A mother asked me to fix up a computer for her so that she could communicate wit her son in Afghanistan. Her son is an Air Force medic and I feel a bit apprehensive about helping the US military machine. If I help him communicate, it will help his morale, and if his morale is up, then he can cure more soldiers, and if more soldiers are in fighting shape, then the war machine continues to churn.

That mother worries about the danger he son is in. He's not in the military because he loves America, rather, he is in the military because he wants a career and lacks the funds and background to get training and experience in the civilian world.

The mother asked for my help and I can help her if I choose. My reasoning mind tells me that I should not cooperate, but that mother's sad eyes convinced me to help her communicate with her son.

Today I had to accept that I am an integral part of the war machine. Not only am I helping increase the morale of the American soldiers, I also I earn a salary and the taxes I pay are used for bullets, bombs, and body armor. I don't want to participate in this criminal scheme but a mother's sad eyes have drawn me in.

I was looking at some photos of a vigil for Cindy Sheehan in Houston . The linked picture was interesting because it shows that the vigil was held on the Dunlavy Bridge, where I used to sit late at night by myself to think.

Looks like audioscrobbler.com changed its name to www.last.fm. I like the improvements they have made. Here is a link to my profile there http://www.last.fm/user/iramhernandez/.

I've spent the last week reading an anthology of Borges' work in the sleepless hours of night, working towards the short story Man On A Threshold which was the story that Pheobe instinctively turned to when we met outside a library in Oakland. It has a chance meeting; she had asked me for a cigarette and as I fished around my bag for a box of American Spirits she saw two bottles of wine, endless wires and coins, and Borges book, which she took interest in.

She took the book and opened it up randomly and started reading. I told her, "I am a Man On A Threshold today. I've just been released from jail and my story is on the front page. I am on the verge of something new. I am reborn and today. I'm starting a new phase of my life where I will be happy and fulfilled. And it starts in six days when I leave California for good." We read the first few chapters together and after a beautiful moment we parted ways.

That was six months ago. That beautiful woman is now only a faded memory. I had almost forgotten how I felt that day, but tonight, with Borges' help, I remember. Now having reread Man On A Threshhold and as I continue on to The Aleph I vow to reconnect with that moment in time.

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I spent some in New York last month and while there I was trying to figure out what the hell attracts so many people to that place. At times I felt like I was amongst a herd of cattle being poked and prodded on the way to slaughter. I was all very dehumanizing.

A few friends were there with me and I tried to enjoy myself while I was there but my mind was preoccupied and I just sort of shutdown. I've been recovering for a week or so but things are still strange for me and I just can't shake the feeling that the world around me is tilted about five degrees off center.

I'm back in Georgia now and I just want to keep on moving. Everything just seems futile and senseless here. I'm dreaming of that other place.... that sacred place that only exists in my mind's eye.

I'm bleeding. For now I must bite down hard and endure the pain until I see better days.