More months ago than I would like to admit I was finishing Dave Eggers' brilliant What Is the What and found myself unsure of what I wanted to read next. At some point, however, I decided that I wanted to fall back into the way I felt when reading Camus or Dostoevsky or some of the more serious Vonnegut, but I was again stuck with where to go. The last time this happened, I tried to read Catch 22, but that just didn't fly at all... I still don't know why... C'est la vie.

So I perused the internet for a while and tried to think of things I'd passed over in the past; eventually I stumbled upon 100 Years of Solitude over on Eliza's myspace page. Not too much time had passed since I had seen (and loved) Pan's Labyrinth and The Motorcycle Diaries, but despite having some erroneous perception of a connection between Italo Calvino and South America, I don't think I'd actually read anything from that part of the world. Once the little brown B&N box arrived at work, I immediately cracked the thing open and dove in. The book opens with an anecdote about the first time one of the characters saw an ice cube. Which, in itself, isn't necessarily that fascinating, but the night before I had read a different account of the exact same situation in What Is the What. Which was strange. Both images of fascination with something seemingly so simple painted a brilliant picture of innocence, and the opening story framed within the flashback ("Many year later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.") also perfectly framed the rest of the story. Forgive me... I'm reading again after looking up that quote. This also reminded/reminds me of Calvino's sign story from Cosmicomics: "The world was so recent that many things lacked names, and in order to indicate them it was necessary to point." I don't know if it was the tone or the rhythm or something else entirely, but despite the innocent and almost playful word choices describing this newly awakened culture, there was an undercurrent of disaster from page 1. I knew something was going to get fucked up. I knew something was going to be beautiful, and then it would be gone. But I continued reading. With no small about of trepidation as I was afraid this was going to turn into one of those books about loving families happy togetherness or something else that I just didn't quite grasp making it through the turmoil hinted at from the beginning. Thankfully I was wrong. This book really was about solitude. In lots of different ways. Many that, I'm sure, I don't understand yet and many that, I'm sure, I read into unintentional existence. Lest I posture as a knowledgeable reviewer, I'd better hop back to my own experience. This book was really hard for me to read. The lack of a linear chronology really messed with my head. I like things to have a place. And I like for them to be there. The storyline suffered as a story "line," but now, in retrospect, I think I can see the novel as having been very episodic. Which makes me happy. (more on that later) I also had a lot of trouble with the names. With foreign names, I often just read over them... there's a sound in my head that means a certain character, and that works. But, here, the names were all so incredibly similar to (if not exactly the same as) the names of other characters in the book, I quickly lost hold on who was who within the Buendia family. Which, really, is a shortcoming of my own, but still caused me some difficulty. I was trying so hard to put all of the pieces together as I read that I could rarely finish more than one chapter in a sitting. I felt utterly defeated by the world into which I was immersing myself, and it took its toll on me. For weeks at a time, the book would languish in the back seat of my car, on the coffee table, or tucked inside my computer bag. On more than one occasion I was inches away from giving up. I managed to push through... all the while holding onto my meekly backed assertions that this book was just crazy. Obviously I wasn't smart enough to get it, or this guy was just freaking nuts. (And I'm smart.......) I had gathered little to back up or change my world views, and I felt little to no emotional attachment to the characters. No one spilt their heart onto the page - almost everyone was portrayed from the outside, which made it very difficult to feel an empathetic bond. But as I closed in on the 50-pages-until-the-end mark, I became excited again. The story began to reveal itself, as did the characters. The language used to describe the states-of-being was beautiful, and it spoke to me. Finally, I connected with Ursula, and I felt her pain in me. "She felt so old, so worn out, so far away from the best moments of her life that she even yearned for those that she remembered as the worst." That's the first sentence I underlined through over 360 pages... and a few sentences later, I understood more clearly: "The need to feel sad was becoming a vice as the years eroded her. She became human in her solitude." I almost found my own emotions at that point. Sadly, the thing that really hit it for me showed up less than a score of pages from the end. The formerly vibrant and knowledgeable bookseller inserts himself into the story one last time in an effort to undo all he had done before. Upset by two nostalgias facing each other like two mirrors, he lost his marvelous sense of unreality and he ended up recommending to all of them that they leave Macondo, that the forget everything he had taught them about the world and the human heart, that they shit on Horace, and that wherever they might be they always remember that the past was a lie, that memory has no return, that every spring gone by could never be recovered, and that the wildest and most tenacious love was an ephemeral truth in the end. Ouch. In many ways, I did not want to hear that. But in many ways, that is exactly what I was looking for. At the very least, he allows love to exist. He gives it a name. But then casts it down lowering its status to nothing more than, can I say it, dust in the wind. Oh, and I bought it. My pathetic sense of reality has had a need to let those ideas be truth. But what I really wanted to do was grab him by the throat and shake him until his broken heart found its missing pieces again. Yes, love is fleeting. But only insofar as life is fleeting. Everything exists only under the eye of the observer, and my love can only exist so long as I am here to feel it. Love can be and should be eternal within a lifetime, and those words on the page shoved a million tiny pins through my heart when I didn't immediately find that our bookseller had grown to be an ignorant ass. But it brought me back to myself too. This was the most poignant moment in the book for me; it really made me think about, you know, "stuff" instead of just trying to figure out the story. Bravo! So what is left? The feeling... the prophecy... set forth from the beginning was coming to pass. The beautiful dream of Macondo was becoming nothing but a ravished piece of earth. The wind whipped down the streets, and the last of the Buendia line raged against the forces set against him before he was conceived. So I thought, "This is Shakespeare... this is Dallas... this is True Romance... let's pile the bodies and get this over with." Then... on the last page, something changed. In just the blink of an eye, I understood what was happening. I understood what had happened, and I understood why it had to happen the way it did. Gabriel Garcia Marquez went from "overrated curiosity" to "absolute genius!" I can't even attempt to write what happened, but it is irrelevant. What matters is, I think, what it did to me, and I am so grateful that I didn't give up on this. That last moment of, "A-ha, mother fucker!" was worth it, and it made every other experience of reading the book ten times more meaningful. Of course, we're all solitary to some extent. At the very least, we all die alone, and can you ever truly completely share a feeling? So we all live in solitude, but there are others of us who choose that solitude. And choose to embrace, expand, and deify solitude. And we are the ones who go absolutely completely insane. No man is an island. Jon Bon Jovi said that. Last thing, then I'm out... Apparently GGM was a friend of Mr. Castro. He was only allowed to visit the United States on a limited Visa even after winning the Noble Prize for Literature. Americans sure are stuck in their ways. The ban, according to what I've found online, was finally lifted in the late 1990's by Bill Clinton. Also, I stole all of these pictures and got some of my external information from this website

Labels: _self, Books

Although I haven't read Fyodor in a while, he still manages to work his way into the things I try to do. Not that it was a complete surprise or anything. I definitely became aware of it as soon as this "crime" idea came up, and I became some kind of amalgamation of Raskolnikov and Dmitri. (Crime & Punishment and The Brothers Karamazov, respectively) And then I totally lifted the "wax pathetically" line straight out of Notes From Underground. (at least I'm 90% sure it was that one. Definitely Dostoevsky again tho) Which isn't to say this is about Russians. I also stole "I'm already dead" from deadboy and the Elephantmen and "Love will tear us apart" from... well... you know. But that's also not to say that this is all about other people either.

Allison made me think about some pretty difficult stuff the other day. Stuff that, I suppose, I couldn't really wrap my head around. So now there's this. I'd already ripped off the drum idea from Jew(s) and Catholic(s), and I'm pretty sure the little guitar thing was stolen from somewhere too. Or maybe it's just one of things that everyone with minimal guitar skills plays. The song structure was stolen from just about everything that Scott and I have ever done. Or at least just about everything that I've ever done. And the vocal melody was an attempt to copy what Chris Randall (of Sister Machine Gun) did on the "Rock Radio Mix" of L.A. Style's "James Brown Is Dead."

And I think that's all I tried to steal. "I'd rather be a killer than a victim of circumstance." After I fenced all of the stolen goods, this exercise in possibilities was the result: Thieves and Murderers Oh... And it turns out that "languidity" isn't a word. But it should be.

Labels: _self, Dostoevsky, filboyd studge, music

Things my dad tought me that I've used recently in circumstances in which I would not have chosen to find myself.

1. When walking on the sidewalk with someone else, walk on the streetside.
2. Not making a decision is the same as making the opposite of that decision.

paraphrased, of course. I'd have him confirm, but he's, you know, dead.

Maybe something else will pop up that I'll remember, but I think those are the two main things I can remember learning that I can put into simple sentences.

Labels: _self

I've been playing Hearts lately.
Perhaps too much.
But it's just provided me with a decent metaphor.

I like trying to shoot the moon... one day I'll win in only 4 hands... maybe.

Not the point. The metaphor.

So, you're sitting there with, say, all the Aces, the top 5 hearts, the King and Queen of Spades, the Jack of Clubs and, like, 2 throw away cards. Take the opening hand with the Ace of Clubs which pulls in the King and Queen... then sluff the 3 of Spades on hand 2... and, sure enough, the jackass to your right just happens to be spadeless and drops a Heart.

That moment right there is the beginning of my Hearts Metaphor for Life.
Where you just know that everything that comes next is pointless and that you're just going through the motions. I was just feeling kind of hopeless about my motions in life. They're not really taking me where I want them too, but it doesn't seem like there's a way to actually get to where I want to be. So it's just a matter of going through the motions until you die.

It's that same stupid hopelessness that seems to affect loads of people tho. Nothing special. But it did remind me of playing Hearts... which I enjoy. So perhaps I'll go do those motions again.

Labels: _self

It's annoying how two people really have to have the same view of their relationship to one another, and you can never really understand someone else's point-of-view on anything. And, yeah, it's annoying. And, look, there my hands go again... being all shakey. That's annoying too, so I'll play some video games. Ahh... that's better. I'm totally Gerald Wallace running up and down and dunking, and damn, I'm badass. But, shit, I can hardly hold on to the control thing anymore, but it's getting a little better at least. But now I'm getting really really tired. Fuck that tho, it's only midnight; I'm not going to sleep yet. But then I feel all sick inside like that going-down-a-hill-on-a-roller-coaster thing. Maybe I'll go listen to music. Yeah, that's sweet. Waitaminute... that bitch next door is banging on the wall again. Goddammit, but that's ok, music's just annoying anyway. And, damn, I'm really really tired now. But it's like, what, 1:00? Hardly bedtime now! It's the perfect time for reading comics. Even though I'm having a hard time focusing, the pretty colors and ridiculous stories are really quite distracting. But not too distracting, cuz, damn, I still feel kind of sick. And now it's like 2:00? I guess I knew I'd have to go to sleep eventually. Oh well. I'll deal with this stupidness while I sleep.

Ok... well it's funny to me. You shut up.

---

[QUOTE]
friends and enemies.
All in your mind.
Only true if someone else believes it too.
shaking again.
The thought alone.
But the soft glow of the fake world flickers.
Soothing in its madness.
Deft. Smooth. Fantastic.
Vicariously. Vicariously.
The shaking... The shaking...
The shaking slowly softens.
And darkness fights from the fringe.

But not yet.

Inside: swirl. stop. drop.
Fall back to the beginning.
And let it go...
Back away on the beat of the bass drum.
quarter. Quarter. QuaRTeR. QUARTER.
Triplet-eighth?!
Again!
Three notes in the place of one.
And the tag on the end.
Goddamn.
Turn it down.
turn it off.
Settling back... shaking still.
Silence is better anyhow.
The darkness moves again.
The attack redoubled.
From the front.

But not yet.

The colors coalesce.
Fade to black. And back again.
Meld and Merge.
Hand-lettered reality on a pallet of four.
Points and pixels placate.
Eternally internally the drum beats on.
And Truth rallies.
The illusion: shockingly shattered.
shaking... shaking...
Inside drops; crashing down.
The shadow. Emboldened.
The darkness. Encroaching.
Creeping. Biding. Secure.
The outcome decided.
Succumb.
The shaking subsides.

Dreaming, the battle begins anew.
[/QUOTE]

Labels: _self

friends and enemies.
All in your mind.
Only true if someone else believes it too.
shaking again.
The thought alone.
But the soft glow of the fake world flickers.
Soothing in its madness.
Deft. Smooth. Fantastic.
Vicariously. Vicariously.
The shaking... The shaking...
The shaking slowly softens.
And darkness fights from the fringe.

But not yet.

Inside: swirl. stop. drop.
Fall back to the beginning.
And let it go...
Back away on the beat of the bass drum.
quarter. Quarter. QuaRTeR. QUARTER.
Triplet-eighth?!
Again!
Three notes in the place of one.
And the tag on the end.
Goddamn.
Turn it down.
turn it off.
Settling back... shaking still.
Silence is better anyhow.
The darkness moves again.
The attack redoubled.
From the front.

But not yet.

The colors coalesce.
Fade to black. And back again.
Meld and Merge.
Hand-lettered reality on a pallet of four.
Points and pixels placate.
Eternally internally the drum beats on.
And Truth rallies.
The illusion: shockingly shattered.
shaking... shaking...
Inside drops; crashing down.
The shadow. Emboldened.
The darkness. Encroaching.
Creeping. Biding. Secure.
The outcome decided.
Succumb.
The shaking subsides.

Dreaming, the battle begins anew.

Labels: _self

Does anyone else find it odd that all those "surveys" or "tests" or whatever that "prove" whether or not one is depressed always ask: 1) have you thought about killing yourself? or 2) have you actually made a plan to kill yourself?

It seems to me to be quite normal that people would wonder if the world would be better off without them. It seems even more normal to wonder whether or not the individual people involved in your life would be better off without you. Has anyone really ever not thought about just removing themself from the... errm... "situation?" As it were. I imagine it's a smaller (but not small) number of people who have really thought about what they'd do. I mean, usually, it's just like, "Man, just one single gunshot through the face would do it." But, honestly, I think you'd want to make sure you go to the bathroom... not really eat anything for a day (b/c you know you're going to shit yourself when you die, and that's just tacky)... then maybe get a pillow or something... lie (lay?) down in the bathtub, turn the shower on, put the pillow behind your head (so as to stop the bullet from going all the way through and breaking the tub), and then just pull the trigger. The water should wash all the goo down the drain, the pillow (or phone book?) should save the tub, the lack of eating should remove the "shit yourself" scenario, and - all in all - it should be fairly clean.

Not that I REALLY think I would do such a thing... maybe b/c I'm chicken... but I don't think so. You might be a total loser who everyone hates in real life, but killing yourself just makes you a loser to the nth degree. Selfish, weak, and not at all fair to anyone. So I don't advocate it. I'm not asking for help over the fucking internet for God's sake. I'm not planning on shooting myself in a pillow. Just wondering. Is it really that odd for people to wonder if things wouldn't just be better without them.

Apart from crazy stockbrokers who jump off bridges b/c they lost money... (or Judas Priest fans)... it seems like most depressed or suicidal people are depressed or suicidal due to their inability to relate to other people. Sure, some of one's inability to relate could certainly be due to the situation in which one finds oneself. But I imagine it's also possible to have a personality such that you just can't interact with people, and you are (or everyone is) better off if you just stop trying to force yourself into other people's lives. Either you change or you make everyone miserable. Does inability to "relate" to other people mean that there's something "wrong" with you? I don't think it's any worse than someone being unable to... I dunno... make bologna sandwiches or something. It's not "wrong," but, in a group of people excited about bologna, you're just not going to fit in. Which would suck for the guy who thinks he WANTS to make bologna sandwiches but can't... and for the people who want to and can... as long as the guy who can't continues to try to force himself into the group. It sure does seem obvious to most people that you need TWO pieces of bread for a bologna sandwich. But not for idiot me. And I guess it should be obvious that you need cheese too. And that you should grill the sandwich. But you should grill the bologna first. And candian bacon is not a good substitute for bologna. And you need to cut the crust off the bread. And you need to only get organic bologna... or... whatever... I really can't think of that many things about making a bologna sandwich. Except that it needs mustard. Mustard's good on 'em to me.

Right at this particular moment in time, I don't think I know how to make a bologna sandwich. I'm tired. And I'm going to read Ninja Turtles comics now.


And then kill myself.





that was a joke.

well, kind of. I will have a cigarette and finish this bottle of wine.

"The hammer's cocked but I haven't got the nerve...
Alone in a world told to sit still and serve.
I'll do it slowly... a little each day.
God, please let the darkness just take it away."

Then I'll read Ninja Turtles.

Labels: _self

For all the flowerly language of love and kings and evil done behind closed doors, it's rare that Shakespeare speaks truthfully and directly to ones soul. I say this as I rapidly approach the halfway mark of Brothers Karamazov and awaken from my own blindness and isolation ever so slightly with each reading. BK is quickly becoming my Bible. The abiguous words of Paul and the much interpreted statements of Christ can't hold a candle to the direct and often combative words of Dostoevsky. His language is clear and plain and to the point. Oft illustrated by the most poignant of narratives, I've never been so painfully close to desperately wanting to live a different life.

My respect for Kurt Vonnegut only grows as my meager mind attempts to grasp the realities and illusions of ideal reality put forth by Dostoevksy. I realize my mind is nothing like his, and that my understanding of whatever universal truths are being espoused is so incredibly obtuse... I'm sure that, through the dense language and meaningful antecdotes the ideas available are tenfold of that which I am able to grasp. If I was a strong man instead of a sick man and a spiteful man I would rise to the occasion and forge, in myself, a picture of the ideal. Now that I can see that ideal so clearly. But I, like most, am attached to things that I've learned to love. And those things aren't freedom. And they aren't love. And they aren't brotherhood.

Zosima's words are amazingly prophetic. Our stuff is our freedom? While it's not an uncommon idea among those with vision, our stuff holds us hostage. My car doesn't make me free. The music that I claim to love doesn't make me free, nor do the stories in which I lose myself. Is it not all transient? Did Edison really do the world a favor? Or is the true nature of music present only in its ephemerality? My house isn't my castle. It too simply constrains me. The solitude and silence that I pursue to the detriment of all relationships provide only the illusion of freedom and never a true peace.

This all sucks. My random thoughts of things that have already left my mind. Dostoevsky's grasp of what it means... rather what it SHOULD mean to be a human living with humans is amazing. Here's hoping I don't learn only to forget.

Labels: _self, Books, Dostoevsky, Kurt Vonnegut

If necessity is the mother of invention and and misery is inspiration, why would anyone want to be satisfied or happy.

I poached from myself but couldn't remember anything but one line. Nothing is cool about this except for my voice when I sing it... b/c I'm sick.

Eyes wide open
While the world still sleeps
Only angels know
The secrets I keep

I hate this place
But where am I
Nowhere special
Just a place inside

I loved you once
You loved me too
At least I thought you did
But you thought so too

I hate this breath
I hate this one too
It's taking me nowhere
But further from you

Labels: _self

I haven't written anything of consequence in a long time. Or maybe ever. I finally finished reading Notes From Underground this morning while I was driving to work. And, really, just Wow. I love it very much and, on Kurt's thoughts that the Brothers Karmazov contain all the answers to life, I think that will be my next read.

Except that I kind of want to pick up Anna Karinina too... or Catch-22... or The Stranger... and read it correctly this time. Not like a kid in a sub-par English class in a sub-par high school. Yes. I think that's what I shall do. It was recommended to me to read To Kill a Mockingbird (which I should do), Angels & Demons (ehh... probably not...), The Road Less Traveled (by Peck?? Again, probably not), and Still Life with Woodpecker. That last one seems quite interesting too.

But I'll still probably go with Camus.

Since last time, there has been a filboyd studge album recorded by myself and my friends. www.filboydstudge.com. You may go hear and listen. Fair warning: It is not "good," nor was it intended to be "good." Which is not a statement to ward off criticism. Just don't expect much. Berlioz, it's not.

Walk the Line was good.
Harry Potter was incredibly boring. Again.

I've also recently learned why people underline. While reading something I can't understand, the underline has become a tool of great worth. It draws my attention to the sentences I don't understand, which helps my ADD ass focus on it and actually comprehend without having to read the first three words 17 times over and over and over and over and...

I've also been told to checkout
Pinback
Sea and the Cake

bands. I'm telling myself that so I don't forget.

I'm glad noone ever taught the world to sing.

I know you've gone
on your own way
Noone should bear
these words I'm about to say
these words I'm about to say

I see you've climbed
up your own tree
the rope has been raised
so I wax pathetically
so I wax pathetically

Labels: _self, Dostoevsky, music

Eyes wide open while the earth is asleep.
The cages are rattling;
It's in, and I want out.
Break the windows and open the doors!
It eats my fear; I nourish my doubt.
Just release it. Re. Lease it.
Eyes wide open while the earth is asleep.

The wind blows;
Then back again.
Can I feel it.
Am I feel.
Let me go.
Are you feeling froggy?
For blood?
I'm your Huckleberry.
Leap.

It's therapeutic, but still it churns.
Writing, so they say.
It needs me.
Need it, I?
Can gorilla survive?
Eyes wide open.
While the earth.
Still.
Sleeps.

Survive.

Slowly slipping and the light is winning.
Get away from me.
Get me away.

Drugs and Money. Loneliness and Love.
Are you out there?
It's me.
Say something.
Or don't.
Unrelative and Irrelated.
Every cigarette's the last.
And I'm the trap that I hated.

Labels: _self

I hate Tuesdays.
Almost more than Mondays.
Especially now that 24 is over.
Tuesday is like Monday except that I'm already tired from doing stuff I don't want to do (i.e. "work") on Monday. Megatokyo doesn't update on Tuesday. RPGWorld doesn't update on Tuesday. Comics don't come out until Wednesday. It's still too far away from the weekend to really be excited about that... The only thing Tuesday has going for it is that Ozy and Millie is usually updated. And I could always read that on Wednesday. I guess new CD's come out on Tuesday tho. And they ARE rereleasing Diamond Dogs today... which I still don't have. Tuesdays still suck.

Seen a lot of movies in the past week... for me, anyway. A Mighty Wind, 21 Grams, and Lost in Translation. All were very entertaining, and I'd watch them all again. 21 Grams had Sean Penn being an asshole, but he was damned good at it. And Benicio is a really good actor. Now I want to see Traffic again too. AND he's going to be in Sin City! Being an avid Daredevil fan (the comic, not the movie), I LOVE Frank Miller. And his Sin City series was very very cool and perfect for a movie adaptation. Off-subject, I guess, but whatever.

A Mighty Wind isn't sticking with me so well. I like Best in Show better, but this one was still really funny. Although it was also kind of sad, which I wasn't totally looking for. Again, tho, definitely worth watching...

Lost in Translation, however, is sticking with me more and more. I had a bunch of people tell me not to watch it... Shame on you. This movie is perfect for the way I sort of feel or whatever. Yeah, I love Bill Murray (and might have to see Garfield just to hear him talk), and Scarlett is definitely a cute girl... But the thing that I took away from the movie was how the two of them were able to just BE in the NOW. No, their lives weren't perfect, and no, they weren't doing anything that was, say, "totally rad," but I really liked watching the two actors create their characters. And seeing the characters be able to just be happy with their present was really cool.

So, I guess that I'm saying that, all the "triffling truisms clothed in great, swelling words" notwithstanding, I still don't get the whole idea of letting the past go. So stupid. So, somehow, that's what I got out of that movie. And I want that feeling of just really not having any cares at the moment and just being somewhere... and being happy with just being there. Dunno if it takes a trip to Japan, but I wouldn't mind being completely uprooted and just leaving everything behind. Even if only briefly.

And, actually, that kind of goes back to something I talked about long ago in reference to a Peter Milligan story (Human Target #1) where the character was supposed to be at the WTC the day it was blown up, but he wasn't. But noone knew that he wasn't, so he just pretended that he was... everyone thought he was dead, and he just disappeared to recreate a different life elsewhere. Despite the obvious hardships of such a move, that has SO much appeal...

Anyway. Now I want to see Lost in Translation again. And, frankly, it could do without the semi-nakedness.

Labels: _self, Movies

So... I'm sitting here with the video of Nick Berg on my Desktop... afraid to watch it. Why do I want to watch it? Easy answer is that I'm curious. There's definitely a part of me that wants to see the video b/c I've simply never seen anything like it before. But it's horrible, right? It's someone being brutally executed simply because of their background. And even if you don't think about the reasons... even if Nick was a cold-blooded murderer himself, I think the questions would still be the same. Why the hell do I want to see something like this? Because it's taboo? That's kind of a crappy reason.

The only "good" reason I can think of is that it's real. This is life. But do I really need to SEE it to understand it? And, if I do watch it, will I get physically sick? Or will I become emotionally (can't think of a better word) sick? Or will I like it? All of these things scare me. So is it possible to watch something like this and come away with nothing more than a clear, cold, logical understanding of what happened. Is it possible to view something like this as simply information to be processed? That's what I would want, but I don't know if it's possible...

And, on a slightly related note... I almost wanted to say that I feel less bad about the treatment of the Iraqi prisoners. Luckily, I immediately came to my senses and realized how completely wrong it is to think that way. What we allowed to happen is still wrong, even in the light of this execution. Lowering ourselves to their level just helps the circle of violence continue. And now I no longer know what I'm talking about. June 30th can't come soon enough. Get the hell out of Iraq.

Labels: _self