Simulacra: August 2006

About Me

Location: Laramie, Wyoming, United States

You write to breathe, for the air is too thin to hold words. You hide in false memories because reality is for to compromising. You dream to see, and speak to hear. There is no independent variable, just writing that feeds itself, always drowning. You stare down at your bleeding hand, sitting on a rock billions of years old, surrounded by trees and snow. The wind howles through evergreens, in your mind you can imagine the chirping of woodland animals had they not gone extinct. You watch the sun dip beneath the skeletons of deciduous trees, and your shadow casts across the lichen. This is neither empty nor full, it is. The hum of the interstate lies just over the next rock, you can hear it echo, reminding you that this place has been touched.

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

qqch

I hate being back in Wyoming. I hate a war getting in the way of my work in Israel. I hate the one-sided judgements on Israel and the Lebanese. I hate the distance between my friends and I. I hate the isolation from mediums such as this. I hate the isolation forced by language. I hate the television, more than anything else, dictating but not receiving.

I wish I could write something supremely inspiring after working with Palestinians, Israelis, nand Europeans durring that war at Tel Megiddo. I wish I could just reduce the war to something as simple as religion, ethnicity, or international law. But I can't. They're all individuals and I'll be damned if I can take a side. Whether weakness or wisdom, I just hope the survivors don't hate each other too much.