Stories of Haiti

So, there's a lot of media attention on looters in Haiti. Looters. In a country decimated by an earthquake. Why is rummaging for food, water, medicine, clothing, shelter, whatever, considered looting?

This is what I mean when I say that we tell ourselves stories and ignore real-world situations. How difficult is it to imagine being a survivor in Haiti who has lost home, job, family ... civilization? Okay, difficult to imagine. I mean, really. But that's why it's disgusting to see U.S. media outlets framing photos and video images of human beings trying to extract something from rubble with sensationalist and hostile language: "Police have been trying to keep the peace by keeping looters in check, but they are woefully undermanned." That's become a part of the commentary about people in a land with tens of thousands killed by an earthquake, hundreds of thousands ill or wounded, and millions homeless struggling to find food and water every day. It's revolting.

The story is private property rights. Anchors, reporters, radio personalities, and "news" commentators (neo-journalists) elevate property rights above human rights all the time. Not knowingly. I don't think too many of them are aware of the philosophical foundations supporting (and undermining) their own rhetoric. But this is the structural framework of the story told to Americans reading, listening to, and watching news coverage of current events: the stuff in the rubble of buildings is more important than the human beings who are trying to get the stuff in the rubble.

Watching images of Haiti without any commentary might be a damn good idea for a time. Telling stories can come later. Ideally, from the mouths of those who survive. Ideally, from the mouths of those who survive and are rebuilding their communities, their homes, their lives.

And, ideally, the coverage of the policy- and economic-related structural issues that created systemic poverty in Haiti would consider those voices more important than the property that takes this form or that throughout time. A building can be rebuilt. Bottled water can be replaced. A human life? Seriously, who wants to admit to valuing property rights over human rights straight up? Nakedly?

But that's U.S. foreign policy in a nutshell. Even in a true humanitarian crisis property rights seep through the cracks and become the focus of attention. It happened during the media coverage after Hurricane Katrina. It happens every time there is a shock to the system, a jolt in the narratives being told through the filters of corporate communications media.

As humans, we crave stories. We want to turn everything into a story so we can understand it. But we want specific stories told. Think about the daily news coverage on the radio, on television, and in newspapers. It's telling the same story night after night, the same cow-eyed anchors and reporters, the same shrieking radio voices, and the same formulaic articles. And people like that. Our brains want that. Apparently. Sort of like a child who wants mom or dad to read the same story from the same book night after night after night. It's reassuring. The mind puts everything in its place ... conceptually. A news report about an earthquake in Haiti? Everyone's dying? Tens of thousands?! Millions homeless? Oh my God. Oh My GOD! ...

Wait a minute ... There's looting? Amidst all of this tragedy there are selfish Haitians who are stealing the well-earned belongings of others? That's not right. That's wrong! ... Hey I was all for helping the Haitians but then I saw how depraved they are. I saw video of people trying to get inside a building and trying to get clothing, furniture, things like that. That's just pointless. Why would anyone do that in the aftermath of a civilization-destroying earthquake? I can't figure out why the decimation of the infrastructure of a country, why the eradication of all sense of order in the world, why the desperation of individuals who can't find wives or husbands, sons or daughters, fathers or mothers, aunts or cousins, friends or neighbors, why any of that would cause a people to act differently than I believe I would act in their situation. Well, that's what I think while sitting here drinking coffee in the warmth of my kitchen, reading the paper, wondering if I can beat the traffic if I get going soon ... what was I talking about? I gotta get to work.

Well, at least the news media covered the event and let me know. Now I realize that the people of Haiti are poor because of their character. I can focus on other things now. That's a relief, too. I was beginning to wonder if the United States and Europe played a historical role in the devastating poverty suffered by Haitians over such a long period of time. But, no, fortunately the media discovered that Haitians don't actually want prosperity. They don't want to live quality lives as the footage and commentary about looting proves. I mean, in the aftermath of an earthquake that left tens of thousands dead, human corpses rotting in the street, the stench of death everywhere, no water, no help for so many who are struggling just to survive another week even now, with all of that, yeah, it makes sense to focus on people scavenging for things that they did not legally own when Haiti still had something approximating a functional civilization.

It's really good news that the looting eliminates the importance of the rest of the suffering, wipes it out as if nothing bad ever happened. Thank God. I was getting depressed! I was beginning to think there was something wrong with me. I mean, if I feel bad then there must be something wrong with me. It can't be healthy to think about the people of Haiti, to think about how helpless I am to do anything to prevent other human beings from suffering. I can't do a thing. I have to go to work. I have a life I have to live, responsibilities to tend to, bills I have to pay so that I don't wind up homeless, too. My kid is sick. My dog died. My husband is sleeping with a co-worker and I am crippled by shame and sorrow. My parents are getting a divorce. I never get enough sleep. My best friend died. I have chronic fatigue syndrome. I had triple bypass surgery. What's that weird-shaped mole on my neck? That was never there before.

Please, can you just tell me a story? Can you make it all better?

"In Haiti today, there was looting in the aftermath of an earthquake that appears to be the fulfillment of a curse put on the people of Haiti when they made a deal with the devil centuries ago. Just to let you know a little about these people, the Haitians are both light-skinned and dark-skinned blacks. Most Haitians practice voodoo. The earthquake is likely a punishment from the Almighty God."

"Do you really think God would punish a people just because they practice a different religion than Christianity? Or because they're black?"

"Absolutely. However, neither factor played a role in this case. The earthquake was delivered by God to punish a people for their sloth, for their laziness. They lived in shacks, they never tried to make sturdier homes, they didn't shop at Home Depot to even attempt a few do-it-yourself home improvements. Even now, in the aftermath of this earthquake, what do these people do?"

"I don't know. Seems like they're suffering horribly."

"Sure they are. But that's because they put their hands out and beg. A self-respecting human being would pull themselves up by their bootstraps and make it on their own."

"Water is scarce. Food is short. There are still dead bodies everywhere even though there are already several mass graves."

"That's no excuse for not trying. You stiffen your backbone, you get back up off the ground, you try again. It's pretty clear Haiti is filled with lazy good-for-nothing devil worshipers. No self-respect and what's worse is that they don't respect the property of others. I'll bet none of them are sleeping on land they own tonight. They're vagrants. Transients. They're disgusting."

"Hard to argue with that. Still, it's difficult seeing images of people suffering. It's hard to believe they deserved this."

"You're quite the 'bleeding heart,' aren't you? I understand. Compassion is a wonderful thing, but if you aren't level-headed then you're likely to lose everything. It'd be easy for a con artist posing as a poor man to scam you out of money. You just can't trust the character of people who appear to be poor. Especially if they're black. You need to be rational. Don't let your emotions get the best of you. Even if some of the Haitians really are poor through no fault of their own--it's hard to imagine--there are many who have earned their poverty and their suffering. If you help all of them sure, you'll help the 'good ones,' but you're also going to end up helping the bad ones, too."

"Would it be better to just let them all die?"

"Oh, gosh, no. Absolutely not! You never know when corporations might need cheap labor."

"Well, you've really helped me out a lot by explaining things. I'll have to give this some more thought."

"Now why the hell would you do that? You've got so much else going on in your life right now. You're way behind with everything. You know that thing you've been meaning to do? After you do those other things? You don't have time to consider everything. When you're driving, just listen to me and I'll let you know about everything important going on in the world. Pick up a paper and take a look at the opinion page. Turn on the television and watch my cartoonish indignation. It'll all piece together over time. If you pay attention to me."

Stories of stories

There's so much to convey. I wish I had more time. I wish I could write faster, better. To convey what I really mean in a sentence. But whether I like it or not, it's the volume and complexity that gives writing its weight. Well, the span of time actually gives what is written its punch. It's a reader or listener considering the words of others, playing with them, turning them over and over in the mind to try to figure out their possible meanings ... in different contexts, contexts you know, contexts you've experienced, contexts with such familiarity that they've become predictable and understood ... in context.

It's the extrapolation of words and phrases and sentences and paragraphs into a structure that gives the words their zap. It's the sequence of words that convey concepts, ideas, and the connections of those ideas within the structure of a story that gives rise to the complexity that expands the scope of consideration of possibilities. Underlying all of that is a sense of meaning-making, of attempting to understand patterns in order to bring one's self into harmony with those rhythms.

The problem is that those are the rhythms of stories rather than the rhythms of nature. We live in nature, we depend on interaction with it for our survival. The separation of human beings, through technology and institutionalism, from our actual relationship to the earth, to water, to food, to movement ... the separation caused by an imbalanced focus on abstraction ... is causing mass delusion. It's an ironic age where thinkers who have rejected religious thinking do not actually seem cognizant that they have shifted their focus of attention from one conceptual framework for belief merely to others. The structure is the same; it's still a belief structure rooted in institutional abstractions ever-more-complicated and ever-more-out-of-touch with human reality. It's still pattern-oriented, hierarchical, primitive, and coercive. It's still a maze, a maze with a different configuration, but still a maze nonetheless.

Why not claw through some hedges and find out what is beyond the maze, see if the maze can be restructured into a non-patterned dynamic thinking and feeling landscape. Or ocean. Or any analogy you would prefer to conjure. But stay grounded in the body in relation to all else in your surrounding environment. Conception can come in handy for imaginings beyond the immediate, but the immediate should always take precedence over the beyond. The immediate is here, now, present, interactive, participative. Your environment is longing for your attention. Your body needs your attention. How are you sitting? How are you breathing? Is your spine correct?

Those stories I mentioned earlier, the structures of them? Isn't it likely, knowing what is known now about the brain through neuroscience, that the synaptic pathways being activated in the brain, sequentially, corresponds in its own mysterious way with the sequential unfolding and structuring of a story? So if a story has a corresponding physical manifestation, should it be recognized as a real "thing"? After all, it's an actual process occurring in the real world, this ongoing story-telling, this perpetual myth-making. Does that make a story more or less meaningful? What do you think?

My thinking has always been, "What the hell are all of these people around me talking about? Honestly, who gives a shit whether it rains tomorrow or not? Are you always thinking about a time that is not now? Are you always telling stories to yourself about what is and trying to place yourself conceptually in relation to it?" It's just the weirdest fucking thing imaginable to see people hold fast to ideas that are so clearly distracting from moments shared. It's just a weird thing to go through life, day after day, year after year, with the same damn experiences of people saying "Hello. What are you doing this weekend? Oh, that's nice. We're going to blah, blah, blah." And then when I run into someone while blah, blah, blahing I'm asked where I'm from, how long I've been here, where I'm staying, what I do, and on and on.

Really? These are the things you want to know about me? For what possible purpose? To fill space in the sub-subplot in the story of your life? I could give a fuck. It's not that I don't care about you as a human being. It's that I don't care about any of the stories you seem to care about. It makes more sense to me to just start with where a person's body is. There are surprisingly few people comfortable with reality. Granted, reality does suck. But that's by design. By designs each person allows to happen through beliefs believed, decisions made, and acts willed.

You want a different world? Think differently. Recognize that everything you imagine about yourself is a story you've been telling yourself. The reason you never feel spontaneous (despite your protestations that you are spontaneous) is because you live in predictable, well-worn patterns. Those patterns provide functionality, sustainability. Your anxieties and stresses, though, are caused by the dissonance between what you imagine reality to be and what it actually is. You cling to stories and you damn reality as a fiction intruding into the "real world" (which is really just the world you want to exist but, to your chagrin, doesn't).

You pay attention to outcomes (before and after they've occurred; just moments like any other, but moments elevated in importance as seminal moments; they make up the peaks and valleys of stories) because they either justify or nullify your beliefs and conceptions of the world. You're living life like you're watching a horse race. The results sometimes come out as you predicted and sometimes you're proven wrong. But all the while you're focusing your attention on the horse race, fusing your identity with that of the horse you are following, that you want to win, and when the horse wins (or loses) you react as if you yourself had won (or lost).

And maybe you did. Not just because you had money on the horse. No, I mean maybe you did win or lose something when the horse won or lost (or whatever it is that you've been "rooting" for or against in life--and thus connecting with through the familiarity developed from routinely focusing your attention on the "story" you've been creating along the way). As I wrote earlier, your brain is going through physical changes that correspond to the story you are telling yourself as you process and interpret sensory stimuli. You don't focus on what is unimportant to your story. Well, you do. You hate it, though. You sometimes have to go to the bathroom. You stand in line for beer or a hot dog. You sit impatiently between races. You shift in your seat because you're uncomfortable. Your back aches a bit. It's driving you crazy. Some dope spilled beer on you when he walked by. Asshole. Didn't even apologize. You start a new story about what a dick that guy is. Based on a few seconds of interaction. You've made a decision about the totality of who the guy has been over the course of his life. You hope justice is done in the future, that karma comes back for revenge.

You scour the program to figure out which horse you like in future races. You reminisce about past races. Those are the moments in between the peaks and valleys. Those are the moments that get cut in editing. So, when the "buildup" eventually ends and your horse takes off, life begins again. In those moments, you're identity fuses with the horse and you feel your body language speaking with the horse or the horse speaking to the everyone around you through your body language. You want to will tour horse to victory, you possess the horse, you inspire the horse, you are the horse, you won the race, you came in last place, you broke your leg, your jockey failed you, you were bumped coming out of the turn into the final stretch.

Whether the horse you followed won or lost, you're exhausted. Panting. Exhilarated or dejected. Spent no matter what. That bodily engagement and emotional intensity gives that part of the story more meaning than other parts of the story. It's total sensory experience within the context of a story. You're engaged with life in such a moment. It's a meaningful moment for you. And you live for that rush of engagement with life. Everything else "in between" is tolerable only if there will eventually be more engaging, meaningful moments. That's what you're banking on. That's what you're nervous about. What if you lose? Yeah, but what if you win?

A desire for heaven, an aversion to hell. The structure is the same. Win or lose? Come on. That's the binary thought that limits what is possible to think at any given time. You think there's a randomness to your thoughts or that your thoughts are following the story of yourself? That's not the case. Your body is directly creating your thoughts. There's the tiniest lag between sensation and interpretation of emotion into feeling and slotted into "place" within an elaborate conceptual framework (the structure is the "subconscious" which must have a corresponding relation to the physical/chemical brain. Perhaps the synaptic patterns developed in a person's brain--over a lifetime--are the physical manifestations of subconscious activity. For me, there's little doubt. And yet ... I'm never too sure of the stories I tell myself).

Christmas is a perfect example. Doesn't matter if you are an atheist, Jew, Christian, nonreligious, whatever. If you live in the United States (and likely other parts of the world, particularly Europe), then even if you don't celebrate the holiday in any way, the patterns of your life are affected by the traditions that have been relived year after year in somewhat different forms, but always the same structure in terms of time of year and the public consciousness. Unless you are a recluse you're encountering this season in some way. And thus, even if you do not hold a belief in Santa Claus or the divinity of Jesus Christ, you still hold notions that Christmas has a certain "vibe" to it, things that identify Christmas as "Christmas." It's experienced because individuals choose to re-enact traditional types of thinking, decision making, and behavior that reflects "Christmas" year after year. It could be shopping for gifts, songs or television shows, conversations with coworkers, fellow students, friends, family, and others, or Christmas parties or ... it goes on and on almost forever.

So many story-lines. So many subtle variations possible within the story structures. But the structure is the same. Doesn't matter whether those stories are accompanied by subplot beliefs in creationism or evolution. Reality will play out as it does.

But the atheist complaints about Christmas and religion, then, are really complaints about traditions, about how time is spent not just during holidays, but all the time. And yet, that's not what atheists talk about or focus on. Well, those atheists with loud voices and media distributorship of the stories they're telling. They focus on the supernatural, about how the universe was created, about evolution, the scientific method, and so on. It's all part of a different story about life.

Still, it's a story. It's a conception. It's a belief. That's not something to be dismissed, though. That's the point. Belief does not put humans out of touch with reality--not really--because belief actually creates reality. Perpetually. People act on their beliefs. Or, people develop beliefs based on judgments about what they sense, what they experience, what they feel, what they think, what they choose, what they do. Belief is ongoing and ever-changing. The forms of belief. The structure remains the same. Experience informs belief which informs experience which informs belief which informs...

But if we know this cycle exists then wouldn't it make sense to allow consciousness to take our individual and collective storytelling into account when creating institutional structures which determine the rhythms of political, legal, economic, and social life (which then in turn determine the rhythms of personal lives based on one's position in relation to the institutional structures of a society--and by institutional I do not mean specific organizations but structural institutions such as criminal law, environmental regulation, commerce, fiscal policy, corporate personhood, etc.)?

I couldn't know what each person's reaction to such ideas might be. Maybe one person thinks "Hmmmmm, interesting thoughts. Some, eh. Some, I really need to consider" while another person thinks "Wait a minute! The story I've been telling myself about my life is ... delusional? Look, I'm going to need some time with this ... No, on second thought, how dare you? You know what? Fuck you. Fuck you, you smug son of a bitch. My stories are not stories. This is me, damnit. I'm not the byproduct of a system. I am inherently who I am. I've decided to be this person. Not based on stories I've told myself. It's based on what is true. What is right. Common sense. Science. Religion. Democracy. Capitalism. Socialism. Ism-ism. Punk rock. Literature. Philosophy. Justice. Ethics. Principles. Beliefs ... Wait a minute ... Fuck you!"

We've never really made it beyond that point. We're stuck there.

"I believe this."

"Oh, yeah? Well, I believe that."

"Harumph."

"Fuck you."

I think the most sensible human beings are those that turn away from these frivolous disagreements and instead look into the eyes of another. Recognition. A smile. Deeper breathing. A kiss. Grab a cloth and lend a hand with the dishes. Side by side. Washing and drying. Wordlessly. Fulfilled in the most mundane of routines by the presence of another.

Unless the house is raided by military or police forces. Either because you live in a militarized war zone or because the bank is foreclosing. Yeah, that thing I mentioned about institutional structures? Those are stories that deserve our collective attention. Well, if you believe my story, anyway.

Dream a little dream

I'm hunkered in a tight space, tapping on a keyboard, looking at a computer screen just a foot or so in front of me. Everything else around me is dark. I did some ecstasy, drank some vodka, and smoked some dope. I've got more of each if I need them.

There's a dark void made of candy cotton and gel. No light that hits it escapes it, though. It just sucks in the light and reflects nothing. I'm guessing it's gel and cotton candy. It could be toilet bowl cleaner and shards of a mop. I really don't know if there's something or nothing in there. It's impossible to tell.

I make up stories about what might be in theoretical spaces I've never witnessed or experienced. I have an impression of what the Hadron Collider is like, but because I've never even seen images of it I can only imagine.

It's through the elevation of memory and imagination in combination with feelings and conceptual thought that a self-narrative is crafted. Making up stories about who I am and who I might be in relation to others (or simply "other") is what I do. I don't know why I do that, I just do it. I'm sure there's a biological or evolutionary reason that led to this proclivity. But, if that's the case, and I think, in a more complex way than I'm stating, it is, then should I continue following that process? If it's a natural part of who I am then why screw with human nature?

Or is it an intrinsic aspect of human nature? Is it genetic or could it be cultural, traditional? In other words, learned? How could I know if it was one or the other or something else entirely? Would it matter if it was? And this is all assuming the original premise is true.

But the original premise was that I was in a dark space typing while flying, drunk, and stoned. Is that premise true? How would you know? Video evidence? What would that prove? Could be me, could be someone else, could be me from weeks ago. How would you know?

You wouldn't. You don't. You couldn't. You can't. You never will. Tough shit. Just accept that you don't know shit. Try not to shrink into a ball, curled up in a fetal position clutching a pillow, screaming to imaginary faces, "You're not real! You're not real!!!"

Things could be worse. You could know something. That would be even worse. You could know that life is intrinsically meaningful (or not) with certainty. But maybe you're the only one. Maybe no one else in the world understands what you understand. Maybe if the world could just hear your voice then things would change. If the news was good, everyone would spontaneously agree with you and change everything about the way they live. People would jump out of their cars and do cartwheels down the street, school children would scamper from their classes and hop on passing donkeys to fly into the sky to sing about the angelic nature of being and the possibilities inherent within every lollipop.

If the news was bad, people would hit the gas and floor it into oncoming traffic or simply the nearest tree. Perhaps individuals working in tall office buildings would throw chairs or desks through windows and jump to their respective deaths. Or maybe they'd rage and destroy, rape and kill. Maybe they'd react with kindness and generosity instead. Who knows?

If you took some ecstasy followed by a shot of whiskey and a puff off a joint and then you started writing, what do you imagine you'd write? Do you need more details? There's a naked dude on your bed, you don't remember his name, but you know he just fucked you. Doesn't matter if you're a man or a woman. That dude on the bed? Yeah, he just fucked you. And you liked it. Doesn't matter if you're a man or a woman, gay or straight. That guy fucked you and you liked it. He's asleep now and you just did some x, slammed a shot, and smoked a joint.

You've just turned on your laptop, you want to check your email, and you wonder if you can find some heroin if you call around. You're jerking off into a sock while looking at the desktop background of the Statue of Liberty spanking the Lincoln Memorial. You finish up and check your email. There's a note from a friend who wants to know what you're doing right now. You consider your circumstances: you've just figured out whether life has meaning or not, you got fucked by some guy you don't know, you're doing a lot of drugs and thinking of scrounging for even more, and you've just started wondering what the implications of your understanding of human existence might be.

You start typing a response. What are you writing? I mean, really, what would you write in that situation? It's your best friend, the only person you really trust. Might be your wife, your sister, a buddy from high school, your uncle, your boyfriend, anyone at all. Your self-conception has changed. In the blink of an eye. Can you convey any of this coherently. Do you even understand what's happened?

Take a breath. Get up and walk around for a bit. Maybe another puff. No more coke, okay? No more x. Just try to calm down and relax for a minute. The fate of the entire world does not rest on your shoulders. It was just me, the crazy guy writing stories. You were internalizing what I was writing. You were imagining the possibilities (even if you were making judgments, either good or bad, along the way) and starting to construct a way of thinking from that perspective. Not consciously. I doubt it, anyway. But if you were following along you were imagining to some degree, picturing in your mind this or that. Might have been yourself as the person I was describing, might have been a third person imagining of another, might have been something else. I don't know you. I don't pretend to know you. You're more invisible to me than I am to you. Ultimately, we're invisible to each other. We don't know each other. We have stories we tell ourselves about who x, y, or z is, but no one knows. We might even know the same stories as one another, but that just makes our respective beliefs that we know something even stronger. If it's not just me but others too? Well, then it must be true!

Not that you're thinking it through even that much. If you had, you might've eventually just said "Fuck off, man," dropped some other worldly, and fucked that dude on the bed again. Whatever. You handle your shit however you want to handle it.

What if I don't have an identity, though? What if I am doomed to an identity-less existence, never anything in particular? Not conceptually, anyway. I have a body ... that changes over time. That moves through space. Taking "me" with it whenever and wherever it goes. What if I just allow it to determine who I am? How do I go about doing that? Stare at my toes until they tell me what to do? Na. I'm tired, I sleep. I'm hungry, I eat. I'm thirsty, I drink. I'm tight, I stretch. I'm antsy, I walk or hike or run or dance or... I crave beauty, I seek it. I feel sensual, I meet a woman.

Simple, really.

Is there something there?

Have I been here long? I just realized I was here. But I think I've been here for awhile now. I'm not sure, though. That's why I'm asking you. Where are you, though? Do you exist? I'm really not sure.

Anyone seen my socks?

I had a pair of socks right here just a minute ago. I put them down ... then what did I do? I picked up the phone. It was ringing, I remember that. I answered it. There was a woman on the other end of the line. She said her name was Pauline. I don't know anyone named Pauline. She said she wanted to suck me off. A prank? I suppose.

But she said "No, I'm real, baby. Go look out your window." I stood up and walked over to the window in my bedroom on the second floor. I opened the blinds and looked down at the street below. There was a woman on a phone waving at me. She had high red hair, poofy and wavy, and wore lots of makeup. She was topless with ample augmented breasts. She wore a tight pink skirt. She yelled. I couldn't make out what she said, though. I opened the window. "I will blow you right now if you come down to the street!"

What the fuck? Who is this fucking woman?

"Come on, baby. I'm not a hooker. I met you at that party earlier tonight, remember?"

No. No, I don't remember. I don't remember because I didn't go to a party earlier tonight. I was looking for my socks, looking to get dressed and go out.

"At Daniel's place. Remember? You kissed me next to the keg when that other guy puked all over that girl who was passed out?"

Nope. Not at that party. I went downstairs and walked outside. Goofy giggled and hopped a little. No, stay back, crazy. Not humping you on my front lawn, ok?

"Hey, you're not Dez. You're cute, though. Got any alcohol?"

"No, I don't have any alcohol. I don't have any socks on, either. I can't find my socks."

"That's weird. No shirt, no shoes, no service."

"Yeah, I have no shoes and you have no shirt."

"That's true. Guess we'll have to serve ourselves."

"I wasn't at your party. I don't know you. How'd you get my number?"

"Come on, sweetie, don't ask silly questions. Let's just party, ok?"

"No, not ok. I'm not partying with you. I don't know you, you're standing in the middle of the street hammered without a top. Where the fuck did you come from?"

"I was just walking. I was going that way." She pointed her arm straight out and twirled in a circle, laughing. "I'm having so much fun tonight!"

"I can see that, but it's a little dangerous to just wander around the streets at night drunk without a top, don't you think?"

"I think you're fucking boring. I'm going to find someone more fun, asshole." She turned, walked across the street, and then around the block out of sight.

I walked back to the front door. It had closed behind me. I tried the knob. Locked. I didn't have a key on me. I had no socks. Shit.

I ran across the street and around the block. Red was sitting on the sidewalk with her back resting against the side of a building. She looked up at me as I approached. "What do you want?"

"I locked myself out of my place."

"You're a stupid fuck, aren't you?"

"Maybe."

"No, you are. Let's just leave that be and get on with this."

"Get on with what?"

"With me breaking into your place to let you inside."

"What?"

"You have a better idea?"

"No. I don't have any ideas, actually."

"Well then?"

"Okay. Why not?"

"Cool."

We walked back over to my place, I without socks or shoes and she without a top. And with the sexiest little pink skirt. And pink high heels to boot. I hadn't noticed those before. They gave her a good two inches in height, bringing the top of her head up to my cheekbones. We stopped at the sidewalk at the edge of the yard in front of my house. She looked it over, first floor and up. She walked around the right side of the house to the fence blocking the back yard from public access. Unless a person was willing to climb the fence, which Pauline clearly was. Impressive in high heels--she didn't take them off. I followed her up and over.

When we got around back she walked up the wooden stairs to the balcony. She tried the sliding door to the kitchen. It was locked. She looked over at the window above the kitchen sink. With some difficulty, she removed the screen. She pressed her hands hard against the window and pushed upward. The window slid. Pauline took off her heels, placed her hands on the sill, and pushed herself up through the window. I heard dishes clanking and then the "whump" of her landing on the floor after dropping from the counter. The door slid open and Pauline peeked her head outside. "Ta Da!" I clapped and gave a cheer.

I handed Pauline her heels as I stepped inside. She asked for a bathroom. I pointed to the hallway leading from the kitchen and told her it was the first one on the right. I went the other direction through the dining room into the foyer and up the stairs. I used the toilet in the master bath and grabbed a hoodie from my dresser. I skipped downstairs and found Pauline in the kitchen bent over rummaging through the fridge.

"You don't have any beer or wine. I looked through the cupboards and there's no alcohol at all."

I handed her my hoodie. She took it and put it on. "Thanks."

I walked over to the ceramic cookie jar in the shape of a cartoon baby bear on the counter. All bright colors: bear with a body of ruby red fur, a canary yellow face, black eyes, white diaper, and a blue hat. I removed the blue hat, reached into the cookie bear, and retrieved a baggie of weed. I walked into the pantry with my baggie and returned with a bong. This time Pauline clapped and gave a cheer.

The water was fresh so I loaded a bowl. I offered Pauline the first hit. She puffed for a bit, collected the combustion, pulled away while covering the bong, and exhaled. She repositioned herself, pulled the bowl serving as the carb, and sucked in a lungfull of smoke. And held it. And held it a little longer ... iron lunging it ... damn, woman, I've got a quarter, don't fucking kill yourself!

She released a cloud of smoke. I saw her face through the lingering dust, her eyes red and watering, dazed. She was teetering a bit, tilting a little more heavily to the left, but in a weird way, the sort of way that seems like an optical illusion, a way that made me think, "How is she not falling over? It's like she's selectively using a mismatch of muscles that is providing a sense of balance, in a way, but not in any way like a human being or, really, any mammal I've ever seen. Her right calf seems to be flexed while her right quad muscle is taking the night off, both of her hamstrings appear to be functioning, her left quad seems active, her left calf seems in and out of it, her neck doesn't appear to realize it's attached to this body, the arms sometimes work as balancing appendages but then move as if they are conspiring to collapse her body in a heap on the floor, and her torso's nothing but a jellyfish boiled noodle dancing and swaying to a rhythm I've never before heard."

Not a single cough, though. Woman has some lungs. Pauline steadied herself and looked at me. The haze had mostly dissipated. She pointed a finger vaguely in my direction and shook it a bit. I walked over and took the bong from her. Amazing she never dropped it or spilled a drop. I lit it and started puffing. Pauline's finger was still wagging as I took a hit. I held in the smoke as she spoke.

"The dilemma of being human comes from being able to do so much more than we are allowed to try. I want to recreate the world. I want a singing world. I want a world where everyone sings everywhere they go."

I exhaled and coughed a bit. "I agree. The world needs to become like that. But there are places that are like that right now. Holland, for instance."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I lived there for a bit and every day--morning, afternoon, evening, and even deep into the night--there were people walking or biking by my apartment singing, whistling, and even playing instruments. They're making music out in public all the time over there. Always spreading that spirit, that charm."

"Sounds lovely."

"It is."

"How come it's not like that here?"

"There are a lot of reasons, I suppose, but I don't know how it all works together to suck the life out of a people in one place while things come together in a way to liberate a people in another. The Dutch have some advantages we don't have. And they've made better choices as a people, as a country. It seems they value a high quality of life more than we do. It shows in their government and it shows in the way the people live their lives."

"Wow. That's heavy."

"Is it?"

"I don't know, really. I'm drunk and stoned. You wanna fuck?"

I thought for a second about my socks, but then I just said "Sure. Why not?" I mean, socks are socks. She's a woman. Figure it out.

Ethics

It's not that I don't have an ethics. I'm ethical. But it's open-ended. It's ever-changing. An ethics that doesn't adapt to reality is a dead ethics. Ethics is ongoing, always under consideration, never solidified, never formalized, never believed. With this sort of ethics, this ongoing zing pow, this layercake ethics with different-flavored frostings providing the foundation for each new addition, it's an ethics that begins at an arbitrary location and adjusts from there. Where would you have me start? Is there a foundation I don't know about? Does conception meet reality at a fixed point in space? Can I set my watch to the intersection of abstraction and action? Will subject/object relations play peek-a-boo with attachment theory?

Perhaps you might start with Camus:

A taste for truth at any cost is a passion which spares nothing.

Do you run down every person you see on the street to scream, "You've been living a lie!"?

Maybe you add Sartre:

It disturbs me no more to find men base, unjust, or selfish than to see apes mischievous, wolves savage, or the vulture ravenous.

Hmmmm... Well, ethics in this context... Yeah, ethics put in context. A creation that has as its purpose ... control? An externally created conceptual framework for self-limitation... Hmmmm...

Godard, help us:

All you need for a movie is a gun and a girl.

She had legs growing roots, two trunks rising from the earth bound upward for a skirt fluffing white in the orange-blue horizon of the late afternoon sky, her shimmering pom-poms a rainbow-colored beard cradling her face, electric-blue eyes shooting sparks and shooting stars, and ruby red lips puckering and kissing with an audible "smack!" Her silhouette a curvaceous cutout in the dusk-backed doorway into to the bar. Around her ankle was tied a holster, tiny, her ankle and the gun. A derringer.

She kicked her feet out as she walked toward the bar. No, that was no walk. That was a march. Her chest was stretching toward the ceiling like it was being reeled up by wires. Her head was thrown back so far her nose was pointing directly behind her, her chin closer to the ceiling than the top of her head. How she stayed upright, I can't really say. Graceful, she looked, I have to admit.

Still, it was a strange style of elegance, like someone who only ever figured out how to be herself after several martinis. I'd say she was at four right now. About to order number five. Every eye in this hole in the wall is fixed on her right now. That thin, pillowy white skirt, just the thinnest layer of silk, maybe, is gleaming, blinding even, radiantly reflecting the sun's intesnity off of that divinely rounded ass. A bursting white apple of an ass. It's not right. That's just ... wickedly succulent.

I'm sorry, but that ass is just so fucking ... wow. Fuck the gun, man. Jean-Luc, what the fuck is up with the gun, huh? I'm going to have to edit:

All you need for a movie is a girl.

Moving on...

There are few things more fundamentally encouraging and stimulating than seeing someone else die.--Stanley Kubrick

Okay, need to get away from the filmmakers when considering ethics.

Each morning when I awake, I experience again a supreme pleasure - that of being Salvador Dali.--Salvador Dali

Honestly, there may be no better ethics than this. Tomorrow, it would be a good idea for me to walk down a twisting flight of stairs, through the front door of a mansion, and out onto a sprawling manicured lawn that sinks and sinks and sinks down a massive hill to a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. As the sun rises, the masses of people scattered sleeping under the sky, all pilgrims who have traveled the world to witness my daily waking, will hear me proclaim:

I woke up again this morning to the extreme pleasure of being my self. My God, it's so fucking incredible! You should see what it's like inside my mind. The red blood cells in my right arm at this very moment are dancing the cucaracha! My left eyeball is melting on the inside. It still looks normal to all of you, but from where I'm standing I have an eyeball that is slowly melting on the inside. White goop is draining down my sinuses and the back of my throat. Tastes like roasted campfire marshmallows. I need some graham crackers and chocolate. Does anyone else think the sun looks like a giant peach? Like maybe a giant peach that grew around the moon last night while we were sleeping? Is the moon now just a pit of a peach posing as the sun? Well, I'm going to go back upstairs to shave my balls with a cheese grater. Toodle-oo!