Obamaaaaaaa

Maybe it's just the new york times obsession with him that's painting my opinion but the guy drinks honest tea. And walks around the office. It's a style thing and it's thoughtful.

art

When I look at a drawing of a person, I look at that person as living.
I don't know how to explain it, but a photograph to me is always
a reminder of how the person was on a certain day in that certain
light fixed. When I look at a watercolor' of that same person, it
seems to me alive, more open than a photograph.
::: Francesco Clemente :::

we needed silence

We needed the quiet of winter
The sky spread out white
And close by
Like the Blanket of snow on
The morning ground
The haevy calm of snow and ice
Silenced the animals
And the cars
Time was delayed
By winter

winter crackle

The gentle sound of winter static
Was intermittently broken
By chimes made of freezing rain hitting metal frames
And the crackle of ice cold peices falling onto a
ir conditioners, window sills and trees

Western vs Eastern Love

Apparently all spiritual love poetry confuses the reader. Is it a mortal or is it god that the poet is desperate for? And all spiritual poetry is somewhat obsessed with wine, in Hafez, wine is the method for reaching an enlightened state, metaphorically or maybe not...and reading the Song of Solomon today, it seems there the beloved is likened to the taste of wine and the look of grapes on the vine (rather sensual). I think the difference is in the martyrdom and unrequited love aspects that exist in Eastern religious poetry (qualify that, Persian religious poetry) and less in Western religious poetry.

Just a thought...

true human needs

true human needs, such as learning, mutually supportive relationships, autonomy, and safety (Crocker & Nuer, 2004; Crocker & Park, 2004; Deci & Ryan, 2000).

The core idea of personal autonomy is to have personal rule of the self while remaining free from controlling interference by others. The autonomous person acts in accordance with a freely self-chosen and informed plan. A person of diminished autonomy, by contrast, is in at least some respects controlled by others or is incapable of deliberating or acting on the basis of his or her own plans.- answers.com

Updike

But I do like Rabbit Run. And the other book is “To The lighthouse” by Virginia Woolf. And one book that I liked two years ago was “Mating” about a development freak and his phd student (female)… female voice or what about Milan kundera “laughing and forgetting” which I left in a hotel in the mountains of Georgia and I only had a chapter left…or orhan pamuk’s “snow” which I didn’t finish bc it was too intense but good or this historical novel about edgar allen poe which I lost in the doctor’s office so I never finished although I had two or three pages left. I really like historical novels. That was my phase of losing books. I haven’t lost a book in a long time. Its all part of maturity I suppose. Two years ago I read “love and beauty” about two best friend writers and one of them dies bc she has this horrible jaw problem that depresses her. thats by my other favorite writer who is based in Nashville ann patchett. I have a book of hers now but I haven’t started it. And I loved Junot Diaz The Amazing Brief life of Oscar Wao or something like that.

On the other hand, the positive emotional affect following success in a domain of contingency may become addictive for the highly contingent individual (Baumeister & Vohs, 2001). Over time, these people may require even greater successes to achieve the same satisfaction or emotional "high". Therefore, the goal to succeed can become a relentless quest for these individuals (Crocker & Nuer, 2004).

The nationalist not only does not disapprove of atrocities committed by his own side, he has a remarkable capacity for not even hearing about them. -George Orwell, writer (1903-1950)

I know what it feels like when everything is okay.

snow ignored

the snow came sideways
nonchalantly
as if its a regular
in this town
we all walked
indifferently as if
we know what its like
as the ground
covered in chalk
and 9-6
began
the snow came
vertically
bouncing down
pass the window
and we all ignored it
while we checked off
our task lists

Far From Play

one of those days
those quiet
creeping Sundays
meaning is unapparent
hiding itself
under work and analysis
to be done
deadlines to be met

the weekend frivolity
dominated by
responsibility
a going away
in a direction
far from play
closer to maturity

day of meditation

the bright light
of the sun
was ignored
the crisp morning
air was avoided
eyes gazed down
making strides on the
concrete

suddenly
a chin lifted
and through eyelashes
sun lashed down
on the cocoon
of down feathers
and wool scarves
there was no escape
it was a effervescent day
of solitude

His job is already done

A friend asked me whether I think the world will actually change as a result of the Obama presidency. Obama is a symbol and icon of perseverance, opportunity, intellect, difference and equality. Whereas Bush's persona made any one that is not a white, christian, frat boy or sorority girl feel left out, Obama is the metaphor that everyone fits in and everyone has a chance if they work and try hard enough. All that has an impact, a subtle and powerful impact on the way people view their own options and choices. For eight years, most people felt completely impotent, like we just had to accept the harsh rules of life. Now a sort of assumption has been created which is more powerful that each of our failures are our own.

And one other thought. I was booking a hotel in Canada yesterday and the woman said "I wish I was there yesterday." A big chunk of the world was united for a day and for the first time it wasn't because of disaster, it was for positive change and this is very powerful. So in many ways, Obama's job is already done.

Inauguration Day

I wasn't too cold, we had found a spot to the east of the capitol on the dirt. Somehow at my angle the sun shined directly on my face through a tall and bare winter tree. The very tall guy in front of me kept turning around to talk to his very short girlfriend behind him, so depending on the position of his shoulders I could see the screen in the trees perfectly or not at all. To my right was the steps of the capitol and the stage. Although I could see all of that, I couldn't really make out who was there, or even where the podium was.

We watched all of the various senators and VIPs enter the stage, many were cheered, and only Lieberman and Bush were booed. When Bush came out we all looked at each other, is this appropriate? to boo the president? And thats why being American is so great. Of course you can boo the president. And so the crowd of millions did. Looking at Bush's face during the ceremony, he looked unhappy. I am not sure if that was his sad to leave face or his sad I am hated face, but there was little joy.

Maybe it was where we were standing, but I didn't feel I was in a crowd of millions, but in a crowd of a hundred, all I could see were the heads around me and their feet on the ground. It was all local, my inauguration experience. At times I would try to look behind the heads around me to see the sea of people on the mall. It was a rather inconceivable sight. My brain had a hard time conceptualizing that many people so close by.

When the quartet began to play, the stillness and beauty of the music calmed us into observance. The trees and sky were open and the sun continued to blare down behind a thin curtain of winter haze. I looked up at a tree and wondered how many of these it had seen.

We could barely hear the oath, and upon its end, we thought we had been attacked as the cannons were fired off one by one. The floor shook and by the second or third shot we collectively realized, thanks to the large TV screen, that this was part of the inauguration. It was a nice feeling, the shaking of the ground, physically moving us all up to the immensity of the transition.

Strangely enough, being there was distracting, the little concerns of seeing the screen and the cold filled my focus. As Obama began his speech I felt I was in ballet class again, stretching my neck and back the most possible to see his face as he spoke. I thought of how difficult it must have been to try to live up to the expectations of that speech, how significant it was intended to be. And despite the pressure, he delivered. It was a less preacher like speech like Kennedy. It was a smart speech, clarifying through metaphors what his presidency would signify for various groups of people around the world. I couldn't help but nod my head in approval after certain phrases or points were made.

I have rarely heard politicians speak, but when he or she describes more eloquently,and articulates precisely my sentiments, the surprise and delivery gives a feeling of pure satisfaction.

That evening as I walked to the store and forced myself to reflect on the day's events, I came up with a strange conclusion. Being so close to the capitol building and having the crowds behind me so that I couldn't see them, and the media largely missing from the affair, I realized how plain and human all of the people on the stage were. It occurred to me that the powerful may not be exceptionally wiser, or convey a quality that we, the people, lack. In fact, they may be more fallible, they are definitely more vulnerable, and in so many ways senators and cabinet members impact us less than the Apple engineer, facebook programmer or the tv writer.

Obama seemed like a normal guy with great intellect and gusto, ready to try to solve the hardest problems. And George Bush looked like a man who was tired of his job, confused about its success, ready to go home.

My Predictions

Iran- Obama will get frustrated with Iran. They will not be able to negotiate because various preconditions on the American side (such as ditching the notion for regime change) will not occur, unless they put in their super star old school diplomatic core negotiators. On the Iran side I think its too dynamic internally to cut any real deals. You have to move from deal to deal, relying on different groups to push them through.

Government- I think things will be more nuanced, more intellectual, less ideological which will make it harder to be productive. My biggest fear is liberal intellectuals because they are so obsessed with being right, I am worried they would rather win the debate according to the latest theories than get at the right decision using executive know-how and common sense.

But of course in general it will be all good, because some of the people Obama is bringing in to the White House are real liberals, though he is staying more conservative in cabinet positions, he is still pushing more than anyone before I think.

And then I realized, more fully, how powerful these things are. Love and life and time are of their own force, they have their own source of energy, we neither control that source, nor its use. All we can do is respect it and let it happen as it does. Those are the mysteries of our existence, to enjoy life is to stand in their presence and wonder and marvel at them as they happen, to stand in the face of life, love, and time and be part of it, in all its emotion. It takes very little work to simply allow it to be, but somehow we have notions of how it should be and that makes us work too hard.

Three Lives

She walked off the metro stuffed in black down coat, black boots and a hat. She pulled out her smart trip card, swiped it on the scanner of the turnstile and walked on through. She put on her gloves as she walked and began to climb the extra deep escalator stairs passing the people who chose to stand. The cold had calmed down, it did that a lot at night, feeling warmer than the morning walk to work. She slipped on to the sidewalk and headed home.

The walk finally allowed her time to her own thoughts, to her own self, she thought of her two other lives, her secret lives, the ones you couldn’t see if you spied on her everyday, watching her on her walk to work and home. Her second life, was the one no one could touch, the one that only had space for one, where her heart and light sit, where her ideas dance and contract, her internal odyssey, her personal creative playground, her endless curiosity. Her third life was one she had infrequent but intense contact with, it was adventurous and daring, vulnerable and satisfying, unknown and serendipitous. It was her escapade with him. She carried these two lives inside her, walked around with them, pulled them out when she had a break, smiled and cried with them, put them back inside and went on.

She pulled the keys from her bag and unlocked the door. She couldn't avoid thinking about her sister. But she couldn't really come to any terms with the situation now, she was spent, tired, worthless at the end of the day. The building was warm, heavy warm, uncomfortable for her face that was just getting used to the 20 degrees outside. She opened the door, turned on the soft floor lamp, hung up her coat. She walked into her bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed, unzipped her boots, and paused. She looked up at the wall, her drawers at eye level, the soft light of the lamp felt like winter light. It was another end to another day, full of stress and excitement, full of bad news and reasons to smile, just full, the days were just full. In the silence of her little private space, her apartment, she finally escaped all the responsibility to simply recognize the immensity.

She placed her boots in the corner of the room and took of her clothes, put on her pajamas and put everything away. She walked barefoot on the relaxing wood floor. She poured a glass of water and stood in the middle of the kitchen. It was all indulgent, the moments of quiet escape, isolation, her sanctuary. She called her sister, turned off her living room lamp and retired to her bedroom to read the novel he bought her, that she reads slowly so that it doesn't end too quickly.

a passing time

grandparents are everything, they are our history, our connection to a very different time, our connection to the parts of ourselves we don't understand, and they are a great symbol of how safe we actually are in this world.

At seven AM
in the kitchen
pajamas and turkey bacon
between the coffee
and annie lennox
she found her at 17
rejection abound
and foreboding
a huge canyon
dug back then
she hadn't been able
to traverse since
legs bent
head forward
ceaseless energy
to try again
she turned around
the hole was behind her
she was already
on the other side
she must have walked across
in her sleep
before her was endless blue sky
blinding sunshine
and open plains

Lush

then it was
one of those moments
maybe a minute
or a series of seconds
when everything was okay
when she trusted
it all
she did not worry
she couldn't comprehend
fear
she just was
there was no such thing
as failure
there was no such thing
as lost time
it all had its own
metaphysical
purpose
and her triumph
or at least survival
was guaranteed
it was a lush moment
of contentment

stole the sunday

stole the sunday
daydreaming
creating
too old for that
unfortunately
that'll never change
occupied a space
left an aroma
cooked and cleaned
remembered his forearms
while i wiped the counter
bought fresh bread
in the freezing cold
indulged in my fortunate
circumstance

The Fall

two hands in a pocket
the exact same walking pace
cobblestones
and alley ways
thin undrivable streets
cafes
we sing and talk in
dark old movie theatres
flamenco good and bad
on a small stage
the hairs raise on my skin
i squeeze your leg
bread and tomatoes the
way they were meant
to taste
for breakfast
wine at 3PM
a vertical line
on your face
my marking point
as we walk
afternoons
into endless nights
underneath
the cold winter
air
and the
drinking chocolate
it happens
7 days
warm skin
soft light
crawl into bed
lips meet
in the middle

Images flash before my eyes
Like a hallucinating drunk
I see us playing, singing
like two lost souls
indulging in being
found

it was like spending
hours with a best friend
who likes everything I like
and since I like strange things
that was strange

Then she settled in. And loved. loved. loved.

She had never been so vulnerable. She had never loved so deeply nor respected a man so much. She struggled to be so vulnerable. She felt so much for him.

afternoon passed

The afternoon came, the day passed, meetings filled the time and space in her mind but she knew, that later, much later, after dinners and drinks and walks with friends, she would return to him, to them, just right before she closed her eyes, he would be there before her eyes, making her laugh endlessly.

She dared to play a song as she typed on her computer, checked emails. The song came on and she saw him, sitting next to her, mimicking the words to the song, using hand gestures as if he had an audience of 100,000 standing before him. Basic moments turned into gold.

the silent archives

The next morning she resembled the day before only slightly, wearing the coat they bought together. She woke, showered, packed her bag, picked up her phone and stepped outside in the cold as always. She walked, holding memories of Madrid, memories of the week inside her, picking a few to look at during her walk. She walked into the bakery, ordered the eggs and bagel, a breakfast so vastly different from those of the last week. She stood in line, paid and walked out.

So much had happened, and the archives were preserved solely inside them, walking in different hemispheres.

And Then I Smiled

Staring into blue
In the quiet of the night
even Madrid was still