After much consideration and news that Blogger shall come to an end in the coming months, I have decided to move this blog over to Wordpress.com
I have had a great time exploring the realm of the blog-o-sphere and have learned a lot about my likes and dislikes. I hope to continue the blogging tradition I began here at blogspot.com and also strive to improve in these endeavors. Thank you for your readership and I cordially invite you to head on over to my new blog location:
dialcticsoup.wordpress.com
EAIII
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Monday, July 4, 2011
Could It Be?
Could it be that I'm sick of consumption?
Of eating and watching and reading.
Could it be that I'm tired of taking in this, that and the other, as a leech feeding on its host. Never thinking of giving life given to me.
Could it be that I'm tired of TV and radio and music?
Of eating away at the souls of others that hang in a garden waiting for me to consume its beauty, leaving in my wake the shards and slivers of their beauty weighed down by the grit and silt of my selfishness.
Could it be that the pillars and spires of what has been created have fallen to the seething ground of my belly and are now remnants and facades of former selves and dreams left to die on the roof of my mouth.
Could it be that I'm tired of being a man?
The countless times the womb of creation has been made naught in the knots of my hunger and the pangs of my hunger are but excuses to forage on the tendrils of woman, the harbingers of beauty and life and existence.
And they but art to me, and in the gaze of my savages they are to be had and seen and held. To be left as shadows and wisps of smoke that billow from the houses of my furnace.
Could it be that I'm tired of taking for myself and never giving of my self? Of never creating that which can be food to others? Instead only to ravage as locusts the golden substance, like honey, of those that host the muses.
Could it be that existence is but art to me, to masticate in the teeth of my time on this earth? And its fate to be a commodity left to wrinkle and rot in the shirt pocket of my loneliness and greed.
Could it be that I'm tired of being human? Gorging on the Gods of my needing like so many chalk marks on the ground that I skip into and out of, and into and out of, like a ravaged child playing Hop-Scotch in the park without so much as laughter to repay them.
Suppose I lived in golden houses of giving and that I fed and clothed strangers with both hands stretched far and wide and didn't care of the cuts and sores and cracks that became of them.
Suppose I spent my waking hours forging iron tools of selflessness and used them to pierce the tapestry of shame and regret, the shattered houses of glass of ones I've never known. And that I sought to be heroic in daily living and planted trees of love and giving the roots of which could live on eons from now.
Suppose I walked the streets of cities and hung little fragile lights of cheer and living on the doors and fences of strangers until the whole world was lit as the sun on this July day.
Suppose I spent the rest of my life evoking and engaging, building and creating so that the blind might see and the deaf might hear and dead might live and the sad might glee and the poor might be. Be in a world worth watching and reading and hearing and giving and seeing.
Could it be? Suppose it was. How would you be?
Of eating and watching and reading.
Could it be that I'm tired of taking in this, that and the other, as a leech feeding on its host. Never thinking of giving life given to me.
Could it be that I'm tired of TV and radio and music?
Of eating away at the souls of others that hang in a garden waiting for me to consume its beauty, leaving in my wake the shards and slivers of their beauty weighed down by the grit and silt of my selfishness.
Could it be that the pillars and spires of what has been created have fallen to the seething ground of my belly and are now remnants and facades of former selves and dreams left to die on the roof of my mouth.
Could it be that I'm tired of being a man?
The countless times the womb of creation has been made naught in the knots of my hunger and the pangs of my hunger are but excuses to forage on the tendrils of woman, the harbingers of beauty and life and existence.
And they but art to me, and in the gaze of my savages they are to be had and seen and held. To be left as shadows and wisps of smoke that billow from the houses of my furnace.
Could it be that I'm tired of taking for myself and never giving of my self? Of never creating that which can be food to others? Instead only to ravage as locusts the golden substance, like honey, of those that host the muses.
Could it be that existence is but art to me, to masticate in the teeth of my time on this earth? And its fate to be a commodity left to wrinkle and rot in the shirt pocket of my loneliness and greed.
Could it be that I'm tired of being human? Gorging on the Gods of my needing like so many chalk marks on the ground that I skip into and out of, and into and out of, like a ravaged child playing Hop-Scotch in the park without so much as laughter to repay them.
Suppose I lived in golden houses of giving and that I fed and clothed strangers with both hands stretched far and wide and didn't care of the cuts and sores and cracks that became of them.
Suppose I spent my waking hours forging iron tools of selflessness and used them to pierce the tapestry of shame and regret, the shattered houses of glass of ones I've never known. And that I sought to be heroic in daily living and planted trees of love and giving the roots of which could live on eons from now.
Suppose I walked the streets of cities and hung little fragile lights of cheer and living on the doors and fences of strangers until the whole world was lit as the sun on this July day.
Suppose I spent the rest of my life evoking and engaging, building and creating so that the blind might see and the deaf might hear and dead might live and the sad might glee and the poor might be. Be in a world worth watching and reading and hearing and giving and seeing.
Could it be? Suppose it was. How would you be?
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
OGO 5-1-11
Forgive me the time needed to make this point. I realize it's a miniscule detail in the symphony of events but I think you will agree it is as grave a detail as one can have, or at least have the decency to acknowledge. It's the kind of detail that irks at one's insides. It's the kind of viscous fact that unsettles the mind, like a "Christian nation" engaging in nationally sponsored assassination.
Like most Americans, if not all, the news brought a sigh of relief. No longer would Bin Laden run from the blood of September 11. No longer would "the cave dweller" out maneuver the most technologically advanced and most powerful military in the world. And in fact, a number of them, as the U.S. was not the only nation seeking him out. For a decade he remained the most wanted man in the western world. A man who continually eluded us. And now, finally, we have, as it were, his head on a platter.
The collective sigh of relief erupted in jubilation and celebration that this "face of evil" had been brought under the most enduring form of American justice...a bullet. (damn, details are dicey!) And the celebration lasted long into the night with song and dance, flags and standards, pomp and circumstance. All this for the few precious "words" we wanted to hear: Geronimo E-KIA. And thus my point emerges.
At first, the patriotic swell within me was vast and I reveled in it. And then it hit me. Was I reading perhaps too much into it? Does that codename really equate OBL to Geronimo? Does that, by extension, call Geronimo a terrorist?
If one is not aware of the history surrounding the Apache nation and the United States, the parallel is perhaps elusive. But the narrative fits so well...except for all the terrorism-face-of-evil part. A quick Google search will inform but suffice it to say that a long, drawn out search for an elusive and wanted man (read: group) that finally ends in capture and custody by the U.S. is precisely what the two stories encapsulate.
I will not be a part of that tawdry correlation. It may be a catchy phrase and easily fit within the pantheon of American Code Names: Operation this and that. But to casually accept the comparison would be to participate in a gross form of truncated historical interpretation. And so, it is for these reasons that I have chosen to call the mission to kill off Osama bin Laden: OGO 5-1-11 That is to say, Obama Got Osama 5-1-11
This is one I can tolerate without having to endure the devils of detail that often plague me. I can only hope that those that read this can see my point and, hopefully, agree with it. Although I fully realize the futility of this attempt, officially and pop culturally speaking, I cannot sit idle as my country so casually and comfortably associates a great man like Geronimo who fought against foreign incursion into his land with the likes of a Osama Bin Laden. And dare I say, that I am "shocked and awed" that President Obama allowed for such a callous misuse of his name.
Note: For those who will only read "I Hate America and I love Osama bin Laden" in these words, let me clearly state that I fully support and love my family and friends who have chosen to live their lives, and quite possibly give their lives, in service of our country.
Note: Many thanks to Calpurnpiso for this designation OGO 5-1-11. He can be found on YouTube. ***Not for the easily offended***
Like most Americans, if not all, the news brought a sigh of relief. No longer would Bin Laden run from the blood of September 11. No longer would "the cave dweller" out maneuver the most technologically advanced and most powerful military in the world. And in fact, a number of them, as the U.S. was not the only nation seeking him out. For a decade he remained the most wanted man in the western world. A man who continually eluded us. And now, finally, we have, as it were, his head on a platter.
The collective sigh of relief erupted in jubilation and celebration that this "face of evil" had been brought under the most enduring form of American justice...a bullet. (damn, details are dicey!) And the celebration lasted long into the night with song and dance, flags and standards, pomp and circumstance. All this for the few precious "words" we wanted to hear: Geronimo E-KIA. And thus my point emerges.
At first, the patriotic swell within me was vast and I reveled in it. And then it hit me. Was I reading perhaps too much into it? Does that codename really equate OBL to Geronimo? Does that, by extension, call Geronimo a terrorist?
If one is not aware of the history surrounding the Apache nation and the United States, the parallel is perhaps elusive. But the narrative fits so well...except for all the terrorism-face-of-evil part. A quick Google search will inform but suffice it to say that a long, drawn out search for an elusive and wanted man (read: group) that finally ends in capture and custody by the U.S. is precisely what the two stories encapsulate.
I will not be a part of that tawdry correlation. It may be a catchy phrase and easily fit within the pantheon of American Code Names: Operation this and that. But to casually accept the comparison would be to participate in a gross form of truncated historical interpretation. And so, it is for these reasons that I have chosen to call the mission to kill off Osama bin Laden: OGO 5-1-11 That is to say, Obama Got Osama 5-1-11
This is one I can tolerate without having to endure the devils of detail that often plague me. I can only hope that those that read this can see my point and, hopefully, agree with it. Although I fully realize the futility of this attempt, officially and pop culturally speaking, I cannot sit idle as my country so casually and comfortably associates a great man like Geronimo who fought against foreign incursion into his land with the likes of a Osama Bin Laden. And dare I say, that I am "shocked and awed" that President Obama allowed for such a callous misuse of his name.
Note: For those who will only read "I Hate America and I love Osama bin Laden" in these words, let me clearly state that I fully support and love my family and friends who have chosen to live their lives, and quite possibly give their lives, in service of our country.
Note: Many thanks to Calpurnpiso for this designation OGO 5-1-11. He can be found on YouTube. ***Not for the easily offended***
Friday, March 11, 2011
R.I.P Nana
YouTube - Yanni - Felitsa (HQ Video)
In a world of absurdity, there are times only my pen makes sense. Today--March 11, 2011--Kingsville, Texas lost its sweetest voice. Esperanza "Hopie" Alaniz passed into the next world this morning. She was technically my cousin, but as life and age would have it, I considered her a dear and beloved aunt. She was a faithful member of Our Lady of Good Council Catholic Church here in Kingsville and part of the Coro Del Buen Consejo, the gospel choir formed by the Alaniz family. Her voice captured the sweetness of angels and the pain of humanity humbled before the throne of God. No Mass could ever be complete without their music and her voice...her voice. Their harmony edified and uplifted and made vividly present the Word the Priest could only try to tell us about.
Many, many memories burn all the brighter now that her presence has been taken from us. So many summers that she would drop off Jay, doughnut holes in hand, at my house while she went off to work in Corpus. Or the many times I awoke to Fraggle Rock on the TV on my sleep-overs there. And her breakfasts, My Lord, her breakfasts. Fit not for Kings, for they are not worthy, but the laborers and servants that made a King's life so beautiful and so attractive.
She was a grand story teller. She captured characters like no one else I've ever known. He voice would fold and undulate, creek and crawl into the varied personages and the story would come alive! Especially her ghost stories! Stories that many times had Jay and I (or whomever happened to be sleeping over) trembling on the blanket set for us on the floor.
She will be dearly missed by all who loved her and were touched by her presence and vitality. Today, the clouds have gathered and made a bright day dark. And the people, her family and friends, fight for the sun to return.
R.I.P Nana--Say hello to my mom, Tia Rachel, Tio Juan and those others who have preceded us in death. Say hello for us who still ache for them.
In a world of absurdity, there are times only my pen makes sense. Today--March 11, 2011--Kingsville, Texas lost its sweetest voice. Esperanza "Hopie" Alaniz passed into the next world this morning. She was technically my cousin, but as life and age would have it, I considered her a dear and beloved aunt. She was a faithful member of Our Lady of Good Council Catholic Church here in Kingsville and part of the Coro Del Buen Consejo, the gospel choir formed by the Alaniz family. Her voice captured the sweetness of angels and the pain of humanity humbled before the throne of God. No Mass could ever be complete without their music and her voice...her voice. Their harmony edified and uplifted and made vividly present the Word the Priest could only try to tell us about.
Many, many memories burn all the brighter now that her presence has been taken from us. So many summers that she would drop off Jay, doughnut holes in hand, at my house while she went off to work in Corpus. Or the many times I awoke to Fraggle Rock on the TV on my sleep-overs there. And her breakfasts, My Lord, her breakfasts. Fit not for Kings, for they are not worthy, but the laborers and servants that made a King's life so beautiful and so attractive.
She was a grand story teller. She captured characters like no one else I've ever known. He voice would fold and undulate, creek and crawl into the varied personages and the story would come alive! Especially her ghost stories! Stories that many times had Jay and I (or whomever happened to be sleeping over) trembling on the blanket set for us on the floor.
She will be dearly missed by all who loved her and were touched by her presence and vitality. Today, the clouds have gathered and made a bright day dark. And the people, her family and friends, fight for the sun to return.
R.I.P Nana--Say hello to my mom, Tia Rachel, Tio Juan and those others who have preceded us in death. Say hello for us who still ache for them.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Pressing Questions, Pervasive Issues
Kingsville is in need of an enema: a thorough cleansing of the inside so as to better understand the external changes that time has wrought. There was a time when the city thrived in the context of the King Ranch: The westward expansion of the Easterner looking for a better life, the 'Wild Horse desert' carved out of the space created by the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, the inculcated Mexican and the legacy of the Kineño; all focused upon the region's figureheads of commerce and commercialization: the Kings and the Klebergs. It is more complex than this simplistic picture of course, but the foundation of tourism for the city and, indeed the region, is not interested in the accuracy of history so long as the mythic narrative supports and justifies the inflow of money. Simplicity and stereotype are the life blood of tourism.
Over the last 20 years or so, Kingsville has experienced a growth of daunting proportions. The University and the Naval Air Station have changed the complexion of our city. The demographic make-up consists of more than the ethnic trinity of the by gone era, namely peoples of Anglo, Mexican and African descent. A more robust and accurate picture reveals Chinese, Indian, Pakistani, and Filipino population growth, to name only the most visible. And yet, recent literature about Kingsville continues to focus upon the same tired narrative of ranch life and cowboy culture. Again, largely for the sake of tourism. The fact remains, when we look at the recent trends in business the "foreigner" seems to dominate. Whether we look at convenience stores, hotel/motel industry or restaurants, the clearest entrepreneurial spirit is to be found within the immigrant community. As the country is cast head long into a wider global culture, and Texas along with it: Where is the literature taking them into account? Where is the literature that even mentions their existence?
There is a host of complex relationships when we take into account these other cultures. Aside from the pure economic aspect, the religio-political-historical dynamics are fascinating. The mixed bag of experiences bring to light a Kingsville that is far more variegated, interesting, and relevant than the sleepy township of Ranch Hand breakfasts and Posada parades would have us believe. If we would take that into account and seriously contemplate the possibilities of this reality then maybe, just maybe, we wouldn't have such a large portion of the young people of this city itchingly eager to leave it. Maybe, just maybe, we could celebrate the richness of the multifaceted culture we have available for us to learn from and experience. And maybe, just maybe, therein lies the path for further growth and progress within a larger pluralistic society in which we find ourselves. This would be the heart and the engine of a tourism industry of which we can be proud; quite outside the tired narrative of the King Ranch and the Cowboy.
Over the last 20 years or so, Kingsville has experienced a growth of daunting proportions. The University and the Naval Air Station have changed the complexion of our city. The demographic make-up consists of more than the ethnic trinity of the by gone era, namely peoples of Anglo, Mexican and African descent. A more robust and accurate picture reveals Chinese, Indian, Pakistani, and Filipino population growth, to name only the most visible. And yet, recent literature about Kingsville continues to focus upon the same tired narrative of ranch life and cowboy culture. Again, largely for the sake of tourism. The fact remains, when we look at the recent trends in business the "foreigner" seems to dominate. Whether we look at convenience stores, hotel/motel industry or restaurants, the clearest entrepreneurial spirit is to be found within the immigrant community. As the country is cast head long into a wider global culture, and Texas along with it: Where is the literature taking them into account? Where is the literature that even mentions their existence?
There is a host of complex relationships when we take into account these other cultures. Aside from the pure economic aspect, the religio-political-historical dynamics are fascinating. The mixed bag of experiences bring to light a Kingsville that is far more variegated, interesting, and relevant than the sleepy township of Ranch Hand breakfasts and Posada parades would have us believe. If we would take that into account and seriously contemplate the possibilities of this reality then maybe, just maybe, we wouldn't have such a large portion of the young people of this city itchingly eager to leave it. Maybe, just maybe, we could celebrate the richness of the multifaceted culture we have available for us to learn from and experience. And maybe, just maybe, therein lies the path for further growth and progress within a larger pluralistic society in which we find ourselves. This would be the heart and the engine of a tourism industry of which we can be proud; quite outside the tired narrative of the King Ranch and the Cowboy.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Dream of a Common Language. Sueño de un Idioma Común. :: Texas Monthly
A timely article in Texas Monthly from 2009. We cannot fail to see that English and Spanish are implicated so intimately that to fail one is to fail the other, thereby a detriment to any citizen of Texas, the United States and indeed wider world.
Dream of a Common Language. Sueño de un Idioma Común. :: Texas Monthly
Dream of a Common Language. Sueño de un Idioma Común. :: Texas Monthly
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Top Gear's "Three Stooges"
"...hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way."
The comments on *Top Gear* arise from a deep and abiding self-hatred. Because any student of history can see, England has never actually had a culture of their own which is why Imperialism/Colonialism ran (runs?) so deep with them. It is also the main reason why their literature *was* so powerful! And in any case, why Mexico often decided to emulate France over "Great" Britain.
The Dark Empire of Granbretan–Spiritual Home of Top Gear’s Three Stooges
The comments on *Top Gear* arise from a deep and abiding self-hatred. Because any student of history can see, England has never actually had a culture of their own which is why Imperialism/Colonialism ran (runs?) so deep with them. It is also the main reason why their literature *was* so powerful! And in any case, why Mexico often decided to emulate France over "Great" Britain.
The Dark Empire of Granbretan–Spiritual Home of Top Gear’s Three Stooges
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