Gasland

Not having any idea what the premise of the documentary "Gasland" was all about, I hit the play button with complete ignorance to the story's subject matter.

103 minutes later, my ignorance could no longer be kept in the dark.

In 2005, America changes legislation so that Oil and Gas companies can get around the Clean Air and Water Act that President Nixon put into place in the 1970's to protect the American public. This was done so that corporate America can run Big Business and exploit our BLM lands to do Hydraulic Fracking for Natural Gas.

The problem with this is in the sneaky way the government changes legislation to turn a profit, while not properly informing us. With the new legislation, there seems to be no oversight or regulatory control of private enterprise. When that happens, the American people suffer. In this case, corporations are freely drilling in the proverbial backyards of citizens, and the effects of their drilling are having devastating effects of water wells, humans and animals health, and the environment.

I live in the State of Utah, a State that according to the movie, has almost two thirds of it's BLM land covered with these type of natural gas drills. I understand about the economic impact, but my question is, at what cost?

Last year, I became extremely ill. Specialist after specialist, test after test, procedure after procedure, no one could pinpoint the exact problem.

I wonder, considering where I live, if the drilling for natural gas has leaked into our Utah's watersheds? If so, it is in the crops we grow, the animals we consume, and the air we breathe.

Should we not be concerned, or is our society only concerned with capital gains? Is one's goal to obtain the American dream killing the very fabric of our society?

Little Acorns

Just drive deeper into the unknown.

Dust bellowing up from behind like a murderous storm, or a woman.

Take a deep breath, choke on it.

Avoid the pitfalls, traverse the scene. Glide.

The pulsating beat of the heart of her is near now, so close I can taste her

feel her

want her.

Silence, except for a bee. A single bee. Buzzing just for me.

Buzzing just to be

a Bee.

Nairobi slums

It seems that the instantaneous sharing of thoughts, pictures, and ideas is the norm in the 21st century. It would be hypocritical to say that I am any different.

But I do try to have some restraint about certain experiences, at least for a while. There can be events that need the passing of time for them to resonate, to make sense.

I knew that on my last day in Nairobi, I wanted to capture the streets, the people, the stores, houses, the activity that was in the slums of Soweto.

I now want to share that with you. The music to accompany this is by two artists. The first is by Eva, and the second song is by the Soweto Gospel Choir.

Black September

The subjective nature of history, the stories written and shared for future generations, who decides what is told, and the manner in which the events occurred?

Hearing  "Imagine those poor guys over there. Every five minutes a psycho with a machine gun says, 'Let's kill 'em now,' and someone else says, 'No, let's wait a while.' How long could you stand that?"

Black September was never told to me.

Is this to keep certain preconceived notions about the country I live in, my government, even my very nature intact?

What is truth, honor, respect anyway but ones perceptions of their own surroundings.

The more I learn, the more my reality is cracked, a fractured line on my skull, penetrating me.

 I see only to follow my own thoughts, and to trust myself, as that is the only certainty I have.

AK-47

Back in his hometown of Izhevsk in the Soviet Union, Andrei Kirilenko dreamt of one day playing professional basketball, hopeful to make it to the NBA. As with most players, he had a jersey number that he preferred. Growing up in Russia, his lucky number was thirteen.

When he was drafted by the Utah Jazz, that number was already being used by another player. Disappointed, Andrei was forced to choose another number for his jersey. Andrei was becoming known for his excellent ball handling and shooting skills, and a fellow team mate suggested that he pick the number 47.

Andrei wasn't sure about this number at first, until it was explained to him that with his initials, he had a new nickname, AK-47. Andrei thought it wasn't too bad of an idea.

Doing a little research on the history of the automatic assault rifle, it was discovered that the gun was developed by a gentleman by the name of Mikhail Kalashnikov, from Andrei's own hometown in Russia.

One wonders if this is just a mere coincidence, a happenstance of chance as they say...

or is it something more?

we are The Black Keys, and we are going to play some songs for you.

n., pl., bourgeois.

1. A person belonging to the middle class.
2. A person whose attitudes and behavior are marked by conformity to the standards and conventions of the middle class.
3. In Marxist theory, a member of the property-owning class; a capitalist.

*****

Think about how you put people in little boxes, trying to sum them up into your own little world. I usually do this as I walk past the various characters you find in the first class section of a plane. The suits, trying to pretend to be more than they are, fooling no one. You have the painted up women, with the air of too much perfume mixed with old money, looking like vultures as they wait impatiently for their cocktails. Laid back yuppies and even the occasional long haired, Lennon bespectacled gent, wafting with the smell arrogance and failure, a dangerous combination.

But, I confess, there was a part of me that wanted to sit there, to feel the comfort and luxury. And so I became a little box for others to pass by and sum up, to figure out how this person ended up where I was, in peaceful slumber on my way to unrivaled awesomeness. Sometimes one needs to do good things for themself. I went to Chicago on New Years Day 2011. 

This trip was all about the people, starting with the taxi driver and I talking about the history of his town, the weather, sports and other common daily chatter between two strangers. His accent is thick, sounds like his tongue is coated with smooth peanut butter. He is most helpful, and I like to tip big when I travel.

I meet more friendly strangers, new friends, if only for awhile. Walking the concrete jungle streets of the Mile, I get a windburn across my face. I laugh when I see my reflection. The city is vibrant yet calm, not surprising for the day after New Years Eve. You can still feel the pulse here, the rattling of the city's bones when walking underneath the elevated train, through the magnificent buildings and art found around every corner. I need to move to a place like this, a living breathing metropolis.

As night falls, I almost explode with anticipation of the night to come. From hearing their first album, there was always the dream that one day I would see them play live. I never would have imagined it would be in such a beautiful, historical place as the Aragon ballroom. From the moment I walked under the marquee and in the front door, to when I stumbled out the same door hours later, mobbed by a crowd overcome with energy,  It was a killer, amazing, fantastic night. I might become a groupee, leave my job, and follow them from gig to gig. Such would be the life.

As I climbed back into a cab in the wee morning hours to head back home, I collapsed from exhaustion on the seat. But the cabbie had other plans. I accommodated, listening politely as he asked me where I was from, and then the subsequent questions that follow when I tell him. He tells me that he came here from India fourteen years ago. I ask about his family and he gets melancholy as he says that he left his family home. It is a familiar and sad, but also an inspiring story to me. Family does come first. I hear about the violence in his homeland that drove him to come here in the first place. I ask him if he likes our country. He has many interesting opinions, but we both agree that nothing much will change. The bourgeois's agree and part ways.

(P.S. if you watch the clip below, I dubbed in my own songs during the live performances of the Black Keys. This had nothing to do with the band, but the sound on my camera was the worst, or maybe the recording acoustics in the Aragon were sub-par. But don't worry, it's still worth watching.)