The Lunch Date

Won the Academy Award in 1991 for Best Short. Directed by Adam Davidson.

A nostalgic comedy. The 40's era Hollywood music and being shot in black and white create the mood. It also mimics the proper and sheltered view the protagonist has of the world around her. Moral: Judge not.

The Waterfall Formerly Known As Angel Falls

Hugo Chavez is no angel, but sometimes he can make a lot of sense. He won't let the Western powers forget they are still *imperialist empires, who may fight in the name of Democracy, but wield a sword called Capitalism. And the Venezuelan president being staunchly opposed to this, won't let anything that reminds him of past imperialist exploitations remain in the country in the name of restoring Venezuelan pride either, even if that means **changing a waterfall that had been named after American pilot Jimmy Angel since 1937.

It's easy to put this off as another one of Chavez's anti-Western political stunts, aimed at depicting himself as a saviour in his people's eyes, and further consolidating power. And it is. But here's why it makes sense:

History. The Monroe Doctrine. When America became a world power after gaining its independence from Great Britain, President James Monroe warned that the Americas were to be colonized no further by Europe nations. Why? Because they were to be colonized further by the United States. To make a long story short, the U.S. saw South America as a new frontier to capitalize on, as the European imperialist powers once had. But the United States was new at the colonizing game, and failed horribly, just like its predecessors once had; and South America continued to suffer under the rule of prop dictators, previously put there to support the Western imperialist agenda.

The seeds of discord had been sown in the South. A couple of civil wars later, from the war torn soils of Venezuela, an anti-Western champion of the exploited indigenous people rises to power and prominence in the form of Hugo Chavez. It wasn't hard to see that one coming, was it?

Technically, he is right. But, now Chavez is playing a dangerous game. The psychological one. Reclaim what is ours, inspire Venezuelan nationalism, hate the West for taking your pride as Venezuelans away. (I'm pretty sure ol'Jimmy didn't have that in mind when he discovered the falls.) Nationalism is great to a extent, but the same fervor Chavez seeks to stir is what is in the makings of imperialism, the very thing he purports to hate. And only time will tell if his good intentions in the name of Venezuelan pride boil over into ambitions that impede onto another nation's sovereignty, or maybe worse...his own people's rights. Because if the Venezuelans want to call the waterfall Angel falls or Kerepakupai meru, then that choice is their right, and no decree from Hugo Chavez in the name of anything can change it.


*Read the history of Capitalism and Imperialism. (Capitalize meaning to take advantage of, or exploit. Imperialist meaning unequal economic activity pertaining to support of an empire).

**http://news.yahoo.com/s/afp/20091221/sc_afp/environmentvenezuelapoliticsnative_20091221035737

New Boy

(Right click to watch on Youtube for a full screen view.)

Written & Directed by Steph Green

Winner of Best Narrative Short at the 2008 Tribeca Film Festival and nominated for an Oscar.

After watching "New Boy," it is very easy to understand why this short film has garnered so much praise. Please enjoy!

The Logic of A Head Count

In the United States, every ten years the Census Bureau collects data on the number of U.S. Citizens, including, but not limited to, age, income, and race. That last census count was in the summer of 2000. The next count will be the summer of 2010, next year.

The good thing about this upcoming count will be the thousands of jobs that are created temporarily. In a much needed time - record unemployment (hot summer + $0 = "Aggressive Tea Parties") - the unemployed will have somewhere to turn to in order to sustain their lively hood. Census taking requires no experience, just a willingness to travel, a proficiency in basic math, and moderate organization skills.

Check it out at:
http://www.census.gov/hrd/www/index.html

The bad thing about the Census is the controversy that it tends to stir up. Most notably, for historical faults of under counting minority communities.

EX:
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20091217/ap_on_go_ca_st_pe/us_census_blacks_7

Numbers are power. So every head counts. Unfortunately, during a time when we should be celebrating the diversity of America, much tension can arise because of inaccuracies in the census count which make people feel under represented.

After all, how logical is it to send a few hundred thousand newly hired, newly trained, temporary workers to count 300 million Americans? Not to mention, they're still using a pen and paper to do it...

A PROPOSAL:

Americans need jobs. The census needs to be accurate. Why not expand the Bureau? Update the process. Train workers in computer skills. Revise the data the census collects. Work with businesses, banks, hospitals, computer companies, and local governments to come up with a better system for monitoring our country's population. One that does not just happen every ten years, but one that proficiently runs year end to year end.

This will be a great opportunity for the current White House Administration to show that it is serious about creating jobs, supporting technology, and advancing America into a more forward thinking age.

Get involved:
http://www.whitehouse.gov/contact
http://www.ehow.com/how_5578604_write-congressperson.html

The Puurrfect Ad!

Hi, my name is Amber, and I've lost my adorable little kitten...

If you've seen him, please contact me at: www.thesilvercog.blogspot.com. ♥ ♥ ♥

Telekinesis

"Cogito, ergo sum" - René Descartes

If "I think, therefore I am" is the blueprint for existence, then "I believe, therefore I can" is the foundation for what lies beyond.


Me and The Cube

I'm staring at the cube. I want to move it with my mind. I am focused. I close my eyes and all I see is the cube's radiant matter. It has a mysterious allure to it. I want to tap into its energy. I want to lift it into the air and make it soar across the room. I'm determined to do it. I push my mind as hard as I can. There is nothing else. Only the cube. I am completely enveloped by its aura...

It does not move...

Now, the cube resonates intensely in my eyes. It angers me. That anger ripples across my body. My hand darts at it, and grasp it like a falcon's talons clutch its prey. I lift it into the air, and hurl it against the wall. Stupid cube.

The next day, I try again...

The cube does not move, but it does not anger me. I place the cube into the back of my night table drawer. The days go by, and in my night table drawer the cube waits. It sits and sits and sits, collecting dust in the dark, in my drawer, until I forget about it.

Years go by, and I decide to sell my furniture set. I empty all the drawers that I have never cleaned out. I find the cube buried under socks and pens and books, and I remember attempting to move it with my mind. It makes me laugh when I think about it. "Maybe I'll just sell it with the rest of the furniture?" I say. And I do.

Your Food!

Brought to you by the company that created Napalm and Bovine Growth Hormone...
MONSANTO!

You are what you eat. You reap what you sow. And you've heard it all before... Who wants to listen to the crazy man calling us all sheep, or cows being lead to, or fattened up for the slaughter? Nevermind all that. How about a little logic?

There is something in the United States called the Anti-Trust Law, designed to limit behavior by businesses that eliminate competition. It also protects the consumer by stopping unfair business practices, and giving them a choice in products.

Let's say all of the dyes in our clothing came from one source, and the scientists that made that dye decided to try a new formula for strengthening the colors, but it resulted in people everywhere breaking out in rashes. Without a different source for the dye, everyone would be left unable to buy new clothes for awhile.

Now, what if that were the case with water?

Now, what if that were the case with seeds...

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20091213/ap_on_bi_ge/us_seed_giant

Why? What makes this okay? "Gray areas in the law?" No, the law is pretty clear. Microsoft didn't even have 90% control in any area of the computer software market, and the government didn't seem to have a problem breaking their monopoly up. Monsato controls 95% of their markets. So one has to wonder, what's real problem? Take your pick:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wvjCE_g2tKM

http://topdocumentaryfilms.com/food-inc/

http://www.greenpeace.org/international/news/monsanto_movie080307

Inaction on the part of our government. Is it bureaucracy, laziness, or greed preventing action? Write your local politician to find out.

Now, on the subject of "genetically manufactured foods," here's a different perspective:

http://www.ypte.org.uk/environmental/genetically-modified-foods/6

How safe are they?

And who is taking these polls that state "GM foods have been largely accepted by the Americans, with nearly 70% of them saying that they would buy GM foods."

Something to think about next time you look at your 10 year old daughter and she looks like a young woman, or when your 12 year old boy is a little too aggressive, or a little too passive. If you feel a little funny after you eat a meal, and you find your body reacting to things in an unnatural manner...ask yourself, "What am I putting into my body?" or rather, "What are they feeding me?"

The Merry-Go-Round of Mass Destruction

"To proliferate or not to proliferate, that is the question."


It might as well be a game of hot potato or musical chairs or hide and seek. And it's no secret either.

PROBLEM 1:

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20091213/ap_on_re_as/as_thailand_weapons;_ylt=AjwaRwLXDoXXJowrb.u53MAUewgF;_ylu=X3oDMTM4bDZqc2JmBGFzc2V0A2FwLzIwMDkxMjEzL2FzX3RoYWlsYW5kX3dlYXBvbnMEY2NvZGUDbW9zdHBvcHVsYXIEY3BvcwM1BHBvcwM1BHNlYwN5bl90b3Bfc3RvcmllcwRzbGsDbmtvcmVhbndlYXBv

CONNECTS TO PROBLEM 2:

http://www.boston.com/news/world/articles/2006/11/13/us_is_top_purveyor_on_weapons_sales_list/

http://www.asiantribune.com/news/2009/09/09/us-weapons-sold-human-rights-violatorsundemocratic-nations

To be fair, the United States is not the only hypocrite:

http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,577345,00.html

And everyone is doing it. So what does this say about those countries that too often get portrayed as the sole bad guys? Who is really right, and who is really wrong? It's a matter of perspective. Everyone is just as wrong as they are right. Innocent lives are extinguished while the debate goes on, so everyone is to blame.

An article gets written here and there, and maybe a movie like "Lord of War" gets made. Anti-war demonstrators march every once in a while, and maybe some legislation gets passed. Yet, nothing really changes.

*American S.A.M's once went to Bin Laden to fight against Russia, and he knocked down the Twin Towers. And Russia receantly attacked Georgia, both actions to which the U.S. now stands opposed.

*The Iran/Contra affair - Now Iran is a major political problem.

*Saddam, Khadafi, Castro...etc.

Who's next on the list? Pakistan? I guess we'll just have to wait and see...

Tour de Le Vélocipède - The Battle of Biscay

Driver number 55 - Albèrt de Coulomb
Sponsor - Mazda

Driver number 35 - Jules Laplace
Sponsor - Mitsubishi


A Modern Motor Miracle! Mitsubishi VS Mazda! International Racing Day - April 28, 2075. These two prototypes will make their debut on the world's first super electroraceway - 100 miles of supercharged track gracing the breathtaking coastline of the Bay of Biscay. With a beautiful Bordeaux countryside beside them, and their backs against the sea, two world class French drivers, Jules Laplace and Albèrt de Coulomb, will go head to head in a grueling race that is sure to be a dawn of new era in motorsports!

Chairman Takahashi of Mitsubishi had this to say:

"Team Mitsu is very honored to have followed in the footsteps of the legends of motor racing for so long, but today the sun has surely risen over the Mitsubishi Corporation. Our newest prototype boast a 1000 Gigawatt intelli-sensor ionizing engine, which means whatever the condition or type of the track, this state-of-the-art engine will process all information and ensure the output is adjusted to operate at max potential. And with the expertise of renowned racer Jules Laplace behind the wheel of our company's latest marvel, I am confident that we will clinch first place and the title of "Emperor of the Electroraceways."

Mr. Albèrt de Coulomb had this to say in response:

"First and foremost, I want to say thank you to the Mazda Corporation for electing me driver for this prestigious event. And I want to congratulate my rival Mr. Laplace for placing as well. I've had the advantage of viewing the construction of the Biscay track firsthand, and I will say it is nothing like anything anyone has ever seen. The highly charged particles are in a constant state of fluctuation, which unlike previous electroraceways, the tell-tell signs, clusters of positive ions which dictate jumps in speed, are completely variable. The driver, not the engine, that understands and utilizes this principle will master the track and win the day. And you can be rest assured that driver will be me."

Sparks are sure to fly on International Racing Day! Two completely different racing philosophies, but only one can emerge victorious and claim that coveted title of "Emperor of the Electroraceways." You don't want to miss out on this on!

Just A Love Story

Just a love story from ICHEN on Vimeo.

Directed by I-Fu Chen

Love and Irony. What more can be said?

Well, maybe that there's a thin line between fantasy and reality. Chen pits love against lust from the onset in this short comedy, and asks, "Is there a difference?" The irony being, the protagonist is willing to pay for one, but fearful of asking for another. The thin line is what is perceived, and that is revealed through the protagonist's decision to act, with a twist.

12 minutes of a classic love comedy gone right. Who would've thought so much could be said in so little time?

The Wounded Angel

"The Wounded Angel"
Artist: Hugo Simberg

What would make an angel cry? What could bruise its bones or blind its eye?

The boy in the black marches forward, as solemn as death, and the boy in the back frowns in the direction of you and me, as they carry the angel through a dull winter field with the horizon shrouded by a waning white fog. The angel's head is hung low, the flowers in its right hand lifelessly hang the same, and there is something about the boy in the back's glare that makes us feel we're the ones to blame.

The Realities

The Realities:

The Physical World

The Subconsciousness

The Consciousness

We have limited control over the physical world - There are natural laws that dictate what we can do.

We have full control over the consciousness - Consciousness is absolute freedom, but in accordance to the physical world.

We have no control over the subconsciousness - As far as what can be proven. The subconsciousness is composed of a mixture of the unknown and the known.


What is there to gain by tapping into and understanding any of these given realities?


A Conjectural Example of Flight and Creativity:

The story of Daedalus and Icarus versus Orville and Wilbur Wright

All of these men sought to escape their earthen confines by harnessing the power of flight. And they dreamt, "If a bird has wings to fly, then so must I." Daedalus constructed wings of wax and feathers which were birdlike in appearance only. The Wright brothers studied the birds and learned that it was not only the wings, but the currents which allowed them to suspend themselves in the air.

While both pairs claimed flight, Daedalus lost his son Icarus, whose wings were melted by the sun that day, and the Wright brothers both lived to fly again. They all watched birds in the physical world, and out of their subconscious came a belief from the unknown that they could fly, and they consciously devised a way to do it.

In the case of Daedalus and Icarus, two physical laws were neglected. 1. Heat melts wax, on the part of Icarus. 2. The physics of aerodynamics (misunderstanding what made sustained flight possible), on the part of Daedalus.

Akira Hasegawa's Digital Kakejiku

Lightscapes trailer from Peter H. Chang on Vimeo.

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If you click on the link to Vimeo, you can read a synopsis of the installation.

This piece is what I'd like to call a "Tranquil Joy." It moves from an otherworldly Japanese shrine nightscape as natural color gradually seeps into the picture and a simple blend of blues, greys, and blacks shift with the clouds into day break. A period of transition is present at the shrine, and the people and their natural surroundings are restless in preparation. Day fades into night, but is replaced by a magical lightscape this time, as if Shinto spirits had been summoned to transform the night shrine into a wildly prismatic festival. A slowly pervading sense of awareness ensues as the lights dance, but it's peaceful. And as the vibrant show comes to an end, it leaves you with an inner joy and a desire to experience the magical transformation again.

The Zoo - Lyric Ver.

"The Zoo" - Lyric Ver.
by D.J.Granger




Tucked away in shadows
of shiny skyscrapers
lil’ stick up kids posted
on beaten boulevards
America's new escapaders
sellin products cuz

We got dreams too - like
breakin outta this hold
An' every city's got a zoo
in a place you don't go
so desolate the sun don't show
Abandoned, not forgotten cuz
you forgot we knew

about the shit society
makes us all grow thru
the holes in the pockets
the roaches and the convicts
stereos, tvs, an' ps3's
you betta lock it - cuz
when I roll through
I'm gonna get that bread
to soak up all the tears
my momma used to shed

but you say it's a cycle
there ain't no bars bindin me
yet you still can't figure out
what’s windin me like a clock
Let me tell you sumthin-
time don't wait for no man
so I gotta get my change
while it's hot.

The Efficiency of 2,000 Pages

This is in response to this CNN article: http://www.cnn.com/2009/POLITICS/12/04/health.care.explainer/index.html


Yes, we want to dot all our i's and cross all our t's, but how much is enough? There is no doubt in my mind that our lawmakers are extremely busy people, and with multiple thousand page bills floating around the office, and others in the works, alongside multiple meetings and hearings, not to mention the wife and kids, sleep and time to think, I wonder just how they manage it all? This is assuming they do.

Here's an example of what I'm talking about: http://readthestimulus.org/index.php?doc=hr1final&page=1


How efficient is this bill? Was it even meant for a human to read? According to the CNN article above, the senators often refer to summaries, which doesn't seem to be a problem, until you ask yourself just what does the summary leave out? The formalities and the legal jargon or the details?

Why write something everyone has to follow in such a choppy language with tedious details enumerated that don't directly relate to what the bill is designed to do? Why would a law need to be translated? There is no point. Efficient communication is the goal, so focus is not lost on what it should not be lost on. Results need to come quicker so more problems can be solved.

Here's a challenge to our lawmakers: Rethink the way law is written. Society's goal is create a common law by which all its citizens can understand and follow. If the elected officials can't do this in its entirety, then what does that say for the rest of the citizens whose jobs don't require it?

I0I0I0I0

Computer Man

IOIOIOIO. This is consciousness. A stream of inputs and outputs. Thought. What goes into the mind and what it takes out. If a confirmation is an I, then a search for a confirmation is an O. In a network of minds, this is constant, but I is also being sent out with every action.

If productivity is to increase the rate of this stream, then how hard is it to update the CPU? The RAM? Increase upkeep, and free up resources? Where is the control? Where does it begin? And where does it end? Think MS-DOS to Windows. Then to ? Wouldn't it be nice to know?

This is just an emotionless metaphor for the question of "what is knowledge?"

The Great Healthcare Debate

"The Healthcare Model"

Hospitals ---> Insurance Companies ---> Patients ---> Hospitals ---> Insurance Companies ---> Patients...etc.


The model is a cycle, and the premiums that insurance companies charge are ultimately up to the people (patients). Case and point:

A patient wants the best care possible, so hospitals must find the best doctors possible, and they must pay them the best wages possible. This is one factor to the expense of health care.

If in the unfortunate case a doctor makes a mistake, the hospital is liable in a law suit, so the hospital wants to avoid mistakes at all cost, therefore they must not only have the best doctors, but they must also have the best equipment.

Now, the cost for hospitals to pay for all of this is very high, so they must charge a lot to cover it, more than what most Americans, let alone the poor, can afford. This is where the insurer comes in and says, "I'll cover the cost to pay for all this, but I'm going to charge you over time to make up for it." Now, doctor's salaries aside, the cost of equipment goes up every year, which increases insurance premiums, and the insurance companies get a bad reputation because they have to charge the patients, you and me, more.

The government wants to step in to create a "public option," basically cheaper insurance premiums to help the people who can't afford the current ones. But cheaper insurance premiums don't cover the cost of doctor's salaries and hospital equipment, so taxpayer dollars cover the rest. This makes people who don't want to pay for the uninsured mad. And if cheaper insurance is being offered by the government, then why wouldn't those paying more switch over? This makes the insurance companies that can't compete with the government mad, because they will lose business (and people will lose jobs). So what can be done?

First of all, the government can focus on the real issues. You can't pay doctors less, because the most qualified doctors are needed, and there is never a surplus of qualified doctors. The government cannot keep people from suing hospitals that don't take all precautions possible with people's lives. And uninsured people cannot be refused by the hospitals because that creates a human rights issue.

The government CAN address the cost of hospital machinery. i.e. Via stipends and/or tax breaks for hospitals updating the equipment. This will bring the cost down drastically, and in turn the cost to be insured. The government can also address trade laws to help bring the cost of the materials needed for the the machinery. And the government can become a much bigger advocate for healthy living. State and local governments can help by addressing underprivileged communities problems that are causing people to have to go the hospital frequently...this all goes back to: crime, drugs, education, and diet.

The lesson to be learned: People have to get at root of the problem. In this case, that means ordinary citizens need to step up and exercise, eat right, get educated, and help each other out. The basics. We cannot expect to pay a portion of our money to the government and expect all our problems to be solved. We are the government, and that means we can't disengage from the process. And we certainly cannot get mad if things go awry and we haven't been doing everything possible to prevent it.

The Zoo

"The Zoo"
by D.J.Granger



Dilapidated disarray
tucked away in shadows
of silver skyscrapers.
Auburn glass shards litter
beaten black boulevards
trapping slivers of light
like would be dreams.
Bins brim filled with trash
spew putrid fumes which
wrench my nostrils.

Unlike ones I’ve toured before
this desolate hold harbors
untouchables, not bound by rods
but confined by society.
Somber faces gape
as hungry eyes hawkishly
hunt me and feeble limbs
extend out begging.
I reach deep in my pockets
not for peanuts, but for change.
Glistening change.

"Mens agitat molem"

"Mens agitat molem"

- Virgil, The Aeneid, Book 6



It means "the mind moves matter." Everything connects to the mind, and human beings have yet to unlock the wondrous powers which lie within. We all think, but we do not all control our thought. I'm reminded of this when I hear stories of monks who can control their body temperatures at will, or people who have come out of comas after laying dormant for years. Miracles like these happen every day on a smaller scale. Whether we know it or not we all move the matter of the world with each decision we make. It is the thought which spurs the action, and the action which in turn spurs reality.

Lithification

"Lithification"
by D.J.Granger





If I had spent a fortnight in the badlands, I wouldn't
be ready to go. The jagged bedrock slabs were my
resting place. The naked hollows
I called home
until the crags had molded me
in their effigy.

The touch of parch sand is balm
to a callous hand, and I welcomed
the brittle rock sea, but never
cherished it.
If I could've baked forever, I would've
beneath the sun lazily
weathering away.

Loose Change

Loo$e Change from Mykwain Gainey on Vimeo.

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This is a very fresh socially conscious comedy by Mykwain Gainey, a young filmmaker from New York.

The Prison

"The Prison"
by D.J.Granger

Strained vocals summoned a few curious men to the shrouded end of the prison courtyard, where Prophet sat, like Buddha, against concrete walls that ran as high as five men.
“These bars took my breath away, miss her like a memory of yesterday. Breath is life, a wife that’s true, but these bars took my breath away,” Prophet sang.
The wiry old man with storm cloud hair closed his eyes as his facial muscles softened with each note scratching and stretching through weathered lungs. Once free, his melody wafted over the entire muggy courtyard.
Testosterone waned in a ballgame on the worn half court a stretch away. The breaking players caught their breaths while taking refuge under the beaten backboard with a bent chainless hoop. The cracked brown leather ball silently glided through the metal rim. A young shirtless man, blood still pumping, held his after-shot pose as the ball bounced and rolled under a faded No Dunking sign. Sweat slid from his frizzing cornrows down his face, curving around his lips as he smiled when the others took notice. He flipped his wrist, practicing his jump shot, then glanced towards the singing Prophet and frowned.
“These bars took my breath away, and if I could go back to yesterday, I’d see them come, I’d hear them say, life’s too short, you lost your way,” Prophet continued.
“Crazy old head, singing Negro spirituals and shit.” He remarked to the laughter of a few. “Ain’t got time for that shit. Let’s go.”
Another man walked onto the court, ball in hand, and checked it to him as the others got into position. The outspoken man dribbled forward, then left, stopped and forced a shot. The ball hid in the glare of the sun before clattering down off the side of the rim into an opponent’s sweaty palms. It was passed out and back in for an easy lay.
“Damn. Pass the rock M.C.!” A shorter man yelled.
M.C. frowned and sneered as he grabbed his shirt lying off court to wipe his face.
“Get open then nigga!” He replied.
A larger light-skinned man took the ball out, checked it to M.C., then passed to a lanky man who clumsily dribbled three steps and had the ball stripped away by M.C.’s teammate. The larger man shoved M.C. as he tried to breakaway. M.C. beamed at him, and picked and rolled into position as the ball was lobbed his way. His calves contracted like a bound spring, releasing as he clutched the airborne ball and shoved it down the invisible throat of the rim.
“Point!” One man yelled.
The larger man threw his arms up.
“Fuck that!”
M.C. turned towards the man.
“What!?”
“No dunking nigga. You see that sign?” The man exclaimed.
“That racist shit? Nah.”
M.C. turned and started walking towards the ball when the larger man grabbed his shoulder, twisted him around and looked him dead in the eye.
“I said no point.”

M.C.’s blood curdled in the heat and his eyes jumped into a wild glare. In an instant he knocked the man off him, then lunged at him like a lineman, sending both their bodies crashing to the ground. The larger man’s elbow bone popped as its thin flesh covering slammed against the concrete. M.C. straddled him, locking him on the ground, then sent his right fist flying into the man’s bewildered face.
“Don’t you!” His fist smacked into the man’s left cheek sending blood sailing through his teeth and into the air! “Eva!” Smack. “Put!” Smack. “Your!” Smack. “Hands!” Smack. “On!” Smack. “Me!” Smack. “A-gain!” Smack. Smack.
He climbed off the man, his bloody fist shaking and still clenched tightly shut. As he glared down, the man seemed to roll to his side in slow motion as he spit up the gooey blood and saliva mix that had collected in his cheeks. Between the heat and the adrenaline rush, M.C. zoned out for moment, delaying the dream-like shouting around him until the touch of a guard snapped him back.
“You’re going to the pit!” A voice yelled.
A guard grabbed at his arm, slipping on the heavy perspiration. M.C. jerked and swung at him.
“Fuck you!”
Two other guards converged on him from behind, one knocking him over the head with a dull black beat stick, sending blood spurting out of the back of his head. The other two secured him in a strong hold as he struggled a bit more. A loud bell in the yard went off, signaling it was time to move back inside. It drained out slowly as the glare left M.C.’s eyes and he begun to black out. All the inmates watched the guards drag him inside soaked in blood and belligerence. Prophet shook his head as his lifeless body passed by. The last of the men made their way through the prison doors, leaving the courtyard in solitude to quietly continue baking in the blazing sun.

*****

M.C.'s eyes peeled open slowly revealing a blanket of darkness. His head throbbed, still warm from flowing blood. He blinked, unaware of the events that had transpired or where he was. Then the rest of his organs resumed functioning. He was lying on his right side for awhile, which had cut off his circulation, numbing his body from his shoulder down to his leg. As he slowly peeled himself up from the chilled floor, a collection of particles stuck to his face and shirtless body. The throbbing shot through the back of his neck as he tried to turn his head straight. Gradually the stiffness subsided and he propped himself up against the rough cinder block wall. A slither of light came into view from a rectangular slit atop of a reinforced steel door. The dimensions of the room were brought into focus. It was a fortified closet, barely enough room for a person. The pit. Solitary confinement.
"You awake?" A voice called out to him.
M.C. managed a weak grunt as he felt the back of his head. It was bandaged, and the spot where he had been hit was crusted and dry. Another slit, this time at the bottom, slid open. A metal plate came through, clattering on the floor. He couldn't make out its contents.
"Eat." The voice spoke again.
He breathed in and out, gathering breath and trying to blow it out of his clogged nostrils. One unclogged as the stench of body odor followed by cheap gravy rushed through his nose. The bottom slit slid shut again. As he reached out towards the plate his hand crossed into the light, the brown of his skin was stained with splotches of fading red. He turned his hand, then brought it close to his face. It had a metallic smell to it, and he suddenly remembered what had happened. He slouched down into the corner at his back, rested his eyes, and slowly drifted into the past...

Metal guardrails, timeworn with twisted beginnings, apart in spots from a flaking yellow wall, spiral to the top of an aged row-home. Light penetrates on flats dividing rising stairs, revealing dust and dander breathing lungs would already detect was in the air. Every conversation, every cry, and every shout the tenets made penetrates the cheap plaster walls. Footsteps echo and the stairs whine out under pressure as a younger M.C. slowly proceeds up. Through a deep auburn door, he walks half a hallway down and right into a room. A jacket, t-shirts, and a bra are scattered over an unmade double bed lying under a slow turning, once white, ceiling fan. In a scratched wood top dresser, he pulls loose drawer handles which wobble the nightstand and a flimsy lamp on top.
"Who's here?" An older woman's voice calls out from another room.
"Me ma.”
"Do you work today?"
"Yeah."
In the second drawer, he shuffles through socks, trojans, and ink filled papers. Underneath a worn black spiral notebook,"Manny Mindz" etched on the cover, lay a crinkled brown bag. Buried within, a steel piece, chilled to the touch, and he can feel its weight as he lifts it. He sifts through clothes, and finds a grey hoody clean enough to wear.
"Are you leaving now?" Ma questions, “You-know-who called again.”
He slowly looks over the clothes and the empty room once more without answering.
"Bundle up, it's cold out there."
"I know ma."
The bag disappears into his front pockets as he hurries out of the unkempt room. Bumping pots ring out from the kitchen followed by the weak latching lock of the door behind him. He proceeds swiftly downstairs, past lingering wrappers, cigarette buds, and unwanted change. At the stairwell's bottom, a soft glow emits from the cloudy window on the entryway. Howling wind freely rushes through the cracks of the opening door and the brisk afternoon air smacks at his face as he enters the light.

The ruffling sound of a turning newspaper penetrated the heavy steel door and M.C.'s mind. His eyes slowly readjusted to the blackness before him, focusing on the circular metal disk at his feet. He reached down, digging into goo covered contents, which had taken on the more apparent qualities of the room. The gel and dry powder concoction slithered down his throat prompting an inner body shudder. He rubbed at the crusted spot on his bandages again, then inched closer to the steel door. Under the light, he examined his upper body, a perfecting prison physique, smooth toned and hard to the flex. The newspaper ruffled again.
"How long I got to be in here?" M.C. called out to no answer... "I know you there man."
Just outside the cell a bulky man sat in a folding chair barely able to support his weight. He continued reading as he responded.
"I don't know. Just sit tight."
"Can I at least get a shirt man?"
"Yeah I'll see what I can do." He answered flipping to the next page.
The guard didn't move and continued to read. M.C. tried some of the food again and fidgeted with his bandage a bit more until growing impatient.
"Yo man. It's cold in here."
The cell guard shook his head, folded the paper and reluctantly stood up as his chair breathed a sigh of relief. He lumbered towards M.C.'s door, crossing into view.
"You just don't get it do you?" The guard spoke. "You're in there for a reason, I shouldn't even be helpin you out."
M.C. jerked his head back into the darkness.
"Nigga, why you care?"
The guard frowned and left M.C.'s sight. Then the unlatching of another basement door echoed through the hall and into M.C.'s dark confines.
"Ey, let me get a smoke too!" He yelled out. "If I got to be waitin in here awhile and shit." He mumbled. "…Newports!"
The barred door rattled shut behind the guard. M.C. knew he wasn't going to get his cigarettes, but hoped the guard would at least come back with a shirt. He leaned back against the wall as his other nostril popped unplugged, sending a strong rush of must and mold over stagnant food straight to his head.

*****

“Number 051924." The warden mumbled. The balding man with a double chin sat in a ornate red leather and gold rope embroidered office chair, carefully flipping through M.C.'s file on his highly polished mahogany desk.
“One… two… three times this month.” The warden softly spoke to himself.
M.C. sat across from him, unbandaged and fully clothed, without saying a word. A large man stood over M.C. like a looming black sentinel. M.C. pressed his lips together, pulled them in and tongued them of chapped skin. The office had library shelves, rows of dark colored books on the east wall near the door. A window, behind the warden, over looked the more scenic field area which ran into the woods beyond the prison. Paper shuffled again, drawing M.C.’s eyes back to the desk. Everything on top formed a ninety degree angle, an old fashioned dial phone, the pencil sharpener with the desk calendar and the black and gold name plate simply inscribed Warden. Even the way he flipped through M.C.'s papers was meticulously done, the discard pile reshuffled on the desk each time he overturned a page.
“ You’re getting worse. What have we got you in here for anyway...?" The warden questioned, breaking silence.
M.C. slide back in his chair, and leaned slightly forward.
“You see it was--”
“That was a rhetorical question.” The warden cut him off. “I don’t care why you’re in here. Fact of the matter is you’re in here. That’s enough for me.”
M.C. swallowed and tongued his lips more vigorously than before. The warden continued to flip through papers as the uneasy lull of silence returned. M.C. picked at the number on his shirt until the warden reshuffled and spoke again.
“Control. I run a prison that functions, and I would like to have it functioning efficiently -- at all times. Whatever baggage you brought from outside gets dropped when you enter my front door. Whatever shit you collect here gets dealt with real quick or I have a problem. But you don’t seem to understand that. You’re hard headed and ignorant and I don't like you in my prison.” The warden preached.
He returned to his papers momentarily. M.C. scratched then rubbed the back of his neck, eyeing the guard behind him who hadn’t moved. The warden spoke again, eyes locked on M.C. as if he were ready to leap into his soul.
"A week of solitary." He paused. "You should be getting tired of this by now."
"Yeah." He flashed a quick smile. "I mean, yes sir."
"Readmittance into general population. That's what you want don't you? But is that what is going to benefit me?"
M.C. nodded his head slowly. The warden reluctantly pulled a stamper from a drawer to his right and stamped some of M.C.'s papers. He shuffled the papers back into the folder, looked up at the guard and neatly laid them on the corner of his desk.
"Take him out of here."
"This way." The guard's voice bellowed out for the first time.
Biting his bottom lip to keep from grinning, M.C. slowly got up as the warden eyed him over one last time. He turned his back to him and was ushered out of the room by the towering sentinel. The warden waited a moment, then dialed out on his phone.
"Cellblock D. Yes. A readmittance. Number 051924 is returning to general population..."

*****

Cell block D, Row 5. Above the confines of the pit, steel and concrete cells spiraled three floors up. In for the night, M.C. laid on the bottom bunk of his cell for the first time in nearly five days. He took in the pleasant smell of ivory soap sheets to forget about the metal coils burrowing into his back. He closed his eyes to forget about the walls around him a little more than an arm’s length away. He could’ve been anywhere in the world in that moment, but latent footstep echoes from above quickly brought him back. He noticed two towels, neatly folded, placed next to a small cardboard box containing his belongings. Next to it was his cellmate’s box, taped, with a few unopened envelops sitting on top. The footsteps approached his door now. His door unlatched and his bed whined as he turned to see his cellmate return via escort.
"What up Kula?"
"Que pasa? Cuanto tiempo ese?"
M.C. sat up in bed as the stocky little Cuban man with a fixated grin shuffled through his mail.
"Gettin that good mail, I see."
"Ha. Goo-d. Goo-d es mi as a free muchacho en one month."
"Damn, you for real? Nah. You ain't gettin out early."
"Si, it's true."
Kula struggled to lift himself to the top bunk. He laid down and the mattress drooped down on M.C. under his weight. The sound of opening letters filled the air. M.C. yawned.
"So what you gonna do, you goin back to Cuba?"
Kula paused and unfolded a letter. A photo was inside: a woman in a yellow dress standing next to a brown stucco wall.
"Cuba? No. There es no opportunity, I stay in America. Eh, work a little, then maybe I see."
"Aight, aight. Do you." He gave his nod of approval and yawned again.
M.C. closed his eyes. Kula continued to read.
"So...why you keep getting in much trouble ese?"
Startled by the question, M.C.'s eyes quickly opened. He smiled an open tooth grin, then looked down and his eyebrows bunched together. He laughed aloud and waited for a moment. His fingers rubbed over the stubby oval shaped scab protruding from the back of his head.
"Damn." He paused. "I don't even really kno. Trouble just be followin me for real..." He picked at his scab. "On some deep shit, it just be livin up in me."
M.C. flinched as he brought his hand back to see a little blood on his finger tip. He put it in its mouth. It had a metallic taste. Kula held his letter by his side, and looked down at the picture again. His lips slowly curled up at the ends, and he laughed aloud. M.C. frowned.
"Maybe you just miss the muchachas too much ese?"
It was quiet for a split second. Then the cell erupted in laughter, pushing back the walls and softening the beds momentarily. Then the laughter came to an abrupt stop. M.C. shook his head, rolled to his side, and gripped his pillow.
“Kula got jokes...”
Gravity slowly overtook his eyelids and he returned to the past once again.

The Math of War

2,998 Americans died on September 11th, 2001.

926 Americans have died in Afghanistan.

4,370 Americans have died in Iraq.

5,296 v.s. 2,998.

Is this the price of revenge?