On March 15, 1988, the International Campaign for Tibet was established to support the Tibetan people’s struggle for human rights and democratic freedoms. From a handful of dedicated individuals, ICT has grown into an international organization empowered by the vision of His Holiness the Dalai Lama.
Sunday, October 15, 2017
So I was cleaning out an Email account of mine, glancing at the subjects and recalling the text (I tend to remember written words and images better than hearing them spoken or recorded) and once I got so far I just said, "to Hell with it, there's nothing here", and just clicked next to the section header and BANG, I hit delete and they were gone. Kind of like starting anew, a new life and new situations to go along with it.
Down the memory hole went the old, as many are want to say, more so our media and the attention span of our general public ... and those bits and pieces of stories and anecdotes that slip through the sieve of deceit and linger, embarrassingly, on the mind and public conscious. If you ever want to talk about self-denial, this is a well of inspiration, or self-inflicted amnesia, more appropriately said.
But I didn't get them all. A handful of correspondences remained. And right there at the top was a copy of a letter I had sent to myself. I looked at the date and thought awhile on all that had come to pass since.
The original addressee was an outfit that tends to lobby for Constitutional practices in our government. One of those you might lump together with proponents of right wing extremism. That's assuming you're not very well read or easily manipulated or prone to hysteria; or maybe you just want to be part of a crowd that looks cool in your mind's eye. That's Ok. I was giving them a hard time, too. I tend to do that when people are getting killed and nations are being destroyed. One of my little quirks, I'm an odd fellow that way. I don't tend to quit, either. Just for grins, here's the letter (I come off like a real badass, don't I? Appearances matter so much ...).
Subject: Re: ACTION: Vote on Congressional War Power
Quote: "This authorization 15 years ago was a total abandonment of Congress’s duty to declare war that was justified by the myths that Iraq had weapons of mass destruction"... Unquote. (referring to this: Authorization For Use Of Military Force in Response to the 9/11 Attacks (P.L. 107-40): Legislative History)
What is your most important piece of legislation you're trying to drive home? Which one involves the greatest misappropriation of funds in your reckoning?
What action would relieve the most suffering, and potential for future harm, to innocent people across the globe?
Which of your assertions do you deem most winnable, in the shortest time span? Which is the most heinous act of clandestine gov't that you can imagine or point to?
Well, I thought I was getting my ass kicked , personally. I've been laughed at, screamed at, ignored, phished, spied on, stifled and been made the butt of jokes and derision.
A pretty good start if I do say so myself. I noticed something though. People are repeating my complaints, taking heed of my protests and insults hurled at the quitters and naysayers.
They're gettin' mad - and that was my goal in the first place. Grab somebody by the collar and shake 'em like a drunken lout who pissed on my floor.
That's right. My floor. It's mine, and I challenge anyone to step up and try to take it. Take it back, i.e., from the deceivers who stole it in the first place.
And I don't even get paid a salary.
Well, there it is. A call to Repeal the 2001 AUMF and force Congress to publicly debate the continuation of the destruction of the Middle East and further the goals of American Empire. Did you ever wonder what would happen if only a few thousand people would threaten to unseat their Congressional Representatives for their dereliction of duty to you and the Nation? I know the answer, because I've done it before - they would follow your command. That's how the Constitution works, in part, at least. Give it a try. You'll look really cool.
. . . ::::::::
Saturday, October 14, 2017
Tuesday, October 10, 2017
hip hop sounds
scale the dark and climb the blinds
banging round a cluttered porch;
the rustle n' ka-fustle of f-f-f-falling leaves
echoes of a horn
muffled by damp,
tempered by heat
somewhere up the line --
the night train
a hodge-podge of people
just milling about
awash in blue, neon light -
last of the fireflies
one obnoxious drunk,
for another shot of pain --
clear autumn sky
(so i gave him one)
closing time --
a few stragglers here,
hungry sparrows there
He heard her voice echo down the alley, loud in the crisp air, bouncing off buildings, ever more strident, then accusatory, bemoaning the hour, the situation, now pleading. He wondered when she might contradict herself. She was still holding her own - and becoming more aggressive. Shutting the walk-up loft's battered door carefully behind him, he quickened his pace.
"Ma'am. We're just saying, there have been complaints." A man's voice. It carried a warning - the officer was becoming annoyed, his impatience showing in the three stripes on his uniform's sleeve. They heaved and bulged, the blue cloth barely restraining his bulging biceps as he flexed them nervously. Behind him and this little parking space where he stood, two squads cars waited, humming and clicking as they cooled in the narrow alley. Just beyond the altercation beginning to unfold lay a little respite tucked into a notch between buildings.
Hidden from the view of passersby, a few humble features had been placed there with great care; some worn benches and a huge picnic table liberated from the bar next door, a few wooden planters, a bird feeder and chimes hung from a Shepard's hook. A cooking grill stood at the ready along with a place to store ladders and other implements. A border of Perennials completed the scene, this sanctuary that belied the bleakness of the neighborhood and its meager prospects, bordering the expanse of asphalt the tiny garden was literally carved out of.
In stark contrast, the police cars squatted menacingly, the new paint scheme in sinister black and white while insignias in gold shone like bright badges on each door. They emitted a constant babble of radio dispatches unintelligible to anyone more than a few feet distant as their lights flashed strobe warnings in red and blue on the old brick and mortar without let up.
Despite this heightening tension, she forged on, as if oblivious to any danger. Or was she, he thought to himself. Even now, he couldn't be sure. Meanwhile, two more officers lingered in the shadows, their quiet chatter like two bored observers commenting on a ballgame.
"Why can't we enjoy our birthdays! It's just a little party! Her speech slurred slightly. "I was born in '54 and I'll be 56 - he was born in '56 and he'll be 54! It's 10-10-10!" Enunciated with a mocking emphasis, this last statement had a particular stridency, as though she were explaining everything to the dullest of children. Her sibilants were more indistinct with each passing phrase, 'f's' and 's's' indistinguishable now - but then the pitch went up another notch. "We can't even celebrate our birthdays?!" She began to repeat dates and numbers to anybody listening.
Closer now and taking a deep breath, he slowed his walk, willing himself a compliant posture. He made sure to stay in the light, keeping both hands open and in plain sight.
The Sargeant's voice suddenly shifted, taking on a darker tone. "Ma'am, we've been called out twice. The next time, somebody's going down." Near the end of his patience, he wasn't having any circular arguments. Not on this night. He meant business.
Quietly, the husband slipped carefully between the two of them, making sure not to look at the policemen directly. "Whaddya doin', hon? Gettin' into a fight with the cops?" His tone was playful, almost a sing-song, without friction or confrontation. "I took the dogs in just now. We're all goin' in - right now." He made the pronouncement in such a nonchalant manner, directing this fact at no one in particular. It was an order, nonetheless. She would understand his inflection - and urgency - she knew him all too well.
And as if taking her cue, the wife turned on her heel with surprising quickness and just as abruptly marched off in the opposite direction - just the way she would when we were teenagers, two kids in love and willing to prove it. Or, for that matter, test it to its limits. - this time, though, she muttered a defiant insult, leaving it to hang precariously in her wake like an errant spitball begging to be hit. Nor did it go unnoticed. In an instant, the situation changed. Authority had been breached - a determination had to be made. This ball was about to be smacked out of the park.
Up until then the young cop riding shotgun had sat silent and unnoticed, slumped in the car seat as he was. As if at the sound of a starter's gun, his demeanor burst into fluster and agitation. "What did you say, Ma'am?! No response. "Wait a minute - come back here!" He literally barked the last order. He'd had enough - any patience learned on the street had left him now. Having wrested control of the situation, the weary Sargeant looked about to stand down and let him run with it. The rookie's response was to furiously fumble with the handle to his locked door.
The husband hadn't moved either, preferring instead to maintain focus as he carefully observed his wife's retreat. Seemingly unaware of the force surrounding him, it was as though he were contemplating the moment's surprise and, perhaps, his entire life. He was in a position to agree with the new recruit. He knew that would be the safest course. Funds were low and bail for two would be impossible. Who would want to spend the weekend in jail anyway? Maybe get roughed up in the process - he'd heard the stories of the trip up the isolated jailhouse elevator. Sighing inaudibly, he took in a reluctant breath.
He turned slowly to look at this rookie - deliberately making eye contact - and then he spoke. "Ahhh, she's just had too much to drink is all." His penitent voice. Delivered like some country bumpkin, he scuffed the toe of his boot along the pavement for emphasis, which, in fact, placed him in a position to block the squad car's door.
He leered a little then, his smile morphing, a wide, almost over the top goofiness to it, a totally inappropriate gesture matched only by the total lack of concern in his eye. This brazenly perplexing stance distracted the young cop just enough to make him pause for a few seconds.
"Gee, officer, guess I better get control of my bitch."
each one in turn,
the crickets all go silent -
` ` ;;;;;
new faces for parade viewing
arriving every year
some frayed and tattered,
cling to the bar's back awning -
a passing storm
and convenience marts -
a view of the milky way -
she makes a motion
that starts me laughing
on lotus leaves
this world's dewdrops
hot pants, platforms shoes,
real leather in matching hues
above his bare ankle
a red dragonfly rests
Saturday, October 7, 2017
prayers for rain -
the church league's corn boil
won't be held this year
the tall corn's shadow
cast across the grave yard --
Autumn is coming
... even the ears of corn!
silken red, their tawny stalks
bright in constant drizzle
all along this winding road
Thursday, October 5, 2017
Wednesday, October 4, 2017
I've never downloaded a film. I have an MP3 somebody gave me
but I haven't loaded a note. I refuse to install the web on my
smart phone. I don't take pictures, sometimes, because
I'd rather the scene fade away, snapshots like an
errant Polaroid, so that my mind plays tricks
with the images all the rest of my life,
that's the way I'll know I'm still sane,
when nothing is so extraordinary,
nothing out of place, everything
where it belongs, the endless
days, oblivious and sedate -
But, although I will forget
everyone I ever met, and
every stranger becomes
my friend, so then I'll
die ... yet, to linger
a little while
` ` floating `
` world `
Tuesday, October 3, 2017
colors in full view!
a black ribbon unwinding
on pace with the sun
oak leaves tossed
on unsettling winds --
a sense of falling
cool blue steel
set deep in the Rock --
a current's constant change
rivers of wood --
all but in vain,
for the key
in those deep, cool hollows --
eddies of gravel
shear right through
basalt and hard stone --
a glacier is sleeping
the waters of Autumn --
Princess of the Falls
bear a lingering sweetness --
coolness in the pine
Monday, October 2, 2017
Oldwood NoDebt . Oct 2, 2017 9:48 PM
We all live in relative peace until it is perceived we are a challenge or threat. The very nature of power is in response to perceived threat. I do not understand why people refuse to accept that life is WAR on one level or another. That is not to say we must be hostile or violent, just that we can't be surprised that we are contested at virtually everything. People looking for safety are simply in denial.
new BingoBoggins Oldwood . Oct 2, 2017 11:03 PM
Reminded me of what my father once said to me when I was a still a boy. "Never knock a man down so far he can't get up without resenting it".
Paraphrasing. Yeah. Figuratively, as in a good chewing out, a reality check, what have you. In other words, don't crush his dignity. "Resentment" is my own interpretation. Sad I should think in those terms. Someone pointed that out to me - it wasn't that long ago.
I suppose that's a building block of character, whether or not you're a knucklehead that needs straightening out, or some returned to the fold, Squad 10, dry drunk, River City Alano lyin' to beat the band sum bitch on a Friday night? Shouldn't there be restraint, even if he is lying? Or even still, a semblance of dignity? What's the alternative then?
That was the real question - though he never quite put it into words that way. No explanation. He just asked if I knew. I s'pose I nodded my head ...
As far as I recall, he made no mention of any person's redeemable qualities, either. Deliberately. "Just don't do it". Like some ultimatum, or a promise, or, could it have been ... one's own redemption he alluded to, perhaps?
Now, if it were a street fight ... No. It isn't. It's affording someone the ability to get up again, count their bruises, shake off those jitters, undisturbed, cognizant - and go out and try again.
my vow to the scarecrow
to change the world
Genjuan 幻住庵 is the name of the cottage near Lake Biwa where, in 1690, Basho lived for a time. His residence in this ‘Vision-Inhabited Cottage’ was probably the happiest period of his life, and it was there that he wrote his most famous short haibun.
The purpose of the Contest is to encourage the writing of fine haibun in English and maintain the connection between the traditional Japanese perception of haibun, and, what is evolving around the world. The judges are hoping that the Contest will continue to receive a warm response from all haibun writers. The award for the Grand Prix remains the same – a fine, full-size replica of a Hokusai/Hiroshige ukiyo-e print – and smaller gifts will be sent to the An (Cottage) Prize-winners. The writers of all the decorated works will receive a certificate of merit.
We sincerely look forward to your participation.
1 Subject: Free.
2 Style: No restrictions, but special attention must be paid to honour the spirit of haikai. This includes such features as the subtle linking of haiku with prose, omission prompting the reader's imagination, humour and self-deprecation.
3 Length: In total, between 7 and 35 lines (at 1 line = 80 spaces; a 3-line haiku counts as 3 lines; the title, as 1 line).
4 Haiku/Title: At least one haiku (no formal restrictions) should be included and each piece should be given a title, however short.
5 Format: Print each piece separately on one sheet of A4-size paper (and use the reverse if long) and write at the bottom your name (and your pen name, if you have one) together with your address, telephone number, and email address. Your privacy will be strictly protected, and the judges will not see your names until the result has been decided.
6 Deadline: All entries should reach the following address between 1 October 2017 and 31 January 2018. Please send your entries to: Ms. Eiko Mori, 2-11-23-206 Jokoji, Amagasaki-shi, Hyogo-ken 660-0811, Japan. Entries received after this date might not be accepted. Kindly avoid sending by express and using extra-large envelopes. Best write your home address on your envelope, too. We apologize for not being able to accept emailed entries.
7 Entry Fee: None.
8 Restrictions: Entrants can send up to three entries, but two is what we normally expect. They should be unpublished and not under consideration elsewhere. As we cannot return your entries after screening, please retain your own copies.
9 Questions: All queries should be sent to the address above or by email to email@example.com Email Ms. Mori 2 weeks after sending your entries if you wish to have an acknowledgement of receipt.
10 Judges: Nenten Tsubouchi (emeritus), Stephen Henry Gill (Tito), Hisashi Miyazaki, Angelee Deodhar (newly appointed)
11 Special Request: The authors of the decorated works will later be requested to send us their pieces as Word-files by email. In this, we expect your cooperation.
12 Results: The results will be posted on the Hailstone Icebox by May after awardees have first been notified by email. Later, the prize-winning pieces will be posted there on a dedicated page. Judges’ comments will, in due course, be sent to awardees, together with prizes and/or certificates of merit.
Saturday, September 30, 2017
a conversation later on the day autumn deepens
later on the day autumn deepens a conversation
autumn deepens a conversation later on the day
a conversation deepens autumn later on the day
a day later conversation deepens on the autumn
a conversation deepens the autumn day later on
later on the day a conversation deepens autumn