Dating and Van Living
by Skald
I recently got an email from a hobopoet who is contemplating van living. He expressed concern that such a change would make him undatable... and cited similiar concerns that I had expressed in a post.
Well, I don't want to scare anyone off. Truth is, I did think I had become undatable. I went over a year without a single date. I felt undesirable. I assumed that women would look down on me for what I was doing.
This was a self-fulfilling prophecy and nothing more. As I have become comfortable and proud of my lifestyle, my dating life has improved. I'm now dating someone. More to the point, I was recently told by a girl that many women in town were interested in me-- but were confused because I acted so aloof around them. In retrospect, I realize I never approached girls, or even flirted, because I dreaded the question, "where do you live".
All those problems were in my head. Contrary to my expectations, I have found that many girls are fascinated by my choice and are very curious. Of course the typical 9to 5 types may be appalled,... but there are many intelligent and creative folks who understand and admire the hobopoet philosophy.
The only reason I write this is to encourage folks who are considering a hobopoet life. Car living will not condemn you to celibacy if thats not what you want! Once you become confident about your choice it will no longer be a problem. Good luck!
Thursday, July 24, 2003
Sunday, July 20, 2003
Tongs & Secret Societies
by Hakim Bey
A Tong can perhaps be defined as a mutual benefit society for people with a common interest which is illegal or dangerously marginal--hence, the necessary secrecy. Many Chinese Tongs revolved around smuggling & tax-evasion, or clandestine self-control of certain trades (in opposition to State control), or insurrectionary political or religious aims (overthrow of the Manchus for example-- several tongs collaborated with the Anarchists in the 1911 Revolution).
A common purpose of the tongs was to collect & invest membership dues & initiation fees in insurance funds for the indigent, unemployed, widows & orphans of deceased members, funeral expenses, etc. In an era like ours when the poor are caught between the cancer of the Insurance Industry & the fast-evaporating welfare & public health services, this purpose of the Secret Society might well regain its appeal. (Masonic lodges were organized on this basis, as were the early & illegal trade unions & ``chivalric orders'' for laborers & artisans.) Another universal purpose for such societies was of course conviviality, especially banqueting-- but even this apparently innocuous pastime can acquire insurrectionary implications. In the various French revolutions, for example, dining clubs frequently took on the role of radical organizations when all other forms of public meeting were banned.
The intensely hierarchical structure of the traditional tong would obviously not work, although some of the forms could be saved & used in the same way titles & honors are used in our ``free religions''. Non-hierarchic organization appeals to us, but so too does ritual, incense, the delightful bombast of occult orders--``Tong Aesthetics'' you might call it. Among other things, the Tong should be a work of art.
The strict traditional rule of secrecy also needs modification. Nowadays anything which evades the idiot gaze of publicity is already virtually secret. Most modern people seem unable to believe in the reality of something they never see on television --therefore to escape being televised is already to be quasi-invisible.
If a Tong is organized around a special interest (especially an illegal or risky or marginal interest) it certainly has the right to compose itself according to the ``affinity group'' principle. Secrecy means (a) avoiding publicity & (b) vetting possible members.
In building a Tong, style may not be "everything", but it certainly cannot be considered merely secondary or inessential. The Tong must be "a work of art" in itself. Therefore the myth of a legend for our Tong is no petty business. It concerns the surface but is far from being "superficial". Taste here assumes a "life-or-death" seriousness, as when one speaks of the "style" of a martial artist.
In the old days secret societies would appear in times & spaces forbidden by the State, i.e. where & when people are kept apart by law. In our times people are usually not kept apart by law but by mediation(Media) & alienation. Secrecy therefore becomes an avoidance of media, while conviviality changes from a secondary to a primary purpose of the ``secret society.'' Simply to meet together face-to-face is already an action against the forces which oppress us by isolation, by loneliness, by the trance of media.
In a society which enforces a schizoid split between Work & Leisure, we have all experienced the trivialization of our ``free time,'' time which is organized neither as work nor as leisure. (``Vacation '' once meant ``empty'' time--now it signifies time which is organized & filled by the industry of leisure.) Most parties are devoted only to loud music & too much booze, not because we enjoy them but because the Empire of WORK has imbued us with the feeling that empty time is wasted time. The idea of throwing a party to, say, make a quilt or sing madrigals together, seems hopelessly outdated. But the modern Tong will find it both necessary & enjoyable to seize back free time from the commodity world & devote it to shared creation, to play.
I know of several societies organized along these lines already, but I'm certainly not going to blow their secrecy by discussing them in print. There are some people who do not need fifteen seconds on the Evening News to validate their existence.
Neo Tongs do not concern themselves with power-relations;-- they desires neither to be ruled nor to rule.
If a Tong begins with groups of friends trying not just to overcome isolation but also to enhance each other's lives, soon it will want to take a more complex shape:-- a nuclei of mutually-self-chosen allies, working (playing) to occupy more & more time & space outside all media structure & control & WORK.
by Hakim Bey
A Tong can perhaps be defined as a mutual benefit society for people with a common interest which is illegal or dangerously marginal--hence, the necessary secrecy. Many Chinese Tongs revolved around smuggling & tax-evasion, or clandestine self-control of certain trades (in opposition to State control), or insurrectionary political or religious aims (overthrow of the Manchus for example-- several tongs collaborated with the Anarchists in the 1911 Revolution).
A common purpose of the tongs was to collect & invest membership dues & initiation fees in insurance funds for the indigent, unemployed, widows & orphans of deceased members, funeral expenses, etc. In an era like ours when the poor are caught between the cancer of the Insurance Industry & the fast-evaporating welfare & public health services, this purpose of the Secret Society might well regain its appeal. (Masonic lodges were organized on this basis, as were the early & illegal trade unions & ``chivalric orders'' for laborers & artisans.) Another universal purpose for such societies was of course conviviality, especially banqueting-- but even this apparently innocuous pastime can acquire insurrectionary implications. In the various French revolutions, for example, dining clubs frequently took on the role of radical organizations when all other forms of public meeting were banned.
The intensely hierarchical structure of the traditional tong would obviously not work, although some of the forms could be saved & used in the same way titles & honors are used in our ``free religions''. Non-hierarchic organization appeals to us, but so too does ritual, incense, the delightful bombast of occult orders--``Tong Aesthetics'' you might call it. Among other things, the Tong should be a work of art.
The strict traditional rule of secrecy also needs modification. Nowadays anything which evades the idiot gaze of publicity is already virtually secret. Most modern people seem unable to believe in the reality of something they never see on television --therefore to escape being televised is already to be quasi-invisible.
If a Tong is organized around a special interest (especially an illegal or risky or marginal interest) it certainly has the right to compose itself according to the ``affinity group'' principle. Secrecy means (a) avoiding publicity & (b) vetting possible members.
In building a Tong, style may not be "everything", but it certainly cannot be considered merely secondary or inessential. The Tong must be "a work of art" in itself. Therefore the myth of a legend for our Tong is no petty business. It concerns the surface but is far from being "superficial". Taste here assumes a "life-or-death" seriousness, as when one speaks of the "style" of a martial artist.
In the old days secret societies would appear in times & spaces forbidden by the State, i.e. where & when people are kept apart by law. In our times people are usually not kept apart by law but by mediation(Media) & alienation. Secrecy therefore becomes an avoidance of media, while conviviality changes from a secondary to a primary purpose of the ``secret society.'' Simply to meet together face-to-face is already an action against the forces which oppress us by isolation, by loneliness, by the trance of media.
In a society which enforces a schizoid split between Work & Leisure, we have all experienced the trivialization of our ``free time,'' time which is organized neither as work nor as leisure. (``Vacation '' once meant ``empty'' time--now it signifies time which is organized & filled by the industry of leisure.) Most parties are devoted only to loud music & too much booze, not because we enjoy them but because the Empire of WORK has imbued us with the feeling that empty time is wasted time. The idea of throwing a party to, say, make a quilt or sing madrigals together, seems hopelessly outdated. But the modern Tong will find it both necessary & enjoyable to seize back free time from the commodity world & devote it to shared creation, to play.
I know of several societies organized along these lines already, but I'm certainly not going to blow their secrecy by discussing them in print. There are some people who do not need fifteen seconds on the Evening News to validate their existence.
Neo Tongs do not concern themselves with power-relations;-- they desires neither to be ruled nor to rule.
If a Tong begins with groups of friends trying not just to overcome isolation but also to enhance each other's lives, soon it will want to take a more complex shape:-- a nuclei of mutually-self-chosen allies, working (playing) to occupy more & more time & space outside all media structure & control & WORK.
Part Time Hobopoets
pirated and adapted from Hakim Bey
I would guess that the old life way of part-time Hobopoets always proved both enjoyable and practical, at least in small scale economies. Twice a year you get up and move, travel, change your life and even your diet -- a taste of nomadic freedom. But always the same two places. One place is typically more heimlich than the other -- the village, the hearth; while the other place is typically wilder than the first, and this one might be called the place of Desire, of Summer. In the tales of Finn Mac Cumal and his Fenian band we nearly always meet them at this wilder end of the spectrum, the greenwood, the landscape of the hunt which reaches "back" in time to a more golden pre-agricultural age, and also "aslant" in time -- to Tir nan Og, the Land of Summer, realm of the Tuatha de Danaan, who are both the Dead and the Fairies.
We forget that the Fenians spent only half the year free in the forests. They were like part-time Hobopoets -- they owed the other half of the year to work (military service) for the King. In this respect they resembled the Irish peasants, who until recently practiced pastoral transhumancy. Traces may survive even now. Irish folklore certainly preserves the image of this Summertime freedom; "Nature" always seems somehow interlaced and even confused with "Culture" in Irish tradition (as in the zoomorphic capitals of the Book of Kells), in ways which have often impressed the foreign observer as uniquely Irish. Elizabethan colonists compared native Irish with native American Indians: -- both were perceived as "wild" -- and both received the same treatment from the English.
Part-time Hobopoetry gives a people the chance to remain in touch with Nature in its "merrie" aspect (as Morton of Merrymount would have phrased it), even if that people's economic life is virtually defined by agriculture, peonage, and drudgery. This explains the "radical" aspect of poaching, from Robin Hood to the Black Laws, and also the universal human romanticization of hunting. This romanticism begins already even in hunter/gatherer societies, where the prestige (and fun) of the hunt provides far less food for the tribe than the (comparative) drudgery of gathering -- and the romanticism continues to this day. I think of my two late uncles, who cultivated the country romance of the hunt like characters out of Turgeniev's Sketchbook. I find it impossible to despise this romanticism, which appears to me so clearly as the last remnant of Paleolithic freedom in a world given over to the gridwork of the plow -- and the highway.
In effect Romanticism itself can be said to revolve (if not resolve) around this tension in the Nature/Culture spectrum. The part-time Hobopoet must be a sort of practical romantic, an "ambulatory schizophrenic" who functions as a personality, "split" between the magnetic poles, and ambulating back and forth according to the weather.
Winter / Summer
village / mountain or forest
work / play
agriculture / festival
pastoralism/hunt
fireside/hut
narrative the year/ adventure
reverie / desire
The psychic space of part-time Hobopoetry cannot be easily disappeared. No sooner does it vanish from the map but it re-appears in Romanticism -- in the new-found appreciation for landscape and even wilderness, in "Nature worship" and Naturphilosophie, in tours of the Alps, in the Parks movement, in picnics, in nudist camps, in the Summer cottage, even in the Summer vacation. Nowadays "reformers' want children to attend school year round, and they criticize the summer vacation of two or three months as an inefficient remnant of an agricultural economy. But from the (romantic) viewpoint of children, summer is sacred to freedom -- a temporary (but periodic) autonomous zone. Children are diehard PT Hobopoets.
To a certain extent -- and from a certain point of view -- we now inhabit a "post-industrial" world; and it has been noted that precisely to the extent that this is so, "nomadism" has reappeared. This has its good aspects (as in Deluze and Guattari) and its bad aspects -- as for instance in tourism. But what has become of PT Hobopoetry in this new context? What situations might we elucidate by seeking out its traces?
A very clear trace or remnant of psychic part-time Hobopoets expressed itself in the 1920's - 1950's in America as the summer camp movement. A great many of these camps were inspired by various progressive and radical tendencies -- naturism, communism and anarchism, Reicheanism and other psychological schools, oriental mysticism, spiritualism -- a plethora of "marginal" forces. The utopian rural commune like Brook Farm was diluted into a low-cost summer vacation for cranks. During the same period countless thousands of "vacation communities" were created, with cabins only a bit less primitive than those of the camps. My family owns one in a decaying lakeside resort-town in Upstate New York, where all the streets are named after Indians, forests, wild animals.
These humble communities represent the "individualist" or entrepreneurial version of the summer camp's communalism; but even now some vestiges of seasonal communitarian spirit survive in them. As for the camps, eventually the majority began to cater to children, those natural citizens of summer. As the price of sheer hedonistic idleness went up and up, soon only the children of the well-to-do could afford camp -- and then not even them. One by one the camps began to close, a slow decline over the 70's, 80's, and 90's. Desperate measures are still attempted ("Marxist Computer Slim-down Camp"; neo-pagan gatherings and holistic seminars, etc.) -- but by now the Summer Camp almost seems like an anachronism.
Now the Summer Camp may be an extremely watered-down version of the utopia of transhumancy -- much less the utopia of utopia! -- but I would argue that it is worth defending, or rather, worth re-organizing. If the old economics failed to support it, perhaps a new economics can be envisioned and realized. In fact such a tendency has already appeared. As old Summer Camps go bankrupt and come on the market, a few are acquired by groups who try to preserve them as camps (with perhaps some year-round residents), either as private or semi-private summer "communes". Some of these neo-camps will simply serve as vacation retreats for the groups who acquire them; but others will need extra funding, and will thus be drawn into experiments in subsistence gardening, craft work, conference-organizing, cultural events, or some other semi-public function. In this latter case we can speak of a neo-PT Hobopoetry, since the camp will serve not simply as a space of "leisure" but also as a space of "work" for the primary participants.
Summer "work" appears to the PT Hobopoet as a kind of "play" by comparison with village labor. Pastoralism leaves time for some arcadian pleasures unknown to full-time agriculture or industry; and the hunt is pure sport. (Play is the point of the hunt; "game" is a bonus.) In somewhat the same way the neo-summer camp will have to "work" to get by, but its labor will be "self-managed" and "self-owned" to a greater extent than Winter's wages, and it will be work of a "festal" nature -- "recreation", hopefully in the original sense of the word -- or even "creation". (Artists and craftsfolk make good citizens of Summer.)
If the economy determined the downfall of the old summer camp movement, the state played a role as well: -- regulations, restrictions, precautions, insurance requirements, codes, etc., helped raise the real cost of running a camp above the level of feasibility. One might almost begin to suspect that "the State" somehow felt the camp movement as some vague sort of threat. For one thing, camps escape the daily gaze of control, and are removed from the flow of commodities and information. Then too, camps are suspiciously communal, focuses of possible resistance to the alienation and atomization of consumerism and "modern democracy." Camps have an erotic subversiveness to them, as every ex-Summer-camper will testify, a wildness and laxness of super-ego, an air of Misrule, of Midsummer Night's dreams, skinny-dipping, the crush, the languor of July. The camp cannot be reconciled to the ideal of the industrial production of leisure ("holiday package") and the reproduction and simulation of summer as a theme park, the vacation process, the systematic "emptying-out" of all difference, all authentic desire.
Inasmuch as the State distrusts the camp, the neo-camp will (to that extent) need to cultivate certain forms of invisibility or social camouflage. One possible disguise for the neo-camp however would be to assume the precise guise of an old-fashioned half-bankrupt summer camp. After all, the Summer camp is not illegal, and if your group can meet the insurance requirements, why not fit yourselves into an already-existing archetype? Provided you're not running a kids' camp, or an openly-proclaimed Anarcho-Nudist retreat, you might be able to pass yourselves off as just another bunch of harmless make-believe Indians with a month's vacation to waste.
My defense of the summer (neo-)camp is based on two simple premises: -- one, a month or two of relative freedom is better than absolutely none; two, it's affordable. I'm assuming that your group is not made up of "nomads" or full-time freedom fighters, but of people who need to work for a living or are stuck in a city or 'burb most of the year -- potential part-time Hobopoets. You want something more than a summer vacation - you want a summer community. Splashing in a humble Adirondack lake is more pleasureable to you than Disney World -- provided you can do it with the people you like. Sharing the costs makes it possible, but also makes it an adventure in communicativeness and mutual enhancement. Making the place pay for itself or even turn a little off-the-books profit would transform your group into true neo-PT Hobopoets, with two economic focuses in your lives. Even if you seek legal status (as a tax-exempt educational center religious retreat, or Summer camp) your proprietorship affords you a certain degree of privacy which -- if used discreetly -- can exceed all legal bounds in terms of sex, nudity, drugs, or pagan excess. As long as you don't frighten the horses or challenge local interests, you're simply another bunch of "Summer people", and as such expected to be a bit weird.
Of all the versions of the Temporary Autonomous Zone imagined so far, this "periodic" or seasonal zone is most open to criticism as a social palliative or an "Anarchist Club Med.: It's saved from mere selfishness however by the necessary fact of its self-organization. Your group must create the zone -- you can't buy it pre-packaged from some tourist agency. The summer camp can't be the social "Revolution", true enough. I would prefer simply to point to the desperation felt by many for just a taste of autonomy, in the context of a valid romanticism of Nature. Not everyone can be a neo-nomad -- but why not at least a neo-PT Hobopoet? Are we never to regain the land of summer even for a month? Never vanish from the grid even for a moment? The summer camp is not the war, not even a strategy -- but it is a tactic. And unmediated pleasure, after all, is still its own excuse.
pirated and adapted from Hakim Bey
I would guess that the old life way of part-time Hobopoets always proved both enjoyable and practical, at least in small scale economies. Twice a year you get up and move, travel, change your life and even your diet -- a taste of nomadic freedom. But always the same two places. One place is typically more heimlich than the other -- the village, the hearth; while the other place is typically wilder than the first, and this one might be called the place of Desire, of Summer. In the tales of Finn Mac Cumal and his Fenian band we nearly always meet them at this wilder end of the spectrum, the greenwood, the landscape of the hunt which reaches "back" in time to a more golden pre-agricultural age, and also "aslant" in time -- to Tir nan Og, the Land of Summer, realm of the Tuatha de Danaan, who are both the Dead and the Fairies.
We forget that the Fenians spent only half the year free in the forests. They were like part-time Hobopoets -- they owed the other half of the year to work (military service) for the King. In this respect they resembled the Irish peasants, who until recently practiced pastoral transhumancy. Traces may survive even now. Irish folklore certainly preserves the image of this Summertime freedom; "Nature" always seems somehow interlaced and even confused with "Culture" in Irish tradition (as in the zoomorphic capitals of the Book of Kells), in ways which have often impressed the foreign observer as uniquely Irish. Elizabethan colonists compared native Irish with native American Indians: -- both were perceived as "wild" -- and both received the same treatment from the English.
Part-time Hobopoetry gives a people the chance to remain in touch with Nature in its "merrie" aspect (as Morton of Merrymount would have phrased it), even if that people's economic life is virtually defined by agriculture, peonage, and drudgery. This explains the "radical" aspect of poaching, from Robin Hood to the Black Laws, and also the universal human romanticization of hunting. This romanticism begins already even in hunter/gatherer societies, where the prestige (and fun) of the hunt provides far less food for the tribe than the (comparative) drudgery of gathering -- and the romanticism continues to this day. I think of my two late uncles, who cultivated the country romance of the hunt like characters out of Turgeniev's Sketchbook. I find it impossible to despise this romanticism, which appears to me so clearly as the last remnant of Paleolithic freedom in a world given over to the gridwork of the plow -- and the highway.
In effect Romanticism itself can be said to revolve (if not resolve) around this tension in the Nature/Culture spectrum. The part-time Hobopoet must be a sort of practical romantic, an "ambulatory schizophrenic" who functions as a personality, "split" between the magnetic poles, and ambulating back and forth according to the weather.
Winter / Summer
village / mountain or forest
work / play
agriculture / festival
pastoralism/hunt
fireside/hut
narrative the year/ adventure
reverie / desire
The psychic space of part-time Hobopoetry cannot be easily disappeared. No sooner does it vanish from the map but it re-appears in Romanticism -- in the new-found appreciation for landscape and even wilderness, in "Nature worship" and Naturphilosophie, in tours of the Alps, in the Parks movement, in picnics, in nudist camps, in the Summer cottage, even in the Summer vacation. Nowadays "reformers' want children to attend school year round, and they criticize the summer vacation of two or three months as an inefficient remnant of an agricultural economy. But from the (romantic) viewpoint of children, summer is sacred to freedom -- a temporary (but periodic) autonomous zone. Children are diehard PT Hobopoets.
To a certain extent -- and from a certain point of view -- we now inhabit a "post-industrial" world; and it has been noted that precisely to the extent that this is so, "nomadism" has reappeared. This has its good aspects (as in Deluze and Guattari) and its bad aspects -- as for instance in tourism. But what has become of PT Hobopoetry in this new context? What situations might we elucidate by seeking out its traces?
A very clear trace or remnant of psychic part-time Hobopoets expressed itself in the 1920's - 1950's in America as the summer camp movement. A great many of these camps were inspired by various progressive and radical tendencies -- naturism, communism and anarchism, Reicheanism and other psychological schools, oriental mysticism, spiritualism -- a plethora of "marginal" forces. The utopian rural commune like Brook Farm was diluted into a low-cost summer vacation for cranks. During the same period countless thousands of "vacation communities" were created, with cabins only a bit less primitive than those of the camps. My family owns one in a decaying lakeside resort-town in Upstate New York, where all the streets are named after Indians, forests, wild animals.
These humble communities represent the "individualist" or entrepreneurial version of the summer camp's communalism; but even now some vestiges of seasonal communitarian spirit survive in them. As for the camps, eventually the majority began to cater to children, those natural citizens of summer. As the price of sheer hedonistic idleness went up and up, soon only the children of the well-to-do could afford camp -- and then not even them. One by one the camps began to close, a slow decline over the 70's, 80's, and 90's. Desperate measures are still attempted ("Marxist Computer Slim-down Camp"; neo-pagan gatherings and holistic seminars, etc.) -- but by now the Summer Camp almost seems like an anachronism.
Now the Summer Camp may be an extremely watered-down version of the utopia of transhumancy -- much less the utopia of utopia! -- but I would argue that it is worth defending, or rather, worth re-organizing. If the old economics failed to support it, perhaps a new economics can be envisioned and realized. In fact such a tendency has already appeared. As old Summer Camps go bankrupt and come on the market, a few are acquired by groups who try to preserve them as camps (with perhaps some year-round residents), either as private or semi-private summer "communes". Some of these neo-camps will simply serve as vacation retreats for the groups who acquire them; but others will need extra funding, and will thus be drawn into experiments in subsistence gardening, craft work, conference-organizing, cultural events, or some other semi-public function. In this latter case we can speak of a neo-PT Hobopoetry, since the camp will serve not simply as a space of "leisure" but also as a space of "work" for the primary participants.
Summer "work" appears to the PT Hobopoet as a kind of "play" by comparison with village labor. Pastoralism leaves time for some arcadian pleasures unknown to full-time agriculture or industry; and the hunt is pure sport. (Play is the point of the hunt; "game" is a bonus.) In somewhat the same way the neo-summer camp will have to "work" to get by, but its labor will be "self-managed" and "self-owned" to a greater extent than Winter's wages, and it will be work of a "festal" nature -- "recreation", hopefully in the original sense of the word -- or even "creation". (Artists and craftsfolk make good citizens of Summer.)
If the economy determined the downfall of the old summer camp movement, the state played a role as well: -- regulations, restrictions, precautions, insurance requirements, codes, etc., helped raise the real cost of running a camp above the level of feasibility. One might almost begin to suspect that "the State" somehow felt the camp movement as some vague sort of threat. For one thing, camps escape the daily gaze of control, and are removed from the flow of commodities and information. Then too, camps are suspiciously communal, focuses of possible resistance to the alienation and atomization of consumerism and "modern democracy." Camps have an erotic subversiveness to them, as every ex-Summer-camper will testify, a wildness and laxness of super-ego, an air of Misrule, of Midsummer Night's dreams, skinny-dipping, the crush, the languor of July. The camp cannot be reconciled to the ideal of the industrial production of leisure ("holiday package") and the reproduction and simulation of summer as a theme park, the vacation process, the systematic "emptying-out" of all difference, all authentic desire.
Inasmuch as the State distrusts the camp, the neo-camp will (to that extent) need to cultivate certain forms of invisibility or social camouflage. One possible disguise for the neo-camp however would be to assume the precise guise of an old-fashioned half-bankrupt summer camp. After all, the Summer camp is not illegal, and if your group can meet the insurance requirements, why not fit yourselves into an already-existing archetype? Provided you're not running a kids' camp, or an openly-proclaimed Anarcho-Nudist retreat, you might be able to pass yourselves off as just another bunch of harmless make-believe Indians with a month's vacation to waste.
My defense of the summer (neo-)camp is based on two simple premises: -- one, a month or two of relative freedom is better than absolutely none; two, it's affordable. I'm assuming that your group is not made up of "nomads" or full-time freedom fighters, but of people who need to work for a living or are stuck in a city or 'burb most of the year -- potential part-time Hobopoets. You want something more than a summer vacation - you want a summer community. Splashing in a humble Adirondack lake is more pleasureable to you than Disney World -- provided you can do it with the people you like. Sharing the costs makes it possible, but also makes it an adventure in communicativeness and mutual enhancement. Making the place pay for itself or even turn a little off-the-books profit would transform your group into true neo-PT Hobopoets, with two economic focuses in your lives. Even if you seek legal status (as a tax-exempt educational center religious retreat, or Summer camp) your proprietorship affords you a certain degree of privacy which -- if used discreetly -- can exceed all legal bounds in terms of sex, nudity, drugs, or pagan excess. As long as you don't frighten the horses or challenge local interests, you're simply another bunch of "Summer people", and as such expected to be a bit weird.
Of all the versions of the Temporary Autonomous Zone imagined so far, this "periodic" or seasonal zone is most open to criticism as a social palliative or an "Anarchist Club Med.: It's saved from mere selfishness however by the necessary fact of its self-organization. Your group must create the zone -- you can't buy it pre-packaged from some tourist agency. The summer camp can't be the social "Revolution", true enough. I would prefer simply to point to the desperation felt by many for just a taste of autonomy, in the context of a valid romanticism of Nature. Not everyone can be a neo-nomad -- but why not at least a neo-PT Hobopoet? Are we never to regain the land of summer even for a month? Never vanish from the grid even for a moment? The summer camp is not the war, not even a strategy -- but it is a tactic. And unmediated pleasure, after all, is still its own excuse.
WAKE UP, GET DRESSED & MOVE OUT
Pirated from The World Mind Society
We can all see the results of modern destructiveness, yet this simple knowledge is usually not enough to cause a person to fundamentally change. Could it be that we feel we can afford to ignore the condition of our lives, or even the decay of our own bodies and minds? This is no doubt at least partially true. But even more importantly it could be said that like electricity, we tend to take the path of least resistance. In the social context, taking the path of least resistance means two basic things. The first of these is that:
We stay within our threshold of comfort. The human being is already so stressed and overloaded by all the considerations of the modern world, that we feel we cannot take on even one more thing. Our own bodies and minds, let alone the state of the world, are secondary considerations when it comes to making money. This is a predictable reaction to artificiality and unwise social policy. In essence we lack the vital energy to act in ways which are radically different from the normal routine, because it drains us totally of every particle of positivity and vitality.
We feel an extraordinary sense of pressure from our peers to ìperformî according to expected standards. These standards are based upon what this materialistic life is supposed to be. We are told by the media and those in our immediate environment, that the most important thing in life is to ìfit inî and be a ìworthy member of society.î This of course implies competitiveness rather than cooperation, and bank accounts rather than being spiritually accountable.
We say on the one hand that a book cannot be judged by its color, and yet we judge others primarily by their appearance, as in, ìthe clothes make the manî, (or woman). When we ask others, ìWhat do you do?î, (meaning what form of employment do you have) the real question being asked is ìWhat is your social position and value in the eyes of society?î as a determination of how our opinion of them will be formed. Attitudes such as these stem from the belief that life and the meaning it holds, are hollow, that there is no lasting Truth nor real purpose for human existence, other than those defined by a suicidal society. We feel hollowness in our own lives, and the only thing that seems to counteract this depressing state of affairs, is to try to convince others that we are not hollow inside. By convincing them of our worth through a gaudy show of material possessions, we can supposedly boost our own flagging self image, even though we know the entire exercise in futility is a lie. This is the whole reasoning behind, ìkeeping up with the Jonesísî.
It is clear that in order to change effectively, (for it to become a daily reality) we need more than false images or simple knowledge. We need the willingness to suffer the sometimes uncomfortable state of transition from one mode of living to the next, so that a better way of life might be attained. But even more critical is the willingness to challenge the assumptions of society in full, and to care so much for the truth that peer pressure becomes a trivial thing. Inner strength is not defined by onesí ability to take orders without question, to make false appearances or to cater to public opinion. On the contrary, inner strength is best defined as the ability to follow through with onesí own best judgment and aspirations, even when there is not even a single other person who shares the same vision.
The innate capacity of the human is genius. Public action is therefore most restricted not by its ability, but by its willingness to act. It is easy to assume that we can afford the time to put off change for another day, even when convinced of its urgent necessity. In all honesty we no longer have the time as a species upon this living planet to be wasteful, artificial or careless. The products of carelessness and greed have finally caught up with us. For the individual person this is particularly so, because we must employ both intelligence and wisdom, in order to maintain a sane, worthwhile life in this insane age. Each individual must deal with the consequences of what may be called the ìworld karmaî or the ìmisdeeds of past generationsî by living well regardless of pollution, crime rates and corrupt governments. At the same time they must conduct their personal lives in such a way as to maintain good clarity of mind, progressiveness, positivity and naturalness. This is not a part-time task or a hobby to be toyed with. It is a necessary life focus that makes the most out of physical, mental and spiritual potentials, regardless of a society that cares little for its health, sanity or right action. To the truly natural and spiritual person it may be said that all praise is due. Maintaining a natural focus in life rather than a material one however, is the least we can do for ourselves and for this planet as a consequence.
Even if one were inclined to adopt the ideas contained here blindly and without question, they would be of little value. In order to take action with strength and wisdom we must see for ourselves, in our own fashion, the nature of the facts at hand. To live out the Truth is a matter of personal realization. It is necessary therefore, for the reader to see very clearly as a matter of personal experience, the validity of the facts and principles contained herein. This entails a process of checking and double-checking the seemingly preposterous conclusion that our entire civilization is built on the lies of money and social position, (îpowerî). It is necessary to come to grips with this conclusion and its implications, through an honest evaluation of worldly affairs. It is necessary to perceive with unwavering clarity that the things we are expected to strive for, represent a destructive value system that is devastating all life on this world, and us in the process. The reader is therefore strongly urged to question everything they encounter for its accuracy and true usefulness, including the ideas herein. The authors are absolutely convinced that those ideas are universal, and are fully capable of standing on their own by virtue of their consistent merit.
After a person endures the process of de-conditioning themselves of the absurd, urgently repeated suggestions of the media, they may then create a new, better life for themselves. The full potential of mental health may not be enjoyed until the disease of consumerism is cured. After having braved the discomfort of sweeping change, and daring to think for ourselves regardless of the neighbors, a higher stage of personal unfoldment occurs for the progressive person. This process is not for everyone even though everyone would benefit from it, simply because not everyone is willing to live the truth regardless of all else. Most people do not realize that they have been cheated of a full, satisfying life by not following the truth, until or near the time of their death. It is then that the material realm is failing them utterly, when possessions lose their luster and the body its coordination. At this point material things can no longer provide a shelter for further indulgence. It is then that people cry out to God or to cruel fate asking, ìWhy?î, ìWhy must life end this way, and why canít I continue to cling to all the ëthingsí I have known?î It is unfortunate that many people wait until they are nearly dead to take such questions seriously.
Pirated from The World Mind Society
We can all see the results of modern destructiveness, yet this simple knowledge is usually not enough to cause a person to fundamentally change. Could it be that we feel we can afford to ignore the condition of our lives, or even the decay of our own bodies and minds? This is no doubt at least partially true. But even more importantly it could be said that like electricity, we tend to take the path of least resistance. In the social context, taking the path of least resistance means two basic things. The first of these is that:
We stay within our threshold of comfort. The human being is already so stressed and overloaded by all the considerations of the modern world, that we feel we cannot take on even one more thing. Our own bodies and minds, let alone the state of the world, are secondary considerations when it comes to making money. This is a predictable reaction to artificiality and unwise social policy. In essence we lack the vital energy to act in ways which are radically different from the normal routine, because it drains us totally of every particle of positivity and vitality.
We feel an extraordinary sense of pressure from our peers to ìperformî according to expected standards. These standards are based upon what this materialistic life is supposed to be. We are told by the media and those in our immediate environment, that the most important thing in life is to ìfit inî and be a ìworthy member of society.î This of course implies competitiveness rather than cooperation, and bank accounts rather than being spiritually accountable.
We say on the one hand that a book cannot be judged by its color, and yet we judge others primarily by their appearance, as in, ìthe clothes make the manî, (or woman). When we ask others, ìWhat do you do?î, (meaning what form of employment do you have) the real question being asked is ìWhat is your social position and value in the eyes of society?î as a determination of how our opinion of them will be formed. Attitudes such as these stem from the belief that life and the meaning it holds, are hollow, that there is no lasting Truth nor real purpose for human existence, other than those defined by a suicidal society. We feel hollowness in our own lives, and the only thing that seems to counteract this depressing state of affairs, is to try to convince others that we are not hollow inside. By convincing them of our worth through a gaudy show of material possessions, we can supposedly boost our own flagging self image, even though we know the entire exercise in futility is a lie. This is the whole reasoning behind, ìkeeping up with the Jonesísî.
It is clear that in order to change effectively, (for it to become a daily reality) we need more than false images or simple knowledge. We need the willingness to suffer the sometimes uncomfortable state of transition from one mode of living to the next, so that a better way of life might be attained. But even more critical is the willingness to challenge the assumptions of society in full, and to care so much for the truth that peer pressure becomes a trivial thing. Inner strength is not defined by onesí ability to take orders without question, to make false appearances or to cater to public opinion. On the contrary, inner strength is best defined as the ability to follow through with onesí own best judgment and aspirations, even when there is not even a single other person who shares the same vision.
The innate capacity of the human is genius. Public action is therefore most restricted not by its ability, but by its willingness to act. It is easy to assume that we can afford the time to put off change for another day, even when convinced of its urgent necessity. In all honesty we no longer have the time as a species upon this living planet to be wasteful, artificial or careless. The products of carelessness and greed have finally caught up with us. For the individual person this is particularly so, because we must employ both intelligence and wisdom, in order to maintain a sane, worthwhile life in this insane age. Each individual must deal with the consequences of what may be called the ìworld karmaî or the ìmisdeeds of past generationsî by living well regardless of pollution, crime rates and corrupt governments. At the same time they must conduct their personal lives in such a way as to maintain good clarity of mind, progressiveness, positivity and naturalness. This is not a part-time task or a hobby to be toyed with. It is a necessary life focus that makes the most out of physical, mental and spiritual potentials, regardless of a society that cares little for its health, sanity or right action. To the truly natural and spiritual person it may be said that all praise is due. Maintaining a natural focus in life rather than a material one however, is the least we can do for ourselves and for this planet as a consequence.
Even if one were inclined to adopt the ideas contained here blindly and without question, they would be of little value. In order to take action with strength and wisdom we must see for ourselves, in our own fashion, the nature of the facts at hand. To live out the Truth is a matter of personal realization. It is necessary therefore, for the reader to see very clearly as a matter of personal experience, the validity of the facts and principles contained herein. This entails a process of checking and double-checking the seemingly preposterous conclusion that our entire civilization is built on the lies of money and social position, (îpowerî). It is necessary to come to grips with this conclusion and its implications, through an honest evaluation of worldly affairs. It is necessary to perceive with unwavering clarity that the things we are expected to strive for, represent a destructive value system that is devastating all life on this world, and us in the process. The reader is therefore strongly urged to question everything they encounter for its accuracy and true usefulness, including the ideas herein. The authors are absolutely convinced that those ideas are universal, and are fully capable of standing on their own by virtue of their consistent merit.
After a person endures the process of de-conditioning themselves of the absurd, urgently repeated suggestions of the media, they may then create a new, better life for themselves. The full potential of mental health may not be enjoyed until the disease of consumerism is cured. After having braved the discomfort of sweeping change, and daring to think for ourselves regardless of the neighbors, a higher stage of personal unfoldment occurs for the progressive person. This process is not for everyone even though everyone would benefit from it, simply because not everyone is willing to live the truth regardless of all else. Most people do not realize that they have been cheated of a full, satisfying life by not following the truth, until or near the time of their death. It is then that the material realm is failing them utterly, when possessions lose their luster and the body its coordination. At this point material things can no longer provide a shelter for further indulgence. It is then that people cry out to God or to cruel fate asking, ìWhy?î, ìWhy must life end this way, and why canít I continue to cling to all the ëthingsí I have known?î It is unfortunate that many people wait until they are nearly dead to take such questions seriously.
HPN Post
from Joe Reynolds
Not much will to get anything done lately. Just stewing in my own juices in this heat. Way too much time on my hands and having trouble finding good things to do and fill it with. Once more I find that I define a large part of the problem as I have no place to go. Let me phrase that better - no place to be, as in home. That part really gets to me. Lonely doesn't cover it by a long shot. Then again even alone just that time having my own room even without a kitchen was still so much better than this. Holidays are worse especially the ones where everything shuts down!. I mean after all what the hell is there to do other than sit in my van parked behind the mall in the alleyway?
Whoopie... real big whoopie
I have no real friends here at this time. those who were all moved away so I get to take me amd me to the movies, better than no movies but fact is I enjoy them so much more with company.
Put out the copies of STREET SHEET I got in the mail and they caused quite a stir. Idiot manager was appalled and also afte reading one said it is so much better to join the establishment but then again he is also such a gormless inverebrate sheep. (the wonders of bio-engineered life forms?) Also a laugh there as he is so far on the outside of local establishment that it isn't funny. Like the old story a rabbi told me about how evil doesn't need to chase people considering how busy humans are chasing after evil.
Gods my face itches from not having shaved the last two days.Must do that...
Next week van gets new brakes and hopefully warranty dispute will be cleared up or I can find someone to just crack the box and tell me what is wrong with the laptop. also a moillion and four things I need to do but really can't give a damn.
Otherwise life is beautiful...
from Joe Reynolds
Not much will to get anything done lately. Just stewing in my own juices in this heat. Way too much time on my hands and having trouble finding good things to do and fill it with. Once more I find that I define a large part of the problem as I have no place to go. Let me phrase that better - no place to be, as in home. That part really gets to me. Lonely doesn't cover it by a long shot. Then again even alone just that time having my own room even without a kitchen was still so much better than this. Holidays are worse especially the ones where everything shuts down!. I mean after all what the hell is there to do other than sit in my van parked behind the mall in the alleyway?
Whoopie... real big whoopie
I have no real friends here at this time. those who were all moved away so I get to take me amd me to the movies, better than no movies but fact is I enjoy them so much more with company.
Put out the copies of STREET SHEET I got in the mail and they caused quite a stir. Idiot manager was appalled and also afte reading one said it is so much better to join the establishment but then again he is also such a gormless inverebrate sheep. (the wonders of bio-engineered life forms?) Also a laugh there as he is so far on the outside of local establishment that it isn't funny. Like the old story a rabbi told me about how evil doesn't need to chase people considering how busy humans are chasing after evil.
Gods my face itches from not having shaved the last two days.Must do that...
Next week van gets new brakes and hopefully warranty dispute will be cleared up or I can find someone to just crack the box and tell me what is wrong with the laptop. also a moillion and four things I need to do but really can't give a damn.
Otherwise life is beautiful...
Death and Rebirth
by Skald
"The process of throwing off the old role-- coming out in the new, is vitally important. The tradition in India, for instance, is of actually changing your whole way of dress, even changing your name, as you pass from one life stage to another. "
-- Joseph Campbell
I just came across this quote from Joseph Campbell and loved it. It certainly resonates. When I decided to make the change, for good, to a nomadic-poetic lifestyle- I felt an instinctual need to transform my whole life.... to throw off the old and come into the new. That is why I took the name Skald Hareksson as a writing name. I imagine its why Matt Salleh chose a different name for himself as well. There is symbolic power in this.
I chose to ritualize this process. On New Years day I climbed a mountian in remote Northern Japan in order to visit a shrine at its top. There was a violent snowstorm as I climbed... wind whipped in from the sea... and the snow was knee-to-thigh high. The entire mountain was desolate... I was completely alone when I reached the top. Once there I shed my boots and entered the shrine. I brought a piece of old clothing.... an old shirt that symbolized, to me, my old life. I knelt in front of the altar, rang the bell, and lit the candles-- then meditated for a short time. Next I spoke aloud to announce the death of the old persona. I gave a short eulogy then placed the shirt, and a poem, on the altar. My feet got cold.
I sat a while longer then blew out the candles.... and with them the old life died. I put on my boots and exited the shrine... standing atop the mountain looking out at the sea below... snow and wind in my face... a feeling of exhileration.
I shouted to the ocean and the sky to announce my new name and my new life. I shouted in all four directions.... at the top of my lungs.
And then I walked back down.
I suppose the romantic in me expected an instant transformation... but it has instead been subtle. And yet when I look at my life over the past year and a half Im astounded by the difference. I've been on a three month pilgrimage to Thailand, India, and Nepal.... Returned home, bought a van, modified it, and have lived in it ever since.... got rid of all possessions that could not fit in the vehicle-home.... survived with almost no money, living for a while on only coffee and scraps.... then established a very leisurely lifestyle working 19 hours a week... took a 10 day meditation course... wrote poetry... started this website.... ran.... walked.... did yoga.... made friends... daydreamed....took vision quests... had a near-death vision experience.... bonded with my dog... started a secret society.... read books.... relaxed....enjoyed life.
Bit by bit the old life and old persona truly died. Bit by bit Skald matured and grew. And now I stand on the threshold of another adventure.... soon to fly off to SE Asia to live, learn, and wander. The life I envisioned, on that mountaintop, finally taking hold.
The simple message is this: Never underestimate the subtle power of decisions, rituals, and transformation.
by Skald
"The process of throwing off the old role-- coming out in the new, is vitally important. The tradition in India, for instance, is of actually changing your whole way of dress, even changing your name, as you pass from one life stage to another. "
-- Joseph Campbell
I just came across this quote from Joseph Campbell and loved it. It certainly resonates. When I decided to make the change, for good, to a nomadic-poetic lifestyle- I felt an instinctual need to transform my whole life.... to throw off the old and come into the new. That is why I took the name Skald Hareksson as a writing name. I imagine its why Matt Salleh chose a different name for himself as well. There is symbolic power in this.
I chose to ritualize this process. On New Years day I climbed a mountian in remote Northern Japan in order to visit a shrine at its top. There was a violent snowstorm as I climbed... wind whipped in from the sea... and the snow was knee-to-thigh high. The entire mountain was desolate... I was completely alone when I reached the top. Once there I shed my boots and entered the shrine. I brought a piece of old clothing.... an old shirt that symbolized, to me, my old life. I knelt in front of the altar, rang the bell, and lit the candles-- then meditated for a short time. Next I spoke aloud to announce the death of the old persona. I gave a short eulogy then placed the shirt, and a poem, on the altar. My feet got cold.
I sat a while longer then blew out the candles.... and with them the old life died. I put on my boots and exited the shrine... standing atop the mountain looking out at the sea below... snow and wind in my face... a feeling of exhileration.
I shouted to the ocean and the sky to announce my new name and my new life. I shouted in all four directions.... at the top of my lungs.
And then I walked back down.
I suppose the romantic in me expected an instant transformation... but it has instead been subtle. And yet when I look at my life over the past year and a half Im astounded by the difference. I've been on a three month pilgrimage to Thailand, India, and Nepal.... Returned home, bought a van, modified it, and have lived in it ever since.... got rid of all possessions that could not fit in the vehicle-home.... survived with almost no money, living for a while on only coffee and scraps.... then established a very leisurely lifestyle working 19 hours a week... took a 10 day meditation course... wrote poetry... started this website.... ran.... walked.... did yoga.... made friends... daydreamed....took vision quests... had a near-death vision experience.... bonded with my dog... started a secret society.... read books.... relaxed....enjoyed life.
Bit by bit the old life and old persona truly died. Bit by bit Skald matured and grew. And now I stand on the threshold of another adventure.... soon to fly off to SE Asia to live, learn, and wander. The life I envisioned, on that mountaintop, finally taking hold.
The simple message is this: Never underestimate the subtle power of decisions, rituals, and transformation.
Monday, June 30, 2003
River Bathing
by Skald
Grass-stained knees and body glassy with sweat... summer- in Athens, Georgia.
Just finished a game of Ultimate Frisbee and was drenched and dirty. Hopped in the Nissan , with Athena, and drove to Ben Burton Park. Once there, grabbed a towel, a bottle of Dr. Bronner's soap, and a clean pair of shorts.
We bounded out of the car and strolled through the park- made our way to the wooded area in the back where the Broad River widens- shallow- over rocky shaols. Found a little cove off the trail and hopped onto the rocks-- to the middle of the river. Athena followed, then waded in and sat down-- a contented plop.
It was early evening so the worst of the heat was fading. Kicked off the flip-flops, took off my shirt, and walked into the water-- next to a large rock where I put my clean shorts, towel, tevas, and soap.
Sank down and sat on the river bottom- cool water rushed over me. What a sublime sweetness- The Broad flowing over burning-hot body... sighed forcefully.. took a look around. The River spread out in front of me-- a wide green vista... foam rushed over rocks, curled and swirled, bubbled and danced. In the distance a white heron sailed just above the current.... meandered lazily and settled on an outcropping.
No one in sight. I glanced at Athena- neck deep and, seemingly, lost in the same sublime reverie: cool flow... a slight breeze rustled in the trees... leaves tickled by the wind whispered in delight. Blue sky overhead..... sank deeper into brown water... up to my neck.... to chin... and then under.
Came up with a sputter and an exhilerated WOOP. Stood up, grabbed the soap, lathered from head to knees--- rubbed soap into my shorts as well... a bit of laundry accomplished at the same time. Stood with goosebumps and then plunged into the river again.. beat and splashed and scrubbed the soap away.
I felt clean--- much cleaner, in fact, than after a normal shower.... perhaps the natural surroundings... the beauty of the place.. or my freedom...provided for a deeper cleansing-- something more than skin deep. Pondered this thought and sat a while longer-- watched the heron tip-toe among the rocks... watched the water flow.. listened to the gurgling and spitting. Athena panted gently.
Stood up, climbed onto the rock, toweled off, and scanned for passersby. Saw no one, so off with the wet shorts and then hurriedly dried and slipped on a clean pair. Once dressed I wrung out the clothes and towel and bundled them together... slipped on the sandals.. and made my way back to the car- wet dog, a very happy wet dog, in tow.
This is how I bathed that summer: The simplest and most sublime pleasure of that first hobo experiment. And so, when I travelled in India a year later I was thrilled to see hordes of Indians bathing in rivers....
and it seemed to me that they- rather than we- had the right idea.
by Skald
Grass-stained knees and body glassy with sweat... summer- in Athens, Georgia.
Just finished a game of Ultimate Frisbee and was drenched and dirty. Hopped in the Nissan , with Athena, and drove to Ben Burton Park. Once there, grabbed a towel, a bottle of Dr. Bronner's soap, and a clean pair of shorts.
We bounded out of the car and strolled through the park- made our way to the wooded area in the back where the Broad River widens- shallow- over rocky shaols. Found a little cove off the trail and hopped onto the rocks-- to the middle of the river. Athena followed, then waded in and sat down-- a contented plop.
It was early evening so the worst of the heat was fading. Kicked off the flip-flops, took off my shirt, and walked into the water-- next to a large rock where I put my clean shorts, towel, tevas, and soap.
Sank down and sat on the river bottom- cool water rushed over me. What a sublime sweetness- The Broad flowing over burning-hot body... sighed forcefully.. took a look around. The River spread out in front of me-- a wide green vista... foam rushed over rocks, curled and swirled, bubbled and danced. In the distance a white heron sailed just above the current.... meandered lazily and settled on an outcropping.
No one in sight. I glanced at Athena- neck deep and, seemingly, lost in the same sublime reverie: cool flow... a slight breeze rustled in the trees... leaves tickled by the wind whispered in delight. Blue sky overhead..... sank deeper into brown water... up to my neck.... to chin... and then under.
Came up with a sputter and an exhilerated WOOP. Stood up, grabbed the soap, lathered from head to knees--- rubbed soap into my shorts as well... a bit of laundry accomplished at the same time. Stood with goosebumps and then plunged into the river again.. beat and splashed and scrubbed the soap away.
I felt clean--- much cleaner, in fact, than after a normal shower.... perhaps the natural surroundings... the beauty of the place.. or my freedom...provided for a deeper cleansing-- something more than skin deep. Pondered this thought and sat a while longer-- watched the heron tip-toe among the rocks... watched the water flow.. listened to the gurgling and spitting. Athena panted gently.
Stood up, climbed onto the rock, toweled off, and scanned for passersby. Saw no one, so off with the wet shorts and then hurriedly dried and slipped on a clean pair. Once dressed I wrung out the clothes and towel and bundled them together... slipped on the sandals.. and made my way back to the car- wet dog, a very happy wet dog, in tow.
This is how I bathed that summer: The simplest and most sublime pleasure of that first hobo experiment. And so, when I travelled in India a year later I was thrilled to see hordes of Indians bathing in rivers....
and it seemed to me that they- rather than we- had the right idea.
Take the Leap
by Skald
Imagine what may be possible---
what may be crouching in that long dark alley--- the one not on the map.... where the shuck and jive of the tourist-trade gives way to blank stares... eyes squinting from shuttered windows... the smell of cardamon and hashish...
A hidden shrine, bathed in blood...
annointed with homemade bread, rotting fruit, and a swarm of flies...
Circled by a jangling procession....
a preambulation...
an invitation....
a blessing.
What might await beyond the pages of the books:
brushes with death? unexpected satoris? strange visions? lifelong friends? disappointments? violence? reverie?
Sitting here, reading this, you'll never know.
Debating, insulting, agreeing, defining, arguing, admiring... you'll never know.
Safe, comfortable, confident-- you'll never know.
by Skald
Imagine what may be possible---
what may be crouching in that long dark alley--- the one not on the map.... where the shuck and jive of the tourist-trade gives way to blank stares... eyes squinting from shuttered windows... the smell of cardamon and hashish...
A hidden shrine, bathed in blood...
annointed with homemade bread, rotting fruit, and a swarm of flies...
Circled by a jangling procession....
a preambulation...
an invitation....
a blessing.
What might await beyond the pages of the books:
brushes with death? unexpected satoris? strange visions? lifelong friends? disappointments? violence? reverie?
Sitting here, reading this, you'll never know.
Debating, insulting, agreeing, defining, arguing, admiring... you'll never know.
Safe, comfortable, confident-- you'll never know.
Monday, June 23, 2003
What is a Hobo?
pirated from CyberHobo
A Quick Definition is:
A Hobo is a person that travels to work
A Tramp is a person that travels and wont work
A Bum is a person that will neither travel or work
The name "Hobo" first started appearing in the 1800's, one book says 1864. A Hobo is an independent and resourceful person who travels around for work. Most people look at the hobos. homeless and tramps, as being the same. That's like saying a Harley and Kawasaki are the same, they are both motorcycles or a BMW and a Yugo are the same!, hopefully you get the picture. A Hobo is a person who travels to work, but due to circumstance and/or desire is not tied to a permanent job or trade. They do what a lot of us wish we could do.
Jefferson Davis, who is believed to have once reigned as King of American Hobos, made his own distinction... "The hobo," he said, "does not believe that society owes him a living, but he does believe that society owes him a chance to care for himself..."
Well a CyberHobo is similar except in modern society instead of trains we have computers and the internet. Since 1992 CyberHobo's travel to work but use the Internet and computers as a trade. Being that trains are more scarce these day we don't always hop a train for transportation. We can travel and develop website while in journey to our new destinations, just as our brothers before us carved their famous "Hobo Nickels" for lodging or food. The work is different but the longing for the road is the same. We are just a much a Hobo's in our hearts as any has ever been.
The New Definition is:
A Hobo is a person that travels to work
A Homeless Person is a person who is at the moment is without a home, and it's not by choice!
A Tramp is a person that travels and won't work - they'd rather beg!
A Bum is still a bum... a person that will neither travel or work.
pirated from CyberHobo
A Quick Definition is:
A Hobo is a person that travels to work
A Tramp is a person that travels and wont work
A Bum is a person that will neither travel or work
The name "Hobo" first started appearing in the 1800's, one book says 1864. A Hobo is an independent and resourceful person who travels around for work. Most people look at the hobos. homeless and tramps, as being the same. That's like saying a Harley and Kawasaki are the same, they are both motorcycles or a BMW and a Yugo are the same!, hopefully you get the picture. A Hobo is a person who travels to work, but due to circumstance and/or desire is not tied to a permanent job or trade. They do what a lot of us wish we could do.
Jefferson Davis, who is believed to have once reigned as King of American Hobos, made his own distinction... "The hobo," he said, "does not believe that society owes him a living, but he does believe that society owes him a chance to care for himself..."
Well a CyberHobo is similar except in modern society instead of trains we have computers and the internet. Since 1992 CyberHobo's travel to work but use the Internet and computers as a trade. Being that trains are more scarce these day we don't always hop a train for transportation. We can travel and develop website while in journey to our new destinations, just as our brothers before us carved their famous "Hobo Nickels" for lodging or food. The work is different but the longing for the road is the same. We are just a much a Hobo's in our hearts as any has ever been.
The New Definition is:
A Hobo is a person that travels to work
A Homeless Person is a person who is at the moment is without a home, and it's not by choice!
A Tramp is a person that travels and won't work - they'd rather beg!
A Bum is still a bum... a person that will neither travel or work.
The Hobo's Boxcar
By Jon Stone
"The hobo's knowledge of the world is restricted by his lack of a television set, a radio, a daily newspaper. Consequently, he has much less to worry about. "
"Most people define themselves by the money they have; the hobo defines himself by the miles he's traveled. "
"All 'boes are different, all are alike - like the rest of humanity. "
By Jon Stone
"The hobo's knowledge of the world is restricted by his lack of a television set, a radio, a daily newspaper. Consequently, he has much less to worry about. "
"Most people define themselves by the money they have; the hobo defines himself by the miles he's traveled. "
"All 'boes are different, all are alike - like the rest of humanity. "
Sunday, June 22, 2003
Code of the Open Road
As inscribed in the Annual Convention Congress of the Hoboes of America held on August 8, 1894 at the Hotel Alden, 917 Market St., Chicago Illinois;
1.-Decide your own life, don't let another person run or rule you.
2.-When in town, always respect the local law and officials, and try to be a gentleman at all times.
3.-Don't take advantage of someone who is in a vulnerable situation, locals or other hobos.
4.-Always try to find work, even if temporary, and always seek out jobs nobody wants. By doing so you not only help a business along, but insure employment should you return to that town again.
5.-When no employment is available, make your own work by using your added talents at crafts.
6.-Do not allow yourself to become a stupid drunk and set a bad example for locals treatment of other hobos.
7.-When jungling in town, respect handouts, do not wear them out, another hobo will be coming along who will need them as bad, if not worse than you.
8.-Always respect nature, do not leave garbage where you are jungling.
9.-If in a community jungle, always pitch in and help.
10.-Try to stay clean, and boil up wherever possible.
11.-When traveling, ride your train respectfully, take no personal chances, cause no problems with the operating crew or host railroad, act like an extra crew member.
12.-Do not cause problems in a train yard, Another hobo will be coming along who will need passage thru that yard.
13.-Do not allow other hobos to molest children, expose to authorities all molesters, they are the worst garbage to infest any society.
14.-Help all runaway children, and try to induce them to return home.
15.-Help your fellow hobos whenever and wherever needed, you may need their help someday.
16.-If present at a hobo court and you have testimony, give it, whether for or against the accused, your voice counts!
Whatís the appeal of Hobo Life?
pirated from The Texas Madman, Grand Duke of Hobos
So what appeal to this kind of life is there really?, to the neo-phyte, imagine a way of life where you are not bound by time schedules, home owner bill, job expectations, the IRS, you can live where you want, sleep where you want, travel wherever you want as long as itsí in the continental US and Canada. Never pay a travel fare unless you want to, never pay rent, electric, gas, water, or cable bills, never pay taxes, and see places in the US and Canada others only see in the movies, or in a magazine. Sound like the
lifestyle of Bill Gates, or Donald Trump?, well hundreds of folks live that kind of life every day, in fact that kind of life/culture has been going on since just after Americasí Civil War. A lifestyle/culture so sweet, so addictive, so seductive, so intoxicating, that those of us who retire after 20, 30, even 40 years of are never really free of it. Because Lady Freedom has gotten too far in our blood to gotten rid of her completely. Freedom, complete freedom, and the ability to pursue that ultimate free life, and the vehicle to propel you ion such a quest, and a constitutionally base right to free movement.
As inscribed in the Annual Convention Congress of the Hoboes of America held on August 8, 1894 at the Hotel Alden, 917 Market St., Chicago Illinois;
1.-Decide your own life, don't let another person run or rule you.
2.-When in town, always respect the local law and officials, and try to be a gentleman at all times.
3.-Don't take advantage of someone who is in a vulnerable situation, locals or other hobos.
4.-Always try to find work, even if temporary, and always seek out jobs nobody wants. By doing so you not only help a business along, but insure employment should you return to that town again.
5.-When no employment is available, make your own work by using your added talents at crafts.
6.-Do not allow yourself to become a stupid drunk and set a bad example for locals treatment of other hobos.
7.-When jungling in town, respect handouts, do not wear them out, another hobo will be coming along who will need them as bad, if not worse than you.
8.-Always respect nature, do not leave garbage where you are jungling.
9.-If in a community jungle, always pitch in and help.
10.-Try to stay clean, and boil up wherever possible.
11.-When traveling, ride your train respectfully, take no personal chances, cause no problems with the operating crew or host railroad, act like an extra crew member.
12.-Do not cause problems in a train yard, Another hobo will be coming along who will need passage thru that yard.
13.-Do not allow other hobos to molest children, expose to authorities all molesters, they are the worst garbage to infest any society.
14.-Help all runaway children, and try to induce them to return home.
15.-Help your fellow hobos whenever and wherever needed, you may need their help someday.
16.-If present at a hobo court and you have testimony, give it, whether for or against the accused, your voice counts!
Whatís the appeal of Hobo Life?
pirated from The Texas Madman, Grand Duke of Hobos
So what appeal to this kind of life is there really?, to the neo-phyte, imagine a way of life where you are not bound by time schedules, home owner bill, job expectations, the IRS, you can live where you want, sleep where you want, travel wherever you want as long as itsí in the continental US and Canada. Never pay a travel fare unless you want to, never pay rent, electric, gas, water, or cable bills, never pay taxes, and see places in the US and Canada others only see in the movies, or in a magazine. Sound like the
lifestyle of Bill Gates, or Donald Trump?, well hundreds of folks live that kind of life every day, in fact that kind of life/culture has been going on since just after Americasí Civil War. A lifestyle/culture so sweet, so addictive, so seductive, so intoxicating, that those of us who retire after 20, 30, even 40 years of are never really free of it. Because Lady Freedom has gotten too far in our blood to gotten rid of her completely. Freedom, complete freedom, and the ability to pursue that ultimate free life, and the vehicle to propel you ion such a quest, and a constitutionally base right to free movement.
Friday, June 20, 2003
Dachau
by Jen T
It hasnt changed much since i last walked here numb, bewildered and unbearably alone sixteen years ago.
ghostly companions cannot ease anything
Funny though, I dont remember the jail block for special prisoners.
those tiny rooms with their fake heaters must have been a luxury
compared to the barracks built for 200 and holding smashed and oozing up to 2000 living skeltons
details and information abound
i could write horror upon horror and soon we would be immune
never again. why not write inevitably again?
Now we just incinerate without the torture, the slow death by starvation, the disease dripping down from top tier to middle to bottom
is this progress?
work is freedom
death is freedom
solitude is freedom
slavery is freedom.
Oh Orwell, how did you know?
Why wont we know?
Dachau, Aushwitz (no i cant spell), Bergen Belson...
In the rain, in the sun, in the fresh spring breeze
where we all speak in whispers and i know finality and deadly folly
and there are neither tears nor sorrow nor shame enough to wash this carnage away
by Jen T
It hasnt changed much since i last walked here numb, bewildered and unbearably alone sixteen years ago.
ghostly companions cannot ease anything
Funny though, I dont remember the jail block for special prisoners.
those tiny rooms with their fake heaters must have been a luxury
compared to the barracks built for 200 and holding smashed and oozing up to 2000 living skeltons
details and information abound
i could write horror upon horror and soon we would be immune
never again. why not write inevitably again?
Now we just incinerate without the torture, the slow death by starvation, the disease dripping down from top tier to middle to bottom
is this progress?
work is freedom
death is freedom
solitude is freedom
slavery is freedom.
Oh Orwell, how did you know?
Why wont we know?
Dachau, Aushwitz (no i cant spell), Bergen Belson...
In the rain, in the sun, in the fresh spring breeze
where we all speak in whispers and i know finality and deadly folly
and there are neither tears nor sorrow nor shame enough to wash this carnage away
Saturday, June 14, 2003
Swampiní it in Malaysia
An Educated Redneck Let Loose in Tasek Bera
by Matt Salleh
Every night when I lay my head down in the constructed comfort of my Kuala Lumpur apartment mysterious things happen outside. Tigers, tapir, mouse deer and cobras conduct their nightly rituals, invisible in the dense vegetation known as the Malaysian rainforest. Birds and bats flit about catching moths en route to chase the moon. Bird, bat and moth alike spread the germ of life from stamen to pistil. So it occurs, witnessed by few human eyes and largely unheeded in human thought, an endless cycle, night after night.
The events of the natural world take place without our permission and most often without our knowledge. We have to make special efforts to get out of our cities and into forests to witness these things. Malaysia offers an abundance of opportunities to visit wild places and see things that few have seen. That is one of the reasons I came to live here, to witness the miracles firsthand, to see local flora and fauna act out their daily dramas.
Tropical rainforests, coral reefs, mountains, wetlands, rivers, lakes and caves comprise the physical geography of Malaysia, one of the 10 most biologically diverse areas in the world. Each ecosystem is important and unique in its life sustaining capabilities. Each one should be experienced intimately in the deepest sense by every one of us if we are to truly appreciate the profound importance and mesmerizing beauty they effortlessly possess.
My passport tells me I am a foreigner in this country. My heart tells me otherwise. Deep inside I know I am a citizen of the world. Consequently, itís important to me to feel as at home in the rainforests of South East Asia as I do in the piedmont plateau of Georgia, USA. Wherever I go, I consider home. I belong here as much as I belong in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains or the backwoods of the Okeefenokee Swamp. As a citizen of the Earth, the places of natural beauty in Malaysia are in my care. So I go out seeking, reconnoitring for adventures of experience to reinforce my sense of stewardship. Today will find my friend Badrul and I in a wetland a few hours outside Kuala Lumpur.
I met Badrul a couple of months previous during a snorkelling trip off the island of Pulau Lalang. The trip was organized by the Malaysian Nature Society, which I had recently joined. While relaxing and eating, between the rise and fall of the tides, we chatted about our mutual interests. It was then he invited me to accompany him to a remote place in Malaysia where he was to begin work on an eco-tourism project. He spoke of native people living in traditional houses, mysterious wetlands and exotic wildlife. I was intrigued. He didnít have to ask twice!
We met around 8 a.m. at a Petronas station in Sri Hartamas and made a short visit to his office before we hit the road. Badrul works for Wetlands International, a team of folks working to conserve wetlands in various countries around the world. His office is typical of those dedicated to the preservation of natural places. Decorated with posters of fish and plants on the walls, it exudes a more casual feel than offices dedicated to business. Iíve been in many such offices, even entire buildings dedicated to ecological research, but I still havenít gotten over the irony of buildings with air conditioned offices full of computers and fantastic technologies dedicated to conserving things outside.
Shortly, we were on the road to Tasek Bera, Malaysiaís only protected wetlands and home to the Orang Asli Semelai, an indigenous people who have lived around the swamp for nearly 600 years. The trip held promises of adventure, exotic plants and animals as well as conversations with Semelai people.
Tasek Bera is a slow moving, alluvial black-water swamp in the state of Pahang, a few hours southeast of Kuala Lumpur (KL). Flowing northward through a wide channel at an almost imperceptible rate it eventually joins the River Pahang and empties into the South China Sea. The wetland encompasses 25km x 35 km. Its sheer size makes it an important asset to Malaysia. The people that live there and their way of life are disappearing as modern society encroaches upon their world.
We bounced down the highway in a squeaky Mitsubishi Pajero through small town Malaysia. The sights and sounds were tantalizing. The pungent odor of fish-head curry simmering in a street stall and cili padi frying in a blackened wok blanketed the streets and flooded our vehicle. The diversity of people hobbling around chaotically buying the wide array of colorful products on the streets awakened my senses.
As we drove, Badrul and I chatted about world affairs and how people could become ìcitizens of the worldî ignoring race, nationality, politics, and religion in terms of relating to each other and focus on the fact that we are all human with human needs. We decided humans have more in common than different.
Around noon we stopped at a roadside stall for lunch. We ordered nasi goreng pattaya and limau ais to take away. We didnít linger to eat. Tasek Bera was within spittiní distance. The swamp was calling us.
We stopped in Pos Iskandar, a tiny settlement drowning in a sea of palm oil and rubber plantations, a stark contrast to the riparian flora of Tasek Bera. When we arrived, Badrul introduced me to our guides Yohanif and Rashim. They were short, lanky, and were clad in deep brown skin. They exuded backwoods experience. My first impressions were that they knew what they were doing and I could trust them to lead me into the swamp. Large smiles plastered their faces. They were eager to show us around and share their knowledge. Theyíd lived on the banks of Tasek Bera most of their lives. They knew this place. To them it was not an exotic locale; it was home.
Pos Iskandar is home to the Orang Asli ìofficeî for eco-tourism. The office itself is a fusion of traditional construction methods and modern materials. A tin roof rests on thin plywood walls. A traditional woven mat blankets the floor. With four rooms: a kitchen, bedroom, toilet and main living room, itís small, no bigger than 500 square feet. A perfectly efficient design. It reminded me of cabins I had seen in the mountains of north Georgia. Not really an ìofficeî by modern standards with only a crude desk marred with candle wax, a half painted chair, and a computer screen for which Badrul brought the rest of the hardware from home, the place is cozy. It is aptly described as the cradle for the Orang Asliís newborn eco-tourism project. I felt at ease.
After we swallowed our lunch, Badrul and I were itchiní to get to the swamp. Yohanif handed us our paddles and we carried them down to meet the canoe. We followed a freshly cut dirt trail and I noticed a little girl sitting near shore. I guessed her to be about eight years old. She was working on something of utmost importance. A large parang dangled from her side, at least half as long as she was. I thought it necessary to learn how to use such a knife at an early age if you live near the swamp. I wondered what else she might know that I had yet to learn in my 32 years of existence. She focused on her project to the extent that we walked by unnoticed.
Already, I could tell I was gonna learn heaps from these fellas. My thoughts were confirmed when I saw the canoe. A 12-foot tree had been hollowed using fire and adze and carved to a point on both ends a little wider than my hips. It reminded me of a blade of grass.
The paddles were a treat as sweet. They measured an arms length and 2-hand widths with sharp tips. Their detail exceeded that of the canoe with intricate designs engraved on the body. The handle fit neatly into the palm of my hand with indentations for the fingers. I suddenly realized I was holding six hundred years of ergonomic design evolved in the swamps of Malaysia. I was elated.
Back home in the States I had been a canoe instructor for several summers. I taught teens how to paddle flat water on Lake Chapman in Athens, Georgia. Once in a while we ventured into the realm of kayaking. I was familiar with watercraft, but this canoe was a different animal.
The canoe itself sat less than an inch above the water when loaded, at least partially due to the fact that they werenít built for the likes of me. In general, Orang Asli are much smaller in stature than I. Most of them rise to my shoulders when standing side by side. I am not large by U.S. standards at five foot ten inches. I hoped I could demonstrate a modicum of competence and not appear as a total dummy to Yohanif.
We pushed off and floated out. Yohanif guided us on the canoe trip while Rashim departed and returned up the bank.
A few basket-like fish traps floated near the surface with lines dangling in the water. Obviously, the Semelai use the swamp for food and fishing is one of the main sources.
We paddled upstream towards a kampung Badrul wanted to show me. Tasek Bera has a very mild current that flows ever so slowly and gives minimal resistance. Even so, it had been months since I had paddled and I could feel the demands on my shoulders and back.
The canoe trail was severely overgrown. In some parts we had to lie down in the canoe so we could pass under fallen logs.
As we paddled we passed impressive stands of pandanu whose sturdy leaves reminded me of yucca. They were pointed and thorny on the edge. More than once I was jabbed by a pandanu leaf in the shoulder or leg as we drifted near shore or crossed under the overgrown canoe trail. Later I learned that pandanu is an important plant for the Orang Asli. I recalled seeing a pandanu mat on the floor of the eco-tourism office.
Not only is pandanu important to the Orang Asli, but is also an ecologically important species at Tasek Bera. It co-dominates the landscape with sedge known as Lepironia. Turtles and fish breed within the maze of pandanu and Lepironia roots safely hidden away from most predators. Birds and insects nest in the upper branches of pandanu. Both species provide camouflage for predators and prey such as water monitors and mouse deer. A complex web of life has developed in the swamp based around the pandanu and Lepironia. The Semelai are part of the web as they depend on the swamp for their livelihood.
As we floated, my mind drifted around thoughts of the complexity of ecosystems, the delicate balance of life in the world and the subtle beauty surrounding me.
Shortly, Badrul told me the kampung, a Semelai village, was nearby.
As we rounded a corner we encountered a tree that had fallen across the stream. It was too low for us to go under. The water was too deep and the banks too overgrown to portage the canoe. We made our way to the tangled mass of weeds, pandanu and tree trunk. In succession, we each perched precariously on the prostrate tree and slid delicately back down as the canoe passed underneath. Any slight movement in the wrong direction would mean a flipped vessel. I had to be extremely careful. I figured a wet mat salleh ainít a pretty picture and I didnít want to find out.
Badrul went first with no complications. I was next. Yohanif, of course, hopped over like a civet leaping after prey. Success! We smiled as we paddled away and continued upstream another 50 meters. I figured I had proven my worth to Yohanif. Something he never asked for and probably never thought of although it was of utmost importance to my male ego.
You can imagine our dismay when we saw another log in the same position squatting lower in the water with more tangled mess and fewer places to step over! We crossed again, with more confidence, one such obstacle already conquered.
We landed on shore and sauntered up a dirt road towards the kampung. As we approached I could see traditional houses with motorcycle parts strewn about the yard. Having grown up in semi-rural Georgia, I was used to seeing car parts in the yard. I immediately felt at home.
A wiry old man with beautiful bronze skin greeted us. Badrul spoke in Bahasa Malaysia and the man smiled, baring his teeth. Most were missing and the few dangling in his mouth were stained red.
He welcomed us into his home. A young woman began preparing coffee in the house while the men walked around the yard.
A homemade musical instrument, a gambang, stuck upright from the ground. It looked somewhat like a xylophone permanently held in place by the soil. Short wooden stobs poked out of the ground with string pulled taught between them. In between each stob were pieces of wood of varying lengths arranged from shortest to longest from left to right. The man picked up what looked like a xylophone mallet and lightly tapped the suspended pieces of wood. A beautiful sound resonated from the gambang. His bronze body convulsed like James Brown as he played a little tune. He proceeded to pick up 2 hollow pieces of bamboo and tap them on a stump. They resonated with a warm hollow percussive sound.
How sounds of different pitch and volume entrance us is a mystery I do not claim to understand. I am only a lucky witness to the miracle. Itís innate. We identify with it. Just as we need food as nourishment for our bodies, we need music as sustenance for our souls. Perhaps, deep within us lies a connection to the natural rhythms and cycles of the Earth. The ebb and tide of cycles constantly rising up and down, like a lung inflating and collapsing, seem to be embedded within our collective unconscious. Maybe that rhythm flows through our veins and music reminds us of our connection to the world in which we sometimes forget we are immersed. If we listen, if we remain silent long enough, we feel those cycles and become captured by the pulse of the Earth. It is grand indeed! We are part of the music. We are part of the magical orchestra of creation. So few of us know it and even fewer of us slow down long enough to truly connect. Being outdoors surrounded by wildness gently reminds us of the feeling of peace and belonging we often loose touch with.
Our host gave a brief speech about Semelai music, none of which I understood but listened intently the same. It was a treat to hear the melody coming from the instruments of the Earth. I imagined a whole chorus of instruments singing and twanging through the humid forest air during a ceremony or celebration. That would be the feast of which I had only been afforded a taste.
Yohanif, standing off to the side, picked up a stick about 10 feet long with a trident of metal secured to the tip. Badrul informed me it was a spear for fishing. I had imagined such. It looked like a frog gig I had possessed as a child. I had bought mine at K-Mart in the fishing section and dreamed of spearing fish with it. I never learned to use it properly but had imagined its use. Like so many things from childhood my frog gig disappeared into a void during a move from house to house. Or perhaps, I lost it out in the yard buried in the soil by now, an artefact to be discovered by a future archaeologist. Even so, the fact that I had owned one connected to me to the Orang Asli kampung further. I was at home and could feel it.
He used the trident to knock down a few round green nuts from a tree that was leaning like a red faced Englishman. About ten or twelve dropped quickly to the ground and rolled around like weebles wobbling. He quickly gathered them up.
A light rain darkened its attitude and pushed us to shelter. As the water pissed down like it was poured from a boot, the girl served coffee. We sat cross-legged on the porch while she placed a jug and a platter of crackers in the center of our circle. She sat off to the side with an older lady, I presumed to be the mother. Neither said a total of three words during my stay. I could only catch occasional glimpses of their smiles and heads nodding, as I quickly glanced, not wanting to stare out of fear of appearing rude.
The men were talking about things of which I had no idea in Bahasa Malaysia. Once in a while, our host rolled a cigarette on dried leaf. He had two types of tobacco, a green type, which I was informed, was more traditional, and a dried brown type, more like the tobacco Iíd seen before. He rolled a cigarette with the green tobacco and offered it to me. I accepted. Iím not a smoker but I figured I would give it a shot. I pulled a Clinton and didnít inhale. The flavor was surprisingly mellow, not offensive at all, even to a non-smoker.
Once in a while, one of the other men would take a pair of wire-cutter-like pliers and cut sections from the nuts that had just been harvested. He would take the nut and wrap it in a leaf and chew on it. I finally recognized it as betel nut, which I had been fortunate enough to try at a Malay wedding. I had told Badrul about that experience on our drive to Pos Iskandar. He informed the guys that I would like a taste. They smiled as the old man cut off a bit and wrapped it in leaf. Everyone, including the women, watched intensively as I popped it into my mouth and chewed for a while. The taste was very bitter, rich in tannins. A mild tingling effect hit my tongue and throat as I swallowed. Chewing betel nut is something they do regularly here, especially with a tree 10 feet away. Which explains the missing and red stained teeth on many of the people. It wasnít the most pleasant taste I had ever had, but it also wasnít the worst. The physical effects were mild and not especially intoxicating. But a different sort of euphoria was taking hold. I was sitting on the porch in an Orang Asli kampung, drinking coffee, smoking hand rolled cigarettes on dried leaf, and chewing betel nut after paddling through a swamp in a hand carved canoe. I knew it was the stuff of dreams and I was living it! I was exhilarated, excited, and thankful to be living this life.
When locals ask me to try something new they are usually delighted and surprised when I accept. Itís fun and works to my advantage, meaning that I am readily and quickly accepted. Chewing betel nut was one of those experiences.
Many travellers, especially Americans, have the reputation of staying within a realm of ìsafetyî and comfort when travelling abroad. Often, Iíve witnessed Americans go to foreign countries only to eat at American food chains and stay in American hotel chains, getting rude and angry when things are different in a foreign place. What are they thinking?
As we chewed our betel nut and drank our coffee, one of the men displayed hand carved replicas of the canoe I had just paddled. It was in their plan to sell handicrafts as part of their eco-tourism venture. They were as exquisite and detailed as the real thing, beautifully simple. I bought two of them.
The rain subsided and Badrul, Yohanif and I reluctantly found our way back to the canoe. They informed me of plans to erect camouflage blinds and salt licks so tourists might see mouse deer or tapir if theyíre lucky and patient.
Night engulfed us as we paddled. The forest began to take on the mystical, eerie feeling that escorts twilight. The time of mysterious events when people see things they donít normally see was upon us. I felt my body slow down and settle into the magic as darkness crept in.
Yohanif whispered that two tigers had recently been spotted on the bank in the area through which we were paddling. That sent an electric sensation through my spine and put me on a cautious alert. I dreamed of spotting a tiger. Being in a place where you are no longer top carnivore can scare you out of your wits and send you running or put you in touch with a side of yourself that lies deep within your psyche, a place we modern folk rarely venture. It depends on your experiences and state of mind whether you flee at such moments or settle into the calm gentle waters of your mind, breathing deeply, thankful to be truly in touch with the experience of being alive.
After a silent float, we arrived at the rustic ìofficeî sad we hadnít seen a tiger. We collected a small pail and a bar of soap and went to a staircase that was built into the swamp where we proceeded to bathe.
For millennia people have bathed in rivers and lakes. Nowadays we hardly do at all. We prefer running, heated water in a safe sterile environment. Thereís something to be said for cleansing out in the open in a natural body of water. Water symbolizes the unconscious and by immersing yourself in it you are surrendering yourself to your fears, thereby making peace with them. I donít know about that, but I do know I somehow feel cleaner and my spirit feels freer when I submerge myself in a river and come up gasping for air after a good soaking. That night was no different. It felt good. I was more in touch with myself than I had been in ages. Those were the healing powers of nature that Badrul and I had come to experience and ultimately protect and conserve.
After our bath we walked up the hill to the office and changed into dry shorts. We hadnít eaten in quite a while, save a few crackers, and were famished. We possessed the kind of hunger you have after a good days physical labor, the kind that transcends your body and punches a hole in your stomach. We jumped in the squeaky Pajero and blazed down the dirt roads. I didnít know where we were going. About 20 minutes later, we pulled up to a house with a sign and a few tables and chairs. I guessed it to be a restaurant of sorts. They served nasi goreng, mee goreng, limau ais and milo ais. That was it, the totality of the menu. I ordered the mee and limau ais. Badrul ordered the nasi and milo.
A couple of minutes later the proprietor turned up the karaoke machine. Wait a minute!? The karaoke machine? We were sitting smack dab in the boon docks of Malaysia at a restaurant that only served two dishes and they had a karaoke machine? Not only that, but a damn fancy karaoke machine! It took a few minutes for that to register in my brain. I couldnít believe it, but it proved my point about music being sustenance for the soul, didnít it? Badrul said the music was Javanese. He disliked it greatly. It sounded a bit whiney to me, but what did I know? I was simply amazed that I was looking at a karaoke machine in the middle of hick-ville Malaysia. I would be less surprised to see an outdoor ice hockey rink in the Mojave Desert of Barstow, California.
Soon the restaurant was flooded with locals. Most of them walked up, a few rode in on scooters. I was the only mat salleh for miles, a novelty for sure. I was stared at, something Iíve gotten a little more used to since I moved to Malaysia. Itís not that I wasnít stared at before because of my super model looks, itís just that these were different kinds of stares.
The cook brought out fried tit-bits. I was anxious to give them a try. I didnít know what they were but I am certain that anytime you deep-fry something itís gonna be yummy. I wasnít wrong. There was a spicy dipping sauce on the side.
Turns out that the tit-bits were tapioca and the sauce was a chilli, garlic, soy-sauce. Man-o-man, I in heaven! I tossed down 2 slices before our food arrived and I had already finished my limau ais. I decided to do the unthinkable and order the other half of the drink menu, so I ordered milo ais. They asked me if I wanted my mee pedas and the vigorous shake of my head up and down inspired them to see how much the mat salleh could take. We both broke a sweat while eating. Meanwhile, the stares were not subsiding.
After we finished, we paid and saddled the squeaky Pajero, for yet another harrowing ride down a pothole-ridden road. Badrul drove at unthinkable speeds in the pitch-black Malaysian night while bird-sized moths flapped spastically in the headlights. As we pulled off, I mentioned that for the first time since I arrived in Malaysia I had felt uncomfortable. I had been stared at more than usual. He casually said ìOh, theyíre all Indonesians. They work here on the plantation.î
What?! No wonder. I was an American surrounded by Indonesians! Since the events of September 11th and the protests by Indonesians worldwide against America, I was leery and cautious. Right about now, I figured, theyíre plotting on how to rip my eyes out! Not really, but for a brief moment my CNN induced paranoia kicked in and made me feel like it. Despite the current state of affairs none of the Indonesians Iíve met harbor any ill feeling towards America or me. Theyíre just like the rest of us, trying to get by, earn a living and put food on the table. I never felt threatened at all. Now at least I knew why they were staring at me so curiously. They were wondering why Brad Pitt was eating at a restaurant in the middle of nowhere.
The next morning I awoke at daybreak as Badrul slept in. I didnít want to wake him so I sneaked out of the room. I boiled water and scraped one last spoonful of Nescafe from the jar. I was wide-awake with nowhere to go in the middle of a Malaysian wetland. It took a few minutes to come to terms with the fact that I had nowhere to go and nothing to do.
Itís amazing how we are so geared toward constantly busying ourselves that we have to make a conscious effort to slow down and live life as it comes.
I remembered my binoculars. I pulled them out and sat on the front porch to watch birds and sip coffee in the cool Malaysian morning. I was elated when a Racket-Tailed Drongo scooted by.
Shortly, Badrul awoke and we breakfasted on crackers and peanut butter. Hashim showed up an hour later and we followed him down to the staircase where we had bathed the night before. A motorboat was idling. We loaded up.
Today would reveal another part of the swamp. Badrul wanted to show me huts for eco-tourism because I was interested in bringing high school students down for a visit. On the way we discussed the possibility of refurbishing an old building at Pos Iskandar and converting it into a nature center. I was excited and honored to be a part of the plans for Tasek Bera.
We motored through the swamp gawking at lotus, lily, pandanu, and Lepironia. We managed to spot a cobra swimming curly-Q, parting water like Moses in its path. A giant catfish rolled in front of the boat prompting Hashim to spring forward, spear in hand, with a futile jab at the murky depths.
We toured the huts and talked of the endless possibilities Tasek Bera offers to students and tourists interested in the outdoors. The day was growing old and we still had a drive back to KL. We decided it was time to get back to Pos Iskandar and the squeaky Pajero. Barn swallows raced and dipped in front of the boat as we skimmed back to our vehicle. A raptor carved itís way through effervescent clouds high in the sky. It felt incredible to be out of the city where swallows, cobras, raptors and pandanu replaced taxis, sidewalks and skyscrapers.
Our tour lasted several hours in the direct sun and I was now the proud owner of lobster pink legs. Hashim noticed and giggled. He looked at his bronze thighs and with a few gestures we both laughed out loud.
We arrived back too quickly, exhilarated and energized as well as exhausted. A contrasting state of affairs only achieved if mind, body and spirit have all been engaged simultaneously and exercised to their fullest capacity.
Our adventure concluded with a lightning speed trip to K.L. As Badrul and I parted we decided that we would do it again sometime, sometime real soon.
An Educated Redneck Let Loose in Tasek Bera
by Matt Salleh
Every night when I lay my head down in the constructed comfort of my Kuala Lumpur apartment mysterious things happen outside. Tigers, tapir, mouse deer and cobras conduct their nightly rituals, invisible in the dense vegetation known as the Malaysian rainforest. Birds and bats flit about catching moths en route to chase the moon. Bird, bat and moth alike spread the germ of life from stamen to pistil. So it occurs, witnessed by few human eyes and largely unheeded in human thought, an endless cycle, night after night.
The events of the natural world take place without our permission and most often without our knowledge. We have to make special efforts to get out of our cities and into forests to witness these things. Malaysia offers an abundance of opportunities to visit wild places and see things that few have seen. That is one of the reasons I came to live here, to witness the miracles firsthand, to see local flora and fauna act out their daily dramas.
Tropical rainforests, coral reefs, mountains, wetlands, rivers, lakes and caves comprise the physical geography of Malaysia, one of the 10 most biologically diverse areas in the world. Each ecosystem is important and unique in its life sustaining capabilities. Each one should be experienced intimately in the deepest sense by every one of us if we are to truly appreciate the profound importance and mesmerizing beauty they effortlessly possess.
My passport tells me I am a foreigner in this country. My heart tells me otherwise. Deep inside I know I am a citizen of the world. Consequently, itís important to me to feel as at home in the rainforests of South East Asia as I do in the piedmont plateau of Georgia, USA. Wherever I go, I consider home. I belong here as much as I belong in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains or the backwoods of the Okeefenokee Swamp. As a citizen of the Earth, the places of natural beauty in Malaysia are in my care. So I go out seeking, reconnoitring for adventures of experience to reinforce my sense of stewardship. Today will find my friend Badrul and I in a wetland a few hours outside Kuala Lumpur.
I met Badrul a couple of months previous during a snorkelling trip off the island of Pulau Lalang. The trip was organized by the Malaysian Nature Society, which I had recently joined. While relaxing and eating, between the rise and fall of the tides, we chatted about our mutual interests. It was then he invited me to accompany him to a remote place in Malaysia where he was to begin work on an eco-tourism project. He spoke of native people living in traditional houses, mysterious wetlands and exotic wildlife. I was intrigued. He didnít have to ask twice!
We met around 8 a.m. at a Petronas station in Sri Hartamas and made a short visit to his office before we hit the road. Badrul works for Wetlands International, a team of folks working to conserve wetlands in various countries around the world. His office is typical of those dedicated to the preservation of natural places. Decorated with posters of fish and plants on the walls, it exudes a more casual feel than offices dedicated to business. Iíve been in many such offices, even entire buildings dedicated to ecological research, but I still havenít gotten over the irony of buildings with air conditioned offices full of computers and fantastic technologies dedicated to conserving things outside.
Shortly, we were on the road to Tasek Bera, Malaysiaís only protected wetlands and home to the Orang Asli Semelai, an indigenous people who have lived around the swamp for nearly 600 years. The trip held promises of adventure, exotic plants and animals as well as conversations with Semelai people.
Tasek Bera is a slow moving, alluvial black-water swamp in the state of Pahang, a few hours southeast of Kuala Lumpur (KL). Flowing northward through a wide channel at an almost imperceptible rate it eventually joins the River Pahang and empties into the South China Sea. The wetland encompasses 25km x 35 km. Its sheer size makes it an important asset to Malaysia. The people that live there and their way of life are disappearing as modern society encroaches upon their world.
We bounced down the highway in a squeaky Mitsubishi Pajero through small town Malaysia. The sights and sounds were tantalizing. The pungent odor of fish-head curry simmering in a street stall and cili padi frying in a blackened wok blanketed the streets and flooded our vehicle. The diversity of people hobbling around chaotically buying the wide array of colorful products on the streets awakened my senses.
As we drove, Badrul and I chatted about world affairs and how people could become ìcitizens of the worldî ignoring race, nationality, politics, and religion in terms of relating to each other and focus on the fact that we are all human with human needs. We decided humans have more in common than different.
Around noon we stopped at a roadside stall for lunch. We ordered nasi goreng pattaya and limau ais to take away. We didnít linger to eat. Tasek Bera was within spittiní distance. The swamp was calling us.
We stopped in Pos Iskandar, a tiny settlement drowning in a sea of palm oil and rubber plantations, a stark contrast to the riparian flora of Tasek Bera. When we arrived, Badrul introduced me to our guides Yohanif and Rashim. They were short, lanky, and were clad in deep brown skin. They exuded backwoods experience. My first impressions were that they knew what they were doing and I could trust them to lead me into the swamp. Large smiles plastered their faces. They were eager to show us around and share their knowledge. Theyíd lived on the banks of Tasek Bera most of their lives. They knew this place. To them it was not an exotic locale; it was home.
Pos Iskandar is home to the Orang Asli ìofficeî for eco-tourism. The office itself is a fusion of traditional construction methods and modern materials. A tin roof rests on thin plywood walls. A traditional woven mat blankets the floor. With four rooms: a kitchen, bedroom, toilet and main living room, itís small, no bigger than 500 square feet. A perfectly efficient design. It reminded me of cabins I had seen in the mountains of north Georgia. Not really an ìofficeî by modern standards with only a crude desk marred with candle wax, a half painted chair, and a computer screen for which Badrul brought the rest of the hardware from home, the place is cozy. It is aptly described as the cradle for the Orang Asliís newborn eco-tourism project. I felt at ease.
After we swallowed our lunch, Badrul and I were itchiní to get to the swamp. Yohanif handed us our paddles and we carried them down to meet the canoe. We followed a freshly cut dirt trail and I noticed a little girl sitting near shore. I guessed her to be about eight years old. She was working on something of utmost importance. A large parang dangled from her side, at least half as long as she was. I thought it necessary to learn how to use such a knife at an early age if you live near the swamp. I wondered what else she might know that I had yet to learn in my 32 years of existence. She focused on her project to the extent that we walked by unnoticed.
Already, I could tell I was gonna learn heaps from these fellas. My thoughts were confirmed when I saw the canoe. A 12-foot tree had been hollowed using fire and adze and carved to a point on both ends a little wider than my hips. It reminded me of a blade of grass.
The paddles were a treat as sweet. They measured an arms length and 2-hand widths with sharp tips. Their detail exceeded that of the canoe with intricate designs engraved on the body. The handle fit neatly into the palm of my hand with indentations for the fingers. I suddenly realized I was holding six hundred years of ergonomic design evolved in the swamps of Malaysia. I was elated.
Back home in the States I had been a canoe instructor for several summers. I taught teens how to paddle flat water on Lake Chapman in Athens, Georgia. Once in a while we ventured into the realm of kayaking. I was familiar with watercraft, but this canoe was a different animal.
The canoe itself sat less than an inch above the water when loaded, at least partially due to the fact that they werenít built for the likes of me. In general, Orang Asli are much smaller in stature than I. Most of them rise to my shoulders when standing side by side. I am not large by U.S. standards at five foot ten inches. I hoped I could demonstrate a modicum of competence and not appear as a total dummy to Yohanif.
We pushed off and floated out. Yohanif guided us on the canoe trip while Rashim departed and returned up the bank.
A few basket-like fish traps floated near the surface with lines dangling in the water. Obviously, the Semelai use the swamp for food and fishing is one of the main sources.
We paddled upstream towards a kampung Badrul wanted to show me. Tasek Bera has a very mild current that flows ever so slowly and gives minimal resistance. Even so, it had been months since I had paddled and I could feel the demands on my shoulders and back.
The canoe trail was severely overgrown. In some parts we had to lie down in the canoe so we could pass under fallen logs.
As we paddled we passed impressive stands of pandanu whose sturdy leaves reminded me of yucca. They were pointed and thorny on the edge. More than once I was jabbed by a pandanu leaf in the shoulder or leg as we drifted near shore or crossed under the overgrown canoe trail. Later I learned that pandanu is an important plant for the Orang Asli. I recalled seeing a pandanu mat on the floor of the eco-tourism office.
Not only is pandanu important to the Orang Asli, but is also an ecologically important species at Tasek Bera. It co-dominates the landscape with sedge known as Lepironia. Turtles and fish breed within the maze of pandanu and Lepironia roots safely hidden away from most predators. Birds and insects nest in the upper branches of pandanu. Both species provide camouflage for predators and prey such as water monitors and mouse deer. A complex web of life has developed in the swamp based around the pandanu and Lepironia. The Semelai are part of the web as they depend on the swamp for their livelihood.
As we floated, my mind drifted around thoughts of the complexity of ecosystems, the delicate balance of life in the world and the subtle beauty surrounding me.
Shortly, Badrul told me the kampung, a Semelai village, was nearby.
As we rounded a corner we encountered a tree that had fallen across the stream. It was too low for us to go under. The water was too deep and the banks too overgrown to portage the canoe. We made our way to the tangled mass of weeds, pandanu and tree trunk. In succession, we each perched precariously on the prostrate tree and slid delicately back down as the canoe passed underneath. Any slight movement in the wrong direction would mean a flipped vessel. I had to be extremely careful. I figured a wet mat salleh ainít a pretty picture and I didnít want to find out.
Badrul went first with no complications. I was next. Yohanif, of course, hopped over like a civet leaping after prey. Success! We smiled as we paddled away and continued upstream another 50 meters. I figured I had proven my worth to Yohanif. Something he never asked for and probably never thought of although it was of utmost importance to my male ego.
You can imagine our dismay when we saw another log in the same position squatting lower in the water with more tangled mess and fewer places to step over! We crossed again, with more confidence, one such obstacle already conquered.
We landed on shore and sauntered up a dirt road towards the kampung. As we approached I could see traditional houses with motorcycle parts strewn about the yard. Having grown up in semi-rural Georgia, I was used to seeing car parts in the yard. I immediately felt at home.
A wiry old man with beautiful bronze skin greeted us. Badrul spoke in Bahasa Malaysia and the man smiled, baring his teeth. Most were missing and the few dangling in his mouth were stained red.
He welcomed us into his home. A young woman began preparing coffee in the house while the men walked around the yard.
A homemade musical instrument, a gambang, stuck upright from the ground. It looked somewhat like a xylophone permanently held in place by the soil. Short wooden stobs poked out of the ground with string pulled taught between them. In between each stob were pieces of wood of varying lengths arranged from shortest to longest from left to right. The man picked up what looked like a xylophone mallet and lightly tapped the suspended pieces of wood. A beautiful sound resonated from the gambang. His bronze body convulsed like James Brown as he played a little tune. He proceeded to pick up 2 hollow pieces of bamboo and tap them on a stump. They resonated with a warm hollow percussive sound.
How sounds of different pitch and volume entrance us is a mystery I do not claim to understand. I am only a lucky witness to the miracle. Itís innate. We identify with it. Just as we need food as nourishment for our bodies, we need music as sustenance for our souls. Perhaps, deep within us lies a connection to the natural rhythms and cycles of the Earth. The ebb and tide of cycles constantly rising up and down, like a lung inflating and collapsing, seem to be embedded within our collective unconscious. Maybe that rhythm flows through our veins and music reminds us of our connection to the world in which we sometimes forget we are immersed. If we listen, if we remain silent long enough, we feel those cycles and become captured by the pulse of the Earth. It is grand indeed! We are part of the music. We are part of the magical orchestra of creation. So few of us know it and even fewer of us slow down long enough to truly connect. Being outdoors surrounded by wildness gently reminds us of the feeling of peace and belonging we often loose touch with.
Our host gave a brief speech about Semelai music, none of which I understood but listened intently the same. It was a treat to hear the melody coming from the instruments of the Earth. I imagined a whole chorus of instruments singing and twanging through the humid forest air during a ceremony or celebration. That would be the feast of which I had only been afforded a taste.
Yohanif, standing off to the side, picked up a stick about 10 feet long with a trident of metal secured to the tip. Badrul informed me it was a spear for fishing. I had imagined such. It looked like a frog gig I had possessed as a child. I had bought mine at K-Mart in the fishing section and dreamed of spearing fish with it. I never learned to use it properly but had imagined its use. Like so many things from childhood my frog gig disappeared into a void during a move from house to house. Or perhaps, I lost it out in the yard buried in the soil by now, an artefact to be discovered by a future archaeologist. Even so, the fact that I had owned one connected to me to the Orang Asli kampung further. I was at home and could feel it.
He used the trident to knock down a few round green nuts from a tree that was leaning like a red faced Englishman. About ten or twelve dropped quickly to the ground and rolled around like weebles wobbling. He quickly gathered them up.
A light rain darkened its attitude and pushed us to shelter. As the water pissed down like it was poured from a boot, the girl served coffee. We sat cross-legged on the porch while she placed a jug and a platter of crackers in the center of our circle. She sat off to the side with an older lady, I presumed to be the mother. Neither said a total of three words during my stay. I could only catch occasional glimpses of their smiles and heads nodding, as I quickly glanced, not wanting to stare out of fear of appearing rude.
The men were talking about things of which I had no idea in Bahasa Malaysia. Once in a while, our host rolled a cigarette on dried leaf. He had two types of tobacco, a green type, which I was informed, was more traditional, and a dried brown type, more like the tobacco Iíd seen before. He rolled a cigarette with the green tobacco and offered it to me. I accepted. Iím not a smoker but I figured I would give it a shot. I pulled a Clinton and didnít inhale. The flavor was surprisingly mellow, not offensive at all, even to a non-smoker.
Once in a while, one of the other men would take a pair of wire-cutter-like pliers and cut sections from the nuts that had just been harvested. He would take the nut and wrap it in a leaf and chew on it. I finally recognized it as betel nut, which I had been fortunate enough to try at a Malay wedding. I had told Badrul about that experience on our drive to Pos Iskandar. He informed the guys that I would like a taste. They smiled as the old man cut off a bit and wrapped it in leaf. Everyone, including the women, watched intensively as I popped it into my mouth and chewed for a while. The taste was very bitter, rich in tannins. A mild tingling effect hit my tongue and throat as I swallowed. Chewing betel nut is something they do regularly here, especially with a tree 10 feet away. Which explains the missing and red stained teeth on many of the people. It wasnít the most pleasant taste I had ever had, but it also wasnít the worst. The physical effects were mild and not especially intoxicating. But a different sort of euphoria was taking hold. I was sitting on the porch in an Orang Asli kampung, drinking coffee, smoking hand rolled cigarettes on dried leaf, and chewing betel nut after paddling through a swamp in a hand carved canoe. I knew it was the stuff of dreams and I was living it! I was exhilarated, excited, and thankful to be living this life.
When locals ask me to try something new they are usually delighted and surprised when I accept. Itís fun and works to my advantage, meaning that I am readily and quickly accepted. Chewing betel nut was one of those experiences.
Many travellers, especially Americans, have the reputation of staying within a realm of ìsafetyî and comfort when travelling abroad. Often, Iíve witnessed Americans go to foreign countries only to eat at American food chains and stay in American hotel chains, getting rude and angry when things are different in a foreign place. What are they thinking?
As we chewed our betel nut and drank our coffee, one of the men displayed hand carved replicas of the canoe I had just paddled. It was in their plan to sell handicrafts as part of their eco-tourism venture. They were as exquisite and detailed as the real thing, beautifully simple. I bought two of them.
The rain subsided and Badrul, Yohanif and I reluctantly found our way back to the canoe. They informed me of plans to erect camouflage blinds and salt licks so tourists might see mouse deer or tapir if theyíre lucky and patient.
Night engulfed us as we paddled. The forest began to take on the mystical, eerie feeling that escorts twilight. The time of mysterious events when people see things they donít normally see was upon us. I felt my body slow down and settle into the magic as darkness crept in.
Yohanif whispered that two tigers had recently been spotted on the bank in the area through which we were paddling. That sent an electric sensation through my spine and put me on a cautious alert. I dreamed of spotting a tiger. Being in a place where you are no longer top carnivore can scare you out of your wits and send you running or put you in touch with a side of yourself that lies deep within your psyche, a place we modern folk rarely venture. It depends on your experiences and state of mind whether you flee at such moments or settle into the calm gentle waters of your mind, breathing deeply, thankful to be truly in touch with the experience of being alive.
After a silent float, we arrived at the rustic ìofficeî sad we hadnít seen a tiger. We collected a small pail and a bar of soap and went to a staircase that was built into the swamp where we proceeded to bathe.
For millennia people have bathed in rivers and lakes. Nowadays we hardly do at all. We prefer running, heated water in a safe sterile environment. Thereís something to be said for cleansing out in the open in a natural body of water. Water symbolizes the unconscious and by immersing yourself in it you are surrendering yourself to your fears, thereby making peace with them. I donít know about that, but I do know I somehow feel cleaner and my spirit feels freer when I submerge myself in a river and come up gasping for air after a good soaking. That night was no different. It felt good. I was more in touch with myself than I had been in ages. Those were the healing powers of nature that Badrul and I had come to experience and ultimately protect and conserve.
After our bath we walked up the hill to the office and changed into dry shorts. We hadnít eaten in quite a while, save a few crackers, and were famished. We possessed the kind of hunger you have after a good days physical labor, the kind that transcends your body and punches a hole in your stomach. We jumped in the squeaky Pajero and blazed down the dirt roads. I didnít know where we were going. About 20 minutes later, we pulled up to a house with a sign and a few tables and chairs. I guessed it to be a restaurant of sorts. They served nasi goreng, mee goreng, limau ais and milo ais. That was it, the totality of the menu. I ordered the mee and limau ais. Badrul ordered the nasi and milo.
A couple of minutes later the proprietor turned up the karaoke machine. Wait a minute!? The karaoke machine? We were sitting smack dab in the boon docks of Malaysia at a restaurant that only served two dishes and they had a karaoke machine? Not only that, but a damn fancy karaoke machine! It took a few minutes for that to register in my brain. I couldnít believe it, but it proved my point about music being sustenance for the soul, didnít it? Badrul said the music was Javanese. He disliked it greatly. It sounded a bit whiney to me, but what did I know? I was simply amazed that I was looking at a karaoke machine in the middle of hick-ville Malaysia. I would be less surprised to see an outdoor ice hockey rink in the Mojave Desert of Barstow, California.
Soon the restaurant was flooded with locals. Most of them walked up, a few rode in on scooters. I was the only mat salleh for miles, a novelty for sure. I was stared at, something Iíve gotten a little more used to since I moved to Malaysia. Itís not that I wasnít stared at before because of my super model looks, itís just that these were different kinds of stares.
The cook brought out fried tit-bits. I was anxious to give them a try. I didnít know what they were but I am certain that anytime you deep-fry something itís gonna be yummy. I wasnít wrong. There was a spicy dipping sauce on the side.
Turns out that the tit-bits were tapioca and the sauce was a chilli, garlic, soy-sauce. Man-o-man, I in heaven! I tossed down 2 slices before our food arrived and I had already finished my limau ais. I decided to do the unthinkable and order the other half of the drink menu, so I ordered milo ais. They asked me if I wanted my mee pedas and the vigorous shake of my head up and down inspired them to see how much the mat salleh could take. We both broke a sweat while eating. Meanwhile, the stares were not subsiding.
After we finished, we paid and saddled the squeaky Pajero, for yet another harrowing ride down a pothole-ridden road. Badrul drove at unthinkable speeds in the pitch-black Malaysian night while bird-sized moths flapped spastically in the headlights. As we pulled off, I mentioned that for the first time since I arrived in Malaysia I had felt uncomfortable. I had been stared at more than usual. He casually said ìOh, theyíre all Indonesians. They work here on the plantation.î
What?! No wonder. I was an American surrounded by Indonesians! Since the events of September 11th and the protests by Indonesians worldwide against America, I was leery and cautious. Right about now, I figured, theyíre plotting on how to rip my eyes out! Not really, but for a brief moment my CNN induced paranoia kicked in and made me feel like it. Despite the current state of affairs none of the Indonesians Iíve met harbor any ill feeling towards America or me. Theyíre just like the rest of us, trying to get by, earn a living and put food on the table. I never felt threatened at all. Now at least I knew why they were staring at me so curiously. They were wondering why Brad Pitt was eating at a restaurant in the middle of nowhere.
The next morning I awoke at daybreak as Badrul slept in. I didnít want to wake him so I sneaked out of the room. I boiled water and scraped one last spoonful of Nescafe from the jar. I was wide-awake with nowhere to go in the middle of a Malaysian wetland. It took a few minutes to come to terms with the fact that I had nowhere to go and nothing to do.
Itís amazing how we are so geared toward constantly busying ourselves that we have to make a conscious effort to slow down and live life as it comes.
I remembered my binoculars. I pulled them out and sat on the front porch to watch birds and sip coffee in the cool Malaysian morning. I was elated when a Racket-Tailed Drongo scooted by.
Shortly, Badrul awoke and we breakfasted on crackers and peanut butter. Hashim showed up an hour later and we followed him down to the staircase where we had bathed the night before. A motorboat was idling. We loaded up.
Today would reveal another part of the swamp. Badrul wanted to show me huts for eco-tourism because I was interested in bringing high school students down for a visit. On the way we discussed the possibility of refurbishing an old building at Pos Iskandar and converting it into a nature center. I was excited and honored to be a part of the plans for Tasek Bera.
We motored through the swamp gawking at lotus, lily, pandanu, and Lepironia. We managed to spot a cobra swimming curly-Q, parting water like Moses in its path. A giant catfish rolled in front of the boat prompting Hashim to spring forward, spear in hand, with a futile jab at the murky depths.
We toured the huts and talked of the endless possibilities Tasek Bera offers to students and tourists interested in the outdoors. The day was growing old and we still had a drive back to KL. We decided it was time to get back to Pos Iskandar and the squeaky Pajero. Barn swallows raced and dipped in front of the boat as we skimmed back to our vehicle. A raptor carved itís way through effervescent clouds high in the sky. It felt incredible to be out of the city where swallows, cobras, raptors and pandanu replaced taxis, sidewalks and skyscrapers.
Our tour lasted several hours in the direct sun and I was now the proud owner of lobster pink legs. Hashim noticed and giggled. He looked at his bronze thighs and with a few gestures we both laughed out loud.
We arrived back too quickly, exhilarated and energized as well as exhausted. A contrasting state of affairs only achieved if mind, body and spirit have all been engaged simultaneously and exercised to their fullest capacity.
Our adventure concluded with a lightning speed trip to K.L. As Badrul and I parted we decided that we would do it again sometime, sometime real soon.
Friday, June 13, 2003
In Malaysia at the Start of the War
by Matt Salleh
The day was a bit weird. It started off OK.. We've been writing and practicing a puppet show about sea turtle nesting in my 1st grade ESL class.
About noon we got word that the war had started.
During my recess duty I scanned the rooftops and windows of nearby apartments. Halfway expecting a sniper. Paranoid, I know... but everyone is a little tense.
Guards patrolled recess.. where there were none before. Our last staff meeting dealt with security issues and our response to potential media.
A jet buzzed our school somewhere in there... oiling the wings, fleexing their muscles? Who knows.. it was unnerving.
You can imagine the thoughts in my head..
The day was normal aside from that. But I saw the kids running around, playing soccer, playing chase... and the background chatter in my mind.. and me scanning rooftops.... it's crazy to think about.. so I'll try not to..
a car just backfired and I jumped... a lot more skittish these days!
In the vein of normalcy...
I am including a list of birds I saw this past weekend up in Fraser's Hill.. a less crowded and developed version of Cameron Highlands.. It was an incredible trip I took with the birdwatching group of the Malaysian Nature Society... we only had a bout 2 hours of birding due to foggy weather.. nonetheless we saw a LOT of birds including the semi-rare Sultan's Tit and Crimson Oriole... about 20-something species total of which about 15 I had never seen before!
I will carry on with everyday life.. and I hope you can too.. but it is a bit weird here.. strange.. not dangerous.. just nervous tension in the air...
Thinking of you all!
-Matt Salleh
March 15th
Telekom Apartments
6-7 p.m.
1) Fire Tufted Barbet
2) Black Browed Barbet
3) Orange Bellied Leafbird
4) Crimson Oriole
5) Lesser Raquet Tailed Drongo
6) Bronze Drongo
7) Silver-Eared Mesia
8) Long Tailed Sibia
9) White Bellied Swiftlet
10) Streaked Spider Hunter
11) Sultan Tit
12) Abbotís Babbler
13) Orange Breasted Leafbird
14) Grey Chinned Minivet
15) White Throated Wagtail
16) Asian Flycatcher
March 16th
Road to Sultanís Palace
10-11 a.m.
1) Chestnut Capped Laughing Thrush
2) Grey Chinned Minivet
3) Golden Babbler
4) Grey Wagtail
5) Brown Shrike
6) Ferrunginous Flycatcher
7) Golden Babbler
8) Magpie Robin
9) Large Billed Crow
10) Long tailed Sibia
11) Fire Tufted Barbet
12) Bronze Drongo
by Matt Salleh
The day was a bit weird. It started off OK.. We've been writing and practicing a puppet show about sea turtle nesting in my 1st grade ESL class.
About noon we got word that the war had started.
During my recess duty I scanned the rooftops and windows of nearby apartments. Halfway expecting a sniper. Paranoid, I know... but everyone is a little tense.
Guards patrolled recess.. where there were none before. Our last staff meeting dealt with security issues and our response to potential media.
A jet buzzed our school somewhere in there... oiling the wings, fleexing their muscles? Who knows.. it was unnerving.
You can imagine the thoughts in my head..
The day was normal aside from that. But I saw the kids running around, playing soccer, playing chase... and the background chatter in my mind.. and me scanning rooftops.... it's crazy to think about.. so I'll try not to..
a car just backfired and I jumped... a lot more skittish these days!
In the vein of normalcy...
I am including a list of birds I saw this past weekend up in Fraser's Hill.. a less crowded and developed version of Cameron Highlands.. It was an incredible trip I took with the birdwatching group of the Malaysian Nature Society... we only had a bout 2 hours of birding due to foggy weather.. nonetheless we saw a LOT of birds including the semi-rare Sultan's Tit and Crimson Oriole... about 20-something species total of which about 15 I had never seen before!
I will carry on with everyday life.. and I hope you can too.. but it is a bit weird here.. strange.. not dangerous.. just nervous tension in the air...
Thinking of you all!
-Matt Salleh
March 15th
Telekom Apartments
6-7 p.m.
1) Fire Tufted Barbet
2) Black Browed Barbet
3) Orange Bellied Leafbird
4) Crimson Oriole
5) Lesser Raquet Tailed Drongo
6) Bronze Drongo
7) Silver-Eared Mesia
8) Long Tailed Sibia
9) White Bellied Swiftlet
10) Streaked Spider Hunter
11) Sultan Tit
12) Abbotís Babbler
13) Orange Breasted Leafbird
14) Grey Chinned Minivet
15) White Throated Wagtail
16) Asian Flycatcher
March 16th
Road to Sultanís Palace
10-11 a.m.
1) Chestnut Capped Laughing Thrush
2) Grey Chinned Minivet
3) Golden Babbler
4) Grey Wagtail
5) Brown Shrike
6) Ferrunginous Flycatcher
7) Golden Babbler
8) Magpie Robin
9) Large Billed Crow
10) Long tailed Sibia
11) Fire Tufted Barbet
12) Bronze Drongo
Jack Kerouac's Rules for Writing
1. Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy
2. Submissive to everything, open, listening
3. Try never get drunk outside yr own house
4. Be in love with yr life
5. Something that you feel will find its own form
6. Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind
7. Blow as deep as you want to blow
8. Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind
9. The unspeakable visions of the individual
10. No time for poetry but exactly what is
11. Visionary tics shivering in the chest
12. In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you
13. Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition
14. Like Proust be an old teahead of time
15. Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog
16. The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye
17. Write in recollection and amazement for yourself
18. Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea
19. Accept loss forever
20. Believe in the holy contour of life
21. Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind
22. Dont think of words when you stop but to see picture better
23. Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in yr morning
24. No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge
25. Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it
26. Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form
27. In praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness
28. Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better
29. You're a Genius all the time
30. Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven
I love Kerouac's rules for writing.... because they are rules for living as well. From every direction we are told that our experience is unimportant and that we are not good enough. The newscasters and movie makers and advertisers want us to be afraid, insecure and discontented. They feed us stories of celebrities, rock stars, the rich and the famous. They define beauty and sell it to us. They define genius and sell it to us. They define art and sell it to us. They define music and sell it to us.
But Hakim Bey is right: The artist is NOT a special kind of person; every person is a special kind of artist. So "Be in love with yr life", however bold, magnificent, or wretched it is.... have "no fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge". For artists, poets, and nomads in America, this can be tough-- but it is vital. We must reclaim the dignity of our own lives. "Write in recollection and amazement for yourself".... WRITE FOR YOURSELF! Not to be discovered. Not to make money. Not to show everyone how cool you are. Do it for yourself-- in celebration and in mourning for your own experience.
And most of all, no matter what those uptight bastards say, never forget that "You're a Genius all the time".
Write. Write. Write.
1. Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy
2. Submissive to everything, open, listening
3. Try never get drunk outside yr own house
4. Be in love with yr life
5. Something that you feel will find its own form
6. Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind
7. Blow as deep as you want to blow
8. Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind
9. The unspeakable visions of the individual
10. No time for poetry but exactly what is
11. Visionary tics shivering in the chest
12. In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you
13. Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition
14. Like Proust be an old teahead of time
15. Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog
16. The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye
17. Write in recollection and amazement for yourself
18. Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea
19. Accept loss forever
20. Believe in the holy contour of life
21. Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind
22. Dont think of words when you stop but to see picture better
23. Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in yr morning
24. No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge
25. Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it
26. Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form
27. In praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness
28. Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better
29. You're a Genius all the time
30. Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven
I love Kerouac's rules for writing.... because they are rules for living as well. From every direction we are told that our experience is unimportant and that we are not good enough. The newscasters and movie makers and advertisers want us to be afraid, insecure and discontented. They feed us stories of celebrities, rock stars, the rich and the famous. They define beauty and sell it to us. They define genius and sell it to us. They define art and sell it to us. They define music and sell it to us.
But Hakim Bey is right: The artist is NOT a special kind of person; every person is a special kind of artist. So "Be in love with yr life", however bold, magnificent, or wretched it is.... have "no fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge". For artists, poets, and nomads in America, this can be tough-- but it is vital. We must reclaim the dignity of our own lives. "Write in recollection and amazement for yourself".... WRITE FOR YOURSELF! Not to be discovered. Not to make money. Not to show everyone how cool you are. Do it for yourself-- in celebration and in mourning for your own experience.
And most of all, no matter what those uptight bastards say, never forget that "You're a Genius all the time".
Write. Write. Write.
Monday, June 09, 2003
Homeless Essentials
by Skald
I'm an avid backpacker and have been drawing a lot of parallels between lightweight hiking and homelessness. It occurred to me that I must carry everything I need into the woods with me. Because I have to CARRY it, there is a natural tendency to reduce what I need to the barest essentials. This approach applies to homelessness as well. So I decided to make a list for Urban Backpacking (aka, homelessness). Note that this is a "three season" list. A cold winter would require the addition of gloves, a warm hat, a scarf, a sweater or two, and a warm coat (none cotton)... and probably a good sleeping bag (expensive and bulky). Here's my list:
1 bookbag(A normal bookbag won't draw any sort of attention, as a bigger pack might)
1 pair mid/heavy weight hermal underwear (NOT cotton, preferably thermax or something similiar)
2 shirts (NOT cotton, preferably nylon or another quick-dry fabric)
2 convertible pants(NOT cotton, again nylon or something similiar is best. Convertible pants have a zipper on the leg and can be converted between shorts and pants)
3-4 sox(NOT cotton. Wool/synthetic blends are good, as are hiking or running sox)
6 ziploc freezer bags(To store clothes and things and to keep them dry)
Compact umbrella
Multi-purpose soap(Such as liquid Dr Bronner's... can be used as body soap, shampoo, even laundry. Must be in a sealable container).
Toothbrush(and floss if you are good! Dr. Bronner's can be diluted and used as toothpaste too!)
2 quick dry towels(for sponge baths, one to scrup with, one to dry with)
Deoderant "stone"(available at health food shops, one stone will last a whole year!)
For sleeping/camping:
8x8ft plastic sheeting (2-4mil)(This is the clear kind, used as drop cloth by painters.... we use it to make a tarp).
7x3ft plastic sheeting(As above, used as a ground cloth to sleep on)
20ft rope(Used for the ridgeline and four corners of the tarp. Sticks can be used for stakes and trees/limbs can be used as support poles
3ft "Z rest"(Used to sleep on- provides insulation and padding between the hips and shoulders. Leaves, clothes, bookbag, cardboard, etc... can be used under the legs and head. "Z rests" are very compact and thus ideal, though any sort of closed cell foam would do)
For cooking:
Soda can alcohol stove(Super small and compact and cheap. See here,Pepsi Can Stove, for how to make a stove. )
Denatured alcohol(available at hardware stores, this is the fuel for the can stove. Store in a sealable, completely air-tight container).
To keep things compact, all clothes should be rolled up tight prior to packing. By using a small bookbag, you remain stealthy. It's easy to take it into a bathroom (that can be locked); then quickly take a sponge bath with the soap and quick dry towels. When finished, wring out the towels and put them into a ziploc and then back in the bookbag. Put on clean clothes, clean up the bathroom with paper towels, and then exit. No one will notice. I've done this many times and it works great. Dry your towels at a different location.
The above method is great for laundry too. Nylon and other quick dry clothes are easy to sink wash. Plug the sink with a paper towel, quickly wash your clothes, rinse them, and then wring them out thoroughly. Put everything back in the bookbag and be sure to clean up after yourself. Dry the clothes out at a separate location.
One last note, I recommend doing only one of the above things at a time. If you spend too much time in any one bathroom, you will draw attention. So bathe and do laundry on different days, and at different locations. Of course, in the summer a river or creek is also an option. One of my greatest joys last summer was bathing in the river. Truly a wonderful experience!
Finally, a note to volunteers, advocates, and the like. Any of the items on the above list would make great gifts for homeless folks. Often people get caught up in the trappings of middle-class ideals, and don't realize how such simple things could help. In fact, the above items could be assembled, stuffed in a bookbag, and given as a care package. Please note-- never give cotton clothes to a homeless person, cotton holds moisture and sucks away warmth. The backpackers adage is "cotton kills" as many people have died of hypothermia as a result of wearing cotton in cold and wet conditions.
by Skald
I'm an avid backpacker and have been drawing a lot of parallels between lightweight hiking and homelessness. It occurred to me that I must carry everything I need into the woods with me. Because I have to CARRY it, there is a natural tendency to reduce what I need to the barest essentials. This approach applies to homelessness as well. So I decided to make a list for Urban Backpacking (aka, homelessness). Note that this is a "three season" list. A cold winter would require the addition of gloves, a warm hat, a scarf, a sweater or two, and a warm coat (none cotton)... and probably a good sleeping bag (expensive and bulky). Here's my list:
1 bookbag(A normal bookbag won't draw any sort of attention, as a bigger pack might)
1 pair mid/heavy weight hermal underwear (NOT cotton, preferably thermax or something similiar)
2 shirts (NOT cotton, preferably nylon or another quick-dry fabric)
2 convertible pants(NOT cotton, again nylon or something similiar is best. Convertible pants have a zipper on the leg and can be converted between shorts and pants)
3-4 sox(NOT cotton. Wool/synthetic blends are good, as are hiking or running sox)
6 ziploc freezer bags(To store clothes and things and to keep them dry)
Compact umbrella
Multi-purpose soap(Such as liquid Dr Bronner's... can be used as body soap, shampoo, even laundry. Must be in a sealable container).
Toothbrush(and floss if you are good! Dr. Bronner's can be diluted and used as toothpaste too!)
2 quick dry towels(for sponge baths, one to scrup with, one to dry with)
Deoderant "stone"(available at health food shops, one stone will last a whole year!)
For sleeping/camping:
8x8ft plastic sheeting (2-4mil)(This is the clear kind, used as drop cloth by painters.... we use it to make a tarp).
7x3ft plastic sheeting(As above, used as a ground cloth to sleep on)
20ft rope(Used for the ridgeline and four corners of the tarp. Sticks can be used for stakes and trees/limbs can be used as support poles
3ft "Z rest"(Used to sleep on- provides insulation and padding between the hips and shoulders. Leaves, clothes, bookbag, cardboard, etc... can be used under the legs and head. "Z rests" are very compact and thus ideal, though any sort of closed cell foam would do)
For cooking:
Soda can alcohol stove(Super small and compact and cheap. See here,Pepsi Can Stove, for how to make a stove. )
Denatured alcohol(available at hardware stores, this is the fuel for the can stove. Store in a sealable, completely air-tight container).
To keep things compact, all clothes should be rolled up tight prior to packing. By using a small bookbag, you remain stealthy. It's easy to take it into a bathroom (that can be locked); then quickly take a sponge bath with the soap and quick dry towels. When finished, wring out the towels and put them into a ziploc and then back in the bookbag. Put on clean clothes, clean up the bathroom with paper towels, and then exit. No one will notice. I've done this many times and it works great. Dry your towels at a different location.
The above method is great for laundry too. Nylon and other quick dry clothes are easy to sink wash. Plug the sink with a paper towel, quickly wash your clothes, rinse them, and then wring them out thoroughly. Put everything back in the bookbag and be sure to clean up after yourself. Dry the clothes out at a separate location.
One last note, I recommend doing only one of the above things at a time. If you spend too much time in any one bathroom, you will draw attention. So bathe and do laundry on different days, and at different locations. Of course, in the summer a river or creek is also an option. One of my greatest joys last summer was bathing in the river. Truly a wonderful experience!
Finally, a note to volunteers, advocates, and the like. Any of the items on the above list would make great gifts for homeless folks. Often people get caught up in the trappings of middle-class ideals, and don't realize how such simple things could help. In fact, the above items could be assembled, stuffed in a bookbag, and given as a care package. Please note-- never give cotton clothes to a homeless person, cotton holds moisture and sucks away warmth. The backpackers adage is "cotton kills" as many people have died of hypothermia as a result of wearing cotton in cold and wet conditions.
Wednesday, June 04, 2003
More Joy at Barnes and Noble
by Skald (10/18/02)
A couple of corporate slime came down to the store yesterday and fired our manager without notice. Of course he deserved it-- true believers are always the first to get it in the back. Still, the incident enflamed my rage towards work and corporate America.
Those scum drone on and on about loyalty, obedience, policy, service and yet they discard employees like trash. They "expect" two weeks notice but give none themselves.
But more maddening is the pathetic simpering of fellow employees. They whine a little but are amazingly slavish and docile. No one had enough dignity remaining to even get angry. They just ducked low and hoped they wouldnt be next.
I was furious and wanted to pound the shit out of that corporate cock-sucker Mark.... I desperately want to kick that bastard into unconciousness (some Buddhist I am!). He's the epitome of a Burroughsian "shit"... a rule quoting meddler... a policy hound. The sad fucker lives for Barnes and Noble and swells with orgasmic joy because of the ounce of authority he gets there. He'll be a perfect regional manager someday.... though he'll get it in the back eventually.
I despair for America. Are there any Men or Women left? Is anyone free? Are there any "Johnsons"... those upstanding folks who mind their own business and live as they please?
Once we had Thoreau, Whitman... Henry Miller,.... Hemingway.... Kerouac and Ginsberg.
What remains? Fat money grubbers. Docile corporate slaves. Obedient Christian fanatics: A nation of retarded TV addicts. God Bless Us. God Bless Us all.
by Skald (10/18/02)
A couple of corporate slime came down to the store yesterday and fired our manager without notice. Of course he deserved it-- true believers are always the first to get it in the back. Still, the incident enflamed my rage towards work and corporate America.
Those scum drone on and on about loyalty, obedience, policy, service and yet they discard employees like trash. They "expect" two weeks notice but give none themselves.
But more maddening is the pathetic simpering of fellow employees. They whine a little but are amazingly slavish and docile. No one had enough dignity remaining to even get angry. They just ducked low and hoped they wouldnt be next.
I was furious and wanted to pound the shit out of that corporate cock-sucker Mark.... I desperately want to kick that bastard into unconciousness (some Buddhist I am!). He's the epitome of a Burroughsian "shit"... a rule quoting meddler... a policy hound. The sad fucker lives for Barnes and Noble and swells with orgasmic joy because of the ounce of authority he gets there. He'll be a perfect regional manager someday.... though he'll get it in the back eventually.
I despair for America. Are there any Men or Women left? Is anyone free? Are there any "Johnsons"... those upstanding folks who mind their own business and live as they please?
Once we had Thoreau, Whitman... Henry Miller,.... Hemingway.... Kerouac and Ginsberg.
What remains? Fat money grubbers. Docile corporate slaves. Obedient Christian fanatics: A nation of retarded TV addicts. God Bless Us. God Bless Us all.
The Joy of Work
by Skald (10/16/02)
Piss and scorn in my chest- I'm angry. I'm angry because I'm sick -- vomitous-- from working at Barnes and Noble-- tied to a cash register for 8 hours-- knees and ankles aching-- non-stop standing.... mind dulled by repetitive motion idiocy,
Weasel-managers harassing me to sell more membership cards,
The same goddam music on the intercom every fucking night,
Hawk-eyed supervisor-wannabe on my back-- looking for each and every deviation from company policy,
"not allowed" to sit, nor relax, nor chat with co-workers excessively,
"not allowed" to make a decision of any kind,
Shuffle to the intercom to call a manager for EVERY return, EVERY exchange, EVERY decision,..
If memory is accurate I had greater autonomy at my very first job with Arby's,.. when I was 16. I'm now 34.
I'd wanted a mellow job with no responsibility. I don't have responsibility but I'm hounded and chained like a fucking violent felon. I detest the place and the people who work there-- especially the smug morons who quote "policy" like religious fanatics. These trained monkeys inspire violent and wild fantasies--- I want to crucify them in each corner of the store. I want to dance and burn the place down.
This is sad-- corporate drones like this aren't even respectable villians. Those rapacious, black-eyed bastards in India-- they were scoundrels-- lying, hawk-faced bastards... they screwed me again and again but there was style to their theivery and blood in their arteries.
But the pale fucks at Barnes and Noble? How can you respect THEM? They are more akin to ticks than hawks.... ticks who suck and suck and suck but never draw blood. Bloodless, dis-satisfied, disease-carrying parasites. Their disease is desperation.
I want to slap them, piss on their books, spray semen on the computers, shout like a beserker, bite their grey necks...
Their humiliation enrages me- what does it take to sink that low? How desperate and fearful do you have to get? How empty must your life become? At what point did they surrender their dignity? When did the "Readers Advantage Card" become integral to their lives?
Its terrible to realize that the likes of Thoreau, Whitman, Basho, Kerouac, Ginsberg, Miller, etc... are housed in that place. I imagine they would prefer to be elsewhere. I certainly would.
by Skald (10/16/02)
Piss and scorn in my chest- I'm angry. I'm angry because I'm sick -- vomitous-- from working at Barnes and Noble-- tied to a cash register for 8 hours-- knees and ankles aching-- non-stop standing.... mind dulled by repetitive motion idiocy,
Weasel-managers harassing me to sell more membership cards,
The same goddam music on the intercom every fucking night,
Hawk-eyed supervisor-wannabe on my back-- looking for each and every deviation from company policy,
"not allowed" to sit, nor relax, nor chat with co-workers excessively,
"not allowed" to make a decision of any kind,
Shuffle to the intercom to call a manager for EVERY return, EVERY exchange, EVERY decision,..
If memory is accurate I had greater autonomy at my very first job with Arby's,.. when I was 16. I'm now 34.
I'd wanted a mellow job with no responsibility. I don't have responsibility but I'm hounded and chained like a fucking violent felon. I detest the place and the people who work there-- especially the smug morons who quote "policy" like religious fanatics. These trained monkeys inspire violent and wild fantasies--- I want to crucify them in each corner of the store. I want to dance and burn the place down.
This is sad-- corporate drones like this aren't even respectable villians. Those rapacious, black-eyed bastards in India-- they were scoundrels-- lying, hawk-faced bastards... they screwed me again and again but there was style to their theivery and blood in their arteries.
But the pale fucks at Barnes and Noble? How can you respect THEM? They are more akin to ticks than hawks.... ticks who suck and suck and suck but never draw blood. Bloodless, dis-satisfied, disease-carrying parasites. Their disease is desperation.
I want to slap them, piss on their books, spray semen on the computers, shout like a beserker, bite their grey necks...
Their humiliation enrages me- what does it take to sink that low? How desperate and fearful do you have to get? How empty must your life become? At what point did they surrender their dignity? When did the "Readers Advantage Card" become integral to their lives?
Its terrible to realize that the likes of Thoreau, Whitman, Basho, Kerouac, Ginsberg, Miller, etc... are housed in that place. I imagine they would prefer to be elsewhere. I certainly would.
Kristin In an Indiana Coffee Shop
by Skald
Kristin is scratching her bare feet- she looks soft and warm and comfortable--- loose tan jeans, burgandy shirt with white fleck spots and a large "Ganesh" sitting on the front;
Her auburn-brown hair hangs loose around the shoulders, soft smooth skin, very inviting......
She's sunk back in a deep cushioned chair-- clutching a book with her left hand... nibbling the fingernails of the other one.
Her nose is in profile (I want to squeeze it)-- the tiny silver stud is to my side. She has a thin thread bracelet on her right wrist.
Her left leg is crossed over the right, left foot bare... toe nails tipped with orange henna-stains. The other foot is still in its plastic flip-flop---- henna toes are exposed. She curls her feet while nibbling nails and turning pages.
by Skald
Kristin is scratching her bare feet- she looks soft and warm and comfortable--- loose tan jeans, burgandy shirt with white fleck spots and a large "Ganesh" sitting on the front;
Her auburn-brown hair hangs loose around the shoulders, soft smooth skin, very inviting......
She's sunk back in a deep cushioned chair-- clutching a book with her left hand... nibbling the fingernails of the other one.
Her nose is in profile (I want to squeeze it)-- the tiny silver stud is to my side. She has a thin thread bracelet on her right wrist.
Her left leg is crossed over the right, left foot bare... toe nails tipped with orange henna-stains. The other foot is still in its plastic flip-flop---- henna toes are exposed. She curls her feet while nibbling nails and turning pages.
Thoughts About Jessica
by Skald
She was always smiling-- so much so that I strain to find synonyms for the word-- for she had as many smiles as eskimoes have snow.... such a simple thing yet she could express surprise, curiousity, ecstacy, warmth, concern, irony, enthusiasm, sadness, innocence, and seduction with subtle variations of her grin.
Optimism was a decision for her- her chosen route out of a painful childhood. At some time before I met her she decided not to surrender, not to give up, not to follow the path of bitterness, not to wallow in anger, not to despair. She beat everyone who stood in her way-- teachers, bullies, grown ups, critics, her boyfriend--- she beat them with a relentless determination to be happy.
She beat them all.
by Skald
She was always smiling-- so much so that I strain to find synonyms for the word-- for she had as many smiles as eskimoes have snow.... such a simple thing yet she could express surprise, curiousity, ecstacy, warmth, concern, irony, enthusiasm, sadness, innocence, and seduction with subtle variations of her grin.
Optimism was a decision for her- her chosen route out of a painful childhood. At some time before I met her she decided not to surrender, not to give up, not to follow the path of bitterness, not to wallow in anger, not to despair. She beat everyone who stood in her way-- teachers, bullies, grown ups, critics, her boyfriend--- she beat them with a relentless determination to be happy.
She beat them all.
HoboJournal, 9/30/02 entry
by Skald
I continue to mope and fret about money and do nothing about impending poverty--
I've given up... have no motivation and must be thinking I'll be magically rescued from this situation. What to do? I know I'm depressed and have much more to work through regarding Jessica... and jobs and life. I just don't know what to do.
What a sorry state I'm in-- I'm tired, I'm fat with a fat gut, I do no exercise, I have no spark- no fire.
by Skald
I continue to mope and fret about money and do nothing about impending poverty--
I've given up... have no motivation and must be thinking I'll be magically rescued from this situation. What to do? I know I'm depressed and have much more to work through regarding Jessica... and jobs and life. I just don't know what to do.
What a sorry state I'm in-- I'm tired, I'm fat with a fat gut, I do no exercise, I have no spark- no fire.
For Jessica, June 4th, 2003
by AJ
Today, on your birthday, I remember you and honor you. I honor your joy, your exuberant spirit, your love of life.
May you live on through me-- and through every life that you touched. May we keep you alive by living joyful, exuberant, loving lives.
You are missed.
You are loved.
by AJ
Today, on your birthday, I remember you and honor you. I honor your joy, your exuberant spirit, your love of life.
May you live on through me-- and through every life that you touched. May we keep you alive by living joyful, exuberant, loving lives.
You are missed.
You are loved.
Vipassana
by Skald
How to describe the extraordinary experiences of the last two weeks? Being essentially wordless, it is near impossible to illustrate with words. All I can describe is the effects of the 10 day Vipassana course I completed. I feel lighter, more balanced, more harmonious... Happier! I feel I passed through a purifying fire. My mind and body hum with energy.
What a tremendous gift these courses are... absolutely free to any who are willing to make the commitment and work diligently. As promised, there was no collection plate at the end... only a table where you could leave donations if you wanted to. I left a very small one, as it was all I could afford. I wish I could have given more, as the benefits were truly priceless.
I look on those 10 days as a sort of spiritual "basic training".... a wonderful foundation for a deeper and more meaningful life. I encourage all Hobopoets to investigate this technique for themselves. Courses are held world-wide: Vipassana Courses.
by Skald
How to describe the extraordinary experiences of the last two weeks? Being essentially wordless, it is near impossible to illustrate with words. All I can describe is the effects of the 10 day Vipassana course I completed. I feel lighter, more balanced, more harmonious... Happier! I feel I passed through a purifying fire. My mind and body hum with energy.
What a tremendous gift these courses are... absolutely free to any who are willing to make the commitment and work diligently. As promised, there was no collection plate at the end... only a table where you could leave donations if you wanted to. I left a very small one, as it was all I could afford. I wish I could have given more, as the benefits were truly priceless.
I look on those 10 days as a sort of spiritual "basic training".... a wonderful foundation for a deeper and more meaningful life. I encourage all Hobopoets to investigate this technique for themselves. Courses are held world-wide: Vipassana Courses.
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