the actual creation date of the following text was 2 december 2008, 20 days before it was posted to the web. in the interim, i've made several efforts at continuing to work on the podcast, but efforts to provide myself and three other kids with the funds to eat and stay housed have eaten up a lot of time. still, i've been creating as best as possible, though i hardly adhere to the tired notion that adversity breeds or engenders creativity. in fact, it breeds frustration, and a very nasty tendency to personalize matters unnecessarily, to accuse oneself and/or others of opposing the realization of plans slated for the greater good [my own as well as that of the society in general; inasmuch as the flutter of a supposedly beautiful butterfly's wings might trigger--through the inextricably linked interdependence of events (an interdependence that is hardly limited to causal, or cause and effect, or linear sequences)--a tsunami that may or may not reach land inhabited by humans with an affinity for documentation], and thus, stultifies the intended creation in such a way that the resultant creation is virtually unrecognizable and can hardly be considered an outgrowth of the intended aesthetic process. at least, not when that process aspires to engender the long held, if somewhat dubious (viz., suspect) tenets of so-called scientific investigation known as "THEORY>>APPLICATION>>MODIFICATION," et cetera...

the reference work i've been plugging away at for the past ten years—in a highly undisciplined manner—bears the title "all writing is fiction," an idea that writers have understood since long before the classical japanese romance, "rashomon," in which three characters describe the same event in three completely different styles that conflict not only the details, but the basic facts. my argument supporting the notion that "all writing is fiction" challenges you to spend an hour with someone engaged in anything from a conversation to mountain climbing, then separate yourselves and, as soon as feasible, each person begin composing a factual account of that hour together.

inasmuch as i compose the entries for this blog from the subjective perspective of my lived experience, i have no urge to expose my personal actions more than necessary to set the stage from which my narratives arise. admittedly, as one's personal life assumes greater intensity—be it the drama of romantic fear, elation born of personal success, the ravages of sickness and injury, or delight in the embrace of sensual pleasure—the temptation to bare one's soul to the public heightens proportionately. and yet, wallowing in the mire of one's private life tenders such obsessive dimensions, that there arises the danger of reinforcing the very fantasies that fuel such extreme emotions in the first place. this is not to say that i won't corner one of you—one i call friend, brother, or sister—in the body text of some personal email or text message with this twist or that turn of events that comprise "the story of the norm," but i will do my best to spare the general lot of you such indulgence.

that said, i've often noted that world events—as reported in the mass media—coincide with the personal lives of those around me. for example, several of the fall art openings of 2001 featured friends and acquaintances addressing themes of war and weaponry, spying and surveillance. while individual electric, i.e. altered an east third street storefront to address the "gunshot" as cultural trajectory, wolfgang staehle of contributed to the discourse on surveillance by training his camera on the world trade center the week before the fall, thereby framing the attack as a singular but inevitable aspect of the consequences engendered by that exchange known as "the gaze of power."

as americans buckled up on their way to the grocery stores and grandparents that make giving thanks so complete, a squad of rebel commandos strapped on their ammo and said "no thanks" to the symbols of power and collaboration at the center of mumbai. commentators from nbc to npr scratched their heads and blinked their eyes, unable to state with confidence that such and such organization with x ties to y carried out the bloodbath.

curiously, one of the blockbuster movies opening in american cities just before the mumbai massacre was director danny boyle's slumdog millionaire. based on a book by author vikas swarup, the story early on depicts the massacre of a muslim neighborhood by hindu extremists. any american who reads past the sports page or the funnies knows that these kind of attacks have been going on since the eighties, when hindu nationalists began pushing for legislation that would effectively rollback the anti-caste system laws passed in the spirit of ghandi years before. most americans, of course, will grumble the ignorant american's foreign affairs mantra—"these people have been killing each other forever"—which disregards the recent legislation that stokes the fire this time. clinton's new south asian specialist—i mean, uncle tom obomberama's new south asian specialist is one of these hindu nationalists, an advocate for taking towns and villages that were once ethnically mixed and splitting them along ethnic and caste lines. a lot of the right wing hindu extremists receive funding from hindus in america, just like some other right wing religious extremists the united states likes to support. (to be fair, the u.s. did support—and even created—most of the right wing muslim extremists it purportedly opposes today.)

be that as it may, i was intrigued at how effortlessly boyle and screen writer simon beaufoy wrapped the massacre into their tale, exposing current events that the media will surely gloss over as they call for further actions against the incomprehensible bloodlust of the muslim horde, blame the pakistanis, and generally bang the same old drum of panic and mistrust. it was just last week that one of those npr pundits—i think it was fresh air's terry gross—interviewed boyle about the film at length. how she and her handlers fail to make the connection between fiction and fact is stunning. then again, her lamentable interview of former weather underground hero bill ayres focused at length on his past exploits, while avoiding his opinions about the current political climate (other than obvious questions about his feelings regarding the republican exploitation of the association with candidate clinton—i mean, candidate uncle tom obomberama).

journalists pretend to know nothing of fiction. they see themselves as objective, especially the gang at npr. all of them—be they on the payroll of fox or the nation—haul out this "objective standard" as a critique of each other. in doing so, the attacker implies that his or her own position maintains the standard. the whole lot of them are deluded.

i intend to maintain a serious subjectivity, a personal perspective informed by a variety of lunatics and sages using the full range of media.



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