- tuesday 11/30 - final presentation on the DRC
- thursday 12/2 - final paper on Timor-Leste (20 pages)
- monday 12/6 - revised research proposal due (10 pages)
- tuesday 12/7 - final paper on DRC/greed and grievance (15-20 pages)
- thursday 12/9 - final exam in US Experiments in Peacebuilding
- friday 12/10 - FREEEEEEEEEEEEDOM!!!!!!!!!
Monday, November 29, 2010
the next 10 days of my life...
here's my to-do list for the next 10 days:
Monday, November 22, 2010
Friday, November 19, 2010
"Dear Regime" by Roger Sedarat
Dear Regime,
After you've ground him into powder,
you can burn this to a fine ash. His family feels
it would be better off with nothing.
My Father returned from Iran with everything but his bones.
He said customs claimed them as government property.
We laid him on a Persian carpet in front of the television.
When I’d hold his wrist to his face
because he wanted to know the time,
we could see the holes made from swords in his elbow.
His arm reminded me of kabob koobideigh.
It was hard for him to look outside;
he said the cumulus clouds
were too much like marrow
and he couldn't stand watching the dog
sniff the backyard, searching
for the rest of him. My sister and I put him to bed
thinking that beside our mother
he'd turn into himself,
but through the door we only heard him crying,
telling his wife he could never again make love,
and through the keyhole we saw her shivering with him
wrapped around her like an old blanket
until he died one morning.
She folded him into a rectangle,
mailing him in a white shoebox
back to his country.
i like this poem. it's depressing, but i think it captures the feeling of homesickness really well... you're still alive, but you're missing an integral part of what makes you able to function, to live, and to thrive. and i love the imagery at the end... she folded him into a rectangle, mailing him in a white shoebox back to his country. he got to go home after all.
After you've ground him into powder,
you can burn this to a fine ash. His family feels
it would be better off with nothing.
My Father returned from Iran with everything but his bones.
He said customs claimed them as government property.
We laid him on a Persian carpet in front of the television.
When I’d hold his wrist to his face
because he wanted to know the time,
we could see the holes made from swords in his elbow.
His arm reminded me of kabob koobideigh.
It was hard for him to look outside;
he said the cumulus clouds
were too much like marrow
and he couldn't stand watching the dog
sniff the backyard, searching
for the rest of him. My sister and I put him to bed
thinking that beside our mother
he'd turn into himself,
but through the door we only heard him crying,
telling his wife he could never again make love,
and through the keyhole we saw her shivering with him
wrapped around her like an old blanket
until he died one morning.
She folded him into a rectangle,
mailing him in a white shoebox
back to his country.
i like this poem. it's depressing, but i think it captures the feeling of homesickness really well... you're still alive, but you're missing an integral part of what makes you able to function, to live, and to thrive. and i love the imagery at the end... she folded him into a rectangle, mailing him in a white shoebox back to his country. he got to go home after all.
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