Bombs to minerals

I'm lying on my couch reading Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five and I just came to that wonderful, famous, passage where Billy watches a war movie backwards and the bomber planes fix the world instead of destroying it. I was reading a news dispatch by Juan Goytisolo on Sarajevo earlier today, which makes me particularly sensitive to Vonnegut's words.... so I'll just post them here and hope that they enlighten someone's day:

"He came slightly unstuck in time, saw the late movie backwards, then forwards again. It was a movie about American bombers in the Second World War and the gallant men who flew them. Seen backwards by Billy, the story went like this:

American planes, full of holes and wounded men and corpses took off backwards from an airfield in England. Over France, a few German fighter planes flew at them backwards, sucked bullets and shell fragments from some of the planes and crewmen. They did the same for wrecked American bombers on the ground, and those planes flew up backwards to join the formation.

The formation flew backwards over a German city that was in flames. The bombers opened their bomb bay doors, exerted a miraculous magnetism which shrunk the fires, gathered them into cylindrical steel containers, and lifted the containers into the bellies of the planes. The containers were stored neatly in racks. The Germans below had miraculous devices of their own, which were long steel tubes. They used them to suck more fragments from the crewmen and planes. But there were still a few wounded Americans, though, and some of the bombers were in bad repair. Over France, though, German fighters came up again, made everything and everybody as good as new.

When the bombers got back to their base, the steel cylinders were taken from the racks and shipped back to the United States of America, where factories were operating night and day, dismantling the cylinders, separating the dangerous contents into minerals. Touchingly, it was mainly women who did this work. The minerals were then shipped to specialists in remote areas. It was their business to put them into the ground, to hide them cleverly, so they would never hurt anybody ever again.

The American fliers turned in their uniforms, became high school kids. And Hitler turned into a baby, Billy Pilgrim supposed. That wasn't in the movie. Billy was extrapolating. Everybody turned into a baby, and all humanity, without exception, conspired biologically to produce two perfect people named Adam and Eve, he supposed."

For activists

And walking around the city today after an inspiring talk by Edward Burtynsky, I saw this inscription on a wall:

"Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful committed citizens can change the world. It is the only thing that ever has." Margaret Mead


Feliz Cumpleaños, Andrés!

What to do, what to do?

Today I'm applying to Grad School at various Canadian universities. After discussing the option o f a combined MA in International Relations and a Juris Doctor degree, my friend Olivia (who holds a perfect record of figuring me out) looked at me in the eye and said:

"I don't understand why you keep on going after these areas that you obviously don't want to go into!! Why don't you just settle for things you actually like instead of taking a shot at things that you think you may find a bit interesting??"

Amen.

Chilangueadas

Para mi prima Mary

Después de despotricar contra el DF y enojar a más de un par de lectores, ahora me toca hacer un recuento de mis dias de visita en México. Como hoy no traigo ganas de generar suspenso, de una vez les digo que el saldo de mi vacación fue positivo, MUY positivo. Supongo que caí en la típica trampa periodística de sólo reportar sobre lo malo y omitir dedicarle el mismo tiempo a platicar sobre lo bueno. No lo voy a justificar con la excusa amarillista de "lo malo vende" diciendo que el escándalo me genera más hits. Más bien, lo negativo enoja, y el enojo me lleva a actuar...en este caso a escribir. Como le he dicho a un par de ex-novias, no eres tú, soy yo.

Ayer, mientras mi avión atravesaba una masa de nubes sobre el estado de Oregon, me vino un torrente de flashbacks sobre este mes que estuve en México. Primero me vino mi familia, en todos colores y formas, desde la cena de pre-Navidad en casa de Fernando y Carmina, hasta la alberca en Vallarta y el año nuevo con Javier y los McGregor. Luego hice una pausa en mis papás, en las docenas de momentos divertidos que pasamos y que hoy me hacen extrañarlos y entender que, aunque nunca dejan de estar en mi mente, su presencia física es insustituible. Luego llegó Loren, mi hermanita querida, mi cómplice y confesora, my non erotic soul mate. Ella me hace falta todos los dias, para platicar y reirnos, para hechar maratón de citas de películas (Dumb & Dumber sigue siendo la preferida), para hablar de mi gata Renée, para simplemente ser.

Y luego llegaron, por supuesto, mis amig@s. Disfruté tanto ver a tod@s y cada un@ de ell@s que hasta cambié mi vuelo para regresarme una semana después. Desde las guitarras en San Pancho, la visita a la mezcaleria, los museos, la pista de hielo del Zócalo, y la clásica fiesta de Boti, no puedo pensar en una visita más completa y divertida. (Tipo, nunca cambien, valen mil).

El avión salió de las nubes y la voz del piloto anunciando el aterrizaje interrumpió mi flashback. Entendí entonces que aunque viva lejos y me encante la vida en Vancouver, hay una parte de mi que nunca se va de mi querido México. A pesar de lo estresante de la ciudad, este es mi país y esta es mi gente. Soy totalmente DF.

Sayonara 2008

El fin de año siempre se aparece como la gran oportunidad para mirar atrás. Sirve como pista para la auto-reflexión. Esta vez lo siento como un gran reloj de arena que está por vaciar una de sus mitades, y espera ansiosamente que una mano lo venga a voltear.

Me parece más curioso aún que no es un sentimiento privado, sino más bien, es una actitud compartida. Las ganas de despedir el año recordado sus sucesos se vuelven un acto colectivo. Desde las interminables listas de lo mejor del año (discos, libros, fotografías), hasta los noticieros que recuerdan los sucesos más imporantes, pareciera que el ser humano divide el tiempo en pedazos porque necesita gozar de los finales. O será que en realidad, lo que anhelamos son los recomienzos?

Para mi este año trajo muchos y profundos cambios. Por ejemplo, finalmente terminé la carrera y con ello me quité de encima mi propia piedra del Pípila que me mantuvo pesado durante años. En ese sentido, este fin de año me siento más ligero que nunca... pero llegará enero y habrá que planear un recomienzo. En qué? Todavía no sé. Por lo pronto, confieso que yo sin duda necesitaba gozar de un final, y este año me trajo un auténtico final feliz.

Y ya que estamos en esto, le cedo la voz a un experto:

"It's funny. I can look back on a
life of achievement, on challenges met,
competitors bested, obstacles overcome.
I've accomplished more than most men,
and without the use of my legs.
What. . . What makes a man, Mr. Lebowski?"

2080

(yes, my OCD is kicking in)



I can't sleep when I think about the times we're living in
I can't sleep when I think about the future I was born into
Outsiders dressed up like Sunday morning
With no Berlin wall what the hell you gonna do

It's a new year, I'm glad to be here
It's a fresh spring, so let's sing
In 2080 I'll surely be dead
So don't look ahead, ever look ahead
It's a new year, I'm glad to be here
It's a fresh spring, so let's sing
And the moon shines bright on the water tonight
So we won't drown in the summer sound

If you find me I'll be sitting by the water fountain
Picket signs, letdowns, meltdown on Monday morning
But it's alright, it's alright, it's alright, it's alright
It's alright
Cause in no time, they'll be gone, I guess I'll still be standing here

It's a new year...

Yeah, yeah, we can all grab at the chance to be handsome farmers
Yeah you can have twenty-one sons and be blood when they marry my daughters
And the pain that we left at the station will stay in a jar behind us
We can pickle the pain into blue ribbon winners at county contests

...

El número 100

And here it is. My 100th post. One hundred times of saying farewell to silence. To voice my opinion. To try and share my thoughts and feelings with the outside world. To connect or reconnect with those I've met in the past or will meet in the future. One hundred times of venting my mind in binary code instead of paying for a shrink.

I would like to thank (here goes the Oscar acceptance speech), first and foremost, my mom and dad for never leaving any embarrassing proud parent comments. Vancouver, for always saving the day with a pretty view when there is nothing to write about. Miriam, because without her, the "comment" links would be truly lonely. The Ubyssey newspaper, for ignoring the fact that I reprint their articles without permission. My friends who hate my guitar, for giving me the necessary courage on Wednesdays to upload yet another painfully corny song. My roommate, for his fine taste in cheese. Fred Herzog, because without him I wouldn't have had my most narcissistic moment in cyberspace. The Republican party, because without them there would be nothing truly important to oppose. Seattle, for attracting the dozens of bands that we get as rebounds, giving me a chance to brag about some uber cool evenings. And last but not least, special thanks to God, because by not existing, he/she/it provides yet another excuse for random blathering.

And today I feel that I'm exactly where I want to be.

Cuestión de ética bloggera

Pregunta a los compañeros bloggeros: Una vez publicada una entrada, ¿se vale modificar partes importantes del contenido? Es decir, excluyendo faltas de ortografía y gramática, ¿se vale cambiar partes centrales de un post o agregar frases que le cambian el sentido?

Lo digo porque hay una diferencia fundamental entre cambiar de opinión, expresándolo en un post posterior, y cambiar el post original. La diferencia reside en que en el primer caso se puede trazar el cambio de opinión, se pone en evidencia el error o la aberración anterior. En cambio, al modificar el post original siento que le estoy haciendo trampa a los que ya leyeron una opinón y de repente resulta que ya no pueden quejarse porque "el post ya no dice lo que creí haber leido." Me suena similiar a arrancarle hojas a la historia.

No es crítica dirigida a alguien... lo digo porque me enfrento seguido al dilema.

(premio al primero que conteste "a quién carajos le importa tu blog, anyway")

Port Hope or how I learned to stop worrying and love the bomb

There has been much talk about nuclear bombs in the past several weeks. Too much talk, I would say. But this reminded me of this little post I've been hiding from my readers.

A few months ago, I took a little break from daily life to go visit a little place called Port Hope, Ontario. The town boasts a beautifully kept historical "main street" and a couple of very old churches. But what really caught my eye was the town's uranium processing plant.

The El Dorado plant (now called the Cameco plant) enriched some of the uranium used in the Manhattan project, and some say it even supplied the uranium for the bombs dropped on Japan.

As I strolled around the fence of the uranium processing plant, a sudden silence fell upon me. I couldn't stop thinking about the impact this little town had had on world affairs. On people. On families. I stopped for a second to take it in, to realize what the metal structures in front of me symbolized...

I wondered what the town felt like in August 1945. What did people have on their minds as they crossed the street in front of the uranium plant? Did it smell any different? Did people go to work as usual? Was there talk about the town's complicity with the big mushroom clouds that shook the Japanese sky?

Rethinking this space

Wow... I haven't posted about a very eventful last week of August and I'm getting a little bit of blogger guilt. But I have a great excuse: my sister came to visit and I've spent the past week and a half as an unofficial tourist guide of Vancouver. This absence made me think that I need to rethink this blog altogether. So please be patient until I decide on how to relaunch this space and end your boredom. (In the meantime, I have some stories, expos, and concerts to share...)

Glimmer of hope

It's terrifying to read the news these days. Child slavery, organ trafficking, sexual exploitation... I lose a bit of faith in humanity every day.

But once in a while, a tiny incident happens in my life, a little reminder that not everything is lost and that a noble cause is still worth fighting for.

Yesterday, I left a note on a parked bike in my basement, telling the owner that I was interested in buying it. It is a vintage Bianchi Formula One with a pink frame, and rusty handlebars. It was love at first sight when I saw it...I imagined spending a little money to turn the bike into a sweet hipster fixie and gaining some street cred at last!! (look at these Moyer beauties, for example, or these Fast Boys).

Anyway, I got home and had a message from the bike owner. I called him and he said, "listen, I appreciate your interest in the bike. I am aware of its value as a vintage hand welded italian frame, and I'd like you to have it. But there is only one condition." At this point I thought, "oh god, he's going to make me babysit an annoying kid for a full month or take his miniature chihuahua out for a walk on Sunday mornings!"

But I was very wrong. My neighbour simply asked me: "I need you to make a donation to the Canadian Liver Society... my niece had a liver transplant and we would greatly appreciate your help." He didn't ask for a specific amount. He only said, donate.

His words moved me, they grabbed me and shook my insides. I felt tiny...my intention of buying the bike suddenly seemed stupid. I felt humbled. And so I logged into the link he gave me and met Taya, a baby with Biliary Atresia, a rare liver disease. I gladly made a donation.

Today, the bike rests on the wall of my room, waiting for a new chain and some air in the tires. But it has now acquired a new, deeper meaning from when I first saw it. A constant reminder of Taya, the pink Bianchi fills my room with hope...

p.s. this post is dedicated to my neighbor Lu Vo, who today showed me the meaning of gratitude.

(feel inspired? Donate. You won't get a bike, though)

The Discovery

do not imagine that the exploration
ends, that she has yielded all her mystery
or that the map you hold cancels further discovery

I tell you her uncovering takes years,
takes centuries, and when you find her naked,
look again,
admit there is something else you cannot name,
a veil, a coating just about the flesh
which you cannot remove by your mere wish

when you see the land naked, look again
(burn your maps, that is not what I mean),
I mean the moment when it seems most plain
is the moment when you must begin again.


by Gwendolyn MacEwen