Brattleboro Safe 9ll Homeland Security Person & Arts Cultural Coordinator

Brattleboro Safe 9ll Homeland Security Person and Arts Cultural Coordinator

There has been a recent initiative to have an Arts Coordinator in Brattleboro to serve as the point person for a wide variety of Arts and Cultural activities. Though it’s a grand idea, it’s not in keeping with the times nor political tide. Arts in the US and Brattleboro is not perceived as integral to the lifeblood of the economy. The Arts Coordinator would have to borrow and beg for funding. A more pragmatic approach is to fuse the roles that more accurately reflects our nation’s war time position: The Brattleboro Safe 911Homeland Security and Arts Coordinator (BS 9ll to be succinct) rolled into one. Art and National Security, a perfect combination!
Facts are facts: Terror, war and homeland security is big business; Art is small potatoes. Wouldn't Washington stand up and take notice that Brattleboro, with its reputation for harboring some of the most extreme elements of the left who have scoffed at the Patriot Act, impugned the War on Terror, and have had the temerity to question President Bush’s genius in Iraq, has finally raised the flag of patriotism high by having a Brattleboro 911 Homeland Security Person? The genius of the Bush administration has been to teach us – what appears ain’t exactly there. For example: we are a peace loving nation and as a peace loving nation we need to go to war; therefore, peace is war and war is peace. Art is bad, because liberals like art. Homeland Security is good because wealthy Republicans make money off it and making money is an American tradition. Arts Coordinator by itself is bad, because art supports liberals, a very bad idea, but BS 9ll ensures that there won't be terrorists living underneath your child’s bed ready to make him into a recruit for Al Qaeda.
The BS9ll could be fully funded in a nanosecond and have more than enough superfluous money to throw at art. Think of the amount of money Halliburton, Blackwater, Bechtel, and the other privateers in the 9ll business make. Our proposed local budget for this post of $10 million dollars is not even a decent bit of flatulence for those folks. Pure chump change.
It would be a grand plan! BS911 operatives would infiltrate every art cabal in the community in the guise of generous benefactors and all the creative liberals well occupied. The musicians would be too busy performing and making money to even question the President. Instead of writers churning out their poisonous venom, BS9ll would give them money to write plays about patriotism and America as a Christian nation, and fund children’s arts program to keep them away from the liberal propaganda of their parents. We would have every damn pen and brush wielding pinko so engaged with theater, art, dance, poetry they wouldn't have the time to march, make noise, or denigrate our President. Art finally in the service of our nation!
Also, with the full weight of national security behind it the BS911 could also do something about the naked people running during Gallery Walk. No need for an undercover operation, a SWAT team will come down and swat their naked fannies right off main street. Not enough people at Gallery Walk in the middle of a blizzard? No problem, BS 9ll declares, “Red Alert all citizens of Brattleboro and surrounding areas are mandated to go to Downtown Gallery Walk.” Easy. Herd the masses.
Unless, there is the extremely absurd notion that Arts and the Creative economy is truly important on its own merit and that our town is willing to support and finance an Arts & Culture Coordinator in our community.

Holy Shores

Ocean waves

crack

thunderously holy

on the breakers

revelation from

Saint Ignatius

patron saint of bruises

and fine wine.

Port Said on the Red Sea

where the 4 prophets waded

ashore.

Jesus ascribed as Inka

Mohammed, in drag as the

anti-Christ looking raggedy

wild-eyed as Charlie Manson

said, “Dinka!” Rolled

a joint and passed it on.

“Allah Akhbar indeed.” said

the J man while blowing smoke

rings through a cliché.

Lord Krishna claimed Dinka

cavorted lustily with his

maidens in the 998 1/2 positions of

the Kama Sutra. The ½ pike

for the one legged boy, fish piked and

polled, Plato swam with the

naked boys and proclaimed Agape

above Logos.

Soap on a rope invented by Athenians.

Buddha worked as a short order

chef in a Reno brothel

was only to glad to accommodate

transcendence,

“One with everything?”

(Please, please, this is a serious tale

and no time for your verbal buggery.)

“Stand tall!” called the captain, “Seal the

bung holes! All these assholes will

be tight as a frog’s bung – water tight.”

Have you ever seen a water logged frog

floating inconsequently away,

leaf like swaying down stream?

“Row! Row! To the farther shore.”

said the Israelite Jacob. “Inconsequentially sailing to

redemption as the sea of reeds parts—Her legs spread wide

in the August sun!” said Ishmael to Isaac. Each sailor bent down to the shrine and kissed

the delta Venus as tenderly as they would the Madonna’s cheek.

What say the thunder to revelation?

“Higgly higgly higgly pog.” said the Po ‘bo to the ho. “Weed the garden!”

“Hoe to the ‘hoe. Land ho! Called the lst Mate. While the boatswain’s

mate swung high in his love nest by the moon, passionately engaged with

the cabin boy, rocking joyfully. ”

Voluptuous moon ripe as a virgin’s clitoris,

shadows cavort on the forecastle, while they sailed down from Aqaba to Hodeidah. Moon light’s dance on the phosphorescent waters burst diamond thrilling effervescent across the water, we made love in the languid tide, mercury silver alluring with each parting of the wave.

Captain jealous, impotent as spilled gin, could only hold the boy in his

imagination

“Ibbidy bibbidy bop.” said the prophet Fred

“Fiddly, fiddly fidly pop.” said the

poo bear to the pope.

Walking backwards, looking for the thread of the argument,

the integument that binds the story, weaves shadows and light,

a butterfly turns in the widening gyre, a pearl spun from the gossamer

threads of simple desire.

Seagulls

shriek, a feast

for the sightless. Alms given at St Paul’s and the orphan

pigeons from Trafalgar Square perch like vultures on Black Friar bridge waiting for

the next victim of scandal. What bonny blue eyes shall be tasted?

Desires are the room for the holiest of desires.

Inka

Dinka

Dinka

Do.

Farewell

Spring roars to life

in a bounding leap

to summer play.

Moonlight skinny

dipping in June as

stars anoint our loving.

August languid heat

and pools of sweat

dissolve in our cold pond.

When green seems to

hold permanent sway,

one fire red leaf appears.

Geese circle the pond,

blue jays disappear, and

Blue Heron debuts again.

Leaves in their dried

rustling bones reverie

whisper farewell.

All too soon, our

dreams to cherish.

Namaya 07

Having a cold beer with John Lennon at 67

Having a cold beer with John Lennon at 67

He was born in Liverpool on October 9, 1940 as the Nazi bombs were raining down on England. It was a year of enormous fear and uncertainty, no one knew if Britain was going to fall, and there to a poor working family John Lennon was born. Nothing auspicious in the birth, just another mouth to feed; nevertheless, the arc of his life, a brief forty years touched so many millions of lives. What was that kismet, the alignment of the starts that blessed this child with wealth and fame?

The other day I was having dinner in a restaurant and there was a picture of Lennon with the Beatles from l969-- John, Paul, George and Ringo in their mid to late twenties with their long hair and sweet beautiful faces of youth. It was almost painful to see that photo of Lennon with his long brown hair, gold rimmed glasses, pale complexion, looking not so much like a prophet, but a bit lost and dazed. This was the height of his fame with the Beatles and when he was still a heroin addict; fortunately, he kicked the habit and spent the last years of his life clean. The eleven years he had left in his life were spent with his wife Yoko Ono, lovers and friends, making music, compelling people to Imagine, traveling, raising a child, evolving into a peace activist, and by the end he seemed to have found some personal peace. His last album was a lovely farewell and my favorite song was Beautiful Boy to his son Sean and perhaps to Lennon’s un-fathered self.


I would like to visit with him now, alive at sixty seven, sitting on a beach drinking a cold beer with him and asking, “So, John. How are things going for you these days?”

I raise a glass of Guinness Stout to you John Lennon on your sixty-seventh birthday, “Here’s one for you, mate!”

Postcards from Iraq and Burma: Li Pon

Postcard from Burma:

Li Pon in Burma – “Monks standing up to soldiers with their tanks, bullets, and fear. Monks, real monks, are fearless, because we embrace fear. Fear is seeing the bones of your own mortality. Fear is seeing the full insignificance of who and what you are: The dust of your bones swirling with the dust of the streets. Bullets will kill the flesh, but not the spirit. When you look into the eyes of the soldier who is going to kill you, fold your hands in prayer, bow to the Buddha that lives within him, and as he squeezes the trigger --breathe fully in knowing this is your last breath –in that moment – you’re free and fearless in blessing the soldier.”

Namaya in Vermont - “I could only imagine living my life with such spiritual integrity. I build too many of my domains on fear.”

Li Pon in Burma - “Fearless!”

Li Pon in Iraq- “Now, this is fear! The Buddha, ever present, seems like he’s taken a holiday. In every face there is fear, in the face of a child there is fear, in the American soldier there is terror and loneliness, in the Jihadist there is nihilism that is devoid of spirit, and this is a perfect place for me to sit and pray. I will sit by a bridge leading to Baghdad with three prayer flags: Love. Forgiveness. Redemption.”

Namaya in Vermont -“Autumn leaves are blowing in the new October wind: One of scarlet maple fire; a cluster of deep green leaves tinged with orange; and the last is a scrap of an old poem I burned on the fire that escaped incineration and is flying in the wind: Love. Forgiveness. Redemption.

Bring the Draft Back?

BRING THE DRAFT BACK?

I am a card carrying member of the ACLU and Green Peace, a Quaker, a Vietnam era veteran, and opposed to the war in Iraq, all of that aside: Is is it time to bring the draft back without exemptions? The rich, poor, cross dressers, college students, sons and daughters of politicians, and all those who had been exempt in the past would be up to serve. Liberals whine about how the burden of war falls unfairly on the poor and underclass, but don’t volunteer for the army or national guard. Republicans (especially the chicken hawks—those gun-ho armchair warriors who ducked the last draft) think that the Iraq war is a great idea and, while we’re there we should nuke Iran, but they’re too busy making money off the war to actually fight. War, ideally, is an equal opportunity employer and everyone should have the opportunity to put their ideals on the line. In short, it’s time to bring back the draft. Not a tiny little sniveling asthmatic draft, but a big cyclonic wind of a draft that brings all US Americans into the rank and file.
Though the Vietnam draft did NOT help the outcome of the war, it did level the playing field a little. For example, GW our gun ho president who made a brief appearance in the Texas Air National Guard declined a tour of Vietnam: Would a tour of duty in ‘Nam as a combat soldier wading through the muck of the Mekong delta carrying seventy pounds of gear have opened his eyes to the reality of war? The burden and consequence of war usually falls on the poor and disenfranchised, those with little education or ability to navigate in the new economy. It’s time to bring back the draft without deferment or waivers, fit, disabled, pacifists or not, rich or poor, everyone gets a chance. War, in the best of all possible worlds, is an equal opportunity employer.
I would prefer that those who want the war the most-- Halliburton, the Military Industrial contractors, the generals and their tribe at the Pentagon should fight, but they don’t; they hide behind computer screens and algorithms of combat. The next best thing, in a world filled with bad choices is the draft. Instead of everyone moaning what a terrible deal the National Guard is getting with their four plus rotations to Afghanistan and Iraq, we spread the pain among the children of the upper middle class and wealthy. If the draft was an equal opportunity experience, we might get GW Bush’s daughters in the Army or Dick Cheney’s kids on the front lines. Do you think there would be any change in attitude on the part of the administration or congress if their kids were stuck in the middle of a civil war being shot at by both sides? Would the health care improve at the VA hospitals if their kids came back as shell shocked quadriplegics?
The draft, though an imperfect tool in an imperfect world, would be an ideal way to draw children from all levels of society into the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. When the body bags and troop ships with the crippled soldiers come home to Scarsdale, Georgetown, or Grosse Point, there may be a pause, and parents may consider that the sacrifice of their children is not really such a smart way to resolve conflicts.
The burden and consequence of war needs to falls equally on all members of society, rich and powerful, poor and disenfranchised, and one way to ensure that is a draft. Perhaps, to seriously consider the even more absurd notion that war is not a viable way for nations to resolve conflicts and ideological differences, and that diplomacy and negotiation may be a more viable way to resolve disputes

Li Pon Noisy Monk Turning Left

Li Pon Noisy Monk Again

“When you write, you have to be careful about turning to the left.”

Li Pon leaped on my bed

made himself quite comfortable,

and played a pan pipe.

“Foolish poet!

Solstice day, time to play!”

I was in a surly mood and

wanted to spend the day writing.

“Get away from me monk! I’m

writing – I can’t be bothered

by your foolish chatter.”

“Indeed! You’re writing, careful

what’s on the left!” he laughed

so hard he fell off the bed.

“I have something far better

than your silly scribbling.”

“Leave me alone monk! No one trifles

with a poet in the midst

of making love with a muse! Not even Li Pon.”

I slammed the door behind him.

“Damn noisy monk!”

I heard more silly giggling

in the background.

Now back to the story I was writing:

I followed the journey which began

with a dream, I was in Marrakech

in Djemaa Al Fna and

knew this by the astringent smell

of leather dyes, cumin, coriander, spices

from the markets mixed with donkey shit…

I took the hidden entrance that faces south to the mosque, there are no names to the streets, they’re referred to as the House of Saiid Al Hadid or some other person who lived there in centuries past or even now – if you wanted to find someone’s house—Mohammed the baker whose brother is the tinsmith—otherwise you had no business going down that street. Not a street for tourists, they were consumed by the yawning mouth of the souvenir, carpet and tchchka shops. Flutes and the oued rose upwards from the inner sanctum of the Medina and I followed the thread of the music, the winding coil that lead to the center of a chambered nautilus. Down an alley so tiny, a man could easily touch each house and a fully loaded donkey could scratch the walls with its load. Centuries peeled back. I followed the music like a snake enchanted by a flute playing faquir. A woman in a face veil from Essouria appeared with a child in tow, a soccer ball rolled down the street and I kicked it back, smells of fresh cumin, coriander and fried onions filled my senses, and I came to a small square that opened to the ruddy snow covered Atlas mountains. I was lost. To the right was a café and a noisy crowd, and one loud squeaky voice singing a Mandarin Chinese love song in reggae rap, approximately translated as: “Me love ya/ Me Love ya/ because your/ backside so wide/ me love/ me love/ po po love/ po po love.”

There could be only one source of such absurdity.

In the middle of the tavern, a bubbling fountain of giggles surrounded by a Moroccan ska band, as Li Pon looked up at me and winked.

“Did I imagine you again?” he said to me. “When you write you have to be careful about turning to the left.”

CARE WELL

CARE WELL

Blue Heron Pond –

sacred body of water

which has taught me more

of reverence than any church,

wiser in its quiet wisdom,

than any holy book or tome.

Care well.

It seems to say.

Care well.

Swimming in the freezing

waters, ice cold springs

surprise and awaken me!

Finches, darts of yellow,

race across the fields.

Blue jay’s screech warns!

Care well!

He seems to say.

Care well!

Frogs’ night chorus more

joyous and godly than any

Bach chorale. Tulips divine

the intersect of mystery,

revelation from the earth

and desire for the sun.

Blue Heron, sage of

this pond who nests high

in the hemlocks,

is patiently biding her time.

Care well!

She seems to say.

Care well!

In time we will all leave

this mortal sacred space,

but I will not grieve this end.

I will grieve if we have

not loved this earth with

sublime tenderness,

reverenced the waters as

dearly as our gods, cherished

the wisdom of a flower,

and held the divinity of

each living creature as a

mirror of god’s love.

As god spun the planet

earth on her course and

brought it to life,

she set it free with this

single blessing:

Care well.

namaya 2007

Foreboding in Paradise

Foreboding in Paradise

Presentiment

Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn

Indicative that suns go down;

The notice to the startled grass

that darkness is about to pass.

A foreboding of the day for no reason at all. The day invited itself in with a bright sunny smile; green leafed reaching to the sky and each cardinal point. : It reverberated life. Pond is perfectly clear. Food in the cupboard. Money in the bank. Health good. Life is even and smooth; yet, there was an odd foreboding in the air, as if something was afoot in the cosmos. Strange, I looked to the floor and under the bed which appeared to be built on a solid block of stone. Granite, to be precise, not from the Granite State, but north near Randolph, a block at least 6 feet long and a few feet wide -- coffin sized. Yet, I was not ready to die nor was even thinking of this when I opened my eyes today. I sat up and had a cup of black bitter French Roast coffee and thought of illicit love. The mirror caught part of my image… unshaved, wild haired, and naked: Who would want to make love to him.

Yesterday, I visited Emily Dickinson’s house in Amherst by chance, I was on my way to a massage parlor a few meters from Miss. Dickinson’s home and though I was ready for a sensuous indulgence I saw the sign for her home a large yellow handsome brick house of a wealthy family and the spinster Aunt who spun poems that too few read. In the garden was an immense oak easily a century in years, perhaps even more, it reached out generously to all points of the compass, small garden paths, purple flowers, tiny white daisies, the lawn and the bushes precisely trimmed. The day was overcast, the garden sequestered in shadows, and the filtered shadowy light obscured by a massive oak.

Was the seed of this tree spawned when Miss. Emily walked these grounds? Imagination and reality are so imprecise when they converge. The private letters of an intensely private woman were on display, though too few revealed her truest longings, and the barest outlines of desire were written on the periphery of her words. Were they so imbedded deeply knit into the fabric and integument of the word fused to the paper that the true amorous passions were quite still? Did Miss. Emily ever caress herself and wonder of love’s ardor?

Who was this reclusive poet? A tubercular romantic waiting by the window watching the world pass by? On this small road a few carriages and horses passed each hour, a clatter of leather harnesses and metal, the high stepping hooves, the whir of the carriage wheels as they bounced along the road from town, and the sounds reached up to the second floor where Emily sat and wrote a poem about the Eternal Footman waiting. Many of her poems were about expectations, windows and the perspective of time, who looks in and who appears out, and the disintegration of time. While the United States was bounding forward like an unleashed adolescent, she withdrew further and further into the privacy of her words. I am jealous of her privacy. Writing demands intimacy, but the whore that I am loves to have group sex on stage. My words and imaginings are lovers and in truth, I prefer our trysts and rendezvous, assignations in lofts and garrets, as a sotto voce whisper hidden beneath well worn cotton sheets.

Curious, the roles and places we choose in life, she chose this monastic life cloaked as a spinster poetess who wove her poems mostly in secret. It was a strange slightly disquieting visit that was oddly at the same time quite serene. I peered back into the life of a woman who lived a hundred years ago and then, without realizing it, felt a quiet foreboding today and wondered of the granite block beneath my bed.

Tuesday, August 28, 2007 Travels with Nique 10-24 August 2007

Europe 2007
New York to London: The seven hour hop
This is my niece’s 15th birthday present as we have taken our other nieces and nephews on trips when they are of age, The Grand Tour that many young have taken in times past with a tutor. Though she isn’t a culture maven, we may be able to incite her imagination a little bit.
Europe is expensive! The Euro is robust and the dollar is anemic, and the price of a coffee is about $5 whether in Venice or Marseilles. Nevertheless, traveling in Europe is a great joy, though for the savvy traveler it will require planning ahead to prevent breaking the bank or more accurately the necessity to rob a bank. Food in Europe even at the grocery store is twice as expensive as in the U.S with the exchange rate plummeting and the Euro at a robust height. Bring the peanut butter and jelly! Last year I was in Oslo and the prices were easily triple of the US. For years US Americans lived in Paris dirt cheap and now: Where are the writers of this generation holed up? Morocco? The Balkans? Is there any cheap place in Europe? I’m looking to Essouria for the winter this year and nestle my bones into the seaside splendor. But now with our trip before us in a wildly implausible trek: London for a quick stop, Milan, over to Venice, down to Ravenna and towards Chianti, Pisa and overnight train to Marseilles, up to Nimes and Ponte de Garde, to Fleurat in the back country, Severagac, to a night in Limoges then on to Paris.
9 August 2007
The night plane is a relatively painless seven hour flight. Surprisingly the American Airline staff is fairly cordial (they must have taken tranquilizers), which is something of a miracle for AA, why do so many seem like they’re suffering from PMS? There should be a course for passengers in dealing with Flight Attendants: Raise your arms in the arm as if to surrender and say: Ï am not the enemy. My hands are in the air. I bring greetings of peace from my planet. Please let my frequent flyer miles take me on Singapore Air, Quantas, KLM or any other airline.
Last year in Turkey we had been delayed and I got on to the plane and needed to use the toilet. The Flight Attendant did a full body block with a stiff arm and pushed me back as I was going to the toilet. Fly American – the Unfriendly Skys.
Travel Tips: Travel business or first class, the best is a private jet! However, as I can’t afford that, I try to make the best of steerage, as soon as you have a reservation, aim for the bulkhead seats they’re the best, though you’ll usually have to arrive early at the reservation counter to ask for them it’s far more comfortable. I also bring a bag of cough drops and face masks, as there is someone invariably with a vigorous tubercular cough. Also, order vegetarian food, it’s usually much tastier and fresher than the cardboard entrée that passes for beef or chicken. Screaming babies – offer them a boob or if one isn’t available can I offer them valium soaked pacifiers?
Night plane travel 11 am the plane is ready to soar. By the time we level off the food is served and it’s time for a bit of a nap and then breakfast of a sorts. We land in Heathrow half asleep and still manage to leap on a bus for a six hour splash in downtown London: Parliament and up Whitehall to Trafalgar square that looks barren without the hoards of pigeons. The heightened level of security is prominent with the Prime Minster’s residence swarming with security and the military. At one time you could leisurely stroll past the Prime Minster’s house on Downey Street, but with England back in its second attempt at conquering Iraq (War in Mesopotamia mid l930’s) it’s vulnerable to blowback. Parliament is completely blocked off with heavy iron black barricades and the trim lawns overlooking the Thames are only for ornamentation. Cameras are at every street corner and on each lamp post, I have the chilling feeling I’m living in the book 1984. It’s apparent the need for security when every malcontent can download instructions in how to build a bomb and blow himself and others up. Look at Oklahoma, a couple of dumb yahoos got a truck load of fertilizer and blew up a government building. Though I still want to know who really blew a hole in the Pentagon, but that mystery is another story.
With the increased security there is a lack of public toilets as you would find in Paris. Though it was particularly satisfying, though inappropriate, and with a very full bladder and not a toilet in sight, I found a relatively obscure corner on the outside of Westminster Abbey. My Irish roots felt a bit of satisfaction in this splendid release. I could see the headlines, “Foreigner busted for whizzing on England’s most sacred monument.”
London is over the top in price – it’s about $20 for one ticket to Westminster. The dollar is tanking and I’m feeling poor. They should have a better pricing system – Students, Retired, and US Americans. London, naturally in August is swarming with tourists, hot steamy day, and all I want to do is stretch out beneath a tree and take a long nap until the next plane.
We’re off to the Brown Hotel for a proper high tea with the clotted cream and jam and the towers of biscuits, sweets and small sandwiches. This is the England of old that I miss. The door man in long grey tails and a high hat didn’t seem a bit out of place, it brought back my longing for England before the war years. In the back country of Kent or in the Midlands there still is kind of quiet civility and reserve, but too much of pop television and football mentality has taken over, and the London of civility and quiet has almost disappeared.
Recollections of London: Several years ago I was in Putney, London totally sober and then realized I had stepped back in time. Transported back to l945 to the last day of World War Two, standing on a street corner and the church bells were peeling and the announcement from a speaker called, “The war is over.” After five long years the daily new of death and battle that pervaded every moment of the day was finally at an end. The last day of the war, I and others cried--- the end; though I, this writer, was born in l954. Surreal London.
MILAN
We roll into Milan and there are several hookers on the main boulevard with their boobs hanging out, wearing hot pants, and smoking cigarettes waiting for customers. They have the nervous twitching of crack heads. An American girl from the Midwest in the back of the bus says to her seat mate, “Are those prostitutes?”
Without pause I yell back, “No, they’re Italian nuns.” Pray to Santa Mona and all your sins will be healed.
At a small hotel near the train station we tumble into bed exhausted, rolled down the shades, and slept the sleep of the dead. We get a phone call from the front desk – It’s 12 noon do you want to wake up?
Porque no?
Disoriented even from the brief sojourn we make our way downstairs for some coffee. Good to be back in Italy though I’m completely dazed. We wind up at the Duomo it is absolutely stunning this cathedral from the 13th Century in this lovely Gothic style. Spires twist and turn, giving this massive building a whimsical light feeling, all points of the roof and towers reaching to the heaven. The best part is taking the elevator to the upper reaches of the cathedral and walking along the roof top with Milan stretching out below. It is a bit mind boggling when you’re walking on the roof of this massive cathedral second only St Peters in Rome can hold up to 40,000 people that it was built with the most primitive tools – sweat, block & tackle, & very simple geometry. The golden statue of the Madonna as the crown guards the city.
To the West is the Galleria named after Victor Emmanuelle II and the shopping arcades from the l800’s that was largely destroyed by Allied bombings and rebuilt afterwards. Sitting down for a six dollar coffee: Ouch! But we are drinking a café in the Galleria, transported in time to the late 1800’s when this was marvel to behold with its Victorian glass and steel design, light and airy, and a boy of thirteen is playing a lovely Mozart piece of the violin.
At the end of the passage of the shopping esplanade is the statue of Leonardo in his various roles as artist, engineer, scientist, and so forth: The quintessential renaissance man. Though I had seen it in an earlier trip, the Leonardo Museum with most of his inventions reproduced it’s staggering to see the wealth of his imagination with hundreds of contraptions from dredging machines, war machines, and his most famous attempts at an airplane. What is amazing is that he knew that one could build a flying machine and had all of the right ideas, but not the technology. If he had had a simple gasoline engine he would have had the means to do it. In one exhibit in Venice there was even the rudimentary idea of an automobile, if he had figured out the means to a steam engine or internal combustion engine, people would have been flying by the 1600’s
Unfortunately, I didn’t make the reservation for The Last Supper and though I’ve seen it before, I always relish in that experience. If there is one painting that you should see in Milan it is the Last Supper an enduring classic.
What is the saddest thing is the Joia the Mecca for vegetarians was closed in August. I asked the chef Pietro if they could at least make a doggy bag for me. Unfortunately, this magnificent 5 star (in Namaya’s International Guide to Vegetarian Restaurants) was not serving in August. If you are within a thousand miles and want a relatively inexpensive, delicious 5 star vegetarian meal, with terrific service… Joia is it.

Laundry List of Wishes

Laundry List of Wishes: An Art Installation Project with banners of poetry.
First installation Brattleboro


NAMAYA a poet/performance artist is presenting a fusion of Art and Word/ Poetry Design with his installation project "Laundry List of Wishes." This whimsical display of common laundry items (slips, pillow cases, etc.) serves as a medium for poems and word art celebrating Spring. These fabric art poems are designed and created by Namaya with the artist Jacqueline Perry. Namaya's new collection of poetry is a celebration of Vermont and its seasons "Blue Heron Pond: Love Song for the Earth."

Namaya said, "This installation project is part of our on-going work in creating banners of poetry with art, as well as larger scale projects that fuse the Word & Art. We currently sell banners & posters of poetry that help to raise money for Grace Cares a not for profit foundation that supports grass roots community development in Central and South America. My interest has always been to expand the notion of the word through multimedia performance that include dance, music, and art. This is the first stage in our production of VERMONT ART POETRY that serves as a market place for art, music, multimedia and poetry.
Banners can be ordered at www.vermontpoet.com

Namaya has been a performance artist for decades, beginning with the St. Mark’s and East Village poetry scene in the l970’s, featured at the Nuyorican Café and Bowery Poetry Club, and with international tours of Europe, Japan, Ireland, & New Zealand. He is the co-founder and lead performer with the Jazz Beat Blues Poetry Ensemble. He has been published in numerous magazines and has several collections of poetry to his credit: Eros to Godhead, GOD SEX POLITICS, & Blue Heron Pond. A new CD "Amerika Uber Alles" is scheduled for release in Fall 2007. His new play Beatnik Cafe a Musical Review of the Beat Generation premiered in August 2007.

“Cock/ Dick/ Pussy/ Fuck /Nigger : A Broken Crutch for Comedians

“Cock/ Dick/ Pussy/ Fuck /Nigger-- A Broken Crutch for Comedians”

In the last few days I watched a few DVDs Queens of Comedy and David Chappell’s Comedy Special, a foray into comedy Central, a Chris Rock DVD and I was disappointed. I was disappointed, not so much for the material that wasn’t funny or creative, but that those apparently talented comedians sold themselves short; like Chopin playing chopsticks. The chopsticks in this case is the nigger,cock/dick/ pussy/fuck jokes. I was bored, there was no story, and it was nigger, cock/dick / pussy/fuck used repetitively. In the Queens of Comedy these talented ladies seemed to condone domestic violence and the second rate status of women in relationships; instead of celebrating women, they were buying into the same bias as rappers who view women as “’Ho, bitches, cunts.” Can anyone of these performers do a show – without using, Nigger, bitch, ho, dick, fuck etc.? If the performer is truly talented and humorous: Wouldn’t the show be just as funny without relying on those trigger words?

In the long history of comedy cock/ dick/ pussy/fuck jokes abound from the times of the Romans to Chaucer to the present. What can we say new about the subject of these jokes – nothing really new and except for that fact that the humor seems to respond to our prurient behavior—what ya’ain’t supposed to say in public. But if comedy is an art doesn’t that compel the artist to strive for a unique creation?

Though Bill Cosby has been vilified for being the Uncle Tom of comedy by some younger black comedians, nothing could be farther from the truth. He grew up in the slums of Philadelphia and through sheer talent and will became wealthy, well-educated, and one of the best loved comedians in America. His work is about telling stories, finding the humor in life, and without any of the nigger cock/dick/ pussy jokes. The Scottish comedian Billy Connolly’s, though he is more inclined to cuss, his shows are creative humor about life. In hearing Dick Gregory within the past decade what I enjoyed the most was his playful inventive wit that didn’t rely on nigger/cock/dick/ pussy jokes like some broken crutch.

Watching the Queens of Comedy I felt the most anguish for the younger black girls who would watch this show. These black women comedians weren’t talking about pride, self-respect, dignity or self worth; on the contrary, they spoke of their lives as solely sexual objects getting some dick and that there were occasions women deserved to be beaten. The Queens of Comedy, Rock and Chappell wasting their talent on trivial cock/ dick/ pussy/ fuck jokes I am left with only a few questions: Can these comedians entertain without appealing to the lowest common denominator and relying on derogatory scatological humor like some broken crutch?

Bali Even Higher

Bali Even Higher

Brief notes of Bali today as I'm spending the past few days in Ubud and the magic net of Bali is spun even wider in my imagination. Driving up from the coast to the high volcanoes and every cliche that one has about the island is true -- it is the archetypal paradise -- albeit, in 2007, we need to contend with the noisy roar of motorcycles at all hours of the day and the constant traffic. As Bali recovers from the devestating bombings of several years ago, the tourist business is off, but Bali and the Indonesian governments will need to make some major decisions on limits to growth if it's to preverse even the remotest sense of beauty. That is the challenge to preserve the island and still to provide a viable economic base for people to survive.
Major hotels have inundanted the southern beaches and turned it in a bland international brand of beach with palm trees, where one resort likes another. But Bali still retains its charms with its ubiquitious temples, and most precious is the smiling open faces of the Balinese. The other day wandered into a festival at a temple site and though I had no idea what the festival was for, I was so moved by the Balinese of all ages in traditional costumes where were entranced by the dance and festivity. The children with obvious joy were watching this dance that was hundreds of years old. The people hold great pride in their local customs and their spirituality is ominpresent. Today was a day for the Iron Festival -- where you made an offering to the Iron or Machines in your life... computers, cars, and tools. This seems like a good idea to ward off the evil spirits that wander into our computers and toys. It feels like a culture that will maintain its identity even in the age of the internet. But for all cultures the allurement of tv, pop culture, and the internet are an ever present challenge.

More to come - a taste of paradise.

Namaya

In the brief time, I'm here, I'm feeling the imperative to spend months here and discovering this quickly disappearing paradise.
More notes to come and photos, but I'm off

Thursday, April 26, 2007

BALI HIGH

Yesterday, the flight from Kuala Lumpur to Bali, and two US American women on the plane next to me, one, in her late 50’s the other her daughter, smelled like they hadn’t bathed in weeks, with woolen hats, thick coats and boots. Z said, “Maybe bag ladies who found a sack of money and decided to go for a trip around the world.” Who knows, they may be two eccentric millionaires who don’t like to bathe. The world of travelers, the odd lots who find their peace on the road, or who are rootless and simply follow the call of the sun. What travel notes about Bali every began with two bag ladies on a plane?
My vocation is a poet and mystic who doesn’t fit into convention and finds himself antsy with the petite bourgeoisie. Though I crave community and tribe, some of us are not suited for the tribe. We are the out-lyers, who by necessity and instinct live on the periphery. We observe, write or speak a poem, or chant utterances of madness.
There are those who find their communion separate from man… the mystic and poet who by necessity commune with the woods and spirit of the land, who follow the rhythm of the day in its turn around the sun, when able glad to lend my hand to helping others, but the aid I provide is to focus my soul’s attention on breath and writing. Is there any difference between prana, love, and sutra?
I’m trapped in this very lovely and jaded hotel near the ocean, looking to settle down for the day and write. Bali the land of temples, art, dance, music, mythology all crammed into this island about 140 K by 80K wide. An island where the confluence of Hindu, Animism, Buddhism, Islam and perhaps hundreds of strands of ideologies and theologies wove their way into the fabric of daily life. Why did it take root here? Why do some cultures disappear into irrelevance? Why do others flounder?
On Bali, this tiny island paradise, there is a fervor for building temples to honor the family, the clan, royalty, and the various temples of Vishnu, Shiva, and Kali. In some ways it's absurd to then think you can capture in a snapshot or word a culture as rich as this with its diverse history, religion and art. But we do try to capture a small flavor of it.

Neverthelss, whether it is Angkor Watt or the Mayan lands, one is invariably left with the feeling of dilettantism: tasting much but not savoring and believing you can articulate the ineffable. Unless one is rooted in a spot, able to dig down, stop their world, and live in that world – how can you write about it as Truth and not some exercise in Dilettantism?

However, we live in the Age of Dilettantism, where the god Tantalus is swimming in the silage of contemporary culture, where everyone is an artist, every word an art form, and the driveling claque opine mediocrity. We assume that if we have a pen and paper and a subject in front of us we can freely march in and write about it with authority.

I am awed by most of the subjects I’m confronted with. When successful it is a process of radical subjectivity – the I of I – is engaged. When the poet peers into the eye of the tiger and confronts his own mortality then the words, once distant and imperceptible, suddenly are vivacious and succulent.
Reader, can I take you into this world? The reader is not reader, the words not words, nor even the text that appears here in front of our eyes – here the radical mirror of our loving- a canticle of our devotion – as we begin this journey. (Or, is it merely a Canticle for Leibowitz? Please, remember the bagels this time.)
How does a place speak to your soul or your being? Even there in the space you are in– on a computer, opening a book, or in the fantastic turn of the metaphysical universe – let us suppose you imagined a poet who was writing about you. What would we say about each other? What could we imagine together? Would we take a journey? And if we were suitable companions – would we embark as lovers, fearless voyagers, undaunted, and capable of astonishing feats of redemption?
The places like Angkor Watt I'm speechless; having traveled around the world to see it I was humbled. My vast vocabulary was suddenly muted and I was grateful for the silence. Genius should humble us all. My notebooks are filled with fragments of impressions, my photos speak volumes, but I could never quite capture the feeling of grandeur of Angkor. Will I feel the same way about Bali’s temples?

I needed to spend weeks here in the jungles, freely wandering through the ruins, slipping over the mossy tangle of stones, peeling back the roots of memory from their twisted integuments wound in the sacred temples. Now, almost two years since, in the repose of tranquility and the distance that time offers, I’m able to retrieve a tiny bit of the astonishment of standing inside a temple from the 13th Century, but I must admit, I have a greater admiration for the banyon tree that will one day reclaim this temple. Our brief light of a pseudo-civilization who spark and die the trees will reclaim this instant of immortality, and the wind will sweep across the globe carrying the memories of voices. Only memories.
Is the role of the writer and the voyager to provide the rich socio-anthropological detail? As a poet can you allow me to set your soul to dreaming with my words (if it is a good day) and make you lust so deeply for that place you will feel it as an intimate whisper of longing in your own soul.
As to Bali, the sun is setting now as we're speaking, I’m glad that you could join me as the waves rush in, the sun is a ruddy red orb suspended in the hazy sky, and these images are drowning in my third glass of a very delicious Chilean sparkling wine. Cheers mate!

Bali High!

Namaya

Jazz Poet NAMAYA'S Gig in Kuala Lampur

21 April 2007

SHOW TIME! Kuala Lumpur: No Black Tie

Show time and the “dead time” before a show. Though I love the show and the creative process, it’s such a huge time drain getting ready for a show and performance. For a two hour show, I prepare constantly, rehearse, select the right material for the venue, getting my music, slide and materials together, and constantly pushing myself to the next level of performance. But it really isn’t about pushing to the “next level” it is about discovering who the true performer is, what is my authentic voice.
At my soul I’m a poet and a story teller, and I am best where I can get into a space where I can be totally relaxed as if we are sitting across from a table in the café.

Before the show at NO BLACK TIE, Jon, Roslyn, and Joe had the place all set up, the stage was ready, there were ready for a sound check before I got there, and they had everything there. The slide show projector helped and they were fabulous about getting the show going. The equipment in place, the lighting perfect, the acoustics warm and well balanced, and they were fabulous about asking the audience to not smoke. Roslyn, Joe, Gi, Kamal, Jon, Shem, and Evelyn made me feel very welcomed and did a great job in bringing the crowds in. I wish I could have this much support in all the venues I perform in.

Then Evelyn, Jon and I sat down for dinner… beautiful vegetarian food, great company, and Evelyn the owner was a fabulous host! Same with the staff, they were all eager to help with the show and set up. Staff was terrific at the club! Evelyn was superb! Her boyfriend, the sound engineer Jon, was amazing. Evelyn and No Black Tie thank you for spoiling me! Reminds me of Erling at Café Teatret in Denmark and what a terrific host he was as well.
It was a good show and well received. Need to do far more and take the show to the next level, but I want to be writing more. I see the direction for the show in larger performance art venues, working more with the multimedia, working more effectively with the sound tracks. It would be nice to have a couple of backup musicians, but it’s fabulous not having to deal with other people's personalities before a show, just my own issues
I want to consistently get to the next level of performance spaces, small black box theaters, 100 to 300 seating, no bar noise or coffee machines, and the audience ripe. In (free) Ireland each county has a performance venue that is suitable for this. In England, it is a bit hit and miss, with some smaller club venues to theaters, so you can't always figure out what is the best set for an audience. Sometimes, you get hip hop slam crowds, others a theater crowd. Scandinavia, Berlin, there are good venues there for me.
I've been trying to organize also more of the Canadian shows which are actually fairly easy; Toronto, Vancouver, Ontario and I've just not put attention to that. As I am getting the show up to a truly 100% solid professional production I can easily do that, plus I have a fair number of contacts.
The audience was also very gracious. I often struggle with having a show where I can perform stories without having to worry about the entertainment value. Part of what I do is the poetry with the stand up comedy. It is a more fetching style, but there is another part that wants to have a show where I can have the freedom to weave a story without worrying if I'm going to mak the audience laugh. Always the challenge of art and performance, trusting that your performance will speak to people.
One of the things I keep discovering and appreciating about myself is that I am a very good improvisational performer, about 1/2 of the show I made up on the spot last night, taking certain themes, but freely improvising off of that. I need to continue developing that. This was amazing considering most of the audience were non native English speakers. the Malaya girls liked the story “Men of Enron: If Men Swore on their Dicks instead of the Bible.” One American who works for Siemens thought I should portray a more positive image of GW. Hmmm, I wish he would give me something that I can be positive about. At least we had a drink together. We toasted to our differences. As is often the case, US Americans, even ostensibly well educated ones are very ignorant of their history. Sure, they may know the basic facts, but they don’t really understand the role of the US as a colonial power everywhere from the Philippines to the Middle East. Though all Empires behave similarly, as a citizen of the Empire I do object and raise my voice in opposition to the empire.
I want to keep taking the show to the next level. As we speak, hopefully, my support staff is working on my sound tracks, and the CD of Amerike Uber Alles is under production. Anyway, rambling thoughts which I need to post to my log. Z liked the show and rated it as an A, I rate it as a solid B, and I’m looking forward to taking this to up the next level.
As I’m looking forward to Fall 2007 and booking for Europe in late October and early November – want to see if I can head up to Sweden, Norway, Germany, Holland, Denmark in Aaarhus, and then south again. I don’t mind traveling as long as I can perform, even though the show and the production, both before and during require great demands on my time. If I can get a solid week of shows I'd like to bring a sound/ tech person and hire a couple of musicians as backup for the tour. Though the sound tracks are fine and the slides good, I prefer live musicians, mixed in with the show. Even thinking of a different show that I started in December 2006, LOVE FIRE REDEMPTION.
It is good to experience the most gracious hospitality of KL and its people, the opportunity to gig here, but I’m more than ready to head back to Vermont. Looking forward to the Spring in Vermont, writing, starting on Luscious wet Kisses, and finishing Blue Heron Pond. I would like to see if I can get some bites on it. I miss tea time in Vermont and there is nothing more sublime.

Friday, 20 April 2007 Show Time and God Sex Politics
Last night with Evelyn and John from No Black Tie eating at this terrific Indian vegetarian restaurant chock filled with Indians, Sikhs, and all these other variations of Indians. When we walked in it was filled, but then it slowly cleared out. Fun. Exhausted. Enjoyed being out. A bit of anxiety about the show, but this is normal.
In the morning to Royal Selangor pewter factory about 45 minutes from downtown and appreciated the ease of being able to jump in a taxi and chat with the driver. Some of my better conversations in life are with cab drivers, the pulse and feel of the man on the streets. Of course, there is the polite loathing for US foreign policy, at least polite on the surface. The Royal Selangor Pewter factory with its production facilities and show rooms of pewter was worthwhile to see. Mining, processing, and production of time and from this coarse metal for these exquisite creations. My inspiration for creative work grows as I am there and see these large slabs of metal and think this would be brilliant for outdoor slabs of poetry. A garden of poems.
My long term goal is to create more of this fusion of art, poetry, and music. I’m inspired as I see different ways to express a poem. I could even see this as an installation project at the Vermont state capital; poems of Vermont and of the natural landscape scattered throughout the capital and welcome centers. In particular, I’m interested in the tall video screens of Art and poetry. Or I was seeing an unusual display of lights the other night I had this vision of hundreds of hands reaching up through the hands were reaching up and there was a fountain below, it was a vision of water fountains, and the hands were coming up and swirling about. This vision was very prominent – a sea of hands some 5 to 15 meters high reaching upwards and swirling. The idea of hands reaching to heaven. A quiet day today. Nice and easy. Getting ready for the show tonight. Looking forward to it.

Yesterday, at the Islamic Museum and tremendously enjoyed the exhibits. But the museum is far too difficult to digest in afternoon ore even a week. I spoke with the driver and he said, “You need a couple of hours to go through it.”
“No, you need at least a month to really go through it.” When I think I know something or I’m well acquainted with a subject then I hit a museum like this and I realize how little I really do know. The most astonishing work was the Chinese Islamic calligraphy and the best fusion of Chinese brushwork and Islamic writing from the mid 1500’s to the l8th Century. I have a few photos. There was the broad brush stroke of the Chinese style of calligraphy with Islamic characters. It’s always refreshing to see how in a very obvious way how to cultures converge and complement one another. It isn’t necessary that one supersedes the other, but finds the marriage of two disparate ideas and brings them together.
The other remarkable object is the covering for the Kaaba in Mecca some 30 meters in length with the rich brocade and embroidery with Suras from the Koran. It is quite moving to be actually reading a cloth from the Kaaba, though I can only read the most basic of scriptures, but even in reading and pronouncing the words there is great power. So much of the spiritual energy projected here and of course it is the word of the prophets.
I’m feeling renewed energy to lecture a about Islam, not from the perspective of a scholar, but “A personal journey through the Art and Architecture of Islam.” Westerner intellectuals have demonized Islam, it is unfortunate. Also, fault must be laid at the feet of the Muslims or theists of all stripes, who take their interpretation of religion as an infallible truth. I hold immense respect for the spiritual one who doesn’t wear his/her religion solely on their sleeve but holds it close in their heart. Though my writings are spiritual in nature, they are pantheistic and try to avoid pandering to a particular theism. My spirituality is most closely viewed in my pagan roots, my veneration for trees, forests, creatures of the woods, not as an icon of spirit, but for their spiritual presence

Everything settles down. Feel like the caged bird. Need to get out and walk around. Need to stretch my feet and soul. The focus for today is tonight. One of the few reasons why the shows are stressful, you prepare and prepare, and it takes up all of your creative juices.

Consumerism in KL
Outside of the downtown hotel room, I see the range of the short history of KL with a small tin shack in one corner, a home from the 1800’s, a more contemporary apartment from the l950’s and now the office towers looming above. How can you not admire the resilience of the early settlers, 84 Chinese tin miners came here, and only 17 survived. In this climate of humidity, malaria, and monsoons there is a hardiness that is needed. Afternoon before the show walked around Patronus Towers, what they call the Twin Towers. I am not a mall rat, but I was intrigued by this strange cross cultural experience. In Tokyo, for example, you will find international brands, but largely in the downtown malls it's all Japanese brands and stores, with hardly any English. In KL at Patronus Towers it can be virtually any mall in the US. I’d like to say in Europe as well, but as I don’t usually make the mall scene, it’s hard to judge. Six floor of shopping from Dunkin Donuts to Armani, Bos, Calvin Klein, and every major international brand. Looking at the prices, a shírt for 400 to 600 RM, about $100 to $150 dollars! Or at another store, an ill fitting shirt for $50? Where do people get the money for these products? Is this the consequence or benefit of global commerce?
Walking through the malls, the people watching is superb. Beautiful long legged Chinese girls in the latest fashions and high heels, boys looking generally sloppy in jeans and shirts, Muslim girls in the Malay talong (hejab) or headscarves. It is odd that I found the scarves and the robes to be attractive, none of the deadly drab black robes like you see in Saudi Arabia and elsewhere, women were dressed in purples, orange, blues, and other vibrant colours. Though the West and I have demonized the head coverings as a repressive part of Islam, I can see both parts of the discussions, if a woman freely chooses to dress with a head covering: What is the harm? If this is an expression of her true desires for modest and covenant: Who are we to judge it as regressive. And in France and Europe they are trying to make the argument that Europe is secular and so therefore head coverings (hejab) should be banned. This is a very long discussion which I will defer to later, but I’ve found attractiveness in the charming dresses of the traditional Malay clothing, not sexy, but rather elegant, though it is seems in this climate one would want to have as few coverings as possible.
Thursday, 19 April 2007

KUALA LAMPUR THE NEXT STOP

Diligence and the discipline of writing, sometimes you sit down at your allotted hour and there is no inclination to write, but the discipline is to put in your time and hope that something positive comes out. Driving yesterday afternoon from Melaka to KL, I was surprised by the cleanliness, and modernity along the way. There is a part of me that is expecting all of 3rd worlds to be grimy, reeking of poverty and hopelessness, with vast environmental degradation. There is a mind set that I get into that looks at life outside of the west through the lens of “White male western traveler,” though I have a far broader experience as a cross cultural traveler than most, I am aware of that filter. The only true thing one needs for cross cultural literacy is to understand your own filters and biases, your values and how they influence your thinking.
News of the US American- Korean man who shot the students. Odd, how CNN states the person was Korean though he lived fifteen of his twenty three years in the US. Are they trying to distance themselves from this terribly ill person? But why would you put out his message? Why broadcast this pain to the world? What is the merit in this? Why give another excuse for a sad twisted person to explode in the hopes of being heard? How much pain must that young man have been in to have committed such a heinous deed? Though we must admit, there is more of him in us than many would care to recognize. By seeing his pain filled soul as being more akin to ourselves than different -- can we truly see his pain? The more important question is: How many in our communities and neighborhoods are in the same degree of pain and waiting to explode?

Yesterday, arriving at Hotel Maya, a very fancy place in downtown KL. Surprised by the lack of obvious poverty, for some reason I expected this to be a poorer city, though I had no reason to support that contention one way or another. Surprised by the Patronus towers and like much architecture in life you assume one skyscraper is the same as the next, but this building is truly a work of art. It appears, oddly enough like the architecture at Angkor Watt or other Hindu sites, the towers rise up like a stack, but part of that is creation of a series of 8 pointed stars, reminiscent of a modern Islamic architecture. The abundance of gardens, forests, and greenery in the heart of the city is a blessing and the Malaysians should be lauded for this. In so many countries the imperative is to take over inch for habitation, but human habitation on the planet is completely dependent on how we preserve and nurture the eco-system, a very obvious take. At the same time, there is a continual loss of important forest preserves in Malaysia, and its subsequent damage to the entire ecosystem.

Enjoying KL and the people of Malaysia very much

Time Traveling in Melaka

Tuesday, April 17, 2007


“Global Village Malaysia” Time Traveling in Melaka

Went upstairs for coffee, a thick haze hangs over the city of Melaka, which appears as if until in recent geologic time, this was an ocean bottom and a few low lying hills or volcanoes rose about the sea bed. I look out from the luxury of this three star hotel the canal which snakes through the city is still, grey green, and filled with effluence. It is a tattered city worn with poverty and age
There is a section to the south which is for the native Sumatrans who settled her centuries ago. The roofs fold up like squeezed paper or like folded hands, similar to the roofs in Bangkok, though they are ruddy rusty worn, and far less elegant. Yesterday some kids were jumping off a bridge ten meters high into the thick green canal; I hope they had their hepatitis B shots! It actually looks fun and I could almost be tempted to take a leap into the canal. Yet, not many look as they have active hepatitis.
Though I miss my home in southern Vermont, it’s a protected cocoon, in many ways it’s a great comfort and crucible for my creative process; nevertheless, it’s too disconnected from the larger world. Despite the hidden relative poverty, it’s a wealthy community. Most of the world is Third World, living life on the most modest of means, but Third World doesn’t mean emotional or spiritual poverty; there just aren’t enough of the basic elements – clean drinking water, adequate food, access to good health care and education… those things we take for granted in the West.

More Cranky Political Arrows at Pox Americana: Nevertheless, in the US with over ninety million people without access to health care and having minimal access to primary health care and infant mortality rates being about 30 in the world, way below Cuba and other 3rd world countries, it makes you wonder where the real poverty is. The US spends over $500 billion dollars on military, police, government security operations, CIA, military aid to other countries, etc.; it has all the means to provide education, health care, food to each one of its citizens. This is a spiritual poverty that values militarism, consumerism, and the global POX AMERICANA vision. The empire is a fear based religion. Aren’t most?
As we step away from our small communities, it really is like that Brigadoon world where the community sleeps for a hundred years and wakes up for one day, and that one day is a world of great joy. Though I thoroughly love my routine at home – wake up, write for a few hours or more, exercise, play my guitar and music, manage my businesses of Vermont Poet.com, Sweet Pond, Dr.Namaya, Grace Cares, etc. I need to step away from that world periodically. It is when there is longing in our hearts and spirit, and we know “why” we truly love our home, that we can genuinely appreciate it. We tend to love our homes life instinctually, without understanding what truly brings us peace and joy.
I step outside of Vermont in the broader stage, though I’m a US American by upbringing and custom; I’m a world citizen. Put me at a dinner table with six languages floating around and I’m in my milieu, though I may not be fluent in any or all of them, my ears and senses revel in this world language and culture.
With my Irish citizenship and EU passport, and this sensibility as World Citizen, I’m as home in Europe as I am in the US and quite comfortable in Morocco or any one of a number of places on the globe. I find that the world cultures feed my soul immeasurably. I am the quintessential travel junkie. I love hearing languages, observing different cultures, watching people, and though I can easily do this in Paris, London, or NYC; I want to observe people in their own milieu. I want to see the Malaysians in their own community, the Singaporeans, and so forth.
But I could not be completely happy being in some remote village in the Mongolian steppes, the role and identity I’ve chosen in this life as an artist and writer is someone who is passionately engage in modern life. Not just my sack full of I-pods, computers, DAT recorders, adapters, emails, blog sites, cell phones, etc., but the world culture of travel, museums, books, music and so forth. I revel in the world of ideas and the exchange of ideas.
Then I take exception to what I’ve said, I recall being in Ladak high in the Himalays with a peacefulness of spirit that I can rarely recall elsewhere. The school children calling out “Joolee!” (hello, how are you) and inviting you with gracious ease into their homes, the people chanting Buddhist scriptures in the streets as easily as breathing. Perhaps, I can be at peace in these remote mountains.
Oddly enough on this trip, I was reading essays by Carruth on jazz and literature and he had an insight of Finnegan’s Wake as the non-verbal language. Joyce was an Irish man drunk with words! Tippling mad soaked wandering through the tubercular alleys of Dublin.
I find the DaDa both by the Police and Dali as icons of that language. The intersection of cultural influences, Dali and the Police, hmmm!
Long desire to write about Dali. I had written some journal entries periodically on him, my experience in Figueroa, recently in St. Petersburg Florida, and the relationship with Gaudi. Part of this start with the blog, getting my essays out of draft form, and to start writing more.
Stepping out of ordinary time in Vermont. Away from my email, away from my office of busy correspondence and projects. Immersing myself in writing. The temptation always is to be in my RV, pop up VW camper and travel the roadways of the world. Play my guitar, perform as little or as much as I want, write my poetry and stories, make art. I am a citizen only of the place that I put my pillow down at night. I dream often of that life. Back in Europe, winter in Morocco or Tunisia or further a field. I love Essouria in the winter, and thoroughly at peace. Writing on the beach. My last days will be in a place like Essouria, playing Spanish guitar, the rhythm spoken by the waves against the sandstone rocks, and the slow setting sun will be the lush tone for my song. Then as I’m in the middle of this reverie, a Moroccan kid comes by and tries to sell me a carpet or rent his sister, or two for the price of one. I give him a few dirhams to bring me back a pot of fresh mint tea. “Gypsy Soul” – Travels on the Cheap. My new travel book.
I get too caught up in the parochial affairs of my small town. Need the stage of the wider world where this gypsy soul can wander as free as he needs. Here in Malaysia, my thoughts take me back to Essouria, VW camper on the beach south of the city, one eye always open to bandits, but the other eye gazing at the stars, senses filled with the sound of the waves and the full moon with the phosphorescent diamonds bursting on the waters edge. Have I confused the places I love?
I’m a time traveler, in a heart beat, I’m recalling Hodeidah in Yemen where the sea was always phosphorescent by my window, when I sat in the windows of my mufraj (living room) the moon stretched out all the way to Djibouti across the sea, I could almost walk on that road of phosphorescent bones. In the morning, before dawn, the fishing scows would have their sails raised high, the men would be singing and chanting, some words I could catch in that cacophony of wind and sound, “Good fishing today. Wind is right. Sky clear. Seas peaceful. Allah will guide us.”
Birds of Melaka, what are the names of those birds with their shrieking cacophony in the trees by Queen Victoria’s tower? There is a fountain in front of the clock tower that is for Queen Victoria. Like most of the world around the year 1900 it was occupied by the English. I find it quite charming that the water fountain shoots upwards to the central shaft, it almost seems like the subjects are pissing upwards on the royal shaft of the empire? Perhaps, its only my little twisted imagination, and with nary a trace of disrespect to the Queen Empress -- hmmm. I tried to explain this to a waitress at the Raffles Hotel equating parasitism of the colonialism.
Enjoying the port city of Melaka. The Sultans palace, albeit rebuilt, by the Portuguese fortress from the early 1500’s. Curious it mentioned that the Portuguese built this with slave labor, though I know that slavery was just as prevalent before their arrival, but the Portuguese were not one to endear themselves to anyone. And of course, the Arabs where intimately engaged in the mass Diaspora of slaves to the new world, and it is odd that the Black American Muslims chose to ignore that piece of history. Another detour in history and time.
Street scene. Muslim women with headscarves most modest in pastel colours and easily worn. Why are the French so uptight with the hejab? They should feel threatened by the underclass that hates the French. Colonialism comes back to roost and bite the French in the ass. The Pied Noir – black foots will kick them. Algiers again in flames. New of the world on this trip. CNN infiltrates, Herald Tribune, all the media sources inflame our sense of fear.
Sunset over Melaka, broad orange strokes of sun, and prayer call in the distance. Familiar as one after another picks up the call, from one mosque to the next, voices carry the prayer in the wind. The peace of Islam, the call to the faithful, the submission to kneel on the carpet, and bow to Mecca. The simplicity of prayer.
Earlier today, stopped at the Melaka Islamic Museum down by the harbor. The building once housed the Dutch officers and today this is a good exhibit with a fine perspective on the overall development of Islam in Malaysia. Several pieces are outstanding in particular a large bronze sura (verse from the Koran) and some beautiful Korans themselves. I find as I read and slowly pronounce the words in my rudimentary Arabic I am drawn to the beauty of the writing and the words; however, I’m highly dubious of all religions whether Muslim, Christian or otherwise. This is even more apparent when I see the exhibit on the Sharia and the mandate of certain punishments. Chopping a hand off for stealing. A truly enlightened religion would understand why the person stole and offer him the means not to do that. But as I’m going to be in KL at the end of the week, I will stop this discourse. Though I have a profound appreciation for the art and architecture of Islam, having seen Islamic design from Granada to Asia, and have found it to be of immense fascination. More on my extensive writings on Islam. The title of that book is Infidel’s Journey in Islam. Lots of notes on the journey.

I often struggle for belonging in my home community which is a nice melody in a C major, maybe a bit of an A minor, and a bit of a bluesy rift for cultural divergence, but for whatever alchemical twist, I’m more like a Coltrane composition, choosing odd minor keys and with sublime ease changing tempos. It is jarring sometimes as I change, I look over to the other side of the stage, and see is there someone else jamming? Is she hip enough to change keys at a moment’s notice? I am. As exquisitely attuned to differences in cultures and I’m even a superb site reader; however, I can be astonishingly tone deaf at other times. I assume that if I’m operating in English it is a fluid communication – at least my English is clear. Need to work on my cross cultural skills for the US. Hell, I even taught a graduate course in Cross Cultural Communication! Part of it is – less coffee! Too wired. Nerves jangled. There is so much inner dialogue and dialogue with the world around me; I need to shut down some of the extra channels

Phones Cell phone across the world. How is this possible that I can pick up a phone in my pocket and talk to someone at the other side of the world? Though I have become long habituated to the increases in technology, I remember as a child to get a call through to the states you needed to call the local operator who would ring the states and put the call through. Or, if it was the Middle East you needed to go to the central telephone station to place the call and if you were lucky you could get a phone call through in less than an hour. Astonishing is having access to email, telephone, and we still haven’t successfully navigated the ability to communicate the vision of a peaceful world.
Though I am always a traveler, always a westerner and a white Westerner, I’m a well-versed traveler who can be at home in my different cultures. Chameleon like to some extent, as much as my guise of an affluent white person will allow me. When I’m back in my “home” community of Vermont and look around the audience of all white people, I’m disoriented. It’s not because I have the remotest sense of political correctness, god forbid, but this is not the real world I live in; my real world is brown, yellow, black, and the bazaar of cultures that have and continue to feed my soul.
As an artist and writer, I’m a mongrel US American. My soul is fed from the rich stew that is American. My identity as a US American is drawn from African American, Islam, Quaker, Buddhism, Irish, and the myriad of elements that have influenced and shaped this 52 year old man. As this mongrel culture we should be smooth and fluent in our relationship to the world instead of oppositional and aggressive.


Melaka a small town on the coast of Malaysia and walking through the streets with the gutters flowing with the stench of sewage. A familiar smell which always is that I’m back in a Third World country. It reminds me of Yemen of many years ago. It is the smells of a place that transport you back in time. Backyards with the smell of chicken shit takes me back to a house in Spain some 45 years ago. The limbic system, the most primitive of senses, and the most basic to our sense of orientation key us in to our environment.

This afternoon wandering through the Chinatown. Went to this terrific vegetarian restaurant called Vegan Salad and Herb House and lunch was about $3. Though it was in a hole in the wall, my instinct was that it was clean. Lunch was this delicious tray of cooked vegetables and salad,

More to come and today off to Kuala Lampur and the Azis Mosque.

One love

Namaya

blog notes Monday, April 16, 20074/16/2007 9:33:16 PM


RELUCTANT TRAVELER
Elvis Sighting in Malaysia!
GOD SEX POLITICS 2007 Malaysia at
No BLACK TIE in Kuala Lumpur 21 April 2007

I’ve traveled most of my life, lived in the Middle East, North Africa, and visited over seventy five countries. I’m a natural gypsy traveling soul, but one who dearly loves his home. However, before this trip I had the odd premonition that I wouldn’t return, not a moment of passing insecurity, but a sense of fear and sadness that I had never experienced before.
Having been around death and worked with the dying over the years, I don’t necessarily have a fear of death; however, when I see death I’m not inclined to spit him in the eye, most often I will acknowledge him and walk to the other side. I’ve been sensing death very close over the past year and this has definitely caused me to be anxious. Again, it’s not the fear of death, but the imperative to get my creative work out, to tie up loose ends with family and friends, and to leave life on a positive note. But I will fight death to the last bit, as I enjoy life tremendously, and take such amazing delight in the everyday. I felt that when I was leaving I was saying farewell to patients, friends, and family. It is this state of attention and awareness I need to bring to every day, the appreciation for the sweetness of life. Life is all too brief and I cherish how long I’ve been here with the numerous close calls and near death experiences and health issues over the years, I’m not sure how many of the nine lives I have left, but while I will still passionately engage in my life, I don’t quite throw caution to the wind.
The long flight out of JFK and the Japan Airline crew with service, even in economy class, that was impeccable and gracious, and the vegetarian fare was delicious. The stewardesses are gorgeous! Unlike some of the US airlines where the stewardesses always look hormonal, bloated, and in a sour mood. I dread the American and Delta airline ladies who often look like the last place they want to be is on a plane and all they want to do is be home with a cold beer and soaking their tired feet. I know it is a tough trade,, but regardless of your trade or profession the imperative is to do it well and not make your clients suffer. It seems that some stewardesses feel as if they have you prisoner and they can be as abusive and rude as they like. The last few flights I’ve been lucky. Quantas crews are the jolliest and friendliest lads! The ladies from Air France look like their slumming from their day job on the fashion runway. But the girls from Singapore on JAL make the flight worth while. In a glance, I almost fell in love with the girls from Singapore. Gracious, pretty, polite, and sexy as could be with a smile. They remind me of a dear friend.
We zoom into Norita airport in Tokyo. I love the gracious politeness of the JAL crew. A long flight and everyone is tired. When I spoke to one of the ladies, I said, You look terrific for such a long flight. She said, “But I’m exhausted.” I appreciate her keeping up the appearance.
This lack of civility in modern times is what I often rail about. Even being back in London, I long for the days when civility and politeness was the norm, though one of the places where it still remains is Japan and Thailand. Though it may be only a polite façade, I will take the civility with great appreciation. It is also a consideration that I need to hold in my interactions with others. Though I’ve been in the US a long time, I still value formality, the “Mr. or Doctor,” and well polished manners. I think this is part of the breakdown in society, though I could argue there are far greater breakdowns in society, but the basics are civility and manners. I think schools would be far better off if this was the norm.
Saturday, April 14, 2007 SINGAPORE 4 AM
Awake at 4 am in Singapore. A long long flight. Energetically and otherwise. I’ve been wanting to writing for the last 48 hours. Jet lagged. Soma. Uggh. Gone. Spirits wasted. Difficult right now, at the beginning of this trip. Going through the highs and lows of travel. Is this trip necessary or even desired? Vermont, I miss you!
In one part as I started the trip there was this feeling of impeding death and that I wouldn’t return to Vermont. I was afraid to go. Though a part of me was saying for the price of an airline ticket is it worth it? I’d rather lose the 75,000 miles. Am I afraid to take the chance to travel? I was afraid that I wasn’t going to be able to finish what I had to say and write. Too much of my work is still unfinished, journals need to be prepared, books need to be finished, music recorded, and I want to leave a coherent body of work. I feel that my best work as an artist and poet is ahead of me.
Not really needing or wanting this experience of Singapore. I really do not need or want to travel much anymore. At least in the conventional sense. Out of all the places I’ve traveled the place that is most appealing is inside my mind, though I have been greatly informed by all the places I’ve visited, and rarely would I trade many of my experiences for my home bed.

SINGAPORE
I’ve only had a vague understanding of this city, with its emphasis on Confucianism, diligence, work, and the value of industriousness. Also, most infamously, executing drug traffickers like the Australian they hanged recently. It certainly sends a message. The other piece that’s remarkable are the cigarette packages with horrible pictures of cancer victims, oral cancer, skin cancer, etc.. So when you buy a pack of cigarettes you get this gross picture of what cancer can do. Given the economic impact of cigarettes on public health, it seems a reasonable precaution, though I would like them to take the total cost to the public health and add that fee to the price of cigarettes. Anyway, back to Singapore.
Singapore has been a trading city for several millenniums, fought over and argued, and the usual sorry mess of history that has survived quite well. Surprisingly, so much of the island is verdant. The highways into the main cities are lined with thick tropical vegetation; though I’m sure all of it is a recent addition, and little of the original fauna remains. Given this area I would imagine it was an island filled with tropical hardwoods, but with the impact of humans over the past 5, 000 years little of the original habitat remains. Nevertheless, I value the Singapore government for keeping so much of the landscape verdant.
At 5 am the city is stirring to life. I’m at the Oriental hotel overlooking the city and the harbor with its office towers, commercial city, and massive shopping malls. You could spend your life in these malls and never leave. Given the oppressive heat and the chilly cool of the malls, a retreat into mall land is a welcomed relief.
Singapore is the hub of desire! The women are quite attractive, mostly Chinese with Malay stock, and the Singapore stewardesses on JAL must be chosen for how beautiful they are. Gorgeous! I even wrote a song them called Girls of Singapore. I’m reminded of them as I look out the windows and see this parade of loveliness.
Singapore. Old colonial city in its port side. Downtown Fullerton Hotel, a relic of the English Imperial crown. I enjoy the quiet of the city. Not as much density as I would have expected. Not a Hong Kong or a downtown Tokyo, though I was prepared for that. Singapore, clean city, sterile city in some ways. Well ordered. Drug dealers hanged. Ouch. Strict city of order and cleanliness in the harbor side area. One particularly charming piece is the main harbor that has welcomed travelers for thousands of years and served as the trading hub for south east Asia
As I was processing this the other day, tremendous anxiety about leaving Vermont, but when I finally left, and started the travel I realized the cocoon I was living in. It is a small tiny part of the world. Getting caught up in the small town in Vermont, when my creative energy seeks the outlet of large creative spaces. But I love the familiarity of my Vermont home and the ease of life. I’ve been able to have a great creative space there.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
SINGAPORE DAY:
JET LAG AGAIN
2nd full day in Singapore. Slowly shaking off the jet-lag. I had used sleeping pills in Japan last year and was feeling absolutely trashed from that. This time I decided to do it the slow natural way, far easier. Not even a valerian and skull-cap. The heavy disorientation and then the struggle to lift yourself out of the thick fog of sleep. Liberal doses of coffee and alcoholic beverages seem to make the transition easier and also to help clear the liver.
Singapore
Harbor side in downtown with its pristine walkways belies the true nature of this oriental city. It is a fantasy of what we the Singaporeans would like to project, an easy blend of colonial past, quaint statues of Indian and Chinese traders and coolies, in a perfectly manicured environment. The image is too flawless; a city is far grittier, though I appreciate the effort for tidiness.
Singapore is this southeast Asian stew pot of cultures – Malaya, Indian, Chinese, and hundreds of other bloodlines thrown in. This thriving trading hub that has been the center of the cross roads between east and west, served as a source of conflict and wealth for the Dutch, English, Portuguese, Arabs, and anyone who could elbow their way into the port. As I city by this sterile harbor scene, with its lack of smell and the heavy humid air, my imagination peers not that far back in time when this harbor was filled with Chinese junks, scows, boats of all kind, schooners who plied these waters, dozens of languages and cultures with the voices calling out, “Buy! Sell!” The air would have been filled with the smell of spices, effluence from the bays, cooked foods from many nations, a convergence of sights and smells. Today the commerce is instant and electronic, bank buildings like the Maybank, HSBC, and office towers that dwarf those ambitions.
Singapore is all about commerce and shopping. Every brand name store in the US and Europe is a presence from 7-1l to Yves St. Laurent. Global branding once seen as an advertiser’s fantasy is seen as common place – every sneaker, cell phone, electronic gizmo, clothing found in a suburban US mall is readily available. The idea of the global village is present.
Today, the harbor still has rows of white stucco colonial style buildings that ring the inside of the harbor and serve tasty dishes of Thai, Malay, Chinese, Indonesian food, and one pub that advertises itself at “People’s Republic of Liverpool” as a noisy off beer soaked off key football song comes out of the bar.
Singapore downtown most prominently with the durian fruit shaped civic centers. The durian is the “stinky” fruit that is beloved by many in southeast Asia. The custom for Westerners is to hold your nose and scoop out the custard like center. Curious to see the dome of one of the Victorian era buildings rise over the top of the durian, but it’s like a small nipple on the building, the English empire dwarfed by the new millennium. I was expecting to be overwhelmed by Singapore like one would be in Tokyo where the density of life, the dense concentration of sky scrapers dwarfs any sense of humaneness. The Fullerton hotel as this iconic grandma proudly holding its own against the encroachment of time, a curious, though well maintained relic that harkens back to the empire. Perhaps, the best icon is the Raffles Hotel in the downtown district. It was the Queen hotel of the Orient occupying an entire city block with its sprawling white stucco palace.
High tea at Raffles Hotel! This is the experience to have in life. It harkens back to a more civilized era of tea, sandwiches, and pastries in the afternoon. In the restored restaurant, the staff brings towns of pastries and sweets; broad white linen napkins placed on your lap, heavy silverware and galley pots for service, as you sit back and allow your imagination to drift back to the colonial period. Though I detest the notion of aristocracy and evils of colonialism, I can appreciate this small quaint artifact from another era.

The thing I like the best about Singapore is the lack of honking horns. In New York City it is a mad house of constant honking and blaring horns, a city where people seem to compete for their degree of anger. Why can’t Mayor Bloomberg insist on taxi drivers who can speak a reasonable degree of English, know the city, follow traffic rules, keep a clean cab, and don’t blare their horns? Can the taxis be more like those in Singapore or Japan where the cabs are temples of immaculateness.
By the centuries end at the present rate of global warming this city like most other harbor cities will take on the appearance of Venice with water lapping at the base of the buildings. This is the turning point for civilization and it seems that it is a neck and neck battle with nature. In the natural evolution of things; of course, Mother nature always bats last. Though there is an incremental movement to addressing global warning, humans are at their core greedy and self motivated, driven by basic biological imperatives, survival and short term economic gain. The mega cities like Mexico City with its uncountable population will collapse as it is overwhelmed with its pollution, lack of water and inability to stop sprawl. Though it would seem imperative and incumbent for a species to stop before it destroys itself, few species to my knowledge have chosen this course, most expanding to their limits, devouring their food source, increasing in population till a predator – disease, environmental degradation, etc., have taken over. I don’t have the confidence that humans are any different than any other species that has come and gone. Though we may appear to have the capacity to change, and we may do so on some smaller personal ways, we seem to lack the collective will and political power to radically alter our destiny. The dye for global warming is cast, the only questions is: Can we mitigate the damage? With the Malthusian population explosion, the lack of basic environmental regulations in major polluters, and for the US’s unwillingness to genuinely address climactic changes as a species we are looking at a 500 year window where epidemics, famine, plague, and environmental entropy will compete for ascendancy.
Yes, we can make personal choices, better light bulbs, but unless an entire society like Australia mandated recently to change all the light bulbs in a country can it make an impact. The problem isn’t greener technology or more environmentally sound ideas, it’s a far more basic question that society so far hasn’t answered: Is the system of global industrial development a viable direction for the planet. In doing the simple arithmetic, the answer is no.
What was very freaky was reading a Newsweek article praising Global Warming. Hell, I use this as a point of satire, and the goddamn Newsweek has the chtuzpha to write about Global Warming as a positive thing. Hey, Newsweek – this is the death knell of the planet and you are saying it’s great!
LITTLE INDIA
Getting a chance to get away from the harbor side and wander to Little India. It’s far cleaner and more orderly than one would find in Connaught Place in Delhi. The Indian quarter with its garish temple to Kali and its delicious smells that emanate from every store from restaurant. There is a row of vegetarian restaurants and I choose one at random. The parade of people from around southeast Asia pass by my lunch window: Moslem girls wrapped in colorful headscarves, Sikhs in turbans, Chinese, Malays, Muslim men with skull caps, and the flow of society seemingly smooth and coherent is a like a stream passing before my window. How do the Muslims, Sikhs, Hindus, Chinese and other nationalities meet and converge in this city without violence? As long as the Americans don’t invade there will be peace.
Uniqueness of a city: Every city or place on the globe has a unique aspect that is to be discovered or discerned. What is unique about a given place? In Singapore it is the Night Safari.
But I will skip ahead in my narrative by a day or two. We’ve driven over to Malaysia and find our way into the old Portugese city of Malakka. We walk down to the port area with its dreary decayed houses along the canal. This is the city of the famed architecture? We walk into Raffles bar and there is an Elvis impersonator who has a fine crooning voice. I would have liked to have seen him on a larger stage and this piano player by the name of Don Go. Quite a scene as this Malaysian Elvis in a white red rhinestone jump suit is crooning Elvis tunes.
Elvis made Maalka quite worthwhile. I was chatting with the locals I explained that I’m doing a show called GOD SEX POLITICS in a few days… how would that go over in Kuala Lampur? God? Okay, I will not tell jokes about the prophet Mohammed. But it is funny I can do tons of Jesus jokes & Christians don’t take it too seriously. Ah, fundamentalism in any country or culture is deadly.

Stay tuned for more notes from Malaysia. Feeling homesick for Vermont.

P.S.News this morning from the States: Sad for the families and survivors as I heard about the shooting in the US, but there was part of me that said: What about the thousands of children who will die from preventable disease like water borne viruses, poor sanitation, disease, and poverty? Every day in Iraq dozens are killed and it seems a distant experience for most US Americans. I wish that they could include on CNN the other tragedies that also happen every day on the planet.