I’d just be gilding the lilly if I commented on this

COURIC: You’ve cited Alaska’s proximity to Russia as part of your foreign policy experience. What did you mean by that?

PALIN: That Alaska has a very narrow maritime border between a foreign country, Russia, and on our other side, the land– boundary that we have with– Canada. It– it’s funny that a comment like that was– kind of made to– cari– I don’t know, you know? Reporters–

COURIC: Mock?

PALIN: Yeah, mocked, I guess that’s the word, yeah.

COURIC: Explain to me why that enhances your foreign policy credentials.

PALIN: Well, it certainly does because our– our next door neighbors are foreign countries. They’re in the state that I am the executive of. And there in Russia–

COURIC: Have you ever been involved with any negotiations, for example, with the Russians?

PALIN: We have trade missions back and forth. We– we do– it’s very important when you consider even national security issues with Russia as Putin rears his head and comes into the air space of the United States of America, where– where do they go? It’s Alaska. It’s just right over the border. It is– from Alaska that we send those out to make sure that an eye is being kept on this very powerful nation, Russia, because they are right there. They are right next to– to our state.

Update: Apparently the “trade missions” claim was fact-checked. There were never any trade missions, expeditions, journeys, errands, commissions, or assignments. Why do we allow people to make things up?

Ice Cream Stand

via: suicideblonde

What are you scared of?

s__: im scared of doing just barely enough to get myself out of bed

but nothing to get myself excited about getting out of bed

m__: i’m sick of tricking myself into being excited about getting out of bed

Thoughts 09/19/08

I’m much more comfortable with a chip, a monkey, or a grudge on my shoulder, back, or my harbor. I feel rather lost without it.

I’m sensing this may be a problem.

It’s like I’m intentionally placing a chip on my shoulder, picking fights, and daring all comers to knock it off.

It works really well in sport. Rowing was a constant contest of machismo.

It doesn’t work so well most other places, for example: 1) while shopping for yogurt at Whole Foods 2) while lifting weights at the gym and 3) while ordering a drink at the corner bar. Surprise! Most people don’t like to argue about the fairness of their existence.

They don’t want to be reminded that life probably isn’t.

The dregs

My favorite part of a cup of coffee is slurping the undissolved sugary sludge at the bottom.

Even better if the coffee came out of a french press.

It’s like eating coffee beans coated in milky syrup.

Wonderful Nightmares

I’m going to try and get this all down in writing before it leaks out of my head. I’m trying to capture an ounce of chimeric fluid from an ocean of past memories. The harder I try and squeeze, the faster the dream will dribble away. That’s how dreams are I suppose, especially ones you have earlier in the night. The ones that violently jerk you awake, lost. You attempt to remember who you are, what day it is, what city is this, how old you are.

I time-traveled back to high school. I know this. I can’t remember the means of the time-travel and I can’t remember the exact reason.

I knew I was there to fix things. Nothing in particular. Just to fix, everything. Anything I could do over, I would.

A test I failed in 10th grade biology? Well, the new me, the 26 yr old in disguise ala Freaky Friday, could ace that test blindfolded.

And there was Erica. My junior high and high school crush. Her moist, murky, saucer plate eyes looked at me sweetly. I could see the perfect, brown skin of her neck and the freckles in that space between her eyebrows. The short denim shorts giving way to long tan legs, crossed under the desk. Her feet danced underneath the blonde leather of her reef sandals. Her toe nails were painted a deep red.

Oh yeah!

She sat there in the chair with the desk attached- the learning apparatus so prevalent in secondary school classrooms. She sat next to me, close to me, as she had through most classes. We’d always find each other when choosing our desk/chairs that first day. I adored and idolized and idealized and fantasized about her. I would let her copy my work at the drop of a hat, and she often did (in fact that’s how we met), but I never felt she was taking advantage of the situation. Indeed, there were times that when she would copy my work or ask me about a history exam question when I knew for a fact she could do it on her own.

I always wondered if I could make any sort of move. And why I never did. I suppose I’ve always lacked that bold, unabashed fearlessness. There is always the self-conscious hum that whirs somewhere between my ears and my tailbone. It stiffens my spine and freezes my throat. I stutter.

My stuttering would always ebb and flow, seemingly on an annual pattern. For most of the 10th grade I hardly spoke to anyone, much less to the object of my affections. The stutter was overwhelming. The possibility of stuttering was overwhelming. There was always the chance it would happen, that alone was enough to deter me from speaking up.

But back to my time-traveling

I was finally able to take that chance. I was finally able to talk to her. About class, about teachers, about swing dancing, and about soccer.  I could stare her in the eye without flushing. I never had to worry about stuttering. I would touch her leg and she would shudder. I was taking my chance this time, I was making it right. There was no need for wist because I was asking her to dance to the final slow song of the night.

It’s not like I had such a terrible childhood, just a shy one, primarily because of the stuttering.

I can’t help but think where I would be now without these cringe-worthy recollections of my past and my need to periodically unearth them. It’s like inside my skull there is a vast graveyard of memories and there’s a person walking around with a shovel. Throughout each day, this person will feel the compulsion to slice into this cemetery, uncovering moments that I thought had long been forgotten.

These moments will come rushing back to me all at once, washing me in doubt and leaving a briny, shimmering film of disappointment and question.

Why didn’t I take that chance? Why couldn’t I say anything?

In my dream I was finally seizing the moment. I no longer looked towards tomorrow as my savior. I no longer had faith the future would be better, there wasn’t any need for it.  The possibility of better times ahead was irrelevant, I was flirting with my biggest crush, I was standing up to the bully, I was actually learning spanish instead of looking at the answers in the back of the book. I was practicing and enjoying the piano instead of simply going through the motions. I lived perhaps 6 perfect years in that 30 minute dream.

I just made love to your sweet memory, a thousand times in my head

Dreamings Again

I wake next to you and see you curled on your side next to me. Your head is close to mine and facing me, away from the invading light of the morning sun. I can see the freckles on your nose and on your eyelids and at that moment I want to look at nothing else. I will count and recount them.

Your red lips are parted slightly and your ribs heave. The dull brown dress you fell asleep in is twisted and one of the thin straps appears to be floating in the air just off the end of your shoulder. Your hips disappear into the plaid morass of my quilt, and even though it’s a sticky summer night and the fan is blowing desperately, you’ve migrated across the bed to me. I can almost feel your breath on my face and it smells like peppermint mouthwash and garlic and tomato pizza.

Everything is soft and quiet as if my eyes and ears are wrapped in a layer of gauze; as if I’m being prepped for surgery. As if these are the last moments before I am someone new. Before I am healed

I’m glad you haven’t left and that I haven’t left you. I know we will eventually wake up and behold the day, but I am happy for this moment. I am secure and unashamed and warm and emboldened. You lying next to me allows for all of those things.

I reach to grab your waist and my hand sinks deep into the comforter. Too deep, in fact. Something is wrong, your waist should be right there.

I quickly rouse myself  and lay both of my hands on your hips. Nothing.

I look at your face and its obscured. I can only see a vague outline. My eyes are cross and uncross as they attempt to collect the light. I stare intently, hoping you’ll rustle enough so I make out where you end and the bed begins.

Slowly, my eyes focus and you’re not there.

You were never laying next to me, you were never with me, this night or any other night.

The image of your face on the pillow fades from memory. What was once so real is now hard to recall. Just as my mind awakens and shrugs the fog of my dream, my memory clouds and the image that was once crisp and controlled has now faded from view.

It is as if I’ve suddenly forgotten something very important to me but I can’t recall what it is.

A blast from the past; Part 2

A continuing series. From earlier this year:

He can’t help but think his rowing career came to an end before it should have. The first United States trials races were this weekend. The first races in two years he hasn’t been a part of. Friends, competitors, did well. Talent or drive or luck made them go fast for that moment.

He thinks back to his career. He thinks perhaps he focused too much on freezing all those rowing moments in time. If only he could get them to sit still, those moments. They’d leave before he could enjoy them. He’d be too busy thinking about what was next to bother with savoring what he had.

Like eating your breakfast standing up while cooking your lunch and paging through a cookbook for dinner recipes, he never could be content at that moment.

He never had any closure. He badly wants some.

He wonders what it is to be solid and joyful. He fears he’ll never know for sure.

Like ivy creeping up a wall, his suicide dreams have returned and invaded and covered his sleep. He almost didn’t realize they were there. When he gets up, he doesn’t remember. It’s only later in the day when he recalls them. And like technicolor blood running across the screen in the opening credits of James Bond movies, it quickly envelops his sight and he can’t see anything else.

“What should I hope for?” His sister’s question surprises him and momentarily leaves him without a wise-ass reply . He never lies to K. He musters up various platitudes about fate and things working out. He doesn’t believe them and K can tell in his voice that he doesn’t. Now she knows he’s lied about hope and lied to her about his possession of such. Pyramid Song comes on the radio.

As Katie looks for these answers her big brother sometimes contemplates calling off the search party.

He knows it’s supposed to be about perpective and focus and vantage. He just sometimes loses the way.

I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
for hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love
for love would be love for the wrong thing; there is yet faith
but faith and love and hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
so darkness shall be the light and the stillness the dancing.
T.S.Eliot, Quartets

Having trouble snapping out of this…..

I guess it’s been about a month, but I can’t really tell.

And so far, having a reasonably difficult time channeling it anywhere.

It’s being under a spotlight that follows me around. I can’t quite see the guard, but, he sure as hell can see me. I run around, even run around in a circle, and I can’t escape the light. I close my eyes to sleep and it’s there behind my eyelids. It waits for me to come back to alive. It waits to torment me.

It’s drinking recently thawed frozen concentrated orange juice. Not watered down at all. You need something to dilute it, but I can’t find anything else. Sickening and sugary sweet. You can get by on it, but you won’t enjoy it very much.

Do I have any reoccurring thoughts? Let’s see:

-I need to create something. Build something perhaps. Accomplish something? No, just make something.

Or, I need to destroy. I need to be the poison that overpowers everything. The spoiled, rancid, sour cream in the coffee. I want to tear down beautiful things and not let anyone see them. I want to sully dreams and ruin fantasies.

Where does this come from? When did that start? I’m not saying I don’t want others to be happy or contented of satisfied. I am saying that I temporarily want to be the fruit-fly in their apple, the really ugly coffee stain in the middle of the rug that the boss freaks out about and blames you. I want to be the rain on their wedding day? (and no! this is not fucking ironic!)

-Do I need to be the center of attention? Good question. I’ll get back to you on that. I will tell you that I need to be on a quest. An epic quest. With knights and maidens and chivalry and sacrifice.

-I have the feeling of watching my life outside of my body through a haze. And I don’t recognize myself. And I’m doing things I can’t recognize.

For the next 30 years can I review documents and emails dicussing price increases in polyutherane and polyether? Can I do it for the next 30 days? 30 seconds.

All the while I scope out the 80’s nights in center city, figure out which bar I’ll get drunk at this weekend, and slyly hit on my latest crush over gchat.

Later I’ll go work out for 2 hours, come home and make organic chicken with stir-fried vegetables, I’ll watch an episode of The Wire, agonize about not completing my re-application to law school essays, chat online and surf the web a while more, fall asleep at midnight. I’ll do it again tomorrow, and the next week, and next month. I wake up every morning listening to Nick Drake, Elliot Smith, and Jeff Buckley. I dread the day ahead and dread doing it again tomorrow.

Doesn’t sound that bad right? I know, I should thank my lucky stars. I have a reasonably stable job, I volunteer my time, I’m active. I have opportunities to do these things. And yet, I’m miserable. I’m always looking for an opportunity to screw someone over.

Is it supposed to be about more than this? And if so, what? What should I hope for?

Eventually the dance parties on weekends will turn into birthdays for my 2 year old. Eventually the birthdays will turn into driving to soccer practices and SAT tutoring and- eventually of course- to children of divorced parents counseling.

I don’t think I fear getting old, I think I fear not knowing what to do while I am.

Dear Lord Jesus, I do not often speak with you and ask for things, but now, I really must insist that you help me win the election tomorrow because I deserve it and Paul Metzler doesn’t, as you well know.

-Palin as VP pick= so cynical and craven it just might work…..

It is McCain betting the American electorate is no better than the voters in a junior high school class election. She is a god-fearing, gun loving, choice hating, oil-drilling hottie. She can ease the conscience of religious-voters who are less than enthusiastic about the candidate at the top of the ticket. She’ll be sent off to speak to mega-church type crowds in places like Alabama, Missourah, and Arkanasas. She’ll reassure those folks that McCain looked into her soul and saw the good judgment and the guidance from God that will make her an excellent VP (just as Bush looked into Putin’s soul and saw that he’s a “good guy”….mmm, whoops, nevermind). Palin will play up the five kids, the working class roots, the faux anti-establishment meme. She’ll have to answer to the corruption charges, the lack of experience, and all the other secrets we’ll all find in the coming weeks (it’s like a schedenfraudian Christmas!).

All these things have been said by the media and will continue to be scrutinized (as they should be). See: http://yglesias.thinkprogress.org/archives/2008/09/executive_experience.php, http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2008/08/31/mccain-camp-didnt-search_n_122823.html, http://tpmmuckraker.talkingpointsmemo.com/2008/09/palin_hires_lawyer_for_trooper.php

What I find most cynical, and what I think is being underappreciated about the Palin as VP pick is its amazing lack of respect for women. Picking Palin and painting her as a groundbreaking leader for women in America is anti-feminist.

It’s the equivalent of selecting an extremely conservative ideologue , who just happens to be black, as a Supreme Court Justice. This nominee is hailed as another black voice and a natural successor to one of the most reasonable voices and leaders on the Supreme Court, Thurgood Marshall. This ostensible successor then votes against all meaningful race-related cases for the next 20 years ( for example: Michigan Law School Admissions). Oh wait, this already happened (see, Thomas, Clarence). And we again have the Republican Party to thank.

So why is Palin so anti-woman? The same reason why the Repulican party is anti-woman.

Palin is vehemently anti-choice. Even in cases of rape, incest, and the potential of harm to the woman. She herself carried her last child to term despite the fact that he had Downs Syndrome (though now there is speculation it isn’t her child, see: http://dailykos.com/storyonly/2008/8/30/121350/137/486/580223)

Palin is also against any Equal Pay for Equal Work legislation, an issue that has seen its biggest resurgence since the ERA 1970’s. There is clear evidence that women don’t get paid as much as men in this country (http://www.now.org/issues/economic/factsheet.html)

Palin supports overturning Roe v Wade. She is opposed to Universal Health Care (not strictly a woman’s issue, but Universal Health Care will disproportionately benefit women because it will enable non-working women the economic freedom to make their own choices rather than being chained to their husband the insurance coverage provided by his job.).

On policy issues, she is clearly a wolf in sheep’s clothing. In every speech she delivers from here on out, she will proudly note that she is on the McCain ticket on behalf of women everywhere, when in fact, she supports many positions which are transparently anti-woman. If women do, in fact vote her because she is supposedly “one of them” it would be as illogical as if poor people voted for Republicans because they hope they’ll one day be rich and won’t have their taxes raised. Oh wait, that happens too. Damnit.

The Palin pick serves to put women in their place, their place being by the side and subservient to a rich, old, white man.

In the wake of Obama ousting Hillary, McCain is throwing a bone, a trinket, to the American female electorate, while telling them to ignore a raft of misogynist public policies. McCain believes women will fall for it, and indeed, some might. It’s the equivalent of the domineering husband gifting a heart-pendant Tiffany’s broach to his lovely doting wife to persuade her to stay with him while urging her to forgive and forget his ongoing affair with the office secretary.

Are women clear-eyed enough to see through this brazen duplicity? I’m not so positive. Well, for one, it seems Obama can’t get more than 48% of the electorate to agree that he’s the better choice. It also seems that every time a celebrity, pundit, or any other type of authority advises those other 52% on how to vote, they do exactly the opposite of what that person says. Wow, it’s almost like we’re still in Junior High School………