A desk in the shape of a box sat in the living room of one Mr. David Nashe. Mr. Nashe, having vacated the putrescent premises of his abode this particular evening, distributed sequentially a series of ego-contents in spurts of fantastically phantasmagorical rapidity, his consciousness plastered about the total surface area of one Ms. Nora Veronica, seated and situated adjacent his person, seeping duly purposeful magnitudes of that superbly feminine magniloquence. Poised in the manner of a tiger in constructive possession of that great misfortune (that is, having been stuffed), she breathed slowly. A species of Caucasians adorned in (imitation) African dresses passed by the automobile in which they were stationed, a large Cadillac.
She spoke, each word tinged with the acrimony of repressed vehemence.
Immediately following the devastating 9/11 attacks, which destroyed the illusion of invulnerability which had defined American society since the end of the Cold War, many Americans willingly ceded their rights and liberties to government officials who promised them that the feeling of absolute safety could be restored. In the 12 years since, we have been subjected to a series of deceptions, subterfuges and scare tactics by the government, all largely aimed at amassing more power for the federal agencies and extending their control over the populace. Starting with the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, continuing with the torture of detainees at Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo Bay, and coming to a head with the assassination of American citizens abroad, the importing of drones and other weapons of compliance, and the rise in domestic surveillance, we have witnessed the onslaught of a full-blown crisis in government. Still Americans have gone along with these assaults on their freedoms unquestioningly.
EXT. UNIVERSITY QUAD – DAY
It’s a small Catholic University. The type that hosts haunted castles, secret underground passageways and cemeteries.
He… I… woke up in the communal
bathroom. There was… blood on
my thigh. My name is Angela Roberts.
Sun shines upon a healthy student body – we see an ultimate Frisbee match, theater club dressed in medieval costumes rehearsing and beach bodies sunbathing.
I recently found myself in one of those arguments that I’m convinced every book-reading or movie-viewing American has at one point been involved in: arguing the merits of Twilight. And it got me thinking about Bella’s bed—in the fifth and final movie her and Edward retreat to their cabin cottage and end up next to a big, designer-chic bed, a bed which explicitly and cringingly is meant for one thing and one thing only—and seeing this piece of furniture got me wondering about love and marriage, but not for the reasons you’re maybe thinking. Let me explain.
The Twilight Argument happened with a group of friends at a bar, discussing literature because sometimes literature is what I have in common with people. The topic of Twilight came up, as it somehow inevitably does. Full disclosure: I’ve read all four books at least twice, and seen the movies countless times. I feel your judgment. Judge. Get it over with. Feel the waves radiate like an army of Slinkys. You are a child of the universe. Now, let’s move on.
Before the Beatles or the Rolling Stones, Jim Hendrix, Bob Dylan and others, there was Pete Seeger. With his five-string banjo in hand, Seeger helped to lay the foundation for American protest music, singing out about the plight of everyday working folks and urging listeners to political and social activism. In fact, Pete Seeger is one of the most important musical influences of the 20th century.
During the 1960s, Seeger traveled around the country, continuing to play his folk songs for the peace and civil rights movements. Deeply offended by the U.S. involvement in Vietnam, Seeger, along with other folk singers such as Joan Baez, led many protests.
I laid in bed on top of damp sheets staring up at the molded ceiling which just started to leak. Drip, drip, drip, water fell into various pots and buckets spread around the room. My grandmother’s “friend” allegedly fixed this problem the day before but I could tell Jim didn’t have a clue what he was doing by the way he strapped on his useless seventy piece tool belt, like he was about to build a dining room table. Idiot. Jim just wanted to impress Grandma Stone so he could get some more of her homemade raspberry cobbler— unfortunately not the kind you eat with a spoon. He was disgusting. They were disgusting and very loud in the adjacent bedroom. I could hear my Grandmother trying to quiet him down, “You’re going to wake her up”, she would say.
Pharmaceutical Drugs have an average of 70 side effects or ‘drug reactions’, with some as high as 525. This is done to prevent lawsuits against the manufacturers rather than to protect people from them and I believe mainly done to advertise the drug. The most complex labeling can be seen in drugs for psychiatry and neurology, primarily for antidepressants.
The commonly accepted reason for stating all these side effects is for liability, however I think it goes deeper than that. It’s repetition, attention and acceptance. The side effects are repeated endlessly every time you see mention of the drug. This allows your brain to be conditioned, through repetition, to associate the drug with the condescending speech patterns and intonations of the speaker. Notice their hushed, deep tones and the authoritarian manner of speaking. The next phase of repetition is the daily barrage of advertising for these drugs. They club you over the head with it repeatedly, day after day.
I am by no means an anthropologist, theologian or a historian, But my work is based on all these worlds, just like I’m equally interested in Science as I am in Art. The history of science, like that of art is not a simple progression from lower to higher, but a sequence of responses to the world, conditioned by historical circumstances, and having the central questions of nature always at its heart.
At this moment I’m interested in man’s ability to recognize his own and nature’s patterns. I’m trying to create a graphic novel of some sort that deals with these ideas and it’s also a lot about catastrophic storms.
Of course, when I tell people that I was abducted by an alien, they laugh at me. Some listen politely at first, then they laugh; others laugh before I even try to explain. Some ask me if I would I like to tell my story to a doctor? And then there are the endless jokes about probing — I won’t even go into those.
It doesn’t help when I mention that the alien was a taxi driver, or that the abduction occurred via taxi. That prompts people to tell me they were abducted by an alien taxi driver too, and then they tell me their abduction story but it’s always about being taken to the wrong address, or the driver spoke an unknown language, or the like. READ MORE.
The uniformed driver stands in front of gate 10 and wrings his hands. “The bus is full,” he says, then puts his palms up like two little stop signs. It is Thanksgiving morning and the gritty-eyed travelers still waiting to board grumble with frustration.
“It’s overbooked,” he explains with a shrug. “The next bus leaves at five.”
Frustration boils over and grumbles rise into shouts and curses. There is a commotion near the head of the queue, people screaming, elbowing one another. I watch one girl in particular from my seat on a bench at gate 11. She is not like the rest; no anger, no obscenities, just a wide yawn which she covers with the back of her copper tan hand. She looks Mexican; at least I think she looks Mexican, with these prominent cheekbones I can’t stop staring at. Maybe she doesn’t understand that the bus she is waiting for is overbooked. READ MORE.