27 June 2018

When I get home I’ll see you there through the entry window, at the heart of the floor, sleep-watching the stairs, on watch for blurs through your cloudy cataracts, on watch for me in your dreams.

Have I gone on one of those day-long rides in your car? Why didn’t I take you along. Or am I upstairs in bed. When will I come down and carry you up. Where will I be when you have finally left us. Have I grown dependent on your attachments.

When I open the door you don’t seem to hear it groan. Now you sense that someone is here. You turn to me as my shadow covers you, and my hand reaches your gentle head. Water in the boat.

I’ll find what remains of breakfast in your dish, shrunken and stiffened from the long dry day. I clean it out, drop fresh dinner in, fold in the sour pills that dull your pain. I bring it to you and you seem—interested. But the bitterness it sticks to your tongue. It all falls from your mouth like a judgment on my soul. You, my poor innocent, betrayed by my wretched love. There is water in the boat.

Carolyn called me from home today to warn me that our time with you is ending. We will need to cut you out of our chests soon, lacerate the bleeding fibrous soul to liberate you from your pain. The invasive procedure will not spare the children. One feared dogs so we came to you, you—gentle with age. Now she loves you but now she must learn the most terrible thing about dogs.

My hands cannot do this. I look for the athletic wrap that has fallen from the bone, or removed by a child’s compassion. You follow me faithfully, dragging your hind legs. They catch on tables and chairs, pull up rugs.

The things that cannot be expressed: you have taught me that they are the only things that must be said; and the words tumble like drunkards out of an upended box.

I find the elastic: torn, soiled, softened with wear, coil it around the arthritic foot.

Where am I now, so far from you? The words that stain the page swim in the sea of my drowned eyes. The saltwater is cold. I leave the words to drown. We must walk.

After supper I’ll harness you up, tighten the axle-bolts on your cart, and lower you in. You pull forward and the wheels turn, but you refuse to roll beyond the porch, turning your contraption back to the door. You can be so stubborn. I beg you. There is no magic in my words when I plead, “Go for a walk?” Your ears do not spring up. Can you hear me girl? Does it hurt?

When we first met, you were little more than a hip condition. I might’ve dodged you for that, but Carolyn, she wanted you all the more for it. Why did you believe in me. I can’t see.

Living the brief life of a fading dream, I see the great sleeping torrent before me, feel it under me, hear it trail behind the oars. The shores roll forward slow in the outer corner of each eye, drifting backward, helpless against that Almighty Flow.

I see you there, far upriver, on a world of water running free, leash trailing behind, in eager pursuit of some cottontail or squirrel too small, too remote for me to see. I hear the echoes of my scolding over the waters: Mimi get back here. Come back girl.

The oars pull against the Flow. My hands recall the intimate tension of a tug on the leash. Does the great Water feel the oar. For an instant my hands think they feel you. Fingers stretch into the void, but fools, close in on themselves. Twin fetuses of delusion.

I still see your young eyes over the surface, sharp, deep with light; flaming amber in the sun. I know that soon I will not. I am afraid to blink. I must row. I tell myself that I know you will still be there, far upriver when I can no longer see you—but that comfort it whispers despair.

Water in the boat. It flows cold in my shoes, violates the thighs, fills the chest, makes the throat a hose to the eyes; I dare not stop the flood, fearing that when it ebbs … you will be gone.

10 August 2018

The Park

Standing alone in the fenced grassland of a place you loved, I talk to you. Do you think of us, girl, somewhere out there, in here, behind the curtain of time. Praying that the past is not gone, I pray to you, heart of my soul, that you are there, still running across the yellow summer grass at the apex of your joy, ever faithful that I am not far behind.

The Bed

For years on years, morning did not begin with the sun but with a scratching on the footboard as you stirred, your weight and your warmth at our feet, then that low whisper of a whine that grew gently from your slight exhalations. For a lifetime it seems that was our call to rise. Without it how can the day begin. An emptiness at the foot of the bed now, grey void that could never have been had you not once come to us. The whole world would have been quite fine without you dear girl, but now having known you it grieves, crowded with ghosts, a haunting for every lost little routine. I throw a pillow over my feet, and trick myself to sleep.

The Trail

The trail snakes down the hillside before me, and I can almost feel you at my side, phantom friend.

How you loved the chase. Once I let you off leash here and you spotted the boars, and to my terror you charged, you ran beside the boar-herd through the dry oak wood. Was it the hunt, dear girl, or sport, or had you found your flock on the green hills of Argyll?

I unfasten your leash from your collar and you start your wandering communion about the hilltop, inhaling the landscape of a world where humanity stands alone, blind.

I begin down the trail a distance, stop, and turn, let you explore your world of scent and breeze, wait for you to notice that I am no longer at your side, so that you may … return to me.

How many times now I’ve turned, girl, needing to see you there, to see you anxious to see me.

Pulling your collar out of my pocket; when it jingles you appear. The fabric and the sound, they carry your scent into the depths of the world, deeper than thought, deeper than soul. I breathe you in to bring you home.

It hurts to remember. I’m afraid to forget, even to die. It is all betrayal. There is no remembering in death and you must not be forgotten. And you, you must remember, girl; but no, love: it is not so well. You must also forget.

The Back Lawn at Night

But I do not. I stubbornly sit on the unlit patio, gaping into the darkness of your grassy daybed, banded along its edge with green light from the closed kitchen blinds. I feel you there where there is no light, and me there with you. I rub your back, your shoulders, your ribs and belly. I know all of your skin tags. I inhale the warm perfume of your oily fur.

The feel of my fingers wrapped around a hind leg: they rub and knead their way footward. The disease has left it all fur on bone thin between finger and thumb, what broadens at the paw, and rough, warm and tender pads (the fingers embrace and caress, trembling).

I give your snout and brow a firm rubbing and gently stroke your delicate ears. I scratch the nape of your neck, and deeply. You push back against my hand to help me dig a little deeper. You always demanded a strong hand. Was it the pain.

I scratch just below your ribcage. The ledge there has always wanted a little rubbing. I scratch and rub the ribs under each arm. Your arthritic little legs kick away to partake in the scratching. We scratch together girl for a little while more, until the numbness … robs you of the reflex.

Coming Home

When we come home now, we can feel you waiting alone behind the door, its squeak in harmony with the jingle of your tags. When the door opens now there is nothing but omnipotent silence.

I walk through the void to the back door, yearning for your impossible presence, to see you stretched out on the grass, waiting. Where are you, girl? I shake your collar. The tags jingle to bring you home.

Someday the tags will fall silent. Your scent fades each day. I’ll have to find the courage to seek you out in the lonesome eyes of some luckless stray. When I do will you meet me there? Tell me. For once I need you to speak to me, or just let me stroke your ears again.

© 2018 Kaweah (Dan Jensen)

Subscribe now

In the beginning was a choice.
In the old books, you will find
a pomegranate tree.

When I was a young pilgrim in Palestine,
Guarding God’s gardens against imaginary terrorists,
oversexed tourists,
With my Motorola HT-90 dangling in its holster,
A six-volt box-lantern weighing down an arm;
Plastic badge, poorly fit trousers,
Pockets full of hand-cut flash cards,
Head full of Sufi conjectures,
Belabored Arabic under my breath.

Come morning, I took the thousand steps
Down Carmel’s face to the Wadi
Where YEVA, our gray Armenian merchant
Stood behind her luminous pomegranates
And called them by their Armenian name,
What sounded like light in Palestinian ears,
With all the requisite mystical overtones.

Young poets would walk miles out of their way
Just to hear her call over her pregnant flowers.

Once in October I paused before her stall
and exclaimed, “noor!”
She stopped and reached over the pile
As if one had my name
and held it up to me.
I reached for my money, but she scolded.
She held it up before my eyes,
As it were an orbuculum,
a world.

She’d stood in the market for many years,
Just how many no one seemed to know —
a hundred, perhaps a thousand,
And she spoke the language of the land,
But her Armenian word was holy.
It could not abide translation. Besides,
Everyone knew she was selling pomegranates.

How she got her start there’s no telling,
But folks tell stories just the same.
They say, long ago
When the world was not so tired,
and trees weren’t objects,
She dared to pluck a pomegranate of truth
And was summarily convicted of sedition.
Yahweh Elohim, jealous for love,
jealous for obedience, jealous for loyalty,
and jealous of Yeva’s choice,
Cast her out of the garden, invented death
and called it life.

So it came to pass:
cast into a wilderness,
And in that moment we thought a lifetime,
We gazed into the desert,
ate the aril and said, Beautiful,
And knew that the world could never again be
Indifferent, that we who are condemned
to choose
Are condemned to judge.

Exiled from utopia, she took with us
Her one possession and treasure,
That pomegranate of moral discrimination,
And we planted its arils in the desert
And learned that her tree
thrives in saline soil.

But here’s the curse: the choice remains,
And every autumn,
When the pomegranate weighs down the young branch,
We must choose: the burden of knowledge,
the labor of responsibility, the cold nights of regret,
Orphaned in the wild to water new orchards
And cultivate new values,
Not to feign that we never had a choice,
to plead ignorance,
And retreat to the settlements of the abyss,
Where the only calling is consumption,
The only life-form a tumor
Whose One God is Growth.

The tree knows nothing of this,
Though her wisdom is broad and her memory is deep.
Before she was cultivated in Eden,
Before Yahweh strove against her,
Before her seed blew down from the highlands of Iran,
Where men once called her wisdom, on the sunrise.

And here at the heart of the malignant mass,
I wait out the long days and long for sleep,
Hoping that somewhere in my web of dreams
I may again find myself wandering through that Wadi,
and there, discern the beacon of her call,
O adhán of my soul.

Subscribe now

The 100-year campaign of ethnic cleansing continues. The death toll in Gaza under the Trump presidency is around 25,000. The rate has dropped over the last several months, but there’s plenty of time for more. “Meet the new boss.”

More of the same inthe 19th congressional district of California. Here, Jimmy Panetta, son of the notorious Leon Panetta (of drone strike and torture fame), is still in office, and he’s firmly in support of the mass-murder of Palestinians … though he mightn’t want to word it that way. The pay is good, though.

As early as January 2017, Jimmy Panetta signaled his support for illegal Israeli settlements in the West Bank, opposing a UN Security Council Resolution 2334 which was passed due to a US abstention during the Obama Administration. The point of the abstention was to signal frustration with Israel’s illegal actions. Jimmy didn’t approve.

Jimmy has voted reliably to send arms to Israel, no strings attached. The only exceptions to his steady support for arms for Israel have been votes made during short-term congressional maneuvers. His final vote has always been for arms deliveries.

Vote for peace: Jimmy Panetta’s record supporting Israel and war is on the ballot

Panetta has consistently voted to ban the funding of UNRWA (United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees in the Near East). Israel has of course banned UNRWA and the United States has banned funding of UNRWA. Several European countries maintain funding under heavy scrutiny, but no country other than Israel and the United States have banned funding UNRWA outright.

Panetta is against open access to information. On June 27, 2024, 23 of the 52 California Representatives, mostly Republicans, voted to prohibit funds from the international affairs budget from being “made available for the Department of State to cite statistics obtained from the Gaza Health Ministry.” Panetta was one of the 11 California Democrats who voted for that appropriations amendment.

Panetta is also against international law. On January 9, 2025, Panetta was one of 45 House Democrats to vote for the Republican-sponsored Illegitimate Court Counteraction Act which would move “to impose sanctions with respect to the International Criminal Court engaged in any effort to investigate, arrest, detain, or prosecute any protected person of the United States and its allies.” This was specifically intended to guard Benjamin Netanyahu and Yoav Gallant against the ICC. It has stalled in the Senate. Trump later sanctioned the ICC by executive order. He did so with Panetta on his side.

All this should come as no surprise, as Jimmy Panetta has taken a million dollars in campaign contributions from pro-Israel lobbies. He received a quarter million in the 2023–24 election cycle alone, exceeded only by Pete Aguilar among California Democrats.

Subscribe now

Yes, he’s bought, and the check has posted. You might find him trying to clean up his reputation in the future. Don’t believe him. Vote for anyone but Genocide Jim.

So the thing is, I’ve been wondering: why does my Bay Area neighborhood have to be in the same district as Panettaville?* Have you seen how District 19 is drawn? I feel colonized. I feel grimy. I need a shower.

* Carmel Valley

Chile

Today I’d like to travel to the Mediterranean mirror-image of my native California, central Chile, by means of several world atlases within reach. I know that modern digital mapping is much more useful than this old tech, but humor me. I love this stuff!

Mediterranean Chile can be said to extend from the resort town Zapallar in the north to Temuco in the south. To simplify a bit, one can envision this zone being sandwiched between the great Atacama Desert in the north and Patagonia (famous for its fashionable outdoor wear — JK) in the south. Most of Chile’s larger cities are in this region. The only Chilean city over 250,000 outside of this zone is Antofagasta in the arid north.

I’ll begin with the National Geographic Atlas of the World (in my case the 7th Edition which my sister gave me). This is a beautiful and detailed atlas. The fact that National Geographic (NG) doesn’t code elevation with colored backgrounds makes the text readily readable. National Geographic plates cross the binding crease without interruption. This is visually satisfying, and the manner of binding makes it technically effective: the dip is shallow and the names caught between pages are legible.

This atlas does have its shortcomings. It sells South America a bit short, covering the continent with only three plates (shouldn’t an American atlas do better?) The plate that covers the southern cone of South America has a scale nearly small enough (~1:7M) to include the entire length of Chile, but not quite: it excludes the country’s northern tip. Odd choice.

Let’s introduce the Times Comprehensive Atlas of the World (12th Edition) for comparison. This atlas provides twice as many plates of South America, with five 1:5.5M plates, plus one 1:2.75M plate featuring southeastern Brazil. To compare, the three South American plates in the NG atlas range in scale from 1:6.9M to 1:7.7M.

Small scale tends to result in a lack of information. The NG atlas includes six Andes peaks from Cerro del Planchón (east of Talca) to Volcán Llaima (east of Temuco). In contrast, the Times atlas includes 14 peaks in that segment of the Andes. The Times atlas includes seven national parks in the same area; the NG atlas includes only three. The Times atlas indicates the approximate size of cities by symbol; the NG atlas only does so by font size.

Looking at the Bío Bío region of Chile, I see that the NG atlas indicates about 27 cities and towns; the Times atlas indicates about 41.

The NG atlas is easier to read, but again, the Times atlas provides more information about elevation. I can see from the Times atlas that much of the Andes east of Temuco is over 3,000 meters, whereas I see that south of Temuco there are fewer areas over 3,000 meters. I can guess this from the peaks and passes indicated in the NG atlas, but the color-coding provided by the Times atlas gives me a higher confidence level.

The Times atlas also distinguishes between volcanos and other peaks, though I’m inclined to think this distinction is rather dubious in the Andes.

There are exceptions to these stated advantages of the Times atlas. The passes Paso de Pino Hachado (1864m) and Paso del Arco (1401m) can be seen to the east of Temuco in both atlases, but the Times atlas gets the names of both passes wrong (drops the word “Pino”) and replaces (“del” with “de”), and the text is harder to read. Also, the NG atlas icludes one more pass in this segment of the Andes than the Times atlas does.

I have a low-confidence impression that National Geographic’s atlas is less error-prone, but I have identified inaccuracies in both atlases.

Looking at the town of Nueva Imperial on the Cholchol River, west of Temuco, I would judge that the NG atlas gets the town’s location wrong, though not by much. Likewise, the Times atlas positions the mountain town of Lonquimay more accurately than the NG atlas does.

By going a bit into the past we can look at the last edition of the out-of-print Rand McNally Cosmopolitan (RMC) Atlas. This is a smaller, more affordable atlas, yet is compares well. It provides two 1:12M plates for full coverage of South America, but adds four large-scale (1:6M) plates as well. That’s a larger scale than anything offered for South America in the NG atlas!

How do the Rand McNally 1:6M plates cover central Chile? They go as far south as Temuco. They do include a number of peaks, but they include no passes in the segment of the Andes that we are inspecting. There is no indication of national parks or airports, but considering the more compact size of this atlas, its coverage is impressive.

Iran

Seeing as I was born and raised in an Iranian religion, I retain some interest in Iran and Afghanistan, my interest in the latter being due to my sustained interest in Zoroastrianism.

NG’s coverage of Iran is rather embarrassing. The entirety of Iran is covered at 1:7M, but western Iran is at least covered at 1:4.4M. The Times atlas, in contrast, covers the entirety of Iran at 1:5M, with portions of southwestern and western Iran. covered at 1:2.5M and 1:3M; significantly better. The RMC atlas displays Iran at 1:6M scale, which again is good considering the modest size of the book.

Let’s get down to examples. What can we find in the area of the ancestral home, or summer home, of the founder of the Bahá’í Faith? The Times atlas includes the Nur River, which is the stream that flows by the summer home of Bahá’u’lláh’s father. The NG and RM atlases do not label the Nur River but they do indicate the path of the stream.

Both NG and Times atlases include Bísotún, site of the famous inscriptions, but the RMC atlas does not. The Times atlas also includes nearby Kúh-e-Paráú (3393m), site of what is reported to be the highest cave in the world and the deepest cave in Asia. The other two atlases do not include this peak.

The Times and RMC atlases indicate the internal boundaries of Iran. The NG atlas does not. That’s a significant shortcoming.

Afghanistan

The atlases under review provide maps of Afghanistan at the following scales:

• The Times: 1:5M

• National Geographic (NG) 1:7M

• Rand McNally Cosmopolitan (RMC) 1:6M

The town of Bamyan, location of the Buddha statues demolished by the Taliban, has major passes to its east and west, both of which are represented in the Times atlas:

• Níl Kowtal (Níl Pass) (3538m)

• Kowtal-e Shíbar (Shíbar Pass)

The NG atlas includes “Kowtal-e Shebar”; The RM atlas includes neither pass.

The Panj river (the main river of Badakhshan) is labeled in the Times and RMC atlases; not in the NG atlas.

The Kokcha River, a tributary of the Panj famous for its Sar-i Sang lapis lazuli mines, is labeled only in the Times atlas, though its course is indicated in all three atlases.

Dorah Pass, a high pass between Afghanistan and Pakistan, is included only in the Times atlas.

The village of Ragh in Badakhshan which might be associated with early Zoroastrianism is included only in the Times atlas.

The Times and RMC atlases indicate the internal boundaries of Afghanistan. The NG atlas does not.

These examples establish the Times atlas provides the best coverage of Afghanistan. The NG atlas might provide coverage that is inferior even to the more modest RMC atlas.

Denmark

My interest in Danish geography is mostly genealogical. That interest is well served by the 1:1M scale plate of Denmark and southern Sweden provided by the Times atlas. Among the obscure details that the Times atlas exclusively provides are Ugelbølle (the birthplace of my great-grandfather), Lime (the birthplace of his wife), Gjesing, and Ørum. All this is a bit unfair, as no world atlas need provide such scale for Denmark, but I appreciate it nonetheless. The scale provided by the NG atlas (1:1.3M) is nearly as excessive.

California

The NG atlas ought to win the prize for coverage of California, and perhaps it does. It provides a dedicated 1:2M-scale plate for California that is hard to beat. The Times atlas covers California with two 1:2.5M-scale frames, however it adds two 1:1M-scale regional maps of Southern California and Northern California that might be slightly lacking in detail. That said, the coverage of the Bay Area and the Central Coast is excellent, even including exclusives such as Tassajara Hot Springs, Jamesburg, Coyote, Coyote Creek, Carmel River, South Ventana Cone, and Carmel Point. Unfortunately, it places Carmel Point on Highway 1; not far off the mark but rather conspicuously wrong to a local. Notwithstanding such an error, this is great Cali-coverage for an atlas made by Brits.

Conclusion

I love both the Times Comprehensive Atlas of the World and the National Geographic Atlas of the World. Both are works of art and portals for the imagination. As a boy these heavy volumes were strictly reference. I don’t think I ever imagined as a young map addict that they could even be purchased by mere mortal non-librarians. Opening them up and daydreaming takes me back to that time.

There is one atlas that I have not mentioned: The Rand McNally New International Atlas. That monstrosity has been out of print for over thirty years, but I think it’s worth putting up against the Times Comprehensive Atlas of the World. I look forward to doing that soon.

Subscribe now

But it is interesting to reflect upon what the arrival of the Bahá’ís in Palestine did to change the vision of that Iranian religion. As the Bahá’ís dwelt upon their new circumstances, they began to associate their move to Palestine with Biblical prophecies of the end-times, and thus when European Jews began to displace the indigenous people of Palestine, Bahá’ís began to see “the return of Israel” as fulfillment of prophecy. To this day, Israel means a lot to Bahá’ís. True, Bahá’ís are strictly non-political and they have no control over Bibi or the Knesset, so they cannot be blamed for the many crimes of Israel against humanity, but man do they love Israel.

Hypothetically, what if a faith that is based in Israel were to maintain a single-minded political campaign against the Islamic Republic of Iran? What if that faith exhibited no interest in the persecution of any other people in any country whatsoever? What if that same faith was utterly silent about the persecution, ethnic cleansing, and mass-murder of Palestinian peoples by Israel and America, yet were continually writing their congressmen about the misdeeds of Iran? That would be quite a coincidence, no? What would we expect an Ayatollah to make of it?

Here’s a typical call-to-action addressed to the Bahá’ís of the United States:

Subscribe now

I can tell you that I was a teenage Zionist. I was raised by my parents, my society, and my scriptures to be a Zionist. I was an “apolitical” Zionist, but let me assure you, Israel could do no wrong by me, and I was no outlier among Bahá’ís; nay, I represented the great majority of American Bahá’ís. And at the same time, I was repeatedly called by my leaders to pressure Congress to scold the Iranian government.

… As if Congress, ever the faithful servant of Israel, needed the Bahá’ís’ help in leveling pronouncements against Iran.

It all started with a silly coincidence, it’s true, but then I suppose doesn’t everything?

The ground is bright, except where the church casts a shadow. The shadow — a literal foreshadowing — is cast in our direction; it covers the church as though it is of the church. The dark sky can be seen through windows of the church. The church seems to throb, or simmer — as though it were seen through the convecting air above hot asphalt, an oasis of sorts. Looking at it, I do not feel threatened, rather I feel fascinated, wrapt, as though I am watching the substance of reality revealed as it burns through its façade. It is not holy or demonic, or rather, it is both. There is a spontaneous naiveté to the vision that makes me feel that this is what the artist sees; not physically, but personally.

I’m not proud to admit that I’m not a big fan of the art of painting. I do admire the craft and the intelligence that goes into it, but paintings don’t generally make my eyes well up as music, poetry, and cinema can. I see this as a weakness, a personal shortcoming. I think that perhaps vision is too intellectual a sense. Van Gogh is an exception, possibly the single exception.

The Church at Auvers was painted near the end of Vincent’s life, maybe within a month. It is not the only painting of that moment that embodies such a duality of light and darkness. A later work, Wheatfield with Crows, reveals an earth that glows gold as it were a sunflower, or the sun itself, while the sky — like the sky above the church — is dark blue. If it is a night sky then it is starless. This sky is different, though. The black and blue are separating like oil and water …

There is no church here, but instead a murder of crows. The crows, not unlike the church, seem to break through the surface. Perhaps they foreshadow death, or maybe freedom. They seem to emerge from the blackness of the immiscible sky. They, unlike the church, do not cast shadows. It is reported that Vincent used a pistol to set these crows to flight, and it is likewise reported that he used that same pistol, a little later, to set the crows of his heart to flight.

Lately as I watch American society rot at its bipartisan core, I hearken back to my sophomore year in high school when I freed myself from the comfort of “Top 40” music. It wasn’t my first rebellion, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last, but there are always times when one just has to give the finger to the polite veneer of the murder machine.

Back in 1980, after I tired of hearing Air Supply and Billy Joel played on a tight loop in my sophomore biology class, I discovered hard rock. Well, I mean I’d already known it was there but let us just say I finally succumbed to it. My first love was AC/DC, with occasional one-night stands with Judas Priest on the side. I was aroused from the dead with the release of Back in Black, but that was mostly a gateway drug to the old AC/DC of Bon Scott. I really got into the wit and flair of Bon Scott. I was so bored by the mute voices of comfortable music that I found lines like “feelin’ like a paper cup floatin’ down a storm drain” poetic. I also liked the raunchy, hilarious stuff like “for a fee, I’m happy to be your backdoor man.” I mean, I was 15, alright? But I still find the rough wit of Bon Scott alluring. At the time I hadn’t seen any AC/DC videos, so I had no idea just how magnificent a showman was Angus Young. I just loved their songs.

I wasn’t a problem child per se, though I was a bit resistant to forced conformity. I was faithfully religious, rather serious, and not about to start on sex, alcohol, tobacco, or any other recreational vice. Perhaps the right girl could have changed all that, but that particular girl didn’t get to me in time. All the more reason to rock, I suppose.

There was another Aussie band at the time whom I knew as Angel City. I only knew their name and a few of their songs. I didn’t even know they were Aussies. Somehow I never bought any of their albums. Perhaps their albums weren’t that easy to come by in a farm town in the middle of the San Joaquin Valley of California, and I couldn’t afford a large music collection. They never really made it in America. Looking back, I’m surprised I’d even heard of them.

Angel City was known as the Angels in Australia. The two songs of theirs that I really enjoyed were Marseilles and Face the Day.

Marseilles had been released in spring 1978, just weeks after AC/DC had released Powerage, my favorite AC/DC album. Powerage featured the track Sin City, which I suppose is about Las Vegas if it’s about anywhere. Yeah, probably it’s an allegory, right? (“No, it’s rock and roll!”) Marseilles falls into the same theme, only I think the Angels were really singing about the actual Vice Capital of the French Riviera. Video:

Here’s a sweatier, orange jumpsuit performance:

That’s a song that quickly got stuck in my head.

Face the Day is my favorite Angels track on most mornings. It’s got some strong lines, such as “one day of faceless living is twenty-four hours too long.” It’s a regular worker bee anthem. It is quite strange to me that it isn’t much better known. Hell, I can’t even find in on Apple Music. Here’s the video:

The glam metal band Great White covered this track. They didn’t butcher it, but their cover can’t touch the original.

Another great tune from 1978 is Take a Long Line. It might just as well have been titled Reel Him In. This proto-hardcore tune features the great line “I never existed you’ve been wasting your time!” Here’s a strong performance from 1983:

Foresta1 scoffed,
“the dragon doesn’t mind
that the forest floor is clear.
She soars upon a wind
that she exhales
and eats the canopy.”

Pfeiffer2 whispered,
“every dragon has a season
that only she foresees,”

and Santa Rosa3 cried,
“the dragon is hungry
more for suburbs than for trees.”

Montecito4 groaned,
”the dragon returns with the rains
in the form of crushing mud,”

and Paradise5 wept,
”the end of the world comes
riding on the iron steeds
of state-subsidized utilities.”

The fires of 2020 had no interest
in pandemics and plagues,
just an appetite for carbon
that knows no satisfaction.

And laughter thundered6 from the Sequoia groves,
howling, “nothing is immortal,”
and the titans of the mountains
fell by the thousands.

As for Eaton and Palisades,
there was nothing left to say.
The actuaries closed their books
and left the state.

Hello, my name is Dan and I am guilty of encroaching on fire country. I might not be as guilty as some folk, but I am guilty just the same. My wife and I bought our house in 1997. It was part of a new development, just carved out of grasslands at the foot of the Diablo Range. We commonly encounter bands of wild turkeys, coyotes, various species of snakes, feral pigs, and occasionally we can see or hear cattle or tule elk on the nearby hills. This is tangible evidence that we are encroachers. Settler-Colonizers. Our own little West Bank on the Prairie.

Part of the reason we chose this place was that it was relatively affordable, though I’m sure we made up the difference in the personal cost and atmospheric degradation of decades of commuting.

The encroachment continues, and every time another patch of grassland is graded nearby, scores of migrants — voles and field mice — wander onto our little lot. I trapped 80 mice last July (relocated 79 of them).

Back in June 2021, our neighborhood was threatened by a grassfire. We live in a natural wind corridor. There’s a cell tower on the hill at the end of our street, and there are high-tension power lines on the hills just above our settlement. We were told that the fire was ignited when mylar balloons struck a power line.

We had been threatened by fires before. One was ignited by sparks thrown by the car of some kids joy-riding in the hills. We’ve been threatened by a couple fires with unknown causes, and there were several more caused by a semi-homeless man back in 2017. I’m no nimby, and I don’t like to vilify the homeless or addicts but I’m scared to death of fire, so I bore down on that troubled gentleman and on his parents as well. I even raided his meth stash. He vanished. I wish him well but I hope he never returns.

Hey, I can hardly talk. I started a couple fires as a kid, one of which could have destroyed my home. I was curious. I didn’t mean any harm. I didn’t understand fire.

One thing I learned as a boy was that dry grass ignites easily and burns quickly, so we are going to have our fires. Fortunately, our hills are not blessed with much forest or chaparral, so they do not burn very hot. Someday I might have to eat those words. The danger is real.

Whodunnit? We all want to know who or what started a fire. It’s a fair question. Ignition must of course be avoided, but around here ignition is going to happen, sooner or later. We tempt fate by building in fire country. For that we only have ourselves to blame.

I don’t know about you, but sometimes the world gets so dull — and even downright ugly — that I forget that it’s beautiful. The ugliness, I fear, cannot be helped, but the dullness seems wholly manufactured and unnecessary.

It seems to me that there is a certain blindness in the tangle of human consciousness for the vitality of experience. The world is alive, and its vitality is immediate, ubiquitous, and obvious, but it often appears to us as though we are viewing the world on a screen, and I fear this has only grown worse in recent centuries. My sense is that the color of the world is filtered out by physics, metaphysics, economics, statistics, geometry, etc.; a fog of objective models. I love the sciences, especially the hard sciences, but as indispensable as they are, they are mere models that are abstracted from experience. They are not experience itself. Though they shed light on experience, they can also dull it when we fall under the understandable delusion that the model is reality itself.

But modernity is not the only one at fault here. I think the mind, particularly the sophisticated adult mind, blinds itself to beauty by burdening itself with consciousness. This is an old, well-worn subject. Consciousness is tightly bound to notions of self, so we are not far here from the concerns of Siddhartha Gautama. I am also reminded of the German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer and his psychological analysis of Will. Schopenhauer was not a happy man, nor was he a good man, but I think this only underscores his genius for uncovering human self-torment.

It is easy to suggest that one toss sophistication aside and see the world with a child’s eye, but really, can we expect to be able to simply unsee the webs of adult and modern sophistication after having been trained on them them over and over again? Well, we can try. We can modestly try. We can go for a walk or weed the yard or prepare dinner or start a conversation with a stranger, and try to experience the world as immediately as we can. But also, I don’t think it hurts to learn to recognize the harm that consciousness and less introspective mental gymnastics can do to suffocate the vitality of experience.

For me, beauty is a key to removing the veil. Beauty runs deep in the world, and yet if we permit it, there it is, right before our eyes. Beauty, like Goodness her twin sister, cannot be quantified. Beauty can be found in numbers and geometries but there will never be a grand unified theory of Beauty. She is too multifaceted, too subjective, too existential, too near.

I’m not going to suggest that one set out to experience things which one expects to be beautiful, but to set out into the mundane and even into the grotesque, hoping to be surprised; hoping that one’s eyes will open to a new beauty. What or whom strikes one as suddenly beautiful might not be pretty at all, but then again, it might be just that. Pretty things are also full of beauty, though I don’t think they surprise us — or edify us — quite as much.

One can accurately call this a mental therapy, an exercise or a discipline, but I prefer to call it worship.1

I was blamed by humanity for loving beauty, and they do not know my aim … By means of it I attained the unbounded.

Ayyúb al-‘Adawí al-Khalwatí (d. 1660 CE)2

You might prefer, like so many Ṣúfí mystics, to conflate beauty with God. Whatever works for you. For me, the thought of God is an image that is overburdened with too many geometries, and even too much self-consciousness, but I wouldn’t want to scold an enraptured Ṣúfí for using a Muslim term for the object of their worship.

Zoroastrian dualism is a vision of the world as tension and conflict between good and bad. This can be expressed as a drama between good and bad dramatis personae: gods, people, nations, and beasts, but it can also be expressed existentially as a conflict or tension within every individual, or sociologically, within every community. It comes down to choices being made on a continuous basis by individuals, groups, and societies, every choice being a confrontation.

I don’t think that Zarathuštra believed in good and evil, rather, I think that he observed good and evil as facts. Joy exists, and so does suffering. They may be experienced subjectively, but their existence is an objective fact. Zarathuštra didn’t need to have faith in reality. He needed to have faith in justice.

Life is not a game. The stakes are too high, and they are elevated and accelerated — not diminished — by the fact death is ever at the door.

… Yet death arrives without an accounting. We invent narratives to make sense of death, but death doesn’t respect our narratives. It simply ends them.

We cannot be certain about what Zarathuštra really believed, but I get a sense from his hymns that he felt an urgent need for justice. I do not get the sense that he was certain that justice actually exists. He yearned for justice, he prayed for justice, and he demanded justice. Perhaps he convinced himself that justice must exist. One way or another he invented heaven and hell, and while doing so he put the gods on trial.

I dearly wish that cosmic justice were a fact. Sadly, I have not been able to contrive a personal faith in it. The only justice that I can see is the justice that a person creates in their desire for justice. That might mean that I am not a “person of faith”, but I do feel a deep empathy for Zarathuštra (as I imagine him) that renders me his faithful companion.

Looking at the the hymns (Gathas) of Zarathuštra, one easily finds reverence for a sacred fire which is directly linked to truth:

… Thy fire, Lord, which possesses strength through truth … (Yasna 34:4)

… through the heat of thy truth-strong fire … (Yasna 43:4)

It should come as no surprise that Truth, namely Aša, is symbolized by a sacred fire, and it is not because fire provides light, for the heat of fire is what is responsible for revealing the truth of things, as the constituents of ore are revealed in the heat of fire. Light per se is not much of a factor in the hymns of Zarathuštra. It is by the heat of the sacred fire of truth that men will be judged, just as fire tests iron.

Zarathuštra’s metaphors, not that these are necessarily mere metaphors, make it clear that he was a man of the iron age.1 Still, he did also associate truth and good thinking with the sun, so fire was not his only luminary of truth.2

In later Zoroastrian books (ca. 900–400 BCE), the role of the sun in the struggle of good against evil became more explicit:

And when the sun rises up, then the earth, made by Ahura, becomes clean; the running waters become clean, the waters of the wells become clean, the waters of the sea become clean, the standing waters become clean; all the holy creatures, the creatures of the Good Spirit, become clean.

Should not the sun rise up, then the Daevas would destroy all the things that are in the seven Karshvares, nor would the heavenly Yazatas find any way of withstanding or repelling them in the material world.

Khórshéd Yašt (Yašt 6:2–3)

Thus it appears that Zoroastrian thought involved light more with time.

A major god of the Indo-Iranian pantheon was Mithra, a god of contracts, trustworthiness, and light; an all-seeing, all-hearing god from whom sprung piercing rays of light capable of probing men’s hearts.3

We sacrifice unto Mithra, the lord of wide pastures, sleepless, and ever awake; Who first of the heavenly gods reaches over the Hara (Alborz) before the undying, swift-horsed sun; who, foremost in a golden array, takes hold of the beautiful summits, ...

— Mihir Yašt (Yašt 10:12–14)4

Mithra, like the Persian god Anahita, did not have a place in early Zoroastrianism. It may be that as an Indo-Iranian god (daeva) he was excluded by Zarathuštra, but Mithra has since taken root in Zarathuštra’s religion to such an extent that a common term for a fire temple is a “gate of Mithra” (dar be-Mehr). As a god of light and truth he is something of a judge of men, not conceptually unrelated to the Zoroastrian entity Aša. Where Aša represents truth and order, Mithra represents trustworthiness and justice, reasonably compatible with the teachings of Zarathuštra.

With help from Mithra and the sun, Zarathuštra’s fire was easily generalized to light. Chroniclers of the early centuries of the Islamic conquest of Iran observed that many Iranians believed that God is light.5 Though these proto-illuminationists claimed to be Muslims at least to outsiders, their beliefs and practices were denounced as Zoroastrian and Magian.6

Once one equates the Creator of the universe with light, certain doctrines follow, it seems, almost inevitably. For instance, light is somewhat ubiquitous, so it must follow that divine manifestation is at least somewhat ubiquitous. The divine is thus taken to be immanent in the world:7

Ohrmazd created the body of his creation in the form of fire, bright, white, round,
and seen from afar, from his own selfhood, from the substance of light.

— Greater Bundahišn 1:44

Because Iranians were dualists, divinity was for them not so much about power as it was about goodness. As they equated that divine goodness with light, hence light was not merely regarded as creative but primarily virtuous and benevolent. It should come as no surprise, then, that some Iranian poets such as Al-Hallaj and Rumi would come to see God in beauty and even identify God with beauty.8

The Western eye may doubt any inherent kinship between goodness and beauty, for it seems a heresy to the celibate Christian mind to permit ethics and aesthetics to so much as overlap, but when light is regarded in its purest form to be divine and good, the mystical eye is naturally inclined to intuit beauty to be a sign of the divine, or even to be divinity itself.

The beauty of things means virtue and value in them.
Is it in the beholder’s eye, not the world? Certainly.
It is the human mind’s translation of the transhuman
Intrinsic glory. …

Robinson Jeffers, De Rerum Virtute

Such characteristics of Iranian thought have been cited as contributions to Islamic philosophy and mysticism. I was a rather studious Bahá’í until age 23, and I have occasionally studied that religion in the 36 years since. I still think in terms of annihilation of self (فناء). I retain enough enthusiasm for Islamic mysticism to have purchased and read Henry Corbin’s Spiritual Body and Celestial Earth, which I happened to find inadequate for lack of source references and reasoning. I do not doubt that Zoroastrianism has exerted a profound influence on Shi‘a and Ṣúfí philosophy, and I do not doubt that such developments have enriched Islamic thought a great deal, however I am inclined to see these developments as hybridizations that lack something of the core vitality of Zoroastrianism. Illuminationism (حكمت اشراق) may be attractive as metaphysics, but the Zoroastrian view toward a divine and benevolent light that did not carry with it all the legalism and monotheism of Islam was no abstract metaphysics: it was simply how many Iranians encountered and worshipped their world.

Many of us in the West have recently been disabused of the delusion that the world is progressing toward a new “rules-based order,” now scornfully eulogized as the once-and-never End of History. Democracy is on the retreat. The West, lead by the United States and its client Israel, is carrying out a project of ethnic cleansing and mass-murder in Palestine. The United States seems to have adopted a strategy of maximizing not order but disorder in the world. Hundreds of thousands have died in Iraq, Syria, Ukraine, and Sudan. Here in the USA, the home of the free, 1.8 million Americans are incarcerated, poverty and homelessness are slowly spreading across the land as the cost of shelter, bread, and healthcare skyrocket. Medical insurance is a racket, doctors push addictive opiates, advertisers convince us that we’re inadequate and that we should identify with consumer brands, social media corporations degrade the fabric of society, and global investment banks are too big to fail. All this while the scourge of climate change spills across the eastern horizon.1

Dystopian enough for you? We really have come a long way, haven’t we?

It’s hard to maintain much faith in humanity at times like this. It’s probably enough to make many of us turn to religion. We seem so blind, so morally degenerate. Maybe if we could just be tricked into believing in karma or divine justice; maybe then we’d at least behave, though we would no doubt remain scoundrels inside.

The religion that I was born into teaches that the great majority of us behave quite badly when we’re not being watched:

This “sense of shame” passage is the key to the Bahá’í notion of special revelation. Bahá’u’lláh here provides a loophole of sorts: those few who happen to possess a conscience — or at least a capacity to feel shame — do not necessarily need “the fear of God” as a guide to good behavior. But we are — or they are — but a few.

The key problem with this loophole is this: how does one determine whether or not one possesses a conscience? I might experience empathy and compassion and guilt, but how can I be sure that I’m not a self-deceiving demon? Perhaps my sense of compassion is all projection and vanity. We’ve all heard about Nazis who loved their children, right?

Does it really matter whether we’re good deep inside? Does it even matter how many or how few of us posses a conscience? I mean, I’d prefer that we were all saints, but at this point I’m willing to settle for good behavior.

We’re a mess. I think the Christian doctrine of Original Sin is accurate. We all have some demon in us, and I do see that we deserve to be forgiven, but not by our Creator. He’s to blame for all this, after all. Let’s be real.

But even if I am an original sinner (excellent band name, BTW), I might yet be able to mitigate my sinfulness. I do believe that we have eaten of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.2 That is the one thing that I do believe, because I know there is beauty in the world, and there sure as hell is pain. I haven’t been able to make much of it, but I’ve been able to work out a few things, like for instance ethnic cleansing is evil.

Here some religious adherent might suggest that I find myself a divine teacher, no doubt the one they’ve chosen. Perhaps, but if I can’t tell right from wrong, how am I to distinguish a good teacher from a bad teacher? Let’s say that I pick one out of the police lineup. Who knows: I might enjoy the lessons that I receive from this divine guide. Maybe he tells me what I want to hear. Is that the measure of a good education? I won’t know whether I’ve profited from my lessons until — but will I ever know? Perhaps one day I’ll decide that these lessons have run their course and it’s time to move on to another instructor. Perhaps I’ll determine that my great enthusiasm for my teacher has only increased the harm that his lessons have done to me. There I’ll be: unaccustomed to making my own moral decisions; habituated to following the heels of my leader rather than paying attention to the lay of the land. “Now I’m really lost.”

Don’t get me wrong: I’m all ears. I don’t mind listening to what you and your teacher have to say. Maybe we can have a conversation. We might not be very good at distinguishing right from wrong, but at least we seem to have the tools to make a considered guess. Let’s work it out together. What do you say, free Palestine?

As a young Bahá’í, I was exposed to the Islamic mystical tradition. I owe much to that education. To this day, 36 years after I left the Bahá’í Faith, I can still sound a bit like a self-styled Sufi. I do believe that the Bahá’í view on mysticism is authentically Islamic. I occasionally refer to passages from the Qur’án that I continue to find “inspired”:

Hmmm … God as light. It nearly sounds … Zoroastrian!

… or Neoplatonic.

I view Islamic mysticism as a subspecies of monotheistic mysticism, that is, an effort to transcend one’s own individuality with a view toward approaching a singular Creator who exists independent of the universe.

Of course there are other kinds of mysticism. Let’s summarily excuse magical thinking from the table. Authentic Islamic mysticism is not about magic: it is about the individual’s relationship with God. This is similar to Hindu mysticism, only Hindu mysticism is not quite as bound to the Abrahamic doctrine of monotheism. Buddhism might be said to be a form of mysticism in that it strives to annihilate the self, but Buddhism is not concerned with anyone’s relationship with God (a commendable omission).

What do I have against the Abrahamic preoccupation with God? My problem with it is that if one takes the idea of monotheism seriously, one eventually comes to realize that God is none of our business. We have no business musing on the nature of God or even the unknowability of God. For the sincere monotheist, that is all blasphemy, hubris. Monotheism in its purist form is indistinguishable from atheism (not to say that there is no place for reverence, worship, or mysticism).

So I’m an ex-monotheist because I’m a sincere monotheist. I sometimes find myself sounding like an Isma`ilí Muslim, reciting:

But really, when it comes right down to it, I have no business opining on the countenance of God.

The Mazdean (Zoroastrian) question is not “what is God?,” but rather “what is Good?” For instance, a Bahá’í might tell you:

A Mazdean may or may not find that statement paradoxical, but I think an informed Mazdean might respond that —

My own preferred species of mysticism has a Mazdean flavor: to strive to transcend one’s own circumstances and prejudices to gain knowledge of what is good so that one can better oneself and better one’s world. This is not a secularization of mysticism: it is a religious enterprise, for it relies on a faith in transcendent goodness and is concerned with what is worthy of reverence.

In contrast, isn’t the very notion of reverence a rather miserable thing if it lacks a dimension of goodness or beauty? What is worship of the Almighty other than power worship?

All that said, it is not inappropriate to ask: what does a Mazdean mystic look like?

Well, she might look a bit like a Muslim mystic who contemplates matters and discusses issues with his peers, though the Mazdean’s issues would relate to ethics, and even aesthetics. She may even meditate as an eastern mystic does, perhaps to break down her conscious barriers between goodness and beauty. Chiefly, the Mazdean mystic will be distinct in that her meditations, investigations, and conversations must always incorporate a dimension of action, not because anyone says so, but because her mysticism is focused on morality.

For many years now, I’ve felt a strong kinship with Zoroastrianism, and for a number of reasons. I even consider myself a Zoroastrian, but only in a very broad sense. I do not live by the specific laws and practices of the religion as it has evolved over the millennia. My perspective is more that of a modern person who feels that he has walked the path that Zarathuštra walked some three thousand years ago. Not to flatter myself: I simply believe that the core of Zarathuštra’s religion is timeless and that any one of us can find deep truth in it.

So what is that timeless core?

The first and most central aspect of Zarathuštra’s religion is a very simple, straightforward realization that we live in a moral universe; not a universe of moral laws, but a universe of deep, profound value that cannot be codified. It is beautiful, yet it is cruel. There is one thing for sure: it is not indifferent. It matters.

Zarathuštra proclaims as much in his hymns, the Gathas:

This is the classic, definitive scriptural passage on Zoroastrian dualism. It is important to notice that the good and bad spirits (whatever “spirit” might be taken to mean) are twins, which I take to mean that they are not necessarily distinguishable from each other at first glance, but they are very much opposites.

The celestial power who represents the good twin in Zoroastrianism is Ahura Mazda (“Wise Lord”), not to say that Mazda is the good twin. The use of the term Mazda (“Wisdom”) is significant, as much as good thinking is emphasized in Zarathuštra’s hymns.

It is important to note the triad of thought, word, and action in the above passage. This is reminiscent of the formula that nearly serves as the Zoroastrian creed: “good thoughts, good words, good actions.” These three domains of moral agency are bridged implicitly by yet another theme of Zoroastrian thought: integrity.

Also note the word choose in the above passage and again in the passage below.

Choice is a fundamental aspect of Zoroastrian thought and an implicit link between thought and action. These latter two are not unrelated to words, that is expression, the second element of the existential triad. Words are of course a form of action and alternatively a linkage between thought and action.

Continuing with the theme of choice:

Because Zarathuštra found the gods (devas) to be misguided, he arose to oppose them. If there is any religion that is about speaking truth to power, it is the religion of Zarathuštra, however Zoroastrianism is not intrinsically against power per se. It has of course served as the state religion of empire, and Zarathuštra repeatedly supplicated Ahura Mazda and whatever gods he found to be worthy for assistance, because he himself was powerless. The distinction in Zoroastrianism is that gods are not worthy of supplication simply because they are gods. Worthiness of worship is a key concept in Zoroastrianism.

The principle of Aša (pron. Asha) is almost as lofty as Mazda in Zoroastrianism. Aša represents truth and order. The opposite of Aša is Druj, meaning deceit (or the Lie), which is associated with disorder. Zarathuštra names his eternal hell the House of Deceit.

Aša is symbolized by fire. Fire has long been used in sacrificial ceremonies as a means to transmit offerings to the gods, as the smoke and heat of burned offerings rise to heaven. Fire is thus a universal messenger to the gods. In the case of Aša, fire may be used as a symbol because of its ability to purify metal, or rather, to reveal the true constituents of a substance, that is to say the truth of things. It may also be that fire signifies light because of the obvious association between light and truth.

Fire is repeatedly associated with truth in the Gathas, and as a representation of truth is an object of worship, for instance:

This passage appears to say, “I worship fire because I worship truth.”

Fearing the wrathful hegemony of Abrahamic monotheists, some may strive to defend Zoroastrianism by asserting that Zoroastrians do not worship fire. To that I would reply that all worship is idolatry, whether it is worship of physical objects or of mental objects. I happen to find that latter form of idolatry — what might be called idealatry — to be the more hazardous form.

Fire is a profound and dynamic phenomenon that has played a critical role in human evolution. It is in its way a primitive form of life. For these and other reasons, fire warrants worship more than any naive notion of benign omnipotence.

Life is regarded as essentially virtuous in Zoroastrianism. Death, in contrast, is regarded as bad, and associated with disorder. Traditionally, corpses are thought to contaminate the elements, particularly fire and water. Hence cremation and even burial have traditionally been avoided by Zoroastrians.

In summary, Zoroastrianism is an ancient faith that reveres goodness, specifically the goodness of truth and order, integrity, and life. Zoroastrianism regards the Good as something that must be chosen. Choice is essential, or rather existential.

Note and Disclaimer: Translations by Stanley Insler (1975). Whenever providing passages from the Gathas (the most ancient Zoroastrian hymns), one must bear in mind that we cannot be certain of our translations. The Old Avestan language died long ago, and all translations amount to guesswork, though studies of Sanskrit have taught us much about Old Avestan. In practical terms, if a translation corresponds in some reasonable way to traditional Zoroastrianism, it is perhaps trustworthy enough.

I finally trapped the latest mouse to be raiding the aviary for birdseed. I’m using a “live trap,” but I found the mouse dead. The most likely culprit, I suppose, was hypothermia, though there was no frost on the patio chairs and the rooftops this morning. The official low on the local weather report was 37°F, but we do tend to run cool here on winter mornings.

I suspect hypothermia, in part, because the trap is not insulated. Hard to say.

I trap in the aviary with some urgency because mice fatten up in there and sometimes get caught in the wire mesh, leading to what seems to be a gruesome death. Before I figured out this was going on, I’d wonder why we heard squeaking coming from the aviary. I have a bucket trap outside the aviary as well, to stop mice from entering the aviary in the first place. My low point was when I killed a mouse while trying to free it from the 10mm mesh. The memory still makes my eyes well up.

These mice are at peace. I grieve on their behalf.

I’m aware of the absurdity, but absurdity is cold comfort.

Herakleitos, that contrarian Ionian of the Persian realm,
Sang that the world is a war, a fire of continuous opposition
In harmonious tension, bow and string.

I read him as though he were that poet from Bactra,
And it might seem alien to your sterile objectivity, that
The world is not composed of atoms and equations
but rather good and bad, twins
Not easy to name or distinguish,
Ever in opposition, one never far from the other,
Sharing so many masks: beauty, joy, suffering, grief, …
There not being one moment of indifference

Amid the flames, mind and body
Must ever be at war, swaying
In harmonic tension, waltzing
With Zarathuštra in a burning field,
No common road, no destination,
No map, no pilot,
No law, no momentum, …
Only choices,
Choices that bind.

Okay, they’re not really Al-Qaeda, right? … Right? I mean, they were, and they are listed by the United States as a terrorist group, but what’s important is they won’t be an Iranian ally, so Iran won’t be shipping so many missiles to Hezbollah, and that’s good for genocide.

If the new Syrian regime harbors some operation that turns out to smoke Manhattan, well, whatever price we have to pay for the triumph of Zionism. Right?

“Never forget.”

Yeah, it’s complicated. Let’s face it: Al-Assad is a monster. Good riddance to bad rubbish. Let’s take this moment to express hope for the people of Syria.

Perhaps Syria will become an anti-Western Salafi state. If they could at least keep the US-backed Kurds in check so as to keep Turkiye happy, maybe they could put some heat on the Zionist Plantation.

There I go, dreaming again.

But fear for any anti-Western country. To oppose the Great Satan would likely only mean more pain for the Syrian people.

So chill, Syria. Take a breather. Let your wounds scar over. Be at peace for a little while.

السلام عليكم جميعا

Mahmoud Darwish, regarded as Palestine’s national poet, was born at Al-Birwa, Galilee, a village on a hill six miles east of Acre (‘Akká in Arabic). At age six, Mahmoud and his family were driven out of Al-Birwa by Zionist forces. It was the strategy of the Zionist forces under David Ben-Gurion to drive as many Palestinians off the land as was practicable. The promise of a Zionist state, if it was to be a democracy, depended upon ethnic cleansing.

A year after fleeing their home, Mahmoud and his grandfather snuck back into occupied Palestine, only to find that their village had been razed to the ground and replaced by a settlement and a kibbutz. Mahmoud and his grandfather were illegals, characterized as infiltrators (מסתננים). They settled in a village not far from the ruins of Al-Birwa. Mahmoud’s grandfather taught Mahmoud how to read and write. When he was in Acre, he would purchase books for Mahmoud. The boy attended school illegally, and would be hidden away whenever authorities came to look for infiltrators.

In 1960, just out of high school, Mahmoud moved to nearby Haifa (Ḥayfā). He joined the Israeli Communist Party and worked in the local Arab press. He lived on Abbas Street, named after the Bahá’í leader Abbas Effendi. Throughout the 1960s, Darwish was harassed, arrested, put under house arrest, and imprisoned by the Israeli security forces. He had to keep his workplace secret to avoid police raids.

Mahmoud’s first sweetheart, one might say the love of his life, was an Israeli Jew named Tamar Ben-Ami, a singer, a dancer, and a fellow Communist who would later become a choreographer. Tamar would get her first public exposure singing in Israeli propaganda films. After high school, Tamar moved to Jerusalem to attend college. Because Darwish was restricted to Haifa by the Israeli government, he was not able to visit Tamar. He wrote her many love letters in Hebrew during their separation.

In 1967, Mahmoud traveled illegally to Jerusalem to recite his poetry before a large audience, featuring his controversial protest poem, Identity Card (1964). The recital was a tremendous hit, Israeli politicians were enraged, and Darwish was imprisoned.

Darwish was imprisoned again in 1969. In 1970, he moved to Moscow to attend university. He dropped out after a year and moved to Cairo where he worked at Al-Ahram newspaper. After two years in Cairo, Darwish was asked by Yasser Arafat to join the Palestinian Liberation Organization (PLO) in Beirut, and so he did, and he lived there until September 1982. During the Israeli invasion of Beirut, Darwish was spirited away to Syria, and he moved from there to Tunis, and then to Cyprus.

While in Beirut, Darwish founded the literary quarterly Al-Karmel, named after Mount Carmel where Darwish had lived from 1960 to 1970. Al-Karmel featured noteworthy writers such as Edward Said.

In April 2002, the headquarters of Al-Karmel was destroyed by the IDF. Darwish remained editor of Al-Karmel until his death in 2008.

… hvor Mængde er, er Usandheden … Thi »Mængde« er Usandheden.

… where there is Quantity, there is Untruth … For “Quantity” is Untruth.

Søren Kierkegaard, Til Dedicationen »hiin Enkelte«

All that we experience in life is good and bad.
There is no moment of indifference. There is always a choice.
This hardly needs to be said, but it’s overlooked far too often.
Our modernity is so awash in measurements and quantifications
We forget that the world is first and foremost an existence
Of joy, beauty, pain, and horror.
If experience were wholly objective,
If it were merely the outcome of mathematical formulae,
It would be as meaningless as it were numerous.

(Let us not be hasty:)
It is not so much that we can pinpoint meaning.
No, we cannot trap it and house it in a zoo.
Zarathuštra saw good and bad as twins.
He could distinguish between them,
But not with a passing glance.
Surely, meaning is a moving target,
But it’s always there, right in front of us.
And yet we refuse to acknowledge it.
We avert our gaze and call it illusion.

Why is it that we refuse to decipher the mysteries of good and evil?
Perhaps it is too hard. Perhaps it is too consequential.
Perhaps it is our training.
We judge quality with quantity. We only trust the numbers.
When confronted by evil we start counting.
What cowards we have become.