Attention: Migration

The contents of this blog and the focus of my blogging activities have been moved to "A Viking in Venice." Click the below link for new blog entries by this blog user, er, author, er, me.

A Viking in Venice

Microwaved Scene

At Chronicles-Network, I took part in a simple contest where a person looks at the above picture and, within a 15 minute and 500 word limit, write a brief scene inspired by it.

Below is my stab at it:

"There are all kinds of Hells. Sure, there is the all too infamous Hell where you towel off your blistering body with a tattered set of rags. You could chip away at inferno’s rocks while the Diablo busts your balls: that is the deal. Perhaps demons flush with the type of sanguine found vibrant in emergency exit signs will be pointing and laughing at your sweat. Maybe they will dance. Maybe you will cry. Either way, this type of Hell is a Hell in onto itself simply for being so damned unoriginal.

"Maybe instead of working onto eternity, you could relive your greatest fears over and over again until the Groundhog Day effect drives you insane. There could be whipping involved. Hell, there could be outright torture in Hell.

"There were some horrible heart breaks in my life. The Sirens of humiliation could throw a green captain’s hat upon my head and trick me into breaking the bones of my spirit against the jagged points of memories I would have rather forgotten.

"There could be a type of Hell that berated you with bad puns, but I am not a joking man.

"I am sure of it, I tell you. Hell spits itself up in many forms. Sometimes it is in the partially digested forms of our own sins. Sometimes it’s the stomach acid that froths from kindred souls who would not like being reminded where they ended up by your very presence beside them. The carnage is crueller on the other side of the fence. That sort of thing.

"My point is, officer," Herbert said while failing to rub away the soot from his bifocals, "out of all the Hells you could put your mind to, could you ever imagine this?"

Herbert, who had decided that an ash tainted vision is better than a Monet one, put his bifocals back on his shy self and pointed one stubby finger at the museum engulfed in flames, which were eager to taunt the night sky.

"Could you imagine a Hell where a caretaker who had all the world’s history and treasures before him and under his care, only managed to save this—" he motioned to an artifact comprised of a skeleton melted onto a motorbike "—vulgar sculpture from a fire?"

Soapbox for the "Devil"

The hawks care not for the people.

That is the thought that has been tugging away at my mind for some time now, which made watching Turtles Can Fly an interesting experience. It is a 2004 film jointly made by Iraq and Iran filmmakers about the often overlooked effects of the war has over the average citizen's life, namely children. Their lives are grim, and the daily duties of clearing out landmines and trying to make sense of the US news for their elders showcase the unique and ugly circumstances that surround them. It is a hard lesson to forget when one of the main boys that viewers follow throughout the tale of children trying to survive resistence fire and bomb raids is missing both his arms.

Above anything else, this film is not anti-American, nor is it anti-Saddam. Politics are not the focus of discussion for once. The politicians, the leaders, the military, and the media that masturbates over sound biting all of the above have already been heard and need not apply for further camera time. It is time that we see how the lives of the Iraqi people are like before, during, and after the second Gulf War. With an opening scene of a girl jumping to her death just days before the US unofficially declares war on Saddam, the film makers successfully wipe out any haughty remarks that this is a film meant only to point out the problems with American occupation. The situation for these people are dire, and, to make it even more unnerving, children are born and raised where internal violence is matched with foreign, aerial chaos. If there is one thing to take from this film, it is that it is the citizens---the people who are more worried over daily and domestic demands---who always foot the horrid bill when war is declared. It is only when those who spit out their warring intentions, sell their propaganda to a salivating pack of slumbering watchdogs, and spill the blood have honestly factored in the suffering of their countrymen can truly wage a worthy war. Soap boxes come cheap (a free gift given at the ribbon cutting ceremony of every new office), but the depictions within this film come at a dear cost.

Watching Turtles Can Fly reminded me of a recent Patti Smith song, so I will end this entry with "Radio Baghdad":


Suffer not Your neighbor's affliction
Suffer not Your neighbor's paralysis
But extend your hand Extend your hand
Lest you vanish in the city And be but a trace
Just a vanished ghost And your legacy
All the things you knew Science, mathematics, thought
Severely weakened Like irrigation systems
In the tired veins forming From the Tigris and Euphrates
In the realm of peace All the world revolved All the world revolved
Around a perfect circle
City of Baghdad City of scholars
Empirical humble Center of the world
City in ashes City of Baghdad
City of Baghdad Abrasive aloof

Oh, in Mesopotamia Aloofness ran deep
Deep in the veins of the great rivers
That form the base Of Eden
And the tree The tree of knowledge
Held up its arms To the sky
All the branches of knowledge All the branches of knowledge
Cradling Cradling
Civilization In the realm of peace
All the world revolved Around a perfect circle
Oh Baghdad Center of the world
City of ashes With its great mosques
Erupting from the mouth of god Rising from the ashes like
a speckled bird Splayed against the mosaic sky
Oh, clouds around We created the zero
But we mean nothing to you You would believe
That we are just some mystical tale We are just a swollen belly
That gave birth to Sinbad, Scheherazade We gave birth
Oh, oh, to the zero The perfect number
We invented the zero And we mean nothing to you
Our children run through the streets
And you sent your flames Your shooting stars
Shock and awe Shock and awe
Like some, some Imagined warrior production
Twenty-first century No chivalry involved
No Bushido

Oh, the code of the West Long gone
Never been Where does it lie?
You came, you came Through the west
Annihilated a people And you come to us
But we are older than you You come you wanna
You wanna come and rob the cradle
Of civilization And you read yet you read
You read Genesis You read of the tree
You read of the tree Beget by god
That raised its branches into the sky Every branch of knowledge
Of the cradle of civilization

Of the banks of the Tigris and the Euphrates
Oh, in Mesopotamia Aloofness ran deep
The face of Eve turning What sky did she see
What garden beneath her feet The one you drill
You drill Pulling the blood of the earth
Little droplets of oil for bracelets Little jewels
Sapphires You make bracelets
Round your own world We are weeping tears
Rubies We offer them to you
We are just Your Arabian nightmare
We invented the zero But we mean nothing to you
Your Arabian nightmare

City of stars City of scholarship
Science City of ideas
City of light City
City of ashes That the great Caliph
Walked through His naked feet formed a circle
And they built a city A perfect city of Baghdad
In the realm of peace And all the world revolved
And they invented And they mean nothing to you
Nothing to you Nothing
Go to sleep Go to sleep my child
Go to sleep And I'll sing you a lullaby
A lullaby for our city A lullaby of Baghdad
Go to sleep Sleep my child
Sleep Sleep...
Run Run...

You sent your lights Your bombs
You sent them down on our city Shock and awe
Like some crazy t.v. show

They're robbing the cradle of civilization
They're robbing the cradle of civilization
They're robbing the cradle of civilization

Suffer not The paralysis of your neighbor
Suffer not But extend your hand

AA and Religion

Americans did not first learn about Alcoholism through television, newspapers, the radio, or even the internet. Americans were not originally informed of the "disease" by their politicians or through a Presidential Address. Instead, they can testify to alcoholism's existence by referencing their brother, their sister, their mother, their father, their aunt, their uncle, their friends, their lovers, or themselves. Citizens may read that there are "between 10 and 14 million alcoholics in America" (Walker) and flinch at the numbers. People have been assaulted by the saddening statistics of the negative impact of alcoholism for years. For some readers, the unyielding declarations of a person dying in an automobile crash involving alcohol every twenty-two minutes, alcoholism's direct links to both spousal along with child abuse, and the consumption of alcohol being involved in 60% of all violent crime in America (International Union of Gospel Missions) have lost their effective impact much like the way the vulgar insults or the lewd private messages do for the average chatter. It is the real life inclusion of drinking problems that affect families and friends the most. All the statistics in the world cannot compare to seeing a loved one struggle with the addiction. Words on paper are nothing compared to seeing a loved one lose their job or their significant other. The cataloging of percentages is meaningless in contrast to burying a family member.

People have sought out treatment for these loved ones and themselves for decades now, and a high level of praise must be given to all those strong enough to challenge such a widespread addiction. It is a trek that promises no mercy. It is a trek made even harder by misconceptions and myths. Until Americans are better informed, the struggle through treatment will bear even more failures and less happy endings. Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) is the best example of a treatment option that has been shrouded by mythology. The myths of AA's founding history and success rate among participants have postponed recovery for many well meaning people.

The founding history, which shapes both the framework and foundation, of Alcoholics Anonymous as an organization roots itself from religious factions. Co-founders Bill Wilson and Bob Smith "were both members of a Protestant evangelical group called the Oxford Group Movement (OGM)" and have directly borrowed many of the core concepts of the religion, including the famous 12 Step program (Bufe, 255). Wilson even went as far as to write in his book, Alcoholics Anonymous Comes of Age, a praise and credit to the teachings of Rev. Shoemaker. To break down the OGM influence over the 12 Step program even further, personal powerlessness and divine guidance are accounted "in steps 1, 2, 3, 6, 7, and 11," confession is in steps 4, 5, and 10, restitution is in both steps 8 and 9, "and the principle of continuance is embodied in steps 10 and 12" (Bufe, 256). Over time, both founders and the organization have steered attention away from these facts to still attract Catholic membership and to distance the organization from the public statement published by Frank Buchman, the founder of OGM, which thanked God for the existence of Adolf Hitler (Bufe, 255).

The ties between AA and the OGM are important because they help account for the reasons why AA is not set up to treat all addicts regardless of religious beliefs. If someone does not believe in a higher power, how then can that person accept that a higher power will come to her/his salvation as stated in the 12 Steps? If someone doesn't believe in prayer, how can such an act realistically provide him/her with the confidence and inner support to overcome the disease? If someone proverbially frowns at the concept of confession, how can such an act provide her/him with a peace of mind? Representatives of AA claim it is not deity specific, but that assertion is not too convincing when one remembers the organization's strong religious background and scans some of Wilson's anti-atheism sentiments written in Alcoholics Anonymous. In chapter 4, he claims that atheists are crazy (Bufe, 256-257). Any organization that not only roots itself but also utilizes the exclusive teachings of a belief system cannot affectively treat all citizens whom wield diversified backgrounds.

The religious influence of AA has not gone unnoticed among political lobbyists. There are some citizens and politicians whom have fought to keep AA out of mandatory treatment sentences for people convicted with alcohol related crimes, namely drunk driving. Not only has mandatory AA involvement failed to prove impressive recoveries (hence, driving down the success rate of AA even further), the sentencing has also left some experts questioning if it violates the Separation of Church and State. Should the federal government or any state governing body have the power to demand their citizens to partake in any activity proved religious in nature? A high court in New York says "no." With a 5-2 ruling, the court found that AA "engages in religious activity and religious proselytization" (Barron), which would violate an atheist's constitutional right to freely deny the existence of a deity.

Due to AA's inability to effectively treat people regardless of religious beliefs, the treatment program has a less-than-stellar record for reforming people. For example, AA had the highest drop-out rate (68%) than other treatment groups (including nonprofessionally run Rational Behavior Therapy, professionally run Rational Behavior Therapy, and Freudian therapy) in a mid-1970's study administered in the state of Kentucky. In fact, only the group of people who did not seek out treatment reported a rate of decreased drinking worse than that of AA (Bufe, 254). What is even more distressing is that only 5% of AA members remain in the program for more than one year (Peele).

This article is not meant to criticize any religion or belief system., nor is it meant to ridicule people currently in AA. For those people, a great amount of respect must be given for their commitment towards a cure. Instead, it is meant to better inform people on their venues when seeking out treatment for alcoholism. Since AA is the largest treatment program in America, it is not only important but essential that a person can reason for themselves if AA is the route of treatment best suited for his/her personal needs. There are many alternative treatment options in America with promising success rates. SMART Recovery, Women for Sobriety, Moderation Management, Secular Organizations of Sobriety, and even private therapy sessions, which are often covered by health insurance plans, are great examples.

Work Cited

Barron, James. "N.Y. Court Lets Inmate Refuse Alcohol Program." http://www.positiveatheism.org/rw/alcohol.htm 1996, The New York Times.

Bufe, Charles. "AA Lies." Pages 254-259 of You Are Being Lied To. Edited by Russ Kick.

The Disinformation Company Ltd, 2001.

International Union of Gospel Missions. "The Impact of Alcohol Abuse on American Society." http://www.av.iugm.org/faq/impact.html

Peele, Stanton. "AA Role in Society---More Negative Than Positive?" http://www.peele.net/faq/aarole.html Copyright 1996-2004.

Walker, Victoria. "Facts About Alcoholism." http://momo.essortment.com/factsalcoholism_rfed.htm Pagewise, Inc. 2002.

I've Come to Bury Your God

A nameless nomad arrived in town around noon.

He wore a duster designed without mirth,

Boots built to besiege dark drifting,

Hat that hung shade across his sight,

And a long barreled shovel slung

Across his back that he took to trough earth.

As he dug, he mouthed, “I’ve come to bury your god.”

Preacher with pressed slacks came to pick at the drifter.

On the whole, the holy man had skin drawn

To successfully stretch over his feeble frame.

“The spider seems to have your spirit, son,”

The preacher said with perfect pronouncement of shame.

“You are tomorrow, and I will not take

Tomorrow tainting the town of Yesterday’s blame.”

The drifter merely took from his duster

A glossy paged Bible and tossed it for earth’s claim,

Whispering, “I’ve come to bury your god.”

Businessman with a tie tried to buy the drifter.

For a sale, the salesman would always draft

His hair into a sand shaded, slippery knoll.

“I’d like to market your manner, my man,”

The businessman told with a melody like toll.

“Your mug could be on a lunch box---low price---

As long as your stock stays hot on Wallstreet like coal.”

The drifter merely took from his duster

Golden coins carved by kids and sent them in the hole,

Muttering, “I’ve come to bury your god.”

Politician with pride stood aside the drifter.

As a law, the lawman would always drag

His loose hair across his head like a nervous itch.

“Plant your rinds of revolt elsewhere, you fool,”

The politician complained with a pious pitch.

“Your voice is not the current currency

Since my civic duty is of a corporate niche.”

The drifter merely took from his duster

Campaign pins for logos and plucked them in the ditch,

Uttering, “I’ve come to bury your god.”

Reporter with spiked high heels hounded the drifter.

For the news, the newscaster always dressed

To bring some flash to a dull lead she might follow.

“Stand by your shovel and look sad, my star,”

The reporter requested in hope he’d wallow.

"Don’t speak and be cursed as Apollyon, but

Pose for me, and I can cast you as Apollo.”

The drifter merely took from his duster

Narrow lensed cameras and flung them in earth’s hollow,

Explaining, “I’ve come to bury your god.”

Army man with stripes sought to suppress the drifter.

Generally, the general had metals draped

From his passionless apparel like a proud slave.

“Move, or I’ll be forced to remove you, foe!”

The army man barked to badly mimic the brave.

“Do what I command for you are nothing,

And I take commands only from my sharpened stave!”

The drifter merely took from his duster

A bloodied flag without stars and gave it a grave,

Declaring, “I’ve come to bury your god.”

The gunslinger galloped out of town at midnight.

He wore a duster designed by the dire,

Boots born for destructive drifting,

Hat that hid the moon from his sight,

And a shovel slung on his back

When he traveled with a tall trail of fire.

As he rode, he warned, “I’ve come to bury your god.”