Techosomatic.

Lately, I can't seem to get enough sleep. Today in particular, I simply could not stay awake. I went to bed last night at 10:30, and despite numerous soundings of my alarm clock this morning, I didn't wake up until 10:53. You'd think I would be wide awake after over 12 hours of sleep, but I could barely function. I drank my usual pot o' coffee, bathed, got dressed, made a tuna melt, went through Gmails, and then fell promptly back asleep for an hour and a half.

As my fatigue has taken hold, my blackberry has shown signs of fatigue as well. Even though it's been getting it's usual 8 hours of charge every night, for the past few days, its battery is half-empty by noon. And after a couple 15-20 minute calls, the "low battery" message appears on its screen, the bars all conspicuously absent from the battery icon in the upper left-hand corner.

They say mental or emotional factors can take a toll on the body, but can any of these have an effect on the cell phone? Are my Blackberry and I, like twins, so interconnected that when something happens to one, the other is affected? Is my chronic fatigue spreading to my phone, or is it the other way around: as my cell phone battery depletes, I too, am depleted. Who's the chicken and who's the egg here? Depending on which way the causal arrow points, I'm either going to have to start on the NoDoz or pay a visit to T-Mobile.

I'll Have What She's Having

My article about anti-Arabism in the GOP:

http://www.janera.com/janera_blog.php?id=80

Early Bird Special.

You would think that after the hanging Chad debacle eight years ago, the debacle that cost Al Gore the election and subsequently led to two wars, one of which was clearly unnecessary, rampant anti-Americanism throughout the world, the complete mishandling of a natural disaster, and the cherry on top, a failed economy, the debacle that even resulted in an HBO movie starring an Oscar-winning actor, Florida would've made an effort to get it right this time around. I mean, they've had EIGHT years. Casting a ballot is an act that should be made as easily as possible, something that a fifth grader, or even Sarah Palin, could do. So far, it's been characterized by day-long lines, broken machines, and a general loss of enthusiasm toward the American democratic system.

This sort of dysfunctionality discourages people from voting at all, and we can't afford to have otherwise eager voters stay at home this time around. The stakes are too high--the currents of potential disaster too strong (see Sarah Palin above), and we need all hands on board. Given the poll numbers, as well as a recent study showing that in battleground states more Democrats than Republicans vote early, I have faith that most these hands will be pushing the button for Obama. I'm also confident that by 2012, Florida still won't have gotten it right.

Samaritan's Dilemma.

Earlier today, I was having lunch at Cosi in Dupont Circle, sitting at an outside table, when a man seated at a table next to me got up and asked if I could watch his stuff. "Sure," I replied, without hesitation.

"Thank you kindly," he replied.

I've been asked to do this many times before- I practically live in coffeeshops. But this time, maybe because he seemed so appreciative, or perhaps because we were outside, in DC, where it was quite likely that a bag left unattended could be stolen, something about the request got me thinking.

First of all, the nature of the relationship between requester and requestee. The man didn't know a thing about me, and yet he was totally comfortable leaving me in charge of his belongings. Not entirely outlandish, since nothing about me really screams criminal, but questionable, nonetheless.

Secondly, does me watching his stuff-- cell phone and knapsack, and Sports section of the Washington Post-- in any way prevent it from getting stolen? Me, sitting a table away, staring blankly at his table. Of course it's true that when witnesses are around, thievery is less likely to occur, but the object under scrutiny wasn't something that could likely be traced back to a suspect, i.e., the cops wouldn't really care that a backpack had been lifted, even if I did have a perfect description of the guy who'd lifted it. It's not a car he'd be stealing, but a wallet, at best.

Thirdly, if someone were in fact to take the goods and run, would I be expected to chase after him? By honoring the request to "watch" the stuff, what else is implied? Surely some form of follow-up if something were to occur, otherwise what would be the point of the request?

And lastly, I wonder, how much actual watching versus just remaining seated near the stuff am I supposed to be doing? I was in the middle of lunch when the favor was asked of me, was I supposed to put down my fork and focus all my attention on the guy's table? When what's at stake is unattended and expensive-looking in the heart of Dupont, right near a Metro stop, it would seems to require one's undivided attention.

After no more than five minutes, the guy returned, and thanked me kindly once again. But for what exactly, I'm still not sure.

Life In The Spies Backyard

Here's a link to my latest piece in The Washington Post about my beloved hometown, McLean, VA:

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/05/02/AR2008050203302.html

Real Democracies Don't Rely on Violence

A link to my latest piece in Lebanon's Daily Star about Israel's Gaza Policy:

http://www.dailystar.com.lb/article.asp?edition_id=10&categ_id=2&article_id=88750

Jet lag.

I learned early on to stop asking questions. It seems so irrelevant, the "why" behind the "is". Maybe this mentality is just another form of escapism, of taking the easy way out. Maybe it's a form of survival, of self-preservation, self-defense. Personally, I find actions to be more informative that thoughts, which explains my aversion to psychology, though not so much my love of philosophy. But I can reconcile this. The former pertains to the mind, the latter, the soul. Perhaps philosophy is what lead me to detest questions, for of all the times I asked them, I almost never found an answer. In one way I lament this; in another, I'm relieved. Sometimes there's no answer better than no answer. When digging, it's admittedly frightening to plunge the shovel into the dark mess and immediately clank upon something solid. Oh the irony of insecurity. She craves affection, but once she recieves it, she feels empty, hollow, void. And yet when she provides it to another, which in her case, often requires her to drain herself of energy and emotion, she feels fulfilled.

As I write this, I don't believe in the soul. Or maybe I do, I just don't trust its infallibility. To believe that any part of oneself exists after one perishes requires a great leap of faith. Frankly, I am not ready to make that jump, without the knowledge that a spiritual net exists. So I write these words to protect against my potential transience, fleetingness, nothingness; an insurance policy, if you will, that guarantees at least a trace of permanance, if not immortality.