fuck the ground moving a couple billion klicks a minute, the gyros will kick in, the jets will fire and I'll come to a sudden stop like a spent man in the arms of the prom queen.

06:27:13

The Killers are grunts, stars of the show. They take the field, attacking everything in their path with total ferocity. Me, I'm a Watcher. It's my job to document this ferocity, which explains the swarm of A/V gear covering my suit. The moment I hit, the sensors are rolling, taking directional cues from the 'Cap gyros. Eyes and ears of the invasion, that's me. Even as I'm stumbling around punch drunk from the impact, the gear is sending clean, focused intel back to the ship. The gear is designed to fire when it sniffs fresh O2, so I don't waste memory filming the inside of my cap in the event I pass out and start babbling commands.

06:09:18

Watchers compile specific footage of specific invasions, and beam it to other worlds, show them we mean business. Seems to be working so far. Ratings are high, and resistance has been minimal, which means we're spending less fuel and deploying fewer troops. Think of it as economic combat.

05:55:18

I feel a jarring sensation; they've chambered the next round of caps. I'm next. I hear radio traffic in my helmet confirming this:

"Roger, tower. Launching One-Thirteen; One-Fourteen, four-one." I'm Cap one, row one-fourteen. 'Four-one' means I'm clear for launch.

05:28:11

Dammit! Again with that letter! It's a terrible time to reflect on this, but just between us? I always thought it was her love that made me invincible. I've been in some pretty tight scraps, I don't mind saying. But I managed to come home clean every time. She used to tell me she'd lie outside at night gazing at the stars; find the one I was working, and never take her eyes off it till she got the call from me. I'd come home, fall exhausted into her arms, and she'd murmur, "I kept you safe, baby. I didn't take my eyes off you, not once, you'd be so proud," over and over as she stroked my hair. I can't explain properly how much those moments meant to me, and to think I never told her. I thought she just knew... I should have said I just should have. Even once. I feel my throat constricting now as I think about her voice, and I take a long gulp of air to loosen up, fight it off. But I've never felt more alone.

04:56:02

Thinking back on the letter, I tell myself she's probably looking up, but only as far as the ceiling these days. (OK, that was off sides...) With a sudden lurch, the Cap swings horizontal. I'm supported by the straps, poised over nothingness, biting down hard on the bitter tang of rubber, fighting for focus. I feel the beginnings of an anxiety attack coming on. Breathe, slow down, relax, the MedTechs are probably monitoring my vitals.

03:28:46

Suddenly I'm free-falling, biting down, making fists of my eyes, waiting to be snatched like an apple from a tree branch, and flung full force toward the planet below completely exposed, totally vulnerable.

02:11:01

But all I want to know, all I could ever hope to care about, is that maybe she's watching the stars just this one more time...

01:13:02

...just for old times sake.

00:00:00