Clara

Unearthed a random poem I wrote months ago


Clara
 

No joy of mine will last in the drop of the cup
The slip of my step, the blink of my light
But hers is what weaves through the dark and the heat
Of that burning Mexican night

  The fool of her mornings
  The joke of her nights
  The butt of her laughs
  All of them I
  And all the oppression
  Of my year long fight
  Melts in the heat
  Of a Mexican night


Old man on the corner of the dusty road
Crying for salvation in the twilight heat
With the God of my parents, the God of my friends
The God of my intellect, but not of loose ends
To have some peace, I can hear him cry
To the sound of the Mexican night


  "You're a waste of breath,"
   My soul tends to cry
   Through the hollow spirit
   And coddled mind
   But she's still smiling
   Even if I cry
   Clara still dances
   In the Mexican night


And the heat is a reflection
Of the souls of its people
Like a cry in the wilderness of reason
We tend to not tremble, even when we should
Tend to laugh when we should cry
The God of my life says "a time for everything"
And after the sun sets, the tension builds
And falls in the heat of the Mexican night


  Am I doomed to despair?
  Am I the dust on her feet?
       Yet Clara laughed softly
       On that Mexican night

~Jared

Digging Blue (12th Grade Poetry)

Poem I wrote when I was 17 that I found whilst cleaning out my room.

Blue, a point of view
When nobody is broken except you
Above it all, this life is small,
and the past is still blue

Blue, its always me
They call me out but Blue I see
Who's a friend?  It all depends
If all you see if blue


Blue perhaps its you
Don't dig in deep cause you're blue too
I run apart, till a next year start
But here all is blue.


Blue, I might descend
And suffer things that none can mend
When its you I spurn, perhaps you'll learn
Don't dig when I'm blue.


Also, another random 4 line 4 stanza poem I scribbled on the next page:


Rending
Ticking
Whispering
Dying


Strands break
Bell rings
Opened eyes
Man dies


There is hurt
There is time
There is truth
There is life


Hurt is Freedom
Time is Eternal
Truth is Hidden
Life is Death

Still trying to figure out what I was going for there.


~Jared

A Truly Decent Proposal

This is the first time I have gone away from short story writing to write about politics in a very long time.  Lets see if I'm a bit rusty.

I feel that I need to express my opinion on this trending issue, despite its inherent controversy, because a) it has become increasingly important in our country and it will no doubt be something my kids will read about in the history books, so its incredibly important how we react to this issue. b) Its an issue that is currently tearing apart many of my brothers and sisters in the Faith all across the country.  Let's be honest, many of us are wondering whether we will be on the wrong side of history on this issue.  The result being that we either see our fellow Christians as too permissive or as too stringent.

Anyways, on to gay marriage.

Before I say anything about my political beliefs, I have to address my own personal convictions about homosexuality in general.  When I was about 17, I changed from being an agnostic to believing that Jesus Christ was the the Messiah, and so I put my trust in the things that He says.  Far from being blind faith, I accept my own humanity and fallibility, and must accept the fact that God, if he truly is the God of the universe, must know better than I do (His ways are not my ways, as the Good Book says).  Therefore, I accept the authority and veracity of the Bible.  

From my reading and study, I cannot agree with the view of some of my fellow Christians that homosexuality is permitted.  In my view, the Bible is quite clear that homosexuality is a deviation from the way that God originally made us to be, and the methods that other Christians have used to prove otherwise are, in my opinion, highly suspect.  I must be intellectually honest with my self and accept that I believe in the Bible, and the Bible says that God (not me, you, or the government) defines marriage as between a man and a woman.

This does not mean, however, that I hate homosexuals.  Even if I were to view them as my enemies, my Savior calls me to love my enemies!  I love my LGBT friends to death and will continue to pray for them and serve them in anyway I can, but I must respectfully disagree with their lifestyle, just as they respectfully disagree with my own views.  I would encourage them to identify themselves in Christ alone, and not in who they have sex with.  

This is where I feel the church has completely failed the LGBT community countless times, in that they have treated them like hopeless outcasts and not sought to receive them with open arms in the same love that our Savior greets us with.  On behalf of the church, I wish I could apologize to all LGBT's for how the church has treated them.  We are far from perfect, and the church has a lot to learn.  However, Christ has not given up on me, despite the countless times I let him down, therefore I have no right to give up on the church, even with its flaws.

With that out of the way, I want to explain what my political views on gay marriage have been for a decent amount of time.  In fact, they are pretty well summed up in this New York Times op-ed piece: "A Decent Proposal"

 As so aptly put by Ron Paul (who never ceases to disappoint me), it's pretty simple: “Get the government out of it."

 The government made a mistake in the very first place by even usurping the authority of declaring what marriage is and isn't.  As this article so aptly puts it, expecting the government to be able to grant something like marriage would be akin to expecting the state to "serve communion or baptize."  Marriage, after all, is a religious concept, not a legal one.  In the eyes of the law, there is no marriage but only civilly bound individuals who share rights to property and other possessions.  Marriage in some parts of Africa is like this, in that it is strictly legal and does not necessarily involve sex or affection.  

Now, if the government were to say, back off from the term marriage and reduce everything to civil unions, this would both give homosexuals the rights they desire and not tarnish anyone's religious beliefs (on a side note, why do you never hear about Islamic beliefs against homosexuality?).  Anyone can therefore by manacled to whoever they please and then take the additional step of legitimizing it through their respected religious institution.

For those of you who are Believers and think that I am flushing society down the crapper by thinking gay marriage should be allowed, a few things:

1. Gay marriage will be legalized.  Get used to it.

According to polls, 70% of people between the ages of 18 and 34 believe it should be legalized.  Its even higher among those in highschool.  Regardless of your beliefs in gay marriage, it will inevitably become legal throughout the entire country, probably within the next 10 years. 

2. The US is not a Christian nation, and therefore cannot be expected to advocate our beliefs.

In fact, its a popular and now well debunked myth that the US was ever a Christian nation to begin with.  The vast majority of our founding fathers were free masons and deists who held more fielty to the principles of the Enlightenment than they did the Bible (see Thomas Paine, Thomas Jefferson, George Washington, Benjamin Franklin).  Though it is accurate to say that the Enlightenment ideals are heavily influenced by Christian thought, it is inaccurate to say our country was founded on Christian thinkers.  We are a nation founded not on Christian law, but on democracy, which allows for the people themselves to define what is law.  By living in a democracy, we knowingly allow the possibility of contrary opinions and therefore laws that are contrary to our beliefs.  This is not to say that Christians should not fight for their own opinions and for their rights in society, since this is the essence of democracy.  However, it is foolish to act like we have a sense of entitlement above other citizens because we hold the belief that the government should advocate our beliefs above someone else's.  The government is by the people; if the people change, so will the government.

3. The Christian life is one of persecution, not of domination.

One of my reasons for not supporting banning gay marriage is that those who want to make it illegal, whether you call them the religious right, GOP, or whatever, are clearly not fighting for Christian morality, but solely for political gain.  Lets face it, the GOP doesnt care about what we think is wrong or right.  What they do care about is that Christians make up a large majority of their voter base, and therefore will use gay marriage as their means of gaining political power.  The minute it becomes inconvenient to them and the tide of gay marriage support overwhelms them, they will dump it because it no longer benefits them.  That aside, Christ has never promised that we will be powerful and rule over society, in fact he promised the exact opposite!  Though the Jews desired domination of the Romans, Christ promises that they will be hated for believing in him and what followed his Resurrection was intense persecution.  Just because we have the blessing of living in a country where we do not experience persecution, lets not forget that Christianity is the most persecuted religion in the world.  Our laments of legalized gay marriage no doubt look sort of pitiful to those Christians in the East who are being jailed and killed because of Christ.  In summary, suck it up.

This sums up how I feel about gay marriage.  Questions?  Comments?

~Jared

Part 2: Bridge to Humanity

Today is Monday.
 
I take my coffee with no sugar and a little milk, so that the cup has the dull, rusty brown without being black.  Its dull out.  All grey, little rain, no sun.

There were a lot of things to think about then, but I had to take some time to read.  Especially Foreign Policy magazine.  All those articles about fantastic places with fantastic problems; those fantastic dictators with fantastic speeches and fantastic suits, waving their hands against the establishment.  My favorite was always Gaddafi, if you're even allowed to have a favorite. It was mostly because he always wore crazy stuff.  Imagine, you’re getting bombed by NATO and there's rebellion on your coat tails and all you can think about is fashion statements.

I think that was the first time I saw her.  She was across the room, dressed in a black pencil skirt and white button up shirt talking to the barista and laughing about most everything.  That's the way she is, you know.  Just seems to smile her way through life, no matter the circumstance.  There was this one time I told about how some people in Africa are allowed to marry their cousins and she just smiled at me and said "that's interesting."  I told her I could tell she didn't care, and she just laughed.  She's like that.  Always made me feel like the wittiest person on earth.

That Monday in the cafe was a little slow and there were just a couple people silently puttering about and sulking into their mugs and books, and there she was, laughing and smiling.  As she turned to leave, I remember we had eye contact.  It was like two seconds long, but it seemed like forever and she gave me the smile of recognition.  Its the kind that's lightning quick, almost like a facial spasm, and it just lets you know you're not invisible.  I gave one back and she stepped into the rainy streets of the District and walked away.  She really was beautiful.

Putin tried to sing "Blueberry Hill" once on TV.  Cant even imagine.


Today is Wednesday

Today I'm taking it with no milk, but a little more sugar than normal.  Its kind of sunny out.

I was reading this really arduous book about witchcraft in South Africa when she came in.  I can't even remember what the book was saying about witchcraft in South Africa, but it seemed really insistent on proving some sort of point and changing the way I thought about South Africa or witchcraft.  If only I could find out what it was really saying, or maybe why it insisted on saying it.  I'd always like to be the kind of person that knew a lot about things like witchcraft and South Africa, maybe just so I could spout off a random opinion about it if it ever came up in conversation.  The person may not even care about what I said, but now he sees I have an opinion on something important.  That's how you win.  It's all about the opinions.

"Excuse me, are you done reading that?"

Just like that, there she was, standing right in front of my table.  She was dressed more casual than the first time, wearing jeans and a sort of ratty looking thrift store gray sweater.  Anyone else wearing it would have been a joke, but she was beautiful and beautiful people get away with everything.  All about the confidence, as they say.

"Um, no I still have a couple chapters left, sorry."

Her dark eyes squinted as she laughed.  "I meant the Foreign Policy.  Are you done with it?"

"Oh!  Yeah, I'm done with it, sorry."  I offered some laughter.

"Well, maybe I should just come back in a few days and I can get the book from you too," she said smiling.  "What is it about anyways?"

"This book?"  I looked at the cover and thought for a second before remembering.  "Oh right, its about nothing."

She smiled quizzically at me.  "Its about nothing?"

"Yep."  I held my ground.

Her eyes drifted to the book cover. "It says 'Witchcraft, Violence and Democracy' on the front."

"Yes, it does."

"But it's not about that?"

"No, its about nothing."

She considered my words, her face a little sadder now.  "All that ink and nothing to say?  That's a shame..." she sighed because it really was a shame.  "So why read it then?"
"Well, it seems very insistent."

"On what?"

"On saying what it wants to say."

"Which is nothing?"

"Yes," I said as I sipped my coffee.  "But," I continued, "the fact that he's so insistent might make it something, and no longer nothing.  That is, if he's insistent enough."

She sat down across from me and put her elbows on the table, speaking in grave inquiry.  "So if you push anything hard enough, the nothing becomes a something?"

"Sure, because no idea can be nothing if you've been made to think about it.  The minute you've given it any credence, you have in some fragile way validated its existence, whether it be serious thought or half-ass consideration.  Even if I reject an idea, like, say, South Africa, my necessity to reject its existence means I have already given it the credit of existence.  You cant reject nothing, because there would be nothing to reject.  But once I reject or accept the nothing, its now a something."

I could have sworn she would get up and leave after that existentialist treatise, but she stayed seated and looked like she was actually enjoying talking to me.  Her head turned to one side and rested on her hand.  She looked intently at me, locks of her dark curly hair lightly falling on her face. 

"So what you're saying is that South Africa and witchcraft haven't quite jumped out from the realm of nothing quite yet?"

I laughed at that.  "No, but I guess we'll see.  Do you read FP alot?"

"Yeah, at least when I can.  There are so many fascinating things going on in the world, I cant help but want to know.  Like maybe if Argentina changed their monetary policy, or South Africa has sunken out of existence."

I laughed along with her, wondering if she might remember me the rest of her life as "the guy who didn't believe in South Africa."

"Don't tell anyone, but I actually always underline and circle stuff in the magazines here," she said slyly, her eyes lighting up.  You would have thought she had just admitted to shoplifting.  "I wonder if they ever notice."

"Oh, that's you?  You have good taste in articles.  I like how you always circle the ones about dictators.  I kind of like dictators.  I mean, I'm interested in them, I guess I should say."

"Me too!  Especially the things that Gaddafi wears."  I agreed and we laughed about dictators for a couple of minutes, eventually going on to other things and drinking a couple more cups of coffee. 

"I guess it's nice that someone appreciates my random mark ups.  Hey!  I don't even know your name!"

And that's how it was.  It was nothing, and then it was something.  Maybe from a half-ass consideration on her part, but to be honest I was a little in love.  She really was beautiful.


Today is Saturday

I take my afternoon coffee with a lot of milk and two sugars.  It's really nice out today, a clear blue sky.

"Their cousins?"

"Their cousins," I confirmed.

She gazed into the sunlit street, sipping her coffee.  She then turned back to me, smiling as always.

"But see, they can only marry certain cousins," I pushed on. "They're called 'cross cousins' and you determine them by seeing whether they're related through the mother or father...and if their gender is the opposite...or maybe its the same...I don't know, something like that."

Her hair was tied back and she looked really beautiful nodding at my rantings.  "That's interesting," she said innocently.

I let out a sigh. "Alright, I can tell you're just humoring me and don't care about African cousin marriage.  What do you want to talk about?"

She laughed happily and blushed since I read her disapproval so well.  She always liked to think of herself as someone who could fake interest.

She shifted in her seat and sipped more coffee, looking at me questioningly.

"Tell me why you drink so much coffee."

I was a little startled.  No one had ever asked me.

"It's safer than crack and cheaper than Prozac," I declared, holding my coffee cup as an example.  I put it down, smiling sheepishly.

"I've always had a problem with happiness and such, one that no one else could ever understand."  I paused, looking for better words.  "Coffee is my equalizer, you could say.  The enemy of despair. Makes me a little bit easier to understand, for both parties involved.  It makes me... relateable."

Her face began to drop at my words.  "You don't think you're relateable?" 

"I know I'm not," I insisted.  "Life has done a fine job of draining every drop of optimism from me.  At least for now."

I sipped a bit more and chose my next words carefully.

"This coffee is I feel my bridge to humanity.  For these few little moments in this coffee shop, I get to sit with the rest of human kind and read, drink coffee, feel happy, talk to people, and see what the normal life is like.  Feel the grass on the other side, I guess.  I wouldn't be talking to you if it weren't for this stuff, right?"

As I looked back at her, she was gazing at me, but her eyes looked a little glassy.  As the sun began to peek out from a cloud, she looked at the floor and began rolling up the sleeves of her gray sweater.

"Nothing is normal," she said after a few moments.  She was smiling, but it had a touch of tragedy. 
 
That was the first and last time that I held her hand.  I tried to smile, and her smile became deeper and more authentic as a result; always doing the things I couldn't.

"Coffee next weekend?"
 
There were two deep scars up both her dark forearms.  She really was beautiful.


Today is Sunday

I take my coffee black.  Just like the night sky.

It had been two weeks since I held her hand.  We had other conversations, other cups of coffee, but eventually she told me about the guy she started seeing a week ago.  Like many random loves, it started out as nothing and, through careful insistence, became something.  I think he worked in her office or something, and one day this guy just sort of walks up to her and asks her about such and such memo to such and such boss and then finds a way to slip in that well worn technique of the ambivalent romantic:

"You want to get a cup of coffee or something?"

Now pay attention, because each part of this question is very, very important and integral to the whole. 

"You want" seems innocent enough, but its very strategic, you see.  The word "want" immediately brings forth the concept of desire and urge.  Yes, what do I want in life?  Do I want a cup of coffee?  Do I want true love?  Do I want to buy a toy poodle to fulfill my need for children?  What does my heart truly desire?  If even a twinge of romantic desire exists in the person, the "you want" is sure to unearth it.

Now the "cup of coffee" is a very important medium of romantic expression, precisely because of its innocence.  Most people would quake at the idea of a whole meal or movie with someone, but you wouldn’t refuse to drink a beverage with someone, would you?  I could just as easily ask if you want go drink a glass of water with me, but at the same time the coffee is immensely important.  Why?  Because two people at a coffee shop can elicit a myriad of interpretations.  Are they business partners discussing important contracts?  Are they co-writing a screenplay?  Are they cousins?  No one will ever know.  And if worst comes to worse, the casual air of a coffee shop can allow for a quick and subtle retreat if your ambivalent romance goes sour.

Lastly, we arrive at the seemingly unimportant suffix "or something."  The importance of "or something" lies in its ability to say nothing and everything at the same time.  If I tack on a "something," I am handing you endless possibilities to be shaped by your love, indifference, or disgust for my proposition.  "Something" stretches itself to mean from "you can walk me out of the building" to "let's go to my house and make passionate love" and everything between, so there is no way that you can be threatened by my offer.  In the context of this question, it's the ultimate safety and the ultimate innuendo all at the same time.

They got coffee that afternoon with all sorts of innocent pleasantries.  She kept telling me he was the love of her life, but I get the idea he was so sure.  Through it all, I smiled.  I nodded.

That night, I sat and sulked into a mug and read a book of Emily Dickinson poems.  Did you know she got dumped about three times?  Then she locked herself in a cabin, away from all of humanity, and wrote some of the best poetry known to mankind.  It makes me reconsider my own view of life, that I should be joining human civilization.  Was the real key to burn the bridge?

"Would you watch my stuff?"

Some gangly looking hipster in a v-neck was going to the toilet.  Yeah, sure, I said.  I wondered, how many people in the history of "watch my stuff" have ever just plain taken off with it?

After he got back, I told him my thought about watching stuff.  He was actually a pretty cool guy, and we had a decent conversation.  Although it got a bit weird near the end.  I had never even heard of "dubstep." 

In these moments, I had finally learned the wisdom that she had tried to teach me all those times: just smile and nod.


Today is Friday

I take my coffee with milk, but just a little sugar.  I've learned to appreciate it this way.

It was a very beautiful afternoon.  After getting my coffee, I sat down next to a stack of magazines and began looking for a Foreign Policy.  I wanted to read about some fantastic problems, or maybe some fantastic solutions.  I'm not quite as cynical as I used to be, if you can believe it.  Life hasn't quite drained my optimism yet; nothing that a cup of liquid optimism can’t solve.

It was kind of crowded that day I think, or maybe it wasn't.  All I remember is that there were tons of fascinating looking people there.  Two middle aged men with baseball caps were playing the loudest game of chess I had ever seen in the corner, and one old lady sat behind one of the men and poked his ribs every time he said a curse word.  On the other side of the place, three nannies were loudly chatting with each other, somehow simultaneously shoving food into the mouths of three wailing blue-eyed babies.  Near the door, a man in a cardigan sat typing on his apple laptop and insisting to every passerby that he was working on something very important, and yes it’s a secret.  And finally, in the corner, I saw a couple, casually drinking coffee and pretending they didn't enjoy each other’s company.  I don’t remember much else, but I remember that it was glorious.  

After about five minutes, I found a copy of Foreign Policy.  Just as I was about to open it, I saw her passing by out the window.  She looked a lot happier.  As she saw me, she suddenly started pointing at the magazine, telling me to open it.

Every single article about dictators was circled and underlined.  Putin's picture had a mustache.

I gave her a thumbs up, and she just smiled back at me.  She really was beautiful.

~Jared

City of Dogs

Daniel missed, but just by a little bit.  The pebble fell short of his target, an indifferent, black dog with white spots sprawled out in the middle of the road in the hot sun.  As the pebble fell, the spotted dog briefly raised his head and considered the pebble.  Then he considered Daniel, the stout Mexican man silhouetted against his Mayan hut in the shade of the papaya trees.  He briefly considered getting up to move, but found sleep the better prospect and immediately dozed off.

Daniel cursed to himself, and straightened his back, shifting his position on the rock right outside the gate.  It was a hot day, and he put aside some special time for himself to sit outside his house on the side of the gravel street to watch the people trod by, watch the sun crawl across the sky.

Today he was distracted though, cause he just really wanted to hit this dog. 

In a lot of ways, Tunkás, like many Mayan villages, has gone to the dogs.  It was just crawling with them.  Those mangy, flea ridden, emaciated animals.  Weaving their way through chairs, yards, gardens and huts, sniffing, scratching, laying in the middle of the road.  Licking the crumbs of your dinner and rooting through the leftovers in the street.  They come in big and small, black, white, brown, red, male, female, fat, and skinny.  There are loners who lumber around on their own, tongues hanging in the heat, or maybe the gangs of three or four that sneak around the town like a couple of kids skipping school.  

Yucatecos have been kicking them in the faces for ages, throwing them into the street to build their houses and feed their families.  The village has grown around them, children filling the streets and the smell of tortillas piercing the jungle air.  Yet, despite the many strikes to the ribs and brooms to the face, the dogs are here, even if in they are confined to the streets.  They hold that special place in a relationship that's abusive, yet strangely symbiotic.

His eyes narrowed as he gazed at the spotted dog in the street.   

"You think you're better than me, don't you?" he growled.

The spotted dog did nothing to deny this accusation, but instead kicked his leg in the dust.  A tubby, brown dog was politely pooping in the road right behind him.

Daniel spat in the street and scratched his bare stomach, quietly boiling over in resentment.  He wondered what the spotted dog was dreaming about.  Whatever they were, he was jealous of them.

"I oughta smack you for lying in the street like that, gettin' in people's way," Daniel shouted.  "You're nothing but a stupid animal!  What have you got to show for it?"

A cackle erupted from the swinging hammock in the hut behind him.  An old, toothless woman, sprawled in her hammock, was swinging to the rhythm of the radio with a wide grin on her face.

"Shut it, vieja!" he shouted back.

The woman shrugged, and cackled a little softer.  

Daniel scratched his stomach again, this time less as habit and more as a thoughtful gesture.  It was about the middle of the day, and the heat poured down from the heavens like rain.  It was too hot to take a walk, too hot to mend the fence, too hot to check the garden.  Nothing to do but sit in the shaded road side and consider the foot traffic, consider life.  On any other day, he would have made conversation with his neighbors that were passing by at that moment, but he only had one priority on his mind that afternoon.  He picked up another pebble, and aimed for the spotted dog once again.

As he aimed, Luis, the old neighbor down the street, strolled up to Daniel, kicking his worn out sandals in the dirt and making clouds as he walked.  Standing next to Daniel, Luis looked at the dozing dog for a few seconds before turning back to Daniel, who weighed the pebble in his hand and held it up to his eye, looking for a perfect shot.

"Ma'alob' k’íin," said Luis.

"Good day? There's nothing good about today," said Daniel.

At this, he took his shot and nailed a turkey in the yard across the road.  The turkey shrieked in protest and shuffled off to the other side of the yard.

"Not even close," Daniel muttered.  Another curse, another spit, another cackle from inside the hut.

"Where are my manners?  Señora!" Luis said with the grace of gentleman.  "B'ix a bèel?"

"I'm not too good," the woman yelled back.  "I'm sick."

"What do you have?"

"Old age!" she yelled back.  She cackled again, though with less enthusiasm.

Luis sighed in agreement.  "'Life is nothing, everything ends, and only God makes man happy,' as they say," he mused, wondering if he believed what he was saying.  He stared off down the road, eyes glazed by cataracts, at two ladies at the panaderia fighting over the last piece of bread.  His face was worn, but well chiseled by his Mayan heritage.  He had the stone face you might imagine in a carving on the side of a temple, and a growling voice that spoke eons in every syllable.  His thin shirt hung loosely on his skinny body, but his hands were strong and callused, carved from rocks.  He placed a boulder hand on Daniel's shoulder.

"You hear about the man from the city?" he asked.

"Yeah, I saw him walking around," said Daniel.  "What was he sayin?"

"Oh, the usual," said Luis.  "Talkin' politics, talkin' bout our homes, talkin' bout our children and future.  He talked about the voting booth, our salvation.  Turns out the only ticket to heaven is an x on a ballot, not a prayer to God.  Makes me think that maybe one day when we get to heaven we won't find any pearly gates, but we'll find one big bureaucracy.  Angels with rolled up sleeves, cherubim with picket signs.  A whole new set of speeches, signs, and people telling us they know our pain.  A whole new set of sympathy, a whole new set of sucking up to do."

Daniel shrugged.

"It's fine.  It's all were used too," Luis admitted.  "Although they say its better across the border.  You know, you've been there right?"

  

Daniel considered his memories and scratched his stomach, as if he was brushing away years of his life.  "That was years ago," he muttered.  "When the Dream was alive.  Turns out, its terrible in Los Angeles too.  After paying my cousin for the trip, I ended up in a dingy apartment with a bunch of other guys.  Wasnt even enough room to think to myself or hardly relieve yourself in peace.  I went to work everyday by sitting on the side of the road waiting for a job, and at night I got to back to being a caged animal.  They call it the Dream, but its the same nightmare we've always known, only over there the politicians are pasty white and you work through the afternoon.  No wonder so many of our friends have died over there."

Luis and Daniel inclined their heads in respect for the dead.  After a few moments, Daniel began to speak again, slower and more deliberately than before.

"That's not the life for me.  Many of them over there would rather die on the job than have to die with dignity, maybe kick this life with their heads on a desk and their hands bleeding.  I say, better to die on my own dusty street with dignity than to die in a foreign land as some filthy animal for the sake of someone's Dream.  You wouldnt even have family to bury you over there.  Instead of wasting your life, I say take to the streets, make your home out of everyone's way.  Then find a woman who can feed you when you're hungry and stays out of your way."

As Daniel spoke, a middle aged woman began walking down the street.  She was holding the hands of both her children, kicking away dogs as she went.  As she passed, she looked at Daniel with a mixed expression of pain and resentment, the wrinkles extenuating every grieving thought etched in her face.  Daniel avoided her gaze and began searching for more pebbles in the dust, but her soft gaze continued.  Years before, she was his wife, the one who would call him in from the street, fix his food, raise his children.  Now, she went to an empty home with her two small children, with hardly a bite to eat.  Despite Daniel's pitiful appearance, she never forgot what he looked like the day he returned from the States, eyes blazing with passion, arm around another woman.  He looked alive then, but still in a pitiful way.  It was the look of an excited beast that thought of nothing better than humping anything that moved.  Now it was just her and the kids, and Daniel continued in the dust, being called into dinner by his new wife, mending her fences, and putting up with the cackles of his mother in law.  As the memories hung in the air like the dust of the street, the woman Daniel loved directed her gaze back to the road, kicking the tubby, brown dog in the ribs as she passed him.

The tubby, brown dog, tongue hanging out, wandered off down the road, less from hurt and more from boredom.  A couple of other dogs nearby began to slowly follow him.  As the dogs slowly wandered down the road, a man in a suit paraded in the background with several other Yucatecos following him.  As he passed, words like "freedom" "good wage" and "your future" drifted on the wind.  Luis let out a long sigh, said his graceful goodbyes, and slowly began to wander after the man in the suit.  

Within a few minutes, the trains of dogs and people had gone to another part of the village, and only Daniel remained.  Picking up another pebble, he threw it at the sleeping dog and nailed it straight in the head.  The dog cried out in pain, and quickly ran off down the street.  Daniel, laughed wildly, eyes glowing with passion and head thrown back in glee.  The barks of the village dogs rose up on the afternoon air, laughing right along with him.

 ~Jared

Part 1: The Prophet

Ive been doing alot of poetry lately on this blog, but I'm going to try and change it up with a short story I wrote.  Its going to be part of a bigger series where I want to write stories that explore the different views and feelings toward the main theme, coffee.  this is the first installment of the "coffee chronicles."

"Jet fuel, java juice, cup of joe, cup of dirt!"

"One sugar, two sugar, black, white!"

"From its bold and daring aroma right down to the smooth sensation as it slides down your throat, this is the answer, friends!  In a sock or in your mom's kitchen, the panacea of all creation!  The bittersweet vomit of angels in heaven, the Promethean flame of the whole of human invention!!"

With that last point, he banged his fist on the flimsy table in emphasis, which made all the chess pieces rattle out of their squares and crash over like bowling pins.  I hadn't even started that game.  I hadn't even started this conversation.

"Karl Marx is wrong," he said frankly.  "The coffee bean, friend!  It is the 'history of all hitherto existing society'!  Nothing so potent and influential has ever been plucked out of the ground, so lovingly grinded and caressed into that sweet smelling powder, so brutally smashed into those glossy bright packages to be shipped around the world for all to enjoy.  It is the fuel of industry, the means by which we build our demented society and brilliantly burgeoning buildings of radiating steel and good intentions.  The muse of wild eyed artists and maniac bankers who build and destroy everything, just so we can build it again and AGAIN!"

He leaned back in his chair, eagerly savoring the taste of his words and taking another sip from that all too familiar paper cup and sleeve.  His plaid shirt sleeves were splitting at the seams, and his baseball cap barely contained his full head of hair, which made his locks shoot out in all directions.  Like some ancient sun god, giving him the strange aura of a forgotten race, the last of his kind.  There was nearly nothing to differentiate him from any common homeless lunatic, except the paper sack full of library books at his feet and his So-ho black framed glasses.  His scathing green eyes seemed like they were peering into my soul and asking "yes, and?"  Like he was hanging on the end of your every sentence.  The class of university professor that eccentric coffee shops like this one tend to attract.

Though not usually on a Saturday night.

"So, where did you say -"

"THE MONKEYS!" he yelled triumphantly.  Eyes were wide as saucers.

Strike one.

"What do you think the first thing they did when they hopped out of the trees, eh?  The first thing they did before inventing the whole of human civilization?  Think they picked up some bones and maimed a bunch of tapers?  NO SIR!  They went to a bush, plucked out a coffee bean, crushed it to powder, and passed boiling water through it until that black gold came pouring forth like the fountain of youth!  Coffee, friend!  One simple drink, and your blood comes pumping through your veins like never before.  You can conquer the world!  One sip, look!  He's invented the wheel!  Next sip, he's built an entire city.  Another sip and he's built an empire.   Before the bottom of the cup, he's painting the Mona Lisa and writing books on existentialist philosophy.  All thanks to what...?"

He stared expectantly, almost daring me to ask.  The answer came bursting forth like water from a dam, saliva and all.

"COFFEE!"

I accepted my fate.  I put my textbook down slowly and took the bait.

"you like coffee?"

His answer come spitting forth with precipitation at every word.

"Like?!"  He sputtered and gasped at my proposition, like a car thats out of fuel.

"Like, friend?!  My delicious comrade, coffee is not something you simply 'like'!" he said with disdain.  "Coffee is not like your little buddy Jason down the street that you 'like' to play with on a lazy saturday afternoon.  Coffee is not like the fun little walks you 'like' to take on Sunday mornings when the neighbors are too hung over to shout at you!"

"FAR BE IT!"

Another pound.  Another small earthquake.  He flicked at a piece of dirt while he considered his next words

"No, we're not simpletons anymore, junior," he acknowledged.  "No longer a bunch of country folk that can be content in the old ways, the neighborly chats, the strolls down the block, and the white picket fences.  Instead, we chose to leave it in the dust and head for the cities, the frantic wall streets, the roaring subway cars.  The firm assurance that every moment would be unlike any other moment you could experience, and that every next second holds the next page in the book, the next note in the symphony.  The brilliant, cacophonous symphony of human progress."

Tipping the coffee cup to his lips, he drained it.  I briefly considered the notion of bolting for the door but saw that it was blocked by a wild eyed hipster getting reception in the doorway.  I attempted to get a word in, but his seamless monologue allowed no space for interpretation.  Strike two.

"The journalists, the businessmen, the politicians, the bankers, the professors, the students; all of them typing and trudging through the twilight to the better future.  They're sacrificing their families, their homes, their sanity, all for the chance to move humanity forward!  The crowning principle of urban achievement!"

He considered his plastic coffee cup with a wide eyed grin.

"And THIS is what makes all of this madness possible!  Without coffee, we were slave to the sabbaths, the siestas, the afternoon naps.  We dozed off in our easy chairs and never got anything done, but we're done with that now.  Coffee will keep us through the afternoon, past the evening, and into the dark hours of night.  Coffee will cradle us in our manic dreams of eternal splendor, will guide us to space and beyond, past the stars and into infinity, till we join the frenzied dance of existence beyond the infinite.  The end to wretched leisure, the beginning of... EVERYTHING."

With glazed eyes, he slowly rose from his chair and raised his cup to all the others in that coffee shop; or perhaps it was to all coffee shops.  As he rose, his knee bumped the small, circular table and sent the chess set crashing to the floor and sent my own coffee right into his lap.  He stood, like a starry eyed prophet, laughing wildly, bathed in caffeinated glory and prophesying the wonders of his muse.

Strike three.

Moments later I was out of the coffee shop, away from the chess sets, cups, hipsters, and crazed prophets.  I spent the rest of that night studying in my room, looking at the stars.  Every now and again, I still think about that coffee shop, just nestled in the bosom of industrial paradise, guiding all its children to home and beyond.

I think it's a Starbucks now.

~Jared

Interesting Quote

"...activists who ignore the latest international fashion risk being outstripped by their more norm-savvy counterparts. Since international attention can make or break an organization, the ability to skillfully deploy rights language may be crucial to a group’s continued survival. the global diffusion of human rights, in other words, is produced both by Southern demands for justice and by northern supplies of funds, attention, and legitimacy." 

- Emilie M. Hafner-Burton and James Ron, "Seeing Double:  Human Rights Impact through Qualitative and Quantitative Eyes"