Now that is a bunch of you know what. Releasing a murderer on compassionate ground! What about his crime? Did he show any compassion or regard for human life when he committed the cowardly acts? No. 

Al-Megrahi is a criminal and has blood of 270 on his hands and deserves no compassion. I am sorry, but I don't think there is anyone on this planet, with a functioning mind and reasoning, who would vouch for his release.

Come to think of it, al-Megrahi's bosses in Libya control the country's oil resources. According to the Energy Information Administration's website:

"Libya holds close to 44 billion barrels of oil reserves, the largest in Africa. EIA data indicate that 2008 total oil production (crude plus liquids) was approximately 1.88 million barrels per day (bbl/d)."

Is Scotland's compassion another name for its interest in Libyan oil?

Bhumika Ghimire

When I lived in the suburbs after college, as soon as we girls acquired more furniture than a beanbag chair and a rickety stool, we hosted supper clubs. One of the more favorite versions of the supper club was the progressive dinner party in which the festivities move to a different person's apartment for each course of the meal. Once I moved to NYC, I rarely went inside anyone's apartment unless it was the home of one of the few individuals whose living space was larger than an average closet. That is, until I joined an unconventional writing group that operates a bit like the progressive parties of my suburban days.

This writing group meets once a week at a different location; sometimes we meet in the back room of a local bookstore or, if the weather is good, we meet at Strawberry Fields in Central Park, but usually we meet in someone's apartment. We write for an hour or so and then chat and eat some snacks. I think at last count there were about 100 members, but only 15-20 show up at any given meeting, depending on the location. Because of the relaxed nature of the group, you can come every week, not come for three months, not write a word while you're there, or offer to read some of what you've written.

If you've followed this blog at all, you'll know that this arrangement perfectly satisfies the voyeur in me. (See the "Getting to Know You" post.) I get to nose around a stranger's apartment, see what kind of knick-knacks they have and if they leave the toilet seat up. It's also given me the opportunity to check out an 1890s brownstone that maintained the details of its glorious past and a hip Soho loft overlooking Broadway and Houston. Oh, and I get some writing done.

The writing group decided to try a noble experiment: have a meeting while riding on the 7 train. As unconventional as it sounds, I liked the idea of having the subway be the destination rather than the means to the destination. The goal is to board the train at the Times Square station, which is the very first stop, so the entire group can pile into one car. We will then write during the ride out to Queens, and on the return trip, members can read their work if they choose. Of course there will be plenty of other passengers on the train, and I've no doubt that some of us will be the recipient of monetary donations.

This reminded me of Johnny Temple's essay about a subway party, though the goal of a subway party is to drink yourself into a somewhat shaky state, then board the train with a gaggle of your closest friends, and basically harass the rest of the passengers until they leave you with the car to yourself.

Now I don't need utter silence to write. I've often jotted notes or written scenes while riding the subway, but the distractions on the 7 train are too much to handle. Most of the stations are above ground, where you'll find the work of arguably the world's best graffiti artists on display. Also above ground, there are the challenges of relentlessly ringing cell phones and general Saturday afternoon din, never mind the stares of New Yorkers as they watch the nutty people all clacking away on their laptops. Most of these people, I expect, will assume that we are filming some kind of documentary or that they walked into the latest version of Punk'd.

Come to think of it, this situation would not be satisfactory at all. I want to be the one conducting the voyeurism, not the subject of it. I know this is quite unfair. One good turn deserves another. So if you're riding the 7 train and come across a group that seems to be lost in thought, please be a good voyeur and keep your stares surreptitious. That's what I would do.

Jacquelin Cangro

I'm sitting in the campus lan, slightly tipsy at only 11 a.m., thinking about an old friend. It would have been his 22nd birthday today…only he's dead.

"I know that you believe you understand what you think I said, but I'm not sure you realize that what you heard is not what I meant" —Robert McCloskey

There comes a time in everyone's life where they feel the incessant need to explain themselves, over and over, until all explanations recede to the background and transform into a gentle hum that, while still there, is easy to ignore. Why? Do we feel guilty for our actions? Do we regret the choice we made? Are we hurt? Do we doubt ourselves?

I used to believe that the world defined us and that we had little say in the boxes that society dumped us in. However, I soon realized that society had nothing on me — I define myself for myself and that is all that should matter. Society may challenge my own definitions, but I always have the last word. Though, it's never easy to stand up, walled to your own beliefs…especially when the army against you is stronger and better armed…especially when the war is against the people who are important to you…especially when all you want to do is pause the battle and explain yourself.

My counselor once told me that explanations were manipulative. I disagree. Sometimes explanations are crucial for communication — misunderstandings occur all the time. It's somewhat the guilty-until-proven-innocent concept. Then again, shouldn't people who you consider to be close to you know you well enough without you having to justify your every hiccup…?

I find myself at the rock bottom of despair — thinking about a dead friend who considered his friends to be the most precious things on Earth and who I neglected; and the other friend, the one who I did everything I could for regardless of me meaning nothing to him and him treating me disrespectfully. I lost both.

Life is short. Why waste time on people that don't care about you? Why keep trying?

I'm sitting here, in my drunken stupor, searching for reasons and explanations to rationalize the choices I have made in my past. Reasons for why I abandoned my friend when he needed me the most. Reasons why I wasn't there when he was dying. Explanations that would somehow make the other friend forgive me so that he would come back into my life…just to let me know, that all the time I had spent on him was not wasted, and that, in some way, he really did care about me.

It's all nonsense really. The truth is that I was a bad friend who spent the last couple of years chasing a prick (mind the language, but there is no other word that would describe him better). So instead, I am going to think up reasons to forgive myself; and the first reason is that I have learned from my mistakes. Now if only I had the ability to know who is worth my time…Sigh. 

Tharuna Devchand