Friday, May 28, 2004
Just a quick one -- books I've been reading recently:
Charlie Wilson's War
Black HouseBrotherhood of the Rose
The Fountain At The Center Of The World
The Door Into Summer
Books sitting on my shelf at this time waiting, patiently, to be read:
Quicksilver
The Power Game
A Problem From Hell
The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress
Charlie Wilson's War
Black HouseBrotherhood of the Rose
The Fountain At The Center Of The World
The Door Into Summer
Books sitting on my shelf at this time waiting, patiently, to be read:
Quicksilver
The Power Game
A Problem From Hell
The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress
Thursday, May 27, 2004
It’s been quite a layoff in writing on this blog. I’ve had finals for school and I was in Vieques, Puerto Rico with Pru for a week. It was so wonderful to be completely cut off from it all. We had no phone, no television, and the radio, while most likely providing news, was in Spanish, and my limited vocabulary only let me pick up on the most simple of terms - and those only in the present tense.
But even in the U.S. Commonwealth of PR, and especially on Vieques there was a palpable anti-Americanism in the air; I could feel some decidedly unpleasant stares boring into my back. The graffiti on the walls in Isabel Segunda, Isabel II on the map, was pointed, political, and violent. A massive fist labeled U.S. was ripping the top of a child’s head, exposing its brain, with a paragraph in a flowery script font speaking about the lack of education provided to people on Vieques, while the navy was building bases and bombing the bases and bombing the hell out of the island. A huge seaside mural detailed the fact that the cancer rate on Vieques is nearly 40% higher than it is on the Big Island of PR.
Snorkeling along a reef, I found a large piece of the back side of a bomb or missile. It was crusted in what looked like black coral. It may have been solidified chemicals from the explosion, heat and forse changing the properties of the metal, or if it was sea-life in a Hallmark like sugar drenched demonstration of the resilience of nature and it’s return to state no matter what we can throw at her. Pru was terrified when I swan the munition ashore that it was live, and barring that, that it was covered with some type of carcinogen that had not been swept away by the sea. I was sarcastic and said that any of the carcinogens from the bomb were certainly already in the groundwater and that there was a bald, hairless 5 year old child dying of leukemia in a cement block house on the beach who had taken the full brunt of this weapon’s “practice run.”
We found that the American ex-pats were quite defensive of their island, and their idea of the tourism industry was to over charge for “gourmet food” and try and be as surly as possible when one would ask for something as to have the sheets changed or for a new towel. As is mostly the case, Pru and I made our own fun, finding a thrilling eco-friendly kayak tour of the mangrove forests with the stinking sulfur mud and symbiotic crabs. The beautiful chaotic root systems tangling into the water, was filled with birds and fish and crabs and insects. But the most stunning of all was the bio-bay, which was surrounded by the mangrove forest. Once it was dark, the bio-bay would come to life. It was filled with dinoflagellites, microorganisms that when disturbed emitted a ghostly yet bright blue-green light. It glowed bright enough to see your way through the pitch-black bay. We slid off our kayaks into the water and swam like angels with glowing waterfalls for wings. I dove to the thick mud at the bottom of the bay, 15 feet or so, and heard the trilling, clicking static sound of tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of shrimp mating. The sound was so pervasive and at such a strange frequency, that my head felt squeezed with the immense all-encompassing weight of the life around me and the water above me. Pru was watching while floating under the stars and could see a glowing form sliding about under water. She could see the glowing darts of fish zipping away from me, fading trails of luminescence their signature on the world.
In the airport, relaxed and a bit red from the sun, we smacked into the suffocating cellophane wall of ugly politics and misconceived foreign policy. It felt like a saddle slowly being lowered onto our shoulders. The NY Times was 15 dollars in the airport, so we just stood there dumbly staring down the collection of papers at the overpriced newsstand; Marc Antony was blaring in the background, the new rumored to be Mr. Jennifer Lopez’s face distorted on a wide aspect HDTV stretched horribly, freakishly wide. The Tito Puente emulating drum solo hammered away, ironic sonic soundscapes as Pru and I took in the photos of the pig-pile of Abu-Ghraib, of pixilated Iraqi prisoners’ penises, prone and prostrate positions and the shit-eating grins of the recruited rednecks, West Virginia coal miners daughters, and south Tennessee pig farmers’ sons, the blue gloved thumbs up (which by the way, means Fuck You in the Middle East) and the somewhat bewildered face of Rummy on the front page of the pink Financial Times, headline speaking of his possible resignation.
Back at the gate, we saw out the window as a plane, not ours, skid off the runway into the tree-lined berm and consequently break in half. It was empty, there were no bodies scattered bleeding about the tarmac, ambulances tearing about willy-nilly, about to embark passengers sobbing in terror, the more phobic ones frozen to their plastic seat rows, protests locked up in their compulsively swallowing throats, spittle drying up in mouths, tongues beached and parched, swelling a bit with terror, thickening speech and the self preservative refusals to board the next tin can death-mobile.
I caught up when I got home to New York, reading up on everything I could. I’ve listed below articles that have really caught my attention in the past few weeks.
Seymour Hersh's articles, I feel are seminal in detailing Abu-Ghraib. Newsweek had a good one as well.
Then there is this article from the NY Times: it’s short so I’ll quote the whole thing below.
And yes, that does say brain injury. And yes this is part of the Army’s investigation. Wonder if they would have mentioned this if the press didn’t hound them into it?
Now these two are a real doozy. Institutionalized racism, just days after we celebrate the 50th anniversary of Brown v. Board of Education. Read carefully about how this lawyer figured out that something was up. He found a footprint in his house that belonged to no one in his family. They were in his house, without a warrant under some cockeyed provision in the Patriot Act.
Oregon Lawyer Speaks Out About His Ordeal
FBI Apologizes to Lawyer Over Madrid Case
They saved the good stuff to the end of the second article:
Holy Shit! Is all I have to say. They took the son’s Spanish homework as evidence of being involved with Spanish terrorists! I remember my Spanish homework, and if memory serves me correctly, it looked exactly like what it was, conjugation of verbs, self given vocabulary quizzes, all done in sloppy handwriting, and most important of all, with Mr. Ortiz, Spanish 101 written across the top in big letters.
Oh, and following the slip-sliding away in the polls and the torturous speech on Monday from G-Dub this very important announcement from the Department of I’ll Sneak Into Your House and Hide In Your Closets To Spy On Your Son Doing His Spanish Homework And We’ll Take Special Care To Be Extra Suspicious Because You Are A Muslim And We All Know What That Means (Wink, Wink, Nudge Nudge, Know What I Mean, Know What I Mean?).
As Ashcroft Warns of Attack, Some Question Threat and Its Timing
But even in the U.S. Commonwealth of PR, and especially on Vieques there was a palpable anti-Americanism in the air; I could feel some decidedly unpleasant stares boring into my back. The graffiti on the walls in Isabel Segunda, Isabel II on the map, was pointed, political, and violent. A massive fist labeled U.S. was ripping the top of a child’s head, exposing its brain, with a paragraph in a flowery script font speaking about the lack of education provided to people on Vieques, while the navy was building bases and bombing the bases and bombing the hell out of the island. A huge seaside mural detailed the fact that the cancer rate on Vieques is nearly 40% higher than it is on the Big Island of PR.
Snorkeling along a reef, I found a large piece of the back side of a bomb or missile. It was crusted in what looked like black coral. It may have been solidified chemicals from the explosion, heat and forse changing the properties of the metal, or if it was sea-life in a Hallmark like sugar drenched demonstration of the resilience of nature and it’s return to state no matter what we can throw at her. Pru was terrified when I swan the munition ashore that it was live, and barring that, that it was covered with some type of carcinogen that had not been swept away by the sea. I was sarcastic and said that any of the carcinogens from the bomb were certainly already in the groundwater and that there was a bald, hairless 5 year old child dying of leukemia in a cement block house on the beach who had taken the full brunt of this weapon’s “practice run.”
We found that the American ex-pats were quite defensive of their island, and their idea of the tourism industry was to over charge for “gourmet food” and try and be as surly as possible when one would ask for something as to have the sheets changed or for a new towel. As is mostly the case, Pru and I made our own fun, finding a thrilling eco-friendly kayak tour of the mangrove forests with the stinking sulfur mud and symbiotic crabs. The beautiful chaotic root systems tangling into the water, was filled with birds and fish and crabs and insects. But the most stunning of all was the bio-bay, which was surrounded by the mangrove forest. Once it was dark, the bio-bay would come to life. It was filled with dinoflagellites, microorganisms that when disturbed emitted a ghostly yet bright blue-green light. It glowed bright enough to see your way through the pitch-black bay. We slid off our kayaks into the water and swam like angels with glowing waterfalls for wings. I dove to the thick mud at the bottom of the bay, 15 feet or so, and heard the trilling, clicking static sound of tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of shrimp mating. The sound was so pervasive and at such a strange frequency, that my head felt squeezed with the immense all-encompassing weight of the life around me and the water above me. Pru was watching while floating under the stars and could see a glowing form sliding about under water. She could see the glowing darts of fish zipping away from me, fading trails of luminescence their signature on the world.
In the airport, relaxed and a bit red from the sun, we smacked into the suffocating cellophane wall of ugly politics and misconceived foreign policy. It felt like a saddle slowly being lowered onto our shoulders. The NY Times was 15 dollars in the airport, so we just stood there dumbly staring down the collection of papers at the overpriced newsstand; Marc Antony was blaring in the background, the new rumored to be Mr. Jennifer Lopez’s face distorted on a wide aspect HDTV stretched horribly, freakishly wide. The Tito Puente emulating drum solo hammered away, ironic sonic soundscapes as Pru and I took in the photos of the pig-pile of Abu-Ghraib, of pixilated Iraqi prisoners’ penises, prone and prostrate positions and the shit-eating grins of the recruited rednecks, West Virginia coal miners daughters, and south Tennessee pig farmers’ sons, the blue gloved thumbs up (which by the way, means Fuck You in the Middle East) and the somewhat bewildered face of Rummy on the front page of the pink Financial Times, headline speaking of his possible resignation.
Back at the gate, we saw out the window as a plane, not ours, skid off the runway into the tree-lined berm and consequently break in half. It was empty, there were no bodies scattered bleeding about the tarmac, ambulances tearing about willy-nilly, about to embark passengers sobbing in terror, the more phobic ones frozen to their plastic seat rows, protests locked up in their compulsively swallowing throats, spittle drying up in mouths, tongues beached and parched, swelling a bit with terror, thickening speech and the self preservative refusals to board the next tin can death-mobile.
I caught up when I got home to New York, reading up on everything I could. I’ve listed below articles that have really caught my attention in the past few weeks.
Seymour Hersh's articles, I feel are seminal in detailing Abu-Ghraib. Newsweek had a good one as well.
Then there is this article from the NY Times: it’s short so I’ll quote the whole thing below.
May 26, 2004
Posing as Captive, G.I. Beaten
By THE ASSOCIATED PRESS
LOUISVILLE, Ky., May 25 - The Army confirmed Tuesday that a former military police officer was injured while posing as an uncooperative prisoner during a training session at Guantánamo Bay, Cuba, last year.
But Maj. Laurie Arellano, a spokeswoman for the Southern Command in Miami, said the medical discharge of the military police officer, Specialist Sean Baker, was not related to a head injury he received during training at the detention center.
Mr. Baker, of Georgetown, Ky., had said he was beaten so badly by four American soldiers that he suffered a brain injury. Efforts to reach him on Tuesday were unsuccessful.
And yes, that does say brain injury. And yes this is part of the Army’s investigation. Wonder if they would have mentioned this if the press didn’t hound them into it?
Now these two are a real doozy. Institutionalized racism, just days after we celebrate the 50th anniversary of Brown v. Board of Education. Read carefully about how this lawyer figured out that something was up. He found a footprint in his house that belonged to no one in his family. They were in his house, without a warrant under some cockeyed provision in the Patriot Act.
Oregon Lawyer Speaks Out About His Ordeal
FBI Apologizes to Lawyer Over Madrid Case
They saved the good stuff to the end of the second article:
“Under a provision of the U.S. Patriot Act, they entered his home without his knowledge -- but aroused the family's suspicion by bolting the wrong lock on their way out and leaving a footprint on the rug that didn't match any family members.
During a later raid, FBI agents took Mayfield's computers, modem, safe deposit key, assorted papers, as well as copies of the Quran and what they classified as ``Spanish documents'' -- apparently Spanish homework by one of Mayfield's sons.
Mayfield, who runs a small Portland law office, was never facing any formal charges. He was arrested as a material witness, and held in the Multnomah County Detention Center on the chance that he might have information about the Spain bombings.
At a press conference, Mayfield talked about his time behind bars, initially in solitary confinement and then in the jail's mental ward. Mayfield feared for his safety when inmates began to recognize him on the nightly news.
``The climate of fear of terror makes this a cautionary tale about the way in which that fear can ensnare an innocent person in the type of abuse to which Mr. Mayfield was subjected,'' Wax said.”
Holy Shit! Is all I have to say. They took the son’s Spanish homework as evidence of being involved with Spanish terrorists! I remember my Spanish homework, and if memory serves me correctly, it looked exactly like what it was, conjugation of verbs, self given vocabulary quizzes, all done in sloppy handwriting, and most important of all, with Mr. Ortiz, Spanish 101 written across the top in big letters.
Oh, and following the slip-sliding away in the polls and the torturous speech on Monday from G-Dub this very important announcement from the Department of I’ll Sneak Into Your House and Hide In Your Closets To Spy On Your Son Doing His Spanish Homework And We’ll Take Special Care To Be Extra Suspicious Because You Are A Muslim And We All Know What That Means (Wink, Wink, Nudge Nudge, Know What I Mean, Know What I Mean?).
As Ashcroft Warns of Attack, Some Question Threat and Its Timing
