Carlos y Miguel

Digamosle Carlos, aunque no sea mas Carlos que yo soy Miguel. ;-)

Es joven, inteligente, estable, religioso, amable, educado, bien criado; le gusta leer; oye mucha de la misma musica que yo oigo. Trabaja y va a la universidad. Baila, come, bebe, nunca fuma (aunque me perdona que yo si). Ve peliculas como las que veo yo. Las partes de sus intereses que no coinciden con los mios hasta ahora me han inspirado ya sea curiosidad o interes.

Es guapito, delgado, atletico y feliz. Se rie y su risa ilumina la sala oscura donde estamos sentados, el en mis brazos, viendo tele.

Me esta ensenando mucho y quiere aprender de mi.

Es un enigma que quiero decifrar--un nudo gordiano, pero yo no alejandro y no necesariamente por eso no tan violento, asi que hare lo que hacia mi madre en las tardes aquellas cuando llovia y nos sentabamos a platicar, cuando nosotros los ninos haciamos los nudos mas complicados que pudieramos y ella, con la mayor paciencia del mundo, y (segun nosotros los ninos) la mayor habilidad, poco a poco los deshacia, para regresarnos la cuerda tal como Dios la hizo. Y si lo logro, tal vez como aquel que lo deshizo una vez, conquistare al mundo entero.

oh... como materia que no le interese al mundo, les contare que el es de israel y yo de nicaragua. Estoy queriendo aprender de su cultura y el de la mia, y ese interes (el me ensenara Hebrew y yo a el Spanish) nos ha dado tanto tiempo para conocernos y me esta gustando.

sera sonso que ya tan pronto estemos planeando viaje a tierra santa? no sera hasta fines del proximo ano... pero me esta gustando el plan.

tengo miedo... mucho miedo... me han hecho dano y no estoy pa'eso ya mas. Pero he oido decir que la unica batalla que uno tiene garantizado perder es aquella a la que uno no fue.

disculpen, si es que leen esto, mi ausencia de un mes or so. He estado ocupado, como ya comprenderan, habiendo leido esto.

les contaria mas, desconocidos intimos mios, pero justo en este momento me voy a "arreglar" (eso quiere decir que hay algo malo conmigo?) y lo voy a ver. El sale de la escuela tarde hoy (a las 10) y vamos a Starbucks o Coffee Bean (o mejor algun independiente de los que abundan en los angeles).


que rico...




oh... y el cafe sabe bien tambien.

;-)

A Sound of Thunder

I just got back from the movies.

I read a lot, and one of my favorite writers is Ray Bradbury. I have a copy of The Martian Chronicles autographed by him twice--twenty years apart. When I gave it to him to sign the second time, he said: "but i've already signed this!" and laughed when he saw the date.

Still, I had never read "A Sound of Thunder" until my little friend, mamacita, put it on her blog, for which I greatly thank her. Honestly, though, I was not very impressed. It was too short and not well developed. It lacked the subtlety to which he had gotten me accustomed. Still, his stories do awaken in me a sense of wonder, and my imagination does (from time to time) surpass what burton, spielberg or lucas can put on film.

I was disappointed. What a waste of Ben Kingsley! His character was so devoid of depth or significance--a shame indeed. None of the characters was worth mentioning. The special effects were weak, though I like the "alternative evolution" monsters they came up with. Of course, you can get those for free on the discovery channel or the national geographic channel, or the science fiction channel, or a myriad more worthy movies.

So, then, in short: thanks, mamacita, for pointing me here. I always love expanding my limited horizons. However, this is definitely a renter. I'd watch it right after Jurassic Park (the first one), though definitely before Frankenfish (don't ask).

I'll probably just end up pissing Warner Brothers off by buying a fake copy from the guy at Tacos Mexico--again, don't ask.

Other than that, I had a wonderful, restful, weekend.

Plus I met Carlos--which is another story altogether.

More, God Willing, to come.

¿Por qué me abandonaste?

Oculto en el portal
fumando una colilla de ayer
el tiempo en el bolsillo
y el frío dibujado en la piel.

Se acercan como siempre
y él entre las rendijas les ve
amarse cada día
mirándose y riendo a la vez.

A punto de gritar
esconde el llanto con la pared
después desaparecen
y vuelve a repetir:


¿Por qué me abandonaste?
no sé por qué
si siempre fuiste mía
no sé por qué.

¿Por que me abandonaste
si mis besos y caricias
sólo me hablan de ti?

¿Por qué me abandonaste?
no sé por qué,
quemándome la vida—
no sé por qué—
llenando de tristeza y soledad
cada momento que no estás aquí.

---

A punto de gritar
esconde el llanto con la pared
después desaparecen
y vuelve a repetir:

¿Por qué me abandonaste,
Si siempre fuiste mia?
Si al cabo de los años
mis caricias y mis besos
sólo me hablan de tí.

¿Por qué me abandonaste?
no sé por qué,
quemándome la vida
no sé por qué,
llenando de tristeza y soledad
cada momento que no estás aquí.

¿Por qué me abandonaste?
No se por qué,
quemándome la vida

¿Por qué me abandonaste?
No se por qué,
quemándome la vida
llenando de tristeza y soledad
cada momento que no estás aquí.

¿Por qué me abandonaste?
No se por qué,
quemándome la vida

Autores: Elios-V Maguelli-Lazzari-Sebastiani
Intérprete: Paloma San Basilio

Por Los Caminos Van Los Campesinos...

De dos en dos,
de diez en diez,
de cien en cien,
de mil en mil,
descalzos van los campesinos
con la chamarra y el fusil.

De dos en dos los hijos han partido,
de cien en cien las madres han llorado,
de mil en mil los hombres han caído,
y hecho polvo ha quedado
su sueño en la chamarra, su vida en el fusil.

El rancho abandonado,
la milpa sola, el frijolar quemado.
El pájaro volando
sobre la espiga muda
y el corazón llorando
su lágrima desnuda.

De dos en dos,
de diez en diez,
de cien en cien,
de mil en mil,
descalzos van los campesinos
con la chamarra y el fusil.

De dos en dos,
de diez en diez,
de cien en cien,
de mil en mil,
¡por los caminos van los campesinos
a la guerra civil!

PABLO ANTONIO CUADRA

Dos Lobos

Mi amiga, Mamacita (de Scheiss Weekly), escribió una historia hace unos días que me gustó mucho. Para leerla en Ingles, por favor visítenla; su blog está generalmente muy bueno. Pero para aumentar la audiencia de los que quizás comprenderán el significado de la historia, la he traducido aquí. Disculpen si no lo hago bien, y les ruego traten de comprender su significado sin dejarse llevar por los errores de su humilde servidor:

-------------

Una tarde, un indio platicó con su nieto de una batalla constante que existe dentro de toda la gente.

Le dijo: “Hijo, la batalla es entre dos lobos dentro de todos nosotros. Uno es malo. Es enojo, furia, envidia, celos, pena, arrepentimiento, arrogancia, culpa, lástima de uno mismo, inferioridad, mentiras, orgullo falso, superioridad y egoísmo. El otro es bueno. Es felicidad, paz, amor, esperanza, serenidad, humildad, bondad, benevolencia, empatía, generosidad, verdad, compasión y fe.”

El nieto pensó acerca de esta historia un momento y al fin le preguntó a su abuelo: “¿Y cuál gana?”

El indio viejo simplemente contesto: “El que le das de comer.”

-------------

Que simple y que cierta esta historia. Y que difícil de aprender.

Legally Insane

A not-too-close acquaintance of mine (spell check is off... sue me!) sent me this.

It's funny.

I laughed.

I'm still laughing.

I hope you laugh, too.

here goes:

From: vendor
Sent: Saturday, June 04, 2005 7:53 PM
To: me
Subject: oldie but goodie

Disorder in the Court

These are from a book called Disorder in the American Courts, and are things people actually said in court, word for word, taken down and now published by court reporters that had the torment of staying calm while these exchanges were actually taking place.

ATTORNEY: Are you sexually active?
WITNESS: No, I just lie there.

______________________________

ATTORNEY: What is your date of birth?
WITNESS: July 18th.
ATTORNEY: What year?
WITNESS: Every year.

_____________________________________

ATTORNEY: What gear were you in at the moment of the impact?
WITNESS: Gucci sweats and Reeboks.

______________________________________

ATTORNEY: This myasthenia gravis, does it affect your memory at all?
WITNESS: Yes.
ATTORNEY: And in what ways does it affect your memory?
WITNESS: I forget.
ATTORNEY: You forget? Can you give us an example of something you forgot?

_____________________________________

ATTORNEY: How old is your son, the one living with you?
WITNESS: Thirty-eight or thirty-five, I can't remember which.
ATTORNEY: How long has he lived with you?
WITNESS: Forty-five years.

_____________________________________

ATTORNEY: What was the first thing your husband said to you that morning?
WITNESS: He said, "Where am I, Cathy?"
ATTORNEY: And why did that upset you?
WITNESS: My name is Susan.

______________________________________

This one reminds me of Labyrinth
ATTORNEY: Do you know if your daughter has ever been involved in voodoo?
WITNESS: We both do.
ATTORNEY: Voodoo?
WITNESS: We do.
ATTORNEY: You do?
WITNESS: Yes, voodoo.

______________________________________

ATTORNEY: Now doctor, isn't it true that when a person dies in his sleep, he doesn't know about it until the next morning?
WITNESS: Did you actually pass the bar exam?

___________________________________

ATTORNEY: The youngest son, the twenty-year-old, how old is he?
WITNESS: Uh, he's twenty-one.

________________________________________

ATTORNEY: Were you present when your picture was taken?
WITNESS: Would you repeat the question?

______________________________________

ATTORNEY: So the date of conception (of the baby) was August 8th?
WITNESS: Yes.
ATTORNEY: And what were you doing at that time?
WITNESS: Uh....

______________________________________

ATTORNEY: She had three children, right?
WITNESS: Yes.
ATTORNEY: How many were boys?
WITNESS: None.
ATTORNEY: Were there any girls?

_____________________________________

ATTORNEY: How was your first marriage terminated?
WITNESS: By death.
ATTORNEY: And by whose death was it terminated?

______________________________________

ATTORNEY: Can you describe the individual?
WITNESS: He was about medium height and had a beard.
ATTORNEY: Was this a male or a female?

______________________________________

ATTORNEY: Is your appearance here this morning pursuant to a deposition notice which I sent to your attorney?
WITNESS: No, this is how I dress when I go to work.

______________________________________

ATTORNEY: Doctor, how many of your autopsies have you performed on dead people?
WITNESS: All my autopsies are performed on dead people.

______________________________________

ATTORNEY: ALL your responses MUST be oral, OK? What school did you go to?
WITNESS: Oral.

______________________________________

ATTORNEY: Do you recall the time that you examined the body?
WITNESS: The autopsy started around 8:30 p.m.
ATTORNEY: And Mr. Denton was dead at the time?
WITNESS: No, he was sitting on the table wondering why I was doing an autopsy on him!

______________________________________

ATTORNEY: Are you qualified to give a urine sample?
WITNESS: Huh?

______________________________________

ATTORNEY: Doctor, before you performed the autopsy, did you check for a pulse?
WITNESS: No.
ATTORNEY: Did you check for blood pressure?
WITNESS: No.
ATTORNEY Did you check for breathing?
WITNESS: No.
ATTORNEY: So, then it is possible that the patient was alive when you began the autopsy?
WITNESS: No.
ATTORNEY: How can you be so sure, Doctor?
WITNESS: Because his brain was sitting on my desk in a jar.
ATTORNEY: But could the patient have still been alive, nevertheless?
WITNESS: Yes, it is possible that he could have been alive and practicing law.

The World According to Oliver (consider yourself)

The war was over. Thousands of relieved parents poured onto the streets in celebration more than of the victory, than the end to the senseless death that had already taken so many thousands. Thousands of children poured onto the streets for no reason better than to shout and run and be free like they hadn’t for years. Three generations had fought for this day, and now it was here and no one had the temerity to point out that victory is when the hard work begins: that day was not a day for sense and logic, but for triumph and merriment. Walking with my mother, dressed in the requisite red shirt and black pants, waiving little blue and white flags right alongside the red and black ones, most of us with the peasant-inspired straw hats so en vogue after the revolution, I was of the people. There is no greater sense of freedom than the first dizzying moments of debauchery, drunkenness and love-making. How more free could one be than that one day, after one persecution ended and the next hadn’t yet begun?

We went back to school. The actual fighting in the cities had only taken one year out of school. Then, there was the literacy campaign, that took most literate men and women of 16 or older and took them to the fields, the jungles and the steppes, to teach those who had so long been kept in darkness the power of the written word, the sense of numbers and the words of the new founding fathers. History is the boon of the victors, and there was so much to rewrite, retell, redo. Thus, then, two years passed before we went back to school, but we went back.

To be sure, an endless debate could start by merely trying to pin down the real reasons for the revolution. Power corrupts those who hold it, but many who don’t lust after it to their souls’ decay—and we had both. Ultimately, Somoza faced thirteen armies, divided into three groups; each group had its own ideology, but mostly everybody agreed on one thing: Somoza had to go. He was not a nice man. He was not a good leader. He did not have the nation’s interests at heart. The United States had installed his father into the presidency many a year before for no better reason than to have a friend in a slightly unstable area. American economic interests required a modicum of stability to facilitate commerce—and (at the time) the possible construction of a canal, as I recall, but that might have been before. Unfortunately, there was a bit of a misunderstanding regarding the nature of that stability, and the Somozas assumed a despotic and tyrannical choke-hold on the nation that Stalin would have envied and Nixon (privately, of course) admired. But stability it was, and as such, met the requirements divinely inspired from the north, and so more money came, and more power, more arms and more dying. The dead, it seems, are ultimately stable—but they are not economically viable—so, per instructions implicitly declared en Anglais, the populace was kept at a happy medium. The suffering of the people of Nicaragua was considered secondary to the ultimate political and economic interests of the cold-war-era United States. The stability of the right-wing regime there was considered an advantage in the on-going fight against the possibility of Cuba exporting Soviet-style communism to the region; many of the Cubans who participated in the Bay of Pigs invasion were trained in Nicaragua with the full knowledge of President Kennedy, a liberal and a democrat—go figure. Cute little phrases came out of that: Alliance for Progress. We failed to see Alliance meant really Alignment (ours behind yours), for your progress. Of course, Americans justified this by the use of the eternal trickle-down economics: the ever-better scraps you threw our way should justify the rape of our country’s natural resources—and, to forestall those who’d chastise my use of the word “rape” as a leftist exaggeration, I’d like to beg that if you have not walked on the dead, eroded sands of what once was verdant, life-giving jungle but turns into a post-apocalyptic, war-torn moonscape after American-style deforestation seeking more wood or to drive out “insurgents”, it would be best to avoid commenting on the subject. The killing fields belong only to the dead. The living’s job is to prevent the next ones.

Americans get so wrapped up in their political dichotomy they fail to see the rest of the world can’t tell the difference between Democrats and Republicans once one starts talking Dollars.

Shortly after the revolution, the United States did to Nicaragua what it had done to Cuba, apparently ignoring the lesson of the past, and thereby dooming itself to the same results: economic sanctions practically drove the fledgling democracy into the hands of the Cubas, Chinas, East Germanies and Soviet Unions of the world. But the fault, you see, was with Nicaragua. Remember the three armies? The one that had won was the middle one, the one that wanted to build an independent country from any external power. But the United States demands immediate and unfailing allegiance, an oath of fealty a new democracy just now exercising the muscles of its sovereignty would never want. Ronald Reagan could not have wrapped the gift with a nicer, bigger, redder bow. Nicaragua needed money and the United States did not want to help. But Russia was all about helping us—so very friendly, so very accommodating, so very un-demanding of any subservience, at first.

And then, when the other two armies saw the failure of the third, the one that had won at first, they took over. Thus came the communists to power, not with the revolution, but after the Americans stopped sending help to Nicaragua.

Seeing the incredible oppression the new regime was bringing to the people, and the very real possibility of the exportation of soviet-styled communism to El Salvador and Honduras, and possibly to Colombia and maybe Panama, the United States took immediate, if not overt, action against the Nicaraguan government. Most of this was later celebrated in the Iran-Contra hearings, but I get ahead of myself. Remember I just got back to school after two years of forced and not-terribly-appreciated vacation.

It was a nice, private school. We were of the newly-formed upper class. Dedicated revolutionaries against the Somozas, we (as a family) landed nice positions in the new government. Suddenly, we were hot. The new equality brought a redistribution of wealth which, if not necessarily equitable, was somewhat just. After all, what do the victors get if not the spoils? My dad had a friend who ran a hospital. The school required “community service” hours before graduation. My brother and I went a couple of hours to the hospital and helped clean out some trash, file some papers, push wheel chairs around, all for credit. This was to teach us the value of social responsibility. This is the lesson that I learned.

Shortly after we started, the United States’ supported contras, with arms provided by the CIA, bought with money from Iran, bombed the primary port in Managua. A tanker that was waiting to be unloaded exploded; the line that connected it to the gigantic oil-tanks on the port caught fire. Fifty-thousand gallons of refined gasoline make for a hell of a cherry bomb. I never knew how many died—I did not want to know. I avoided the news. I was, you see, in the thick of things: I was at the hospital when they brought the burn victims in. Most were missing pieces, neatly cleaned and dressed to avoid infection. We kids were kept away from most of them—we were there to file, to push, to clean, not to deal with death and dismemberment.

We were specifically forbidden to go into the small room in the back of the burn unit, which made it most appealing. One day, we snuck in. The room was clean and white, every surface kept sterile to avoid any possibility of infection. There were three beds, each cocooned inside a plastic tent, oxygen running to them all the time; each bed pristine, the lights bright, the air cool and constantly running, like a soft breeze, with a slight disinfectant smell. On each bed there was a body. There were two women and one child, at some point, but when I went in, there was only a woman there—at least they told me later it was a woman. Looking through the plastic, I could hardly tell the mess of charcoal and blood on the bed was even human. She felt no pain, they told me when I ran out crying—so much of heir flesh was gone…and bone can’t feel the burn. They did not know why she wouldn’t just die. She had no name. She was just a body they brought in to the morgue, only to realize at the last moment she was still breathing, if only barely. I hope to God she died quickly.

That is how the United States exports democracy. Whatever else you may say on the matter, as of this writing 1400 human voices have been forever silenced just on the American side in Iraq. That is an irrefutable number that must be considered. I make no judgment on the political, economic and humanitarian motives that lead to their deaths, but add to these the countless deaths of those on the other side. Those 1400 bear no guilt, but those on the other side perhaps do, and so we sleep better at night knowing our boys and girls are there doing the right thing. But I have seen the wrong thing done in the name of right. Sometimes, I see it still. So do not dare to tell me that I don’t know why I speak when I speak strongly against any kind of military action. Somebody must. This is not to say that such an action may from time to time be necessary, but rather that it must be taken with full knowledge of the price to pay. Anything less than absolute torture over the decision is inhuman. Those making the decision must be held accountable for that decision every step of the way. The righteous do not mind to die for the cause of righteousness. They welcome sharing in the ultimate price they ask of all those others. It is only the cowards that try to hide behind lies and excuses.

It is irresponsible to dismiss the opposing view by merely exaggerating its points into their most ridiculous worst-case scenarios and thus attempt to call such a view equally ridiculous. Speaking of the anti-war movement as though it were an oily blob crawling its way up from the theatre screen to consume all foolish enough to try to stand their ground, seeks to dismiss the richness of individual experiences. It is not a movement, but a shifting coalition—and often only accidental association of those who for one reason or another feel this country’s interests could be best served by alternative courses of action.

The war in Viet-Nam was not ended by the anti-war movement. The insane numbers of American dead ended that war. The eternally missed goals ended that war. Why do we call the prolonged and bloody debacle of the soviets in Afghanistan a victory for democratic forces everywhere, but Viet-Nam is the failure of the “anti-war movement”? It is all a question of perspective, a fairy tale where we as Americans can do no wrong. The Soviets left and the Taliban moved in. Who wins? If there is a political aspect to American democracy that attracts the persecuted intellectuals of the rest of the world, it is that it welcomes individualism, and thus dissent. It is ultimately patriotic to question the motives of the government: keeping it honest. Questioning or outright opposing those motives is not irresponsible, weak, or pandering to the interest of terrorists. That some seek to silence the healthy debate reminds me how it feels to live under tyranny.

Any global action taken by a superpower like the United States will have both positive and negative effects—regardless of the original causes. Even the most selfish act may benefit others accidentally or deliberately in the accomplishment of the selfish goal. To try to justify the original intent by the ultimate effect is like saying “look at the Japanese economy of the 70’s and 80’s! It’s ok we dropped two nuclear bombs on them.” Any action must bear immediate justification, or it quickly turns into allowing the end to justify the means.

I, and many like me, admire and respect many who propose the opposing view, but I am getting sick and tired of being called weak, afraid, traitor simply because I don’t fall in line immediately behind them. Nothing could insult them more than my having a mind of my own. It is really a shame that their version of democratic discourse is limited to total, unconditional agreement to their views alone. They equate disagreement with hatred for this country. How incredibly irresponsible is that!? This country, born out of argument and debate, that fought to gain its voice from under the tyrannical dictum of the British Empire, where heroes gave their lives so the critical decisions could be made here—here being where every citizen is—now sees this fundamental right brought into question by those who fear dissention. What’s worse, they are now insulting those who have kept an open mind, calling them complacent, slow to act, sheep-like simply because they didn’t fall in line right behind them.

I find it very amusing how they deny the existence of a “vast, right-wing conspiracy” even as they accuse all who oppose them of being on-message, falling in line, being complacent. They don’t associate for the sake of unifying their voice and clarifying their views; they don’t need to! Their point is so patently clear and right that any non-fascist, non-terrorist, non-communist, red-blooded American would just know it to be true—the rest of us are just insane.

I am sincerely disturbed by the nature of the words many who oppose the war are saying. It is true that our troops deserve our support and every effort must be made to eliminate the dangers to which they can be exposed while there. Nothing should be said to endanger them. However, to equate any disagreement with a death wish on our children, our friends in Iraq, Afghanistan and other such places is sheer stupidity. But is not enough that there are destructive demagogues out there taking advantage of the situation to bring attention to themselves (on both sides of this argument) to translate dissent to lunacy. This country’s democracy demands dialog, and those who wish to live under dictatorial, tyrannical, overpowering forces are certainly welcome to move to China. God knows there’s plenty of work there.

Iraq is nothing like Viet-Nam. Viet-Nam is already lost. We can still win in Iraq. Let us, however, as responsible Americans, bring out into the open all our motives and democratically discuss what course of action will accomplish our humanitarian goals while minimizing deaths.

Dissent is difficult; it is often seen as unpatriotic, and those who don’t like it often bring out entire libraries of patriotic talk about falling in line behind the leader to bring about peace. But I have lived under tyranny, both communist and not. I have seen my friends and my parents’ friends die fighting for freedom. Many in my family died to free our land. I have lived through a war and know how necessary it can be. Some things are worth one’s life. One of these things is the freedom to dissent, to vote, to matter in a democracy.

Anything else is Un-American.