Intermittent

Still no sign of my muse. I'm getting ideas, but they all fizzle after like five sentences. In the meantime, here's three more archived pieces:

Blogprov: [Dublyner]
Saved (2004)
The Intruder

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Aristotle and Tyranny (2005)

It seems that if I want to participate in a BLOG containing WRITINGS, I might have to actually write something.

Some day, I will. Today is not that day. Instead, here is some archive fodder.

[ARCHIVE: While taking a course on classical and medieval political theory, I was tasked with writing a short essay about Aristotle's reflections on tyranny. For all its shortcomings, this may be the best academic paper I ever wrote.]

Of the many diverse concepts addressed within Aristotle’s Politics, none is more controversial than the preservation of tyranny detailed in Book V. Aristotle very clearly despises tyranny, yet he devotes a chapter to its survival. Contemporary philosophers struggle with the purpose of this section; why was it included in a book focused on justice, virtue, and correct governance? Aristotle was not writing a manual for tyrants, and those ambitious demagogues that read it as such miss the point. Book V contains a concession; an acceptance that not every city is fallow ground for polity, aristocracy, or even kingship. The passages are a warning that all tyrannies will fall, and those ruled by might and cruelties are ever-more likely to face the blade of an assassin or the fires of revolution. If tyranny is the only government to take root, there are at least some actions a sovereign can perform to extend the longevity of his rule.

Aristotle divides his reflections on preserving a tyranny into two possible methods. These modes create the illusion of a choice to aspiring tyrants, but in actuality Aristotle is simply dichotomizing tyranny into the strategies of brutality and moderation. The more rudimentary mode of maintaining control is the iron fist. A brutish, merciless regime is detailed by Aristotle with specific examples of actions and conditions that help control the people. Aristotle explains that a body of people may be ruled best if they are groomed for tyranny. A ruler must not allow them to form solidarity or intellectual collusion. They must distrust each other, feel humiliated by their lot in life, and (being so convinced of the immense power of the state) consider the idea of revolution or reform an impossibility. Aristotle includes state espionage, poverty, flattery, narcissism, and primitive brainwashing in a list of techniques to oppress and control the population (1314a15). After focusing so closely on justice and order, the brutality of this regime forms a stark contrast to earlier chapters. Aristotle is quick to undercut these tactics with their ultimate affect: brevity. The brutish tyranny is effective, but short lived.

The second method, the kingly tyranny, approaches the issue of control through appeasement. Where a brutish tyrant rules through fear, and imposes his will with intimidation and power, a kingly tyrant appeals to the ideals of the people, and gives the impression that he is a public guardian of the state. Where a brute cleanses exceptional people from his city, a kingly leader personally honors “men of merit” to a degree higher than the general public would if the government was overthrown (1315a5). He maintains a record of purchases to appear fiscally responsible, and either moderates his use of drugs and “sensualities” or abstains from them completely (1314b31). A kingly tyrant respects and embraces the people’s religion, with enough conviction to appear genuine but not so much zeal that he appears foolish (1315a4). A kingly tyrant must spend the revenue of the state on public goods, if only to preserve the image that he serves the state and not his own petty lust for power or pleasure. Perhaps most importantly, he must reserve the call to war for necessity and seizure of resources, rather than expansion. As long as the people believe that the common good is the goal of the leader, they will not object to his rule.

Several critical questions arise when reflecting on these controversial chapters of the Politics; chief among them, motive. In a book devoted to the evolution of a supreme regime, why include detailed instructions on the preservation of what both Aristotle and Plato regarded as the worst form of governance? The Politics is an intellectual writing. It does not serve as propaganda, an article of persuasion, or a hidden lesson. Therefore, it is not limited to a singular thesis, and examines the task of governing a population with some level of objectivity. Aristotle reflects on the most common regimes as well as the most desirable. Conceding that not all cities will be suitable for the “best regime,” his work finds refinements possible in the most common types of government. Although he accepts that rule may be kept by force and might alone, Aristotle repeatedly gives examples of the short term of brutish tyrannies, and touches on the consequences of inciting the contempt of the people. Cruel rulers are more likely to generate hatred among the people, and whether by the actions of a single, “spirited individual” or the uprising of an entire faction, the regime will fall. Aristotle makes no promises about the lifespan of a tyranny save its inevitable fall, but gives some assurances that the closer it is to the typological ideal of kingship, the longer it may endure. Leading into Chapter 12, Aristotle lists the longest lasting tyrannies, and makes note of their nature. Even with moderation, honor, and respect of the people, the greatest tyranny only stood for a century. With such guaranteed fragility, Aristotle hardly praises tyranny as an admirable government, but appeals to those who wish to preserve a tyrannical regime with moderation.

One may question the prudence of including tips on extending the life of a tyranny in a work intended for distribution and education. Aristotle makes it clear at the start of Chapter 12 that “no forms of government are so short-lived as oligarchy and tyranny” (1315b12). Only through moderation and appeal to the common good will a tyrant appear as a king. However, appearing to serve the common good is not the same as actually serving it. While Chapter 11 praises moderation, honor, and kindness towards a tyrant’s subjects, it does not require a ruler to actually strive towards justice. Rather, he need only appear to be just, and hide his cruelties and exploitations from the public. This is not high-minded philosophy or a subtle sympathy for tyranny. This is gritty realism surfacing within Aristotle’s political theory; the same truth that Machiavelli will less tactfully approach centuries later. There are times and places where the people cannot be counted on to rule themselves. Through inefficiency, corruption, crime, or bureaucracy, certain publics do not possess the ability to maintain even the most undesirable forms of democracy or oligarchy. A strong, resolute leader must lead them, even if he doesn’t have the word of law or will of the people behind him. Until the populace is capable of producing anything besides anarchy or demagoguery, a firm but moderate tyrant may be the only suitable government available.

To accept tyranny in modern times is liberal blasphemy—we are a culture raised and washed with the ideal of a democratic republic. Aristotle is not burdened with the bias of a functional regime. Ancient Greece was populated with brutish tyranny, mob-rule democracy, corrupt oligarchy, and anarchy. Aristotle’s kingly tyranny is the advantage of the stronger, but few regimes of the time are concerned with justice or the common good. For all the ideals of his typology—kingship, aristocracy, and polity—their negative counterparts were far more prevalent. As an intellectual, Aristotle included analysis of realistic regimes along with idyllic scenarios. Book V is not an endorsement or strategy guide to tyranny. Aristotle’s reflections are a concession—the rise and fall of tyrannies are inevitable, and if they must exist, perhaps their brief spark across the span of time might be marked with moderation and the semblance of justice.

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Follow-up

It took a little while, but inspiration finally struck.

Fahrenheit 316

In addition, I've uploaded three other archived stories/articles.

Excert from Every Hour Wounds(2005)
Nida
Blogprov: [psychodoughgirl6]

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Fahrenheit 316

Most times I feel good about the kind of Christian I am. I'm not overly committed or sure of myself, but I do good things, because I think that's what Jesus would have done. And I do my best to ignore the hypocrisy of extremists who thinks threatening people's lives is justified because the targets are considering abortion as a viable option, or that since someone belongs to a different ethnicity and/or faith whose own fanatics are committing atrocities, that makes them obvious (and justifiable) targets of God's wrath.

But sometimes I just can't ignore this shit.

The gist of the article is that a parent, upon hearing that his daughter's class was reading Fahrenheit 451, petitioned the school board to remove the book from the curriculum. If you've read the book, or even heard what it's about, you can appreciate the irony of this. For those who don't, here's the very brief overview: a man whose job is to burn prohibited literature begins to question his purpose when he reads one of the target books.

There is a willing and dangerous naivety at play here. Firstly, the man questions the worth of the book without reading it himself. By doing so, he is alleging that a full and accurate description can be derived from a superficial glance. If the same test were applied to, say The Lion, the Witch & the Wardrobe, one could say it is filled with dangerous ideas of witchcraft, heretical pagan practices and prepubescent delinquency. If applied to the Bible, the focus would surely be laid on the descriptions of incest (incestuous rape, at that), sodomy, and fraternization with prostitutes and loan sharks. These simplifications are completely slanted, but that's the point. The true substance of the story is lost when one focuses on only a few of the details, and the grossly insignificant ones at that.

Secondly, the man goes from half-baked formulation to outright refusal of the material in question. So not only is his view incomplete, but he acts on this information and immediately rejects the book. Without even attempting to get a complete picture, he precludes any dialogue that might redeem the book, or at least illuminate some positive points that exist along with the perceived negative ones. Imagine if your college professor had decided that your thesis was wrong just from reading the first sentence and immediately gave you a failing grade. Despite any kind of information, logic or evidence you might have to support your argument, it gets tossed aside by an unyielding mind. While incomplete assumptions are dangerous enough, close-mindedness can be even more harmful.

And yet, both of these could be forgiven. While I find such opinions deplorable, the thoughts of one individual, even if they were in my family, would not affect me. The ability to have complex ideas is the singular characteristic that sets us apart from all other life. The Bible even references this fact, stating that the Lord created God in his own image (which I interpret to mean not just physically but spiritually and psychologically as well). Free thought should be cherished in all its forms (more on this in a future article maybe). So for this man to attempt to impose his will on others is abhorrent to me. In his case, there was no imposition of ideology over his own. His daughter, displeased with the literature, was given an adequate substitute. No persecution took place (I say this as a preemptive strike against any responses about the "oppression" of Christianity in American public schools). Seeking to end a system that is (perceived as) domineering by replacing it with one that conforms with your own ideals is an exercise in hypocrisy.

So I read the news, about these Christians who can't even see the irony in trying to ban a book about the dangers of censorship. In the past, I would have written this off as being another extremist, a dissimilar individual who had somehow interpreted a gospel that preaches inclusive love and understanding to support their actions of intolerance and ignorance. But more and more I question if what I see truly is the fringe or not. As some of you already know, I'm working as a youth mentor at a Church in Taiwan right now. Most of my duties are limited to teaching English and monitoring the kids, but I also do Saturday morning English lessons for elementary school kids, as well as running team-building games for their youth group. And it's fine. I do good work, some for kids less fortunate than me, and I feel good about it.

But a week ago some visiting pastors from the Taiwan Presbytery regional office came to visit and they pressed me on attending seminary (which, for those who don't know, is essentially grad school for ministers). I gave what I felt were honest answers about my tenuous faith, my desire to initiate a refocusing of ideals within the church, and the need for a massive retooling in the presentation of Christianity in the public domain. But for each of these points I brought up, and the long minutes I spent explaining, defending and shaping these ideas to them, their answer remained the same each time (about every five minutes): go to seminary and you will learn all you need to.

I felt like I was talking to brick walls, confident in their habits despite the increasingly changing world. My first concern was overlooked, and my ideas about reinvention were dismissed. And these were the people who are meant to oversee all the different churches. These ideas were simply my musings on the subjects of Christianity, crafted as presentable as I could on the spot. Yet here too was the same unwillingness to listen to something that differed from guidelines set forth centuries ago for a society that no longer exists.

When did Christianity become a private club? Why is ignorance of the secular world considered a virtue? Why is God's grace inclusive in rhetoric yet exclusive in practice? How is it that I feel like the only Christian who even recognizes these problems, let alone ponders them? I understand the need for tradition and continuity, but to deny the evidence of increasing public indifference and the need for change address these issues would doom our religion to stagnation, a pride of ostriches with their head in the sand, unwilling to see the storm as it approaches.

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Starting for REALS this time

honestly. First up is probably a migration of a couple short stories i have floating around the web, as well as the last long-forgotten blogprov that is long overdue (and got shafted with the whole Bar Exodus thing).

EDIT: Three old writings have been entered and backdated.
Mark's Story
Singles (1992)
To Be Asian

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Declaration of Principles

KANE
I've changed the front page a little, Mr. Bernstein. That's not enough - There's something I've got to get into this paper besides pictures and print - I've got to make the "New York Enquirer" as important to New York as the gas in that light.

LELAND
What're you going to do, Charlie?

KANE
My Declaration of Principles - Don't smile, Brad - Take dictation, Mr. Bernstein -

BERNSTEIN
I can't take shorthand, Mr. Kane -

KANE
I'll write it myself.

BERNSTEIN
You don't wanta make any promises, Mr. Kane, you don't wanta keep.

KANE
These'll be kept. I'll provide the people of this city with a daily paper that will tell all the news honestly. I will also provide them -

LELAND
That's the second sentence you've started with "I" -

KANE
People are going to know who's responsible. And they're going to get the news - the true news - quickly and simply and entertainingly. And no special interests will be allowed to interfere with the truth of that news.

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Blogprov: sk8dork

[archive: This is one of the first or so blogprov's that I attempted. I think it stands out as one of the better ones, at least in terms of plot. I edited it a little just because it lacked in ways I recognize now after writing more.]
Turkey gristle and macrame: How to dress your cat.

Terry stared at the monitor in disbelief. On the screen was an ebullient middle aged hostess whose smile looked like it would crack if she tried any harder. The woman had on a cooking apron and smock that was neatly trimmed with flowery embroidery and a nametag that read “Sally”. Below on Sally’s table was a cat dressed in a bright pink macramé sweater. Terry turned to the sound engineer beside him and asked him to turn up the volume on his soundboard and caught the last fragment of Sally’s frantic paragraph.

“And as you can see, Mr. Fluffykins just adores his little garment, so I went ahead and made him a new winter wardrobe.”

She swung open a closet behind her which displayed a variety of sweaters, from puke green to a very lovely yellow smiley face number. Terry yelled into his headset to cut the feed, but no response came. He fumbled around with the back panel on it and discovered that the battery had died. “Jesus Christ, that fucking psychopath”, he screamed, realizing his unfortunate luck too late. He was positive that this was the end of his career in broadcasting. He’d be lucky to get a job on public access at 3 in the morning. He could only stand in horror as his host sank deeper into a scented candle and decorative insanity.

“Finally, I know all you wives out there are wondering if there are more interesting ways to spice up those leftovers. I know I have. And with Mr. Fluffykins help, I’d like to show you. Behind me I’ve already preheated the oven to 350°. Now the first step is to generously baste your cat, just like I’m doing here, and then take your remaining turkey gristle and weave it into the macramé. The cat may struggle a bit. Don't get discouraged, as this is all apart of the joy of cooking! If you like, try and tie some of it around the ankles and tail, for a more classy presentation. Remember, just because they’re leftovers, doesn’t mean they have to look like leftovers!”

“Oh God, oh God, oh God!” cried Terry. He ran out of the booth towards the stage. The crew looked on in a dazed stupor, safe in the knowledge that it wasn't their asses on the line. The winding hallways and human traffic proved difficult for Terry, whose sense of direction was modest at best. Finally, the doors on the set burst open, with Terry flailing his body at Sally before she could place the kitty tray into the oven. The crew snapped back to attention, and quickly cut to 10 minutes worth of commercials. Mr. Fluffykins stared emotionless at the scene of the lumpy chef and her curmudegon producer rolling around and finally being dragged away by security. The cat paused to think, then set about the the long, arduous task of eating the turkey from the sweater.

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Blogprov: Winner: [Servo]

[ARCHIVE: Another female POV. I think I just kind of associated female characters with authority in regards to love. I've always put a little of myself into my stories, but this one was the most blatant, expecting the little tweaks to protect the innocent. I have a penchant for trying to find 'artsy' photography shots. I toyed with the idea of majoring in criminology and/or film. My family owned a Jeep, and I lived in Merced, CA, the gateway to Yosemite. And of course, Stephanie's thoughts mirrored my own at the time. I was thinking of an old high school crush and whether I would ever see her again. For the record, I never have, but I still think about her once in a while.]

We had finally reached the top, and it was now time to go through with it. My legs shivered not from fear but nervousness. It had been four years since I saw him last, but in my mind I was even younger than that, only fourteen. I willed myself not to run away. I would not pass up this opportunity.


All his life, he had planned to climb to the top of Half-dome. When we were children, our families out together on a collective camping trip, he would point out the glacier-made peak and say "One day, Steph, I’m going to climb to the top, and look down on the entire forest, and I’m gonna stay up there until I can see the sunset."

I would give him a questioning look and ask him why that was such an aspiration. "Because the world is beautiful, and I want to see as much of it as I can at one time!" At this I would giggle, then he would pinch me for laughing at him, and we would end up chasing each other until dinner time.

Alex had a certain eye for what he considered beautiful. The framing, the color, he knew exactly where to look upon an empty street so that you paused, the art of the moment washing over you. He never worked with people, despite the number of girls falling over themselves to pose for him. It was always the stray mutt, the abandoned boat next to the highway, the singular tree on the Stepfords' lawn. The only person he ever took pictures of was me.

It was game for us. Me, watching my kid sister on the jungle gym. Alex, somehow getting within a foot of me and snapping the shot before I noticed. I would whack him on the shoulder, chiding him for deviating from his modus operandi. A boyish smile, an absent-minded ear scratching, a flippant response, "I don’t shoot only non-people things, I shoot only beautiful things."

A single sentence would send me into a euphoric whirlwind for days. Heart-shaped doodles in my notebooks, promptly ripped apart within a week when I saw him talking to Sandy Goldstein. I tried to act aloof, to act cold and angry, but it would melt away with a boyish grin, an absent minded ear scratch.

And then the crush, so important and life-consuming, was filed away like so many other memories. Junior year we had different crowds and talked little. Senior year, even less. After graduation, he moved to Chicago, while I went to school down in Berkeley. He didn’t come back for Thanksgiving, or Christmas, or Spring Break. He didn’t come back for the Summer, nor the following year or the year after that.

Years passed. I earned my degree in Criminology (and a minor in film). Two weeks before I started graduate school, I was back in Fresno visiting the parents and packing up things. Dad sprung a surprise on us, asking us to help christen his new Jeep. He pleaded for one last family camping trip as if we would have turned him down. One last time, before Kelly went to college and I settled into my apartment in Berkeley, we sang in the car and we took pictures next to the Redwood rings.

We made it to our campsite in the late afternoon; Mom insisted on setting up the fire well before dark. A group of people came up the hill to greet us, the Bates, our campmates from the past. We traded hugs and handshakes, "My-you've-grown"s and "Still-got-hair"s. "Hey, where’s Alex?"

"Oh, he’s off doing his own thing. He set out to hike up Half-dome just after lunch."

I reached the peak as the sky reached its reddest. He was sitting, his feet dangling off the sheer edge. I looked at him and wondered how somebody who was so important to me could seem like such a stranger now, and in that instant I resolved to change that.

Slowly, cautiously, I made my way to him, inching myself forward until we sat side by side. In front of us, an ocean of green forest rolled over gentle hills. The sun kissed the horizon, splashing hues of rose and crimson across the sky. "It’s a beautiful view up here," I breathed.

He paused for a second then turned to face me. With a boyish smile, he absent-mindedly scratched his ear. "It is now."

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Blogprov: Winner: [Kaelia]

[ARCHIVE: One of the first times I explored a female point of view. Definitely not the last, though]

I've never understood precisely how non-dairy creamer fit into this world. More than half of all Americans over the age of eighteen, that's 107 million people, drink coffee daily on the average of three and a half cups per person. And while there isn't anything inherently wrong with it, caffeine can have addictive qualities when consumed in large quantities when consumed for long, continuous durations.

Every morning that I woke up in my mother's household, there was the smell of coffee. It was there while I stood outside the bathroom waiting for my brother to get done. It was there while I feverously blow-dried my hair. It was there while my sister and I fought over who would drive to school that day. Coffee was the smell of home. Of comfort. Of Mother.

Mom couldn't survive the day without coffee. Four daughters and two sons sapped her energy before she could take a break. She had one of those stainless-steel-and-rubber numbers with the no-spill cap in her hand at ever hour of the day. We used to joke that the cup was actually a battery and if you took it out of her hand, Mom would deactivate like a robot.

The funny thing is that as much as she needed it, she never shared her passion, even when we reached high school. She would deny us, explaining that "...you drink too much coffee and your teeth will turn brown. Then we'll see if Bobby will want to go out with you then." This in turn would make Paige mad at me, misinterpreting Mom looking at me while she spoke as an admission on my part that I had in some way conspired to steal her crush from her. How horrible a sister I was!

Mom knew this would cause trouble but continued to do this for years, substituting whatever boy Paige was swooned for and I could care less about. Finally, I got fed up and confronted her about it. "Mom, why do you keep doing this You know that I don't care about Jack," (Jack being my sister's Flavor of the Month,) "Why do you keep making up stories that I'm trying to do Paige harm?

Mom set her coffee down on the table, keeping both her hands wrapped around it for warmth. "Ginny, do you remember what I say about non-dairy creamer?"

Rolling my I eyes, I replied. "You tell us that coffee is too good to settle for less then the real thing." I was trying to avoid inter-sibling warfare and she was testing me on her supposed virtues of coffee.

"That's right. There is never a reason to settle for less than the real thing. You remember that," she nodded mysteriously, and then took a sip. And it was then that I realized what she was doing. The squabbles, the constant defending on my part, the piece-by-piece deconstruction of every fault and flaw of every boy was not for my benefit. I didn't need to tell myself why these boys weren't right, my sister did. Because deep down, she knew that her standards were also higher then these substitutes.

So, ladies, raise your lattes and join me in this toast to the bride-to-be. Paige, it's been a long wait, but your coffee is finally ready.

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Blogprov: [Dublyner]

[ARCHIVE: This blogprov ended up being very affected by my then-current emotional state. I like how I managed to write my way out of being the abuser. It adds a pitiable dimension I wouldn't have accepted had I been responsible for the act.]

Dorey was always fairly indifferent. But standing over her battered frame and tear-stained, lifeless eyes, I remembered why I used to love her. We had met through mutual friends. She had a certain pluck about her. Not too perky, not too sarcastic, perfectly complemented by her Chucks. We became fast friends, half facilitated by her relationship with Robert, my roommate. We shared a lot of common interests: indie rock, graphic design, British humor. This was good, because Rob didn’t have the same hobbies for the most part. Sure, they were lovey-dovey, gagtacularly so. But when it came down to doing stuff together, there was always a bit of a tension, and having a third party around helped to ease that.

It was very apparent that she liked to party, while he did not. He liked to stay home and rent movies. She liked big, loud rock concerts. There was middle ground, but often it was the case of one humoring the other. They really were from two different ends of the spectrum. And in the middle was me.

I was the mediator. The best friend. The counselor. I heard the best and worst about both of them. And despite my counseling to the contrary, I was always the one that knew the most. There was no communication of the inner frustrations, the hidden insecurities. They were just left on me, simultaneously vital and volatile fragments, like keys to the kingdom. So when they split up, it was me that had to pick up the pieces.

For the most part, Rob was okay. He moped for a bit, but after a week he was fine. So fine that he actually started talking shit about her. This made it interesting when listening to her sob on about how much she cared about him. And foolish me, I did my best to comfort her, to be a good friend. It was me who got her to start going out again, to start having a good time without him. And because both of us enjoyed these little experiences, they were more fun. So it was that rather then Dor and Rob, it was Dor and Ian. Which is where it all went wrong.

I saw that I could make her happy, and I wanted to do so. But when I got worked up to tell her so, she threw herself at another man. Another man who did not like dancing, had little love for cats, and could care less if music ceased to exist in the world. Another man that was neither like myself nor herself. Once again, I was robbed of my chance. So I hid away from her probing words, from her party invitations, and especially from her phone calls. To my credit, she didn't pursue strongly. It was less than a month later when we stopped talking altogether. Like the rest of her life, like Rob before me (whom she had long since stopped talking to), I became a memory, whereabouts unknown.

I saw her once more before the last time. By then I was living in New York with a couple friends. We passed on the sidewalk, me clutching a messenger bag full of articles to turn in, her with a cell phone to her ear. Our eyes locked for seconds at a time, unbroken by changed paths or bystanders walking in between. But when we passed, no words were spoken, no expressions were exchanged, no indication that the other existed.

The last time I saw her was in an alley. It was past last call, and I stumbled out to try to find a taxi. As I made my way to a busier intersection, I saw a familiar pair of Chucks next to a pile of trash. Moving several bags, I saw her there. Her throat and arms was bruised, her eyes watery and bloodshot. She was once again an unnoticed, sad girl, tossed aside by an uncaring man. And in that moment, every love-sick feeling I had for her welled up and sank my heart into my stomach, deep where it would lay until I was eighty.

Shedding no tears, I put the garbage bags back on top of the body. I ended up walking all twenty blocks home that night.

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