…the almost right word

Sufjan Stevens — His name may be Arabic, but Sufjan was born in good ole Detroit, Michigan. Steven’s first record was released in 2000 on a label he created with his stepfather, which they called Asthmatic Kitty. However, Stevens had been creating music and learning a plethora of instruments for years. In fact, you can often notice that he plays multiple instruments on one track, sometimes writing in different time signatures. His influences are expansive, incorporating inspiration from Bible stories, in addition to the states in which he has lived. It wasn’t until 2005 that Stevens’ began to receive attention from the major music media. Illinois, part of his Fifty States Project, hit #1 on the Billboard chart, exploring state themes like Chicago, poet Carl Sandburg, serial killer John Wayne Gacy Jr., and the Chicago World’s Fair of 1893.

Originally, the Fifty States Project began with Michigan in 2003, “a collection of folk songs and instrumentals inspired by his home state of Michigan. The result, the expansive Michigan (fully titled Greetings from Michigan, the Great Lake State) included odes to cities including Detroit and Flint, the Upper Peninsula, and vacation areas such as Tahquamenon Falls.” Stevens’ intends to write an album for each state and has, thus far, completed two (aforementioned Illinois and Michigan). One may notice, in interviews, that Stevens’ vacillates between “utter sincerity and self-deprecating irony when describing the idea.” Nonetheless, it is rumored that two more states albums (possibly three) are in the works: Oregon, Rhode Island, and perhaps New York. 

Stevens’ sound is unusual — he doesn’t follow one path or train of thought. His music ranges from electronic to pop, from folk to gospel. He is both soothing and shattering. His lyrics meld into beauty that confuse and inspire. Sufjan Stevens is one of those things I am almost hesitant to share, as if it is some gift or secret that will lose its meaning. Nonetheless, he deserves a listen. Maybe you will find yourself, like I do, listening to his music without pause.

All quotes in this article were taken from Sufjan’s Wikipedia page. 

You can check out my second-ever guest post at Nilsa’s blog, SoMi ¦¦ learning :: exposing :: sharing. It’s part of a series on 2008 Election issues — I wrote about Trade (Free Trade). Nilsa has covered three other issues herself: Immigration, Taxes and Women. The series is inspiring — Nilsa has done an impeccable job of offering multiple perspectives on these subjects. She encourages discussion in the comments section, if you’re so inclined.

I’ve also taken part in an interview of sorts at Fuel My Blog.

Sir! No Sir! directed by David Zeiger — Erase from your mind whatever thought you have when I say the words, “war documentary.” This is not your typical war documentary. Sir! No Sir! tells the story of GI’s during Vietnam who eventually realized they were fighting an amoral war. The film was released in 2005 at the Los Angeles Film Festival. It is comprised of interviews and historical footage. It follows GI morale: from the beginning of Vietnam, in which participants were hesitant, to the eventual protests that overwhelmed the country, including over 500,000 incidents of desertion in the U.S. military (between 1966 and 1971). Eventually, the GI anti-war movement made the fight in Vietnam virtually impossible, which, in turn, led President Nixon to the concept of “Vietnamization” — the ground fighting was left to the South Vietnamese troops, limiting US involvement.  

As a result, the presence of U.S. soldiers at the border was denied, leaving these soldiers to fend for themselves. When six of these soldiers were ordered to go on what was effectively a suicide mission, they refused and instead decided to send a message to the home front. Nixon responded to this by pulling that company out, but then other companies started to stop fighting as well. Some officers were killed by their own men. 

The film is now part of the Iraq Media Action Project film collection, and extras on the DVD include an introduction by Jane Fonda, who was well-known for her activism during Vietnam and her participation in
the FTA Tour (an anti-war road show named “Free The Army”, a play on the troop expression “Fuck The Army”). In this introduction, Fonda mentions how surreal it is to be experiencing yet another unwanted and unwarranted war (Iraq) in which our troops are blatantly disregarded, as is the general opinion of the American public. 

I knew very little of the GI anti-war movement that took place during Vietnam. Having learned how far their opposition extended, I begin to wonder if the present GI population is also engaging in such opposition. Sir! No Sir! is currently being distributed to GIs in Iraq courtesy of Iraq Veterans Against the War — an organization founded in 2004 which includes over 1,200 members in 48 states. We may not see it in the headlines everyday, but there is opposition among the soldiers in Iraq. If we continue on this path, Iraq may be another Vietnam — another part of US history in which we occupy a country for nearly a decade, killing innocent people day after day after day. 

Last night was the culmination of my “career” as your friendly neighborhood server. 

I will no longer dress in a white, button-down, collared shirt and tie. I will no longer polish silverware. I will no longer ask if ice water or bottled is preferred. I will no longer watch as everyone around me sips their wonderful red wine or sangria. Fuck sangria. 

Part of me can’t believe that, in all likelihood, I will never work in another restaurant again. The service industry has been my life since freshman year. That’s eight years of pulling espresso. That’s eight years of steaming soy milk. That’s eight years of clearing plates.

On my way to the restaurant yesterday, I was (as expected) overcome with a sense of nostalgia. I knew it would hit at some point — I used to love this job. It’s always a great social outlet, and the nights usually end with free alcohol. Somewhere along the line though, I fell out of love. I found myself stuck in a job that made me increasingly bitter.

I can’t waste any more time waiting tables — it keeps me from making progress. I need to focus on what I want to do, the type of person I want to be. So that the next time my plane is landing at LAX, I am not reminding myself that I was supposed to be a magazine columnist at age 26, or that I was supposed to have a great little loft apartment in Manhattan and a job at Amnesty International. It all feels like mere dreams, but it can be real, if I just leave behind my going-nowhere job and do.

Did you ever watch Six Feet Under? I saw every episode at least three times. In fact, I’m pretty sure it was the only thing I watched for over a year. Alan Ball created this family that both puzzled and excited me. He has now done it again with his latest HBO show titled True Blood. 

The story is based on the Sookie Stackhouse book series by Charlaine Harris. Sookie, the main character, is played by Anna Paquin, in all of her beautifully blossoming glory. I don’t want to spoil the story for those who haven’t been “bitten” yet, but Sookie’s character has some special abilities which make her particularly interested in the vampire population that seems to be taking over — Ball has created this futuristic version of the world (and the South, in particular) in which vampires are everywhere and blood is sold like booze during the prohibition era. The show is like a graphic novel or comic book — it’s dark and often haunting, yet also full of contemporary metaphors.

After airing only two episodes, True Blood has been renewed for a second season. Despite the occasional criticism, I’m already a fan. I think Troy Patterson at Slate put it best when he wrote, “Appetizingly pulpy and yet not at all crass, the series presents a new angle on the phenomenon of shows-so-bad-that-they’re-good: It sucks hard and thus plays very well.”

I’ve written in the past of Los Desaparecidos, the “subversive” citizens of Chile and Argentina (in particular) who were kidnapped, tortured or murdered. In essence, they disappeared. It has been easy to consider this a part of history, a part of what, is now, the past. However, even in the aftermath of their dictatorships, even in the process of “democratization,” disappearances continue. 

Two years ago, an Argentine man named Julio Lopez appeared as a witness to a human rights trial. The trial was set to convict a police chief who had taken part in the violent acts of his country’s totalitarian regime. The day before the police chief was sentenced to life, Julio Lopez disappeared. The BBC News calls Lopez a “victim twice over:” 

His family and human rights activists believe he was taken by police officers or ex-police officers as a warning to others considering testifying in subsequent human rights trials against former members of the military government.

Mr Lopez has not been seen since, despite a massive campaign of marches, rallies, media coverage and appeals from his family and the president.

In honor of the second anniversary of his disappearance, mass protests have been organized in Buenos Aires, the capitol, and La Plata, Lopez’ hometown. While the police initially concluded their investigation and closed the case due to its dead end, current protests now demand that he be found alive. 

It’s an unexpected turn of events — a man, whose name few knew, now represents the ongoing fight to bring justice to these countries. He now has a Wikipedia page and countless articles have been written about his disappearance. The government of Buenos Aires offered an reward, that has now been doubled, for information on his whereabouts.

We make so much progress, over time, and yet events like these continue to take place. I’m tempted to call it “astonishing,” but perhaps it isn’t astonishing at all. Perhaps it makes perfect sense — just because the corrupt men are no longer “in power,” doesn’t mean that they don’t have power. Meanwhile, citizens who are being “empowered” through democratization, through free elections, are still disappearing. 

Argentine Writer Ernesto Sabato once wrote (about the disappearances that occurred during the dictatorship), “It is only democracy which can save people from horror on this scale.” It looks like democracy is not, necessarily, the savior after all.

It was not until yesterday that I understood Schmutzie’s (of Five Star Friday fame) strange, numerical and poetic posts. They are a part of the x365 blog movement in which “people all over the world are making a list of 365 people they’ve met during the course of their lives - people who left an impression and whose name they remember - then they’re randomly writing a set number of words about someone on their list. They’re doing this once a day - for a year.”

The idea not only appeals to me, it inspires me.
I’m not ready to commit to such an endeavor, but I’m certainly intrigued to read others.
Read how it began here and how to begin a list of your own, here.

The other day I was told that a friend had been deported by la migra. I had known him for three years — he was the badass dishwasher at my old restaurant job. He had worked there for almost a decade, in the back of the kitchen. He worked hard and never complained. “Asi es la vida,” he would tell me. I always agreed, despite the fact that my life was drastically different from his.

One night he was mopping the floor and the next he was hauled off to jail and, presumably, back to Mexico. I find myself wondering what, exactly, made him deserve this. Granted, he was an “illegal immigrant.” However, he held a steady job in a popular local restaurant for years. He showed up on time. He made a contribution to our society — he did the job that you can hardly hire Americans for. In this Southwest, every kitchen, in every restaurant, is comprised of Latin American workers. They prepare our meals (and they do it damn well) and wash our dishes. They refill our water and bring us clean silverware. And we? We deport them. We send them back home, which is hardly home anymore, with no money and, I imagine, with little sense of pride. They come here to work hard and we disregard them as “illegal.”

It’s easy to forget that these things happen. If I were still living in Northern California, I wouldn’t see it as often as I do here. I wouldn’t even dwell on a concept like “la migra.” Hell, if I hadn’t decided to study Politics and Latin America in undergraduate, I may not even know much about la migra at all.

Yet here I am, learning that someone I considered a friend, a familiar face, someone who made me laugh and smile, has essentially disappeared from my life. In all likelihood, I will never see him again. Why? Because he wasn’t born here. Because his parents weren’t born here.

The border is a vague line that so many cross everyday, with such great difficulty. And I can easily go on, eating my spaghetti and sipping my Cabernet (or Tequila) like nothing is happening around me. But something is happening and it is only now that I cannot ignore it.

The title translates to “La migra comes to triumph.”

4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days directed by Cristian Mungiu – To even begin to describe the intensity of this film is a challenge. The story follows two university friends in the last years of the Romanian Communist regime. It begins quietly, as we are introduced to the girls who are preparing for an abortion, which was illegal during the Ceauşescu era. It’s dark and haunting. There is no soundtrack to accompany the mood — it’s all set for you, without the typical display of Hollywood film-making: This is Communist Romania — you feel it in every second of every scene: From finding a hotel room to house the abortion procedure and the young girl as she recovers, to discussing the process with the “doctor” (who takes advantage, in the most gruesome and truly pathetic way, of the two friends), to the aftermath of the abortion. The film unexpectedly follows Otilia (performed by Anamaria Marinca), the friend of Gabita (the pregnant student), very carefully. We watch her, rather than Gabita herself, as she experiences this horrifying and frightening act. One can imagine that abortion, in 1987 Romania, was not an easy procedure. The impact is not to be shaken off — the girls cannot just go back to normal. They are haunted, just like we who view the film.

This is great acting – you can’t shake it. The same goes for the filmmaking. In a coda, set in the hotel restaurant, Mungiu gives us a moment to let the themes of the film resonate. He knows that in Romania today abortion is a common form of contraception and that being pro-choice doesn’t make him an advocate of the easy fix. It’s the tension between those two poles, movingly readable on Marinca’s face, that deepens the film’s meaning and raises it very close to the level of art.

It’s not easy to watch. It’s not relaxing. It’s gut-wrenching and disturbing. It’s the story of what really happened beneath such oppressive regimes and, most likely, continues to happen in countries that do not allow abortions. The procedure, in itself, is haunting. One can only imagine that an illegal abortion would be even more haunting. After viewing this film, you don’t have to imagine.

His wife found him. He had hung himself while she was out. He was only 46 years old.
And, within moments, Wikipedia updates their page to include past-tense verbs, to note his death.
I’ve spent the morning reading about him…

He talked about how difficult it was to be a novelist in a world seething with advertisements and entertainment and knee-jerk knowingness and facile irony. He wrote about the maddening impossibility of scrutinizing yourself without also scrutinizing yourself scrutinizing yourself and so on, ad infinitum, a vertiginous spiral of narcissism — because not even the most merciless self- examination can ignore the probability that you are simultaneously congratulating yourself for your soul-searching, that you are posing.

He and I had an ongoing resolution to each other, going back several years now, to go watch tarantulas scurry across the Claremont fire trails in the late fall week when they make their mad dashes out into the open. When I first mentioned that phenomenon to him, he gave me an impromptu lecture on the different characteristics of various arachnids, especially the dangers experienced by the frenzied male tarantula on the make. He really wanted to go. Somehow we never made it. When such a strange opportunity presents itself, when a David Foster Wallace wants to go tarantula watching with you, you probably shouldn’t let that one slip away.

Millennium theater
Get out there and buy that water and gas
Ramadan orange alert
Everybody put on your gas mask

First leak it out about the president
Then stand up and shout “impeachment”
Pulling coat tails out from under that little V.P.
Before he has a chance to get in the driver’s seat

Millennium spectacle
Everybody put on a show
Slip a little prince in the back door
21st century here we go

Digital whiplash
So many formats so little time
While out in TV nation
Under darkening skies
The resistance is just waiting
To be organized
– an excerpt from “Millennium Theater” by the lovely Ani Difranco

I step outside. It smells like rain and the air is moist. I avoid my GRE studying — how can I spend my only free time studying? I lean against the post and light a match. It’s from a Fish Market matchbox. I am instantly pushed back in time, to all the meals I ate with my grandmother. Every. Single. One. I feel the tension and the awkwardness. And then, suddenly, ease. And hilarity. I wave out the flame on the match and watch as the ash falls to the ground. I pick up my phone and call the now unfamiliar number to be answered by a familiar voice. A voice of such memories. I know that she probably can’t talk. It’s amazing how difficult a one hour time difference can be. Still, it’s nice to hear her voice. It’s as if she is around the corner or ten minutes away. I can hop in my car and go. It’s as if the actual thousand miles between us is surmountable. I think I miss my people.

If you’re not already familiar with the underground graffiti artist, Banksy, then you must direct yourself to this site. Little is known about the artist. He moves quietly, anonymously marking walls with his creative, yet often socio-political, messages. He’s controversial and he’s everywhere. You can see his art all over England, where he was born and raised, in the Israeli West Bank, New Orleans (post-Katrina), Los Angeles, Alabama…the list goes on. He traveled to New Orleans this past August in order to produce a series to commemorate the third anniversary of the hurricane. The art is most noticeable on buildings that have remained derelict. Wikipedia notes, “Banksy’s stencils feature striking and humorous images occasionally combined with slogans. The message is usually anti-war, anti-capitalist or anti-establishment. Subjects include animals such as monkeys and rats, policemen, soldiers, children, and the elderly.”

I first learned of Banksy only recently, after a friend wrote a brief blog post about him. Since then, I have noticed his work in various nooks and crannies. He has exhibited in the traditional sense, but, as one can imagine, his exhibitions lean on the alternative side. For example, in 2003 he took over a London warehouse for a show called “Turf War” in which he spray-painted animals. He has also placed some of his work in various museums without their knowledge, most notably in the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Museum of Modern Art in New York. In 2004, he walked into the Louvre and hung his own version of a Mona Lisa, with a yellow smiley face. He has been quoted as saying, “To actually [have to] go through the process of having a painting selected must be quite boring, It’s a lot more fun to go and put your own one up.” As expected, some do not appreciate the significance of his work — One borough in London has deemed it vandalism and will remove any evidence of the “offensive” graffiti.

Some of his work can also be seen in the films “Children of Men” and “Shoot ‘Em Up” (both starring Clive Owen, coincidentally). In addition, he has self-published books of his art which include some of his own writings. For example, 2001’s Banging Your Head Against A Brick Wall and Existencilism in 2002.

His real name is unknown. The Banksy website is not officially his. And, apparently, his own parents are under the impresion that their son is a painter and decorator. Much has been written about this shadow of an artist and I imagine that his work will continue to be followed with great scrutiny.

Did you know that Rage Against the Machine played both the Democratic and Republic National Conventions? Well, at the cities of the conventions…not the actual conventions themselves. When they appeared on stage this past week, they were dressed in orange jumpsuits, black hoods, hands behind their backs — “…an image that seemed to shout ‘Guantánamo Bay’ without ever saying the words,” noted The New York Times.

Since their inception in 1992, Rage Against the Machine has always been known for their political activism. Zach de la Rocha has traveled, many times, to Chiapas, Mexico to meet with the Zapatistas (better known as the Zapatista Army of National Liberation or the EZLN). In fact, the EZLN flag has been incorporated into the band’s visual art on multiple occasions (most notably as a backdrop for many of their concerts).

This time around, Rage Against the Machine was not just protesting the Republican Convention, but “the politics of convention and the conventions themselves.”

To me, this speaks strongly of something that is, as we all know, a recurring theme of this election: change. However, the change that Rage is speaking of is completely contrary to what the candidates continue to mention.

Thus my question: Perhaps it is time to reevaluate the system in its entirety? I know that Obama, in particular, is all for change. But what kind of change? And will it be enough?

Side note: If you haven’t already seen this site, Fear and Loathing ¦ 2008 National Conventions, you must visit it now. The photography will blow you away.
And, yes, I edited this a bit post-publishing, in case you’re paying attention.

While recently perusing the wonderfully informative site that is Gawker, I happened upon an undiscovered (to me) section — Gawker Artists: “Gawker Artists promotes the works of artists of all mediums. Participating artists receive free profile pages and a select group have their images published on Gawker Media titles. When you spot one of these images, click on it to read about the artist or browse our collection by artist name, medium or location.”

The site is full of talented artists and the images are undeniably inviting. You can view the work by medium, most popular, most commented and most recent. It’s a clever way to introduce art in our daily lives and help undiscovered artists gain exposure.

the a.r.w. specifically recommends artists Alex Cherry (shown here) whose personal website, Of Sound and Vision, is an amazing representation of his work; Itcher who is currently focusing on abstract painting; Geoff Ashley who “is a minimalist, guerilla shooter whose work has been called “edgy,” “pulsating” and “erotic.” His photographs are infused with an editorial sensibility to create imagery that is raw, provocative and artistic. It is a versatile style that, with just a minor twist, can become truly erotic or cutting-edge commercial.” There are so many others…Check out the site, and, if you are an artist, submit your work!

I get home from the wedding. I open the gate, slowly, remembering how I came home last night, even more exhausted than I am tonight: I crept into the house quietly, aware of my movements, of the noises I made. It’s as if she** can still hear me. It’s as if she’ll bark at any moment. She’ll be curious. She’ll come and smell me, checking to see where I have been, who I have been with. But she doesn’t bark and she doesn’t come to sniff my clothes. And even when I sit down next to her, and put my face near her nose or ears, she won’t hear me when I speak her name. Today, while she was sleeping, I bent down and kissed her nose. I held my head to her forehead and cried softly. I told her that I love her.

As for the wedding, I felt more-or-less anxious the entire time. That is, until I decided to leave. The minute I stepped outside to head to my car, I relaxed. The evening was beautiful. Something about the ceremony elicited many unexpected emotions (perhaps this was the cause of my anxiety). Suddenly I found myself with desire. Desire to have that, to get married, to say the words, to exchange vows and rings. I had to step back and ask myself, where is this coming from? I have always been convinced that marriage is not for me. I have seen too much divorce, too much pain. I have always doubted the notion that any couple can last. People change. People grow. What if two people change and grow in opposite directions? Why should there be restrictions placed on this growth? On the change, or on the directions? We should feel free to be who we are, despite who we are with.

I cried at the service. When I first saw her walking down the aisle, I teared. She looked gorgeous, glowing. They were surrounded by white lights, white rose petals. They were married in front of giant elephants, giraffes and zebras.*** It was beautiful. Over the course of the evening, every time I saw them together, I cried. The minute she approached me, I feebly attempted to express my emotions. I held back tears, somewhat unsuccessfully.

There is so much to feel and think and see. Sometimes it’s just too much. Even at this very moment, typing this post, or while listening to music, my eyes begin to water. My eyes pour over, again and again. I wonder, is it because, for the first time in years, I’m no longer on antidepressants? Is this why the flood gates have opened? Is this why I feel so much these days?

Sometimes I feel like I’m seeing it all at once, and it’s too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that’s about to burst… And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain and I can’t feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life…

* An excerpt from my personal journal.

** The “she” in this passage is my dog, Whitney, who has grown deaf in the past year (she’s about 15 years old). She lives with my dad (in Los Angeles, California), who I visited this past weekend in order to attend the wedding. I wrote this while staying in my childhood bedroom.

*** The wedding was held at the Natural History Museum in Los Angeles, California. It was a virtual Garden of Eden.