Oh, and I remember nights?

?when wind met us and the road met our souls. Late night driving, can't sleep, it's too late to turn around and too early to stop. The sounds of 60 mile an hour wind and waves crashing in the distance meld to form a general whoosh that is really all you or your mind or body or soul are capable of thinking. Just speed and a driving beat on stressed speakers, you try to turn down the wind with a volume switch, so entwined are the competing energies in your head? Oh, I remember nights where love was palpable, where youth stood toe to toe with the future and laughed with a daring raised eyebrow. I remember when it all just worked so well, there was no responsibility, just fun and love and friends and speeds that would make elder people embarrassed. I remember nights? summer nights? Nights I'd never want to forget. We came to an intersection, once. I remember, there were no streetlights, so far past suburbia were we, the only lights were the stars overhead and the halogen necessities on the front of the saab. I turned out the lights, looked up through the sunroof, thanked God I was alive, looked right, thanked God I was alive, turned them on, deduced that I had been every way but left, so I went left. Not dangerously high speeds, but high enough to bring on exhilaration and a feeling of completeness. Not reckless abandonment, but liberty? Thomas Jefferson defined it as the ability of a body to do what a body will do. That driving beat, the waves, the wind, the smiles, the constant smiles? That was liberty. There can be no freer existence. I have great, big plans. I want to make lots of money, I want to change the world, I want to have 300 million odd people call me their leader and mean it. I want to be known as inspirational, I want to take us to the next level. I think I was born to do it. It's daunting, and it's huge, but there can be no doubt in my mind. But I never, ever want to do anything so great and so big that I can't appreciate the beauty and perfection of a late night drive with people I love.

I want bones like iron

Blood like mercury

So I can tell you when I'm rising

And when I'm sinking in...

Excuses, excuses? It's been a while since I've written. I've been busy, I really have. I had a big paper due for my American History class and have spent the subsequent weekend celebrating its successful conclusion. The paper was on my interpretation of some scholars' interpretations of the Immigrant Experience ?, in the early part of the 20th century. It was rather interesting, but time consuming. Lots of real reading, real close note taking, careful observations of phrasing and a partial reevaluation of the way I see the interaction of world cultures. So forgive me.

America - Observation 1: Power and Fear and Prayer America is such an interesting thing. The one thing I've discovered is that no one in America, or a truly slim percentage, has any idea of how big an effect America has on the world. When we say we lead the world, it's hard to understand how big we really are. It all comes down to influence. It's gotten to the point where if there's a successful food chain, like this heavenly Portugese Chicken chain they have down here called Aporto's, if it gets too big, people automatically assume that it's been bought by an American. These Canadians who were visiting one of my neighbors this weekend just LACED into me about how bad America was. This, of course, bespoke their ignorance most of the time, but really the rest of the world is so afraid of how big and how powerful America is that, when combined with a twisted, easy religious fanaticism and a poverty unimaginable by 21st Century minds, it's not impossible to see how September 11th could have happened.

Those bastards, of course, defied the Edward Grey convention: "[America is like] a gigantic boiler. Once the fire is lighted under it there is no limit to the power it can generate." If I were Osama Bin Laden, I would pray to Allah every day, every night, every morning, every evening, every waking, pacing moment that I was never found, that I died peacefully in a distant, warm place, far from a pissed-off New Yorker with an M16 that happened to wander into my cave and who just happened to lose a brother, a sister, a friend, to my cruelly effective actions. I would pray till I could no longer remember the words as separate entities, I would pray till my eyes teared from the exertion. This, of course, would be sadly ironic because, were I Osama Bin Laden, no amount of prayer would ever do: Allah no longer would listen to me, and he never, ever would.

Spoiled It is tragically easy to forget how spoiled I am. I can't remember the number of times that I cursed my school, cursed my now, in hindsight, amazing teachers, cursed my old car that I now wish I had back, dents and all. Jesus, what a spoiled bastard I was. To think that I ever complained about anything, to think I ever wished for a bigger television, more money for myself, a faster 3D card? It makes me cringe. It's one of those great ironies in life, on par with Stephen Hawking who, to me, is cruel irony defined: I was so rich in the things that men wish all their days to be rich in (friends, family, information, love, liberty, opportunity) that I literally forgot about them, assumed them to be de rigueur the world over. I'm not sure I've ever made a more baseless assumption, except maybe when I assumed that the Red Sox would at least make the bloody playoffs last year. My assumption, though, was brought into such a blindingly clear light this week. I read tales of immigrants, in the early part of the 20th Century, then some about those in the early part of the 21st, who literally gave up everything for one: an opportunity, a chance. I heard stories from people about fathers who left before they were born, mothers who kicked them out at 16 and threatened suicide if they didn't. I heard stories about parents who worked 18 hours a day in order to put the money together to put bread on the table, who left the country and everything they had ever known in order to be able to better live their lives. Pardon my French, but I think it's warranted: Holy Shit. Now, what do I do about that?

The extremes are immediately evident, but equally unappetizing: I could do what most of the world does and just close my eyes, smile, immerse myself in the fa�ade of pop culture messages, spend tons of money, live the decadent life I know I'll someday be able to afford. I could, I guess, drown out the sorrows of the world with the overhead classical of Nordstrom's and Philip Wolfe. I could be a crusader for peace and justice and give away everything I ever made, guilt-trip myself into hating my blessed existence. That doesn't sound like a happy life, either, and I refuse to buy whoever's argument it was that all life was meant to be unhappy. I'm an American, dammit, and there's light at the end of the tunnel, a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. But there has to be a balance.

Balance I think I'm so fascinated by extremes that I'm at them all the time. There has to be a balance in most things. If I could find some philosophy that made it easier for me to find a balance in my life, well then hell, I'm in, I'm hooked. I hear Zen is like that a bit, so I have to read into that more. What I've read of Baghavan is interesting, but I haven't been nearly as dedicated to it as I should be. Regardless, I need balance. I can't be too much a party-line democrat or republican. I can't be too much a moral crusader or too much the typical Wall Street Master of the Universe, to borrow from Tom Wolfe. I can't be too high and mighty or too forgiving. I can't be too optimistic or too realistic. Balance, I need balance. There was a great, if odd, short film made a while ago about balance. Get it if you can. It's German, I think, so be prepared for an odd sense of humor and a very unsubtle message, but that does not reduce its poignance or, I hate to use this word too much but, here goes, perfection. Balance is perfection. I always thought of God as the perfect blend of art and science, the perfect balance, that is. :D It occurs to me that balance is the result, but I don't think I can just go for it. It needs a launching point. Truth seems like a good one. Truth. Truth hurts like hell. Truth hurts like a blue-bottle, actually, and stays longer. Alright, ok, so this isn't going to be easy. How do I get truth and thus achieve balance? Convention rises in me and out comes the word: religion. I don't think that's necessarily true. Maybe for some people, but not me. How do I get truth? I wish there were truth dealers I could meet in those stereotypical dark alleys, deserted streets far from offending streetlights. I can see truth becoming drug like. It occurs to me now that the next raging party drug is probably going to be called truth. I mean, the names have risen, literally, from the ashes, eh? Weed -> Ecstasy. Ecstasy -> Truth is only logical, right? Does that mean we're progressing as a culture or merely getting more bored by the minute? Anyway, back to real truth, I wish it were easy to find. Right now, just thinking about it, it's not going to be easy. It's not like I can get it off Audiogalaxy from someone who has it and burn myself a copy. Ok, we don't need another metaphor, but still, I want you all to know: This is gonna suck.

My new friends here wish me to say hi from them. Some of you have talked to them online. They're quite cool, the Aussies. I'm having a great time with them. More pictures forthcoming, I promise. We just have to do something not involving school or movies. :)

Plans for uluru are coalescing from gas phase?