The Liberation of Ibn Khaldun (Part 1)

"I had a bad dream once. I wandered into the dark, dark crevices of a forgotten cave nowhere in the world. I had a strange calling from within the cave which I could barely pinpoint as I walked past the sleeping bats. I walked through pounds of bat droppings. A disgusting gooey, white film covered the bottoms of my bare feet. Wars were fought over this, and all I wanted was to get it off me."

"Deeper and deeper into the labyrinth, I could hear the distant rhythmic footsteps like that of a lonely man pacing back and forth in a small cell. I continued through the many stalagmites and stalactites of this mystic cave wondering "why?" I didn't sense at all the oddity of walking through a cavern barefoot searching for a prisoner. I knew there was a greater purpose. Like a tiny geometric design on an immense, elaborate Persian rug, I knew that this was all just a part of something bigger--something more beautiful."

"When I reached a chamber deep within...wait...wait. It gets blurry there. I can't remember so well anymore. I used to remember my dreams more clearly, but I haven't been able to recently. Give me a second..."

"I think I remember seeing the actual prison cell, in which I could see the figure of a man sitting quietly. I can't remember his face. Or maybe I saw it, but it was unlike anyone I knew. But I don't remember anymore. Anyway, the man wore a green turban and looked up at me gleaming with hope. He showed no signs of being imprisoned. Now, I don't remember the exact words, but this is what I think he said:

I walked on the surface many years ago with the people of understanding. I accompanied those who spent time in contemplation over all things standing, sitting and on their sides. I sat with those who saw the world for what it really was.

But then something happened. New demons arose, poisoning the minds of the people. Slowly, people began to lose understanding and very art of contemplation was lost. I found that I could no longer sit with the people. So, in time, they locked me away in this cavern, hoping that I may never be released again.

Then I woke up. He might have said something else, I can't remember. Something about a cosmic battle. I don't know...I don't know what it means. You have to tell me something," I finally finished speaking and caught my breath. The old man stared at me for some time. He had been listening patiently, and I could see his eyes light up brighter as my narration continued.

"It wasn't what you think, son," he said, "the man in the prison was Ibn Khaldun, and he's there right now. YOU have to find him."

"Am I still dreaming?" I asked shocked by the old man's response.

"You were never dreaming. Go now."

Social Rebellion

Under a government which imprisons any unjustly, the true place for a just man is also a prison.

Henry David Thoreau

To put it differently, if a society has become morally bankrupt or extremely hypocritical, then the only place for a just man is as a pariah. This, then, is the only proper social rebellion best exemplified by Huckleberry Finn's dilemma.

Huck was always a pariah in the imaginary 1840's town of St. Petersburg, Missouri (or Missoura, if you will). The son of a child-abusing drunkard, Huck spent most of his times on the street, until, of course, he was adopted by the widow. The widow and her sister, Ol' Miss Watson, were slaveholders but cherished above all a high morality. The hypocrisy of this type of "sivilization" wouldn't allow Huck to ever fit in, although he did not know exactly why.


When Huck escaped the oppression of his abusive father and the "sivilized" society, he discovered a deep friendship with Jim (Miss Watson's runaway slave). Hence Huck's dilemma. In those times of scathing racism and utter inhumanity, a slave was nothing more than property, thus, Huck was taught that helping a slave runaway is the same as stealing someone's property. Therefore, Huck aiding Jim's escape was morally corrupt by that social standard. At one point Huck is faced with the dilemma of writing Miss Watson telling her the whereabouts of Jim or continuing to help Jim escape slavery. After drafting this letter, Huck thinks:

I felt good and all washed clean of sin for the first time I had ever felt so in my life, and I knowed I could pray now. But I didn't do it straight off, but laid the paper down and set there thinking--thinking how good it was all this happened so, and how near I come to being lost and going to hell. And went on thinking. And go to thinking over our trip down the river; and I see Jim before me, all the time, in the day, and in the night-time, sometimes moonlight, sometimes storms, and we floating along, talking, and singing, and laughing. But somehow I couldn't seem to strike no places to harden me against him, but only the other kind. I'd see him standing my watch on top of his'n, stead of calling me, so I could go on sleeping; and see him how glad he was when I come back out of the fog; and when I come to him again in the swamp, up there where the feud was; and such like times; and would always call me honey, and pet me, and do everything he could think of for me, and how good he always was . . . and then I happened to look around, and see that paper [letter].

It was a close place. I took it up, and held it in my hand. I was a trembling, because I'd got to decide, forever, betwixt two things, and I knowed it. I studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then says to myself, "All right, then, I'll go to hell" --and tore it up.

It was awful thoughts and awful words, but they was said. And I let them stay said; and never thought no more about reforming. I shoved the whole thing out of my head; and said I would take up wickedness again, which was in my line being brung up to it, and the other warn't. And for a starter, I would go to work and steal Jim out of slavery again; and if I could think up anything worse, I would do that, too; because as long as I was in, and in for good, I might as well go the whole hog.

Huck writes the letter to Miss Watson telling her the whereabouts of Jim and feels that he has avoided hell by doing so (because that's what he's been taught). But after thinking about the times he has spend with Jim he realizes that he'd rather go to hell then give Jim up. He tears up the letter and accepts himself for being wicked without apology for it.

What Huck has discovered is the truth. If a society's standards are so backward, then it's better to go straight to hell (by their standards) then to conform. Like Thoreau, Twain acknowledges that in a place of injustice, the only place for a just man is as a social outcast from that society.

Such is the only true social rebellion. When in a society exclusivist nationalism, destructive consumerism, and ignorant ethnocentrism become the social norm, then is it worth being an upstanding member of such a society? Never.

The Legal Solution

The law is limited (just ask Franz Kafka). When people pine for change through the law, I'm never confident it can be done in that way. Although I'm frequently told that that makes me some sort of freaky anarchist, I simply can't see it that way.

The rule of law is absolutely critical and can't be replaced. I would prefer an oppressive government that maintains some degree of law and order over total lawlessness. But in order to affect change, the law is limited. It can only reflect the change that takes place in the society. Therefore, some sort of social evolution needs to accompany the change in law. In simple terms, the people need to believe in the law. There needs to be a collective agreement that the law is good and that we must all maintain it. All the laws in the world can't stop any given problem unless there is a change in the collective ethos.

Be that as it may, what legal solution can we possibly come up with for some of the problems today? In the spirit of Justice Stone's proposal, why not give the trees standing in court to sue? Corporations are non human entities that have the ability to sue or be sued in court, so why not trees?

Let the trees have a fiduciary that is willing to absorb the cost and sue on behalf of harm suffered by the trees. The legal standard ought to be sustainability. If Corporation A chopped down an X amount of trees and the Earth can only replenish a Y amount naturally, then let the forest file a class action law suit against Corporation A. If the forest can show the non-sustainable action by the defendant, then Corporation A should have to pay X minus Y amount of trees. Corporation A will probably raise the price of the widgets made using that wood, which could perhaps deter the consumer from buying those widgets. OR Corporation A could absorb the cost and take a slight loss in profits.

Does it sound reasonable? Probably not. But, the bottom line is the planet's natural resources can no longer be an externality. There needs to be a cost associated with environmental damage and whether the corporation absorbs the cost or passes it on to the consumer, it will still create an incentive to reduce the environmental damage. If I can't sue for the damage suffered by the oil-soaked sea gull, then let the sea gull have standing in court.

The law is never so simple, but I can dream.

American Muslim Identity

They ask me what it means to be an American Muslim. I learned from the desert 14 centuries ago the values of the soul—of knowledge and wisdom, of art and beauty, of justice and compassion. But like the colorless river water taking the hue of the bedrock beneath, my Islam was shaped by America's rich past.

My heritage is rooted in Chief Joseph's lament in the valleys of old;
in Crowfoot's words about the breath of the buffalo;
in the runaway slave kneeling down to pray;
in Harriet who ran the railroad and Harriet who wrote the play;
in John Brown facing the noose over the slavery plight;
in Emerson visiting Thoreau in the prison's dim light.
in the Chinese men standing where the train tracks unite;
in Helen Keller's vision and her suffrage fight;
in Huck Finn's sanctuary on the river at night;
in Langston arriving at Harlem and the Renaissance that flowed;
in Groucho's witty jokes and Chaplin's dancing rolls;
in the Japanese finally saying “Farewell to Manzanar;”
in Coltrane playing the blues and Dylan decrying the war.
in Montgomery, Alabama when there was a long walk home;
in Martin at the church and Malcolm in the dome.

My heritage is rooted in America.


(P.S. I didn't intend for this to be a poem but since I got it going...who'd like to add a verse?)

Blood Chocolate

If you are a chocolate lover, then you might want to avert your gaze. But, if you value human rights slightly more than chocolate, then, by all means, read on.

The story of blood chocolate begins with a feisty, young capitalist named Milton Hershey who entered the wide world of chocolate in 1893 not long after the invention of milk chocolate. He was following in the footsteps of chocolatiers like John Cadbury (who, in England, had realized that chocolate surpassed all his other ventures in profitability). In the budding era of capitalism, Hershey looked to monopolize on all aspects of chocolate production. His vast empire took over entire towns like Derry Church, Pennsylvania (later renamed Hershey, PA) and Hershey, Cuba (built around his sugar mill plantations).

Fast forward some hundred years, it became painfully obvious that chocolate was more than a hit, it was an addiction for many people. Addiction = profitability. In order to feed the mass chocolate addiction ($13 billion spent on chocolate in the United States in 2001), the chocolate industry turns to West Africa for the cocoa. Currently West Africa produces 70% of the world's cocoa used for chocolate.

This raised an interesting business question. Feeding into the chocolate craze in the Western consumer was a piece of (chocolate) cake, but how does one maximize the profitability of the endeavor? The answer was simple. Keep the cocoa prices extremely low. Pay the cocoa producers virtually nothing for the goods and let them hire child slave labor in order to even turn a profit. In the meanwhile, companies like Hershey's could mark up the product considerably and earn a profit of over half a billion per year.

In 2000, there was an outcry by the international community against the exploitation of labor by the chocolate giants. According to an article in the Kansas City Star, boys barely over 4 feet tall were made to work on 500 acre plantations from sunrise to sunset. They were made to carry bags of cocoa beans almost as big as them and if they did not hurry, they were beaten. Boys were beaten if they fell down while carrying the bags. According to other sources, there are approximately 284,000 children working on cocoa plantations and many of them have arrived as a result of child trafficking.

The chocolate giants failed to meet a July 2005 deadline to adopt a monitoring system for the labor conditions on the cocoa plantations. The companies later promised that they would have that system in place by July 2008. Most critics agree that even if these systems were adopted, they would not do enough to solve the problem. These efforts are usually just empty promises that would be underfunded and uneventful even if implemented.

The root of the problem goes to the low cocoa prices and the poverty faced by farmers in West Africa. Nothing has changed since 2000. Hershey's has continued to turn tremendous profits.

In spite of the damning reports against Hershey's (and the known 280,000 child laborers on cocoa plantations), Hershey's website claims:

Today, thanks to a landmark, independent survey conducted in 2002 by the International Institute for Tropical Agriculture (IITA) in cooperation with the International Labor Organization of the UN (ILO) and funded by The Hershey Company and other industry members, we have a clearer picture of actual working conditions on these farms. Contrary to media reports, the survey found that the vast majority of farmers in the region grow cocoa responsibly; no instances of slavery or forced labor were found on the more than 4,500 farms surveyed. . . the clear picture that emerged was far different from initial media reports.

Evidently, Hershey's is not trying to solve the problem because it has refused to acknowledge that the problem even exists. It bases its findings on a research that it itself funded. Apparently, Hershey's finds no conflicts of interest and everything is roses. M&M/Mars, the other chocolate giant, has at least recognized the problem of child labor exists and it has remained silent on whether it exists among its own suppliers. Mars has offered some lofty language and empty promises to appease the local chocolate consumer; however what meaningful action will be taken, remains to be seen.

So, to you, lover of chocolate and lover of love, I recommend Fair Trade chocolate. Fair Trade chocolate is labeled as such by the Fair Trade Labelling Organizations (FLO) which guarantees that the farmers who farmed the cocoa were paid a fair share for their work based on the cost to maintain a healthy standard of living in that area. Since the cocoa prices are low, the FLO adds a fair trade premium to the costs to ensure that the farmers can earn a decent profit.

Look for fair trade chocolate which can be found in ample grocery stores around the country. In addition to being slave labor free, most of the fair trade chocolates have organic cocoa and unrefined sugar. Companies like Equal Exchange and Global Exchange are a few that offer this service. Numerous grocery stores like Trader Joe's and Whole Foods also carry fair trade goods including chocolate, coffee, and other products.

Other chocolate companies like Russell Stover also have better policies towards blood chocolate. President of the company, Tom Ward includes a contract provision with suppliers forbidding the use of child labor. He noted on this issue:

Inhumane labor conditions is a worldwide problem that American companies must heed, or face severe public reaction. Any company that does not understand the impact that can have is not very smart.

The end of the story, as is always the end in a story about a commodity chain, is with you, the consumer. The time has come for the consumer to stop the blind consumption of whatever the market feeds us (whether images or chocolate). You are the all powerful consumer. Chocolate is what you want, child labor free is how you want it, and if big chocolate can't provide that, then you won't buy it.

Civic Consumerism

In his book, Consumed, Benjamin Barber argues that the advertising and marketing in the current markets destroy children and infantilize adults. The main reason, of course, is because it is much easier to appeal to a childish, infantile nature that is essentially narcissistic and immature. (Case in point, almost all major comedy movies that are not suitable for children due to sexual content or adult language are also unequivocally childish in nature). To combat such consumerism, however, there ought to be a rise of civic consumerism, that is, consumers need to become socially responsible citizens. He says:

The civic calling invokes society able to respond generously to children's "irreducible needs" around the world without turning adults into children or seducing children into consumerism in the name of a hollow empowerment. The civic calling takes Wendy's part in the age-old struggle that recurs in each generation between Wendy and Peter Pan. It acknowledges the true delights of childhood, and helps children be children again by preserving them from the burdens of an exploitative and violent adult world. It refuses to "empower them" by taking away their dollies and blocks and toy wagons in which to haul them and replacing them with cell-phones and video games and credit cards with which to pay for them. It refuses to "free" them from parents and other gatekeepers in order to turn them over to market-mad pied pipers who lead them over a commercial precipice down into the mall. Children should play not pay, act not watch, learn not shop. Where capitalism can, it should help protect the boundaries of childhood and preserve the guardianship of parents and citizens; otherwise it should get out of the way. Not everything needs to earn a profit, not everyone needs to be a shopper--not all the time.

Earliest Memory, Revisited

I smelled the salty mist of the sea as I plunged from the upper deck. No time to gasp for help, I already felt my elbow crack as I hit the deck. I fell two feet away from a machine that rose out of the floor of the ship like a robotic mouth. Good thing my elbow didn't land in the gaping mouth of that monstrosity, I thought. Good thing.

I could see the night sky above the sea. The calming stillness was only broken by all the people rushing to my aid in a panic. I wish they wouldn't do that. "Oh my God!!" someone shouted, "that poor baby! Someone come quick."

"I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry!" my uncle uttered as he ran frantically down the staircase. Off into the distance where the noises were nothing more than muffled murmurs, the baleen whales surfaced to catch a breath under the lights of Orion. The moon was absent. My elbow hurt. I couldn't smell the mist or hear the song of the baleen whales, I was in excruciating pain.

The people around me clapped their hands and jiggled their keys hoping to calm me down and silence my tearful cry. The hawksbill turtles floated by hearing my lament. There weren't so many around anymore since the booming industry had arrived. They say the hatchlings couldn't find their way to the shores because the lights of the shoreline nightclubs. They marched to their deaths on the sand as the indifferent party goers gyrated to the lifeless noise of the speakers. No one could hear the cry of the hawksbill turtles. I wondered if they could hear my cry. Actually, I didn't. I cried myself. My elbow was in excruciating pain.

"We should take him off the boat, the trip won't start for another 10 minutes," someone said.

"No, it can't be that bad. I think he just has a light sprain on his elbow," my uncle responded. He looked around asking everyone for my mother.

"She went to get ice cream." As I cried, I could make out the lady in white approaching through my blurry, teary eyed vision. She handed the vanilla ice cream bars to someone else and grabbed for me immediately.

"Hey, baby," the other person said, "you want some ice cream?" Ice cream, I thought, ice cream? I broke my elbow and the dugongs no longer surfaced offshore! Ice cream? But was I ready to leave yet? I could smell the salty mist again. I could suddenly feel the calm stillness of the night at sea. My mind could only imagine now what lay out beyond the horizon. There was nothing but wide open sea for thousands of miles. Nothing to obstruct the sky. Nothing to dim the shine of the stars. The sun would rise up above the sea and the sun would set into the sea. But they broke my elbow and now they want to take me away.

The lady in white would know what to do. I've broken my elbow, but I can't leave the sea, Mama, this is where I belong. She looked at me with the glow in her eyes, and I knew she would take care of it. "It's okay," she said, "it is only a sprain, he'll be fine." She knew the bone was fractured. "Don't feel bad," she told my uncle, "he'll be ok." Yea, it's okay, Uncle, don't take me off this boat now.

The lady in white reached for her scarf and felt my elbow carefully looking for the right spot. The hawksbill turtles would float by and notice the crying now begin to subside. She wrapped it tightly around my elbow and held my arm in place as I sat in her lap. The last tear stood still on my cheek as the gentle breeze of the sea blew it dry. I could feel the sea again. As she finished wrapping, the boat began to slowly drift off the harbor into the quiet Arabian Sea night. She would hold my elbow in place for the entire journey.

I could feel the life of the seawater flow through my body like the blood in my veins, and I forgot that I was a two year old who just fractured his elbow after a traumatic fall. All I could think was of the off chance that I could see the dugongs again. If we floated far enough, perhaps we could see the eerie green glow of the Flying Dutchman as it drifted aimlessly in the foggy night. Perhaps the baleen whales would sing another song and perhaps we could hear the lament of the hawksbill turtles. Perhaps a new gentle giant of the deep might surface and remind us that truly we aren't the masters of this planet. Perhaps we could wave goodbye to the North Star and discover a new land where the dodos still roam.

I sat for hours quietly with my head pressed against the lady in white. "Is he all right?" my uncle asked again guiltily.

"Yes," the lady in white said, "he's never been better." That's right, Mama. It'll take more than a broken elbow to keep me off that boat.

[I was taken to the doctor the next day who put me in a cast for a few weeks. The doctor commended my mother for the medical attention she provided through the journey at sea.]

Lone Wolf

They say puns are lazy writing, but do you know what's even lazier writing? Posting pictures.

As the last story indicated, the Anqa has escaped, so bear with me. (At least the pic is an original).

Mythological Birds

Great Blue Heron

Perhaps the greatest marvels of nature is the bird in flight, but not just any bird, a bird that itself is marvelous in flight. Watching a Canadian goose clumsily take flight over a pond is not quite the same as watching a peregrine falcon dive from the dizzying heights at over 200 miles per hour to capture its prey or the majestic glide of the great blue heron. It often leads us to imagine what if the heron was the size of a whale? What if it feasted on elephants? What if it could talk? What if it could turn into a ball of fire like the sun and destroy everything in its path?

Apparently, this kind of thought was common throughout history. In the last post, I alluded to the Anqa. The Anqa bird is a mysterious bird from Arabian mythology, so mysterious, in fact, that there is very little information about the myth itself (save a few verses from poets like Hafiz and Ghalib). However, the Anqa bird is considered to be very similar to the Persian mythological bird known as the Simurgh.

The Simurgh

The Simurgh is a giant, female bird with the head of a dog or sometimes of a man and the claws of lion. Almost all the ancient Persians seals carry the Simurgh as the symbol. The story goes that the Simurgh was so old that it witnessed the destruction of the world three times. And so through all this life experience, the Simurgh is said to possess immense knowledge and wisdom.

In Shaykh Farid ud din Attar's epic poem, The Conference of Birds, many birds gather to go search for their master--the Simurgh. The band of birds are reduced to thirty as the other birds keep backing away from the journey for one reason or another. Eventually, the thirty birds arrive at the lake but they don't find the Simurgh anywhere. Instead they see themselves in the Lake and realize that what they seek is already in them. The come together to form the Simurgh. The Persian word "Simurgh" means literally "thirty birds."

The Roc

The Roc (or Rukh) is also from the Persian mythology but extends into Arabian mythology. The Roc is perhaps rooted in the legend of the Simurgh, but it is a large, white bird of prey. The Roc is capable of carrying off elephants and whales in its talons. The bird became famous when Sinbad the Sailor was attacked by the Roc in the 1001 Arabian Tales. The Roc was popularized in the West by the Venetian adventurer, Marco Polo. He writes:

It was for all the world like an eagle, but one indeed of enormous size; so big in fact that its quills were twelve paces long and thick in proportion. And it is so strong that it will seize an elephant in its talons and carry him high into the air and drop him so that he is smashed to pieces; having so killed him, the bird swoops down on him and eats him at leisure

Marco Polo, of course, describes the bird as an actual living bird that he himself witnessed. There is no doubt that several species of eagles or other raptors existed at that time and have since gone extinct. Some fossils suggest there was a giant species of eagle that could carry away lemurs. Another theory is that the sight of an adult ostrich gave the impression that the flightless ostrich is a chick of some monstrous flying bird.

While I can't say if something like that could have existed, I do agree that the sailors saw a lot of crazy things in this world. On many occasions, they were right and everyone called them crazy. When the sailors claimed they were attacked by a sea monster called Kraken no one believed them. Recently, however, a squid was discovered measuring over 40-45 feet. The behavioral habits of squids suggest that they are likely to attack ships as they are violently territorial. So the sailor's weren't kidding about that one. A few years ago, a piece of an octopus was discovered on the beach somewhere. After some research it was established that it did belong to an octopus and the considering the size of that part, the octopus would have to be 90ft long. (For those that don't have an indication of how big that is, that is nearly the length of a blue whale!). (For those that still don't have an indication of how big that is, please visit a museum of natural history nearby that contains an actual scale model of a whale). But, I digress...

The Phoenix

The myth of the Phoenix stems from Phoenician mythology is probably the best known of the legendary birds. The Phoenix is said to be a beautiful bird with bright feathers. The unusual legend of the Phoenix goes that before the Phoenix dies, it builds a nest and lays an egg. In order to incubate the egg, the Phoenix sets itself on fire and burns (along with the nest) into ashes. From the ashes, the new Phoenix arises and takes the place of the original. Therefore, at any given time, there is only one Phoenix bird. Another characteristic of the Phoenix is that it is nearly invincible during its lifetime.

So what is the point of this post? The point is to hopefully rekindle the imagination and creativity, to rekindle a sense of wonder and a sense of beauty. The narrator in "The Flight of the Anqa" felt he was unable to recapture his imagination ever again from the absurdity of the modern world (the TV). He saw it as the Anqa bird flying away every time he felt he had come close. (Although, paradoxically, by comparing the girl to the Anqa bird he is creating art--the very thing he feels always escapes him).

The Quetzal

So I hope to get a better grasp of my imagination and creativity over the next few months and I hope that you, the reader (if you still exist), will also chase the Anqa bird until you have captured it or until you witness it burn to ashes and arise anew.

Dodo Bird

The Flight of the Anqa

In the small apartment on the third floor, the TV flickered with bright, unceasing images. I sat in front of the TV, but could not make out anything. She was getting dressed in the other room. She wore a pure white dress with golden embroidery glimmering in the dim light of the apartment. "Get dressed," she said as she tightened a scarf behind her neck. Outside I could hear the rumble of the subway train passing through, in the further distance, ambulance sirens emanated softly into silence.

"Do I have to get dressed?" I asked annoyed at the thought of wearing a suit. Where were we going, I wondered, but didn't ask. She walked quietly back into the other room as if the answer to my question was obvious. I have a red shirt, I thought, it's pretty formal. I couldn't think right. Where am I? The red shirt isn't formal at all. I don't have any clothes to wear.

"Come on, beautiful, get dressed," she pleaded as she walked back into the TV room again. What was this "beautiful" business? Was I dreaming? She was my beautiful...my beautiful anqa. Lovely and mysterious, but the closer I wanted to come, the further I'd feel her drift. Had the flight of the anqa ended now?

"I didn't know you felt that way," I muttered turning away from the TV. I could still not make out the image on the TV. I nervously waited for her response excited at the thought that this might actually be a reality. I still needed affirmation.

"I don't know how I feel," she responded, "I'm a figment of your imagination, I can only say what you want to hear."

"Oh."

"I'm sorry, honey," she said with regret.

"It's okay," I said as the TV continued to flicker on. I could start to make out the image now of a reporter standing in front of some building. "Did you know," I continued, "did you know that I always thought of you as my anqa?"

"An anqa, honey?"

"Yea, the anqa. It's a mythical bird with beautiful plumage said to possess great wisdom. But the more one seeks it, the further away it drifts. Like you are for me."

"Aww. I'm sorry--" Her voice cuts off as the TV suddenly starts to grow louder. "Maybe...you should tell...real...me." I can see her in the doorway still moving her lips, the golden embroidery on her white dress still glimmers brightly. Suddenly images of soda bottles, beer, and pharmaceutical drugs start invading my apartment. Nothing is clear.

"Where are we going?" I yelled over the inaudibly loud sounds from the TV.

"You're losing your imagination, honey." She started to disappear into the other room.

"Wait!" I shouted, "I have more to tell you." There was no response. I could no longer see her through the darkness of the other room. I felt bombarded with images from TV commercials I had seen. I could no longer visualize her white dress. She was gone. The TV continued to flicker. I shut it off, but I still heard the loud sounds and felt the images in my head. I knocked the TV over and unplugged it. The sounds wouldn't end. I began to take the TV apart from the back piece by piece hoping to remove the one piece poisoning my mind with sounds and pictures. I didn't want these pictures. I can't stop them from going into my mind. She wore a white dress, I reminded myself, she wore a white dress with gold embroidery. She looked at me with a loving glow of relief--like an anqa finally home and tired from the flight. But I continued to lose my mind. The TV was still on.

I sat back in frustration. There was no hope. The sounds from the TV continued to invade my mind. Why did I turn this on, I thought. I couldn't remember. She was gone. The anqa had flown again.

The Invisible Man

From Ralph Ellison's The Invisible Man (1952):

I was overcome by a sense of alienation and hostility. My overalls were causing stares and I knew that I could live here no longer, that that phase of my life was past. The lobby was the meeting place for various groups still caught up in the illusions that had just been boomeranged out of my head: college boys working to return to school down South; older advocates of racial progress with utopian schemes for building black business empires; preachers ordained by no authority except their own, without church or congregation, without bread or wine, body or blood; the community "leaders" without followers; old men of sixty or more still caught up in post-Civil War dreams of freedom within segregation; the pathetic ones who possessed nothing beyond their dreams of being gentlemen, who hold small jobs or drew small pensions, and all pretending to be engaged in some vast, though obscure, enterprise, who affected the pseudo-courtly manners of certain southern congressmen and bowed and nodded as they passed like senile old roosters in a barnyard; the younger crowd for whom I now felt a contempt such as only a disillusioned dreamer feels for those still unaware that they dream--the business students from southern colleges, for whom business was a vague, abstract game with rules as obsolete as Noah's Ark but who yet were drunk on finance. Yes, and that older group with similar aspirations, the "fundamentalists," the "actors" who sought to achieve the status of brokers through imagination alone, a group of janitors and messengers who spent most of their wages on clothing such as was fashionable among Wall Street brokers, umbrellas, black calfskin shoes and yellow gloves, with their orthodox and passionate argument as to what was the correct tie to wear with what shirt, what shade of gray was correct for spats and what would the Prince of Wales wear at a certain seasonal event; should field glasses be slung from the right or from the left shoulder; who never read the financial pages though they purchased the Wall Street Journal religiously and carried it beneath the left elbow, pressed firm against the body and grasped in the left hand--always manicured and gloved, fair weather or foul--with an easy precision (Oh, they had style) while the other hand whipped a tightly rolled umbrella back and forth at a calculated angle; with their homburgs and Chesterfields, their polo coats and Tyrolean hats worn strictly as fashion demanded.

My sentiments exactly.

The Banana Peel

Suddenly, as an eerie shadow covers the highway as far as I can see, I remember that this day began with a banana peel. What was the banana peel doing in my bedroom? Well, when I slipped and landed on my back at 5:30am, I couldn't remember anything. With the incessant beeping of that alarm, my groggy eyes, my dream interrupted, and now some major back pains, I wasn't in my senses. What was my dream about, anyway? I can't remember. But, I do remember how the banana peel got there. I put it there. I placed it strategically between my bed and my alarm clock, so I wouldn't just shut my alarm off and go back to bed. Well, it certainly worked.

Aside from that, the day began normally enough. I dressed myself in the most recent additions to my wardrobe--my Banana Republic shirt, Gap sweater and slacks, of course, I had my Wal-Mart sweatpants underneath (hey, it's cold out there). I also had a new jacket AND new shoes. Talk about trendy! I don't really know what I was getting dressed for. But regardless, I hit the road early to beat rush hour.

Now, that's where things started to get weird. After digging my car out of the snow, I realized that everyone had done so 2 days ago. At this point, everyone around me had piled the snow halfway up to the door on my car, which was still copmletely buried. I get lazy sometimes, but this is ridiculous. I got on the road right at rush hour, but there were no cars on the road. None at all! I was speeding down an empty highway with absolutely no cars in sight. Was it a holiday? Have I slept too much? Was it Christmas? ...No, it's February! Suddenly, I heard the roar of a powerful vehicle. A black Hummer H2 blew past me. Why was I sweating? There was a single person inside the monstrosity of a vehicle--a college student who was also preoccupied with her phone. And with 3 empty lanes for miles ahead of us, she cut me off.

It was a sunny day when I began my trip. And right about now, at the height of my confusion, an eerie shadow covered the highway as far as I could see. This is one hell of a cloud. I tried to lean forward and sneak a look at the sky--all I can see is black. It's moving though. It looks like...like...feathers? There's no way that's feathers! The sweat is starting to drench my clothes. I can feel it the moisture as I jostle around trying to figure out if I have truly seen feathers. It's feathers! Just when I accept that realization, I hear the loud, thunderous shriek of the bird above me. The shadow of the bird is covering the highway as far as I can see. I feel a heavy wind rush past, and my car begins to sway. The giant raptor swoops down on the Hummer like it's a field mouse. And just like that, the Hummer is carried away in the enormous talons. The bird shriekds and flies up higher.

I can see the sun again. I don't care at this point. My heart is in my throat, and sweat is covering me like someone threw a bucket of water at me. It's a thicker sweat. When you see a 200 foot raptor carry away a Hummer off the road in front of your eyes, I suppose you sweat thicker. As the bird flies off out of my sight, I notice the color of my sweater. It was gray when I began my day. The sweat has made it darker gray, but something's not quite right. I'm bleeding. It's not sweat! I'm bleeding. I don't feel any pain. I don't feel a wound. I haven't had the opportunity to be injured (surprisingly). I'm bleeding profusely.

My instinct tells me to keep driving, so long as I don't feel pain, keep driving. I felt my body, there's no wound. I'm not cut. It's not my blood. There's so much blood, it can't be mine. I would have passed out by now. It's the blood of a child..or children. I don't know why I'm thinking that. I'm really speeding now. I have to find someone or something--anything. It's my clothes--they're bleeding the blood of children.

I maneuvered the empty roads until I arrived at school. There's no one around. I still haven't seen anyone except the girl in the Hummer. Inside the building, the telephone is ringing at the security desk. There's no one at the desk. I had to pick it up. I need to talk to anyone.

"Hello," I said frantically.

"Hello Tariq, it's me, Dad," the voice said, and the day gets worse, "listen, I hope no one saw you. Stay low, don't let anyone know you are there." The phone starts to make that annoying beeping sound when it's been off the hook too long. I see no one. Suddenly, I remember my dream before the banana peel incident. I dreamt I went to class and had a normal day.

Drive Home

Route 3 Next Right

I have to take that exit. No moon out tonight. Although there is a star. Is that a star? Or is that a plane? Can't tell. Merge right. Merge right. Someone in my blind spot. Merge right. 9:42. Can't miss this exit.

This is where I'd be on the phone with her. It was one year ago? Yea, one year. There's a bug on the road. I saw it! There was a bug on the road! She looked like a gutsy bug. Crossing the highway and still smiling. She'll live, I think. I would have gotten squashed. She'll live though. Should I call her now? It's been a year.

Route 17 Rutherford

I liked the sound of her voice the first time. I miss that first time. It's 26 degrees outside. The chrome of the car must be cooler than that. The cold air pressing down to the ground. Higher up the airplane passenger is looking down at my car. A bug crossing the street. I should call her.

Summit Ave Keep Left

The airplane passenger can still see my car. Is he still looking? It's the one still following the big white truck. I can't call her now. I have to move on. She's gonna think I'm crazy. The airplane passenger knows if the road is out ahead. I hope the road isn't out. 10:05. Can't miss this exit.

Summit Ave Next Left

My stomach hurts. I can see it. Like something protruding up into the soft esophagus lining. The beating of my heart makes it vibrate slightly. It hurts. If I call her, what would I say? I can't call her.

Route 80 West Paterson

Crap! I missed my exit.

Funk

Tariq is suffering from a creative/intellectual/existential funk...

any suggestions?

Power to the People

Lakota Sioux Secede from the United States

Political activist Russell Means, a founder of the American Indian Movement, says he and other members of Lakota tribes have renounced treaties and are withdrawing from the United States.1221 04

“We are now a free country and independent of the United States of America,” Means said in a telephone interview. “This is all completely legal.”


Means said a Lakota delegation on Monday delivered a statement of “unilateral withdrawal” from the United States to the U.S. State Department in Washington.

The State Department did not respond. “That’ll take some time,” Means said.

Meanwhile, the delegation has delivered copies of the letter to the embassies of Bolivia, Venezuela, Chile and South Africa. “We’re asking for recognition,” Means said, adding that Ireland and East Timor are “very interested” in the declaration.

Other countries will get copies of the same declaration, which Means said also would be delivered to the United Nations and to state and county governments covered by treaties, including treaties signed in 1851 and 1868. “We’re willing to negotiate with any American political entity,” Means said.

Read the rest here.