Well, last night was the first debate in the 2012 Presidential Election. Be sure to check out the various Fact-Checks going around the web (here’s The New York Times and POLITICO). So far, it looks like Romney stretched the truth or was wrong more often, but that was because he said so many more specific things than Obama. These were some of my thoughts from the evening: Continue reading
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Let’s (TED) talk about porn & Struthers’ “Wired For Intimacy” [REVIEW]
Earlier this year, I read William Struthers’ book Wired For Intimacy: How Pornography Hijacks the Male Brain. It was an amazing book and I learned much from it (and I encourage anyone to read it, male or female).
One justified criticism, however, that I have heard about this book is that it doesn’t quite speak to the questions that many would naturally bring to such a book. It’s separated into two parts: the first is theory, the second is application and implications.
This is all well and fine, except the first part is extremely clinical and tries really hard to be a casual observer to the effects of pornography. This results in a whole lot of the minutiae of various hormones and chemicals in the brain and what happens to them and why. But, there’s no context as to why (or whether) any of these effects are necessarily bad or harmful. It merely describes various chemicals and brain structures and how pornography is received and processed, but in his attempt at neutrality and avoiding value-judgments, he ends up creating at atmosphere in which the reader continually thinks “okay, so what?”.
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The Way Out: a modern re-telling of Exodus (a scene) | {story#19}
This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. I’m usually very insistent that a piece should be able to stand on its own with no explanation, but this being a random scene from a play, I’ll tell you what you need to know. This is from an original play called “The Way Out”. It’s a modern re-telling of the biblical Exodus. “Christopher” is the Moses in this story, “Evan” is his brother Aaron, and “Joshua” is Yahweh. Even grew up a slave in the nation and Chris was raised in the King’s house. After killing a man, Chris was exiled and met his wife, before returning to help set these slaves free. Read more about StoryADay & follow here.
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CHRISTOPHER
You have no idea what sort of state I was in back then! Do you know what it’s like to kill a man? To feel the part of you that awakens after watching the eyes of a man grow dim beneath the weight of your own anger? Your own hands? I was beside myself! I couldn’t look at my own reflection for a month! I had no idea who I was anymore. Heck, I still don’t even know half the time. There is no way you could have any idea what that time was like!
The Atlantic gets it right on Obama’s civil liberties abuses & the value of your vote
Yesterday, Conor Friedersdorf (Twitter) wrote an amazing piece for The Atlantic in which he explains why–no matter how liberal he is–he is not voting for President Obama. He writes:
Sometimes a policy is so reckless or immoral that supporting its backer as “the lesser of two evils” is unacceptable. If enough people start refusing to support any candidate who needlessly terrorizes innocents, perpetrates radical assaults on civil liberties, goes to war without Congress, or persecutes whistleblowers, among other misdeeds, post-9/11 excesses will be reined in.
I found this link on Facebook through J.R.D. Kirk. I absolutely agree with every word of this post. I shared it to my own Facebook wall, and….wow…I got some major pushback, mainly over my inclination to vote for a third-party candidate. People through around the same phrases I’ve heard the past few weeks about “wasting my vote” and “throwing it away” and “de-valuing it”. I found this odd for a few reasons.
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Atheist: A Biography | {story#18}
This is an original fiction piece posted for StoryADay September. It’s a long one, so for your convenience, you can also read this story in PDF, Kindle, or EPUB formats. Read more about StoryADay & follow here.
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Luke was born into a moderately religious household. His family spent each Sunday morning rushing around the house amid a flurry of curses and arguments trying to get everyone ready for the Sunday School and service at the large Baptist church down the street. When Luke was older, he also went to the Wednesday night youth group this church had. But outside of that, religion wasn’t any great percentage of his day-to-day life. His parents never prayed before meals, there was no religious paraphernalia around the house, and the most frequent invocation of God was in front of the phrase “damn it”.
There was one time, though, that for some reason, Luke remembered his entire life. During one period when he was about 6 or 7, when his parents were fighting a lot, Luke found himself needing his father for something shortly after a particularly loud argument had concluded. His mother was in the washroom, loudly banging the doors to the washer and dryer as she changed loads. Luke walked into his parent’s bedroom and found his father on his knees beside the bed, knuckles clasped as if he would die should he let go, muttering quiet pleas within breaths taken between violent sobs. Luke stood there wordless for about 30 seconds watching this, until his presence was felt by his father. His father looked up and saw Luke staring at him with wide eyes.
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Four Courts on the Liffey | {story#17}
This is an original fiction piece posted for StoryADay September. It was written a long time ago, and since then, a much longer and more mature version has been written. It is based on Liam O’Flaherty’s 1923 short story “The Sniper”. Read more about StoryADay & follow here.
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The Republican Sniper started across the street to his bounty, curious of its identity. As he dashed across the street, a hail of machine gun fire came from a nearby roof and followed close behind him. He dodged it effortlessly, and dove beside the kill which he called his own. He looked at the body of the other sniper and recalled the recent events of that night which had led to that moment. Their waltz was now over, and he had won. Curious of his identity, he knelt down next to the Free State sniper’s body, and peered over his shoulder and stared into the open eyes of his dead brother.
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(Earlier that night)
Dublin was dark- enveloped and engulfed in the shadow of Civil War, waiting for the long June dusk to wither down to darkness. It was like a sleeping giant, waiting for either morning or liberation from the war to come before it awoke. One lone vehicle was out that night, traveling across the bridge that went over the Liffey. Continuously and bravely it advanced, almost wanting to be attacked. This vehicle was safe, though, its steel walls had been resisting bullets all day, keeping its driver and passengers safe from the Republican gunfire. It was on rendezvous to meet an informer, but its driver’s thoughts were elsewhere.
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The Portrait of the Artist as a Never Ending Series of Name-puns (a poem) | {story#16}
This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. Read more & follow here.
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I
She stands alone,
lost in a process she only knows;
the reflection staring back in silent contemplation
of a piece going “God knows where”.
The streets lie lifeless in her eyes;
those eyes hidden by a façade of powder and colour,
yet somehow come through.
The mousy bed face wins again.
It wins the hearts of those around her,
a victory bitter in her mouth as unintentioned
as the betrayal of a love
far less worthy than she.
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Communion | {story#15}
This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. Read more & follow here.
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You ever tried to get your cry on, only to move your mouth and stretch you lips and squint your eyes, and squeeze your body, only to have nothing come out? Ever feel the cold concrete ground against your still head, only to imagine how it would feel to come against it with force? To watch the gray grow increasingly red with your own blood? The blood just came out of her in spurts. She wouldn’t die. She wouldn’t die. Possessed by Beelzebub, she worships the wheel, the wheel she worships. She’s a witch, I tell you–a witch. She gave the boy a poisoned orange and snatched it away from him. She wants him to die. I did it for him. I did it for him. I love him. The boy, I love. She says she loves me. She loves me not. She loves me. She loves me not. She loves me. How did she keep walking? Like Jesus on water, except the water was red and all over her she walked and walked. We worship the pig, not the wheel, so Jesus loves us. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not. The boy, he loves me. He stared at me with wide eyes. I thought he would cry in joy, cry in surprise, cry in freedom, but he just sat. Still. Silent. Mouth-opened. Tears building and building, never breaking the ridge to fall down his cheek. He began shaking. I was trying to cut her mother-fucking head off, but it just wouldn’t go! I told him, I’m doing this for you, buddy! I’m doing this for you! His shaking body told me thank you in response. They kept telling me She wants to kill the boy! She wants to kill the boy! You need to kill her kill her kill her! But the witch inside her kept her alive. Even when I walked to her sister’s house, she followed me–still walking!–like a monster and followed me, the blood falling out of her in sheets–laughing at me, staring at me, touching me and punching me. My hands were slippery and then became sticky, like honey. Sweet honey. I saw a deer outside my window last night. It was beautiful. Through the cut concrete I stared, and stared, for years and years. The deer moved so slowly around the fence. It’s eyes were green. Envy. Jealousy. It wanted to be me, to be inside of me. I won’t let it. It can’t be inside me and fuck me. As I laid on her back bringing down the judgment, I remembered all the times she was on top of me, touching me, breathing in my ear. Killing me. She loves me. She loves me not. She loves me? When I was older I’d punch her. She’d punch back. We’d wrestle and wrestle and I knew she liked it. To feel a touch. To feel something. My cousin was shot last week and is now with Jesus. Jesus loves me, this I know. I worship the pig. She worships the wheel. The boy, I love him. I saved him. I’ll beat this, I will. I’ll go to the Judge and tell him and he will let me free, and give me the boy. And he will be mine. But no, they are corrupt. They know I will conquer them and so they will keep me in here. But I will be freed as on angel’s wings. Jesus wouldn’t do it. I will. I’ve seen the kingdoms of the world, and I can have them all. They’ll give me the boy. And he will be free. He will live. He will prosper. He will love. He will be loved. I love him. I love him not. I love him. I love him not. I love.
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This work by Paul Burkhart is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Weekend Photo Challenge: Solitary
This week’s WordPress Weekly Photo Challenge theme is “Solitary“. After much deliberation (and annoying my brother), I decided on this one.
This picture was taken on a missions trip I took to Latvia in 2007. Where we were staying was a mere 50 yards from a beach running along the Baltic Sea. Being so far north, the brilliant sunsets would last for several hours on into 11pm. And those sunsets were so brilliant.
One evening, after dinner, I went out to beach on my own. They had these tall jungle gym sort-of things dotting the beach for kids. I was able to climb up one of them and sat there for a couple of hours taking pictures. I saw this one older gentleman appear on the beach and just walk: hands folded and his mind deep-in-thoughts. I (creepily) watched him for some time, fascinated by his gait, wanting to know his thoughts.
And so, to me, this pictures captures the beauty, contemplation, weightiness, and depth of solitude. I need moments like these to stay sane, and I hope to channel this man’s practice for years to come.
See my past Weekly Photo Challenges here.
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Slay the Dragon, Save the Princess | {story#14}
This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. Read more & follow here.
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She turned from our star, cutting short the conversation. I tried to reconnect several times, but she wouldn’t return to my frequency.
Is it really over? Did she really just break up with me?
I just stood there in my backyard, in silence, still sweaty from the pacing I had done for the past two hours on this most-stressful of phone calls. The long distance had been tough, to be sure, but surely she didn’t think that this one year we’d have to spend apart was worth ending things over, did she? I know this year had been hard with her Master’s program, but I generally found Jules to be so calm, steady, and at ease. I didn’t think anything could get to her. It seems I was wrong.
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Story Fail (a limerick) | {story#13}
This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. Read more & follow here.
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There once was a writer named Paul
who took on an order so tall:
___to write a story each day,
___and neglect work and play.
But today, he must rest from it all.
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This work by Paul Burkhart is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Propriety is the Spice of Life, pt. 1 | {story#12}
This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. Read more & follow here.
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“I tell you what, I never could see what drew you to a boy like that!” She brought the fly swatter down as if upon the head of Tom.
“Mom! He’s a good man!” Clinching her fists, Sarah noticed that she gave a little stomp with her right foot to punctuate this statement. She felt like a caricature, but she didn’t care. This was important–important enough for dramatics.
“I should hope so! He thinks he can just waltz right in here and sweep my daughter away? I’ll let him know he’s got another thing comin’!” Another fly bit the dust.
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I almost voted for Obama, but then I remembered…
[Updated below]
Having neglected my favorite columnist and favorite podcast as of late, it was easy to forget. As I said in my post about almost voting for Romney, I let the Conventions sort-of sweep me up. I swore I’d never give in, but oh those sirens were such smooth-talking mistresses.
First, as I mentioned last week, the big shift for me towards Obama was Clinton’s speech at the National Convention. I thought it was amazing. But, this speech ended up being not as factually accurate as it sounded. And (speaking of how it sounded) as Dan Carlin said (as I was finally catching up with his podcast), this speech was only our generation’s introduction to the kind of politician Clinton’s always been. This was simply vintage Clinton, and I admit, I developed a little man-crush.
I had a conversation with you yesterday | {story#11}
This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. Read more & follow here.
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I had a conversation with you yesterday. I know, I know, it’s not fair to hold you to something you don’t remember–but I did. I promise. You were sitting in your chair, and I in mine. You looked up at me from your magazine (or newspaper, was it?) and said, “I do declare!”
“What is it that you might declare?”, I declared back in your direction.
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Ultimo Coffee Graduate Hospital
I live across the street from this. I. Can. Not. Wait.
Over four years ago Elizabeth and Aaron Ultimo were laying plans to move from their beloved community in Arlington VA/Washington DC back to Philadelphia PA where Aaron had gone to college years before. It was a move that was inspired by the idea of helping lead the coffee revival in that city. As they poured over the different neighborhoods that inspired their curiosity they settled on a few that sounded like they would be perfect for their plans. One was the quickly growing neighborhood of Fishtown. The other was equally rapidly developing Graduate Hospital. After weighing the two very different neighborhoods and visiting both they fell in love with the charm and beauty of the latter. However, upon moving to Philadelphia opportunity took them to a different neighborhood to which they became very attached. Ultimo Coffee Newbold was born. It was their baby, their firstborn and it flourished beyond expectations…
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the long way home 