Saturday, December 02, 2006

Javani Va Piri

Setting: A forest set on high, overlooking a metropolitan city from a cliff.

"Balance," a raspy voice whispered amid the pre-dawn silence of morning. As the new day's first light bathed the tree tops, they danced almost rhythmically with the wind's lead. "Balance is the way, and it is what you must learn before anything else."

A small figure slowly rose and stood tall behind another sitting infront of it. The figure was short and bald. Silhouettes danced rhythmically to the lead of the wind and in harmony with the sway of the trees. Their movements remained smooth, strong and fluid. Both figures wore loosely fitting cloth that seemed to wrap itself around their strong limbs and torsos, supporting each of their deliberate movements. With arms spread horizontally, revealing an impressive wingspan, the small figure remained rigid below the neck, while slowly moving his neck and head in a tranquil and circular motion. The seated silhouette did the same, while keeping its body in full Lotus position. Long hair hung from the seated figure's head, lighly falling upon a more slender frame. The circular motions were in perfect synchronicity.

"Balance," the voice began once again in an almost entranced manner. "Balance is what sustains existence. Hot to cold; hard to soft; water to fire; wind to earth. Balance is not merely learned, it is felt. Do you feel any balance at all?" Suddenly, the standing figure hurled itself upward over the seated body, landing infront of it and spinning around. At once, the seated body threw itself upward into a defensive stance, legs spread apart, with one fist raised infront of its face and an arm oustretched holding its open palm facing outward. A sharp jab was thrown by the smaller figure and the slender silhouette met this with a block by its forearm. Three more vicious jabs to the head were fired as the small figure deliberately stomped foward, propelling itself several feet with each coordinated thrust. The slender figure met each jab with careful, fluid forearm blocks as its feet slid backward and backward, kicking up the leaves and pine needles that had restfully lined the forest floor. With a snap of the hip, the smaller figure sent itself into a pivot, which seemed to conjure some sort of miniature whirlwind. In a blur of color, it was over as the small figure's leg remained outstretched, and its foot flatly pressed against the chest of the slender figure. Realizing defeat in combat, the slender figure's head was slowly lowered.

As the small figure's leg lowered itself to the ground, dawn had finally commenced.
"If I am to finish teaching you," the old man began, as the sun tore through the shadow veiling his face. He was old, but his stance and movements contained an unrivaled strength and vitality for his age. "There are things you must come to grasp, not only in a mental sense but in a physical one as well. You must at all times represent the balance, for the balance is the Way. If you lose the Way, you die young. It is the same for all things."

The slender figure was obviously much younger, but lacking absolutely none of the strength or vitality of its older victor. Long, damp, brown hair hung from the slender figure's head, as it remained bowed while being spoken to.

"The sun rises on this morning, and there is so much left undone." The older figure said this as he peered out detachedly over a cliff at the forest's edge to a large, industrial city below. Slowly walking towards it and the rising sun, he beckoned his slender student to follow. "The sun completes its job every day, does it not? And it does this because it knows nothing-- it just is. In this way too, we must come to know life. For only then will we maintain a sense of presence and of balance. Make no mistake, I speak not of living as a drone, only as one in harmony with one million other things. In this sense, can we iron flat the confusion and desires that this world has presented us with, letting the higher-self continue unimpeded on its course to shine outward and into the living world."

The older figure turned to face the slender figure, whose head remained bowed. His voice was no longer raspy, but firm and solid and passionate. He began, "It is through ACTION that we may inspire others. Children do not listen to the words of their parents, but they shall always emulate their ACTIONS, whether it be unconscious or not. Listen to me, young one. There is much work to be done, but no work can be seen to its fruition without first mastering what is left untamed inside." Reaching out with one hand, he affectionately stroked the slender figure's head. "I know that the world around you has left many things in you broken. I know that they confuse you at every chance they can, for a benefit no larger than their own, weak desires. But listen to what lies on the whispering wind, young one. What does your mother earth tell you? It is what is in HERE that you must always follow." He pressed his open palm against the slender figure's chest. "To open your heart, while opening your ears to hear and feel what it has to say, this is the beginning of knowing the Way. At all times, we are at a crossroads. Only WE can CHOOSE what course of action to take in response to what obstacles have been strewn along our path. Do not become those that hurt you, rather fight to free them from the path that they chose that made them the same. Now, look up young one. The world awaits you."

Slowly, the slender figure's head rose to glance out over the cliff at the modern world below. A world it had left behind so long ago. And for the first time in longer than the figure could remember, its eyes saw truth. Dark green eyes and porcelain skin peered out from behind thick brown hair, kissed by the sun in all its glory. The figure was a woman. She slowly knelt and so did the old man, at the cliff's edge.

"What a world," she said. "What a terrible, beautiful world."

Leave the cave.

Thursday, September 28, 2006

Scenario 5: Life As An Ant (The Terrarium Theory)

Setting: A hidden park, a very wide ocean’s distance from here. It is a very beautiful and breezy summer afternoon, with clear skies and rich, natural aromas in the air... lost somewhere in time.

There is a forest far away from here. It is thick and dark and unwelcoming to the neighboring human population, with darkness that seems, to them, to creep out from its depths at times. But not a mile deep into this forest is a clearing where a beautiful little park is hidden away. Today, old men sit and play games of whit and strategy for fun among the park's wooden tables and benches. Their voices stay relatively low due to the civil nature of the games, as well as a calming presence which is a gift of seniority. After a bit of rustling, a young man emerges from the dense wood, apparently lost. The old men pay it no mind and the young lad walks cautiously over to them. He seems to be in disbelief that such a place could exist and that such an amount of old men could be found here.

YOUNG MAN: E-... Excuse me. I’m sorry to interrupt, but it seems I’ve gotten lost and would be obliged to carry on my way if I could once again find it. Would any of you gentlemen happen to know exactly where I am? Or… where this is?

No answer. The old men continue to chat and mumble disapprovingly at each other, wrapped fully in the competition of their games.

YOUNG MAN: Excuse me… sirs…

An Old Man sitting nearby shouts in victory as his fists are thrown straight up above his head. His competitor, unaffectedly, gets up and moves away, accepting his defeat.

OLD MAN: Ah, hello my boy! Happens to be I didn’t see you standing there!

YOUNG MAN: Yes, that’s fine. I was just wondering if you could help me-

The Old Man interrupts.

OLD MAN: Help you?! Why of course I can help you! Come sit here my boy and I’ll help you just about right whatever’s wrong with ya!

The Young Man, weary from his wanderings gladly accepts the invitation to sit down, although he’d rather leave this strange place and be on his way. He begins…

YOUNG MAN: Well, you see…

The Old Man interrupts again.

OLD MAN: Yes, I see fine! Care for a game of Chess?!

A look of dumbfounded shock takes hold of the Young Man’s face.


OLD MAN: Yes, Chess! Ha, ha! A man’s game. Just play one short game with me and I’ll help you be on your way to wherever it is you’re aiming to go.

YOUNG MAN: I’m sorry, I haven’t the time. I’d like to be on my way before the afternoon passes. All I want to know…

Seeing the look on the Old Man’s face the Young Man pauses. The Old Man seems to be pleading without words or listening to anything that the Young Man is trying to say. It is hopeless, he realizes. He won't get answer until he plays, and since he has no plans that can be fulfilled at this juncture...

Fine. One short game.

The strange pair play one short game. The Young Man’s defeat is so swift and abrupt that he becomes embarrassed and explains that it has been since he was a boy that he had played Chess. He accepts another game’s challenge and loses just as swiftly. This continues for an hour, with no sign of the Young Man being able to hold his ground for any longer than two or three minutes at a time before being lured into some masterfully executed checkmate that he didn’t at all see coming.

YOUNG MAN: Alright, enough of this. I can’t understand how you’ve managed to beat me so! I’ve analyzed every possible move, every set of plays, every step of a pawn or slide of a Queen and just when I’m sure it’s safe to move…

OLD MAN: Ah, yes, there is much to learn from a game of Chess. Ha, ha! But also, there is much around you that you may learn and that relates to Chess. Let me explain something to you my boy…

In everything there is an order. It is a balance that is one and the same in all things. Our attempts to escape it are futile, for it encompasses and includes us and our nature. It is the great equalizer. For certain, just as you can not have a day without night, you cannot have life without death or upward without downward. Down to the smallest particle of the smallest thing is this law embedded into the very fabric of existence. Now, this rule applies to Chess. Chess is about balance. For every pawn you take, I take a rook of yours. For every bishop I let you steal, your Queen becomes ensnared. Give and take.

YOUNG MAN: Well, I can understand such a premise on the board, but I don’t see how anything apart from what’s in front of us now relates to this game we’re playing.

OLD MAN: Hmm. I see. Well, are you familiar with politics?

YOUNG MAN: …It is a subject too often argued about and not often kept quiet about. I don’t care for your or anyone else’s politics. I’m sorry sir, I’d rather not speak of politics.

OLD MAN: Ha, ha, ha! A good answer! As well as being one I happen to sympathize with. However, in my old age I find it altogether foolhardy to ignore the most pertinent issues which shape the parameters in which we are allowed to exist. Eh? Ha, ha! Tell the truth kind sir, is it not true that there are men who rule over you and your dominion? Is it not so? Has it not always been so? Will it always be so? So why then shun the contemplation and discussion of what set of rules and guidelines you and your fellow man must live under today? Perhaps you may uncover something that had not been seen before... Surely you don’t purport to inform me of how you can choose to live anyway you want. For if you wanted, could you go aloft and crawl back to your mansion and your maids and peasants and rich foods and beds?

YOUNG MAN: But good sir, I have not a mansion or maid, nor could I go back to them if I had, because I am completely lost!

OLD MAN: The point is, son, that most of us desire to live in a manner or custom that will never be provided. In youth, we wish many things and aspire to much, but eventually we aquiesce and relinquish our dreams to the hands of those that crafted them in order to keep us pleased with our little lives and diluted by such aspirations. We accept the brutal "truth" that we cannot rise any further, so now we must make good with that which we have. Whether its lavishly, slovenly, adventurously or rebelliously, we all wonder at the thought of living out our dreams at one point or another. How often do we meet those goals? Not because of the rules our rulers of men have set forth… but because of our lack of awareness to what is TRULY going on. Why were those the dreams that inhabited our minds in the first place?...

Look here...

These pawns, they are you and I. The proletarian; the working man. For even nature has its workers- are not the bees that feed their nest the slave of their master? Or is their work their highest nature and the Queen their slave because she not a place to fly away to? Are we not disposable to those that would seek to use us as shields or to coax us into believing that we are the descendants of Alexander’s warriors? For what? To lead us all to die so that they may live, and richly at that. They lead us to death not only by having us comprise the majority of their armies; they lead us to death every day that we "accept" our "roles" in life and shy away from our higher desires.

These rooks, knights and bishops, are they not the lower law? The local enforcement set to keep the pawns in order, marching forward to their deaths as slaves to their to master’s bidding?

This Queen, is she not the highest law? Can she not level you with one swift sweep, without any appeal or plea? Is she not more flexible and deadly than her servants? When she strikes, it is quick and it is fatal. You cannot get around her and while she is one who is thought to protect you, it seems it is you that sustain her ability to kill.

Our Kings in this little game, surely, they must be the fat and rich and wealthy. The elite who move not unless need be moved from harm’s way? And all the while we shed blood and they sit still, comfortable and surrounded by this wonderful system of protection that has been constructed.

Yes, it all seems dismal, but what’s worse is the hand that moves the pieces, mistaking this all for a game.

So now, tell me, lost traveler, is it you who is of sure foot among the unfamiliar forest or would you like to sit and offer some opposition?

To even his own surprise, the Young Man is absolutely intruiged.

YOUNG MAN: I-… I don’t know. I don’t know what I’d like to do… at all...

OLD MAN: And what a wonderful state of mind to be in, my good traveler. Ah, Imagine that! If all these bourgeois leaders and delegates didn’t know that theirs was the best way our country, or even, the world should be run! If religious leaders didn’t know that their rules were the only ones trustworthy of guiding the human populace into the Heavens! Imagine if others didn’t know what was best for us!

YOUNG MAN: Well, I don’t know how I’d feel about no one knowing anything.

OLD MAN: Ah, but imagine the limitless possibilities in a world not of knowing, but of understanding! Empathy my boy, empathy! Hate is created from a distortion! It’s purely a misunderstanding; an inability to empathize!

YOUNG MAN: E-Empathy?...

The young man seemed very curious upon hearing the word. He decided to pronounce it for himself, as a very strange feeling came over him only hearing it. The Young Man noticed that the chirruping of the birds hopping to and fro from the beautiful ripened trees seemed to have faded out a long while ago in the conversation. Fixated on what the Old Man was so desperately attempting to convey, he mouthed the word again. The Young Man wasn’t sure if the word had ever left his mouth before, let alone been given enough time to be isolated as a particular thought. Just then, the Old Man’s eyes went wide. He seemed to whisper…

OLD MAN: Yes, my boy. Empathy is the key. Total perspective. You must obtain the bird’s eye if you are ever to be at peace and not let these single, minute events rule you. Do not be governed by your inabilities, rather strengthen your abilities to encompass fully those vices in yourself and smooth them out. Iron them so that your higher self may pass, unobstructed.


OLD MAN: But this process does not occur over night, good sir. No, not nearly! However, you should not feign its realization. But, then how could I explain it to you?...

Stumbling over his own words for a brief moment, the Old Man seemed to be cluttered by thoughts and in his excitement was attempting to pull some simple allegory from his head. Finally, he had grasped hold of something. At that moment the Old Man exclaimed…

Ah, yes! Now picture this, if you will…

Say, just for the sake of argument, that you are no bigger amongst regular men than the size of an ant. You were born this way. You still see as a full grow man sees and hears as he hears, etcetera, etcetera, however, you have been born miniaturized.

Unsure of the direction in which the Old Man was heading with this, the Young Man nodded for him to continue.

Now, say, for argument’s sake, that since your birth I had kept you in a small artificial ecosystem which I had constructed of a flower pot and the top half of liter-sized bottle; something I believe most would consider a terrarium of sorts. Imagine I had filled the base with a bed of grass and leaves and dirt, and decorated it with a few flowers. For air, I had left the rim, so high above, uncapped.

You would live your life in this artificial ecosystem I had constructed and would come to understand the happenings around you of your own accord and in your own rite. Imagine if you would regard the blades of grass as stationary and to be used for bedding. Think of how effortlessly you might be able to dig to the center of your earth! Ha, ha! Or perhaps you might think the flowers to be some sort of shelter, which smelled nice and were soft to the touch. The fog would cloud your view of what you perceived to be ‘sky’ in the morning, when the dew fell and condensed on the glass. Only think of it and you will understand! Law would be completely different for you than for me, a larger being on the outside of your tiny, little, constructed world. Occasionally it might rain bits of food from the open circular top so high above and you might begin to sing and dance in praise and summons of it; all the while creating ideas and fantasies of from whence and what source your sustenance came.

The Young Man’s gaze was broken finally by his perplexed frustration and he shook his head wildly.

YOUNG MAN: I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about! What has all this bug nonsense got to do with-

The Old Man interrupts him, arms flailing wildly and bouncing up and down in excitement.

OLD MAN: Don’t you see, my boy?! What I’m merely saying is that since birth you had been so accustomed to your confines; my trickery had prevailed and I could have you all for my own! I could keep or kill you whenever I fancied to! And all the while you would be grateful! Not only grateful, but totally oblivious of the vast oceans and rainforests beyond your hollow, plastic, existence! You’d never know of the fantastic journeys and marvelous possibilities outside of what I’ve only shown you! Ha, ha, ha, aha!

His arms opened wide now, demonstrating his surprisingly impressive wingspan, the Old Man, mouth pointing upwards, shouted his creed to the sky and laughed heartily.

THIS IS THE REALIZATION YOU MUST COME TO! THIS IS WHAT YOU MUST SEE! Search for what is not seen, my boy! Know that there IS more out there and it is all for you to find! You have only to begin to look! Don’t accept anything as law that isn’t right in your heart! And never, ever, ever put an ounce of faith in that devilish word ‘can’t!’ HA, HA, HA! For Napoleon knew it not! Nor did the Buddha Siddhartha! And what of this man Mohandas Ghandi?! Knows he anything of the sort, this Mahatma or "Great Soul?!" And Plato and Aristotle, did they know of "can't?!" The more faith you put in that horrible invention, the more a disservice you do to your fellow men that stand beside you now and who once stood in your place. They knew nothing of the word so that you may have the choice to believe it or not today!

Upon catching his breath from the laughter, the Old Man returned to reality in order to address his company, who were presently staring at him with awe and confusion. But the Young Man’s eyes grew wide. In an instant, bright greens and orange tints that had never before revealed themselves in his eyes shown brightly and madly. It was as if those eyes had been opened up to view the world, and life itself for the first time. An ecstatic smile crept across the Young Man’s face, stretching muscles that had not since been stretched so far.

YOUNG MAN: Thank you sir. I’ve learned much here today, truly, but I must go now. There are many important things I should see to. Thank you.

With that, the young man shot up from his seat at the old, rickety park table and began his flight across the clearing back to the woods and his home. It was only after a few strides he did stop and turn back to see the old man with a thankful glance. But he was gone.

The Young Man searched for a long while in the forest, but eventually found his way. When he returned home, he told no one of the afternoon’s occurrences and never visited the park again. He resolved from that day forward to follow his heart and nature. That night, he sat beneath an oak tree, and wrote beneath the same light that Da Vinci, Hugo, Newton and Milton had written under- the light of a candle- and wrote these words:

‘Never consign yourself to any one set group of ideals or beliefs. It is then that we put restrictions on what we can understand. It would be a shame to deny your heart its nature and your nature its heart. When we cosign ourselves to pessimism and disbelief, we deny ourselves an essential right- the right to live. For me, that is not life, but a waking death… and certainly not a good strategy at chess.”

Leave the cave.

Thursday, September 21, 2006

A History: False Alarms... vs. The News They Buried (continued)

The following article was written by Robert Dreyfuss and taken from the September 21st Issue of Rolling Stone Magazine under the Foreign Affairs section, pages 42-49, with the title "Phony War." It serves to illustrate the amount of sheer misunderstanding and lack of factual knowledge our government possessed(es) in exercising scare tactics in an effort to frighten the American people into perpetual submission. It was published here in two parts. This is the second and final part.

*This blogger would like it to be noted that the blogger does not believe whatsoever in the importance of bipartisanship (consigning of ieals to a particular group, namely Democratic, naturally more liberal, or the Republican, more conservative, parties). This blogger believes it to be senseless in this day and age to squabble over petty differences when there is so much more at stake. It is also this blogger's contention that the reader should take into account that the two-party system may just be a smoke screen or a method of distraction to keep us arguing like rivaling siblings unaware of their father's hard hand and their mother's whorings. In any event the most this blogger could encourage is for the reader to keep an open mind and make up their minds for themselves. Thank you.*


A History: False Alarms... vs. The News They Buried.
by Robert Dreyfuss

"May 20, 2003


For a second Memorial Day in a row, country is placed on ORANGE ALERT following warning that "Al Qaeda has entered an operational period worldwide."


No specific threat ever cited; alert issued because of what the Department of Homeland Security calls "the heightened vulnerability associated with the Memorial Day holiday."


Two weeks after Bush declared "MISSION ACCOMPLISHED" in Iraq, administration's plan to implement Iraqi self-rule was postponed "indefinitely" due to looting and lawlessness.

July 29, 2003


Homeland Security warns that new, 9/11-like strikes are in the works: "At least one of these attacks could be executed by the end of the summer."


Not one of the alleged attacks ever materialized.


Days earlier, the Bush administration revealed that the CIA forewarned the president about the lack of evidence for his claim that Saddam was seeking uranium from Africa.

December 21, 2003


ORANGE ALERT for the holidays. Ridge warns that threat of attack is "perhaps greater now than at any point since 9/11." Six flights are canceled because several passengers match terror watch list.


The alert came after 9/11 Commission chair Tom Kean suggested the 9/11 attacks could have been thwarted. Bush is also under fire for failing to find weapons of mass destruction.

May 26, 2004


Memorial Day again: "They are going to attack and hit us hard," warns senior intelligence official. ASHCROFT relats an Al Qaeda threat that "ninety percent of the arrangements for an attack in the United States were complete."


The threat Ashcroft attributed to Al Qaeda was actually made by a discredited group that falsely claimed credit for the Madrid train bombings. This group "is not really taken seriously by Western intelligence," says one expert.


the ABU GRHAIB torture scandal has come to a full boil.

June 14, 2004


A shopping mall in Columbus, Oh. is threatened by Al Qaeda bomber, "The American heartland was targeted for death and destruction," Ashcroft declares.


The Somali suspect whose indictment Aschcroft trumpeted had been in custody for seven months. The charges against him made no mention of a shopping mall.


John Kerry leads Bush by seven points in early Ohio polling.

July 8, 2004


TOM RIDGE warns that "Al Qaeda is moving forward with its plans to carry out a large-scale attack in the United States in an effort to disrupt our democratic process."


The plost did not exist: Says a top European spy, "I am aware of no intelligence, nothing that shows there will be an attack before the U.S. presidential election."


Two days earlier, JOHN KERRY tapped JOHN EDWARDS as his running mate.

August 1, 2004


ORANGE ALERT. Citing "new and unusually specific" intelligence, Ridge details a threat to the Citigroup building and the New York Stock Exchange. Adds Bush, "We wouldn't be, you know, contacting authorities at the local level unless something was real."


The president allowed his own daughters to do a photo-op at one of the targeted buildings. Perhaps that's because the "new" intelligence was actually three years old. "There is nothing right now that we're hearing that is new," says a senior law-enforcement official.


Alert came three days after Kerry took the Democratic nomination at the party's convention in Boston.

October 6, 2005


FBI warns of Al Qaeda subway bombing "on or about October 9th, 2005." Bush claims to have foiled ten terror plots since 9/11.


A counterterrorism official calls the warning unfounded: "There was no there there." None of the plots cited by Bush were operational.


Bush's nomination of HARRIET MIERS to the Supreme Court is failing."

Leave the cave.

Article "Phony War" by Robert Dreyfuss, Object entitled "A History: False Alarms... vs. The News They Buried," Rolling Stone Magazine, Issue 1009, September 21, 2006

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

A History: False Alarms... vs. The News They Buried

The following article was written by Robert Dreyfuss and taken from the September 21st Issue of Rolling Stone Magazine under the Foreign Affairs section, pages 42-49, with the title "Phony War." It serves to illustrate the amount of sheer misunderstanding and lack of factual knowledge our government possessed(es) in exercising scare tactics in an effort to frighten the American people into perpetual submission. It will be published in two parts.


A History: False Alarms... vs. The News They Buried.
by Robert Dreyfuss

"February 12, 2002


Yemenite terrorist set to attack U.S.- today! "I want to encourage... all Americans everywhere to be on the highest state of alert," warns Attorney General John Ashcroft.


The threat hadn't been corroborated by U.S. intelligence angencies- and the evidence actually pointed to an attack not in the U.S. but in Yemen.


Announced the same day that ENRON CEO KEN LAY appeared before Congress, and a week after the White House was instructed to not destroy its Enron-related documents.

May 19-27, 2002


DICK CHENEY kicks off Memorial Day weekend by calling a new Al Quaeda strike "almost a certainty- it could happen tomorrow." FBI Director Robert Mueller adds, "There will be another terrorist attack." The FBI warns of strikes on the Brooklyn Bridge and the Statue of Liberty.


The administration "made a political decision" to make public all threats-even those from "hoaxers," says a retired CIA counterterrorism expert. "The amount of chatter hasn't changed in volume," adds a defense official. As for the New York threats, "There really isn't any hard information," declares the former head of the FBI Bureau in New York.


The administration's failures in preventing 9/11 were under the microscope: Bush acknowledged receiving a briefing entitled "BIN LADEN Determined to Strike in U.S." a month before the attacks; the FAA said it had failed to alert airlines of the arrest of would-be hijacker Zacarias Moussaoui; the FBI admitted it had ignored a pre-9/11 warning that Al Quaeda had infiltrated American flight schools.

June 10, 2002


U.S.-born Al Qaeda agent captured. John Ashcroft interrupts a trip to Russia to brag on live TV of bagging "a known terrorist who was exploring a plan to build and explode a 'dirty bomb' in the United States."


The suspect, Jose Padilla, had actually been in custody for a month. the "dirty bomb" allegations were so flimsy that they were dropped after the administration agreed to try the case in federal court rather than in a military tribunal.


The threat was announced four days after FBI whistle-blower Coleen Rowley testified before Congress that 9/11 might have been prevented if the FBI flight-school warning had reached federal agents investigating Moussaoui.

September 10, 2002


Bush personally announces the first nationwide ORANGE ALERT. Cheney flees to a "secure location" as Ashcroft warns that Al Qaeda appears to be targeting "transportation and energy sectors."


There was no specific threat against any American target.


The heightened terror alert went into effect just in time for the president's address to the nation from Ellis Island on the first anniversary of 9/11.

February 7, 2003


ORANGE ALERT. CIA DIRECTOR GEORGE TENET calls the threat "the most specific we have seen" since 9/11; says Al Qaeda may use a "radiological dispersal device, as well as poisons and chemicals."


The alert, accompanied by a warning to stock up on plastic sheets and duct tape, was debunked within days; the main source failed an FBI polygraph. Threat level remained stuck on orange for two more weeks.


The alert followed less than forty-eight hours after COLON POWELL's speech to the United Nations in which he falsely accused Saddam Hussein of harboring Al Qaeda and training terrorists in the use of chemical weapons.

March 17, 2003


ORANGE ALERT. FBI warns of terror strikes by Saddam or "allied or sympathetic terrorist organizations, most notably the Al Qaeda network."


Claim debunked by future CIA director Porter Goss, then chair of House intelligence committee: No intel suggests new attack.


Nation's third orange alert came three days before Bush invaded Iraq, opening what he called the "central front of the War on Terror."

To be continued.

Article "Phony War" by Robert Dreyfuss, Object entitled "A History: False Alarms... vs. The News They Buried," Rolling Stone Magazine, Issue 1009, September 21, 2006

Sunday, September 03, 2006

Welcome to September

As a new season approaches leaving summer behind, it is time for a serious consideration of the direction in which we are traveling, both as individuals and as a collective populace. For truly, we are at all times one living, breathing population moving in time with all else that surrounds us. Just as the leaves turn, we too continually undergo a beautiful process of change that leaves in its wake imprints of what we once were. It is time for us to raise our heads from the careless inhebriation of summer and take a deep sobering breath. We must now broaden our view beyond the parties and friendships of a carefree lifestyle and open our eyes to see the wreckage around us. While we were partying, Lebannon was burning. While we were watching the food network on a lazy afternoon, a child was shivering and starving. It's time to wake up.

In the months to come I will be posting updates on various political/environmental groups and events in the New York City/Long Island area along with more essays, parables and selected writings. I am currently in the process of assembling a team of journalists/writers to write for a newsletter that will be published monthly, entitled "iGNITe." The publication will also help to promote participation in local environmental conservation and political activism, while fostering a network of people who share the belief in the importance of such participation. If anyone is interested in writing/distributing/helping out in any way possible, please contact us via e-mail:

Tis the season to be active! And isn't that every season? Inching toward a new year we face many problems, as we tread over unsure ground and uncharted territory, but we should always remember that we are not going it alone; we are all in this together. If we come together, there is nothing that can stop us.

"The man who thinks he can and the man who thinks he can't are both correct."

More to come...

Stay Liberated

Saturday, August 12, 2006

A Short Story: Part II

A hand moves across a foggy bathroom mirror, wiping the condensation from its surface. From behind the hand, through streaks and mist, two dark eyes emerge. A face comes into view and occupies the mirror. This was his face; this was his mirror. His vision was still blurry, so he began to rub them with his fists. The harder and longer he rubbed, the more itchy and dry his eyes burned. His firey eyes opened once more to see his mirror revealing a face. It was a face that was not unlike memories of his own, except the bright eyes he once knew where puffy and sagged with dark bags below them. The face he saw was a bit more weathered than he had remembered and was shaded with dense, coarse stubble. This was his face. Slowly, his gaze turned solid and detached. Memories flooded his head and played like a grand Theatre across the steamy mirror. A curious feeling had once again taken hold of him; it was a feeling that he had been struggling with for some time. Only now, in such a detached, subconscious state did he have time to analyze it whatsoever. It hit him immediately: He could remember who he was and had been, but had know knowledge of who he was now.

Donald remembered what had occurred earlier in the week. After dicovering two strings protruding from his arms he had cut them. This had led to several turns of events which were ultimately disastrous for Donald's social/economic status, but was that his life? Later on in the week, he had discovered two other strings, each leading out of his thighs and up into the ceiling. Where the strings led beyond that was not known to Donald. However, after much thought, he had resolved to cut them also, and he did. It was a truly frightening experience and he had not known what to make of it. In just a few days his life had completely changed. But he had noticed that it had been the first time he had actually felt anything since he was young, and that he wasn't chained down to somewhere he didn't want to be. He thought to himself of how we all have a dream of where we want to be, but how most of us never get there because somewhere along the way we become enveloped in our societal "responsibilities" and are completely crippled by economic circumstance. Donald had seen his strings and cut them... and there was no such other liberating experience that he had ever felt that could measure up to it. It was a burden off of his shoulders and a breath of fresh air. He now had his entire life infront of him. Donald had ended a torturous chapter of his life that seemed would go on forever and had started fresh, with a new sheet of blank paper.

Then Donald remembered the pain. He felt no fear, but only pain of past events and how many years he had spent rummaging through the remnants of his completely systematized life. He had actually taken a bite of what was being fed to him; a big, meaty piece. But there was no juice in this bite... there was no sweet flavor or aroma that made what he had been forever chewing on pleasurable. It was sour and dry and rotten. So rather than holding it in and keeping it down like so many others had needlessly done before him, he spat it out. Donald spat it back into the faces of his faceless oppressors.

The memories continued to play. Looking back on who he had been, he felt great distress and sorrow. All the needless fighting and hurt that resulted played back before his eyes. He thought of what he would be like in thirty years- an old man, with wife and children, sitting at the head and helm of every table and family endeavor. Still, he felt no fear. Donal envisioned a dark cemetary and an open grave. The grave was not empty, but bottomless. The headstone read "Poor, poor Donald. Never really alive, never really dead... until now."

He snapped suddenly out of his daze and looked around wildly. He began whispering, “Do not accept your anger… do not accept others’ hatred…” His voice grew louder. “Do not accept the social distortion, do not accept the dead end…” Louder still, his voice rose to a wild scream. “Do not live to die, or on your knees! Do not eat what they’re feeding you! Better yet, never buy what they’re selling you!” Now he was screaming. “Do NOT accept the system! Do NOT bow your head and swallow hard on your shame! Do NOT accept the idea that we cannot rise to great heights at any point and any time, because then and only then do you deny yourself the right to life! DO NOT ACCEPT TYRANNY! DO NOT ACCEPT BARELY SURVIVING SO THAT OTHERS MAY BE RICH! DO NOT ACCEPT COMPLACENCY! DO NOT ACCEPT THE SYSTEM! DO NOT ACCEPT THE SYSTEM! DO NOT BELIEVE THAT THEIR HOUSES AND JOBS ARE ALL THAT LIFE HAS TO OFFER! DO NOT FALL FOR THEIR “PEACE”! DO NOT LET THEM FOOL YOU! DON’T DIE BEFORE YOU’VE EVER EVEN LIVED! DON’T BECOME THE STEREOTYPE, THE ZOMBIE, THE LIVING DEAD! DON’T LISTEN WHEN THEY SPEAK, DON’T LOOK WHEN THEY’RE NEAR! AND THEY’RE ALWAYS NEAR!! DO NOT DENY YOURSELF THE RIGHT TO LIFE! DO NOT ACCEPT…do not accept…. do not settle…” His voice had been strained and now began to decrescendoe into a pant. His eyes were no longer firey, but filled with tears.

The following morning he was gone. His family had no idea of his whereabouts and he left no trace behind, save one hand-written note placed neatly on his pillow. It read as follows:

“If you listen only to the voices of others and not often enough to the one within, you’ll live to lay down. But one day, you’ll figure out that you have legs. And then, you’ll realize that you’ve got wings. When that day comes, don’t be afraid to fly away. See your chains and break them, before it’s too late.”

Leave your grave.

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

A Short Story: Part I

Meet Donald. Donald is a twenty-eight year old man with a decent wardrobe, a modest apartment and a respectable job. Donald believes that he is going places. Donald believes he has a life. Above all, Donald believes in free will.

Donald is about to change.

The weekend was fun for Donald. He and his buddies had gone into the Big City for a night on the town. He had only arrived at his apartment a few hours ago and was exhausted. Donald knew he would settle in to bed after he had washed up; He needed a good night's sleep for tomorrow's day at the office, but something had been troubling him. Putting the foreign sensation out of his mind, Donald moved to the bathroom and undressed. The hot steam and water from the shower relaxed and put him at ease. He closed his eyes and began recalling his busy weekend. First, there was the afternoon at Lizzy's Lounge, downtown. What fun he'd had there, eating hot wings and watching the game with a few beers. No matter how hard Donald tried to reflect and focus on the memory, another memory kept interjecting. It was the memory of his boss. Donal's boss was an older man named Charles. Charles was very stout and pale, and had a very grumpy way about him. He would order Donald around and bait him along with promises of raises and bonuses and even threaten Donald with being fired. For some reason Donald could simply not put the thought of his boss's pale, sweaty face to rest.

Donald was lying in bed now, facing the ceiling in his pajamas with his hands crossed on his chest. He began thinking once again about the afternoon. After that, he and the guys headed a little further uptown to some bars. He'd kept telling himself how much fun it had been, but an emotion suddenly struck him. It wasn't any fun. Donald had not had fun. In fact, he had not felt anything in years. Donald thought once again of his boss and his day at the office on Friday. It was a regular day, nothing special had happened. He wondered why, then, did the memory reccur to him as strange. Ah, he remembered now: Donald had been on his lunch break and was heading back toward his office with a hot sandwhich and a cold drink. He had just turned the corner when he spotted a filthy, ragged, ball of cloth sitting infront of a garbage pail, coughing and swearing. Donald stood motionless with his mouth agape for several moments, just staring, until the unrecognizable, stinky heap began shouting angrily at him. Donald had never seen anything like that before in his entire life. He was shocked and appalled and very sad. He wondered how another person could actually live like that and simply could not fathom what it was like.

He had targeted his subconscious thought that had been on his mind and could now go to sleep. As he turned over on his right side he felt a slight tugging at his left arm. It did not hurt, but the sensation was like that of a fish pulling ever so slightly at a line. He stopped for a moment and shifted his eyes a few times back and forth surveying the room. Donald closed his eyes. The room had gotten slightly cold and Donald reached down to pull his comforter up over his shoulders. The feeling struck again: it was a slight tug on his left arm, just above the elbow. Now, more aware of the sensation, he began feeling a slight chaffing beneath his pajama sleeve. It felt as thought there was something coarse rubbing up against his arm. He pulled back his pajama sleeve and rolled up to his bicep. There was a thin, almost fishing-line looking string attached to Donald's arm right above his elbow. Instantly, as though it were a reflex, Donald grabbed hold of the wire and began pulling at it. He noticed now that it went up the remainder of his sleeve and exited his pajamas through his collar. He pulled at the string, but there was little slack. He looked up, but it was dark and he could not see where the string led. Immediately, panic and confusion struck Donald. All in one instant he hadn't the faintest idea of what to do! He ran out of his bedroom (after taking a few precautionary movements to ensure he in fact could go anywhere) and into the kitchen. He reached at a small, slender drawer, with shaking hands. He finally grabbed hold of the handle and flung the drawer outwards. He reached down into it and pulled out a scissor and frantically began snipping and cutting at the wire, which broke almost immediately. Upon the string breaking, the scissors fell to the floor and his upper left side went limp. "What is this?" thought Donald. He felt as though the weight of the world had been lifted from his left shoulder.

He woke up the next morning to find that he had overslept. This was a dire mistake. Where had happened to his alarm clock?! He was sure he had set it the night before. It was always set, right on time, every morning. How could this possibly happen?! Donald had a routine! His alarm clock would wake him up at precisely 5:30 a.m., he would then go to the bathroom to wash up. He would be done at no later than a quarter to 6, at which point he would begin to dress. Donal jumped out of his bed after a moment of bewildered contemplation and ran to his closet to put his clothes on. It seemed that his alarm clock had vanished clear from his nightstand and he hadn't a clue what time it might be. He swung open the doors to his closet and reached in to pull his shirt, tie, pants and jacket, but to no avail. Gone, they were all gone. All Donald had left were t-shirts and jeans, admittedly his prefered style due to its comfortability, however, neither of which could he wear to his office. He stumbled, naked, into his kitchen. Was it 5:45 yet?! That was time for breakfast!

OUCH! Donald had stepped on something. Almost as suddenly as he had felt the pain, he knew what had caused it: The scissors...

A feeling of intense anxiety overwhelmed Donald as he wandered over to a chair at the kitchen table and settled himself down in it. Carefully, he lowered his head into his hands and began gently sobbing. What had the world come to?! Was this maddness a reality?? Would he ever know what time it was again?! Donald sat back in the chair and tried to rationalize. As he reached across his face to wipe the tears from his eyes on his right forearm, there was a slight tug. This time it was more of a feeling of resistance. Donald knew what it was. In an almost violent fit of rage, he threw himself upon the floor and flailed across the kitchen toward the scissors. He grabbed hold of them with his left hand and jumped to his feet. Lunging backward on to himself, he grabbed hold of exactly what he had suspected would be waiting for him: another string. Ferociously, he hacked at the wire with the scissors until it snapped, sending him falling foward onto the cold, tiled floor. for a moment, he was at blissful peace.

Donald had seen his strings... and he had cut them...

To be continued...