Swimming in Babylon

We all know what happened nine years ago around this time. We all remember where we were. There’s no need to reiterate the pain of an atrocity as a cheep means to invoke sentimentality.

But where are we nine years later? It would seem that we are even further away from compassion and understanding. Dangerously so. Although we do tend to get wrapped up in the glass being half-empty, don’t we? We forget about the stuff in the glass that gives us strength because we’re inundated with propaganda from across the political spectrum. Not everybody is an ignorant, Koran-burning xenophobe with a penchant for media manipulation and cheep publicity tricks. Not every American hates the idea of a “Ground Zero Mosque,” as if reaching out to the Muslim world in a gesture of solidarity would spit in the face of those who died in the World Trade Center attacks. I thought Jesus said, turn the other cheek, and love your enemy and pray for those who persecute you. I guess we’re only Christians when it’s convenient.

How many churches were built in Hiroshima and Nagasaki after the U.S. detonated atomic weapons in the cities, murdering and maiming hundreds of thousands of innocent people? Is that okay, or is it an atrocity? How quickly we forget and how fast we point our fingers.

As I grow older, I experience an increasing cynicism that seems to wrap itself around me in a gradually thickening cloud of misanthropy. When I was in college, I knew that people were good. All people were good. And I still feel that way. But as the despondency of realism claws at my spirit like an undead zombie seeking to turn me into one of its own, I feel more and more inclined to just say fuck it. It is what it is. People are good in their core, but being good is not a priority. Being feared is what many people aspire to, as if Machiavelli’s question was rhetorical.

One could argue that fear trumps love because love has been thrown into the fire of illusion stoked by the imagination of Hollywood and its media contemporaries. Perhaps love began to die when Aristotle wrote his Poetics, an academic attempt to understand the inimitable qualities that make great art great. Perhaps when we started to try and understand love and all its intricate complexities was when we started to actually fear love. Because we can’t understand love, we fear it, so fear comes before love and is therefore more important.

There’s an interesting quote from Proverbs that always threw me for a loop. It says, “The fear of God is the beginning of knowledge.” I always took that to mean that we can’t have knowledge until we fear God. But fear is such a loaded word, isn’t it? Especially when talking about a Creator. Like George Carlin observed, I don’t want to worship a God who wants us to fear It. God should be an element of love and kindness and compassion.

But the English language–in all its bastardized glory–doesn’t due justice to the Hebrew word for fear. Like the online new age guru Richard Shelquist illustrates on his Web site:

“The word most often translated in the Old Testament as fear is the Hebrew word... yirah which can possibly mean fear, but also means awe, reverence, respect and devotion. A closely related Hebrew word is... yare which can mean fearful, but also means to stand in awe, reverence or honor.”

But I didn’t really understand the depth of the “fear of God” saying until I read a little bit of Van Til’s Apologetic. Van Til–in all his obtuse and esoteric glory–notes that the quote, like passages in all great works of literature, has several meanings and the meanings are constantly evolving. Til writes that reverence and respect towards our Creator is essential as all knowledge comes to us through our Creator. Specifically, when we learn something, we must not wallow in the pride of our indomitable intelligence, but rather, accept that the knowledge was actually a gift, a gift that can be taken away if not understood or appreciated.

Maybe we should look at love under the same light. Maybe we should hold love in reverence and respect, as a gift that we should appreciate, lest it be taken from our hearts and replaced with calloused cynicism.

As human beings have evolved, both physically and mentally, we have yet to make a dent emotionally or spiritually. We are still moved by sophomoric yet emotive techniques that should have been thrown in the trash with our baby teeth. We are so immature in our spiritual understanding it makes me queasy. Of course there are millions and perhaps billions of people worldwide who lack physical and mental sophistication but exude a spiritual and emotional maturity that allows them a peace of mind that others can’t even imagine. Not even Hollywood.

Perhaps this problem exists strictly in western countries, or maybe just in the U.S. I don’t know. I do know that when we create things to fix the problems created by other created things, we just create more problems (that’s a lot of creation). At one time in history, our worries were limited to food and survival. Now our worries and psychological problems are enough to warrant an entire industry to fight the negative side effects of our own inventions. It’s truly an amazing spectacle of hubris and fear.

This is no call to turn Luddite, blow up your TV, throw away your paper and move the country, as John Prine suggests. It’s more of a call to ask ourselves a simple question. Have Americans learned anything positive from the Sept. 11 attacks, or do we only care about defeating Islamic extremists? Perhaps what we need is a peaceful wing of Al-Qaida, a Christian Taliban. Maybe we need some people who want the same things but use peaceful means to achieve it. I’m not advocating intolerance against women and Sharia law, but I am asking us to join a fight against imperialism, against one-size-fits-all international policies, against ignorance and corruption and greed which are all symptoms of fear. A fight against the fear of "the other" that has plagued humanity since the tower of Babel fell and our pride thrust our tongues to choose a voice and we were forever separated from our brothers and sisters through language.

Rodney King, the simple-minded Los Angeles victim of the 1992 L.A. riots, was deeply observant when we mused, half-crying and with his head bowed, “Can’t we all just get along?” King echoed the very sentiment that has stirred the minds of every idealist since the tower of Babel crashed. Why can’t we get along? Why is fear so motivating?

If we listen to FDR and understand that fear itself is the only thing to fear, maybe we’ll get somewhere. If we respect fear only because of the power that it has to motivate our actions, maybe then we can stop using fear to achieve power or control. If fear exists only as something that stands in front of us, only an obstacle that must be overcome to achieve understanding, maybe we stand a chance. But we have a long way to go.

Only those who aren’t afraid to get their feet wet can really enjoy the ocean. If you can’t swim, maybe it’s time to throw yourself into the water and see what you’re made of. As long as you have a friend there who understands what you’re doing, you should have no fear, and neither should your friend. Only respect for the power of the ocean, and love for the gift of water.

Let’s all go swimming!

The dust of the war machine

The book and movie Fight Club was an interesting commentary on human beings' substitution of natural pain with artificial materialism, and the resulting backlash. To see clearly the state of one's existence is to feel that one is alive. Without feeling the sensation of being alive, we are essentially walking corpses.

But the feeling of being alive means more than just experiencing pain. We as human beings desire love, success, friendships. We want to feel exhilaration and acceptance and security.

But for those who seek pain either consciously or otherwise, the masochists, they create a dichotomy within the golden rule: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

If you enjoy or need pain, and you are a golden rule adherent, doesn’t that mean you will cause pain to others? And to people who don’t want it?

So where does that leave us? In a world where violence and pain are often the status quo, how can we ever live in peace? How can we treat others respectfully if we expect them to hurt us?

It comes down to knowing ourselves. How do we know ourselves? By looking at ourselves from the outside. How do we do that? By listening. How do we listen? By loving and respecting. How do we love and respect? We examine the great souls of the past. Yeshua, Gandhi, Mother Teresa, Martin Luther King, Jr. The Saints. The Idealists. The Givers. Our ancestors who inspired us. Strangers who surprised us.

The irony of academic discussion is that improving the human condition is easy to illustrate via an essay, but in practice becomes horrifically challenging. It takes the full responsibility and dedication of every human being to make it work. We are, as CS Lewis said, all ships in a fleet heading towards the same destination. If one of us goes down, the entire fleet is weakened.

Objectivists may disagree, and argue that our innate selfishness is what inspires our compassion for our brothers and sisters. We only care because we get something out of caring, and we should only care if we are getting something. But, this sentiment only serves to strengthen and perpetuate the ego within each of us, further separating us from the natural wonders and the eternal connection of all living beings and all inanimate matter.

Academics, critical theorists, commentators, and college students with cause affectations, seize society’s flaws as if their own existence requires a state of imperfection. And that is, once again, a terrible self-perpetuating masochism. The idea is to come up with ideas that sound profound, because to actually create change would negate their existence.

So the real question is this: Why bother? If we made a change, we’d have nothing to talk about. We’d have no cause, no purpose. This isn’t a call for nihilism, but rather a call for singular and universal consciousness. Even in America where the oligarchy’s presence is hidden behind progressive and humane causes, where we limit ourselves by apathetic consumerism, where violence in the media maintains a bull market, where volunteers are used to create record profits while maintaining high unemployment rates, where images of computerized strangers affect individuals’ self-esteem, even here, positive change has conditions of acceptance. We can only improve x if y is unaffected. Or else, we will have to create z to combat the unintended consequences of x. And so it goes. The snowball of invention in the name of Utopia eventually crashes and leaves everyone in a melting pool of ignorance.

Let us revolutionize our minds. Let us begin the long process of understanding each other. Let us transcend borders and cultural barriers and reveal the true beauty that lies beyond the dust of the war machine. If we can see with our neighbor’s eyes, if we can hear with more than our ears, we won’t want to feel pain anymore and we won’t seek to be hurt. We will finally become alive.

July 12, 2007

The Price is Right to buy BP

I just purchased stock in BP. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Brilliant, right? Surely, any company with talismanic foresight for business planning is a shoe-in for our investment dollars. Any company that can allow an oil deluge to go on for three months has got a plan. Big plans. The PR debacle is the smoke, and the response effort is the mirror. I can’t wait to see my investment skyrocket in an afternoon delight of new capital ventures.

Of course, the price to be paid is high. Lord knows, we all love our seafood and we’re pretty much lost in a pre-New Testament quandary about what kind of meat is okay to eat now that our bottom dwellers are incapacitated, most likely to their inedible delight. It’s difficult to pay twice as much for shrimp, but I know that I must do my part in the economic recovery of our nation. So I purchase my overpriced cocktails with red, white and blue gleaming in every consumption.

And what a shame it is for the fishermen. What a travesty! Livelihoods lost in the blink of an eye. But at least there’s some jobs with BP cleaning up the spill. God bless capitalism!

It reminds me of the symbiotic brilliance of the fast food and fitness industries. Let’s face it, without Burger King and McDonald’s we’d have little need for Slim Fast and Weight Watchers.

Or the relationship between the mental health and pharmaceutical industries. Without the thousands of psychoses that our brilliant psychologists are discovering through the potent and unbiased scientific method, we’d have no need for the myriad drugs that clog the prescription shelves at our local pharmacy. Go agoraphobia! I always thought grandpa was just ornery, turns out he was suffering from acute stress disorder with remnants of cyclothymic and delusional disorders coupled with trichotillomania. No wonder why I still have my hair! He pulled out all of his! It’s not genetic! Let’s hear it for the DSM IV!*

Life never had such deep meaning until long, Latin-derived names were attributed to our woes. And the true meaning didn’t arrive until drug companies devised a delicious concoction to replace self-improvement. God bless instant gratification!

So in reality, BP is just following in the footsteps of its brethren. This clean-up effort is causing them to really dig deep into their pockets. But what they’re truly looking for is something big. It’s a nasty chess game, and it seems they’ve just sacrificed their queen to give the king a shot at the final blow. I can’t wait to see it!

Maybe this is an effort to depress the stock value, so forward-thinking chums like myself can snatch it all up, away from all them Middle Eastern what-have-yous and European neocolonials. Or maybe, they’re trying to destroy the Obama administration by making it appear impotent. That way, a more oil-friendly republican can take office in 2012 on the heals of America’s distrust for idiotic liberal policy. Small price to pay for the bigger picture. A few billion here to ensure the democrats lose office. There are trillions of dollars to be made in the energy industry. I’m glad I’ve got my bit of heaven.

We the people tend to only see the now, and our thoughts on the future are only relevant to what we see happening now. We don’t see what’s really going on, so we can’t see what’s really going to happen. Luckily for all of us, I recently purchased a hand-made Indonesian crystal ball from Walmart for 13 cents, and it told me that BP is going to rake it in big. Got rake? I sure as hell do.

Pay no attention to the liberal media’s idea that more government policy is needed to ensure safe oil drilling. Or the right-wing media telling us that liberal policy is what forced BP to drill in such deep water to begin with. Listen only to your inner Warren Buffett. What would Buffett do? Drink a margarita and eat a cheeseburger in paradise? Only after he was sure that he owned the tequila, the beef company and the royal park. So let’s start buying up BP stock. After all, we wouldn’t want our children growing up without cheeseburgers, shrimp cocktail, combustion engines and bipolar disorder. Would we?

* Narrative bomb! This grandfather passage does not reflect the author's feelings regarding his parents' fathers. In fact, he's bald and so it goes in his family.

The BP guide to profiting from disaster

The public relations debacle instigated by the BP oil deluge seems to mean nothing in the long-term business plan of British Petroleum. It’s all about the numbers. And the quality of information that is being spoon fed to the media is a slap in the face to free speech democracy. The gross co-optation of governmental bodies by BP officials is harrowing to say the least. Kelly Cobiella, a reporter for CBS news, tried to gain access to the beaches along the Gulf when she was met by a boat of BP stooges and two Coast Guard officials who threatened her arrest. A man from the Coast Guard actually said “this is BP’s rules, not ours.”

Matthew Lysiak, a reporter from The Daily News of New York, was told by a local sheriff that he needed BP’s permission to access a public beach, and that a BP official was required as a chaperone. BP employees are actually answering the telephone for the Coast Guard-Federal Aviation Administration command center, and BP officials denied a fly-over request by a pilot who was carrying a journalist on board.

The oil flow estimates have increased from 1,000 barrels a day to upward of 100,000. Scientists have been denied access to the deluge, and the flow rate estimates are actually surmised from observing a low resolution video. Fisheries are becoming toxic, wildlife is dying, ecosystems are being destroyed. This is deplorable. The entire event, from start to finish is unacceptable. The only possible explanation for this situation is that the cost-benefit analysis performed by BP would seem to indicate that, in the short term, keeping the leak open will enable them to collect more revenue in the long term.

Now, this is where it all gets dicey. Why would BP keep the oil deluge alive when it is obviously a PR disaster? Why would they not plug the leak and tap into the oil again later? There are several, perhaps dozens of deciding factors within BP’s maneuver, and it is almost impossible to know what’s really happening.

But why keep the leak open if it’s bad PR, which is bad for business? BP has already publicly stated that they are going to use all revenue from the oil collected to pay for the clean-up. That’s their PR move. But is still does nothing to answer the question of why the deluge is still active after nearly two months. Maybe bad PR is good for long-term business. More on that later.

Even BP’s “positive” PR campaign is fraught with manipulation and eyebrow-raising actions. After denying a request to pay for clean-up of the Barrier Islands, they spent $50 million on television ads telling the public that they will “make things right.” They even purchased search engine phrases to maximize the number of people going to their Web site, and minimize the number of people going to actual news organizations for information.

That said, let’s take a logical look at this situation through a financial-incentive lens. Oil is pouring into the gulf, causing BP’s stock price to fall, causing BP and its cohorts to pay billions in damages and claims and clean-up. At the same time, BP is going to refine and sell the thousands of barrels of oil they gather from the Gulf to help pay for the clean-up (and buffer their bottom line).

BP claims to have a plan to stop the oil deluge that involves drilling relief wells to relieve the pressure and then sealing the wells with concrete. But they are saying that it will take upwards of three months before this happens. Why aren’t they plugging the hole immediately? Why are they performing surgery on this thing that will take months? And why have attempts to plug the spill consisted solely of processes that would allow for future access to the oil? Aside from the top kill method, all procedures were focused on containing the spill but allowing for access to the oil at a later date.

It is quite possible that BP did not want top kill to work, as certain interested parties could be poised to profit from this envirocide. The hole in the Gulf could be plugged now, but it is not. BP officials stated that they didn’t want to detonate an explosion because if it didn’t work, it would limit their options. Perhaps their fear was that it would work, and eliminate the opportunity for investors to cash in. The problem isn’t a lack of ideas, but in the gross manipulation of our government and we the people by a private company.

Does the manner in which the federal government and BP are handling the disaster make sense? Obviously, no. It doesn’t. So, how do we make sense out of the nonsensical? We have to understand the factors at play; access, influence and control. We have to consider even the most imaginative scenarios because at the highest levels of governance and business, the temptation to retain access, influence and control is more potent than the draw to do what’s right.

The amount of money and power and political clout that the oil industry wields is mind boggling. This is not a BP disaster, it’s an oil industry chess game. The international economic climate is dreary, with positive prospects only in sight of the wealthy. The government is yielding to BP because of all these factors. Interest groups, think tanks and lobbyists are no doubt behind the scenes, making deals that determine when the hole actually gets plugged. People are gathered at expensive hotels, dining on the finest imported caviar (not from the Gulf of Mexico, for sure), discussing ways in which to profit from this disaster. If it drives the stock of BP down, that could be good for people who are trying to take hold of the company. Perhaps we should surveil the sale of BP stock as it continues to decline to determine if this is a systematic takeover in the Hudsucker Proxy vein. BP’s stock value has fallen by nearly 50 percent since the incident. Just before the Deepwater Horizon explosion, New Jersey’s pension system sold it’s $465.5 million investment in BP for a $5.5 million gain. Call it luck, call it whatever you wish.

Of course, this is just an example, and there are an infinite number of possibilities that create the need for a disaster like this to continue (or happen). It could even be an excuse to go into bankruptcy. Oil is not a popular player in the modern energy game, and any disaster could be an opportunity to position themselves for a sneak attack on consumers.

Unfortunately, it is not below human beings to use a disaster to gain something. During times of war, the federal government spends billions of dollars on weapons from Lockheed Martin, Northrop Grumman and the like. Billions. In one strike alone against Iraq, the U.S. dropped $64 million in Tomahawk missiles. $64 million worth of missiles in a few hours. Not a bad day's work for Raytheon, the company that manufactures Tomahawks.

During World War II, the New York-based company International Business Machines (IBM) supplied the Nazis with the computers used to keep tabs on their eugenic genocide. U.S. officials did nothing to stop it. The battle for tanks also spurred a record-breaking spending spree on both sides of the pond, filling the pocket books of ingenious businessmen with no shred of conscience. Many human atrocities are lost or forgotten, hidden or falsified by the powers that were. Even in America, we still consider the battle for freedom was against the British, when really it was a struggle to contain Native Americans and exploit African slaves.

We must first acknowledge that anything is possible. Anything. That would seem easy if we considered our stories. The fact that BP is not giving us accurate or complete information is confirmation of their power. The fact that they are calling the shots, controlling government agencies and limiting government involvement, not answering letters from government officials, denying journalists access to information and providing false and misleading statistics, and preventing independent scientists from personally observing the leak is confirmation that the status quo is what needs protection, and the federal government is along for the ride.

The impotence of our government exposed by this travesty is inconceivable, especially after our executive office has denied help from at least a dozen countries due to the outdated Jones Act, which is easily waived as evident in Delaware where foreign-owned vessels are allowed to operate.

The true loss is not to the environment, but to democracy and the ability of the citizenry to actively engage in the decision making process. If we lose this battle, what’s next? This event is establishing a horrific precedent in government compliance with corporate strategy. What other disasters will take place in the future that will allow for democracy to be stifled? Is this the beginning of an Orwellian society? Or is this just a glimpse into the everyday happenings of global economics?

The tragedy is that we will forget about the real disaster, which is democracy’s loss to the oligarchical power structure. Perhaps that is the purpose for keeping the oil deluge alive–to remind us that we have no control, that we have no power. BP will obviously divert attention to the clean-up effort, and rightly so. But what will that do to the real question, Why didn’t the hole get plugged immediately? We will surely forget, because we must move forward. But with BP’s spit lingering on the face of democracy, it’s a shame we don’t jump on this opportunity and gain a real voice in the sea of political and monetary agendas.

If BP comes out of this with only a PR debacle and a massive clean-up on its hands, then they did pretty good. But if they come out with the idea that they can manipulate public land during a disaster, if they can control water and resources and deny fundamental rights to citizens, journalists and scientists trying to understand what’s going on in order to help, if they walk away from this knowing that they succeeded in controlling this entire debate, then democracy has truly lost. It will only further strengthen the divide amongst the haves and have-nots. It will exacerbate corporate influence on First Amendment rights like never before. Inevitably, it will force our minds to shopping, to our 401k (or lack of one), to our two-week vacation, to Big Macs and extra large fries and extra large concepts of America so we can forget about the pain of reality.

We must plug the hole ourselves, immediately. It will tell BP that we take ownership of our own destiny, and that the lives of millions of people and animals and plants and microorganisms are more important than any agenda. We will gain access to the impenetrable system by breaking down the doors of influence. It is a measure reflective of the times–an act of desperation in the name of democracy.

Plug that hole!

The grocery store philosophers

Spontaneity is so refreshing, even when it’s dull. It’s funny how life sometimes requires it of us, even when our minds are so narrow-minded and focused on control that it would take death to keep us from achieving our goal. But sometimes we listen to our inner traveler, that free voice deep in the pit of our chest that’s connected to the core of our mind and spirit. Sometimes, we listen to that honest consciousness, but not as often as we should, as we often confuse it with our desires which often lead to feelings of guilt and heightened self-consciousness.

I was on my way to pick up a piece of music equipment when I decided to stop at the grocery store. My wife had been ill, and I wanted to grab some vitamin C rich products and organic veggies to concoct a natty meal plan that would enable her body to murder the microscopic infidels. I chose to stop at a grocery store that I never patronize because it’s far from my house. But I felt that little nagging nuisance inside me urge me out the car. So I obliged, feeling empowered, perhaps, by what I perceived was a mission of valor and virtue.

I grabbed some artichokes, fresh ginger and garlic, some asparagus, spinach and herbs, and of course oranges, mangoes, papaya, pineapple and cantaloupe. I also snagged a drink chock full of vitamins and organic veggies, and since Uncle Sam was paying, I bought organic. This was my health care plan. No job, no insurance, fugetaboutit. I’ve never had better access to basic services since I lost my job. When I had money, I couldn’t afford anything. Now that I’m broke, it seems like everything is taken care of.

After stocking my cart with fresh produce and trendy fruit drinks I mozied towards the processed organic food aisle. Man, I felt like a socially conscious green consumer! I imagined my car was a hybrid, and that I lived in an Earth ship buried in the ground with solar panels on the roof and a composting toilet that fed my organic garden of grains and grasses that I fed my goats and chickens. I thought about getting a Flock of Seagulls haircut, spending $85 on fair trade jeans that had pre-worn holes in it to make me appear to not care about looks, and then getting a bicycle and walking everywhere with my right pant leg pulled up so everyone would know how much I respect the earth.

I was observing the selection of teas and the Yerba Matte jumped out at me in all its trendy and hip glory. As I perused the conscious-yuppie staples, three teenagers came laughing down the aisle, seemingly in touch with their emotions and content with their weaknesses (which I perceived by their self-deprecating humor, tight jeans and interesting verbal patterns.)

“It’s Fig Newmans,” Blane said. I turned around and smiled at them. The box had a picture of Paul Newman and what I assumed was his wife on the cover in classic American Gothic style.

“So if you buy them does Paul Newman come out and do a little dance?” I asked, and gave my best rendition of what a Paul Newman dance would be if he were an awful Riverdancer.

“They don’t have milk in them,” he replied. Serai and Greg smiled at me. Blane was 19, tall and lean and health conscious. I suspected that his parents were liberal and he was given guitar lessons at a young age but he perhaps rebelled against the formalities of music education and pursued more visceral audio interests. He seemed a bit taken back by my comment, as he was the obvious leader of the group and his cohorts laughed at my dance whereas he focused on the dairy-free nature of the Fig Newmans.

Greg was fit and very American: blue eyes, tightly cropped hair and a constant smile. His eyes were glazed over, and I suspected that they perhaps had the munchies after a ride on the sativa train. Serai was petit in her physique and minimal in her projections. She seemed to have grown up in a conservative household that reminded women of their “place.” All three appeared to be an odd fit for each other. She seemed Muslim, Greg seemed Baptist and Blane seemed agnostic. But that all changed with a quick and random invitation issued by Greg.

“You should come to a bible study,” he asked. The others looked on and nodded in agreement. I immediately gathered myself. I find these kinds of uninvited invitations most disheartening. It’s reminiscent of a stranger offering a child candy while the mother isn’t looking. But, I knew they were only trying to reach out to me on a spiritual level. They weren’t aggressive or judgmental, just curious and anxious and naive.

What began as a spontaneous invitation quickly turned into a religious debate, right there in the organic aisle of Kroger.

“You see, Christ, in my understanding of him, didn’t go around telling people to come to meetings,” I said. “He lived a certain way. He didn’t talk about it, he did it. And I’m pretty sure he didn’t go around telling people how great he was, which is what most people who call themselves Christians do. If we are Christians, than why are we in this store talking about being Christian? Why aren’t we giving our time to others, helping the poor, living selflessly?”

Paul took offense to my position. “Yeah, but it’s all contextual. What they did in their time is different from what we do now.”

As the debate heated, a man with large dreadlocks tied in a bun walked past us. I noticed he glanced at us as he passed, and he seemed to linger near our conversation. Then, a young woman who was most certainly from the Middle East hovered close by. Before we knew it, it was a real live debate.

“All your perspectives are coming from a Euro-centric worldview,” said the dreadlocked man, whom I will call Peter. “Jesus was not blond-haired and blue eyed, he looked more like a modern day Muslim.”

The new girl, Haya, also interjected her heart. “We have to look inside ourselves to understand the truth,” she said.

After half an hour of chatting, my phone rang. It was my wife. I knew she was waiting for me, and I knew she was not feeling well. But the naivete of these three youngsters was so deep and misguided, I felt i had to stay and talk with them.

“When you say, ‘Christ said this,’ you’re already misguided because Christ didn’t speak English,” I said. “It’s what we think Christ said. And the knowledge of Christ is deeper than any book. Jesus Christ didn’t come to the Earth to start Christianity. He came to show us how to live, and that transcends all religions. I don’t know any Christians who live like Christ lived.”

But the argument continued, and they were more interested in what Peter had to say, probably because they had no exposure to African-American thought on the subject. Or maybe they felt that if they focused their attention on him instead of me, they wouldn’t feel racist. I soon realized that my time with them was ending and that I had responsibilities to attend to. Without getting their names, I left, and insisted that we meet the following Thursday at 9 p.m. in the same spot. They agreed, and I knew I would see them again.

I was obsessed with the upcoming meeting and the potential for a real and progressive spiritual group to emerge from these discussions. Thursday arrived on schedule, which surprised me as I considered my exaggerated emphasis on the importance of this meeting to be a real time-stopper, as if the universe would end before the kind of knowledge we would discover could be unveiled to humanity. The world wasn’t ready for our minds!

I drafted some questions that I thought we be interesting for us to discuss and printed out about a dozen copies, with quotes from the Bible, the Qur’an and the Tao Te Ching. I made my way into the organic aisle of Kroger, eager to catch a glimpse of at least one of my former comrades. With me was a Muslim friend, and I knew he would be a welcomed addition to the discussion. As I turned the corner with much anticipation, at 9:05 p.m., my eyes saw only the products along the aisle and the glistening tile floor. Nobody was there.

I left knowing that it was probably for the best, as the spontaneity that inspired that moment with those strangers whose names I may never know existed in that one moment, like an improvised song that is impossible to recreate but permanently memorable.

I left the store with the stack of print-outs, still looking in the parking lot to see if perhaps someone was there, just running a bit late. Perhaps they came, most likely they didn’t. But I am positive that they will always remember the organic aisle at Kroger with a warmth and affection that no other grocery store section can compare.

Ambulatory Adventures

I exit into a sea of commerce, culture, society and depravity. An old man with no hands and blank white eyes holds his stubs out, asking for the sake of God to give him money. His eyes have seen more than I dare to imagine. Sometimes I give, sometimes I don’t. I have the luxury of choosing, and my choice could easily determine if this man eats or not. I don’t like that kind of power, as it fills me with guilt if I don’t act, and consumes me with responsibility if I do. I continue walking.

A line of metal chairs waits for souls with dirty shoes. The orange seats are worn down to the rusted frame, and the remaining fabric is camouflaged with dirt and oil stains, blending perfectly with this cultural microcosm. Young boys occupy these thrones, and call their subjects to them with dirty cloth in hand, putting marketing skills to the test as they attempt to herd the masses to their Kiwi wax and horse hair buffers.

“Farenj! Farenj!,” they call out. Foreigner. I was called “China” once, which, as I understand it, refers to people of Asian descent. But like many Americans, I am a Euro-mut, with no semblance of Asian roots, aside from my alleged connection to the Caucasus Mountains.

I continue walking. I come upon an ocean of blue cars, Fiats and Renaults mostly, from the early 80s and late 70s. A group of older men stand on the side of the road, talking shop and planning their next attack on victims of an intimidating road system. “You! You!,” they call out. “Me?” I ask. “You,” they say. “You?” I ask. “You,” they reply, and point at a car. I point at their car. “Me?” I say. “Where are you go?” I point down the road and continue walking. My unwillingness to succumb to their salesmanship only fuels their technique. They call out “you, you” again and point at their car, as if a ride in their haughty machine could somehow bring meaning into my life, and without my fare my money would disown me for having never been spent on such an eloquent ride. But today my feet are my steed, as a beautiful day in Addis brings a perfect balance of warm air, cool shades and a kaleidoscope of stimulation for the senses.

A man selling Chinese belts approaches, attempting to convince me of the high quality of these items, which cost about $3 or $4. A woman selling skin-on peanuts, Hip-hop biscuits, chewing gum and suckers waits patiently for her customers to buy something to keep her and hers on the up and up. She sits with a stoic patience, with eyes that know the sun, hidden under a cheap umbrella which she traded a kilo of peanuts for just before the rainy season began two years ago.

Then comes the market. In five steps you have five options. Ten steps, fifteen options. How many different versions of ginger can there be? Who is the best vendor? The competitors eat from the same table, share secrets, lend each other hands. The true spirit of capitalism, invested in the acumen of each of theses respectful entrepreneurs. The only kind of market. A bailout for this system would involve loaning a few sacks of seed and water, maybe an extra hand to plow the field. Civilization never seemed so uncivilized until I saw how ‘uncivilized’ people live.

Walk into the metal-workers section. Men covered head to toe from years of hard labor. Their clothes the color of mace and tar, their faces reveal added years from all their sweat which dissolved their youth. Sparks fly as the saw-man takes off a few meters of rebar. Two youngsters carry heavy poles on their shoulders with effortless grace, as if their identity is tied to manual labor and without an aching back, existence would be meaningless.

Into the automotive area I go. Walls of tires, with radial wire spiking out and glimmering in the afternoon heat, sending waves of vapor and star-like reflections bouncing off the tire-man who waits for someone with a stroke of bad luck to improve his own. The ground is all rubber, beaten into the dirt like a child’s lost toy found years later by the boy who had become a man. The entrance is shredded tires, black filets enticing the appetites of weary motorists in need of a rubber fix.

I walk past homes made of cow dung and all I can smell is sweet incense and the intense aroma of roasting coffee, a scent that never enticed me until my trip here.

On the ground is a man with legs much too small for his stature. He sits in a permanent lotus position–a yogi of the street world. His eyes are healthy and real, and his arms strong from supporting his weight through many years of life. In his hands are wooden blocks, made to slightly elevate his body while he walks with his hands. He looks at me, desperately, trying to pull out my empathy with his eyes. But any reasonable effort I make to help this man is ultimately fruitless. Tomorrow he will still be on the street. Next year, if he’s still alive, my empathy will have long since evaporated into the ether, and that moment when he and I were connected in his struggle will be nothing more than words on a page.

Ethiopia, the Olympics and cosmic consciousness

Ethiopians have much to be proud of. This past winter Olympics offered hope to young Ethiopians and Africans around the world that one day, they too could participate in the ancient competition. Ethiopia’s son Robel Teklemariam competed in cross country skiing, an event which is considered by most to be the most physically demanding athletic challenge in the world. It requires massive upper and lower body strength and an endurance level that tests medical definitions of possibility. These athletes actually have more blood vessels in their body than any other living human, experts say.

Robel, whose family owns the Nile Restaurant in Richmond, Virginia, first competed in Torino in 2006. The mere fact that he was able to compete was satisfaction enough for the dreadlocked athlete. He admits that his appearance drew an assortment of judgement and negative comments from the media and his contemporaries. When he was tested for drugs, his hemoglobin levels were above normal, a sign that performance enhancing drugs had been introduced to his system. However, people who live at high altitudes also have high hemoglobin, and Robel had lived at high altitudes for most of his life. But many people focused on the drug factor because Robel seemed to represent something different, something non-western. For centuries, western societies have continuously found ways to manifest their fear towards other people – especially those of color. This was just another one of those events used to intimidate and get inside the heads of “the other.” But he prevailed, and won. Not the Olympics, but the game of prejudice killing and stereotype shattering.

In Ethiopia, jokes abound about Robel being a skier, given that the country has a mostly tropical climate with snow only existing at the top of the tallest mountains. Who cares that there’s no snow in Ethiopia? There’s no snow in Florida, either, but people from Florida can compete in the winter Olympics. Where do we draw the line? Geography is not the issue, it’s a matter of principal. It’s an extension of the increasingly globalized world in which we live. Anyone can do anything at anytime. Robel is a physical manifestation of the power of the Internet, the interconnections that bind us all together, the spirituality of our religions, and the universal cosmic consciousness that unites every molecule in existence. That’s a lot of responsibility, Robel!

In addition to having a representative in the winter Olympics, Ethiopians should be, are are naturally, very proud. Aside from the fact that the recent elections are strewn with allegations of corruption, Ethiopians are not a people of the government. Before Meles Zenawi, they were Ethiopia. And they will be Ethiopia long after he is gone. Legacies remain, and they are defeated. Dynasties last only as long as the bloodline remains securely selfish. Eventually, all powers find rest in the annals of history. People are the true leaders of their destiny, and they are the true dreamers of dreams. Ethiopians are survivors. More than 80 recorded famines in their 3,000 year history, not to mention countless droughts. Westerners think that famine started in 1973 with Jonathan Dimbleby’s report, but the reality is that Ethiopia is no stranger to these events. And they have survived. They have not been defeated by the hand of nature or by the hand of man. But, like gold in the rock, they have been purified by fire. This is no argument for eugenics, but one of natural selection, a process that has been stunted in western societies by modern medicine, which in reality, only serves to strengthen the bacterias and viruses that are exposed to our antibiotics and vaccines. Of course, some benefits are obvious, but long terms effects are not known and history has a way of showing us how our vanity comes crashing down on us at the most unexpected moment.

This is no argument for the importance of famine, but a reality of what famine does to a people. And, most importantly, what a country’s reaction to famine really means. It is no different than walking down the street in New York City, eating a hot dog and feeling happy with oneself and life, when suddenly a man clothed in rags and reeking of a horrid conglomeration of urine, alcohol and body odor approaches and asks for change. It’s usually when we feel the best about ourself that we give to a homeless person. Why? Because we feel guilty for doing well, for feeling good. We only give to relieve ourselves of our guilt, not to really help this man. If we wanted to truly help this man, we’d sit down with him, find out his story, listen to him, understand him, hear him out. If he’s destined to be on the streets, as is sometimes the case, so be it. But, if he’s just one of the those people whom life has shat on constantly, the best thing we can do is offer him a place to stay, food in his belly and clothes on his back. Then help him get a job and teach him how to keep the job. That’s how we help people. Giving someone $50 or 50 cents doesn’t do a damn thing except perpetuate the socio-economic divide and exacerbate the neediness of the needy. In the western eye, Ethiopia was a homeless country whose story the west never took the time to know, only threw money at it to make us feel better about ourselves.

That's not to discount the people who came together with a heart of right to help those in need. But they are not limited to westerners. True heroes are the unsung; the neighbor who leaves food on your doorstep then disappears in the night without being thanked. The stranger who sees you sleeping on the sidewalk in the cold and leaves his jacket on you without you knowing until you wake up, surprisingly warm. The farmer who opens his field to anyone willing to bend their backs. These are true heros, and they'll never be interviewed because the attention we give them removes their real reward – their anonymity.

Of course, people who are starving are hardly going to deny help. Nobody wants to experience that, as millions of people can lose their lives in a most brutal fashion. But, is dying from famine better or worse than being blown to bits by a remote control airplane? At least when you die of famine, you look to God for answers, because it was nature that failed. When you’re blown up by a remote control airplane (AKA Drone), you tend to look to the person flying it. Unless of course we want to declare war on nature because of her weapons of mass destruction that have been working overtime lately, I suggest we re-examine the nature of international aid, which is a cultural and historical blight on the integrity of the people receiving it. And if we continue to offer aid to combat famine, then we must cease every and all wars and engagements and occupations of foreign lands (starting in Okinawa) or else our hypocrisy will feed the hate that already fuels violence against our country. Save a child from hunger in one country, blow up a child by accident in another. They don’t cancel each other out, one doesn’t pay for the other, it is not good policy.

Of course, one might argue that we are responsible for our brothers and sisters, because if we know there is a famine, we are responsible to act. That is, a starving person may blame us if we do not act, because now instead of nature it is human beings who have accepted the responsibility to act because we are aware of the famine’s existence. This I will not argue against. But, western society, in all its good intentions, does absolutely nothing to bring long-term solutions to these situations and is consciously unaware of the consequences of their good intentions. There are NGOs and small groups of people who drill for wells and do their best, but it is not the status quo. The status quo is control, as exercised by all players in the international community. Nobody wants a famine, but it offers an opportunity to exercise control like no other, so much so that I would argue that famine is political capital on a global scale. Without the opportunity to stop a famine, there would be no chance to show how much love we can give. If we can’t show our love, how will people know of it? Especially in time of war, what better deterrent from killing babies than to talk about all our efforts in Haiti? Therefore if behooves international interests that famines and natural disasters occur, however random and staggered in their occurrence, as international political capital is gained from their existence. Especially in times of war.

But what does that mean? It is an argument for the need for human beings to break away from their perceptions of reality and understand that we are all 13 billion years old and that our physical body is just flash in the pan of time. If we can revolve our minds, unchain them from the illusion of the material world, if we can understand the human condition from the lens of universal consciousness, then perhaps one day famines will cease. The amazing thing is that heaven is on the earth, it is everywhere. We just have to find it and live in it.