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Hypocrisy

Today, I recalled seeing the video of an Iranian protest in 2009, where a woman who was protesting (Nedā Āghā-Soltān) was shot dead by government officials. The video showed her death in crisp detail, and that vision haunted me for weeks. This wasn’t hollywood, this was real life, and a woman was silenced for expressing her opinions. After her death, the government continued to harass her family, not allowing them a funeral, not allowing them to gather in her memory. They defaced her grave. They forced her father to lie to the public and say that the government hadn’t fired that bullet. She lost her life, her hopes, her dreams… And there was no remorse.

Moments ago, while I was waiting for class to start, I overheard a conversation about someone who attended a gay pride parade in San Francisco. During the parade, he had been harassed by crowds of people. He was voicing his opinions and simply asking for respect and equal treatment, and he was appalled that people in America would show so little respect for his rights as a human being.

Someone else agreed, and mentioned how they very much disliked such bigoted, narrow-minded people. Naturally, the discussion shifted to Westboro Baptist Church. A woman voiced her disgust with the behavior and opinions of WBC, to which a man agreed and stated that he wished he could “bring a sniper rifle to a WBC rally, so [he] could pick them off one by one.”

This struck me as awfully hypocritical. He wanted to murder someone for voicing an opinion, just as the Iranian officials murdered Nedā Āghā-Soltān for voicing hers.

To me, this is worse than what WBC does. They protest, and they offend, but they do not (usually) physically harm anyone. In fact, people have intentionally aggravated WBC protesters without any repercussions. Meanwhile, this man is talking about murdering people.

Is it really that hard to recognize how hypocritical and oppressive this is? Nobody in the crowd seemed to respond to the man’s murderous declarations, with the exception of a few assenting nods.

Personally, I’m astonished.

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The Giant Hole in My Yard

Imagine waking up one morning, walking outside, and seeing a giant circular hole in your yard where your tree used to be. Inside the hole you find a note and a book full of pictures of trees. The note reads: “Your tree is in this book. If you can remember what your tree looks like, it will be returned to you.” How odd, you think. Surely you’d be able to recognize your own tree, right? All you have to do is find it. You remember what kind of tree it was, and about how tall it was, you even know how old it was and you can remember the first time you saw the tree. You can remember climbing in the tree, and you can remember the way its leaves changed through the seasons. But for some reason you can’t remember the tree itself. And this book has millions of pictures.

Now imagine that the yard is your mind, and the tree is a memory. This is the situation I’m in.

I recall, when I was very young, pulling into a gas station with my father. The radio was playing a song, and I thought that song was really cool. It had a unique sound to it, unlike any other song I’d heard on the station. My dad told me the name of the song and who it was by, but somehow over the years I’ve mixed up the lyrics of that song with another and I’ve lost the song entirely. I can remember the genre, the situation in which I first heard the song, the way it made me feel. I can remember the station it was playing on (92.5 KZPS). I can see the yard, but that song is just a giant circular hole. And I know that if I heard that song, even once, I would immediately recognize it and the memory would be complete again. Unfortunately, I don’t remember the lyrics, the tune, the artist, or the title. I just remember that it was classic rock.

It’s very strange to consciously recognize a hole in your memory. My first instinct is to want to fill the hole, smooth it over and rest easy, but when my memory is one song out of a million, the needle-in-a-haystack analogy comes to mind. So now I’m faced with the thought that this memory, this joyful event in my life, may remain like an empty page in the photo album of my life.

I wonder how long before my entire yard becomes a giant hole.

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The Tyrant and The Boy

Atop a bold triceratops,
the world beneath my feet,
my wooden sword excalibur
rests warm within its sheath,
my nemesis opposes me,
he shouts my name aloud,
“Come clean your room!” he then exclaims
atop his lofty cloud.

For eons we have battled hard,
this aged man and I,
from the first dawn of life itself
when light first reached my eyes.
He issued forth commands, decrees,
insinuations vile,
“You let the dog track mud inside!”
“No running down the aisles!”

But not today, nor ever more!
I will defeat my foe!
For with each spiteful day that passed,
I felt my power grow!
He’s issued forth his final charge,
and as he soon shall see,
my trusty blade Excalibur
shall end his tyranny!

I spring forth from behind the throne
(his preferred place to rest)
and gallop boldly to my room
(but not at his behest)!
My wooden sword extended forth
to strike the killing blow –
Alas! My strike did not ring true!
My steed was much too slow.

See now, the mighty tyrant turns
and gleams its vicious grin!
He speaks: “Oh ho! What have we here!
I don’t mean to offend,
but you are not the first brave knight
to challenge me this way!
Your brother fought me tooth and nail,
he just would not obey.

“I’d make him sit inside his room
to think on what he’d done,
I’d ground him for a week, you see,
forbidden to have fun.”
What torture has this fiend in mind
for me, if I should fight?
If I was in the dungeon, too,
I wouldn’t last the night!

I must think quick, and clever too,
come up with some deceit,
some misdirection so that I
might not admit defeat!
Perhaps I’ll play his little game,
perhaps he’ll drop his guard,
and when he least expects me to,
I’ll flee into the yard!

I start to put away my toys;
He turns around once more…
I dash between the giant’s legs
and scurry for the door!
In massive strides the king gives chase
through kitchen, hall and den,
around the couch and ottoman,
he moves as fast as wind!

But my triceratops, you see,
is more than meets the eye!
I dismount from my loyal steed
and cast it to the side.
A noble sacrifice, my friend,
a noble death indeed!
The tyrant giant staggers now
and trips upon my steed!

My freedom beckons from the door
before my very eyes:
below me shall be verdant fields,
above me birds will fly!
But wait! What’s this? Oh, cursed lie!
A subtle pane of glass,
within a second door, and locked!
My dreams of freedom pass.

I turn and face my wicked fate,
the tyrant on his feet,
approaching with a staggered gait,
his face white as a sheet.
“Get to your room right now,” he yells,
and to my room I flee,
afraid to raise my father’s ire
I obey his decree.

My conquest is a wretched loss,
my dreams of freedom die,
and thinking of triceratops,
my loyal steed, I cry.
But father comes into my room
and sits down by my side.
“Don’t worry, son, your dino’s fine.”
I look into his eyes.

“I’m proud you’ve got such spirit, boy,
reminds me of my youth,
rebellious and adventuresome,
and fighting nail and tooth!
But save your spirit, son,” says he,
“for bigger foes than me,
the world is full of danger, boy,
and someday you’ll be free.

“Yes, free to toil, and free to earn,
and free to pay the rent,
and free to waste your days away
until your life is spent!
And you will have to fight, my boy,
and save up all your wealth,
in hopes to reach retirement
before you lose your health.”

He looks at me with weary eyes,
and then he cracks a smile.
“But all of this can wait,” he says.
“You’ll stay young for a while.”
He gives my arm a little squeeze
and says “Forget the room.
Let’s go and play outside a while,
the sun will set quite soon.”

And as my tyrant foe and I,
triceratops in tow,
head out beyond the crystal gate
into the fields below,
a thought begins to resonate
as day comes to an end:
My father’s not my greatest foe,
he is my greatest friend.

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Ash Wednesday

Today is that one time every year where people paint crosses on each other’s foreheads with year-old ashes and oil to remind themselves that they will someday die. (Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.) It is a “celebration of mortality” and a way people keep themselves humble.

Humans are beautiful and fascinating creatures.

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Fluid Dynamics

Kara stretched, yawned, and floated gently over to the comm station where I sat. Her auburn hair trailed behind her, flowed around her as she came to a stop beside me. My mind knew it was simply the lack of gravity playing with fluid dynamics, but I couldn’t help but stare, transfixed. It was like living underwater. She moved so gracefully, long legs and slender arms propelling her gorgeous body about the cabin.

“Oi, you there?” She had seen me staring.

“Sorry. I was lost in thought.” I tried to concentrate on something else, but she pulled close to me, and I felt her slight (yet firm) breasts graze against my arm. I recalled how they had looked in the filtered orange glow of the sunlight, laid bare before me as we came together as one . . .

“Was?” She poked me.

“What?”

“You’re staring at my tits, Captain.”

She smirked. “I don’t blame you, of course. They’re my favorite feature. Well, besides my brain. But we’ve got reports to make, remember?” She pushed off my chair and sailed across the cabin to the dresser. She pulled her sleep suit off, and for a moment I witnessed every nuance of her smooth, naked form before she slipped into a fresh flight suit.

“Tease,” I said.

She winked. “You know you like it.”

A flashback arced through my mind. A memory from my dream. Kara was there. I recalled bruises.

Kara frowned. “Alright, Mickey, what’s going on? The other night you were all fire and passion, today you’re distant.”

I looked back at the comm screen. Kara floated to my side.

“Sarah called?”

“Yeah.”

“Is she . . .”

“She’s fine.”

“Did you tell her?” There was concern in her eyes.

“About what?”

Kara slapped my arm. “About us, goof! Doe she know that we, you know . . .”

“No, but that’s not a problem. We have an understanding.”

“So? Out with it.”

“It’s nothing, really. Just a dream I had.”

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Scientist, Specimen

“I died in my dreams last night.” The revelation sounded strange out loud. “At least, I’m pretty sure I did.”

“Oh?” Sarah regarded me with the look of a scientist observing a specimen.

“Cut that out. I know that look.”

She feigned innocence. “I don’t rightly know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re analyzing me.”

“It’s what I do.”

“Yeah, but not with me.”

“Especially with you, Captain.” Her eyes were bright, despite the video compression required for long-range videoconferencing. “Are you worried about something?” Her head cocked to the side, and her blue eyes held a different expression than before. “Mike, tell me what’s wrong.”

“Well, nothing really.”

She continued watching me in silence. Waiting for more.

After a moment, I sighed. “It’s just the distance, you know? I’ve always been close to home, close to you, but now . . . I mean, if something goes wrong, there’s no . . .” The words caught in my throat.

“Listen, sweetheart. We knew the risk going in. You and me both.”

“Knowing is easy. I know the Earth is big. I know the sun is bigger. Understanding the true magnitude of it all, though . . . Well, you’ve got to experience it to truly understand.”

I was afraid she would take offence, but she didn’t. She had wanted to join the privateers with me, but the military needed her talents and paid her well. So, she had never been to space. Sometimes she seemed jealous, but being a psychiatrist she had learned to control her emotions.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay, honey. Are you frightened?”

I considered this for a moment.

“No, just in shock, I guess. I’m on the first leg of a six-week mission, and I’m just beginning to understand my situation. Having a little difficulty coping with it all. I mean, I trust Kara. She could run this assignment solo if she wanted. And I trust my ship. She’s been in hairier situations than this and never let me down.”

“And the captain? Do you trust him?”

“I wouldn’t have agreed to lead this mission if I didn’t think I was capable.”

“That’s not really an answer, sweetheart.”

Another long silence. Sarah spoke first.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Everything’s going to be okay, you got that?”

I nodded. She smiled.

“You’re the best damn captain in the fleet, Michael. I believe in you.” Her mouth looked happy, but her eyes seemed sad. She looked off-screen, where someone was apparently signaling to her. She held up one finger, then nodded. “I’ve got to run, hon. Same time next week?”

“You know it. Take care of yourself.”

“That’s my line!” She smirked. Her eyes glistened. “You too, then. Until next time.”

She waved, and I waved back as the screen went blank.