Responsibility As Citizens

Ubuntu means shared humanity, knowing we are all connected in the world.

In some ways, we are all responsible for 9/11, for the war on Iraq, for the failed dikes and appalling response to the crisis in the South, for our country’s pitiful world image. We are still a democracy, though tattered. If our voices are not heard, we are not shouting loud enough. I know I didn’t shout loud enough during the last election. No one has found a better political system than the United States. Let’s turn up the heat and boil off the poison.

We are all looters. We loot the world, quietly rape the planet, then tell everyone to leave us alone. As a country we are deluded in thinking this can continue any longer. We smile and say we are doing our best. Would you give up your roomy house and car tomorrow if everybody in the world could be fed and housed? I know I wouldn’t. Not without a fight.

That’s the fight we’re in. A fight inside each of us. Personal responsibility for the future. There’s so much blame going on right now. Why don’t we point that critical telescope at ourselves? Ask yourself difficult questions. What is the planet worth? What sacrifice will you make toward preserving what we are now destroying faster than it can heal? What are you doing to make poverty history? What did you do toward any of these ideal ends today? Think big, act in small ways.

OK, enough of this lumbering stump of a post, I’d like to add some quotes from a rich, edgy post by Jessamyn over at at Theriomorph. These ideas stir the pot, get you thinking. Dense stuff.

Trying to summarize the complicated, serpentine issue of blame and its twisted misuse:

Some of us – those who still have the luxury – just can’t deal with the sickening horror of the idea that perhaps we do not have full control over our experience, so we defend the notion that we do by blaming others who experience, or admit, powerlessness.

And she finds this hypocracy hiding everywhere:

It’s even in our syntax.

“Mistakes were made.” What mistakes? By whom? Presto: one neato passive construction and both consequence and responsibility are neatly evaded.

“A woman got raped.” By whom? A phantom? She GOT raped? Like, got herself raped? Where is the rapist in the sentence? Nowhere. We don’t say “A man raped a woman.”[…]

These are not linguistic coincidences. These are reflections of our values in our language that allow us to retain privilege, distance from responsibility, strip the powerless of their humanity so we don’t have to identify with them, or blame them for what happened to them so we don’t have to concede it could also happen to us.

In summary, after a firey review of other socially presumptuous language, we are presented with:

The inequities of this society are ubiquitous. That doesn’t mean we aren’t responsible for them. And magical thinking and blaming the victim, while a comfortable habit of generations and generations, has yet to effect change.

She ends with a wake up slap.

And aggression almost always begins in our words.

Worthy reading if you care to pop over there.

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Light in September

There’s are times when I feel an almost mystical message from certain scenes in nature.

Like right now, outside my window, a beam of late sun leans flat on the garden, a bright stripe sliced across the middle of the darkness, lifting textures into patterns, sparkly noises of light coming from the plants in it’s path. As the sun lifts the light in it’s decent into shadow, the message changes, a narrative, a mapping of this particular scene, this denouement, cascading code, only breakable as it happens.

And Agassi knows the code, Federer too. As it happens, a match unfolds, a flower of intension, genes, opportunity, nature, mood, crowd (rooting for Agassi).

Federer is so cocky, with good reason. (beautiful too) That makes Agassi the hero, also an advantage. Federer knows that too. Neither can hide. The goal is pure. (and lucrative, as a gold standard should be).

Almost pure will. Especially Agassi. Mystical.

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Somehow


Sallow fruit of doubt (guilty, rotting holes,
smashed hope, mute possibility, pause for complacency),
whose lazy seeds spawn
contorted fragments of forget;
tattered, moot sentences,
                                                hesitations,
echoes of fear,
                                                following fear of fear.
Craning, one can hear
their long lost sorrows attached
to our own, thumping heart.

Mind’s hoary soliloquy
flaps frantically,
fitfully free; while
          quintessential doors of perception
(five of them)
          filter cosmic, white heat
          through prisms of colors-
          lapis, ochre, sienna
rainbow’s light,
dark unraveling.

Decoding time into days,
we clutch at pebbles in the stream
dreaming the gurgling flow
into pomegranate’s passion,
guzzling its nectar, pits and all.

Vignettes, billions, (perpetual unfolding)
trembling plays with no set-
Characters (you and me) act
on shifting grains of
windswept dunes in
Sahara’s raw dance.

Yet, selfish insistence,
pearly data of birth
assembles uncannily-
             mapping gravity’s clout.

Dikes of persistence
shape tomorrow’s fortunes
from today’s regrets.
Torrential rivers
of love and pain, joy and betrayal
flow past eroding banks,
             through unequal silences of
             sorrow and shame.

Pandora’s plethora of tarnished ennui
sinks overloaded barges-
               good intentions, weighed down
               with neglect.
Compost condensed beneath timeless
yearning, crushed into syrupy coal,
morphs
to become diamonds.

After all is said, all is done,
After Time spins out
when doubt is spent, words gone-

Somehow, Silent
from amongst this clutter
callow wings unfurl, revealing a Pearl.
Salubrious jewel.
Tabula rasa.

Incandescent Nectar

Incandescent Nectar of Life,
conscious of Itself through our senses,
breathing our breath; and which,
with our caring awareness of one another,
breathes Life full with Love.

Here only, forever Now is,
which, breaking with by and by
becomes again the Full Emptiness,
where the billows of ruminating Dust
show in relief the shadow of Time,
and a brief glimpse
through Fate’s curtain
into who we are.

This sums up my mystical take on life. It’s a “glimpse” of where we came from, where we are, and where we’re going.

This poem is also featured on my new Zaadz profile: GarnetDavid. Stop by and say hello. Peace.

The Nothingness of Everything

Turning, Not Turning
I like asking paradoxical rhetorical questions. Sometimes just asking them gives insight to the unanswerable ones. I like pondering extremes, ultimates. It gives me perspective. I feel more able to handle the little ups and downs in my life.

These questions are not new. They are certainly influenced by Lao Tzu.

How can we know anything until we know nothing? Do you think it’s possible to know nothing? How can you know it if it is nothing? Is “anything” better known if seen with the awareness of its opposite, nothingness? Nothingness is like the star you can only see if you look slightly away from it. It’s only there in absence of everything else. In the above illusion, the wheels turn where you do not look.

Somehow everything, anything, has a little more presence, aura, after a little absurd discussion about nothing. The presence of life is more poignant when seen in the shadow of nothingness. We all get caught up in the drama of our lives, and we often forget the void which gives everything perspective. We forget the soothing comfort of knowing we are timeless, that we were always here, that we will always be here, even when our bodies go back to the earth. We forget the freedom that affords us, the fearlessness it affords us.

In the rare moments when I feel completely (in Krishnamurti’s words) “free of the known”, I am most capable of making decisions, solving problems, attending duties. I am capable of throwing myself into life, filling it up.

For the next few weeks, I plan to ponder the nothingness of my blog, experience its absence, to see what it really is. (we’ll see how long it lasts!)