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Town Hall Commentary
Our voices are made to be heard, and here I can be seen speaking out on a topic which is VERY important to me at my local town meeting this year in Orleans, MA.
ADVENTURES & ATTENDENCES
Adventures & Attendences
This photo was taken on New Years Day, 2012, the year I began this website, at the Remtuck Temple outside of Gangtuk, in the Himalayas, in Sikkim. One of the locked doors at the Temple had a sign written in English, which seemed very odd to me. it read, “No Entry without Purpose.” I’ve tried to follow that guidance wherever I go, and whenever I enter.
The black and white picture was taken in 1964 in the Moslem Bosnian village of Lijesnica. The men are all part of a Catholic village work crew that was in Lijesnica on this day when they spilled the blood of the goat they slaughtered on the roof rafters of the house they were building before joining the peak and celebrating with a toast and the young anthropologist. Zhivali!!
“… it is not through the great skill of the hunter that success is achieved, but through the hunter’s awareness of her/his place in Creation and relationship to all things.” Indigenous American (Crow) wisdom
About this website:
This site was begun in 2010, designed with the intention of helping a half century of written work escape the bounds of its voluntary imprisonment … and, inasmuch as i had been actively traveling three or four month a year for the past few years in SE Asia, India, Africa, and the South China Sea, to also serve as a vehicle for recording and sharing my thoughts and observations as i travelled ’round the planet.
There are three main categories of writings on this site – poetry, travel writings, and other writings (commune stories, memoirs, non-travel stories, and select journal entries). I thrill to the fact there is so much fabulous writing and art being generated these days – in books, magazines, journals, on the web, and elsewhere – TV shows, student created works, plays, fascinating blogs, sculpture, and just plain old good visual and verbal art and intimate essential conversations. I almost resisted adding to the onslaught by not posting these materials, but the jailer was old, looking at death on the horizon, and tired of enforcing the restrictive rules. Besides, the prisoners were deemed by the highest authorities to be as rehabilitated and presentable as they ever would be, at least those that made it out into the blogosphere, mostly all harmless I trust, and restless for a taste of liberty and fresh air. This is also a legacy for my descendants and relatives all. If you want to be more directly in touch with me please go to or visit my FB page.
ADVENTURES & ATTENDENCES
Hook and Ladder
One of the main features of the tiller-truck is its enhanced maneuverability.[13] The independent steering of the front and back wheels allow the tiller to make much sharper turns, which is particularly helpful on narrow streets and in apartment complexes with maze-like roads.[12] An additional feature of the tiller-truck is that its overall length, over 50 feet (15 m) for most models, allows for additional storage of tools and equipment.[13] The extreme length gives compartment capacities that range between 500 and 650 cubic feet (14 and 18 m3) in the trailer with an additional 40 and 60 cubic feet (1.1 and 1.7 m3) in the cab.[13]
THE CHIEF
The Vermont Railroad – front page news
The late 1960s, early 70s was a time of political and social transformative activism unlike anything we had previously known as mostly white youth. And we believed we were the seeds of what would culminate in a genuinely grassroots led revolutionary egalitarian participatory democracy. We were the children of the civil rights movement, allies of the Panthers, the Lords, Weather. We were shocked at the imminent destruction of the natural world. During the winter of 1969-70, as we waited to move onto the farm in Franklin, we put out a newsletter announcing who we were, what we believed in, what we envisioned, and who was welcome to join us. The pages that follow are unedited.
VERMONT RAILROAD
COMMUNE STORIES
Family, friends, faces.
Maia’s mom – see the Philo School of Herbal Energetics.
Kevin Garnett in Africa
When crossing the border
Which you do on foot
From Tanzania to Kenya
The sign that reads, “Welcome to Kenya,”
Which has seen better days
Also marks the start of a strange little piece of Earth
Where you’ve departed Tanzania
But not yet officially entered Kenya
Not until you reach the visa office
Some hundred yards away
And it is in this very space
That dozens of colorfully bejeweled and beaded Masai women
Some with absolutely stunning faces
Have established a free trade zone
Designed to separate the tourist
From any remaining Tanzanian shillings
Left pleading to stay close to home in his pocket
Their technique is masterful
As they grab dozens of colorful necklaces and bracelets
Hold them out to you by the handful
Offer them to you at genuinely low wholesale prices
Bracelets and necklaces you really don’t want
Which they are slipping onto your wrists
And hanging about your neck
As you worry about pickpockets and say
“No, no, no,” in English, German, Mesopotamia, and Swahili
As kindly as you can
“Then keep them as a gift for your wife,” they say,
“Your girlfriend, your daughter, your mother
Take them, they are yours.”
At which moment
You first notice the young tall African man wearing the extra large,
Green T-shirt with the number 5 on it
The word Celtics on it,
And the name Garnett, your favorite player, on it
Standing on the court as it were, here in no-man’s land
Wishing you had your camera
Which is still in some illegal pawnshop
On the wrong side of the tracks in Moshi
Hoping that you will rescue it
To take pictures with it like these
Of the incongruity of Kevin Garnett
Your favorite player
Here in no-man’s land
Against the backdrop of trailer trucks clearing customs
and bejeweled Masai women
When the man sees you looking at him
Approaches you
Asks what you are looking at or want
So you point to his shirt
To the number and name on it
To the words on it
As you say, “It’s my team, my favorite player”
And before you have put your finger down
He has pulled his shirt off
And standing gloriously thin and beautiful above his belt
Just like Kevin Garnett does
He hands his shirt to you,
Says it is yours
As you are saying “No, no, no,”
In English, German, Mesopotamia, and Swahili
To which he replies, “I am African, keep it, it is yours.”
And you want it
Want to give him some money
Or at least a young goat
But at the same moment
The bus driver has taken your arm
Hustling you toward the visa office
And a customs officer watching the event unfold
Is pointing at you,
Moving toward the scorer’s table,
Motioning that you are to give the shirt back
To the half naked Africa standing in no-man’s land
Maybe a little drunk, or a tad crazy,
Or someone with poor impulse control,
Or poor boundaries at the borders, you joke with yourself
Handing him back his shirt with regret
Enter the visa office
And exit ten minutes later
An official visitor to Kenya
About to get back on the bus
Greeted by the same coterie of Masai women
And one familiar Kenyan man
Wearing a black jacket
You cannot imagine where or how he found so quickly
How he grasped the situation so quickly
And is waiving what is clearly your green Kevin Garnett
Number five, official NBA T-shirt
And notwithstanding the bus driver
Trying to move you along
And a bus filled with Indian’s, Kenyans, Tanzanians, and Americans
Who also want to move along
You reach into your pocket
Giving the man your last ten thousand Tanzanian shillings
The equivalent of about seven U.S. dollars
As he gives you the shirt
The Masai women screaming at you
And at him
At the injustice of it all
The ridiculousness of it all
That you are paying for a dirty green T-shirt
When you could have a jewelry box filled with treasure
For even less money
And the bus driver is blowing his horn
And the passengers are waving you forward
And you climb onto the bus
With your new shirt
Checking your pockets
And waving at the Kenyan Kevin Garnett
Who has clearly made the winning shot at the buzzer
And is smiling.
Poetry
