Poetry & Blindfolds

In order to fully convey my own position here, I have to disclose the following: when I heard the term ‘Ground Zero Mosque’, my first thought was ‘how dare they!’  Quickly on the heels of this notion were feelings of disdain, the indignation of being insulted, not to mention out-and-out pissed off.

Slowly, the facts revealed themselves to me through a series of articles, editorials and, most importantly, NY-based friends.

• It’s not a mosque, it’s a community center (“Park51”).
• It’s not at Ground Zero, nor can it be seen from Ground Zero.
• Park51 is to be built in a building that used to house a Burlington Coat Factory, but which has been abandoned for nearly a decade.
• Other buildings just as close or closer to Ground Zero as Park51 include: a place for off-track betting, McDonald’s, Burger King, Dunkin Donuts, a Vitamin Shoppe, and the famous New York Dolls Gentleman’s Club.
• The fellow behind Park51, Imam Feisal Abdul Rauf, is a noted advocate for religious tolerance and has been supported and funded by both the Bush and Obama Administrations to promote religious tolerance in potential “hot spots” all over the world.
• The same fellow was invited to and spoke at the memorial service for Daniel Pearl, the journalist who was executed by Islamic extremists in Pakistan.

Even as the facts came rolling in slowly, a few other ideas re-introduced themselves to me:

• The US is proud of its freedoms, including freedom of religion and expression, two things that are purposefully absent in intolerant and disrespectful countries.
• Osama bin Laden, who, as far as I know, is not investing in Park51, has gone on record numerous times advocating no tolerance of other beliefs, including any attempt at creating societies with co-existing belief systems. 

And, finally, from my fellow satirists, both known and unknown, came a series of joke articles that helped inch the proposition well into perspective.  The texts of these articles are, happily, neatly summed up in their titles:

• “Protest Over Mall to be Built Near Native American Hallowed Ground”
• “Furor Over Church to be Built Near Day-Care Center”
• “Outrage Over Plans to Build Library Next to Sarah Palin”

Taking all of the above in (and the above barely scratches the surface; see links below for more insightful information), there’s no way I could find myself in opposition to Park51.  Sure, I am not a fan of religion or its practices, but I am less a fan of censorship, xenophobia, bigotry and willful ignorance.

I look forward to my next sojourn to NYC when Park51 is complete.  I will no doubt want to go there, do some shopping and play some basketball.  And, kids, this is the most important bit: the terrorists won’t win.

Really good links:

“Taking Bin Laden’s Side” by Nicholas Kristof, New York Times [http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/22/opinion/22kristof.html?src=me&ref=general]

“How FOX Betrayed Petraeus” by Frank Rich, New York Times [http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/22/opinion/22rich.html]

“Three Reasons the Ground Zero Mosque Debate Makes No Sense”, by a writer for Cracked.com [mirror link: http://aznor99.wordpress.com/2010/08/20/three-reasons-the-ground-zero-mosque-debate-makes-no-sense/]

It’s been nearly three weeks since we bought and moved into our house and I find my feelings continue to vacillate between being awed and not being awed.  On one hand, it’s remarkable to be able to walk through the backyard at night (though the “yard” part of “backyard” is extremely wanting at this stage), yet it is another feeling altogether to look up at this vast building, standing in the middle of other vast buildings lined up like cruise ships that never leave port, and wonder what I’m doing with such a thing.

Conversations at work have changed just as violently as my living arrangements.  Gone are the days of casual conversation about weekends and whether the day in which we chat was worth thanking God for; instead, I am inundated with good-natured yet baffling advice about what to do now that I’ve joined the ranks of being a homeowner.  It is like going to a foreign country and being advised to make sure I go to this restaurant in that town and ask for the chef special; by the time the conversation is over, I have forgotten everything except for the “you will want to make you that you…” part.

I keep on trying to lure people over to see the damn thing to gage how far I have to go in improving it.  This weekend, I had my ex-brother-in-law-to-be Keith Lamb over (I was engaged to his sister long ago, but he and I – and she and I – have remained friends) and gave him a tour.  He nodded a couple of times and said, “cool”.  This says to me that there’s a great deal more work to be done.  I want a “wow” or “awesome” or even an enthusiastic “neat.”

My office is wide and spacious and is plonked down in the basement, although it is not dingy or dank.  The carpet is relatively fresh and there is a 3 foot by 6 foot window beyond my computer where I can gaze out onto a limited yet happy slice of sky.  If I am to write a Great American Novel, I can think of no more suitable place than one that is permanently subterranean. 

Thinking of writing has, after a long respite, finally worked its way back into my mind.  Should I direct another sketch show?  Perhaps some improv?   Perhaps a drama or tragedy?   Perhaps I should see about licensing Albee’s “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” or  Aykbourn’s “The Norman Conquests”?  Should I just direct?  Should I just produce and let others direct?  I confess, as I inch a bit older, the idea of producing and letting others get on with the directing and acting is increasingly attractive.  As I have said often, I adore live theater, if it weren’t for those fucking actors.

I can’t really blame actors for being the emotionally needy, painfully damaged egomaniacs that they are.  After all, in the legal profession, law is the common language.  In design, complex mathematical theory is the common language.  In theater, emotion is the common language.  So it’s no wonder there’s so many actors who proclaim their friends are the best friends ever, their significant other is the best significant other ever and their shows are the best shows ever.  They are constantly auditioning.  They are only dangerous when they get the role.  There hasn’t been a show I’ve produced in 17 odd years that hasn’t been infected by a Problem Child, who either feels compelled to fuck around on the set or, worse, fuck someone else in the cast.  Dealing with that once more – and usually getting some blowback from said Problem Child when I try and say, “maybe this isn’t the way you ought to be doing things” – is one of the core reasons I have avoided diving back into the craft.

Still, I am heartened by my little office and like the echoey clickity-click of the computer keyboard as I type.  I just have to figure out which of the bits on the creative buffet to put on the plate first.

Ah, Friday.  That magical day of rituals.  I have never been one to say ‘thank god it’s Friday’ – and not because my personal belief system is secular.  After all, I say ‘oh shit’ without having to necessarily believe in excrement.  No, I have simply found ‘thank god it’s Friday’ to be the weary moan of a working class that I cannot identify with.  I work when I work; I don’t when I don’t.  To champion a deity’s input for a five-day workweek followed by a two-day respite is absurd.  I have never been the type of employee to cheer the end of a working day, nor am I one who delights in seeing how many employees can fit in an elevator at 5:01pm.

Efforts to chip a crack into the sadness that has dominated my mood over the last fortnight have been met with quasi-success.  I’ve taken to grabbing books at random from my bookshelf in the morning en route to the train.  As a result, I have read respectable segments of Henrik Ibsen’s final play, ‘When We Dead Awaken’,  as well as the journals of Sylvia Plath.  Remind me never to recommend books to those who are depressed.  For some reason, though, I have found slivers of comedy in choosing such maudlin, distressed pieces by such beautifully damaged people during a time of personal sadness.

A brief note on Plath’s journals: I love her voice, I hate Ted’s.  Ted Hughes, her husband, was a principle editor of Plath’s journals, and as a result, his British overbearing is felt in most entries.  “I dislike Ted sometimes because he has a tiny [omission].”  That’s not a direct quote, mind you, but merely an illustration of why a former spouse is not the best choice for editor of the writings of his dead wife.

A further brief note on Plath’s journals: it is fortunate or unfortunate, but I tend to write in the style of the last author I read for a few hours, so I apologize if this entry is paraphrasing Plath’s style too keenly.  Too keenly?!  Yeh, I said it. 

I have also taken to bringing my Mac to work and forcing myself to have full-hour lunches.  Usually my lunch hour lasts as long as it takes to get food and bring it back to my desk; I occasionally think that I am an ideal employee because of it.  Rare lunches, no ‘thank god it’s Friday’.  Still, if management notices such behavior, they are experts at keeping it to themselves.  But I digress.  I have been writing and recording an album of trance-like music (if for no other reason than I never tried) on my Mac.  So, this week, I have hidden away in the corner of my workplace’s library and spent an hour tweaking, editing, chopping and channeling.   The results have been pleasing to the point where I had to share some with the wife, poor thing.

When my worldview becomes so coal-black that sadness becomes a bit of a comfort, the best I can seem to do is squeeze it for all its worth and hope a diamond comes out the other side.  Still working on that.  In the meantime, I’ll continue reading Plath’s diaries and maybe pick up a few hints (preferably not involving stoves).