Democratic National Convention 2008 Denver, Colorado

I came to Denver on Frontier Airlines yesterday to participate in the Democratic National Convention. At the Indianapolis airport as I was going through security, the TSA guard told me to convince him to vote for Barack Obama in the 5 minutes it took me to go through security. Seeing me in my Obama t-shirt and putting my copy of Audacity of Hope with my computer through the x-ray scanner, I suppose he thought that I might have a good idea of what to say; which, I have to say myself, I did. Telling me that his income definitely did not qualify him to benefit from the Bush-McCain tax plan, he assured me that Obama had his vote. As he was handing me back my shoes, we both intuitively realized that we had just had one of those serendipitous social moments that can be so magical when shared with a stranger. Refraining myself (with difficulty) from hugging him, I realized that the moment provided me with the perfect frame for understanding my past few months of volunteering for the campaign in Paris with Democrats Abroad, and the Obama office in Bloomington: this campaign has become personal for millions of people because it relies on dialogue and the person-to-person connection which comes only through grass-roots engagements.
It is strange - this feeling of living history, living this historical moment.
Getting ready with the city of Denver for Obama's acceptance speech on the 45th anniversary of Martin Luther King's speech, we are all living the dream.
Yes.
We can.

Can you get in? Do you have the juice?

In his latest "Carpetbagger at the Convention" video for The New York Times, David Carr addresses the camera:
"The game is access. Washington or here, can you get in? Do you have the juice?"

The specific access he is refering to at the moment is to the GQ/Maker's Mark after-party where journalists, advertiser's and lobbyists pundify about the day's events. But those journalists who do get through the door of these fancy post-convention events are not necessarily those who gather around the free beer spicket at the temporary shelter of the "New Media Tent." These two poles are an interesting way to visualize and think about the locations of the conversational center and periphery. Not just the geographical center of the Pepsi Center where the majority of the Democratic Convention activities are taking place, or the CNN Grill which is by invitation only, but the more abstract center where the intersection of power, access and affiliation intersect. Who gets to speak and from where are they speaking?

But even before asking after the the power dynamics which lie behind the enunciative act, it is important to go back to Carr's question: "Can you get in? Do you have the juice?" The hierarchy of passes which are being distributed for access to the Convention are byzantine in their intricacy: a green "Perimeter Pass" will get you through security to the outside of the Pepsi Center for a specific day, but not through the actual doors of the Pepsi Center itself. An orange "Arena Pass" will get you through the doors of the Convention Center, but not into any of the actual events; the lowly "Arena Pass" holder has to loiter self-consciously in the hallways while those who hold a coveted purple "Floor Pass" can traipse regally through the doors to actual seating inside the event. All of this is trumped, however, by the burgundy (and rarely-seen but often-discussed) "All Access Pass." And that sort of pass can get you things one can only dream of.

Carr, attempting comfort once he himself has already gotten in to the party states, "Once you get in, the party always stinks." But he does go on to say: "It's breaking through the door that matters."

But it is the door itself which is worthy of investigation and asking how much passing its threshold changes the things that are said.

Orlando International Airport

A step ahead of Fay, my sister and I fly from Orlando to Atlanta and Bloomington, respectively. A birthday weekend brought us all together - to celebrate in the humidity of a tropical Florida summer, among the songs of the tree frogs. McCaine was also here today, doing whatever it is that he does. Obama arrives in Orlando tomorrow. Lawn signs sprouting up on our neighborhood lawns clearly demarcate loyalties long foresworn or sympaticos shared. Following these faux polls, the signs are so far evenly split. Although it is only the pretty blue signs that arouse a final burst of energy as we go round the last bend on our daily jog, my sister and I screaming "YES WE CAN!"

firefly fascinations

So, I have been reading about fireflies. There are many things about them that I did not know. Things like the Indiana State Government was seriously considering making the firefly the official State Insect, but the Legislature never got around to voting on the issue (the firefly is the official State Insect of Pennsylvania, however). Like the light production of fireflies (technically called bioluminescence, which is such a great word) is much more efficient than the human lightbulb. Whereas 90% of firefly energy used to create light is converted into visible light; an incandescent electric bulb can convert only 10 percent of total energy used into visible light, and the remainder is emitted as heat. Like the Ifugaos of the Ifugao Province in the Philippines believe that the firefly can either be a harbinger of death or mean that there is a wild pig in a nearby field. Or in Japan, the firefly was once believed to be the souls of dead kamikaze pilots. Also in Japan, the firefly is under threat of extinction because of industrial pollution, urbanization as well as poaching. Apparently, firefly "rustlers" have been trapping fireflies and selling them to hotels and restaurants during summer firefly festivals. According to Japan Times, "Warning signs denouncing insect thieves have been erected and teams of volunteers have been mounting nightly patrols to ward them away from Fussa's Firefly Park, where tens of thousands of people converge every summer for the firefly festival."

In light of firefly regeneration, I found the following passage from the book "Encountering the Dharma" by Richard Hughes Seager very comforting:

"Buddhist elements in Soka education are also evident in small ways - in the emphasis placed on opposing militarism and creating peace; in a schoolwide campaign against bullying; in the way harmony and helpfulness pervade the ideals of the school. More striking is the effort by students to reestablish the firefly population in the region, which had been devastated by agribusiness and industrial pollution. "They go into fields to collect fireflies, care for them in our culture house, then hatch eggs and feed the babies," Matsuda says, clearly pleased by the success of this program. "They hatch one hundred thousand each year because the survival rate is only two percent." Such activities reflect both the Buddhist value of interdependence and the hands-on pedagogy of Makiguchi, he tells me. "Students learn how precious life is, see how much effort it takes to have even a single firefly in the beautiful, natural environment. They understand how a single life depends on the ecosystem." He laughs warmly as he recalls broaching the subject with Ikeda. "He thought I should do it and appointed me chair of the Fireflies Committee!""

In Mayan mythology, the firefly was known as the "queen of stars," since the firefly was thought to carry light from the stars.

I sit on the porch tonight, drinking my organic wine from Argentina, watching these amazing creatures fly low to the ground, emitting magical green lights, heavy under the weight they carry of so many souls and so many stars.

returns

I have come back to the town where my life started to change. Bloomington. I feel connected to an emotional flow here like nowhere else. I feel more like myself instead of feeling like a tortoise watching a street parade. In Bloomington, there is a confluence of all the selves that have coalesced into the Paris-me, the real-me. But here, the past, present and future seem to be linked in a way both historical and transcendent. The flotilla of fireflies outside my window, accompanying me on my evening jogs, give me the buzz to say such sorts of nostalgia-glossed things.

I am lost in the oscillation between the elation of being in such a beautiful place surrounded by all my long-lost friends (Austen, Brontë, Woolf) and the fear that this project is never going to finish (preparing for my PhD exams).

I do know that the stasis that was turning my soul septic has been dissipated by the little green lights of the fireflies - each one telling me to go. To start. To begin. Being.

welcome to the fun house

In my unofficial status as a café sociologist and streetwalking ethnologist of this complicated and surprising country, I am prone to grand and baseless pronouncements which I feel comfortable stating unequivocally. Such as: every café and brasserie in Paris is decorated in the same fashion: mirrors on every wall. And it is not only in the fancy cafés where very small dogs accompany very old ladies; it is also in the shadier varieties in which very old men play the French LOTO and Euromillions (I have, as of late, been trying to insinuate myself into this specific subculture. The increase of eagerness in my new venture is directly proportional to the decreasing status of my bank account. Next blog? Anyone?). In a society in which direct contact is thought of as untoward and a sign of bad education, the elliptical glancing which the mirror makes possible is a convenient option for the curious café goer.
The café provides that third place as safe haven if astronomical Parisian real-estate has sequestered you into a "studio" or co-habitation. As the favorite Parisian third place, the café is attractive as long as it is tied to its own displacement. The statistical increase of cafés on street intersections and in the vicinities of train stations, bus stops and metro exits promises to provide this sensation of transience where nothing will be stable and no one will hold you accountable. Every signal emitted in a mirror-clad café comes back with the same questioning glance with which it was produced. Everything becomes a mirror image of itself and of something else. Whatever un/conscious anxieties propelled you to this non-place are unexpectedly attenuated by the sheer multiplication of images supplied by the mirrors. Identity and destination can be comfortably lost in such numbers.

not word-of-the-damned but...

I am trying not to see any connections between Anu Garg's choice for today's "A.Word.A.Day" dystopia and the scary Ohio news (added to the unexpected in the results of yesterday's primaries). According to The New York Times: "Ms. Brunner said that in Clermont and Summit Counties, paper ballots ran out mostly due to a large number of independent and Republican voters crossing over to vote in the Democratic primary. In both counties, only the Democratic ballots ran out."

I am trying to avoid the long, slow slide into paranoia of Republican trickeries.

Instead, I am re-reading Obama's remarks in San Antonio: "We say; we hope; we believe – yes we can."

snowBound

I am on board the Paris-Zurich train for a weekend of snow and ski. The bunny hill and ski instructor will probably feature prominently in the next few days seeing as this will be my first time skiing. Growing up in Florida, skiing always seemed like such a terribly exotic (and privileged) thing to do. And wearing my recently-purchased ski goggles around the house the past few days still made it feel that way. But I love how strange I feel when I say “I am going skiing.” Before time and repetition erode and render mundane the mystery of existence, I want to experience as many new things as possible. So off I go. To ski. To watch water metamorphose into snow. I will navigate the beginner course with the 5-year olds. I hope that it will help me to begin to measure the distance between ocean and snow.

strings of epiphanies

I'm a new soul I came to this strange world hoping I could learn a bit about how to give and take. But since I came here felt the joy and the fear finding myself making every possible mistake - "new soul," yael naim.

I think that marketing groups have me in mind when constructing their cunning campaigns to instigate overpowering waves of lust for whichever coveted item is being mythologized: I saw the ad for the new macbook air. I fell in love. I went to the itunes stores to download the song to my new ipod nano (then youtubed the video to my video ipod). I am now completely convinced (programmed) that the only thing that yael naim and I need to safeguard ourselves from every possible mistake is a new macbook air. I do. I really believe this. I also do know that this hysteria will ebb in a few days, when I stop soundtracking all my Parisian peregrinations to this song. But for now, I am going to ride this string of lights. Just a little bit longer; just as long as it takes for me to realize that these mistakes I think that I am making are actually not mistakes. They are just me re-framing...that silence that I think is fear is only that wonderful moment when the walls fall down.