Live from Tehran

 


by Soheyl Dahi

[Half memoir, half portraiture and we here at ATKE are damn proud to run this compelling glimpse into your typical autumn in Iran. The swirling fever-pitch of rhetoric in re: invasion, nuclear proliferation, and undecipherable U.S policy in the shifting sands of the Middle East; part taxicab conversation, part fragile mortality, part war and consequence--all courtesy of a painter's personal, restrained, yet very prescient eye for detail. A piece that–as with Guernica and as with any great canvas–makes its scene from wondrous, eye-opening lines and angles. –Eds.]

"Where are Their Guernicas?"

The fall in Tehran is pleasant. Very pleasant. As always, the horrendous traffic defies logic and the smog overpowers the landscape to the point that, some days, the Damavand summit is not visible. But there are days one can easily mistake for spring.

But this past fall in Tehran was like no other: there was talk that U.S. would invade Iran. It was on everybody's minds and tongues. Every fall in Iran also marks the annual anniversary of the end of the Iran-Iraq war. Iranians observe the anniversary with a week known as 'the Holy Defense Week'. The week consists of parades, films, plays and debate about the Iran-Iraq war and this year the Iranian media was especially intense and heated. As the week proceeded the discussions took on a new direction and a life of its own. The issue: the nuclear proliferation. For Iranians the issue is one of security and national pride. Iranians resented the U.S. employing yet another strong-arm approach in the Middle-East regarding Iran's nuclear program. They were more receptive, but still suspicious, of Europeans' gentler approach through diplomacy. Indeed, people were talking. This issue became a unifying force between ordinary Iranians and their government – two parties that often do not see eye to eye.

I met many people in Iran during my stay and something one learns quickly about Iranians is they are never short of opinions. This makes them interesting but also makes them subscriber to all sorts of conspiracy theories. But, as they say, a paranoid is a person with too many facts at his disposal! It is hard to remain level-headed when living in a country where U.S. troops are stationed on each side (Afghanistan and Iraq) - not to mention the U.S. troops permanently stationed in Saudi Arabia, Kuwait and Qatar (Iran's southern neighbors in the Persian Gulf region).

My principal reason to visit Iran this time was a personal one. My father passed away few months earlier and I went back to pay my respects at his grave. Within days of my arrival, I made arrangement to have a cab driver pick me up early one morning and drive me to Beheshet-e-Zahra (Zahra's Paradise), the largest cemetery in Tehran. Here are the accounts of my encounters:

Cabbie #1: Mehdi

Mehdi is a young man in his 20's. He is clean-shaven and wears a fashionable short-sleeved polo shirt. He wants to know why I am going to Beheshet-e-Zahra. He offers me his condolences. Our conversation began with why he drives a cab. He had failed the university entrance exam three times and finally gave up on higher education in Iran. He still dreamed of pursuing an engineering degree somewhere else – Australia, or Canada maybe–but after 9/11, he gave up on coming to U.S. He later tells me he learned English from satellite TV. Satellite TV is officially banned in Iran but despite that, Iranians continue to enjoy TV programs from all over the world. Mehdi watches Oprah ("Why is she so popular?"), Larry King ("what's with the suspenders?"), is a fan of 'Friends' ('they are all very attractive') broadcast on European stations, and is a regular in various chat rooms on the internet.

The more we talk, the more I suspect that he has no desire to talk about the 'Holy Defense Week.' He is, instead, very eager to tell me about two songs by Pink Floyd ex-front man, Roger Waters; posted on his website and available free to the public. Mehdi says he has heard the songs probably a hundred times. "He is telling our story," Mehdi tells me. He particularly loves the personal attack on George Bush in one of the songs. He laughs hard and hits the steering wheel as he sings along in his delightful accent – not unlike mine:

Are these the people that we should bomb
Are we so sure they mean us harm
Is this our pleasure, punishment or crime
Is this a mountain that we really want to climb*

The sun was barely up when we arrived at the cemetery. The rays were made a wondrous golden glow on the white marble of the headstones. We found my father's grave among the rows and rows of graves, him walking along with me, bending over the grave and saying a short prayer. He then walked away to give me a private moment with my father.

As we drove back through the sections upon sections, and rows after rows of graves, Mehdi asked if I'd like to see the Shahids (Martyrs) section of the cemetery. When the word shahid is uttered in Iran, it is refers to the victims of the eight-year war with Iraq–a war that left thousands dead, and many more dying–after effects of the chemical war Saddam Hussein waged against Iranians and Kurdish-Iraqis.

As Mehdi parked the car he said, "We'll walk from here." Rows and rows of men–boys really – with fresh faces and attempted moustaches seen in the photographs posted on each grave. Strange thoughts go through my head. These boys, what were they thinking at the time the photographs were taken? Could they have imagined their own mortality? Did they know that their days on this earth were numbered? From all accounts, many did know. Many lied about their age so they could get in the army. Many volunteered for the front lines.

'I lost one cousin in the war, but another cousin survived' Mehdi said. "He was a Basiji (Volunteer Army). He is the 'chemical one','' Mehdi says.

"Chemical one"' I asked.

"Yes, he was a victim of chemical attack during the war."

"Where is he now?"

"He is around," Mehdi says shrugging his shoulders. "But he is not very fond me. He thinks I'm too corrupt. He tells me 'you're too much in love with the West.'"

"Can I meet him?"

"I'll try" he said.

Dr. Kazem: 'The Chemical One'

Few days later, Mehdi called. Dr. Kazem, his ex-Basiji cousin, much to Mehdi's surprise, wanted to talk to me directly...by phone first. I agreed and we made contact. He was suspicious of me but nevertheless agreed to meet briefly and without any commitment to talk. He was not surprised in the least that I wanted to interview him. Apparently, over the years, he has had his share of interviews – and most, to his great disappointment, during the 'Holy Defense Week'.

We met over coffee at a local café downtown. He was medium height, with full black hair and beard, wearing a long-sleeved white shirt fully buttoned-up. For openers, we talked about his cousin Mehdi. "Mehdi is a good boy with a good heart," Dr. Kazem said, "but he is lost..." Dr. Kazem, a PH.D. in comparative literature, slowly warmed to me--despite probably not having a very favorable view of someone like me (who lives in the West). Yet, he defied stereotype, and was cordial and even friendly toward me.

Dr. Kazem volunteered for the war when he was 15 against his parents' wishes. He ran away from home, lied about his age, and joined the all volunteer army (Basijis). Once inside, he once again volunteered for the front lines. He is full of memories and anecdotes. He fought the Iraqis for 5 years until that fateful day in Halabja when he got caught in a chemical attack along with over 5000 Kurdish-Iraqi civilians of Halabja who instantly perished. "The rocket landed few feet from me. Almost immediately I smelled garlic, onion and fresh vegetables. Before I realized what had happened, I had breathed in a few times. I put on my mask as soon as I could and ran as fast as humanly possible. Back in our barracks, I took a shower and thought I'd be fine but soon I began to itch all over. I had breathed in mustard gas. My entire body was covered with blisters, some the size of a small frying pan. When I pressed on them, a greenish liquid came out. This was the damage that was visible. Inside, I learned later, about 40% of my lungs were destroyed. Still, I was among the fortunate ones because I eventually recovered. Today, sometimes, I need an oxygen tank to help me breathe and on bad days I cough blood. That's all, really."

"On your bad days, how do you feel about your experience?' I asked him.

"I think I know what you are asking me. You want to know whether I have any regrets or not. I can tell you that I have none. If U.S. attacks us today, I'll pick up arms again and fight," he says without missing a beat.

Cabbie #2: Reza, the Journalist

I met Reza by chance after another cabbie changed his mind and decided he was not going my way after all. I got out and soon found Reza's cab. Reza, it turned out, was a journalist. Ex-journalist. His early career was spent as a gofer at a major daily newspaper in pre-revolutionary Iran. Reza is a proud reformist. His last job at a reformist paper was his third job in the past two years. All three papers were closed down by the government for 'a variety of trumped up charges'. Finally the revolutionary court banned him for life from practicing journalism and he became a cab driver to make ends meet. Reza's first passion is journalism of course but he also has a keen interest in literature – modern American literature to be exact. He has read 'On the Road' and admires Kerouac's sense of freedom in his story and style. I happened to have the perfect gift for him in my briefcase: A signed copy of 'Front Lines' (published by City Lights) by San Francisco's poet laureate Jack Hirschman. The gift was intended for another friend but Reza seemed equally deserving. Reza was genuinely pleased with the gift.

"Hirschman and Ferlinghetti are great poets. What are they up to? Still alive?" I assure him that indeed they are and they are more active than ever. "But what are they doing against the invasion of Iraq?" he asks.

"They are writing, reading, dissenting and giving a voice to millions of Americans who are also against this invasion," I say.

"Good," he says, "but what about the others? Where are the American artists? Where are their Guernicas? Why are they all silent when Guantanamo Bay and Abu Ghraib are happening? Where is the outrage?"

I do not have an answer for him.

Reza and many others like him are in a precarious position these days: they are trying to reform the political system from within, liberalizing a regime that is quick to brand them 'pro-U.S.' – a label that has become a kiss of death in the Middle East. Nevertheless, Reza is hopeful. But he also warns of the dire consequences if U.S. decides to invade another Arab or a non-Arab but predominantly Moslem country like Iran.

"Nobody here believes U.S. wants to give us democracy–as if we were beggars and democracy was a morsel of food!" he says. "They want three things from us: Oil, oil and oil! If they attack I will have to defend my country," he says as he shifts into fourth gear.

Cabbie #3 Jamal, the ex-guard

I got into his car for all the wrong reasons. His car was filthy. He looked unshaven, unkempt and beat. I pitied him and thought maybe he needed the business more the other cabbies. His name was Jamal and all I said to him was "How's life these days?" and he went off for the rest of the ride. It turned out that he was in Shah's guard before the revolution of 1979. He told me how good he had it.

"Sir, we had vacation pay, clothes stipend, health insurance, food subsidies. I was a homeowner, can you believe that? Now, I can't even afford to pay rent. I work 16 hours a day. If my car dies on me, I'll die too. Yes Sir, life is hard in Iran, life is very hard."

"What do you think of the United States? I asked him.

"We had American advisors and trainers in Shah's time. We all liked them. They were good people. Some of them cried when they were forced to leave Iran because of the revolution."

"Do you follow the news these days?"

"Yes, I have a shortwave radio. I am against the invasion. The U.S. doesn't understand Moslems. If Iraq is not their Vietnam, Iran will be. Sir, I listen to radio Israel and sometimes to the BBC."

"Radio Israel?" I asked incredulously.

"Yes, Sir," he replied. "Radio Israel has a Farsi program; they play the best pop songs of pre-revolution–now banned in Iran. I don't care about politics anymore. I just want to survive. Music takes me back to the good old days. I know they're gone forever. But still, I need it. I don't have anything else to keep me going."

He dropped me off at my door. We shook hands. Then, he took off in his cab - clanking and clunking. I stood there until he made the turn and disappeared in the traffic of Tehran.

The following day I was gone too.


Iranian-born poet and artist Soheyl Dahi lives in San Francisco.

* Leaving Beirut © Roger Waters

* Guernica by Pablo Picasso
 

Letter to A Young Tortured Genius

by Christopher Cunningham

so you want to be the greatest writer ever huh?

first of all: love, the maintaining of an intense, meaningful relationship where two people have each other's back, and can trust each other no matter what, are willing to go to Room 101 for the other and have rats strapped to their heads, this is the essential connection that all writing seeks to make; like the saxophone seeks to mimic the human voice singing, the breath from the heart and soul translated into musical notes that transcend the limits of puny speech and mere language, so does writing attempt a Great Connection, a Great Communication, the forging of a link between writer and reader that is so like love that it is, at its finest, capable of drawing out the deepest emotions, causing weeping and laughter, sorrow, pain, soaring freedoms, the Pure Understanding. this is also the goal of love. it is the goal of ALL GREAT ART in the end: connection to the ethereral, the intangible, the impossible.

listen: you must shed this "DESIRE" that will, in the end, cripple you. this DESIRE to "be the greatest *blank*" is an illusion. you will never be the GREATEST WRITER, because there will ALWAYS be someone coming up behind you who will do something that will make YOU, the "greatest writer" (by whomever's standards...yours? hardly a capable judge. an editor? fallible as all hell. jesus? good fucking luck...) shudder in your skin and sweat blood and finally grab for the ol' Hemingway shotgun. this is the path of your desire to be the greatest. believe me. I've lived it. finally, you won't be able to outdo your OWN PAST WRITING, no matter how great, and it will kill you.

here brother: learn to be the GREATEST HUMAN first. learn to suffer the misery of COMPASSION, that is, the SUFFERING WITH another that draws GREAT WRITING out of you. throw yourself into love, the FULLNESS OF IT, and LET THE WRITING COME AS IT WILL. this desire will make you FORCE the words, and trust me, it will show. no matter how good you get at the TRICK of writing (that's all it is, really, a magic trick: a conjuring, an illusion like a house of mirrors that reflects the world back upon the reader thru his own eyes, allowing the writer to disappear, leaving only the mysterious puff of fog down a dark midnight alley glinting in the dim streetlights of Prague or St. Louis or Mexico City) you will always be forced to BE A HUMAN LIVING A LIFE.

man, you have to understand most of all that you will WRITE no matter what. you will carve hours out of the night that you never knew existed, all the while living your life with your women, your jobs, your hurts and your triumphs. if this girl means as much to you as you say, there is no need to sacrifice EITHER ONE. one is tangible and real, and one is a beautiful dream that you will never achieve except in the ABSTRACT. I've writ some shit that has made folks stare at me in amazement at how CLOSE TO THE BONE I'VE GOTTEN, and in the end, it's my relationship with my woman for twenty fucking years that matters. the TRUST AND PURE HONESTY OF LOVE. I used to think I had to sacrifice for my art. and I do. and so do you. but the sacrifice comes with the LIVING OF A LIFE IN THE TRAGEDY OF OUR MORTALITY, and doing it WELL. to leave a shining mark on the cave wall for others to find. to make a CONNECTION with another human being that is something done out of selflessness and compassion and the will to give, to sacrifice in a way that isn't negative but rather a positive expression of the best humanity can offer.

getting the artform down is the most important thing in the world to me. but the art lies in the connection generated by the CREATION. and you don't always need the creation to make that connection. the two are not mutually exclusive my man. take it from me. I've spent my LIFE, every waking moment in pursuit of exactly the dream you have, and it has brought me to this place where I can clearly see that the dream is not something attainable, but rather a DRIVING MOTIVATION to make a LIFE THAT IS ART. like Henry Miller said, something about how eventually he will get his life just right and then will never need to write another word, having acheived the PURPOSE OF THE WRITING.

Buk wanted to be the greatest, to kick Hem's ass, and even if he managed, in some ways, to do just that, he still sought LOVE FIRST OF ALL. it was PRIMARY in terms of motivation. the isolated loner puts pen to paper and sends it out into the world hoping for CONNECTION, for someone to say I HEAR YOU SCREAMING. this is literature, my man. get the words down, get them down down down, until the pages cry out, but never forget that by giving up your HUMANITY, you lessen the power of the art.

now having said all this, your partner MUST UNDERSTAND that SOMETIMES we cannot be bothered, that when they hear the MACHINE RUNNING they must find SOMETHING ELSE TO DO. there has to be COMMON GROUND, and if you feel like you are being hampered, you might try a deep examination of motivation, of purpose, of desire, of respect, etc. my lady would NEVER interrupt me or dissuade me from my art but likewise I have to FIND THE BALANCE and respect that there are TIMES WHEN I MUST SIMPLY BE A MAN living a hard human life, mowing the grass, growing some veggies in the garden, cleaning up dogshit, saying I love you, etc. it is ALL PART OF IT: THE MAKING OF ART. it all translates. leave nothing out. make nothing up.

TELL THE TRUTH FIRST. if you do that it will all fall into place. and brother: RELAX. burning up in a furious pyre does NOBODY ANY GOOD, especially you. tell the truth and get it down. be a GREAT WRITER. AND BE A GREAT HUMAN. be kind, be honest, gamble with class and dignity, crush the typewriter with lines like sledgehammers and doom, drink black coffee, sleep late and laugh when you can. this is all you can hope for brother. all else is gravy.
 

The Second Coming

by Hosho McCreesh

originally appeared in installments over at Upright

Part One: The Second Coming*

*(see Yeats)

Shame on us. Shame on all of us. From the humble beginnings of man, be them miraculous & divine or primordial & oozing, this is what we've done with it. We gave up painting cave walls and instead picked up a splintered femur & re-invented murder. We learned to hunt & trap animals, learned where the best tasting berries grew, learned how to stay out of the elements, how to keep warm...& since then we've become positively BORED with ourselves. Do we even do anything we want to anymore? Do we ever do anything we're proud of? Shame on almost the entire rotting stinking lot of us.

I am sick of people who believe things.

Listen, I believe things...some of them deep-rooted, powerful ideals...for me. But let's be clear about this: Just because I believe it doesn't make it so, doesn't make me right, doesn't make people who disagree with me wrong, or people who agree with me my friends. What I do is wander through the world that I perceive through my own eyes, reacting to what I encounter, & within me exists my own belief structure which may be well-calibrated or may be completely out of whack, but whatever the case, it's mine, & it's how I get through what's difficult, how I enjoy what's wonderful, how I find the "story in the suicide," & how I decide what to do next. Beliefs? Convictions? Ideals? What in the hell are they? They are little more than tools used to work through this agony & ecstasy, our way to make sense of the misguided majesty of living. Ours. Not others. & certainly not everyone's.

Carefully now, so there's no confusion: this is not to say that we should abandon all that we think we know & compromise our hearts--no no no. This is instead an indictment of any & all belief structures that harbor, in their fetid bowels, any hypocrisy, any judgment, any exemptions from their own unbreakable rules. I myself must refuse to allow my own stupid head to convince me that I know everything...or that I even know anything. Human ignorance has only begat more human ignorance, & it has done so for centuries, will do so for centuries. Humans invented their gods. Humans invented their governments. Humans invented the imaginary lines drawn on maps that humans sketched, supposedly separating us one from the other. None of these things are as simple as a sunflower & yet these ideas, these concepts, have drowned this planet in the black-caked blood of centuries, of millennia. This hurtling goddamned rock is blood-logged. How can we forgive what has been done in the name of god & country & government? What continues to be done? The horrors perpetrated? All of it based on imaginary notions made real by a deluded zealotry that has poisoned the human race. Our hearts know this. The sad truth is we humans have invented our own misery. Our hearts also know this.

I write poems. I paint. That entitles me to nothing. I live in America, but no gods favor me over their other countless creations, other planets, & most definitely not over fellow humans...no matter where they reside, how they look, or how they think. I am simply one of the many animate beings, a slave to my own capricious biochemicals & perceptions, misperceptions...we all are. We pretend at the divine while wallowing in the carnival of our own man-made damnation.

We'll have to dig deep holes to save all these meaningless trinkets we've hoarded, hide them from the hellfire doom we've wrought. There will be no revolution until we're forced to pack our intestines with gravel to simply remember what it's like to feel full; until we abandon all our vengeful & exclusionary gods & our bumbling countries & castrated governments & replace them with something that works...for us, something our hearts know as righteous, just, true. Beliefs? They are but a falcon, loosed like a plague on the unchaperoned heavens, they split the sky like from a womb. The seed embeds; grows fat; forms man--imperfect & inventive, this misfit. We began by learning one thing, then another & soon we were bored by all we knew & conjured up wacky things to believe in: gods, maps, borders, ways of thinking, ways of of ruling, ideals, judgments. The misfit then Balkanized Eden & reinvented murder. The march of time lands us here, now, with a globe overrun by knee-jerk reactionaries & still we do precious little to spare our atherosclerotic hearts, all gone aplump on the back-fat cuttings of each other. What sense is there to make of a world convinced that whatever they think is righteous, justified, true? Liquid & convenient, these random & foolishly taprooted ideals, invented to justify our murderous & self-serving hearts. Ours is a green god writhing, a golden calf without its neck slit, a false idol. We have only our foolish selves to blame now that sin has usurped virtue. Doom!--my unborn cousins, sisters, brothers, it begs purchase in the radioactive, blistered, weathered crags of the America womb! & thundercrack the skulls of too-soon-dead patriots, splintered, ground down to bonemeal 'neath the thunder of 2 billion feet marching bloody, red as Mao*, forming ranks & advancing, bent on the dusty end. Pitiless & blank, we the Sphinx churn our stoney thighs & trample what's left of Eden...& the worst need no reasons, no evidence, no proof, while the best know less tomorrow than they did today...

At least that's what I think...

Part Two: And Good Luck Outrunning Our Primal Selves!

I just don't see the value in being skull-locked into any brand of dogged, unyielding notion. At this point it would take an entire volley of warheads just to recalibrate the species and god only knows what to dig out the infected roots. Why believe in anything when believing means doing things unbelievable? Why believe in a god when believing means doing things ungodly? Why believe in justice when believing means doing things unjust? Why believe in humanity when believing means doing things that are abjectly inhuman? Better to place your unblinking faith in witchcraft, in voodoo, in genocide, in a final nuclear solution - this graveyard planet littered with only the shadows of its extinct blast-burned on building and boulder. Better the blade "quick and true" than to hear the tireless explanations; better the buckshot than entertain yet another ill-conceived filibuster of convenient intellection; better the rack than suffer case-by-case justifications for actions perpendicular to some quotidian philosopher's so-called personal compass; and better the crucifixion than the rhetorical longshot scenarios which condone hypocrisy and rationalize some phantom delineation between a proverbial inner "magnetic North" and an inner "true North" which the common rube uses to explain away any and all personal liability, excuses these humps use for their temporary dalliances from their otherwise "bedrock core beliefs" as if such extenuations plumb or hold up in the goddamned wash...

Horse.
Fucking.
Shit.

Convictions, rigidly held insist upon rules rigidly held: any room for interpretation is a chasm tailored for doubt - even a hairline fracture wherein seeps condensation, wherein it freezes then expands, melts, re-freezes, eventually breeches the hull. Hence, any belief - any TRUE BELIEF - is blind and cannot allow questions. Nor can it withstand them. They wilt flaccid to rudimentary examination. Any single allowance, any one semantic exception, any sniff that the world is not one of contrasting absolutes and the hypothesis is summarily rebuffed, the lords of ultimatum properly and riotously sacked. To say it another way: a black and white world must always disavow all greys, because the mere existence of any grey illegitimates all blacks and all whites.

So what does the color grey have to do with our primal selves? Only this: Let's quit pretending we're much more, as a species, than Pavlov's dogs, more than a grey, or that we're some sort of black or white. "What? Pavlov's dogs?" you say. I know, I know, pardon you while you scoff. "Man is sublimely evolved, the top of the food chain, supremely intelligent, a sentient being of the highest order," says you, "we're immune to such bestial wailings..." The works of Michelangelo and an honest mechanic or line cook not withstanding, I've seen grown men racing ride-on lawn mowers and other grown men recording this so even more grown men could telecast it for me, a grown man who sat watching the broadcast. This is precisely where we have put ourselves. Pardon me while I scoff back. We are all salivating at the knell of any and all manner of shiny goddamned bell. We're rats gone mad at the feeder bar. Higher functioning rats, perhaps, but rats all the same. Disagree? Then imagine the time-clocks we all punch as feeder bars, and imagine the generations of men that have powdered their knuckles punching them, all for a few meager moneypellets at the end of every other week or so.

Forget the circus of magnanimity, our main concern is of, for and about ourselves. Even our most altruistic philanthropy can be made to serve a primal need to either be hailed, appreciated, or envied. Rarely is it done with a pure heart. Our loins crave moist flesh, our innards meat, our bodies shelter, and our strangled spirits crave meaning. From these cravings - invention, innovation - all man-made and ridiculously imperfect. From all these cravings - conditioned, Pavlovian responses - we've indoctrinated ourselves to never be happy, to always want for more - what madness! We have engineered and manufactured every single ugly desire and ignorant lust, pounded it into each other's bent spines, we loll about in the stink of it like some fetid, putrid green pool. Our primal selves have forgotten how to be content, how to live simply and well, how to eat, drink and just be merry. We've forgotten how to be beautiful. And good luck outrunning our primal selves!

Abandoning just about everything we thought we knew & thought we wanted might be the only way back: lest the entire sky be wasted on us.

Part Three: Pavlov & The Last Laughing Neanderthal

So what of this business of dogs & gods? Just this: even Pavlov’s dogs knew better than we do not to shit where you eat. Salivating wants aside, the gist of what I’m driving at here is this: as with Pavlov & his mutts, any behavior rewarded is one that persists. Conversely, a behavior fades from existence if unrecognized, unheralded. If, for instance, we were to stop taking pictures of Paris Hilton, just you try & guess what would happen...

So we are to blame. For all we’ve encouraged & for all we’ve let die by the wayside, we are to blame. We are to blame & shame on us. You give me science, you give me gods, you give me technology to blast men into space, chart the fissures of Mars in search of water, or makes a Snicker’s candy bar more damnably delicious–you give me all of these things as proof positive of the undying nature & spirit of man. I give you our laughably repeated histories. I give you centuries of basically pointless & unimaginative wars, starving babies while abundant grains rot in silos & farmers are paid not to farm. I give you impermanent lines we’ve imagined across mountains & floating in rivers & oceans–lines our own generations worth of humans have died defending from ourselves. Not from space-aliens, or the brutal assault of mother nature, or anything wholly outside of us, mind you–but ourselves, only ourselves. We dream up things to believe in, believe so fervently in them that we fashion, of our innocent-of-all-but-disagreeing human counterparts, enemies. & thus we are the architects of human misery. Because at the end of the day almost every human I’ve ever met wants basically the same thing: a sustainable source of food, shelter & clothing from their respective & brutal climes, & a way to worry less. Some want solidarity, some want community, some to be left alone. Most benefit from a sense of purpose. Most flourish beneath the weight of love & family. Most deteriorate under tightly girded lack of freedoms. Most want to be heard in some way, want to matter. Most want to be alive, want to bear witness to the simple majesty of it. Increasingly, many don’t want this current manifestation of the world. Too few have too much; too many not enough. Of all these simple, basic, primal needs, too few are being met, for most. How can we believe in any of that? How can that be right or just? How have we ruined Eden so completely? Is it simply a question of geography? Have we become to wrapped up in the lines & borders we’ve invented to remember that before us there were no lines, before us it was just one hunk of hurtling rock? Have we forgotten that it will be that again when we’re gone? Or do these troubling questions about our own mortality & impermanence just fuel the madness?

If so, for many religion is the source of calm, the thing that quiets the swelling inner fears–fair enough. Use it then, keep it–if there is purpose in it for you. But let’s try to remember that there are different brand names, that it’s not the only thing people fill their days with (some might find as much fulfillment in shopping) & that religions too are man-made (or at least man-manipulated) & therefore imperfect. I’ll even allow that most religions, at the core, encourage the same kinds of tenets: simply put, to do things that make you better tomorrow than you are today. I can even admire the undertaking, the self-examination &courage to try & change. As a journey, it’s one that, in the end, can bring peace & meaning to an unquiet heart. Let’s not forget this very important truth: while not mutually exclusive, religion can be something staggeringly different from spirituality. By way of example I offer this: when you find yourself slathering at the maw for your particular brand of religion, unable to appreciate the fact that others who follow a different text are on just as sacred of a journey as you are, when you find yourself with your high-powered cross-hairs beaded on a fellow human, or you’re diving a plane full of innocent travelers into a skyscraper full of innocent workers, when you’re carpet bombing a village or you’ve got a satchel bomb strapped to yourself in a bus full of people going to get bread & beans at a market–religion might condone that, but spirituality certainly cannot. & in such moments it’s absolutely necessary to question how you’ve strayed to the furthest extremes of what your particular text teaches–often ignoring scripture contrary to such extremities en route–& try to identify what specific little religious hang-up derailed your spiritual journey & took you so far from what you supposedly believed in.

Now, perhaps we are too many. Perhaps humans were meant to roam in much smaller packs, driven together by the wild throes of necessity & uncertainty. Perhaps our distended & decaying souls are truly beyond redemption. Perhaps we’re damned to always succumb to our wanton & childish lusts. Perhaps we were supposed to die off as cavemen, & some last laughing Neanderthal bore witness to a spectacular innovation that saw his tiny pack through to the other side of that planned & certain extinction. Perhaps we can blame him–be him Thag or Adam–& his heavy-browed cronies for damning us to a rotting pile-up of useless millennia. But I can’t quiet escape the fact that he knew better than we do, how to fill his days with meaning. As cautious as he had to step, the way even a turned ankle could be a death sentence, I see no way his days weren’t spent on the electric edge of his own mortality & that, in itself, is far more invigorating than the lifetimes we pass in cubicles, on subways, or crawling along in gridlock. I can’t help but see Thag or Adam cackling at all our useless toil, wondering just what in the fuck we are doing with this human race he handed us, this populace working so diligently to ensure it’s own unhappiness in the short term & demise in the long.

I believe it all makes a pretty convincing case against believing or relying on any of the shitty little gimcracks we’ve dreamed up & manufactured—be them objects, borders, ideas, or gods. I believe there was always supposed to be more to living than anything we currently know; believe we were meant–with our silly little lives–to justify & redeem the energies expended to create us…repay, with our honest & purest efforts, that caustic spark that bore us; believe we should all find our own way to make our time matter, to find some meaning in this...

But who cares what I think? I barely even care what I think. Like I said, I am sick of people who believe things...

Some General Thoughts on Art, Poetry and The Life

by Christopher Cunningham

The cockpit manual that rode down at furious speeds along with the kamikaze pilots on suicide missions, smashing into ships and soldiers, recommends, "Do not waste your life lightly."

It has rained most of the last week here in the South. The cold weather is rolling in. I have been walking around with a good size hole in my right shoe. It is my only pair, my work shoes, my everyday shoes, all occasion. They've given me a coupla years quality service but now they are fading.

Why does any of this matter? Well, the hole in my shoe where greasy, food-scummy kitchen water flows in as I work in a hot restaurant, soaking my sock, chilling my foot, is more important than iambic pentameter.

Poetry boils down to an intense search for a searing moment of quiet truth, clearly illuminated. It isn't a craft that can be learned. It is a scream from the empty pockets, from the growling guts, from the time clock, from the tired bones on Monday morning. It isn't something that can be workshopped, it cannot be taught. Hell, it may not really exist. It might just be a trick of the light. All I do know is that we humans spend damn little time thinking about the miracle of our daily ability to draw breath, we spend no energy considering how impossible the simple fact of EVERYTHING is. We push papers, we push products, we push consumption and waste, we push dope, we push god, we push, but there is nowhere to go, nothing to push. We curse traffic, we long for speed, but we are already there.

And the poem, the artform, is the only way we, with our simple little brains, can ever hope to GO BEYOND the tangible and touch a measure of truth, a glimpse of understanding, and maybe a bit of meaning in our motions.

Those who ignore the creation of beauty are dead. Those who are dead have no hope. The dead question nothing, the dead cannot love, the dead do not laugh. Yet they wander thru the world, eyes open, never thinking about why. That fucking word: WHY? The answer lies in the look that passes across a person's face when they stare at a van Gogh or a Monet, when they read a poem that speaks to them TRUTHFULLY, with no bullshit, when they hear Miles play a note that isn't there, and the silence that cloaks it in mystery. The answer lies in the mystery. The answer is why we gasp at a falling star, why we smile when we are alone. Even when we are alone in the dark and the cold weather comes moaning.

Nietzsche gives us a take on the answer: "To give a life meaning: that has been the grand endeavor of all who have preached 'truth;' for unless life is GIVEN a meaning, it has none."

So the answer is the smell of black coffee on Sunday reading the paper by a sunny window. Or a poem.

And when you strip away nations, races, ideology, isms, faiths, laws, etc., you are left with a human being. You are left with a collection of cells, atoms, elements that were born in the throes of space, from the bellies of stars and dying worlds, lifetimes ago. This sheer miracle should be enough to stop even the basest of thinker in his tracks with a wide mouth "O" of wonder. This should be enough to end war, end hunger, end mindless entertainment on the television and replace it with the magic of creation.

What else is there except joy? The bone hand reaching from the dim forest at the end of each of our lives? Might as well laugh, you can't save yourself.

But you can save that part of us all that might be worth saving by getting it down. By painting the cave walls, by writing a pointless poem for no one to read. Or, maybe, one.

"When you find you can go neither backward nor forward, when you discover that you are no longer able to stand, sit or lie down, when your children have died of malnutrition and your aged parents have been sent to the poorhouse or the gas chamber, when you realize that all the exits are blocked, either you take to believing in miracles or you stand still like the hummingbird." Henry Miller said that.

And the poem, for me, is exactly that miracle. The metaphor that allows us to experience the unsayable again and again. The silence between notes. The truth.

Or, I might just be a cook with a hole in his shoe and a typewriter, while outside the winter watches from over an approaching horizon, and dogs bark, and planes fly over, shaking the house, with my stomach rumbling. And what does that mean?

And why?

"Do not waste your life lightly."