Stand up to Elephants

A giant question mark hung over the world asking how France would respond to the massacre committed by Islamic terrorists at the Charlie Hebdo office. The answer was a surprise. On that fateful Wednesday of January 7th, 2015, the French did not announce the attack as an "act of war" or declare a "war on terror." And they did not react by calling upon allied nations to bomb or invade another nation in retaliation for such a heinous act. Instead of loading magazines in machine guns, writers and cartoonists joined together in the spirit of satire by putting pen to paper to fire rounds of words and cartoons at the absurdity of the murderous assault on the freedom of expression enjoyed by the free world.

France and the rest of the free-world was not going to be silenced by terror. The world's army of cartoonists delivered an important message on the value of freedom of expression. A plethora of cartoons, street art, and articles condemning the attack emerged over social media, and the press. One cartoonist illustrated the message with a diminutive figure of a terrorist holding a smoking rifle cowering in a corner surrounded by the biggest, and most effective of weapons; an array of pens aiming at him from the sky. Another cartoonist, from the Daily Telegraph responded in defiance with an illustration of a group of terrorists about to storm the offices of Charlie Hebdo and being warned, "Be careful, they may have pens..."

The following Sunday, France and other members of nearby European countries came together to attend unity rallies in Paris and across the country. The unity and solidarity of the rallies transcended age, ethnicity, political affiliation, faith, and socioeconomic status. The scene of one and a half million people swarming around Paris was a moving one. Reporters on national television conveyed the atmosphere and public responses. Francois Hollande announced, "Paris is the capital of the world today. Nothing stops France. With three revolutions; a reign of terror; the Nazi occupation, and subsequent liberation, the people of France know more than anyone, the value of liberty, and freedom of expression.

The French understand that being offended does not afford offended parties any protection from being offended. They do not compromise freedom of expression in the form of excessive political correctness. Nothing illustrates this more when Charlie Hebdo published its first edition after the massacre with a caricature of Muhammad on its front cover with the caption, "Tout est Pardonne'. Alas, media outlets failed to follow suit.

What followed, can only be described as a hypocritical act of betrayal by mainstream news sources when they failed to support Charlie Hebdo. Newspapers published only the top half of the front cover omitting the cartoon of Muhammad. SkyNews in the UK showed the ultimate cowardice in an act of self-censorship by cutting off Charlie Hebdo writer, Caroline Fourest in the middle of a live broadcast when she went to hold up the magazine cover for viewers. The news anchor even went on to "apologize for any offense caused."

It should be no surprise that France is the birthplace of enlightenment that eventually freed her from the reins of oppression by religion and tyrannous monarchies. It should be no surprise that writer, Evelyn Beatrice Hall summed up the French philosopher Voltaire's view of freedom of expression with "I disapprove with everything you say, but will defend to the death your right to say it." The staff at Charlie Hebdo died defending that right. Sadly, we betrayed them.

The rest of us should allow France and Charlie Hebdo to lead by example and not be pinned against the wall by the elephant in the room that is called religion. To deny ideology as a factor in oppression, war and terrorism is to disregard part of the problems of unshakable belief systems. On January, 7th, we were all Charlie Hebdo. Let's not stop there.

Creative Writing Workshop 1 : A "Lost" Experience

So here I was feeling like a high school kid suddenly daunted by being assigned a phrase and three words: "Early Spring", "Tempted", "Dangling" and "Lost". Our task was to write creatively for 10-15 minutes using those words and phrases in our prose. Writing poetry was also an option.

I wasn't used to on-the-spot assignments outside of English exams. I attributed my anxiety to those past  high-school experiences. Even in college, we got to know to some of the material ahead of any exam. My own writing for pleasure usually included things that inspired me rather than assigned to me. My most productive literary musings were produced during the dark hours of insomnia rather than Friday afternoon and an impending happy hour beer after a long week. I certainly wasn't used to writing under the gun of time. But I was excited about my first creative-writing workshop. Despite being exited, anxiety momentarily filled me with dread as a blank sheet of writing paper and a pen stared back at me. However, age, inspiration, imagination, life experience and a willingness to share my despair in the form of poetry and prose took over from the momentary despair. I surprisingly found that the task in hand was relatively easy...

The rambling of my 10-15 minute hand-written blurb that includes three of the four words assigned in the workshop started ended up with a sad appraisal of how I thought about the past twenty years of my life. One of the things I have learned from writing is that it can be a stark insight into an unknown world within us. It is one that only becomes visual when we apply the written word to our innermost thoughts.

My work began:

I woke up one early spring morning with an alarming thought. Had I really slept through the seasons of my life? This morning was the dawn of a new experience -- an experience I'd never felt before. Where was I? And why all of a sudden in a very familiar environment did I feel lost?

I got up and looked in the mirror, but the reflection glaring back at me wasn't me. Somehow, I got lost on the way. I had been in a deep sleep for twenty years. What had I been doing and missing? I had been missing me... Yes, me. Somewhere, a part of me died. Most importantly, where was I and where was I going? Then it dawned on me. The early spring morning of my life had arrived.

Time dangles like Damocles' Sword above our heads. My awakening on the early spring morning was to know never to get lost again and to keep the dangling sword of time in sight, overhead and ahead...

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Writing Graffiti

Graffiti is the modern day cave drawing forever changing form and color as slates are wiped clean with a new coat of paint.  Walls of the past form the canvas of the new. The spray can transforms into the artist's brush.

Graffiti is the poor person's post-modern art and expression. The graffiti artist clandestinely enters where nobody else dares. They venture towards high places: not in status, but scale scaffolding and delve deep into the guts of abandoned buildings to express their creativity. The work of a graffiti artist is frowned upon by a society grounded in convention unless it's commissioned. Commissioned work loses the rough edge which is the appeal of graffiti. However, that does not remove the quality and creativity of commissioned work. Commissioned work has transformed stark gang-tagged neighborhoods to colorful  urban art galleries. Graffiti is supposed to be subversive and underground which gives it that edge. Unlike music, paintings, or words in a novel, play or book, the work is often temporary. Graffiti is a subculture that bucks the system by purposefully deviating from the norm.

My admiration of graffiti started four years ago in the Marin Headlands after a visit to Hill 88; an abandoned military site emblazoned with color and bright images juxtaposed by green hills, the ocean, and wind wailing through the concrete abandoned barracks of yesteryear. I recently returned to admire the work that I had  photographed four years ago and to see what else the graffiti artists had added to the abandoned walls that formed the open air canvas.  Alas! All of the work I'd photographed four years ago was gone. A blank wall stared back at me. It's blankness screeched conformity:  dull, colorless, and uneventful. No beginning or end.

I felt glad that I had captured the colorful spectacles years before and the work continues to exists on a photo sharing site and various other social networking sites like Google+ . I realized that I had unwittingly preserved the work of a few for many. I wish the artists knew.

I like to think of myself as a curator for the disenfranchised artists who are often seen as vandals for their often illegal, but creative work. To follow in their footsteps tracking their work by venturing inside forbidden places is both thrilling and engaging. Within the bowls of abandoned bunkers, cracks of sunlight  illuminate the art work like track lighting in a museum of modern art. In the starkness of abandonment, there is detail. In the darkness of it all, there is light. In the shallowness of the words, there is depth and color. In the desolation of it all, there is company. Graffiti is the life after death of abandoned walls.

On one wall, a graffiti artist declares, "Everything was beautiful ...And nothing hurt." I wondered what the author of those words meant? Was it a psychedelic drug experience filled with color and beauty like no other view or masterpiece? Were the author of those words making a sarcastic commentary on armed combat?

Another author warns, "Swipe your life away..." Those words resonated with me. Lives are swiped away constantly by the hand of meaningless toil, stuff, and sometimes tragedy; just like the paintbrush that swipes away the work of a graffiti artist. Lives are swiped away by not stopping and seeing the writing on the wall. The graffiti of life needs to be read. Stop and look at the color, the detail, the depth of the words, and a thought for the people behind the words. Like the words and work of a graffiti artist, a life won't be there forever. Block the hand of meaningless mundane toil that swipes your life away. Pause... See the detail that no one else dares to see, go to places others do not dare to tread, and embrace those moments. 

Everything will be beautiful and nothing will hurt.

Swipe Your Life Away - Hill 88 Marin Headlands 2013

What did the author mean?