Wordsworth: Sooooo Inapproprate

In thanks to the nod from my sis up in ny, the irrepressible  Sydette Harry (spelled it right and everything boo ) a repost of my contribute to her Carnival of radical action from a month or so ago. Do head over if you have not checked out her blog “Having read the fine print…” It’s ggooooddd readin’

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Inappropriate.

It is a word I hear all too often walking down the tree line alleys of an average Ivy League veranda, but I can’t really judge I guest.

It comes in those chance snippets of conversation you laugh at with friends when there is a lull in your own equally wack-out conversations while walking in a bubble of interest down a tree line alleyway of an average Ivy League veranda.

I heard one just tonight. It was an undergrad towards west philly with friends and said suddenly, “And then he killed his girlfriend.”

Now these moments are isolated from context, and thus any number of interpretations can be made and thrown away again. Was she leaving a nearby movie theatre? Lit students critiquing a classmate’s short story? A news clipping?

It is on this unsure ground I ponder the many times and many contexts I have heard the word “inappropriate.” I can’t say for sure it is justified or not. Surely there are some things are legitimately inappropriate for conversation between friends. I’m sure most people can think of many. As with conversations about race, government policy and moral stances there are no unbias positions.

Still, considering the circumstances, you have to admit the situation is at least ironic. I mean this is the University of Pennsylvania I’m talking about, the oldest of Ivy League schools and the first liberal arts university in the country. This is a place where the best young minds of the world congregate to study the most advance branches of every field of study. The liberals here are the most liberal. The intellectuals most likely to think themselves evolved beyond religious, culture, or national confines. There are no boundaries, moral or otherwise, that cannot be pushed and the only word that means anything is your own. In such a place that prides itself on being the birthplace of progress, why are so many things called on impulse “inappropriate?” In a world beyond culture, why are so many things culturally taboo?

I will give an example.

There is was a freshman I will call Josh I was fond of walking with me through a division between engineering buildings. He was a sincere smartass with flair for Python coding. I was a second year senor at the time and known by the underclassmen for my teaching. He was a student in the class I taed. Somehow our conversation turned from comp sci to politics, as these conversations tend. More pointedly, we where talking about capitalism.

And Josh said:
“Well, I don’t know, I consider myself a libertarian when it comes to those kinds of things. Most geeks do. Why restrict the market? Let people work for there money.”

I said:
“I feel you, but I fear libertarian’s fight against regulation. I mean, in theory you have to make better things to get better profits, but without guidelines isn’t it in companies best interest to crush competition, use as little labor as cheaply as possible and make cheap products.”

Josh said:
“Come on, Warren. They wouldn’t do that because that it not in the interest of their customers.”

I said:
“Welcome to capitalism, dude.”

And then there was a change in Josh. Confident as he was, I saw instantly in his eyes a mark of strain. He paused and looked at me and said:
“Well, it certainly could be much worst in other countries so I guess we can just be glad for that.”

And then I paused, just as surprised at the response, and said:
“Well, that’s true, Josh but despite that, as citizens I think it is our duty to challenge our ideas and push things forward.”

To which he said:
“I really don’t think you should say things like that.”

And then he looked around as if waiting for swat members to crash in through the plate glass of the engineering quad.

“That sounds dangerous.”

Another example:

Lauren Hill recently made a performance at a Christmas celebration by the Vatican. Before starting, she stood in front of the crowd, took the mic in hand, wave off the accompaniment and said the follow:

I did not come here to celebrate the birth of Christ with you but to ask you why you are not in mourning for his death inside this place? …God has been a witness to the corruption of his leadership, of the exploitation and abuses by the clergy.

Now most of the crowd did not speak English (though they could apparently sing Ex-factor word for word). But for those that got word through translators and certainly for the press reporting, the comments where none too welcome. Most articles responded negatively to Hill’s comments, one even saying that she made and “ass of herself.” The Vatican’s response?

It was in poor taste and very bad mannered.

Bad-mannered.

Now, I understand the arguments that she should not have accepted the initiation if she did not agree with the promoters. I personally think that if you want to truly stand for something and not simply preach to the choir, you are going to have to do some things people don’t like. But that is just my opinion.

My question to all this is, with all the negative press, why wasn’t the substance of the comments ever mentioned? Why is it sudden in such poor taste to put yourself in a compromising situation and speak a truth that no one once to hear? Wasn’t it just this kind of “poor taste” that got Jesus crucified in the first place?

This essay is supposed to be about radicalism. It’s definition and the point at which one turns from a passive observer to an active participate in change. And this is a difficult question for me. I am never really sure how much is “active” and at what point one is truly radical. Though looking back on my record of service to my community I am satisfied that I at least tried, one never knows really how much is enough. In particular as a member of the poetry community, there are always those that sacrifice that much more.

Perhaps though, truly living a “radical” life mean more then a token canvaing job for greenpeace. Regardless of a group political affiliation, I see among my generation a people paralyzed by fear. Fear of being alone, and fear of being uncomfortable and above all, and most sadly, fear of being wrong. After a lifetime be being told they are that most perfect and precise snowflake, through into a world full of injustices devoid of easy solutions, too often I find my peers, and at time myself, simple going with the flow of things in those little times when we should have been the inappropate one.

And I am not talking about the meaningless shock of that one guy among men who has the “courage” to say that women are just not that smart sometimes. Nor the “courage” to put down a black teen from the neighborhood that has done nothing and said nothing to you for sake of a laugh between friends. That is the just the opposite. It is a statement made for ego and not for truth. Such statements are just assumptions based on nothing often with the full knowledge that there are many examples suggesting otherwise.

No, when I speak of baring witness to a inappropate truth, ingrained in that is that is a position separate for ego, separate from emotion, separate even from being an absolute. It is an idea born from your experience. It is limited in the way all experiences can ever be are and yet, it is true, in that way that all lifes  birth a perspective that must be acknowledges and excepted on it’s on terms. It may be wrong, it may be adjusted over time but it is yours. And I for one believe that the most beautiful of ideas in the American experiment is that that here, all truths can and must be acknowledged. That this is a right, not just of Americans, but all humanity.

And this idea, living by this principle in and of itself is hard. It is so easy to be apathic. While I am saddened by how much many I know, many with strong social consciences, do whatever they can be non-confrontation, I agree that is makes one feel alone sometimes. Sometimes you really do which you could just believe that 2+2=5. Still, despite the seemingly inchangible state of our society, there has and continues to be examples of cultures that encouraged discussion and progress.

In the rabbic texts, rival schools of thought wrote extensively on the wording of the law, each trying to come to a position most in line with the thought of God. Some gained wider acceptance and some stayed niche. Interestingly though, despite wildly diverge viewpoints all schools where respected.

Islamic Emmons are said to be interpreters of the word, a guide through time taking the ancient words of the holy Koran and weaving them into a practice in line with the current era. Often this required drastic rethinking of older interpretations. Yet, even when working with the word of God, it was acknowledged that things much be seen in own context.

Our own construction even, despite the word of strict interpreters, was built for change. Say what you want about the motives and compromises of our founding fathers, but it is clear they saw that despite there own high status things are never fixed in an ideal position. Why else the means to add amendments to the governments central textbook? Why else a system built to insure a balance between federal and local powers? Clearly, early civil servants saw our country as something would evolve over time. Clearly, they saw our nation as something that would change.

And how we have changed. How this change has accelerated. You are reading the words of the son of cattle, beamed through media beyond of hold of country, or corporation, beyond time and space. Millions can link to it, disagree with it or comment to it directly. As never before, millions can meet, discuss, fight and learn with each in ways never before available to the human species.

In no other time has the world been so small.

In no other time has the common man be in touch with the thoughts of others.

Never has the citizen had so much power.

And thus, never has then been more fear of the collective responsibility this brings.

I don’t know what comes next. I read my multiple RSS feeds at work just like anyone and feel just as helpless. You do your little contributions to moveon.org and move on with the rest of your day. You dream of leading a coup and put Motorcycle Diaries on your netflik’s queue but ultimately you still have to go to work. Got to pay those loans. Got to live that life.

But I do know that no matter what tools we currently have, they mean nothing if we do not believe in ourselves. All the technology in the world will do nothing if the big questions of western society: the supposed infallible of the stock market, the continued legacy of slavery and other histories of oppression, the connectedness of humanity as a species and our responsible to each other and the world, as long as honest talk on this question is inappropate what real use is there so called radical action?

So in lue of a personal army, I am just trying work on myself. To always be honest in world where it is assumed our leaders lie and we just swallow it. To be vocally outraged when a racist comment and to say so even if I may be making an assumption myself. And more importantly maybe, to be honest when I am called on that assumption, to make my peace other perspective and use my mistake to grow.

Perhaps the greatest courage comes not in the face of a tank rolled down our neighborhood throughway but in the face the common ignorance of friends, workmates and of our own minds.

Perhaps the greatest effort comes, not in changing the world, but changing ourselves.

Wordsworth: Meaning to Persist

“Then arrest me.” I said, not know exactly what I was saying. My mind was blank at this point. I was reacting on instinct alone and in all honesty, right or wrong were not even questions anymore.

Maybe I was being unreasonable….why exactly was it that I was being so…is obstinate the right word?

Obstinate:
Agj.
a. Stubbornly refusing to change one’s opinion or chosen course of action, despite attempts to persuade one to do so.

b. (of an unwelcome phenomenon or situation) very difficult to change or overcome the obstinent problem of unemployment

from latin obstinatus: meaning to persist

I have been a University of Penn student for the past 7 years now off and on. Just this past December I finally succeeded in finishing up my two remaining classes. Got a A- in Game Theory, a pleasant surprise, and a C in Computer Graphics, a great, great disappointment.

I work at IRCS, the Institute of Research in Cognitive Science, doing flash programming for a group doing research in high school math education and I, on this particular day, I was planning on going into my office to finish up some odds and ends. Buuuuuut it’s had been a long week and I’ve been itching to write and it is, after all, the weekend. So after a short walk on a beautiful day I strolled up the stairs of Van-pelt library, through the penncard-activated turnstiles and into the elevator 5th floor bound.

At the last moment, a south Asian student snaked through the doors, took quick glance at me and hit the number 3. I cleared my throat and he looked at me, holding his gaze a little longer with a blank expression and then down at his feet. I cleared my throat again and again he looked.

“It’s this weather.” I said, “Body can’t make up its mind what to do, you know.”

“Ya man,” he said, smiling and nodding now, suddenly softened and rocking back and forth on his heels. “I hear it’s going to snow soon.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” as the doors opened on the 3rd floor and our eyes suddenly turned into sudden open space.

He motions his arm,
“After you,” and I point to the rows of buttons.

“Fourth floor,” I said, mistakenly actually and I correctly myself just as he left with a satisfied smile on his face saying, “take care man,” and then I smiled back.

Fifth floor, I said again inside my head. Fifth floor.

And then I was there and headed down the first row I could perceive had a desk at the end after the first moment some deeper uncomfortably with that exchange had past. Row F something G something. I still had a smile on my face but there was something about that moment in that tiny little room and my scratchy little throat and his eyes somewhere in-between emotions before I spoke. I would never be use to it (if it was indeed anything at all), I thought and then let go of it, taking a seat near a thin open window where the sun still over-powered the florescent lights.

I sat and took out Cornelius, my steady little powerbook, and a charger for what I knew would be a nearly dead battery and took of my wool coat and rolled up my red long sleeved undershirt. I wiggled my toes inside my oversized rubber soled shoes and fleered out my oversized black-t emblazed with an over-sized portrait of Red Fox and brightened my under-lit computer screen and signed deeply.

I was trying my hand at a spy story and had two competing ideas in my head, one personal and strange, the other more obvious but more interesting in its scope.

In one, a homeless women shuffles into the dilapidated front office of a non-descript city hall on the day after a new mayor’s inauguration. She asked the clerk to see the mayor, ask if the “chicken is open to sunshine. I have a telegram. Past the open slot there is a green mystery. Mrs. Obormen said so,” to which the clerk stares confused and then apathetically tells her the mayor is available only by appointment and he is not liable nor has security clearance to hold telegrams. It starts like “So there was this women this women walking into the mayor’s office…”

In the other, a haggard CIA agent is on a train to Amsterdam in search of his favorite whore. He is on a plush night train coming in from Paris but can’t sleep very well for some reason. Instead, he pushes budget numbers around on his blackberry, ordering new nanosized wiretapping transmitters for his man in the caves of Pakistan and a lipstick gun for his blond, bukka-ed plant in eastern southern Iraq. He knows Russian fluently, was in no end of unbelievable James bond type moments all through his 30s and 40s but has moved into upper management since then and now deals with new kind of war and new technology used in a place were black suits and bow ties where never in fashion. He may die of the gout by the end.

I look up my email first (nothing much to report) and then on and off gamespy.com and digg.com and then back into Microsoft word. I clear my throat again, write and erased a sentence then remembered….I really could use a cup of tea.

I look at my Cornelius of a long moment and thought:
Hmmmm…

Nahhh.
It’s cool. My computer will be fine.
No one’s around. Penn card only access.
Got money? Check. Off I go!

First try to the basement floor where Mark’s café lives most of the year. I had a feeling it was not open, what with winter break still in effect until the following day and yes, I was correct. So, I took a quick run to the bathroom, took a shit and then outside. I thought of Cornelius and then let go. It was slightly chilly and I realized I left my coat behind. Rolled down the red sleeves. Tugged tighter my black billed skullie and thought, “whatever…still a beautiful day.”

I hate going to starbucks, but my trust does have some limits and it’s right across the street anyway so I given in for what felt like one too many times this week.

Whatever.

Standing on the corner at a red light next to a loose ‘fro brother holding a sign that I couldn’t quiet see. He was strikingly dressed and had a dignity to him that made me lean obviously over the curb and stoop my neck toward his chest, trying to make out the sign and our eyes meet.

He said, “What’s up brother.” I said, “Chillin.”

The sign had red, light green and white on it and inside said “sgi-“ and another abbreviation I can’t quite remember. I asked what’s up and he replied, firmly but rapidly, that he was there for s.g.i.-or-Soka-Gakkai-International-A-buddist-organizastion-that-chants-for-peace-through-Nichiren-Daishonin and I blinked hard and then shook my head.

“Ya…sgi. That’s crazy man. I went to a convention of theirs in san fran a while back.”

Which was true. A friend of mine still goes to chant every now and again. It was a little to much like my old days with Jehovah’s Witnesses for my personal comfort, but I will always remember warm hum of all those throaty voices chanting in unison inside that beautiful hall.

“We are having a convention today.” He said, visibly excited now but still with an ever present lid of collected cool. “Right over in Logon hall.”

“Wow, I’ll have to make sure to take a look.” I said, and I meant it. In fact I still do. The feel of all those voices, the chance to hear that long, ephemeral gong waver in the air, the darkness of the room packed with people and be as one with them…it would be comfort today. It still would be. So I return to the story, anticipating the darkness through the now darkened, cloudy window above my desk on fifth floor of van pelt.

I arrive back at the steps of the library with a medium earl grey tea in hand a good 10 minutes after chillin with the Buddhist brother, after waiting in line and wandering the Logan Hall, looking in vain for signs of the convention and wondering several times how long was too long to leave my computer alone. Nothing would happen I thought again. Penn card access only anyway.

It was a thought I had forgotten by the time I walking up the steps, through the glass doors and then up to the turnstiles, feeling my pockets with the hand not holding the tea and felt almost nothing. I took out the cash (all loose bills…as I often tend to do) and take out open mic flyers and linted cough drops but no wallet, no id, no penncard. Damn it.

At the desk were two young black women staring deeply into paperback novels draped across signin sheets and scattered memos. I walked up to the one facing me, leaned straight-armed on the front desk and told my story. With any luck she would remember me, as I had just been through the gate not 15 minutes ago, more then likely only one of four or five students that hour, very likely the 3rd dark-skinned man all day, almost certainly the only dark skinned man wearing a over-sized black-t emblazoned with a larger then life picture of Fred Sanford on the front. Not a problem.

She stared at me blankly and reached for her walkie-talkie.

“I could just go up stairs real quick and bring my card back down if you want.”

“No,” she said lowly, not looking at me. “You have to just wait here” and then “one to base, one to base,” into the receiver weakly and then nothing.

“Ok.” I leaned on the desk and waited, checking out the book on the desk, scanning the reading room downstairs. There were more seats then I remember. Nice.

“I’m sorry, could you move back from me sir.” She said, suddenly raising her voice, meeting my eyes for the first time. “You are too close to me…I can feel your breathe too so why don’t you just step back for a second.”

Ummm.
ok

I let my arms hang slack at my sides and stood up but stayed in the same position, scanning the space between us. There was a good 3.5 feet from my waist, across the 2 foot long desk and her chin, resting an inch from her book. Given the 3 feet up to my forehead from there, it’s not a bad estimate to say we had almost a 3/4/5 right triangle going on from Fred’s mouth to my eyes to her’s, now visibly annoyed, waiting for me to move back. I cut the estimate to an even 4 feet when I told her this, now leaning back on the turnstile.

“I guess I must have some strong breathe. You know, for you to be feeling it 4 feet away.” She looked harder and then back at her book. Her friend stared at me for a second and I said hi to her. She was reading a book called, “Karma is a Bitch!” and made a face before going looking back down. I waited for a moment or so and then said,

“Just so you know…all my stuff is upstairs so I’m not going anywhere. I have to get my stuff eventually.”

The girl upfront craned her neck, burned into my eyes and said with fierce articulation, “Well then you would be trespassing. sir.”

I almost wanted to laugh for a second…as I didn’t really say anything that about going in at the time…just that I would be waiting there as long as necessary. But I let that go and said this instead:

“Well, I guess you will have to have me arrested then, huh.”

And for the first time, I saw something real in her eyes: she was confused or angry or something or other and she shook her head yes almost but not really and turned to her friend, who had since put Karma is a Bitch on her lap.

“Well ya, maybe I will.”

“Ok then.” I said. Stared at the ceiling for a minute, not feeling anything. I don’t know how long I stood there.

“You know what…fine. I’m trespassing. Have me arrested.”

I tried to pass though the secondary opening, usually used on weekdays to let anyone in with a valid city id, but it was locked from the inside I almost laughed again. Then I put a leg over and then another and headed for the elevator door.

“Fine you are trespassing. What floor are you on again?” said the women, then motioning to unseen Islamic guard dressed in a blue shimmering headdress, a blue uniform and polished black shoes.

I held up my hand with thumb pressed to my palm. and said, “Four.”

The officer stepped forward told me, “Sir, I’m sorry but you can’t jump the turnstiles.” And started my story and she said, “It doesn’t matter, I have to escort you up at least,” and that sentence filled me with relief.

The elevator doors opened as I said, “Fine, then escort me,” and I motioned to the open elevator. “That’s fine with me, let’s go.”

She shuffled and stared and said, “You know what…fuck it just go.” And I said thank you as the door started shut and I remember once again that I was on the fifth floor and the fourth. Damn it.

Out the elevator and toward isle F something and G something and then down to my untouched computer, humbling waiting with a blank screen ready for words. I took another sip and spilled a bit and looked up sgi on firefox. Maybe there was something on Penn’s website about it or a listing somewhere of a Philly convention but it was not there and if it was, I was not really lingering anywhere long enough to see. I was breathing fast. I had another sip of still hot tea. I closed my eyes.

I was still breathing and surfing mindlessly when the guardswomen from downstairs walked swiftly down the isle, much to swift to see me, talking into her walkie-talkie trying to confirm which floor I was on and I lean out and said, “Ms. It’s the fifth floor.”

She kept walking and again, “Ms! Are you looking for me? Here I am.”

But she had turned the corner by now. I breathed again. I opened word again but my mind was empty. I realized that I was kind of cold.

And minutes later, the guardswomen returned came down isle F something G something with a husky man wearing plaid and faded blue jeans and a Philadelphia police badge and I tried breathing again.

“Hello,” I said to them both.

The officer if I was a student and I said I use to be…that I graduated a few weeks ago and but I work at Penn as well. He said something about what he knew of my situation and I started again into my story and he said “No. You just listen to me,” and the guard women just rubbed her eyes and shuffled. Finally he asked for my Penn card and I said, “Sure. In fact, you take all my id,” handing him my wallet. “This is everything I have, look for yourself.”

And he said no and mumbled something about credit cards and I said, “It’s ok. I trust you.”

And he asked if I belonged here and I said no. That I just came to write.

And he said well, you where giving them downstairs a hard time and I went into my story again, asked if they had told him my situation and the guard just “hmmm, mmmm, mmm” and rubbed her smooth brown face again and again.

The policemen said, “No you just take out you id and give it to me, “ and I said ok. It was the fourth card from the front. I held it with my thumb and forefinger and placed it lightly in the policemen’s hand. I breathed some more.

And he asked the guard what the policy was for entering the library and she told her anyone with a penn-card can come in and I interjected that is how I got my stuff into the place in the first place but he wasn’t listening.

So I asked, “So. Are you going to arrest me?”

And he looked at me astounded and said, “well, I’m going to do a check on you and see what happens and you are acting ill-mannered so don’t make me lock you up,” as he took out his pad and a pen.

“Then lock me up.” I said.

“Do you want to go to jail,” and I said no.

“Then why are you doing this?” and I thought for a second and said the only thing I could think of:

“I want to see if you’ll really do.”

He was shook and that was good. It helped me calm down. 3 more officers crowded behind him. The guardswomen moaned into her hand.

“My name is Warren,” I told her as the officer spelled it out over his radio receiver.

Guardswomen’s tagname said something like “Shaya.”
“Where are you from,” I asked her, trying desperately to keep my voice steady. She just shook her head and looked into the sky.

“Why didn’t you just stay quiet?” she finally asked and I told her the first thing I could think of:

“Because I don’t do that. All I’m doing is telling the truth. If you can’t handle that it’s on yall.” I was trying my best to stay calm.

Nothing satisfactory came over the phone and the officer asked again what was my deal and I told him I came to write and he asked me if I was high.

I said no.

“Well, I’m going to have to ask you to come with me” and I said no.

“What,” he said, and I said, “For what reason?”

“Because I asked you too,” and I didn’t say anything at all. The other officers where exasperated. Some said, “Come on man,” and other, “it’s a big library,” and a third threatened to lock me up and I said, “then arrest me.”

I looked at the plain-clothes man turned from this radio and said something about how I just said did not work here looked at the guard (which was not true) but she said nothing. He said I had an expired id (which was not true) and turned to the guard beside him but he said nothing. I told him both things where not true, repeated that had just graduated and work at IRCS: the institute for cognitive research right across the street and I looked at my shirt. Red Fox’s eyes stared up kindly and I breathed again.

“Well,” I said, “what are you going to do?”

And he stared at me shuffling and I liked his face. I liked his voice too, except when he asked if I was high. It had a south Philly tang to it and was calm and even except when he asked why I was doing this. The guardswomen was still shaking her head. The officers kept shuffling, looking at me and the floor and the plain-clothes man and then me again.

“Well, you know what….there is no law for having a chip on your shoulder so…” and couldn’t hold back anymore:

“I have a chip on MY SHOULDER!”

“Yall are the ones with 5 cops here. How do I have a chip on my shoulder? What do you want to do here?” and they wear all backing off now, “Fine,” said the plain-clothes man. “Well I say it’s done, ok?” and I said, “Good. I’m glad. You all have a nice day,” and then took a sip of tea. It was getting cold now. I was realized I was cold too. I put on my wool coat. I breathed some more.

I couldn’t write for a while and thought of a lot of things. Why didn’t I just stay quiet? It could have been nothing? A million justifications and then nothing was justified and I did jump over that bar didn’t I but what about the 3/4/5 eye-waist-eye triangle that sneering face threaten me for asking her to do her job. And other times when I said nothing. The other officers and stories from friend of other officers and you know what…Karma is a bitch, you know and then that guardswomen, shaking her head, “ummm, ummm, ummm,” as she left because I guess I did something wrong today. I guess I was just overstepping…something and I have no right to get mad and hey! I got droopy eyes right. Maybe I was high…I mean I was wearing a oversized shirt with an oversized picture and I have darkened eyes, darken features like the bands 1 to 8, 10 to 20 year old “urban” males I keep getting emails are dangerous, I am that one of 4 but it could have been anyone right? Anyone right? Anyone.

I went to the bathroom to throw up after starting to write this all down and ran into an occupied sign. I leaned on the wall and hoped I could hold it down when a short man popped out, saw me, lowered his eyes, and said “sorry.”

I asked instinctively, “What are you sorry for?”

He laughs and I wanted to laugh too, but I couldn’t think of anything to laugh about.

In an unrelated note, two days ago was the first time a grown man looked me in the eye and said, “Nigger.” He was a nice man too.

Wordsworth: The Meaning of Peace

Anyone who knows me knows that I live in a world of words. I consider it both a blessing and a curse.

On the one hand, language gives us the ability cut through the bullshit and build towards common understand. By finding agreeable common definitions and sticking to them as a baseline, common goals can be articulated, plans can be organized and understood, and progress can be charted and learned from for the future.

On the other hand, seizing on meaning can alienate you, beat you down and at times launch you into a world of contradictions. It’s hard to be consistent in meaning and even if you excel at it, by language’s own nature it will always slip out of your hands and on to floor the minute you think you have it pinned.

And then there is the matter of who’s definition we are talking about. As 1984 taught us, there is danger in focusing language to the exclusion of ideas that difficult to describe or disturb the order of things. I think we come up against this now as we look at catchall quality of the word “terrorist,” the white houses constant battle to avoid a firm definition for “torture,” and the fight for universal health care reduced to the empty threat of “socialized medicine.”

In the spirt of the fight for meaning, I bring you Wordsworth, a posts on words.

To start things off, how about something we all should agree with, the meaning of peace.

The following link is a story from NPR’s The World. As part of their Christmas show, reporter Alex Gallafent interviewed politicians, diplomats, religious thinkers and others from around the world to find how out they defined the word “Peace.” The results reach from the War on Terror to the fight for a federal “ministry of peace” to meditations on human nature itself. As often come up in deep discussions of meaning, everyone has common ideas about peace, but few seem to be willing to step up to it’s implications.

An interesting listen for the coming new year.

Pea….ummm…holla yall.

http://www.theworld.org/?q=node/14949