Friday, 09 July 2004

Thursday, 08 July 2004

[written 7/7/04]

I've seen three documentaries in theaters during the past month—Supersize Me, Fahrenheit 9/11, and The Corporation, which I saw tonight. None of them are easy to watch, really. In the latter two I had to fight to keep from crying several times, and I left the theater with something of a renewed sense of responsibility, even if it wasn't readily clear what I was(/am) supposed to do. Since crying is no fun, and lack of responsibility is infinitely easier, why go see these movies? I guess it's because I don't want to be part of the problem, or maybe because I wouldn't respect myself if I paid no attention.

The Corporation was the worst in my opinion, and by the worst, I mean the most intense, and perhaps the most disturbing. I think it was the hardest for me because I am more directly a part of the corporate machine than I am of the industry that produces fast food (which I don't eat) or the America that gives power to the current administration (which I don't support).

(Yes.) I work at a non-profit; I'm careful about what I buy, eat, and consume; I watch very little TV (which I suppose means I'm exposed to less advertising, bad journalism, and reality TV, which—corporate or not—is a good thing, right?); and I tend to be fairly well-informed and self-aware.

(But, to name a few.) I'm wearing brand-name clothing produced in a third-world country (I cut the tag out, but that doesn't change anything); the bills I pay are written to corporate giants; like anyone else, I fall victim to suave marketing; and I consume products on a daily basis that are made by companies that exploit and pollute and own governments and deceive and abuse. In fact, I'm typing these words on a computer made by a company famous for outsourcing.

I'm caught between helpless frustration (thinking the only escape is to live on a commune, which is not an attractive option) and motivation to—at the very least—try to do my part, whatever that is.

What's okay to buy? What's not? I'm lucky to be in a city not yet stripped of its small businesses, but of course even those aren't islands.

...

There are people I wish I could force to watch the movie: the ones unfamiliar with these issues, and the ones who acknowledge the issues but refuse to look at them out of discomfort (the "I know it's bad but I don't want to know how bad" people). I kept thinking of a certain family member while I watched the film. Half-composed thoughts such as, if I bought it on DVD and gave it to him as a present, would he watch it? (And would that be ironic, for me to buy it on DVD?)

...

Lately I've been looking for things I can completely trust, something pure that hasn't been manufactured with my wallet in mind, something not meant to manipulate me. There isn't much anymore that I'm not wary of; at first something will look fully wholesome, but when I peek behind the curtain, I learn there aren't that many virgins left after all. I'm pretty sure my cat isn't out to screw me over, so there's one.

...

I can tell my frustration has already softened from when I was sitting in the theater, sick to my stomach from information, and I can tell my sadness has dimmed since I took the train home sitting among the working poor on the JMZ.

When I read these words next week, tomorrow, in an hour—I'm only going to be able to faintly recall the feeling that once drunkenly overwhelmed me, without knowing how to fully ignite it again. (The ever-wise Scott P suggested that I don't really want to live in that overwhelmed state anyway, because I would surely have a coronary.) I'm certainly not able to adequately communicate the feeling; it's like trying to explain what being drunk feels like.

I worry about coming across as anti-capitalist, which I'm not, and about presenting my global and generic reactions to a film you may not have seen. (I don't want to seem like an overreactor.) I'm probably going to be embarrassed of my passion, which is really quite sad.

I imagine that tomorrow, when I wake up, I'll still be thinking about the film and how it relates to the society I'm part of, but it will be even hazier and more dreamlike. As if someone had read me a bedtime story by Orwell, and that now it's time to move on and return to "reality."

Tuesday, 06 July 2004



Photos from my camping trip.

Monday, 05 July 2004

[For the last few months, I've needed a break from this city: from bodies clustered in tiny spaces, from restaurants and subway cars full of imposing elbows and knees, and from sidewalks packed with slow, erratic walkers. A break from the constant push of forward movement and productivity; a break from concrete and skylines and trash; a break from sirens and car alarms and ice cream truck jingles. As much as I like this place, lately I've been craving its antithesis.]

...

Martin agreed to go camping with me, but the steps between the decision and the arrival are not easy for either of us. How does one go about planning around unknown variables? I'd much rather just leave and improvise.

All of the official campsites within two hours' radius were completely full for the holiday weekend by the time I called last week. In fact, to camp in Montauk right now, you have to reserve a camping spot for an entire week. Who wants to camp for a week?

Through the tip of a coworker, I decided to head to the Delaware Water Gap on the PA/NJ border, since reservations weren't necessary and camping was free, and, perhaps even more important, we could find an isolated campsite, away from the screaming children (etc.) that we might encounter at a proper campground. Oh, and another necessary feature: the Delaware Water Gap is accessible by public transportation.

We shopped and borrowed on Friday evening, and hurriedly packed early Saturday. Too much food, insufficient bedding, not enough water, no maps. Martin's tent didn't move with him to New York, so we had to pack my heavier and bulkier one. We were laden like mules, and had little idea where we were going.

While sitting at the terminal killing time (after we'd missed the bus we wanted), we discovered that we'd forgotten much of the food we'd planned to take for both lunch and dinner, so Martin ran around the neighborhood collecting replacements while I guarded our stuff. He returned just in time to board the bus.

Once we arrived in the tiny town of Stroudsburg, PA, we took a taxi to look for a trail head. Despite the Appalachian Trail's relative fame, the driver didn't seem to know where to find it, but she was patient while we guessed at where to go. She was chatty, had long, greasy gray hair, and wheezed when she breathed. She had an odd spurt of a laugh that sounded like the cranking of a wind-up toy. We leaned out the window to ask a few strangers directions before being deposited on the curb.

It got easier. We hiked for an hour-and-a-half, stopping to take pictures, talk to hikers (everyone says hello on the AT, apparently), and to put down our packs and rest. At the top of the mountain, we found a grassy clearing that overlooked the Delaware River and we set up the tent. We explored the mountain, cooked dinner, drank wine, played cards, listened to random stations on the radio, and watched the sun set. We could see about 150 degrees of horizon from our site; after the sun fell, we watched premature 4th of July firework shows spurting out of six different towns like bombs and geysers.

Except for the fireworks and the hum of a highway far below, there was no evidence of any other humans in the area. Sore muscles, blisters, and mosquito bites, but I'm really glad all the proper campgrounds were full.

I'll post some pictures soon.

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