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Writing this blog seems to be impossible. That's why the only solution is writing about the impossibility of writing. How do you do that? You list the reasons that prevent you from writing. Here they are: I have no desire to do it.I don't know why I do it.I don't know who I'm addressing it to.I don't know if anybody ever reads it.I don't want to do it.I am unable to choose a theme from a billion threads in my head.I feel like I'm wasting

In today's papers I read that the charges were dropped against Marine Staff Sgt. Frank Wuterich in an incident thought to be one of the worst atrocities committed by the US Army in Iraq. He is facing no more than three months of prison for commanding his troops to "shoot first, ask questions later". This is, I read, the last of the 8 prosecutions for war crimes committed by the US Army that ended without a trial or conviction. (LA

Last September I shot a short movie there. The movie was a part of an omnibus film, "Don't Forget Me Istanbul". The city was magical, grand and impressive, but what was truly unforgettable was the group of people I met. I knew I would never forget them. What I didn't know was: would they forget me? In our world of short memories I got used to forgetting and being forgotten. What mattered yesterday doesn't matter today. Good deeds are forgotten as

She's back home. Or is it still her home? She remembers: home is where the books are. Home is where her boys are. Home is where her cats are. But then again, this place is home as well. With no books, no boys, no cats. Still home. Sort of. The idea of home had split apart a long time ago. Now "home" consists of bits and pieces, little shreds, vague memories that attack suddenly and without warning. "Home" is no

The other day I went down town to give my support to the protests known as "Occupy LA". The first thing that caught my eye from the distance was a huge banner with the words: "Emperor Has No Clothes". When I approached the colorful, lively tents that had bravely sprung between the huge, ominous, grey and deadly serious banks surrounding them, there were other words that spoke to me, including a quote by Mussolini: "Fascism should more appropriately be called

By an anonymous observerObservation #1 She spent the summer hibernating. Didn't write. Even opening the computer seemed like a huge and unnecessary effort. What is her problem? Why is communication with the world becoming such a thorny issue? While the whole world is madly communicating, making connections, networking and schmoozing, the only thing she wants to do is to be alone, sharing her world with only the chosen few. While everybody is frantically connecting, she is passionately disconnecting. But then, guess

It's a busy time in my garden. On Easter Sunday a couple of Mallard ducks spent the whole day swimming and lounging by the pool. I saw the male one poop into the pool. Should I chase them away? Are they the visitors from the wild side that we cherish and invite? Or are they the annoying intruders that pollute our little man made paradise? Three bunnies chased each other all day long, making my two indoor cats completely crazy. They eat

I guess only two wars are not enough. I guess three is the number. I guess the price of $55 million for a day's worth of bombing is a great bargain for a cause that's undefined and vague. Is any action always better than no action? Buddhists would not agree. The main goal should be to do no harm. Any military operation does harm. The picture of the world is frightening: a catastrophe in Japan, a new war in the Middle East,

"Biutiful", a movie that sneaks into your soul There is something in it that sticks to you… There is something in it that haunts you and doesn't want to let go of you… There is something in it you cannot shake off…There is something in it that stays with you for a long time afterwards…. Is it Bardem's eyes filled with a sea of sadness? Is it the fact that you're watching your hidden personal nightmare come true on screen, the

No, I don’t understand the world anymore. You send your child to school and he may or may not return, depending on the whim of some troubled kid who happens to have an assault weapon in his backpack. You hear the argument: if all the people in Phoenix had been armed, they would have prevented the tragedy. So, we need more arms. Your hair goes up, your skin curls. Is there any reason left? Has all sanity disappeared?There is a rule concerning