This Winter sucked for various reasons. Israel continued to grind my father’s country into dust and my lung collapsed for the fifth time in 6 years [a condition I attribute without any factual evidence to having lived through the first two years of the Intifada]. I had to have surgery, they cut off the top of my lung, and scrubbed my lung raw.
And guess what? I’m still here. I suppose as long as you’re alive to be saddened by the crap that goes on in the world, its a good sign. Its an even better sign to feel happy about the little things; taking the dog out to pee, sharing gumbo with someone you care about, maintaining one’s run-up-the-BART-stairs record, feeling the scars stretch your skin as they shrink, watching an unbeatable people rebuild their lives.
After such seasons its natural to wonder what the fuck it’s all about. The sixty thousand kinds of misery and murder; the pain, the fear, the anguish that is living in a 163 pound sack of meat and offal; complicity, guilt, responsibility, agency. I have fewer answers than I had three months ago, a fact I’m very happy about.
And if you happen to be walking down your bookstore’s magazine aisle, and happen to see a magazine called Extra! with a big picture of Obama on the cover, please pick it up and read my article. Don’t forget to look for Meatpaper #6 too.