Who is Watching Who?

EVERYBODY's being watched. Everybody's being monitored. But paranoia isn't going to mess up my dinner. No way... The Eagles sang: “You can check out anytime you like / But you can never leave.” That's how it goes in the Free World. That's how it goes in America. Swipe your credit card, pass by airport security, send out an email, text your lawyer etc—once the machine buzzes, you're counted, you're in. If you're not hiding shit, why worry? Everybody's going to be screened anyways—from the White House chief resident to the homeless dude who logged in at a public library in Juneau, Alaska. Wanna escape from Big Bro's piercing laser eyes? Get off the highway and walk, chuck the plastic card, change your name to Lookipadooki, wear an invisible hoodie, and move up to the Himalayas (where, by the way, Buddhist monks also google stuff. Wanna “friend” them?)

       Am I worried about my privacy? NO. I am worried about other irritants but not some ninja out to steal my hummus sandwich. Give me 1 million more FB “friends,” I'll relish it! Enjoy my words, share my poetry, meet my kids, try this cool recipe, sing along with me, look! the koolcat just brought in a baby dragon! FUN. Those who know me longer, knows that I am a reclusive bat—ask me questions about an ex, expect a rude response. There's limit to what we can share here, but that's a personal decision—what is “private” and what isn't. Know what to give away, know what to keep (at least for the time being). Common sense. It's all in a day's time out there.

       Being online is like hanging out at the park on a Saturday afternoon. Sharing stuff is like talking on the mic in front of a crowd. So is it possible to say: “My name is Pasckie Pascua, my passport name is George Alfredo Pascua, 53 years old next Tuesday, a father of 4, heterosexual, loves the Bee Gees, eats ramens, got the hots for women with hips. Oh BTW, I just hurt my pinkie in the bathroom at 4:13.04 AM, any advice how to ease the pain? Jeez, I realize I need to buy babedawg food. You know, I really hate my neighbor's ex mom in law because she looks like my ex of 65 years ago!

       Now listen, those infos are strictly—and I mean it—STRICTLY for my four chosen friends only. Weebo, Keebo, Feebo and Beebo... (mic feedback, brrrr!)... Damn, I am sorry for that feedback guys, this mic sucks! Sorry, I sound really awful this morning. Allergies, you know... See you in 15 seconds, bye!”

The Immigrant Dreamer, The Self-exiled Seeker

WHEN I see “foreign” hands quietly go through a little gig wherever—diner kitchen, apple orchard, snowy roadside, building rooftop, front lawn, city garage—for few dollars paid, I don't see bent backs or weary eyes, I see hearts and souls. America is the haven of plenty, the promised land—where greener pastures lay gently so freedom could frolic with proud trees, jubilant wind and tall buildings. This is where humanity converge, where a voice in the wilderness could resound beyond the seas, a giant stage where a mere whisper is heard by a throng, and a slight wave of a hand could move a mountain...

       But most immigrants sailed the turbulent oceans and flew the uneasy sky and left behind families, friends and the warm intimacy of their culture of birth—not to wonder over the immaculate grandeur of snowfall, or drown in the euphoric glee of Times Square, or marvel at the flawless magnificence of the Grand Canyon, or bungee jump from atop the mighty Statue of Liberty, or rock `n roll in an almost endless expanse of generous lawns of grass... 

       These wayfarers, pilgrims and voyagers carry a heavy load of dreams tucked in their shallow pockets that are not necessarily measured by dollars paid for hours rendered. That Dream may not exude the scent of apples, instead it could be the Dream of Apples, a dream so abstract and hazy yet so alive and insistent like the incessant rumble of monsoon rains on tin can roofs, or the howl of tempest in the eye of the storm—that never left them, these accompany them as they rest their bodies and pause their minds at the end of a day in the peaceful quiet of a transient room.

      The glorious joy that seep through their veins as they watch families share dinners or Saturdays at the park equal the fleeting happiness of seeing their loved ones stream along, in and out, on a computer screen, or the sweet smile that squeezes out of their eyes when the little child left at home opens a box of blessings sent from America, and then burst into a tearful, happy dance... 

      These adventuring souls not only bring with them a thick notebook of things to buy and places to visit, most of all—they drag with them a long history of pain and new stories of agony that is not easy to comfort or heal. Their loneliness is not the isolated discontent of winter cold or the excruciating alienation of bleeding hearts that can never be pacified by so many open doors ushered by so many generous smiles. Their souls will remain unwelcome, their hearts will stay beating a distant beat that only the sweet songs of summers somewhere so far, so far away, could shelter...