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July
30, 2002
This morning I read one of
those sentimental, Pulitzer-prize-wannabe news stories about “war-torn
Afghanistan” from a discarded and out-of-date copy of the Los Angeles
Times Magazine I found on an empty seat aboard a subway train. It
led me to consider the conformist role these humanitarian or human-interest
stories play in our capitalist society. I am confident that as a result
of contemplating a life of poverty, war, and disease, I, the shocked
and compassionate reader, have been subtly manipulated into accepting
the privilege of my existence. The unintentional side-effect compels
me to surge ahead, to accept my responsibilities, to fully develop
as a youthful individual in a brave new world of possibilities and
endless, glowing supermarket aisles. To an absurd degree, I could
even consider that the article fostered within me a strange fascination
for another life – a bent desire to lead a desperate Afghani way of
life, replete with mud, rockets and strife. A realistic outlook maintains
that I will not escape to a foreign land to live a humble sheepherder’s
life. The irony is I know I probably could if I had the sort of All-American
Johnny Walker zeal, but I am too terrified to go beyond anything as
daring as listening to talk radio and driving up late at night to
fast-food windows. My needs are met. In a way it is a humble existence,
humble in my complete and abject abandonment to a post-industrial
consumer mechanism that glitters and sparkles in orgiastic flashes
of red, white, and blue. So imagine me dwelling on
a jagged hillside in some crumbling brick shed, plastic reservoir
of drinkable water rationing out 3 cups a day, moldy biscuits and
a muddy floor, and wearing a burqua. In startling contrast I can observe
my present reality: a paying internship, my own apartment and enough
money for food everyday, even the occasional drink. I let out a sigh
of relief and my soul fills with gratitude, and if I believed in God
I would thank him now. This of course passes, and
in its place I can sense the familiar manner in which a heavy sedation
draws near and shifts hopeful optimism to the side. The numbness in
my lower back and fingertips becomes the main focus now. The strange
muted glow of reflected fluorescent light bulbs and the soothing hum
of business machines lined neatly in a row rise to my ears and blend
into a silky wash of dreamy blue. Everything in this world seems to
exist solely to grapple, discredit, and topple the stronghold of my
private regime. Every gesture and breath glows in fire hot intensity.
When my words cannot be heard I speak softer. Those who can barely
understand will strain to decipher the soft, spoken utterances and
should feel glad to know I am still alive. I am confident I live two
lives. I am so tired during the day my other me must be going at night
to engage in all kinds of secret doings. Sometimes I fear my reputation
precedes me, strangers look at me as if they know about what I can’t
remember I did. At fast food restaurants the cashiers always ask me
if I will be eating there or taking out. It’s part of the script.
Regardless of my response I am almost always given a bag to take out.
I marvel at the excess of packaging and ponder the ratio of cost between
the food I actually eat and the packaging I throw away. I dislike
eating with people I don’t know, not strangers but people I have only
just met. Why? Because I have no good reason to get upset. |