shy

A few years ago I hiked up to Andrew’s Glacier.  A quiet pool rests beneath it, I sat there for a while contemplating my existence while simultaneously wondering how long he would be here.  I wonder how long before it recedes from our view, before it vanishes and dissipates into the air.  Maybe someday I will look to the clouds and say “there goes Andrew” and “wonder if he’s watching over us.”  Or will he become a part of a storm that produces a tornado that drills through Tennessee.  Or will he be rushing like a waterfall, stammering in a rage, protesting like a newborn.  Now he just trickles and drips little by little, disappearing in such small integers’ that it’s barely noticed.  Some scientist predicts that Andrew could be gone in as little as 20 years. 

repost; Tasmania

Courage reveals itself in times of need, walks in front as the last streaks of sunset dissolve into the night sky. I was at the end of my rope, money had dried up and I had nowhere to go when Peter kicked me off of his farm in Derby, Tasmania. I worked there in exchange for food and stay. I had spent the week leading up to it pick-axing potato trenches through clay and the roots of a large tree nearby. I didn’t mind the work; it was more the lack of appreciation that led to me scorning his name behind his back and polluting the energy of the crew. The bad energy got back to him and with one week left before my return home, I was kicked out. I remember that morning; I knew it was coming. I helped my friend Sara, a German girl with electric orange hair, hike her belongings up to the bus stop. It was a 4 kilometer walk along the Cascade River. There was an excitement in my stomach as I hugged her goodbye. Walking back along that gravel road I had a premonition, that things were about to change. “Take care of yourself,” she advised as we sent each other off with a hug. I knew he was going to kick me out. What was I going to do? Looking down I kicked up a stone, smooth and white yet powerful in its shape as if it were an arrowhead in one life, before the river softened is edges and spit it out just for me. It fit into my palm comfortably, as if it were a missing digit, a part of me. It warmed itself in my hand as if we were feeding each other life. I felt my pupils wide as I walked slowly back to the little log cabin. I could smell the fire of the woodstove and thought of the others gathering around for hot oatmeal with flax meal and a homemade quince syrup. Maybe Peter would be scratching at his white beard discussing the matter of banishing me from his magical forest. I clasped on to the stone as I drew nearer. My pupils grew wide, the trees and rays of sun that burst through them seemed vibrant and exaggerated. The moss of the trees starkly contrasting the deep brown bark as if I was on some sort of psychotropic mushroom. The sun infiltrating every misty drop in its path making them light up like fireflies. The stone, an umbilical cord, reconnecting me with the whimsical and omniscient spirit of the earth. I got back to the house steam rolling from the sink as Peter frantically finished some dishes. He turned to me, his head shaking and his face red and pupils narrow.
“You can’t stay here,” he sizzled off.
“I know.”
“You need to pack your things and… and… leave right away.”
“Okay.”
“Well… Okay then,” he finished seeming surprised of my complacency.
I was sent packing. It was so simple. I could tell that he prepared himself for a fight. I thought to beg for his mercy. Nearly recoiling in the fear of my uncertain future, my hand reached for the stone, it was hot, and pulsing in my pocket, like a fetus hoping its host will not abort, encouraging a more dignified leaving. His heart softened as I packed my things. I could hear him contemplatively cranking the flour mill, where eventually he came to asking me to stay for his famous pancake lunch.
With my pride still in tact and my belly full of pancakes I walked away with a new sense of freedom. As I walked the path, contemplating the adventure that has just unleashed itself, that natural instinct to seek comfort kicked in. I thought of the option of staying with an acquaintance in town. But clasping the stone I knew that would be a ‘cop out’ to a real adventure. Regardless I approached the door, making a deal with myself, rubbing the stone for support hoping for a genie to grant me a more certain future. I told myself that if these people were home when I went to the door I would stay with them, and if they weren't I would continue on. I knocked, and there wasn’t an answer. I took a deep breath and clenched to the stone harder than ever. So I started out of town with my thumb out, looking for a ride anywhere the wind would take me. As evening approached I started to lose hope, but I comforted myself with the thought of the wild blackberries and the fresh water streams. I picked up an old water bottle from the side of the road. I went to the river to fill it, considering retiring for the evening when I felt the stone almost burning a hole in my pocket, a tug on my heart to give the old Tasman Highway one more shot. A big white van pulled up. The kind one could imagine from a bad horror movie. A skinny scruffy middle aged man and a sweater wearing wishbone kind of pup rolled down his window and asked where I was going. I told him where ever he was going. I clasped onto my stone and jumped into his van.

Bamboo is grass

'There are two kinds of men, that seems quite clear. One sees bamboo as grass and one a spear.

Bamboo is grass. How is bamboo a knife? The grasses give us seed, and seed is life.

One thinks of ownership and one of earth. One shapes the forms of death, and one, rebirth.

And what is fear?

It is the eye that sees bamboo as spear.

And one makes war with wheat and one makes bread. One signs of hope, the other arms in dread.

Let others labor, we shall own the land. They'll work for bread, and place it in my hand.'

-from 'three voices' by bill mollison

Greatness

“The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its people are treated.” 

 

 

 

“The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated.”
― Gandhi 

-

“Love the quick profit, the annual raise,

vacation with pay. Want more

of everything ready-made. Be afraid

to know your neighbors and to die.

And you will have a window in your head.

Not even your future will be a mystery

any more. Your mind will be punched in a card

and shut away in a little drawer.

When they want you to buy something

they will call you. When they want you

to die for profit they will let you know.

So, friends, every day do something

that won’t compute. Love the Lord.

Love the world. Work for nothing.

Take all that you have and be poor.

Love someone who does not deserve it.

Denounce the government and embrace

the flag. Hope to live in that free

republic for which it stands.

Give your approval to all you cannot

understand. Praise ignorance, for what man

has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.

Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.

Say that your main crop is the forest

that you did not plant,

that you will not live to harvest.

Say that the leaves are harvested

when they have rotted into the mold.

Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus

that will build under the trees

every thousand years.

Listen to carrion — put your ear

close, and hear the faint chattering

of the songs that are to come.

Expect the end of the world. Laugh.

Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful

though you have considered all the facts.

So long as women do not go cheap

for power, please women more than men.

Ask yourself: Will this satisfy

a woman satisfied to bear a child?

Will this disturb the sleep

of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.

Lie down in the shade. Rest your head

in her lap. Swear allegiance

to what is nighest your thoughts.

As soon as the generals and the politicos

can predict the motions of your mind,

lose it. Leave it as a sign

to mark the false trail, the way

you didn’t go.

Be like the fox

who makes more tracks than necessary,

some in the wrong direction.

Practice resurrection.”

―wendell berry

Paradise Lost

One day a few years back I was hanging out in Berlin, Germany.  Muck'n it up with
the squatter kids and searching for Paradise.  Living the romantic life of filth, and slums,
eating trash and stolen food, trading in cans for beer and giving the rest of the world and other life styles the big middle finger.  What the hell.. it was all fun for a little bit.
Anyways... I was really broke.  I had a few dollars left to my name which I needed for a ferry and a bus ticket to catch my flight back.  I didn't feel very welcomed with the squatter kids even though
they were nice enough to give me a space to sleep.  I didn't look or talk like them so I felt excluded.
I don't blame them you have all of these free-loading kids and hippies that have some dreamy ideals
of squats floating in and out of their home as the pleased.  Thus my naive search for utopia was coming to and end.
Anyways, so I played the part for a little bit.  Collecting beer cans where ever I could find them
and returning them for a little cash, watching people eat their food and licking their plate after they
left.  I was  garbage picking, beer steeling, can collecting scum.  I was proud of it for a while until
I realized how desperate I really was and how my life was becoming fixated on money because my
lack of it.  I hated this.  So I decided Fuck it with the cans.  Fuck it with money and a whole
new world opened up to me.  I made a friend and she invited me to go down to France and partake
in this anti-nuclear walk, where we would get fed if we marched with them.  So we hitch hiked down with some fast driving Germans in a sports car.  When we met them it was in this little french town and a local anti-nuclear supporter bought everyone pizza and let us sleep in her house.  The hospitality of the French was unbelievable fresh fruit Breads and cheeses at every town from supporters. 
I've taken 2 trips of this kind.  Both times I went with very little money, running out towards the end.  Going through of period of suffering from lack of money fallowed by me saying "fuck it" fallowed
by having some magical experience that I wouldn't have otherwise had if I did have money. 

Store Room Leondard Cohen
It’s not the wind that keeps you up, It’s not the snow It’s not the moon coming like a headlight through your window It’s not the thumbnail of a screen That scrapes away your dream
It's just this man, Taking what he needs, From the store room,
It’s not the news of burning towns That ruins your mind like a spoon you turn and you turn But it won’t unwind Though these wars you did not start They don’t tear your sleep apart
It's just a man, Taking what he needs, From the store room,
And now this woman by your side Well she’s is asleep And there's nothing you can give her, and there's nothing you want to keep You don't even try to prove that the noise is neighbours making love.
It's just a man, Taking what he needs, From the store room,
Well go to sleep and change the locks When you wake up Share your toast maybe spill some coffee from your cup Oh there’s nothing left to choose And there is so much more to loose.
There’s this man, Taking what he needs, From the store room,
It’s not the wind that keeps you up, It’s not the snow It’s not the moon coming like a headlight through your window It’s not the thumbnail of a screen That scrapes away your dream
It's just a man, Taking what he needs, From the store room,
It’s not the news of burning towns That ruins your mind like a spoon you turn and you turn But won’t unwind No these wars you did not start They don’t tear your sleep apart
It's just a man, Taking what he needs, From the store room,
And now the woman by your side Well she’s awake But there's nothing you can give her, and there's nothing you want to take You don't even try to prove that the noise is neighbours making love.
It's just a man, Taking what he needs, From the store room,
Oh go to sleep and change the locks When you wake up Share your toast maybe spill a little coffee from your cup He’s got nothing left to choose And you’ve got so much more to loose.
It's just a man, Taking what he needs, From the store room

the cost of convenience

Dear god,

please save us form ourselves....

Exhibit A:






Exhibit B:



Exhibit C:



Exhibit D:






Exhibit E:


+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

some thoughts

On Panhandling/Begging

Panhandling is an expression of the reality of our society.

It makes people uncomfortable who experience it who are not in that situation.

Often times these people are pushed to outskirts, it is made illegal, called soliciting. 

It tends to bother non-beggars, people who have money, so in an effort
to give non-beggars a more comfortable shopping experience beggars are
often banned from an area or a storefront for this reason. 

Money is influence.

People with money have the option to give the beggar money.

People who are willing may have some qualifications for such a person
or maybe will opt to buy them food instead of giving them money.

some beggars have elaborate stories.  They could be true or made up.
But whether or not the story is factual or not there is a true expression
of need.

There is a double standard applied to beggars.  A lot of people will say that
they only want to give a person money if they know that they are going to
spend it on a necessity such as food, or paying rent.
The contradiction is that a person with money has the privilege of spending money
on whatever they want.

A common defense for a person not to give a beggar money is that they
may be feeding their drug habit. 

This line of thinking may be detrimental to the "legitimate" story of a person
who is actually distressed and stranded and really needs money to catch a
bus.  

Human services and non-profits replace the kindness of individuals.

When one donates money to a non-profit there are many hidden costs associated
with that organization for example the Executive director of the Sierra club makes
upwards of 200,000.  Non-profits become competitive job markets. 
And when something becomes your job naturally there is a desire to
increase pay.  

not quite twins

I asked a guy if I could plug my computer in under his table at the coffee shop. 
He got up and said that since he has no "technology" and he is at the "technology table"
that he would relinquish the table.  I assured him that wasn't necessary, but he didn't
hear me with his head still half wrapped in his book.  He proceeded to reach in his
pocket and pull out his cell phone and say "well I actually do have this for technology"
he proceeded to show me a photo of two young boys with matching green coats.
"twins?" I asked.  "Not quite," he replied, "they are cousins and they are two days
apart."....  "The one on the left gets into all the trouble and the one on the right is tags
along for the adventure but keeps the other one out of real trouble"... "they are going to live together
in college"  .... he told me a few other plans he had for these little kids.  I told him to
write them down for them so they knew what to do with their lives.  And he said that
they won't be needing anything like that... it's just going to happen.

And now I sit in the seat at the "technology table" warmed by a pleasant
 and unusual interaction with a stranger.

Such a simple thing to make my day.  

Blah blah blah

Each year I think I am more and more surprised by the speed of time.
is the world spinning faster?  is that how it works?  it seems like it.

Each winter I am also surprised by how short the days get.  I

swear that each year they are shorter than the year before and for longer.

My love/hate relationship with winter is a struggle.  

A time to recoil and reflect, I say in the dead of summer
romanticizing the season of BLAH's which is the way I 

feel now that I am in the thick of it.  

"You just need to take a vitamin D supplement or

go tanning or something like that"

I keep saying to myself that I am waiting for something
What am I waiting for?

whatever. blah blah blah blah.