Skalds: Nomad Poets of the Norse Age

Here's a little blurb I found concerning Hobopoets of the Viking age:

One might suppose that the Norse skalds (nomadic shaman-poets) formed a guild of sorts, although no formal mention is made as such, the circumstantial evidence points that direction. All of the skalds living at the same time, no matter what source you consult seemed either to know, or at least know of the other skalds. They frequently met, and exchanged tips on style, subject matter, or simply to try to outdo each other in a duel of words. And skalds often seemed to train others with the gift of poetry in skaldcraft. The Prose Edda may have its roots in a guild expressly for the training of skalds, and Snorri as one of the last to know the craft set it down for eternity to read and learn. While none of this counts as hard and true evidence that the skalds had a guild, no where is it expressly said they did not.

Hobovan Journal: 7/11/02
Didn't sleep last night. The Beatles song "Blackbird" ran incessantly through my head... I had heard it in Greenville, just before coming to Athens. At times I cry. Other times it seems so unreal that I forget. I think about myself alot-- I want someone to recognize the pain and soothe it. I'm a selfish bastard, its true.

All attempt at words end in platitudes. Real human experience is beyond words.

Hobovan Journal: 7/10/02

Jessica was killed yesterday-- her and her two children died in a car accident. I keep picturing Heather, her precious daughter Heather-- who was angelic and looked so much like Jessica. Baby Benjamin was very little when I last saw him.

I was the last time I saw Jessica too-- I have delayed calling her since I returned home... because... because I felt embarassed by my inability to stick out the full year in Japan and embarassed by my homelessness, and embarassed by my hopeless irresponsibility-- which caused her so much frustration when we dated. So I didn't call.

Now I can only remember back to our last meeting... she seemed happy... and I admired her happiness. She was a fantastic Mom. In that last meeting I glimpsed the life I gave up.

2pm: I reek of "I"-- me, me, me, me, me, me, me... every thought drips of it... every motive draws from it. My first girlfriend is dead as are her two children... but every thought starts with "I".

9pm: In Athens now. I feel alone. I cant get Heather out of my mind. She was so much like Jess. She had Jess' sweet exuberance. She had her cheeks-- the kind you want to kiss or squeeze. She was curious and she was gentle. This can't be real. I still think Ill be able to talk to her again... I wish I could change this, make it better, escape it... anything. I can't comprehend that I'll never talk to her again. We'll never email or write.

I keep moving-- like a caged animal trying to escape. I walked the UGA campus. I visited Oglethorpe Hall where Jess and I stayed our first years in college. I went to the Tate Center-- remember the many meetings we attended there. I remember her in her blue dress.. she was beautiful. When I remember Jessica I always picture her smiling.

Hobovan Journal: 7/1/02
My sight is finally returning (choiceless awareness),.... that feeling of love and connection to everything. Its coming back in micro-satoris. I thought it never would. As Steinbeck said, when you stop seeing you think you'll never see again and its very depressing. But it comes back if you stay open to it.

It came back to me on the disc golf course this week-- almost a whole round played with heightened awareness. And it has come in restaurants... in particular it came last night in Barley's... in between idiodic gazings at Olivia.

Marijuana as a Sacrament
See Resurrection of the Higher Self for the full interview.

MB (Magical Blend reporter) "Let me see if I understood what you said correctly. You mentioned the use of meditation in both a personal and group context for the purpose of self-empowerment. But could you explain more clearly how this relates to using marijuana as a sacrament?"

WMS (being interviewed) "What I meant was, that marijuana can be a powerful tool for self improvement if used with the proper focus."

MB "What do you mean it can be a powerful tool?"

WMS "This plant has the potential for use as a psychoactive booster of consciousness. It is a kind of "psychic vitamin" that can expand ones' abilities mentally, psychically and spiritually."

MB "In certain Native cultures substances such as peyote and psychoactive mushrooms are used for self exploration. Is this what you mean?"

WMS "Self exploration is actually only a part of this. In native cultures, psychoactive substances are also used to gain what are considered spiritual powers, psychic enhancements, altered and deepened perceptions of truth, greater inner strength, energy, mental alertness and flexibility. Perhaps even more importantly, these substances are used to gain spiritual realization and refinement. They are even used as an aid to unify ones self with Nature and God."

MB "And you include marijuana as one of the substances which can accomplish these things?"

WMS "Yes we do."

MB "Don't you think that if marijuana had such potentials that people would have discovered them long ago? I mean, everyone 'gets high' at one time or another, but no one I know of gains any psychic powers or finds God through weed."

WMS "In reference to the first part of your question, people did actually discover the spiritual potentials of marijuana long ago. References to this herb in the ancient Vedic texts of India, indicate that it was being used by Rishis and Yogis at that time to gain deepened perceptions. As for the fact that 'everyone gets high' as you said, yet few find God or greater personal power, this is just a result of cultural influences. Lets look at it this way. Compare marijuana to driving a car. As soon as you take a puff you're behind the drivers' seat. The engine's running and you can go anywhere you want. But just because you own a car though, does not guarantee that you will take it to useful, productive or enlightening places. You may just drive in circles, get in a wreck or simply drive it off a cliff. It all depends upon your intention when you're driving as to where you end up, and what you'll do when you get there. Marijuana is the same way. Although it contains great potentials for self-transformation and can take you to places you never dreamed of, its effect is still primarily limited to the mind that is driving it, so to speak.?

MB "So you're saying that the usual effect of just 'getting stoned' and oblivious to the world, is due more to user error than to the substance itself."

WMS "That is exactly what I mean, and what a pity! Most people just get high within the usual party mode of stimulating amusements, simply because this is the only intention they hold when smoking it."

MB "So what intention or focus should be used to get more out of pot?"

WMS "Well first of all, the whole image of marijuana must be changed. It is usually viewed as a 'recreational drug' but this is a serious underestimation of its potential. Believing that marijuana is just a toy is like treating the space shuttle as just another Forth of July bottle rocket. By approaching marijuana with more respect, we are then in a position to gain more from it. This herb can teach us much more than most people imagine. In many shamanic traditions it is believed that peyote, psiloscybe mushrooms, ayahuasca and others, contain wisdom-increasing properties. It is believed that they hold sacred lessons, and an Earth intelligence that can be learned from. This is the whole meaning behind the word entheogens.

MB Do you also hold such a view, and would you place marijuana in this class of so called 'teacher plants'?"

WMS "I don't want to stray too far into related subjects, by commenting in depth upon that. I will say that the World Mind Society, like a number of other persons and groups, agree that all living things including the Earth itself, has something to teach us. We humans though, are not known for our great listening skills. We're too busy gossiping and theorizing to listen attentively. Yes, all of these substances contain profound lesson-generating potentials, and marijuana is no exception. We can 'listen' to the high that it generates within the body, as well as its effects upon the mind. When taken seriously, what we 'hear' from the teacher plants can be quite profound, as well as practical on an everyday basis. But again, we must employ the right focus and intention to make full use of our experiences with the herb."

MB "I've heard that the peyote ceremonies of the Native American Church include a great deal of preparation and spiritual focus, before, during and after ingestion. They say that such preparation allows a person to properly receive Peyote's lessons. It is also a Native teaching that peyote acts as a conduit to God and to the spirit of the Earth, allowing deep revelations to crystallize in the mind. Do you also recommend that such procedures be used for the intake of marijuana?"

WMS "I would have to say that in most cases, no. The rush and scheduling of the Western lifestyle tend to rule out days of prayer, meditation, fasting, elaborate ceremonies or seclusion in the wilds. That's not to say though that simple rituals, which focus the mind firmly onto desired goals, could not provide great benefit. But regardless of any format used prior to smoking the miracle herb, one should definitely be clear about the effects they desire from its intake. These effects, which can also be personal goals, include an enhanced state of clarity, greater psychic perception and higher personal vibration for instance, and these aspects should be consistently focused upon with the mind, during a smoke session. The stronger the focus held while smoking marijuana, the more one will see results in the body and mind of the desired type. We also recommend the use of meditation in conjunction with the use of marijuana, as these two complement each others?effectiveness greatly.?

Making the Change to Van Living
pirated from: World Mind Society

The change from house or apartment living to one that involves only a camper, van or RV is not difficult. The only real obstacle in this transformation is one of mental adjustment. If we can live with the concept of efficiency rather than extravagance, with practicality rather than showing off to the neighbors, than this change will be no great feat. After a short time of experiencing a lifestyle of home and vehicle made one, you will soon wonder how you lived any other way. Of the 3 options of RV, van or towed camper, a van is the most compact, maneuverable and flexible. Since RVs are usually much longer than a van, the opportunity to park or maneuver than as needed is extremely limited. They generally require special accommodations for this reason, making then somewhat impractical. RVs are large and also very conspicuous, meaning wherever they are they may attract the attention of passers-by. Particularly in coming times, the wise traveler will want to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Towed campers are also somewhat difficult to maneuver usually because their length, which extends behind a truck or car. The fact that they are not attached directly to the drivers?area can also be inconvenient not to mention conspicuous, since the driver must get out of the towing vehicle to access the goods they carry. This chapter will focus particularly upon the use of the van as the most ideal tool one may use for efficient and natural living.

Before you purchase such a vehicle learn what you can through reading or knowledgeable advice, about their function and repair. Learn at least the basics of engine operation and its relationship with the transmission, the carburetor, distributor etc., etc? Know how to check and replace water, oil, transmission and brake fluids, as well as spark plugs and wires, air filter, etc?These things are not difficult so long as one has the proper basic tools, (recommendation for these in this chapter). Because this book is not intended as an automotive repair guide, further details on this subject have not been included. Just be aware of the basic principles and procedures of automotive function, through supplementary reading and experience. Such knowledge can and will save you a great deal of unnecessary expense.

The first thing to remember in buying any vehicle is to never buy a new product. Always make your purchase based upon quality, practicality and low costs rather than appearance. Appearance can be easily remedied according to preference, but quality cannot. New vehicles are over-priced and most often constructed poorly, with intentionally built-in flaws. These are the result of a desire on the part of the manufacturer to cut costs, and to make more money on subsequent repairs. New vehicles depreciate quickly in their "book value." Older vehicles on the other hand, especially those built previous to 1980, have simpler components. The repairs required by them are equally simple and inexpensive. Older models generally do not require specialty replacement parts, whereas newer models often involve an extended delay in repairs, so that their unnecessarily complex replacement systems can be delivered and installed.

World Mind Society- Living in Your Vehicle
Pirated from: World Mind Society

Rather than being stuck in a given place with the same neighbors, problems and mortgage payments for the next 20+ years, imagine what it would be like to live in freedom. Living in a vehicle such as RV or van grants the ability to literally migrate with the seasons, and live in eternal spring and summer if so desired. Any location arrived at, (within reason) instantly becomes home to be enjoyed in full. Life on the road caters to the spirit of exploration, where an extreme simplicity of daily routine is matched only by an extreme diversity of environments to choose from. Generally speaking it is only the older generation who have finally decided to enjoy life, and who live by way of RV or RV converted van, (or boat). Most people seem to feel that they need to use the word retirement as a justification for their freedom from wage slavery. We don't need a justification for efficient and natural living. The value of these qualities is self-explanatory. Many people object to the idea of such freedom simply because they chide themselves for not having the courage to live it out themselves. Orthodox materialists maintain a "pay your dues" mentality, because they have suffered and striven to be the subject of envious gossip and taught their children to do the same. They feel that others should suffer and strive as they did. Orthodox materialists take great pains not to acknowledge that they have lived a lie. They treat as outcast in fact, anyone who does not possess their "club membership" in the cult of materialism. Such people prefer a caste system approach to social organization based upon money, which predictably gives them a greedy advantage over everyone else. This advantage however, lasts only so long as everyone else plays the same make-believe game. All persons should live and be treated as equals, because as conscious beings we are in fact equal. To the soul and to God, money and position are irrelevant. So don't be fooled by the materialistic ideas that are literally tearing this world apart.

Seek out the paradise of your own choosing by exploring all cities, towns, attractions and public lands as opportunities for new experiences. One aspect of a fulfilling life is no doubt found in the greater number of options available to it in each moment. Every town, city, national forest, beach, lake, mountain and cave are the options available to the free spirit. Adventure will be available on demand, simply because you have chosen a life that allows the free time with which you may enjoy and understand life.

Among the symptoms of the modern disease, is the using up of the time and options contained in each 5-minute period with some socially acceptable activity. If a person is not "doing something" with their time each minute of the day, then it is supposedly being "wasted." There are a great many important accomplishments in life, which directly depend upon the ability to do absolutely nothing in the external sense, so that the internal realm of mind and spirit may be properly developed. We need this time to focus introspectively, to make clear decisions and to cultivate a clear, peaceful and intelligent mind. This absolutely cannot be done when a person is constantly distracting themselves with an endless stream of activities. What is most suspect about our cultural definition of "doing something" is that only material, external changes are considered accomplishments. We do not recognize, or for the most part consider important, the inner achievements of greater love, clarity, spiritual perception, health or mental ability. All of these areas of development are considered basically worthless until they are converted into some touchable object. This attitude represents one of the tragic errors of Western thinking in our present day culture. What we fail to recognize is that all external achievement is preceded by a paralleling internal state. All outer change depends entirely upon inner transformation. The inner state is therefore an even more important consideration than the outer one. It is true that the physical demonstration of inner focus is a solid test of its authenticity. But this does not imply by any means that a focus upon inner transformation is an unworthy one. A comprehensive inner development is in fact the primary goal for the truly responsible person.

As the stress of unwisely used technology and unnatural living increase among us, the individual must take it upon themselves to cultivate a progressive inner state of being. Living free in you own vehicle will allow you to do this. There will be many who, in their ignorance or envy will look at such a lifestyle with a troubled gaze. The self contained "nomad on wheels" no longer "plays the game" of material competition, and may in a very real sense be compared to the ascetics of ancient times. They have rejected the assumptions and unnaturalness of modern living. They are not hypnotized by a fascination for self-destructive money grabbing, preferring instead to maintain sanity and clarity. The modern person on the average breaks the well being of their mind and body to accumulate houses, lands and cars, which are supposedly a measure of success. Sadly, they do not even have the time or free energy to enjoy all of these things. So possessed are they by their possessions, that insanity, disease and chronic dissatisfaction become their only true and lasting companions. This modern state of affairs is the result of the single-minded fixation upon the greed for more and more. The nomad ascetic, however, actually owns very little. Yet they have all the time in the world to fully enjoy the forest, the earth and the greater health of body, mind and spirit without being possessed by materialism.

Mad Housers & The Athens Human Rights Festival
I'm in Athens today and just visited the annual human rights festival. I spent a great deal of time at the Mad Housers booth. What a fantastic organization!! They build cheap huts for homeless people: no religious lectures, no attempts to control or coerce, no mission to turn them into middle-class consumers, no interference in their private lives. They just build houses and GIVE them away. They also teach people how to build these things themselves.

The "houses" are actually small huts, which are very simple but cleverly designed. The contain a loft space to sleep in and for storage and a small bottom area for sitting, cooking, whatever. Each hut comes with a heating stove, which is made from a metal oil-drum and a few metal cans. This stove has a pipe which runs up through the ceiling and acts as a chimney. The stove burns easily available fuel like small branches, charcoal, cardboard, paper, etc... And by sleeping in the loft, the hut-owner maximizes the heat benefits of the stove. Also, each hut is fully insulated.

Mad Housers had a sample hut at the Festival today and I was very impressed. The guy told me that each hut costs only $300... but it was very sturdy and very well designed. The hut uses a composting toilet. Most huts are put where homeless people are already camping/squatting. They can be taken down very quickly and re-located (in case the police evict the owners).

It was so refreshing to talk to folks who are dealing with the problem directly,... without some sort of suburban-condescending agenda. And of course, their approach is a brilliant solution for all of us.. not just the "involuntary" homeless.

If I ever decide to buy land, I'll build myself a Mad Housers hut! Check out their website!

Hobovan Journals: 6/28/02
A mindful round of disc golf today-- relaxed-- aware-- in tune with the breeze rustling in the trees, the cloud of green above my head, the movement of my own body.... I was "out of my head"... enmeshed in the world.... choicelessly aware.

I felt great and I played better too: Zen in the Art of Disc Golf???

Hobovan Journals: 6/23/02
Have I become undatable? Besides my usual weaknesses I'm now scruffy and homeless. I live in my van and at this exact moment am unemployed as well. I ASPIRE to be a bum.... it is a serious goal.

This is not most women's idea of a dream date!

Perhaps I'm still resisting the inevitable truth of the hobopoet life--- that it's price is romance.. an end to dating. Maybe its the old dream image that doesn't want to die-- the image of the romantic poet-lover... Hell, like everyone I want it all: total freedom, transcendence, passion, love, friends, community,.....

But everything has its trade-offs and this one seems worth it.

Hobovan Journal: 6/23/02
Took my first shit in the van this morning.... into a triple bagged ziploc. It was awkward but it worked and didn't stink once I sealed it. Ive been doing an herbal cleanse so when I got up I HAD to go! Another stunning accomplishment for this hobopoet experiment!

Hobovan Journal, entry dated 6/12/02
The problem with work is that you are always doing someone else's work (Kerouac). Indeed, employment is always servitude to another's values... and these usually involve greed, control, fear, and security. I hate to see what work does to people. Few people have energy to devote to their own lives. No one has time for their family or friends. The few scraps they call "free time" are spent doing errands or "recovering" from the stress of work.

I hate work because it stunts growth. Jobs mold adults into children--- middle age men asking "permission" to make a decision, to take a day off, to visit a dying parent, to take a shit, to go home early.... And the bosses-- fat-eyed bastards lording it over their "subordinates". How I detest this degradation.

Clearly, the true revolution is the revolution of everyday life... and nothing dominates everyday American life like work.

I choose a nobler life. Though by no means completely free,... I am now freer than most. I have no fear. I laugh at layoffs and dare the hierarchy to fire me. I no longer avoid eye contact with supervisors. I have taken back my dignity. I have destroyed the "employee" archtype. I choose ancient archtypes: I will be a poet, an artist, a pilgrim, a nomad, a hobo, an explorer. I will live a life that has blood and passion. I will creep through the woods at night. I will dive into dumpsters. I will sneer at bosses and at the very idea of a boss. And when its time to go, I will not quit.... I will simply leave.

Hobovan Journal, entry dated 6/8/02
Another lazy day spent playing disc golf. Seems this game has a spiritual component, if you let it. The main challenges: concentrating, letting go of bad shots, letting go of good shots, taking one hole at a time... all seem to be good metaphors for life in general:

Chains hang limply,
Catipillar yellow,..
Atomized grass blades
hunch over their work.
The hush of dried leaves
drives thoughts from my mind.
I move without intention;
or should I say
-- something moves me.

Hobovan Journal, entry dated 6/6/02
Why is everyone obsessed with my lack of health insurance? Nothing seems to scare a "good citizen" quite like the thought of losing those Blue Cross benefits. Whenever I discuss the hobopoet life, insurance is the number one topic of fear. Nothing: not violence, dismemberment, starvation, hypothermia... seems to scare these folks as much as life without "benefits" (I have plenty of other benefits that Blue Cross can't provide).

Who started this insanity? Where did this fear originate?

Hobovan Journal Entry, dated 6/2/02
A practical consideration: Ventilation. Last night Athena (my dog) and I had a miserable time-- the van was hot and stifling. I need a way to draw in cool air and expel hot/humid air. Bought a battery operated micro-fan but it was quite weak and ineffectual. In remote areas it'll be quite simple to open the windows, but in downtown Athens I need more privacy. [see previous entry on "power and car living" for my solution to this problem].

Creating Livable Alternatives to Wage Slavery
Pirated from whywork.org

Are we "anti-work"? No, it's not that simple. We are pro-leisure, and we think leisure has gotten a bad rap in societies driven by the Protestant/Puritan work ethic...but the best answer to the question of whether we are anti-work depends on how you define the word "work".

Paraphrasing Tony Gibson, we can define work simply as the expenditure of energy in a productive process, and leisure as the expenditure of energy without productive result. We're not saying one is good and the other bad - they're just two ways of being. We are not against being productive and we recognize the satisfaction that can result from being engaged in productive activity of one's own choosing. (Hey, we put together this Web site, didn't we?) So we aren't anti-work in this sense.

But we are critical of the mindset (supported, as it were, by social norms, government policies and collective fears of poverty) that results in people working against their will, and believing there is no other way to "survive". This results in taking jobs out of joyless obligation, need for money, coercion, or a desire to "get ahead" in some sort of competitive social status or consumer game, for example. We think such a mindset is at the root of many, many otherwise solvable social, economic, and environmental problems.

But many people today don't use the kind of simple, non-judgmental definition above. Many of us think of work not just as effort expended in a productive process, but as a "necessary evil" - in other words, work is what we have to do so we can support ourselves. If your concept of work is drudgery, if you think of your job as something you'd rather not do if it weren't for the money, if you simply can't wait to retire so you can "enjoy life" - that kind of thinking is what we define as wage slavery, and we seek to abolish it.

Poetry by the Hobopoet Lewis Jones

Look at the Moon
We've thrown away all our troubles
for a journey that has no end.
And when its over I hope well look back
and know in our hearts we made some friends.

[Chorus]
Because weve been traveling down this highway,
Dont care if we get there soon.
If theres questions we need answered,
All we have to do is look at the moon.

When we wake to see the sunrise,
And all the love that God has to give.
It reaffirms just why weve done this,
I cant think of any other way to live.

[Chorus]

Late at night your mind gets weary.
Dont know if your spirits done.
That lonely road it keeps unwinding,
Well steer Champagne into the setting sun

Do we meet in the stars
Do we meet in the stars
and is it possible for eons to repeat?
How many times have brothers been brothers?
I walk a path I have certainly tried
to take before- were you with me then too?
If this is common ground, please let me find
the mistakes from the last time.
I have my brothers.
I have my tribe.
I have my destiny.
Rivers run downstream with a life
all their own.
Life unstoppable to a destination-
uncertain but inescapable.
Will I join the river?
Of course.

Married to an Indian Woman
by Matt Salleh

Red bindis cling quietly
to the sterile
apartment-square mirror
in the bathroom next
to our toothbrushes.

Curry stains linger
under my nails
sometimes for days.

I own a veshti, jippa and two woks.

These are things
I could not
have dreamed of
as a boy
eating Spam biscuits and grits
growing up in a double wide
and dreamin of huntin deer
and squirrels.

These days the Malaysian sky hangs heavy
not unlike the humid summer rains
where katydids
and cicadas sing beneath kudzu leaves
dug deep into red Piedmont clay.

And there will always, always
be bindis and veshtis
and deer hunters and squirrels
as long as I can dream.

And sometimes,
only sometimes
even those things
I could not dream
are even better.

Thailand Trip by Matt Salleh

The restaurant by the shore is a step up from the one across the street. They have a few more things on the menu, including french-fries and a damn near perfect Southern fried chicken? Of course they dont called it that, but thats what I compare it to. They also have a bar where I order big beer Chang and deep-fried cashews on Friday afternoons. The beer is 35 bath for damn near a liter. I cant tell exactly how much. Its not labeled. The servers sinewy arms and fingers flex as he brings me beer with the stereotypical Thai smile. I figure he must have been into Muay Thai (Thai kickboxing) at some point in his life.

Just offshore is the small T-shaped island Koh Samet. If Ban Phe is known for anything, its known for Koh Samet. A 50 baht, 45 minute ferry ride will get you there. You can get a bungalow for about 400 baht a night and spend the day reclining in hammocks drinking Mekong and Coke or swim in the water. The beach there is much nicer. The sand is clean and the waves are less harsh. When I was there a few weeks back I walked in knee deep water and saw inter-tidal life galore including sea cucumbers, living corals, sea urchins, Technicolor clams, and schools of unidentifiable fish being stalked by a large heron.

When I return from my morning walk I shower and head to class. I usually take about three showers a day. The heat is inescapable. The dust and grime seem to accumulate on me faster than I can wash it off.

Geetha and I are here getting our certification in TESOL (Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages). The school where I work didnt have any science positions so they hired me contingent upon me becoming certified to teach ESL (English as a Second Language). So I researched the Internet and discovered this training center in eastern Thailand.

During the day we attend class from 9-4:45. The classes entail methods of teaching, learning theory, and classroom management. We also have a student teaching portion.

Ive just spent the last 6 days in a Thai school teaching English to Mateom 3-6 students (roughly grade 10-12). The school was very resource poor and has recently had Peace Corps volunteers. We rode for 45 minutes in songthaews (truck taxis) and arrived windblown and cranky, ready to teach. My classroom lacked A/C and a fan and I roasted in the stale oven air. The walls were barren and there was no textbook. I had to create all of my materials back at the training center.

The students wore uniforms. The girls wore a blue skirt and a white blouse. The boys wore brown shorts and collared white shirts. They would wai (bow with hands in prayer position) shoeless, as they entered the room as a sign of respect for the teacher. Discipline problems are almost non-existent. They stand up to answer when asked a question. In Thailand teachers rank just below the King and Buddhist monks in social status. A far cry from my teaching days in gangs ridden Riverside County, California!

I completed my student teaching on Tuesday. Geetha started hers today. Now all I have left is phonology and grammar. Stuff I havent thought about since grade school. If I even thought about it then. Its intensive.

In the evenings we go for walks, read books, prepare our lessons and go to the restaurants. Every Monday there is a night market where you can get cheap wares and prepared foods. The mango sticky rice is the best. The fruit is unbelievable! You can purchase rambutan, durian, custard apple, longan, mango, pomelo, dragon fruit, coconut, watermelon, papaya, and of course, bananas.

In December, Geetha and I hope to go to London and visit some of her family. While weve in the area I figure we might as well head over to Dublin and partake of the nectar of the gods, Guinness made in its homeland.

As a result, I had a mission to fulfill and walked to the night market last night. I walked in and one of the vendors offered me a shot of his whiskey. Again, I declined because I had something to accomplish. I bought a pair of jeans and a hat. Not just an ordinary hat, but the kind you always see James Joyce wearing as he smokes his pipe and ponders whatever he ponders. Itll be perfect for wearing while I sip on the black stuff.

While I was there I spotted a food stall selling something I had been looking for. Deep-fried insects! Two gorgeous Thai girls were standing in line. They were wearing tight short shorts and standing in their cocked Thai girl stance ordering a bag load of grasshoppers. I couldnt help but think of the farangs that come here to rent those kinds of girls for the night. I wondered how they would feel if they saw their fate munching on a deep fried cricket. Or how they would react if they discovered a small bit of grasshopper leg lodged in their lovers teeth! It was irony come to life. I lined up behind them. The stall was offering crickets, grasshoppers, beetles, and grubs. The grubs seemed to be most popular. I ordered a bag. They set me back 10 baht. The Thai girls smiled at me, a few more gathered around to see the farang buying grubs. I was a 10-minute celebrity.

My friend Callan and I have a deal between us that well eat something weird whenever we go to a new place. Last time it was birds nest drink, made from the nests of swallows, in Singapore. My friend Seth, whom I met here in class, also has the same philosophy. Seth had already tried grasshoppers.

I bit into one and swallowed. It tasted nutty. I tried another one. Not bad. But Ive had enough. I tossed the rest out. At least Ive given them a try. I washed them down with a salty drink that I couldnt identify. It tasted like tamarind or something. I bought a sweet pastry filled with coconut and sugar and walked the 3km back to school.

100 cc motor scooters, like the kind I wanted as a kid, whiz by carrying 3 and 4 passengers at a time. They pass by and scream Hello! and try to practice their English. Its a daily occurrence.

I just finished my work for the day. We learned about the phonemic alphabet, rhythm, stress and intonation when speaking. We started working on transcribing a tape into phonemic representation.

Tomorrow well head to Chantaburi, a small town on the Cambodian border. Its supposed to have an interesting mix of Thai, French, and Vietnamese influence left over from various occupations and immigrations. Well catch a songthaew into the nearest city, Rayong, and from there get a bus.

Right now Im tired of thinking about diphthongs and bilabial plosives. Im about to head to the beach and drink a couple of beer Chang with my friend Seth. Like me, hes always up for a beer. Especially when the sun is setting, especially on the beach.

For Jessica
by AJ
I cried and wailed for you--- bit my lips, shook my head, crouched and tied myself into fetal knots, but nothingóabsolutely nothingócan soothe this loss. I struggle for words but all mine end in platitudes. Im devastated but that word means nothing compared to this experience.

I looked around your funeral and saw a horde of diminished lives. so much suffering. so many regrets. so many doubts. They cried about things they said or things left unsaid. I saw confusion? people gibbering on the edge of madness asking, Why, why, why, why, why?? I saw people whove remained close to you-- people who drifted away. I saw, and felt, pain.

I saw people just like me trying because your light is gone from our lives. This cant be real the horror of your death is impossible to understand. Of all people, why you? And why your sweet Heather (who had your irresistible eyes and irrepressible spirit) ?and why Benjamin (who had such a divine sweetness). This cannot be real because my mind can make no sense of it.

I cannot comprehend the finality of these events and cannot bear its consequences. I still hope to call you on the phone and tell you about my travels?and hear the latest about your children, Jon, and our old friends. I want to do this, but I cant.

Thicht Nhat Hahn wrote, ?A wave on the ocean has a beginning and an end, a birth and a death. But the wave is full of water. If a wave only sees its form, with its beginning and end, it will be afraid of birth and death. But if the wave sees that it is water, identifies itself with water, then it will be free. Each wave is born and is going to die, but the water is free from birth and death. So too are we? I hope this is true.

But you are gone now and I have no hope. I donít believe that healing is possible. I donít believe your death can be accepted.

I have no hope?and yet I search for it. I feel that healing is doomed and yet I pray for healing. I want to sink into despair and surrender but I fight for meaning instead; because I donít have to guess what you would say to usóI know what you would say because your life shouted it with thunderous clarity?you would tell us to live with the pain and live with the doubt, but live nonetheless. You would tell us to live with joy, with love. Youíd tell us to never surrender to despair. You would not equivocate in the face of tragedy. You never did.

I remember that you never gave into despair, never turned to cynicism, never embraced pessimism, never used pain as an excuse to harden. Your life leaves no ambiguity. We know how you lived, and we know what you would say.

I remember that your joy could not be suppressed and a thousand sorrows could not diminish it. You had a manic energy that buoyed everyone in your vicinityónone could resist or oppose you.

I remember you throwing water balloons from rooftops and grinning like an angel.
I remember you dancing like a dervish in a blue dress-- your green eyes flashing, your dress hem spinning wildly.
I remember your sunflower hat and rainbow high tops.
I remember you shooting a crossbow and dancing a jig when you hit your target.
I remember you holding snakes, feeding owls, rescuing possum.
I remember you hanging upside-down from a rappelling rope, laughing and grinning and scaring me witless.
I remember parties at Gilís when youíd crank Led Zeppelin and shake your golden hair as you bounced and shook the floorboards.
I remember the awe struck look in Charles?eyes whenever he looked at you.
I remember the sadness you disguised with laughter.
I remember the sweetness of your smile whenever you discussed Jonathan.
I remember my own dark lurking presence?your sad patience with my jealous rantingsóthe resignation in your voice, the frustration in your eyes.
I remember your late night sewing sessions at the villa?talking manically?listening with wide eyes.
I remember your irresistible energy. I remember your fierce hip checks during toli games?and the time you drug down Scott Ennis during a football match (he smiled sheepishly as we laughed).
I remember you screaming your lungs out at Rush concerts.
I remember that you grew wild gardens full of herbs.
I remember that you saw?you touched?and you listened.
I remember that you were honest (though some called you ìtactless?. You were forgiving (though some called you ìfoolish?. You were kind (though some called you ìsoft?. And you were optimistic (though some called you ìromantic?. You ignored the cynics.

I remember that you were never guarded, never smug, never cool. Your moves were not studied, your words were not rehearsed, your love was not demanding. You never tried to impress and thus you impressed everyone you encountered. In your presence we all became romantics. You made people better. You made me better.

You are gone now, but we are all thinking of you.
When I think of you my first thought is of sunflowers. You used to have a green floppy hat with a yellow sunflower on the front. You had a sunflower heart tooóbright, open, vibrant.

Maybe we should have filled the funeral home with sunflowers. For me it was nearly unbearable- the pain was too much. Yet my eyes continued to drift to the back corner?to the cluster of bright balloons. I smiled despite the pain.

In our shock and horror we had to wail and cry and moan and weíll continue to do so for a long time. But maybe someday we can gather again- when we are able- and truly celebrate your life. Perhaps weíll wade in sunflowers and fill the room with balloons and wear floppy hats. Weíll let our dogs and children run and weíll let the sun shine on our hair?and weíll think of you and your beautiful smile. And weíll smile too.

I canít do that now, but I want to because I know itís what you would do. Maybe on that day weíll forgive the people who have wronged us. Maybe weíll be honest instead of tactful and warm instead of cool. Maybe weíll give without expectation. Maybe weíll love without trying to love and be good without trying to be good; and for that day weíll remember the child-like sweetness that most of us have forgotten. Weíll forget cynicism and abandon guile.

We will be like youófeisty and alive?and weíll forget how weíre supposed to act and act as we always should.

I hope weíll give you the memorial that you truly deserveóthe one that, in our pain, we cannot give now. I hope weíll forget ourselves and be more like you, because your life is the only memorial that is good enough.

On that day, in the future, weíll remember you and forget our loss. And by remembering you we will also remember that our jobs donít matter, that our egos are a burden, that there are no rules and no commandments, and that there is no religion and no philosophy but love.

I hope weíll play games on that day and dance, because youíd like that too.

You are gone now, but I know that this is not goodbye. We will meet again; until then Iíll continue to think of sunflowers-- and remember you.

Manila--Arrival
by Callan Bentley

In June and July of 2001, I traveled to the Philippine islands, of Southeast Asia. This was my first summer of being a teacher, and this trip was the main thing I was doing with my summer off. I live in the District of Columbia, and do not own a car. I took the subway to the airport. Everyone else on the Metro train that day was a commuter, on their way to Thursday at the office. I stepped aboard with a tiny backpack, on my way to a jungled archipelago, on my way to the Philippine Islands. The backpack wasnt actually that tiny, it was a decent-sized daypack, but it seemed tiny in my mind because I knew that that one small pack alone was the sum total of my luggage. Gone for a month to Southeast Asia, and all I took would fit in a small pillowcase. I had never packed this light before, and I hoped that it would be enough. The Metro took me to National, where I took a Northwest flight, through their hub in Detroit, and then up and over the frozen territories of Canada. Looking out the window of the plane, I saw glaciers spreading out from a Yukon mountaintop like tentacles from an immense icy octopus. There were two wizened Japanese women who also wanted to look out the window. We had to share a window; all the other passengers had obeyed the flight attendants?edict to draw down the window blinds (so that the crappy in-flight movie would be more visible to everyone). We were stuck like junkies, taking visual hits off the small half-open porthole in the rear emergency exit door, pitiful addicts of the landscape below. These ancient Japanese women and I were not actually talking, but gesturing and repeating the few words we had in common that could describe the scene we were seeing below. Snow, one of them kept saying to me. She had wrinkles that stretched back from the corners of her eyes into her graying hair. Snow. Her companion asked me Where? I ventured to guess, Alaska, maybe. I shrugged my shoulders and smiled. The first one smiled back and said to me again, Snow.

There was a layover in Nagoya, Japan, and I strained to see Mount Fuji as we landed and took off again. The sun set again after we left Japan, and the plane landed in Manila well into the night. Stepping off the plane after a long flight is a terrific relief. Entering the airport (named after Filipino patriot Ninoy Aquino, who was assassinated on its own very runway), I began taking in the new country, began making impressions. I was amused to notice industrial-sized bug zappers in the departure lounge for international flights. My flight arrived at 11pm, and no one else was waiting in the area. The blue glow surged and crackled as it electrocuted mosquitoes. There was a prominent sign that welcomed back Filipino nationals who had been working abroad. Apparently this is a prominent source of income for the country. They have a robust national program to match up eligible workers with employment outside the Philippines. I cleared customs without a hitch, and turned over the form that declared in red ink, WARNING DEATH TO DRUG TRAFFICKERS UNDER PHILIPPINE LAW. A dire threat, it seemed to me, even though all I was guilty of ìtrafficking?were cassette tapes and a pair of binoculars. I changed a little money, and then stepped outside to find Noah.

Background about Noah
The man I was going to visit was my friend Noah Jackson, a compadre from my days of working in California as an outdoor educator. Noah was the sterling example of a workhorse on our staff. His roots in New Hampshire and Maine have imbued him with a sturdy dose of the Puritan work ethic. On more than one occasion, he inspired us all by continuing to do his job even when sick and laryngitic. Noah takes his moral sense of duty and ecological responsibility to new lengths. He works incredibly hard, putting lazier naturalists on my staff to shame. Noah was our collective exemplar of generosity and creativity. He had a blossoming romance with another staffer, Kara, at the same time that I was falling for another, Scarlett. I remember, the four of us went to Death Valley one weekend, and had a terrific adventure among the arid wastes, the canyons, Badwater, and the empty streambeds. We dipped our arms into a hypersaline pool in the Devils Golf Course, and came away with crystals of salt studded from fingertips to elbows. Another weekend, we drove to Big Sur. I had been training for months to run the Big Sur Marathon, a tortuous and beautiful 26-mile run along Californias Route 1. Noah joined me with a few days notice, signed up for the race when we arrived, and ended up winning his age category for the entire race! He beat my arduously-trained-for time by a good 45 minutes. This is not your average human being. This is Superman.

Manila
There was a mild thunderstorm in Manila when I stepped out of the airport. Noah was there, precisely where he said he would be. We walked out of the airport parking lot in the drizzle, and hailed a cab. The ride was lengthy due to intense traffic on Roxas Boulevard, the main road north along Manila Bay.

We arrived at the Pension Natividad, a great lodging that would become my home away from home in Manila. The Pension is situated a block away from the Bay, in the shadow of an immense high rise, the Diamond Hotel. On the other side is a raucous karaoke bar. It is situated on the boundary between the neighborhoods of Ermita and Malate, both relatively well off and directed towards tourism and merchandise. Out in front of its cement wall, the Pension advertises Clean Guest Rooms for Individuals, Married Couples, and Families. It is made of concrete and stucco, with bars over the windows. It was at the Pension that I was first shown what a Catholic culture prevails in the Philippines. Tile portraits of Jesus and the Virgin Mary beamed benevolently at Pension guests. Each of the religious figures were fitted with a Sacred Heart which was startlingly anatomically accurate, and spouting flame like a Zippo, to boot.
The damp Philippine air penetrates most buildings, as they lack the climate control that pervades Western architecture. The rain imbued everything with a wet smell, including the concrete walls of our room. Still, it was a room, and not Seat 13C.

Upon arrival, I showered and reclaimed my sense of hygiene. I was in a zone between jet lag and exhilaration at being in a new country, and was ready to go out and experience something. Noah recommended that out first stop be the Hobbit House, a bar not far from our lodging. We passed another Peace Corps Volunteer in the lobby of the Pension, and Noah introduced us. When he mentioned that we were on our way to the Hobbit House, a look of intense amusement came over the womans face. Noah refused to explain, telling me that I would understand soon enough. I realized the source of her bemusement as soon as we ducked into the bar: the Hobbit House is staffed entirely by dwarves and midgets. I am no Wilt Chamberlain, and I measure a modest 6 feet in height. As such, it was surreal to enter a place where everyone else was less than four feet tall. The set-up for a bar like this seems incredibly un-P.C. Im sure it would never fly in the United States, but I guess it works for what it is here in the seedy capital of the Philippines. We ordered San Miguel, the Filipino version of Budweiser.

Not everyone was a midget; a talented band of ordinary-sized Filipino men was playing covers of American pop tunes. An attractive Filipina ascended to the stage and sang Korn in perfect imitation while gyrating her bare stomach and showing off the top several inches of her thong underwear. Though we were enjoying the (ahem) unique vibe offered by the Hobbit House, it was too loud to talk. Since Noah and I had been years without seeing each other in person, we decided that catching up was going to take priority over bopping with the little people.

Outside, the sewage smell was rank and fetid and distinctly third world. We wandered through alleys, and along a maze of dripping streets, taking shelter where possible under awnings. Many of them were so low that I was forced to duck, lest I stay dry only at the expense of knocking myself cold. We searched out another place, helped along by Noah asking directions in Tagalog, and the restaurant delivery boys looking amused to see a white man talking their language. It turns out that Noah speaks Kinaraya, the dialect of the central Phillipine island group known as the Visayas. He was using his rural accent here in the height of Philippine urbanity. To these locals, it must have seemed comical. A comparable situation might be found as New Yorkers deal with a Japanese man asking for directions in a pronounced Creole drawl.
The Cafe Adriatico: We found a small table by a rain-streaked window overlooking the street. When our beers came, the waiter brandished a small towel and wiped clean the lip of the bottles. This was new to me: why would he do that? Noah explained that in the Philippines, a glass bottle is a commodity not to be wasted. Each bottle would be reused again and again. Indeed, I inspected the bottle and found two parallel rings of scratches around the outsides, and a faint rim of rust around the lip, where liquid beer had oxidized the metal bottle-cap. This rust was the offensive material wiped off by the waiters towel.

Noah conducted a ranging monologue about his life in the Philippines, his village, his girlfriend, his work life. I was listening and drinking beer, gazing out the second story window into the rain, lit by a string of bulbs burning above Adriatico Street. We stayed up late into the night, sitting and talking at that table.

I had not seen Noah in over two years, and though I had kept in touch with him by means of e-mail and writing letters, there was one aspect of his physical presence that I had forgotten. I refer to his laugh, which is a braying guffaw. In fact, it stretches the limits of the definition, to merely refer to his noise as laughter. Noah expresses mirth with a gasping honk, like an asthmatic donkey. It had not been my fortune to hear this laugh for 2 years, and judging from the reactions of the other patrons in the restaurant, no one there had ever heard anything like this before. Heads turned. I sipped some more from my bottle of beer, smiling at the scene.
Back to pension, sleep on dampish sheets in a dampish room. I woke up early in spite of only 3 hours sleep and whatever jet lag I was harboring. As Noah slept in, I engaged myself with a novel and by attempting to bird-watch from the barred window of the room. There was mystery out there in the morning Manila air, I thought. As I listened to sounds, I hypothesized what strange feathered creature might be making them.

We went jogging that first morning. If you care for your lungs, do not attempt to go for a run on your first morning in Manila. We loped across town, breathing gross air, dodging holes in sidewalks, and in places where there werent any sidewalks, we shared the street with jeepneys.

A jeepney is a vehicle unique to the Philippines. Mechanically, they are a cross between a bus and a jeep, but then decorated in hallucinogenic garishness. Images and slogans are plastered over every available surface, including the windshield. They proclaim the drivers sexual prowess to the same significant extent that they exhort God to bless their trip. Each jeepney has a name, emblazoned in letters so extravagantly ornamented that they strain legibility. As we ran, I read the jeepneys:
Gift of God, Scorpio Boy, Virgin Snow, Fine Lover, May God Grant Us A Safe Journey. Images of astrological signs, the Virgin Mary, and plagiarized commercial logos predominated, all rendered in the most eye-popping glossy colors known to science.

There were numerous big hotels in the area, located there for the good view west over Manila Bay. As I ran, I wanted to look in a thousand directions at once: at the street-side spectacle around me, at the skyscrapers overhead, the whirring colors of the umpteen jeepneys, and even occasionally at the pocked street itself, so as to avoid tripping.

We jogged through the mile-long Rizal Park, where practioners of tai chi and homeless men and women could be seen in equal measure. At the end of the park, a large square pool featured a model of the archipelago. Little chunky islands like paiper-mach?demonstrated the diverse sizes and shapes of the 7107 bits of land that are designated as the Filipino nation. My love of maps was excited by this encounter with an acre-sized topography. I stopped my run and studied it for a few minutes. Large cone-like volcanoes rose from several of the islands, painted as if they were snowcapped, which they are certainly not. The islands of Luzon (where Manila is located) and Mindanao are the largest landmasses by a wide margin. Together, they comprise over 65% of the land area. A thousand of the smallest islands do not measure even one square kilometer; a further 2500 even lack names!

When we got back to the Pension, I was raging hungry, and the food was slow to arrive. I had several cups of coffee and a pile of fruit. The mangos and bananas came with a nice local yogurt.

This was to be our day of chores in Manila before venturing out the following morning to Noahs site.For readers not familiar with Peace Corps, each volunteer is assigned for a two-year assignment at a particular job, in a particular town. The combination of address and job description is referred to as the volunteers site. After breakfast, Noah and I went to the Peace Corps offices on Roxas Boulevard. I checked my e-mail, and sent out notification to friends and relatives of my status. I mentioned the Hobbit House. I also amused myself by turning down an electronic party invitation with the unusual excuse that I was in Southeast Asia, sorry, cant make it.
We arranged a flight for the next day.

The next task was to pick up Noahs camera lenses, which had been dropped off for a cleaning several weeks previously. For this, we had to travel to a different part of Manila, the district of Cubao. A train ride was necessary to get to Cubao, some miles from the waterfront.

The presence of terrorist cells in the Philippines have led to bag checks as a fact of life whenever entering a shopping mall, bank, or system of transport. I unpacked my bag to guards?observation hundreds of times in the next month, resenting it every time. Of course, the events of September 11th have softened my resistance to security precautions. This was back in June and July, before the attacks in the US, but after the beheading of an American tourist on the Philippine island of Palawan.

In Cubao, we navigated through a maze of shopping malls inside and out, and found that Noahs camera lenses were not yet cleaned. I was frustrated with the lack of good customer service, not realizing that the behaviors that I deem good service to my American view are not necessarily the same qualities that Filipinos look for in their commercial establishments. Noah handled the poor service with remarkable restraint and aplomb. I felt like hitting the snotty brat who was working behind the counter. Noah negotiated a better deal, and then we adjourned for lunch.

We dined with a fascinating character. Noah knew of this odd place, and led the way past a stagnant lake with large lumpy sculptures of Disney characters rising in the middle. (It is worth noting that all of the water around Manila is hopelessly polluted. Eight rivers run through the city, and Noah informed me grimly that all eight were classified as biologically dead. Past the lake we came to another enormous shopping mall. I had not expected malls and pop commerce itself to be such a prominent part of life in urban regions of the Philippines, but malls proved to be the mainstay of my experiences while in Manila.

This was a half empty mall, where the odd restaurant was located. The Cod Building, as it was called, was partially occupied by active retail, but we had to hike up through several empty floors of space before finding the EartHaven cafe Now if I was surprised to find a culture of materialism and shopping in Manila, then I was truly floored to find an organic cafe in the midst of it. Noah knew the owner, Edgard, and he introduced us. We all sat down at a rustic table and had a delicious lunch of pasta and lemongrass tea and little wheat-germ candy bars. Edgard was intense and opinionated. Talking to him, I got the send that he had been forced to explain his beliefs and politics many times before, and he rose to the task with a practiced air and (it seemed to me) a standard and well-worn series of phrases.

Some might think that an Environmentalist Filipino would be an oxymoronic description, but Edgard fit the bill. Besides running this strange little haven of hippie foodstuffs in Manila, he also owned and ran a Geo Farm in the Sierra Madre of north Luzon. His environmental beliefs meshed with my own, but he also had a lot of the so-called New Age influencing his mindset. He mentioned auras, and how he could see them. He waved his hand at the area around my head, as if to indicate like this one here.
Digesting my lunch was just the opportunity that latent jet lag had been awaiting. It overwhelmed me. Back at the Pension, I fell asleep for several hours, and only woke because we had to go run some more time-essential chores. I needed caffeine.

We got it at, of all places, a Starbucks franchise, one of ten in Metro Manila. It was just like an American Starbucks, decorated in that well-designed but canned style that may be found so many places in DC and in America. There were differences: the security guard at the door, searching my bag for bombs, the prices in pesos, and the clientele: no Dupont Circle yuppies here! I ordered in English, but all the conversation around us was in Tagalog. Noah lamented his ability to speak well in the national dialect, and assured me that he would be in command linguistically to a greater degree when we got to Panay the next day.
Noahs friend Carmela and her sister Sophia met us at the coffeehouse. They were cute and animated to me in a phenomenon unique to Asian women and puppies: the smaller they are, the cuter they appear to me, and the more energy they seem to possess.

We talked mostly about disgusting foods, a subject that evidently fascinated us all. They detailed some Filipino dishes for me: dinuguan or chocolate meat,for instance, a dish of cooked offal and blood, and bulalo, a sort of kneecap soup. Most repulsive was balut, an embryonic duck egg, cooked just before it is ready to hatch! Balut adventurers from the Western world (Noah included) can distinguish the beak, feathers, and legs of the developed birds as they crunch them down. I decided then and there not to try it, though in most cases I pride myself on the breadth of foods I consume. I have sampled widely among the species, but Ill leave balut to the macho Filipino men who believe that it jacks up their virility better than Viagra or Spanish Fly.

We also discussed Noahs remarkable propensity for hurting himself. He listed off a terrific series of ailments that have befallen him in this country, and Carmela, Sophia, and I listened in awe. Noah was attacked by a colony of stinging ants while dangling on a rope 40 feet above ground in the rainforest. He writhed in pain on his tether, unable to descend, unable to escape. Another time, he groped his way to an outhouse in the midnight darkness, only to put his hand directly atop a scorpion. A month previously, Noah had been guiding a photographer from National Geographic through the rainforest in search of hornbills. A branch smacked Noah in the face, carrying with it a small leech. Hours later, they noticed that the leech had attached itself to Noahs eyeball. He told us, as he was pulling it off, there was a tremendous pressure. I wasnt sure which was going to go first, the leech, or my eye! Then he got roundworms. Then he fell down a cliff. Then he was in a motorcycle sidecar when the motorcycle flipped over and crashed. All these stories he told in a jocular way, as if it was all happening to someone else in a movie. He grew somber when he related a final tale, of how he became trapped underwater when a bamboo bridge collapsed on top of him. Pinned by its lattice structure, he nearly drowned, and escaped just as he was on the verge of blacking out. He has not told his mother about that one, he told us, which we knew to mean that it really shook him up, and counted as being truly dangerous.

We four went to dinner at a restaurant called Shwarma, which served Indian food. Shwarma was smarmy. We were seated in their lone upstairs room, with a wide low table surrounded by flat cushions. A stray cat had skinnied through a broken windowpane and had deposited a stringy turd on one of the cushions. To my utter shock, the waitress left it there after I pointed it out to her. We ate there anyways; I was hungry. I had eggplant dip and pita bread, which was tasty, though I worried about its level of contaminants.[For the remainder of the story, check out the following website:
Callan's Gypsy Journal]

Day of gray
by Todd Huey

Damped mood, mellow, less
Dramatic- calm as the trees
on a gray motionless morning.

The clouds themselves seem lazy
no place to go, no one to see.
Legs up, sandals off, knees to chest.
my outgoingness now introverted. Deep
peaceful breaths fill my lungs.

My brain is not craving the many
half read books.

Daydreaming is a part of who
I am on this day of gray as the
unique clouds are to the sky.

Staring off into nothing

The meditation of a daydream
The mind stops leaving something deep
inside to take over.
The true meditation
Natural in its form

No special place you need to be

At an instant everything goes quiet and still

The picture in my head is as the framed
art hanging on the wall.

Seeing my surroundings only with
eyes.

Mind blank as the pages of my journal
Sitting motionless, mime-like

An instinctual need to put my arms
around myself to embrace myself.

Comfort in a day of gray as my
hands rest on my shoulders and
mind opens to nothing and everything all
at once.

Immediatism Excerpt
Pirated from Hakim Bey

Immediatism means to enhance individuals by providing a matrix of friendship, not to belittle them by sacrificing their `ownness` to group-thinkÖ What must be overcome is not individuality per se, but rather the addiction to bitter loneliness which characterizes consciousness in the 20th [and 21st] century.

Capitalism only supports certain kinds of groups, the nuclear family for example, or `the people I know at my job,` because such groups are already self-alienated and hooked into the Work/Consume/Die structure. Other kinds of groups may be allowed, but will lack all support from societal structure, and thus find themselves facing grotesque challenges & difficulties which appear under the guise of `bad luck`.

The first & most innocent-seeming obstacle to any Immediatist project will be the `busyness` or `need to make a living` faced by each of its associates. However there is no real innocence here- only our profound ignorance of the ways in which Capitalism itself is organized to prevent all genuine conviviality.

No sooner have a group of friends begun to visualize immediate goals realizable only thru solidarity & cooperation, when suddenly one of them will be offered a `good` job in Cincinnati or teaching English in Taiwan [or Japan!]óor else they`ll lose the `good` job they already have and be reduced to a state of misery which precludes their very enjoyment of the group`s project or goals (ie. They`ll become `depressed`). At the most mundane-seeming level, the group will fail to agree on a day of the week for meetings because everyone is `busy`. But this is not mundane. It`s sheer cosmic evil. We whip ourselves into froths of indignation over `oppression` & `unjust laws` when in fact these abstractions have little impact on our daily livesówhile that which really makes us miserable goes unnoticed, written off to `busyness` or `distraction` or even to the nature of reality itself (`Well, I can`t live without a job`).

Yes, perhaps it`s true we can`t `live` without a jobóalthough I hope we`re grown-up enough to know the difference between LIFE & the accumulation of a bunch of fucking GADGETS. Still, we must constantly remind ourselves (since our culture won`t do it for us) that this monster called WORK remains the precise & exact target of our rebellious wrath, the one single most oppressive reality we face.