Convulsions of a Politico Masochist

These are trying times.

Times in which an end or a beginning is one opinion swayed.

Or is that one perspective?

Or one piece of propaganda?

Will history repeat itself and a people robbed of hope?

Or will history be made?

For me, I see no source of hope. There is only a bleak end.

What will change? What can change? What will be allowed?

The stage had been set and the rules have been passed.

For every election. I am relegated to the pondering of a vote for a lesser evil.

What will change?

Perhaps a perception of change is all that is needed.

Perhaps the belief is all that is needed to cause change.

Perhaps this awakens democracy and truly a beginning of progress sets in.

Perhaps we are fooled again. 

Every amateur political fan predicting a landslide victory for Obama punctuates his statements with “unless…”

There is always doubt, there is always fear, there is always an eerie whisper of unshameful mendacity.

Will there be change?

Will change be allowed?

What will that change be?

True change comes quickly.

Change is a sudden and radical alteration of present reality.

All else is evolution or stagnation, mindless of its color or promise.

After months of contemplating and complaining, I ask myself, will I vote?

The better question is “if I vote will it count, even if I vote for the winner?”

The conclusion is no, on both counts.

There is a play performed. Democracy, socialism, totalitarianism, and so on, till end, are plays performed. Anyone, a politico, is aware of the play. The roles change to suit the times, the philosophies change to hold the masses, but the play goes on.

And to this end, convulsions temper a mind unable to rest, unable to change. 

Elections 08

take me to Ramadan

this will do just until i energize, just until i find Ramadan and live at least one month of peace.

Mahmoud Darwich 1941-2008

And coffee swirls to mud

The smoke circles up mourning clouds
And I’m left gasping at somber news
The death comes an unbound burn
And he’s gone to join his immortal olive trees
The roots cut and dust replaces our precious fruit

Back from Lebanon

I've been back for a week, but it's taken me this long to return to functionality from a long and frustratingly surreal trip. Lebanon kicks your ass even before you get off the plane from a rediculous 17hour torture flight. Then it gets worse. But for those who long for that breath of sweet polluted air of home and that taste of bitter sand, it could seem like heaven.
For all its grime, Lebanon posseses an unrivaled beauty that captivates us and drags us into an intoxicating abyss of nostalgia. 
Lebanon is a disciplinarian that laughs at your pain then gives you ice cream in an ancient village, (damn good ice cream too).
One thought that sticks with me is the description of Lebanon that is too vulgar for print, but it survives in a rythymic khaos that mezmerizes. 
I'll miss it and long to return, so much so that I'd probably lose fortunes and decades seeking the return.

On my way to Beirut

This is Detroit Airport McNamara terminal from gate 60 weighting for flight to Amman with 269 other passangers
This is from inside the Royal Jordanian flight from my seat. At this point only half the people boarded and a woman insisted that I was in her seat. We and one more person had the same assigned seat. Only on RJ. BTW these seats still had ashtrays even though it's been years since you could smoke on the plane.

Take off. I had to look outside. I convinced myslef that the loose parts and paint chips were normal. At least there were no gremlins.
Sunset from 39,000 feet. 
Waiting for my connecting flight to Beirut at the Queen Alia International Airport with my $9 coffe and cheese. At least I found Wi-Fi. 

Next stop Beirut then South Lebanon.  

Experimental design (arabesque doily??)

Ok, this isn't IBJ quality, but that's why it's called practise.

For the good stuff check this out... http://ibnbintjbeil.blogspot.com/2007/03/finalization-of-arabic-design.html

lunatic experimentation

as I took flight, the rivets creaked out of their placement letting parts escape without responsibility.
The hurling down to earth wings gave up on us and let us to our prayers.
I knew I'd always die in a plane over the Atlantic, but it was to be eight years ago. Today was supposed to be a good day





(still messing with a new camera, not the shot I was looking for, but I like it.)

Transient Travel?

I'm not one to be impulsive, but I woke up one day and decided to go back to Lebanon, sure it's just a visit, but in my situation it's a big decision. So in late June, I'll be home, and for the first time it will be with my family.

I am anxious to introduce my two American born, English speaking sons to Lebanon. It is bound to be a memorable experience. I hope they find it as enlightening as I had my first trip.

Now, does anyone know where to take a couple of kids in Lebanon? What's safe and what's exciting and what's uniquely Lebanon?

What is not pictured

Spring, in my part of the world, comes in riding a storm. This is what it leaves behind. My shutter was too slow to capture the dragonfly's taking of flight. What is not pictured is the futility of the transformation of this earth's inhabitants come spring. New storms are on the horizon and their flesh-splitting winter dry is only days away. The euphoria and sense of life are only attached by micron threads to a whilting pod. But I can not take flight. I must endure a lie and watch helplessly as one seed of hope detaches, one after the next. And then again barren, left to contemplate the change without change is an earth ready to die.