Can you hear My Silence ???

Listen To a Voice . . Yeah !!!

2012-02-14T15:37:00.000-08:00

Activist Realities

2011-01-26T10:57:00.001-08:00

I came up with a short story which I have not written yet. The synthesized or synopsis goes like this. A bunch of young activist are in a class excited because they are about to be visited by a guest speaker. The guest is a self proclaimed lifelong activist and the group of young activist are gay in their anticipation. After a few minutes the guest speaker comes in, greets the young activists and gives their talk. The young activists listen as if entranced, with the same attentiveness of a group of birds being feed by their mother. After the speech the guest takes time to answer questions. Most of the questions that are asked are not questions, only camouflaged praise, and the questions that are asked are cliché. But then a young activist who never speaks in class raises her hand and asks a question. How many different activist campaign have you been involved in? The lifelong activist names numerous initiatives that they were involved in: ending poverty, stop clear cuts in British Columbia, the humane treatment of animals in factory farms, trying to get mandatory recycling legislation in their province. After a while the lifelong activist concludes with, thousands maybe. The class gasp in amazement. Then the young activist asks another question, out of the entire activist struggles that you have participated in how many were you successful in? The lifelong activist is perplexed at this unorthodox question. There is silence. Then the young activist puts her question in simpler terms, out of all the actions that you have participate in, what is your success rate?

Human Supremacy

2010-12-13T23:08:00.001-08:00

The teacher goes to the wall and flicks off the lights one by one. Then he goes to the DVD player and presses play and takes a seat amongst the students. Faint ominous music begins to be heard and it gradually gets louder until it crescendos into a picture of a cow lying on its side panting, taking its last breaths. Alex and Rose are sitting in the back of the class sharing a pack of Twizzlers that they eat as slow as possible. The cow is no longer breathing. The next scene is of a full grown pig hanging upside down being hit with a base ball bat like a piñata at a birthday party. At first the class giggles but that giggle turns into silent mortification as the pig is now red with bruises, falls to the ground and starts to convulse uncontrollably.
“Wow. Why can’t they treat them humanly?” asks Alex.
“Because they are not human” replies Rose.
“But still they have no sense of decency or respect”
“So how would they kill them?” Rose inquires.
“With as little pain as possible. Like euthanasia”
“You mean suicide?”
“Not jump off a bridge suicide. Am talking about suicide assistance. Like by a doctor with anaesthetics”
“It would cost more money” Rose exclaims.
“Who cares?! This isn’t right!” Alex almost shouts.
As Alex finishes saying this; a clip is being shown of chickens hanging upside down from a conveyor belt going through a machine one by one that severs their necks, in fluid succession. They shake their heads. This scene dissolves into another scene in which thousands of chickens are contained in cages barely big enough for them. You see some chickens struggling to move, you see some with their beaks cut off, and others dead in their cages amongst other live chickens.
“Sucks” Alex exhales, “It’s like they are born and live in a jail. What type of life is that?”
Rose says nothing. Next, photos are shown of deformed animals and beneath the screen in red it says that, “these deformities were caused in great measure by the steroids and antibiotics that they were fed.” The first few pictures could be considered cute but then it turns horrific. Chickens so overweight that that they are unable to walk, pigs missing eyes, overgrown hind legs on a calf.
The proceeding image is of an cattle auction in which prospective owners use tazer like devices to make the cows go where they want them to. I addition the prospective owners can be seen poking, slapping, and contorting the cows in numerous ways to determine their “worth.” By the quality of the video you can tell that the majority of the footage is undercover because of the distorted and muffled view.
Another picture comes on of a fully grown pig hanging upside down, rocking to and fro. A butcher comes over to the pig with a machete and strikes it in the neck. Blood immediately starts spewing everywhere. The butcher now starts talking to someone out of camera range and then laughs. The blood is no longer spewing, but instead drooling profusely from the wound. The butcher then leaves the view and we are left with a still shot of the bleeding pig hanging upside down. It is obvious to everyone in the class that the pig is still alive. Its glassy eyes blink, it twitches for a few moments. The viewers are left with this image. It stays and stays on the television, the pig hanging . . . dying . . .
“This is sick” says Alex.
“I know” agrees Rose.
“Why are they still showing this?” he pleads.
And as he says this the video starts to fast forward. The subtle movements of the pig are now even more visible. Minutes past, seconds past. Some people in the class nervously laugh in unison at how unbelievable it is. It seems as if a whole day passes. Then the video resumes playing normal. The pig is now subtly moving, groaning, and below it is a puddle of dark red blood. Suddenly the butcher comes back into the frame carrying his machete. The pig tries to move as much as it can and looks like a fish flapping side to side in a fisher grasp. With as much casualness of taking out the garbage or putting on your shoes, he raises the machete and strikes the pig twice in the neck. Then he leaves the camera shot. After a few moments it is apparent that the pig is dead. The whole class is aghast in silence.
“Wow. It sucks being an animal” says Alex.
“You’re an animal” responds Rose.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, it sucks not being human.”
“That’s not what I meant either” Alex protests.
“So what do you mean?”
“Just that . . . This shouldn’t be happening just to make food”
“I know. But what are you going to do about it . . . become a vegetarian”
The video is now over, and the name PETA is on the screen. Rose reluctantly asks Alex, “So are you going to become a vegetarian?”
Alex pauses, hesitates and then answers “no.”

The Privilege

2010-12-13T23:04:00.000-08:00

I remember this . . . .

I was walking to my mother’s house taking back streets. It was around nine o’clock. It was night and you could hear dogs faintly barking beyond the yonder. I had my headphones on, and my gait occasionally matched the rhythm of the music. I took a right into an alley way and as I did so I pass by two people dressed in all black. I kept walking. I passed empty and desolate backyards to the right and left of me. Suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and seen one of the people that I just previously passed standing before me with his friends at a distance. He said something to me. I cannot hear. I paused my music.
“What’s up?” The stranger asked.
“Nothing.” I responded.
“You from around here?”
“No.”
“Where you from?” the person immediately asks like they have been in this situation before.
I had a strong urge to say hell, but settled with “Nowhere.”
He looked to his friend, and asked me again,
“Where you from?”
I respond back “I use to live in the area.”
The person nods their head, says “cool” and walked over to his friend.
I proceeded on my way. Seconds later, the two strangers are both standing before me, and the friend who I have not spoken to yet asks me,
“So how much money do you got?” eye to eye like a homeless person receiving spare change from a benevolent stranger.
Once again I fight the urge to say Death but conform to “None.”
Then he asks “what’s in the bag?”
I come to the realization that they are going to try to rob me, but I am not scared or brave. Am normal or even a little bit indifferent. So I do not say anything. Instead I try to walk away but they immediately stand in my path. Next instead of asking me a question, the person who asked me, where you from? shows me a knife and his other friend punches me in the face. I punch the person back in the face and then I heard silence.

She remembers this . . . .

I was coming home from babysitting decided to take a short cut, and got off the main road. I usually took this route when coming home but usually earlier in the day. It was dark, night, and not to many street lights in the area, and I could see my breath when I said something emphatically. I seen two males walking towards me dressed in all black. I lost my breath for a second, but continued walking and as I passed them I put my head down. The air was fresh and I put my hands in my coat pockets for warmth, then I made a left.
I was less than five minutes away from my building when the same two guys dressed in all black were suddenly in front of me. I shuddered. I tried to ignore the coincidence, and again put my head down and continued walking, but one of them grabbed me. I asked the one that held me to let go.
“What do you want?” I dreadfully pleaded.
He said “the purse.”
I immediately gave it to him and he handed it to his accomplice. He quickly rummaged through it.
“50 dollars,” he yelled, “that is all you got?!”
Then the guy who was holding me slapped me. After that he pushed me against a wall and began to go through my pockets. He took out my keys, threw them on the floor, and resumed his search. After finding nothing in my pockets he began to go up underneath my shirt and proceed towards my breast and that is when I heard silence.

Drowning Churches

2010-07-07T16:15:00.000-07:00

Do you know what global warming has caused? The sinking of churches into the bottom of the ocean. The melting of glaciers, Mary crying, blood spilling out of the character Jesus as he was struck with a spear. Liquid, Precipitation . . . ultimately Holy Water. Churches sinking in their own decadence. Remote. Out of use. And past its prime. The new generation exchanging religious institutions with nature. Instead of the Bible, the crucifix (a death device), the priest, and the Holy Trinity. We now have Earth, Air, Fire, and Water. No compasses just stars. No home just acceptance. No guilt just laughing. I wait for the wind then hear and see the waves crashing into the last vestiges of civilization. California under water, Haiti under water, existence under water . . . and drowning.

Dear Sylvia Plath

2010-06-04T17:26:00.000-07:00

I feel your anxieties and worries, but can I relate? To the “female” or even your condition? Sacrifice identity for a relationship. Elizabeth Gilbert said she took on a piece of her lovers. Is this what you mean? A kind of sacrifice? My situation is similar except that I take on a piece of the book that I read. Where is motivation for the hopeless? Are you smart or are you just educated? To be more precise formally educated. Your vocabulary is immense and interesting. Your writing is poetic, fluid even, with the syntax leading to the metaphors of life and metaphors of existentialism. Do I exist or do I have to justify my existence? Why do such questions have to be asked? Why question at all? Looking for a reason to live is imperative amongst nihilism. And what is your fascination with the womb? Is it to before “real” life, worry, anxiety, ignorance?

And your personification of years and days challenges my own romanticization of nature. We both love the rain and the Moon (Selene). For does it provide solace to you as it does to me? With such commonalities am I doomed to your same inevitable end . . . ?

For you are a better writer than myself. You seek that publication, that confirmation of craft, the nobility of ink. Is it the status you seek? Or once again I dare to ask, justification of existence. You find your “gender/ sex” an inconvenience and you see the privileges that “men” have. We both suffer from the injustice of inequality, but I cope by gaining knowledge and information to help for solutions. What do you do to cope or settle?

You died before I was born. Maybe? It is not the human condition that makes me identify with you, but as you would say a specific kind of “attitude,” a certain kind of perception of being. I shall write more, though I shall never get the confirmation of publication, for my own demise is imminent.

I don’t understand you. You have friends, mentors even, even suitors, but yet you are haunted by melancholy. So is it oblivion or resurrection? Is escape appealing because of external factors or internal factors? Please I beseech you to tell your motive. Perhaps as I read more I shall become enlightened, but as you and I know how inadequate and insufficient writing and language itself can be.

For people like us you blame it on our intellect for having standards and being particular, logical, critical, for reality not living up to our idealism and notions of expectations not being as they should. For the only responsibilities we have are the ones we have placed on ourselves. Is it because you perceive yourself as a “female” that you do not identify with “society” (whatever that means). Is there more to it than that? Is the burden of a “women” so great that it defines and determines identity, options, and destiny, and is the foundation for an individual to find their place in the social organization of society?

For you ask who shall remember you. Not you yourself, but a fragment of yourself, your writings. And I answer back for I shall, and many others.

Are you a metaphor for synecdoche a living personification of it, for your writings as a whole? Do what you will with me; do not harm my child (I mean my writings).
Two things I envy about you: you worked on a farm, and you lived in a house. O how I would beseech death for the knowledge of horticulture, to see plants grow, produced, and distributed for consumption. To be individually able to tell if a plant is ripe or not, see it sprouting, to see a plant grow to maturity like a parent watching their kid. And I did live in a house once or maybe a few times more than that. But as they say, “you don’t what you got till it’s gone.”

Mortality suffocates us and we are always aware of its presence. Is that why we notice things others do not acknowledge or choose to see. Like the subtle change in direction in the wind, the particular sound rain makes when it is frictionized or the individuality of snow. Or even the seasons, like now for instance, the air feels different. We can hear, taste, touch, feel these things, whereas others cannot (it maybe because we are writers).

For we see how easy the followers have it (religious people) for their purpose is already exclusively clear, but for us we have to ignite our own fire to use for light to use for our solace and darkness.

You said that you use to be an introverted person and became an extrovert, but can we ever truly change? Permanently? Or is the success doomed to be temporary or is momentary success just that . . . momentary . . . and ultimately temporary.
You tried to commit suicide and failed and was subjected to the punishment of trying to be corrected “normalized.” The details are obscure, unknown in fact. But you experienced ECT. O my “god.” Confinement for care. Tormented by walls, interrogated by professionals, and turned into a zombie to feel and act “better.”

The pressure of civilization is too much mass to place on individuals, so we crack, anxiety, lose, and fail.

We both laugh; mock even the triviality of our disappointments. Us here in the “West.” Conscious of our individual advantages, but burdened by our setbacks.

I look to companionship to save me, who or what would have saved you or perhaps you saved yourself?

A Single Stanza

2010-05-04T13:57:00.000-07:00

Forget Me Not

If the goddess gave life then the goddess shall kill.
Is this real? I mean is this how am suppose to feel?
It is not cold it’s warm and it’s not Dark it’s bright
I feel kind of all right
This is the best I ever felt in my life
And am dying. Acceptance is what I have learned
And also I will Die but it won’t be on my own terms.
American soldiers in Vietnam “had to destroy it to save it”
Remembering almost drowning, wishing I never made it.
Cursing my guardians for not knowing why I exist
Tears run down my cheeks, while blood runs down my wrist
Crying, cuz all I wanted was something to be mine
Something or someone making it worth it has the equivalence to “god” giving a sign
Living a slow Death, the soulless soul slept.
Living a slow Death
Am blessed if I go next.
My Love, give me a one on one and look me in my eyes
And before you depart I shall say to you “Death do not Die”