Ten Years Ago…. By Allan Raible

On the morning of September 11, 2001, I did not want to get out of bed.  It was primary day in New York City and with my father, I had agreed to campaign for my first grade teacher’s son who was running for office.  But when my eyes opened that day, my heart just wasn’t in it.  I wanted to go back to sleep. 

I was living with my parents.  I had graduated from college two years prior but was sleeping on a living room couch in a small apartment in Park Slope, Brooklyn.  Personally, it was a dark time for me.  I was unemployed and very unhappy.  I should’ve greeted any chance to leave that apartment with great eagerness, but on that morning I was slapping myself for volunteering my services.  In all truth, I think my resistance stemmed from the fact that I am not a morning person.  If I had complete control over my life, I’d probably be nocturnal.

I turned on the television.  It was a beautiful day.  It seemed very normal.  I was watching one of the network morning shows.  During one of the local-newscasts break-ins it was announced that a plane had hit the World Trade Center.  Like most people, I assumed that it was probably a small plane that had lost its way.

Then the television reception went out.  Most channels were gone.

Growing up in Brooklyn, I never had cable.  We were one of the last places in the country to have cable even available to us and our proximity to the antennae meant that we had nearly perfect reception on all the broadcast channels.  Being without television, even for a few moments, was a strange feeling.  But my father and I figured we’d head out as we had promised and continue our Primary Day duties. 

I grabbed my discman on the way out the door.  It had a radio and as we were walking down 7^th Avenue, I listened to a news radio station that was still on the air.  A few blocks into our journey it was announced that the second tower had been hit. Shortly afterwards, the first tower fell. 

A few blocks away from our destination, I ran into a friend of mine I hadn’t seen since high school.  He was in a panic.  He told me he was babysitting some kids and he knew their father worked in the World Trade Center and that he was frantically trying to find out if he was all right. The street was buzzing.  What was happening?  We were all upset and nervous, unsure of what was going on and why.  It was truly scary.  I wished my friend good luck and we each went our uneasy ways.

*                                    *                                    *

 A few months later I ran into that same friend on the subway.  He told me the father of the children he had been baby-sitting had been killed.  My heart sank. 

*                                    *                                    *

My father and I arrived at our destination.  Very few people were coming through to vote.  All the volunteers stood there, very uncertain.  With my headphones on, I served as a newsman, delivering little bits of news to the crowd that filtered in.   I heard about the crash at the Pentagon.  I heard about the crash in Pennsylvania.  My jaw would have dropped at what I was hearing if I hadn’t been so numb.  As the second tower fell, I could see smoke and ashy dust over the horizon.  It was about that time when we got word that the primary had been postponed. 

My father walked home.  We parted ways because it was Tuesday and I wanted to stop by “SoundTrack,” a record store on the way, to get the new They Might Be Giants album, “Mink Car.”  Considering that I love TMBG, I had been looking forward to this day since I’d seen them perform their single, “Man, It’s So Loud In Here,” the Friday before on “Late Night With Conan O’Brien.” 

I walked into the store as someone else exited.  It was just me and the guy behind the counter.  I was a well-known music-junkie and a regular fixture in the store, so we knew each other.  I quickly grabbed the disc and as I checked out, we had a very short conversation about the mayhem outside.  Both of us were bewildered and in utter disbelief.  We wished each other the best and I left with my black plastic bag in hand.  I didn’t buy another CD for the next five months.

A million thoughts ran through my mind as I walked home.  How safe were we?  How many people had died and were dying?  Why had this happened?  I felt clueless, helpless and sad all at once.  There was a harsh, burning metallic smell in the air.  I felt very uncertain. 

When I walked back in, my father had found a channel that was still on the air.  We watched it for updates.  Slowly the News broke, how this had been a terror plot.  All I could think of was why.  Over and over again I saw the footage of those planes hitting the towers.  Over and over again I saw those orange balls of fire.  It looked like something out of “Die Hard.”  But it was real.  People were in those buildings.  The news was filled with stories of people successfully escaping or dying trying to escape.  People were jumping out of windows.  That sounded the most horrific to me.  I can’t imagine having to make that decision to jump.  Being so desperate.

My mom, being a teacher, had heard that a plane had hit the World trade Center and assumed like we all did, the small-plane scenario.  As information passed through the school, they eventually sent the kids home early and closed.  A lot of her class parents worked in the World Trade Center, but because it was primary day and because her class had had an early-morning parents’ breakfast in the classroom, they were later to work than usual.  Those two factors probably saved some lives. 

She arrived home and we all sat there, glued to the television.  It was bewildering and uncomfortable.  The air still reeked of burning metal.  I put on my headphones, longing for some sense of comfort; I turned on “Mink Car,” intermittently stopping to get an update.  We were under attack…..

Some stories were harrowing.  Most were tragic.  So many good people lost their lives.  These were innocent people who just were going to work that day.  People were missing. How many were gone?  I thought about sitting in Prospect Park a few weeks earlier, hearing Incubus’ latest single on the radio, “Wish You Were Here.”  I knew that the song would now possibly become an anthem and a tribute to those who weren’t. 

The whole event was so numbing.  Here I was, feeling helpless already due to my lack of employment but it was all put into perspective by this event.  I still had my family.  My parents and sister were all safe.  Even if the future was uncertain, I knew we had each other. 

So many people lost loved ones.  So many lives were shattered.  So many people had to pick up the pieces and try to make sense of something that was unexplainable within the realms of reason and human decency. 

As the day went on, absent television channels returned to the air by borrowing signals of less-crucial UHF stations.  The pictures were fuzzier, but if you searched around you could find what you needed to get information.  I just remember a sinking sadness. 

The following days were alarmingly stark.  News would trickle in.  Many heroes in the NYPD and the New York Fire Department saved many lives, but thousands of people were dead and/or missing. 

Walking the streets of the neighborhood was like entering into a deadened world.  As much as we were fighting back and as much as we were each trying to reclaim our lives, something had changed.  Our innocence had been stolen.  

I remember later in the week, I went to the supermarket with my mother.  As we walked down our street, a silent group walked across the way, each carrying a candle.  Our firehouse lost a lot of people.  This was a silent, roaming vigil.  Like melancholy, mute apparitions, these mourners moved down the street.  Pain was in the air and it left that damn lingering burnt metallic smell. 

Grocery shopping at this time was really strange.  People were walking around as if guided by autopilot.  But at the same time the best was brought out by the soul-stealing tragedy.  People were giving each other glances and faint acknowledgement on the street, as if to say, “If we stick together we will be OK.”

I remember being shocked at how the national media seemed surprised that New Yorkers were so resilient and were coming together in the face of terror.  People from across the country, from small towns were being quoted on the news saying how amazed they were that we were working together and helping each other out.  After all, some of these people viewed New York as a rude, godless place.  We weren’t “real Americans.”  And this was still in the undertone of their sound bites.  As a lifelong New Yorker, I took offence to the rest of the country’s surprise.  New York may have a harsh, fast-paced image, but when the chips are down, it can be like a giant small town.  We stick together.  People from all around the world flock here and they live in peace no matter what their nationality or faith.  New York, contrary to its outdated image, is actually one of the most harmonious and diverse cities on the planet.  Of course we felt each other’s pain.  Of course we came together.  That’s what people should do in times of unrest.  We were all in this together.  There was no escaping it. 

On the other hand, all across the country there were some misguided acts of Anti-Muslim backlash.  The people who committed 9/11's acts of terror were extremists.  They had bent and mangled their faith in order to justify their means.  They had virtually nothing in common with your average Muslim American.  The Anti-Muslim acts of violence were unfortunate and should have been treated like any other hate-crime.  We will never get anywhere if we don’t take a moment to try to understand and appreciate our differences.  Nothing is black and white and when ignorant people act in violent ways it is usually because they are thinking in absolutes.  That’s the kind of closed-minded generalization that caused 9/11 in the first place.  That path can only lead to anger and sadness.

Ten years later, we should remember how we felt on that day and how we fought against adversity.  We should hug and kiss the ones we love and teach each other as much as we can about the world.  We must treat each other with respect and never forget that sense of pain and loss.  Something like this should never happen again.  We are a global society and we should be able to handle everything that entails.

Close your eyes for a minute today.  Think about all the things you have and all the people you love.  Remember all those who lost their lives a decade ago.  Remember all the people missing from dinner tables.  Only when we learn to walk in other people’s shoes will the violence and hatred be fully put to rest. 

Love and appreciate the world.  It’s all we have.  We are all in this together! 

PEACE!  - Allan Raible - September 11, 2011

Fiction: “The Vacuum Demo” – By Allan Raible

“Speak calmly,” she said in a quiet voice, “The world will wait for your input.”  I sat there with a stupid grin on my face waiting to be silenced by a potentially angry crowd just beyond the curtains.  It was time for me, Eddie Boggins, to deliver the speech that I’d been dreading for the past five months.  Five months of planning, grinding my teeth and losing sleep over something I could not stop.  I worked for the Bloomerville Vacuum Company and I had done so for the past fifteen years as their spokesperson and “Presenter of Innovative New Products.”

Today, I was gearing up to present the new Carborneon 5000.  This was a vacuum that not only sucked with ten times more force than our previous model, the Carboneon 4000, but it was also rechargeable and had a cool, adjustable strobe light as well.  The idea was to make vacuuming more exciting. 

The calming voice was my assistant, Lillian Keldron.  She had always been by my side, at least for the fifteen years I had been working for Bloomerville.  We were just friends.  We tried a fling once, but both decided it mucked our business relationship up too much.  As Lillian and I sat backstage, we looked intensely at the plugged in, charging vacuum about to be demoed for a filled auditorium. We both knew the pressure was on.

“Just be yourself,” she said.  “This is an amazing model.  People will love it.  It will sell itself.”

“I know, “ I said, “But I got no sleep last night. I kept having dreams about being sucked into a black hole of nothingness.  I kept feeling insecure.”

“You’ll be fine,” she said with a glowing smile.

The Carboneon 5000 needed a full 12-hour charge before it worked properly.  I’d had my colleague, Larry Schmirdtlandt deliver the vacuum to that back stage room some seventeen hours before.  I wanted to be more safe than sorry.  My career was hinging on this. 

Five minutes until curtain and my palms were sweating.  My tie was feeling tight and my mind was racing. 

“I can’t do it!”  I yelled.

Lillian looked me square in the eyes and said, “Yes you can!”  With that she gave me a devilish and warm smile and the kind of deep kiss I will never forget.  It felt like it lasted hours, but it was probably only a couple of minutes. 

As our mouths separated, she said, “Do you feel better, now?”  I nodded having been rendered speechless.  What did this kiss mean?  Did she love me?  I thought we had defined our relationship as strictly professional!  Did it mean nothing?  Was it merely a morale booster?

Indeed, somewhat flummoxed and a little woozy, I rose to my feet in preparation for the inevitable.  I unplugged the vacuum from its console and took it to the stage with me. 

As I was set to enter, I took a brief peek beyond the curtain.  These people didn’t look so bad.  Mostly eager men and women in business suits.  They weren’t going to hurt me.

I entered to our commercial jingle playing over the loud speakers. “Bloomerville Vacuums for cleaning every day! / Bloomerville Vacuums, gonna suck that dirt away!” I was proud to work there and I was happy with my work but this irksome ditty ran through my nightmares like hauntingly eerie carnival-ride music.  It was the kind of tripe that Middle America sucked in like candy and modern life had made me too apathetic and jaded to still find enjoyment in the midst of its calculated folksiness.  Let’s be frank.  The crap turned my stomach.  Although, at that moment, that may have been my nerves due to the presentation I was about to deliver.

I opened my mouth and I realized the microphone was really sensitive.  When I began to speak, I heard my voice reverberate and echo.  This might have made me feel like a deity calling down from the mountaintops had my nerves not rendered my voice an uncharacteristically squeaky mess.  “Hello,” I said, my voice cracking in new ways I’d never heard before, “I am Edward Boggins and I would like to welcome you to this year’s Bloomerville showcase.”  With that, I cracked a few jokes.  Most of my material would have flopped in other settings – like, for instance, places that actually knew the definition of humor, but here, with this stiff, starched crowd, I came off like an unworthy superstar.  Most of my jokes involved sucking references, since after all, that’s what vacuums do.  (Nothing filthy.  I didn’t want to work blue.  Get your mind out of the gutter.  That would have been a little too on the nose.)

A few minutes of this mindless, corporate banter and I was feeling like a king for a moment.  Even if this was nothing more than public schmoozing on a grand scale consisting of inside jokes about business memos and the ins and outs of the industry.  I was spewing verbal diarrhea and it was working.  By the time I was ready to unveil the Carboneon 5000, I was really full of myself.  It was a small and somewhat portable unit.  I had wheeled it out with me as I’d entered the stage. 

I gave my pitch.  I talked about how advanced it was in comparison to the 4000 model.  I even went as far as saying, “This will revolutionize house-cleaning for the next generation!  Welcome to the future of clean!!”  I admit that might have been over-selling it, but I just got so caught in the moment. 

Beside me was a bucket of sawdust.  Hillary Swenson, the intern had dyed the sawdust a bilious shade of green for effect.  I reached down for the bucket and spilled its contents all over the stage.  This was going to be my moment.  This was going to cement my legacy!  I grabbed the Carboneon 5000, switched it to the on position and………nothing happened…..

My brain froze.  My fingers tightened.  I could feel copious amounts of blood rushing to my face.  My wrists hurt.  My neck ached and my stomach sank down to my feet.  Had I not been sweating with anxiety for the last few hours in anticipation of this event, I might have wet myself right there and then.  But, thankfully, my reserves seemed to be empty.  I was stunned and I was numb.  A walking corpse set for a business-casual funeral.

What had happened?  Why wasn’t this damn thing working?  Why me?   Was this some sort of payback for the unexpected joy of being able to briefly make out with Lillian back stage?  No.  I actually felt no guilt about what happened between Lillian and I.  In fact, if given the chance, if I got out of here alive, I knew I was going to take her back to my hotel room and show her a good time, if she’d let me.  But I digress. 

I couldn’t help but think I might be cursed.  To this audience, it must have looked like I had unraveled within a five-second window.  I loosened my tie, gave out an awkward, strangely high-pitched giggle and glanced out to see if I could find any caring eyes in the audience. 

No such luck. They were all waiting for something that wasn’t going to come.  The poor bastards.

I managed to locate Larry three rows back.  He just gave me a stupid look and a shrug.  Thanks for having my back, brother!  Indeed, it was all Larry’s fault.  When he had set it up backstage, he’d plugged the charger into an unplugged power-strip.  This was his fault!

The pressure was too much.  I felt my chest tighten and my arm go numb.  The spotlight was too harsh and blinding for my eyes to handle.  I closed my eyes, fell over and passed out.  The last sound I heard was the thud my body made as I hit the floor. 

And with that, it got hazy….

I had lived a very uneventful 37 years.  I had had the same job since just after college.  Never partied.  I’d never really lived.  My few flirtations with Lillian had constituted the most substantial relationship of my life.  And I saw every moment fly by as if my mind were in rewind-and-reset mode. 

One memory lingered. 

When I was sixteen, I remember going to visit my cousin Wilbur upstate for the summer.  Wilbur was my age and admittedly much more adventurous than I was.  I remember we slept in a tent outside his house every night just on the off chance we’d get to catch a glimpse of his impossibly beautiful neighbor, Gwen Thornhill getting ready for bed through her window.  Night after night, we would hope to see her naked body through the window, which we both imagined was quite glorious.  While we kept our eyes peeled in our tent placed between Wilbur’s and Gwen's houses, we told each other ghost stories, corny jokes and stories about girls we liked but were too afraid to talk to. 

One night I fell asleep rather early.  In the morning, Wilbur told me he saw her.  He wouldn’t stop talking about her perfect figure and how gloriously toned and tan she was.  He said it was as if she’d been lifted out of a painting.  No…he then backtracked and said her body was even more magnificent than he thought existed.  He was crying with joy as he recalled this fleeting sight.  I wanted to kill him.  More importantly, I hated myself for needing sleep.  Part of me wondered though, had he really seen her or was he just making it up?

Here I was, about to die after a mere 37 bland years and this was what was crossing my mind?  Adolescent fantasy?  Missed adolescent fantasy in fact.  It was pathetic.  But strangely, it was the moment I felt the most alive.  In the years since, I had taken myself too seriously.  School was my main focus, followed immediately by work.  And I’d sacrificed my own happiness. 

The more my dying brain thought about it, the more I realized that I should have dated and married Lillian.  She was my rock.  She always knew what I was thinking before I did.  She always had my best interest in mind.  And I felt exactly the same way about her.  I wanted to make her smile and laugh every day. As I came back from lunch, I would always tell her some jokes on the way into my office.  They were always mind-blowingly lame, but she always laughed nonetheless.  I should have worried less and snatched her up.  But I didn’t.  I was sensible. I didn’t listen to what I really truly wanted.

37 years and here I was, a dead vacuum company mouthpiece who had never lived.  My time was cut short but I’d been dead for years.  I wish I’d lived.  I wish I had sang more.  I wish I knew what it was like to make love on a beach at dusk.  I had plans I never put into action that now they were fading into the ether. 

I was a victim of my fear, my nerves and Larry’s stupidity.  That unplugged power-strip proved to be indirectly lethal.   Didn’t any of us think to look to see if the red light was on to see if it was indeed charging?  No.  We were too lost in our own worlds.

The event drew to a grinding halt the second my cold body hit the floor.  I was pronounced dead somewhat immediately.  It took ten Bloomerville “experts” to figure out why the vacuum hadn’t worked.  Once they determined the cause, they set it up to charge correctly backstage and the next night had Larry attempt the presentation again.  Lillian was too upset to attend. 

Larry lacked style.  He wasn’t smooth in the least.  He was the kind of guy who had questionable hygiene and who you’d occasionally catch munching on his own shirt-sleeves if he thought you weren’t looking.  He collected various kinds of stuffed birds and golf balls signed by golfers who weren’t famous.  He was an odd fellow, but for him the demonstration worked.  His speech and his jokes didn’t hit as well as mine did, but perhaps the crowd members were still in shock after seeing me die before their eyes the previous evening.

The tone got a little brighter once they heard the whooshing of the Carboneon 5000 as it revved up and removed the green sawdust from the stage.  It was just as effective as promised and became one of Bloomerville’s most successful products to date.  I’m not sure its success can completely be attributed to its stellar performance.  Many of the industry bigwigs in attendance urged others to buy Carboneon 5000s out of a nagging, somewhat haunted guilt about what happened to me. 

In the end, Bloomerville made a fortune.  In fact they made enough money to build a bigger and better office and nearly double their staff.  So, that my friends is how my sudden death revolutionized the vacuum industry. 

Please remember me when you clean up a mess. 

Arts for PEACE: Peace Education through the Arts, Culture, and Exposure - By Lia Parisyan

• 

  Taxidermy: the art of preserving the dead. This is what I’m reminded of as I sip on Gin and Seltzer with squeeze of lime. I’m being stared down by two pheasants behind a pane of glass, frozen eternally, looking out into two separate directions in space. Framed by what I imagine is mahogany or stained pine, in a portion of a forest with dried out wheat and yellow-grass, this is the closest I’ll ever get to staying constant forever.
  
  I took a pause from walking through the streets of New York City, on a humid August day. The heels I wore to my interview had been pinching my feet for the better portion of my walk from 28th West to the Lower East Side. Like floating driftwood, I ended up on shore as I made my through the doors of Kenny’s Castaways. I don’t know Kenny, but is seems he’s got a habit of collecting things that have no place to go or nowhere to be. I would have not necessarily chosen this as my first watering hole, but the portholes and the false imitation of a pirate’s vessel were enough to draw my attention and keep my interest.
  
  I would have walked by, but something caught the corner of my eye; the slate marked off with times and bands, and has chance had it, the bizarre circumstances of this Universe wanted to give me a much needed lift. I took a breath of relief, and smiled as the doors opened, and I walked into the dim lit shaft of “The Interstellar Elevators”. I had first seen this band perform in Hartford, Connecticut, and was seriously impressed. It was the night after Crystal Manor and Cabin Fever, which carried on well into the morning. I spent the better portion of the next morning and afternoon in Central Park with a few friends. I suggested we go there, where oddly enough there was a Kidney Health marathon going on with very bad Long Island 40-50 year-old demographic, Bruce Springstein and Rod Stewart crooners and croakers, singing on stage. But, before I go off on another tangent, I decided to write some poetry and sit in and wait for the show. There were a few not so hot opening acts, so after of hearing a few post-pubescent men whine, I went out for a smoke. There weren’t too many people outside, and being the type of girl I am (in the likeness and image of my mother), I naturally started striking up conversations with complete strangers.
  
  This is how I met Matthew Grosjean and Jordan Lorrius, a guitarist singer/songwriter duo. Arts for Peace 2011 Emerging Artists of the year, The Phantoms were formed in the wake of the earthquake in Haiti.
  
  A recent collaboration with Serbian band Darkwood Dub and Croatian singer Ida Prestor has led to a music video organized by Thomas G. Ehr of MTV in the countries of former Yugoslavia of “Listen”, a song in response to the events in Haiti which is now bringing a message of hope to a new generation of Serbians and Croatians. The Phantoms have performed at venues as varied as: UNHQ, Yale, The Provenance Center, a former Gestapo prison in Frankfurt, and a concert sponsored by MTV Adria in Belgrade. At our inaugural Salon, Thomas G. Ehr, General Manager, MTV Adria and Chairperson, MTV EXIT Foundation introduced the Phantoms and spoke about their remarkable work in Serbia and in response to the tragedies in Haiti.
  
  The Phantoms along with several other talented artists will be performing at Le Poisson Rouge on August 19, 2011. Arts for Peace will be hosting Jackie Kazazian of the Art Institute of Chicago, who will be presenting Contemporary Art and Women in Syria followed by music performances.
  
  
  For more information and event details, please visit:http://www.lepoissonrouge.com/events/view/2457
• 
  

  Le Poisson Rouge: August 19, 2011

  http://www.lepoissonrouge.com/

A Moment Before Dying - By Lia Parisyan

Lately, I have been doing a lot of thinking. I am twenty-six years old, I’m unemployed and I’m not finding work, nor have I been appreciated when I have been employed. I worked hard for the entirety of my elementary through college education, I have been an A student for my entire life, and I graduated with the highest honors, and followed the traditional route of entering the Corporate World (Marketing and Public Relations), and did fairly well working in those areas of business. Over the years, I grew less and less happy, and as the economy took a turn for the worse, I took on worse and worse positions with less pay and less respect or compensation for my innovations, hours worked overtime (unpaid), and singular efforts at reforming technical content and presentation of information. I was making money, but I was becoming more miserable each and every day. The grey sterile atmosphere of the office, the same familiar faces with different names, and the monotony and routine and thick-headed “leadership” were getting to me. I took a few years’ hiatus from the corporate realm and went into Hospitality. I worked as a bartender and waitress at a variety of bars and restaurants in New York, New Jersey and even Brazil, but the long hours, the sexual advances, the rampant drinking were taking a toll on me. It was preferable to the dull hours spent in front of a computer screen, but I still wasn’t happy. Was this what I spent 12 years of my life studying, scarifying my health and social life, for?   A chance to compete with the so called silver spoon elite?                          I quit my last gig in the corporate world as a technical/e-Commerce copywriter, and decided to figure out what I wanted to do, which was naturally compounded by a fear of failure ingrained in me by my parents. I was too afraid to study art when I was younger because it wasn’t practical. I had a natural knack for most subjects in school, but I never took a risk and studied what I liked. I switched schools during my parents’ divorce because I wanted to be “practical” and I gave up my scholarship to Clark University, to move back home because I knew how hard and ugly the future would be and wanted to be there for my mother, who went from being a tennis playing, worked-to-keep-herself-busy housewife, who took my sister to every imaginable enrichment afterschool activity and dropped $500 dollars at the mall each weekend, to working overtime, paying my father about a million in cash after the assets had been liquidated, and then never receiving a dime in child support. I went from being a princess to pauperess overnight, but I didn’t complain, honestly, I didn’t want to make it harder for anyone. So, it was okay, despite the major adjustment period. I abandoned my dreams because I was raised to believe that family, blood came first.                          Now, after all that has come to pass, the highs and lows, I am ready to take the first risk ever in my life, I am ready to try and fail. It’s funny that at my most optimistic and in a sense at my lowest point in life (if one looks to societal norms as a benchmark of assessment). I want to use the skills I have -- a huge arsenal of historical information memorized, a flair for the camera, and a decent writing ability, I want to show people this country, I want people to know what else is out there, I want people to see the things, I never knew existed, and was deterred from ever wanting to see. My parents, especially my father (both from Europe), said America has nothing. They never wanted to go to California, the Grand Canyon was a hole in the Earth to these people. Instead we went to Europe, Asia and South America, but my curiosity could not be contained so easily. But since I was a sort of quiet and sensitive child, I did as my parents demanded, and it wasn’t until my late 20s that I’ve mustered the nerve to write or do something unconventional. I probably will fail, but more importantly, I want to try, it’s not about failure or success for me; it’s about doing something completely out of my comfort zone. It’s about doing something I’ve never had the courage to do because it was so frowned upon by the members of my ancient and aristocratic family. Their repressive rule, their expectations, and the burdens of past glory (the road frequently travelled), were a strong reason never to betray their wishes, because not only would I be failing, but I would be failing the entire family.                          Now, at twenty-six, I did what they wanted, I followed their rules, and I ended up falling in my own way. The paradox is: I was a 4.0 student, but I got involved (consciously) with the wrong people, so I am technically success in their eyes, they look at this as a break, a pause, they’re putting pressure on me to get it together. No. Not anymore. I will do it on my own if need be, with no plan, because I have no precedence, with no help because I do not know how or who to ask. I must try and fail, the first thing I want to see is the Grand Canyon.

Mission Statement: A Message From Allan Raible - Editor In Chief

Creative Unrest In The Modern World is a blog started by Allan Raible and Lia Parisyan in late June 2011 in response to the vacuous nature of the majority of the internet.  It is also a place for us to express ourselves and to create something thought-provoking and profound.  Please note that the two of us may not always agree and that posts signed by each one of us depict our individual points of view.  

What Will You Find Here?: Well, that's a good question.  This blog is rather free-form.  You could find news and entertainment stories one day and artistic expression the next.  One day may be deadly serious, the next may be more light-hearted and goofy.  The point is to give you an eclectic mix of interesting and cerebral pieces to read.  If something big is happening in the world, one of us may write an essay.  If we want to do some creative writing, it might end up here as well.

We will keep you guessing.  That's just part of the fun.  In any case, we both hope you enjoy what you find here and continue to check us for updates.

Thank you for reading!