buoyant

The raft bucks and sways with the small waves. Rays of clear sunlight beat against my eyelids and warm my chest. In the distance, voices and boat motors spill over one another into a constant, whisper-quiet hum.

I lay on the plastic, all-weather carpet, breathing slowly. The lapping of the waves against the pontoons passes for aggressive compared to all else. My body resists nothing, releasing any tension, rolling slightly on the raft as it sways.

My swim shorts, just moments ago soaked through, dripping, are half dry. The puddle that formed under me has mostly evaporated. The turf scratches my shoulders and calves but is incredibly comfortable.

The motor of a wave-runner revs to my left, speeding from shore. A group of people walk down the pier, talking loudly but not to me. Someone laughs to my right, toward the small resort’s main complex.

I sigh. There’s no way to appreciate the stillness fully. In weeks, I’ll be back at school, inundated with stimuli. This, a fond memory, if that; most of the details blurred and faded.

My left eye opens slightly, letting the glaring sun in. I lift myself to my elbow, looking around lazily. I slide to the left and roll onto my stomach, resting my cheek on the backs of my hands.

A cloud passes, cutting the suns warmth. I recognize the voice of my friend’s mother but can’t decipher her words. My mind wanders, remembering the conversations from last night as her son and I drank around our pathetic fire.

We are camped on the other side of the lake, in a small site. We had returned after a day at the resort, much like we will tonight. In the darkness we attempted cooking a late dinner but drank more than we ate.

He and I talked about too much to remember. How we liked our schools, events from the weeks before, who was attempting to coerce who into naked romps where and what we we’d do the rest of the week.

I picked up my head and turned to the other side, away from the sun. I’m drooling slightly.

There’s a splash from the pier and then the sound of someone swimming toward the raft. I hear my friend yell to someone else from the shore. He’s playing catch with the friend of his whose family owns the house up the hill. Who else would be ... ?

My heart, just a moment ago silent, presses against my ribs, trying to get out with each resounding thump. The raft pitches as she steps up the rungs of the ladder.

A few drops of water drop on my shoulder. All my energy traced up my neck and to my eyelids, holding them shut against every impulse to watch her ease herself to the carpet. I can feel her just feet away, the raft settling back on the waves after a moment.

After a couple days, I open one eye, slowly and only slightly so she wouldn’t notice. She’s on her back, eyes closed, with her head resting on the palms of her hands and elbows just slightly off the green faux-grass. The water glistens, beading on her stomach.

Her skin is the color and texture of a well-stirred cup of coffee with extra cream. My eye follows the outline of her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, her stomach, her hips, her thighs and down her calves. When the come back to her thick lips, I burst into flames, realizing she’s watching.

How’s it going? I fumble. She, already smiling, lets out an audible snicker but is clearly unfazed by my gawking. In fact, she returns the optical accosting.

The conversation progresses, questions on both sides and some more laughs. She’s younger by a couple years but smart and lively. I can’t help glancing at her midriff as she turns toward me, rolls over or adjusts her position. The flexing and tightening is intoxicating.

She dives back in awhile later, and I turn back to my resting. Thoughts of her in various stages are pushed out of my mind by the utter stillness. There are no advertisements, massive man-made structures or flickering televisions.

The raft bucks and sways with small waves and I soak in the full magnitude of nature. In the real world I drown in images, haste and stress. Here I just float.

week

Just one more week and this will all be over.

That’s all I’m hearing. Sure, the election will be over and all will be right in the world. Maybe there’s a black guy behind the desk or a near-dead shell of what was never a maverick with his shaky fingers above the nuclear codes.

Whatever the case, does everyone think it’s going to just go away? If the old one’s elected democracy will be exposed as a sham. Those that are so passionate now will deflate and slink back to their Wiis and blogs. If the other wins, media will scrutinize his every move. His bills will be picked apart, eroded and rendered impotent.

The impressive rage, built up over more than a year of campaigning, pointing fingers and shifting blame, will not dissipate so quickly. Wednesday will not come with parades and hugs. Those that favored the opponent will remain firm in their beliefs, will still know they are right.

There’s a global recession coming, sparked by an ideology built on ever-expanding resources that are already drying up. Here, the nation’s poor are finally buckling under the disproportionate weight of the richest one percent.

Our markets are built on a flawed theory, one that was formulated and implemented when resources were infinite. It’s based on informed consumers that don’t have information and resources already drying up. Business and government cling to regression in a time that cannot afford anything but progress.

Things will fall. Not now, maybe not while I’m still alive, but eventually. Unless we change. Not our President, not our electorate, not our corporations, but the collective we. It is we that have to change ourselves.

Whether man-made, cyclical or proof God is bored with his pathetic experiment, climate change will have grave effects. Already we’re extracting more than the earth can provide. Our business sector, so powerful, flexible and advanced, opposes any real change, green-washing their message to save money, still thinking short-term.

Our nation, our communities and our conceptions need to change. We need innovation, ingenuity and transformation more now than ever. We, for the first time in our history, have ready access to global communication and we react by trying to limit bandwidth so those providing the pipes can glean more profit.

All people can talk about is one election in one nation. Short-sightedness got us here and will lead us further into desolation. My optimism waned and failed long ago but I hope to regain something resembling it. The ideas are already out there.

A book written fifteen years ago lists thoughtful tax incentive programs that encourage conservation over extraction. It uses a metaphor of ecological maturation to demonstrate positive restrictions and allowances that would regulate and expand the markets while decreasing our societal footprint.

I don’t have the hopefulness to believe it’ll happen. Too many are oblivious or ignorant to the struggles we face, some willfully so. Too many with too much have vested interest in indefinite continuation while too few with too little pay the price.

But, there’s nothing to worry about. Because in just one more week, this will all be over.

Cross posted at Thought Chasm

sedulous

I can’t see her face, the room is dark. On stage, the writer reads about his past. He’s funny and, like so many others, she responds with laughter. Unlike the hundreds in attendance, her laugh is a halted, loud honking.

She’s a goose in a human suit. Her laugh shakes the earth, drawing attention from many in a forty-foot radius. Most of them turn subtly, glancing over, trying to put a face to the acoustic bombardment without her noticing. Some shake their heads without turning to look, acknowledging her outbursts.

I turn left, not looking at her but trying to pinpoint her location. It sounds like she’s just behind me, yelping only inches from my ear, but soon I realize she’s to my left in the same row, her boyfriend between us. I try and fail to ignore the howls.

The Writer continues his story. He was in the women’s lounge on a train with another man. They were smoking and drinking after the drinks car had closed. He makes many humorous asides about his thoughts at the time and how they relate to his story.

With every funny or not-so-funny remark, she lets loose a string of bellows. More people turn to look and some start to murmur. I glance over and catch her eye—she must have been looking my way. It’s just an instant, the slightest second, in the dark where neither of us really see the other.

Still, it has an effect. From the corner of my eye I see her looking in all directions. The Writer’s story continues, with many hilarious comments and associated pauses for the crowd’s reaction, but her laugh is quieter, less enthusiastic.

Guilt slaps me on the chest. What would I do with such a distinct laugh? One that echos from wall to wall, spurring stares and exasperated head-shakes from strangers? Would I attend a reading by The Writer? The one who has so many laugh-out-loud essays?

With the answer comes a rush of something close to envy. She must get these reactions incessantly, yet places herself where she knows she’ll get more. Or she has little self-awareness. With a laugh like hers, I’d take those responses personally, probably avoiding similar situations all together.

Her booming enthusiasm is in direct defiance to those that mutter and whisper. They are taken out of their comfortable position listening to an author they admire. They choose to focus on her booming laughter instead of their own.

The Writer keeps on with his readings, remarking and recounting comically, causing rumbles of laughter and applause. Her laugh mingles with the others, quieted, more reserved. I wish she hadn’t noticed the people who grumbled, started to control herself and became one of them.

lacerated

I roll onto my back, start to sit up and my side explodes. Everything goes white. All of me aches, throbs or yells, protesting every slight movement. For a moment there is nothing but pain.

I close my eyes and lay still, going over the night before in my head. She was gorgeous, with large, dark eyes and near black hair. We were flirting, but only just. We walked outside with a group before a call for pizza. Then there’s an image the concrete sidewalk.

She was friendly but shy. Infatuation was immediate. We talked about our week helping repair homes and other random things. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Again, my daydream fills with the hard, cold sidewalk.

The arrival of the pizza was announced and I offered to give her a ride on my back. I held her up easily but something was wrong. I stepped off the curb, leaned too far forward or she shifted her weight more than I could compensate. Whatever it was, I saw only concrete.

Then I was leaning over her, asking if she was alright. Others were around but I don’t know who, everything happened so quickly. She was holding her hand or her wrist, explaining through halted breaths that she was fine. She must have had the wind knocked out of her.

I helped her up and we went over to the picnic tables, each grabbing a slice or two of pizza. My side was scraped and it screamed in pain. I must have bruised it. I couldn’t finish my piece of pizza.

Once I had tossed the remainder of my slice in the trash, I walked back to my sleeping bag. I slowly laid down, ignoring everything around me. I slept well, better than I had in quite awhile. I woke in the same position as I fell asleep.

Either the pain subsides or I grow accustomed enough to get to my feet. Just as a hurricane of nausea rips through me. Quickly as possible, hunched over and ignoring the cries of agony from my insides, I walk outside. I promptly regurgitate the half-slice of Pizza Hut pepperoni.

I look down at the grass, waves of pain running from my toes to neck, punished for the retching. I brace myself against the side of the school. Through the throbbing comes an urge to urinate. I walk to the second door to avoid having to step over others.

Few are awake but a man I don’t recognize is in the bathroom. He steps away from the urinals as I walk in, washing his hands behind me. Urinating intensifies the throbbing, making my legs quake. I put a hand up against the wall.

I glance down, breathing through the pain. Expecting the normal, the burgundy color gives me pause. My mind reels with questions. I carefully, trying to keep the pain at a hum rather than a scream, gather myself.

I find the youth leader, explain I may have blood in my urine and how I vomited earlier. He knew about the night before and is concerned. He leads me to a bench outside and goes to talk with other adults. He comes back with keys to the van and my jeans.

We head to the hospital, talking about anything but the pain tearing through me at every bump in the road. No one saw me leave and only has second-hand information as to where I am. What if no one tells her where I am?

I learn from a bearded man in his forties, while he stares at my commuted tomography scan results as one would a fine string of diamonds, that I’ve lacerated my kidney. I picture it having been cut into, like the breaking of a sack of hummus. Later, I learn it’s in three pieces.

I spend a few days in the hospital, in varying levels of consciousness and pain. The television is uninteresting and my mind constantly turns back to her. Is she worried? Does she think it was her fault? How is her hand?

My parents come down quickly and drive me back home when I’m finally released. Mother talks incessantly, curious how it happened. Father just asks, “How you doing back there, bud?” repeatedly. I lay back on the reclined seat, listening to my CD player, thinking of her, feeling every bump of the three hundred mile trip.

There’s an arrangement of flowers from work on the kitchen table with a “get well soon” balloon. My parents take a picture of me holding it, to send to them in thanks. I ease downstairs and lay on the couch.

After a few hours, some pain medication and a nap, she calls. Mother yells down, I grab the receiver off the table beside me and hear her voice for the first time in days. I recount the hospital in brief, hear she was worried about me and invite her over.

She accepts. Time crawls. The minutes between hearing her voice and the sound of her arrival are days. I listen as Mother welcomes her and points her downstairs before closing the door.

She turns the corner and her eyes light up. For an instant, just a fraction of a second, the pain is gone. There’s only her smiling face. I could ask her a dozen questions.

Instead, she meets me on the couch and we talk quietly about nothing. Mother comes down and takes a photo of us, then leaves us be. She starts the movie I pick and then lays back down.

Here in the basement I’m cut off from everything. Reality, that I’m headed out of state to college within the month, have no job and can barely walk, is distant. Even the pain, otherwise constantly humming, is far away when she’s here with me.

humanity

What if he was just a man, like any other?

What if he traveled in search of something more, like so many, and found enlightened teachings? He may come back and tell others those ideas, piquing their interest. If they were popular they would spread easily.

Those teachings would have been new and threatening had the establishment recognized them. He would have been punished severely. He would have been used as an example to all those that would defy.

Maybe those teachings were similar to those in the East. Lessons in holistic medicine or finding happiness helping others or from within. They taught of zen and reincarnation over worship and devotion.

The teachings would have interwoven themselves with conventions of the day. Communication was rudimentary, filled with exaggeration and misunderstanding. Traditions would have meshed or overlapped. Stories would have developed around his words.

If his punishment resulted in death, those stories would be far more powerful. They would be passed to successive generations, modified only slightly, compounding from one to the next. Myths would manifest themselves within the stories.

Moral tales would be added or derived from the stories. Others would have added their own interpretations, manipulating details or adding stories to clarify. Even if unintentional, these manipulations, exaggerations and additions would create entirely new stories.

At the time, too many things were beyond comprehension. Most of the world was undiscovered, natural processes were unexplained. The mutated stories would supply reassurance to those afraid and confused.

In death, he would have no control over these misinterpretations. To distinguish themselves from others his followers would aggressively spread their renditions. Multiple versions of his simple tales would extrapolate into entire books only superficially similar.

Over the years the scaling would be inevitable. Each recounting of his teaching would be heard and told again differently. How often and by how many the stories were told could mean more fancy than reality. The stories would grow into legends.

Hundreds, then thousands, then millions of people would learn from these legends. The man himself would dissolve into myth. The meanings of the stories would shift or change entirely with political and emotional climates in which they were translated.

Once they were able, people would write the stories down, penning them in dozens of languages to spread the legends and myths of stories born from his teachings. The abstract morality within the pages would be lost to literal interpretation.

His words, so simple and universal, would no longer be his. His intentions would be lost in a sea of interpretations and manipulations. His teachings, meant for good and thoughtfulness, would justify oppression, war and extermination.

The population would have grown exponentially since he was punished for his teachings. The lessons, turned to stories and grown to myths, would spread faster, building a belief system for many. Soon, what people knew of him would be almost entirely fabricated.

What if he was just a man; like any other?

progress

We are increasingly governed by fear. We’re told we’re threatened, that we need to hold true to failed policies. We’re manipulated. Our fear is aimed in the wrong direction.

We fear attacks from terrorists and hope to increase our military strength. We’re twice as strong as the next strongest, Russia, and spend eight times more than the next biggest spender, France (and half of all global spending). We’re warned of Iran creating a nuclear bomb. China is painted as an economic threat. We’re afraid of an economic crash, hoping a bailout will stabilize the market.

Without fundamental change and rethinking of the current economic model, we won’t be able to reverse our catastrophic effect on the planet. We are, among industrial nations, dying more often from preventable causes. Our educational system has slipped in rankings and fewer can afford higher education. Our national debt is more than ten trillion dollars, an incomprehensible value.

What if we start to fear what is truly frightening?

Reports tell us terrorism-related deaths are up four hundred fifty percent since nineteen-ninety-eight. Just seven years ago we sustained the most devastating attack on domestic soil by foreign entities in our history. But, if we omit Iraq from those numbers because it’s a war zone, deaths are actually down forty percent since two-thousand-one.

China would rather borrow to us than Europe because we offer a single leadership to negotiate with. Economically, we’re twice as strong. They are just now coming out of an industrial age we abandoned two decades ago.

The market will crash. There’s no way to change that course without fundamentally changing the equation our system’s based on. Whether we buy out mortgages, grant loans or let massive international banks fail matters little. The system needs readjustment to continue.

What if we start to fear what is truly frightening?

The current model creates massive barriers of entry into the foundation of not only business, but government, the market. Its theories ignore resource consumption or waste production and rely on a population of informed consumers who are losing access to information. Entire ecosystems, even isolated ones, are decaying without explanation.

Among “First World” nations, we are worst in preventable deaths. Access to health care and education are the main reasons one hundred thousand people die of these causes each year. Just last year, in the United States, four hundred fifty thousand people died of coronary heart disease alone.

Nationally, about seventy percent of Americans graduate high school. That percentage is on the decline. Far fewer go on to higher education, less than thirty percent. Our economy is post-industrial so the work these non-graduates do is too often at or below a living wage without benefits.

Each American, beyond taxes, social security and living expenses, accounts for over thirty-three thousand dollars of the national debt. The debt is scoffed at, ignored. Recently, another four trillion dollars were added to its total. Like ecological collapse, this will be a problem that generations after mine will have to address.

What if we start to fear what is truly frightening?

The president will have little effect on any of our fears, yet even the candidates simplified policies are ignored in favor of more simplistic character flaws or associations. That a candidate spent time in the living room of someone who was temporarily labeled a domestic terrorist thirty years ago is mentioned more than the largest mass extinction in our history on Earth.

Until we start addressing things that are truly frightening, we will never see real progress.

dangerous

He manufactured his own myth with remarkable success. He manipulates his points and shifts alliances with is own aspirations. He flares, yells and cuts down elderly women, fellow congressmen and commanding officers who argue with him. He’s selfish and spoiled.

He finds solace in fatalism. He’s most inspired when he’s up against the ropes or down and out. He’s uncomfortable with victory. He erupts derogatory remarks based in truth and needs to be the underdog. He suffocates under the pressure of success.

He compensates for his small stature with grandiose goals and arrogance. His youth was wasted, filled with disobedience, idiocy and trying to please his idols without learning from his mistakes. He’s taken advantage of nepotism with reckless abandon; it kept him in school, got him his posts, made him his friends and saves his life.

His idols are bold individualists, idealized by time. He speaks of fictional characters, like Robert Jordan of For Whom the Bell Tolls, similar to Theodore Roosevelt. He ignores symbolism, racism or faults. President Roosevelt was exponentially more bright and motivated and Jordan is fictional.

His views are extreme. He’s fundamentally authoritarian, believing government is infallible and should be trusted without question. He sees America as a great nation, one that should spread its greatness globally using military might and aggressive tactics.

He traverses elite circles, prefers talking to hand-picked groups of supporters or high-paying constituents to large gatherings and diverse crowds. His campaign strategy turns that into an asset, trying to combat his opponent drawing massive numbers of supporters.

The media leave him to his own. He jokes incessantly, especially about his faults. The jokes disarm the media, deflecting any questions about those failings. He claims “straight-talk” to mask not saying anything.

He claimed to desire a respectful campaign, rather than the typical mud-slinging. His declared strategy is far different than what’s materialized. His ads scrape the bottom, make wild accusations with little basis and attack character as much as policy. He uses guilt by association to inject doubt in voters, ignoring his past and its numerous scandals.

He downplays references to his being tortured and held captive. He says he doesn’t bring it up. He does. He mentions his two years of torture and five years as a POW so frequently it’s losing its weight. He uses it to redirect unrelated questions or cut down any opposition. He lets supporters inflate its effect on him when, in reality, he’s changed little.

He built a reputation being open with the press, who then ignore his real reputation. He’s always been short tempered and arrogant. Before and after Vietnam, he’s been irresponsible and sophomoric. He hasn’t changed but for his message.

Since returning with numerous injuries, his sites have been fixed on the seat behind the desk in the Oval Office. He’s used his connections and positions to further that goal, changing allegiances and policies at will as political winds have shifted.

He promoted the “Domino Theory” before mending ties to the country that held him captive. He was against regulation, defending his original contributor and good friend Charles Keating, before pushing for it, save for the market that is now crashing, after his face appeared alongside Keating during the scandal of the late 80s.

He’s changed position on everything from torture or tax cuts. He sought the endorsement of a man he labeled the face of intolerance, falsely claimed he warned of quagmire in Iraq before anyone else and attacked his opponent for inexperience before nominating a running mate with less experience and more extreme views.

He actively views voters with contempt. He worked to make campaign contributions by average voters more difficult while larger groups found loopholes easily to keep their contributions flowing easily. His nomination shows profound disrespect for the office of Vice President as well as for the voters who support lifting him to the Presidency.

He claimed the economy was fundamentally strong two hours before he said it was in crisis. He says his associations with controversial pastors don’t affect his judgment while his surrogates attack his opponent about another pastor. He turns the other way or supports attacks by his supporters on his opponent, allowing them to call them bitches, terrorists or threaten their assassination.

He’s too frail to trust he’ll hold office an entire term. He knows no line between his own ambition and the national good. He’s flaunted his flaws to garner sympathy without changing his aspirations even slightly.

The economy seems on the edge of collapse and he’s openly professed his financial ignorance. He refuses to lean on more adept associates, choosing to inject himself into talks he didn’t understand to give the obtuse impression of action over discussion. He shows little restraint or forethought in his campaign, or his life.

He created a myth and persona he’ll never live up to around a story he claims not to tell. He grows furious at knocks to his bravado or opposition to his unpopular believes. He refuses to give respect to those that give him just that, like a petulant third grader.

How will he lead a faltering nation? How will he change the outlook he’s had his entire life to a diplomatic one with an over-stretched military? Will he choose associates with progressive views to advise him through these difficult times? All but the Mainstream Media believe he shouldn’t and he won’t.

Most believe, as I do, that he’s fundamentally dangerous.

deign

She stands behind the podium, smiling incessantly, reading prepared answers from the teleprompter scrolling on her neurons. Her accent ebbs and flows depending on the severity of the topic, or how ill-versed she may be on it. She stares into the camera talking with the people on the other side of it.

He, a week before, stood behind a similar podium, uncomfortable and shifty. He refused to meet eyes with his opponent, snickering, mocking and berating. He joked and blathered, showing no respect for the man opposite or the audience.

Both simplify their points to the point of stupidity, redundantly repeating themselves, no matter the question. Both emphasize their being one of the people, just like the average Joe Six-pack staring at them on his television screen between handfuls of Fritos. Both are the down-home folksy type you'd like to run into at a bar or PTA meeting, full of stories, anecdotes and clichés.

They're vying for the two highest offices on the planet, to lead the largest empire ever known. They joke and prod as if unaffected by the pressures of those positions. They talk to their audience as though they're small children, needing everything explained to them to relate.

He stands behind the podium with the nervous confidence of experience. He misspeaks occasionally but knows the important names, countries and policies. He's firm and succinct, relying on facts and anecdotes many relate to. He's personable and professional.

He stood at his own podium six days prior, confident and calm. He spoke eloquently with passion and fervor. He conceded points of agreement, listening closely to his opponents points, but was strong in his responses. He talked without simplifying past a point of comprehension.

Both exude the confidence of knowing where they wish to take the nation. Both choose not to dumb down their rhetoric or spew canned responses. They speak from close to their heart—or at least the political equivalent—about issues they seem to care much about.

They, too, are vying for that same office. They approach it with seriousness, joking only to emphasize their points or deflect attacks. They're poised and friendly. They speak to the audience as peers, hoping those that agree with them will be emboldened and those that are unsure will be swayed.

The two pairs talk to different populations. The First speaks to those that are down and out but too ignorant to realize their policies helped get them there. They speak to those that believe they are wealthy and strong, that believe our nation is entitled to its global dominance. They also speak to those whom are wealthy, offering them more wealth and less regulation.

The Second speaks to those that are tired of being oppressed, realizing the current policies make it difficult for them to lift themselves up. They speak to those who have compassion, to those that believe our country must earn its place atop the global power pyramid or that we're squandering that position. They speak to those that feel gifts to those already blessed will only create more hardship.

When over ninety-percent of the nation earns less than one hundred thousand dollars annually, a number seen as middle class, how could those within that percentile vote for candidates that advocate giving the other five-percent more financial freedom? Because they feel they know the candidates. They feel the candidate sees things from their perspective.

Most don't realize that the same candidates who pander so easily with the working class—more accurately, the working poor—are far from seeing things from the same perspective. Votes against minimum wage increases, for tax cuts to the richest five-percent and for unlimited military spending show a disconnect that must be hidden to garner votes.

While the Second Pair appeals to those aware and frustrated with the current conditions, the First must talk down to another America. One that fears unpredictable attacks from ambiguous others. One that doesn't believe in the eroding ecosystems, has strong racist views and wants a President he or she can relate to.

I want a President smarter than I am. I can't run a nation and would never want to. I don't want someone I'd take shots with behind the desk within the Oval Office. The folksy, lowest-common-denominator rhetoric is embarrassing. To think someone with regressive ideals should lead a nation on the precipice of economic collapse is laughable.

But, I am not the one the First Pair sees when they stare blankly into the camera. I am among the vast minority. I've been through college, have a salaried job and follow news from multiple sources. I question the motivation behind reports and don't trust opinions to be fed to me.

With less than a quarter of the nation graduating from four-year universities and large cuts to federal funding to colleges decreasing while financial strain on many families grows, my minority will only grow smaller. More folksy candidates, with their brazen lies and low-brow tactics, will come to replace the others and they will speak to the same imaginary sea of infants the First Pair does.

Unfortunately, there will be smaller and smaller numbers to resist them.