Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Is this what they want? Caffeine and emails? A rat race or democracy? In the West, we tend to think it's the same thing. For how can you have the right to vote without the right to purchase?
In America, the tectonic shifting of rich and the government, keep middle class houses under threat. Is this what they want? In Egypt, Tunisia, etc, do they just want the right to choose which elite will rule over them? Is the experiment they seek possible? How do they build a republic without republicans becoming corrupt?
The challenge we face in the West is corporations perverting our democracy. First it was rich land owners that made the laws, now corporations want to run the society like sweat shop: minimum regulations, low wages and no unions. Hope the family in the Middle East can improve on what we call democracy.
Photo: Too expensive coffee and mobile taken w/ iPhone 3GS, Hipstamatic app (Lucefer VI, Blanko Noir, RedEye Gel)
Friday, February 18, 2011
Saturday, February 12, 2011
The future is only dark for the unprepared. For those who've lose faith in their inner god. Now the dark doesn't have to be scary. In fact, once you've purged a few demons, you can see in the dark much more clearly.
Having been haunted by the demons common to man. I've learned their trick is making you forget they're visitors, not part of your essential self. Demons, like the ego, are baggage that we pick up along our material journey. While on earth, we get mud on our shoes, motes in our eyes and spinach in our teeth. That's a big deal for someone who didn't have a body to start with.
Ego isn't a bad thing, its a pet, an animal that needs taming, an ape that can smoke. If you ever think its civilized - watch out; you could get your face ripped off. We only need the ego for comfort and to talk to egocentric people. Those few of us that shed the ego before death or old age - I'll see you in the dog park.
People free of ego's domination are interesting to talk to. They seem self-contained, comfortable in their own skin and adaptable. Folk around them tend to adjust to higher frequencies. The egoless are centers of gravity, contagions, forces of nature.
Once this state is achieved, time for departure is near. You see, not only is the ego a pet, its also an anchor. The buoyancy of the little god can easily overcome earth's pull without an ego weighing it down. A low pressure system forms overhead, then a whirlwind brings death to the body. So when people say "the good die young" it's because of the weather.
The path to achieving this state of egolessness is boring and wonderful. One technique is to progressively free oneself from fear, learn life's lessons and accept that everything and everyone "out there" is really in here - we are all one. With these elements in place, buoyancy is increased and the spiritual eye opens.
There are all kinds of adventures to be had by just accepting who you are and that you define who that is. No religion required.
See you in the dog park.
Photo: Metro platform from inside subway w/ reflection from window, taken w/ iPhone 3GS, Hipstamatic app (Helga Viking, Float)
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
You can really appreciate water in this place. Diamonds are traded for ice cubes here, silk for refreshment.
When a government demands resources like taxes, blood and loyalty, but can't provide food and water, shelter from cold and ignorance. That government should replaced.
When a government commits violence against it's own people, the most grievous violence of poverty, that government should be overthrown.
When clean water is sacrificed for profit, the culture has turned into cancer, eating it's own people to sustain itself.
When education leads to a degree of unemployment worst than the unskilled experience - it's a type of Hell. It's a part of the pit where your books torment you. Your knowledge harasses you.
It's hot in this place, not because of flames but because of embers. Frustration smolders in the mind stealing sleep. Feet pace. There is no comfort.
Here you can not see the sky. Well you can, but it doesn't recognize you. Believing you to an enemy, you get hot rain. Acid that doesn't nourish the soil. Cracks of dry earth appear across your brow. A forehead like a desert floor.
I'm sipping this holy water for my brothers and sisters in Hell. Where demons in police uniforms test your resolve. I sip this cool water and pray for change.
Photo: ice water, taken w/ iPhone 3GS, Hipstamatic app (Kaimal Mark II, Ina's 1935, Cadet Blue Gel)
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
They think we're tired. Distracted by the internet again. Commerce is returning, stepping around our Revolution. But we're hungry and we can't ate your reforms. You take day old bread, no, thirty year old bread and wrap it a new napkin.
We can't ate oppression. It chokes. Civil liberties stumble with bloated bellies and skinny arms, sitting in this square. Why can't you hear us, our stomach roar. Perhaps our bones, our taxes and foreign aide make you chew so loudly, we seem silent. Just 1000s of mimes in Tahrir.
The baker, once a military man, serves us dishes his children wouldn't eat. They dine on exotic fare like freedom of travel, economic security, marriage and happiness. Billions of calories are consumed by his family, while we wait.
You hate those peeping in the window. Al Jazeera, reporting on the terrible food you serve us. We can't chew fear. We refuse to ate ourselves into oblivion with your poison recipes.
We have just enough strength to starve. Not ourselves, but your machine which grinds us into flour for your companies. We will starve the regime, week by week, until the baker closes his shop of horrors. Just alittle while longer. God willing.
Photo: "Beer and Wine" taken w/ iPhone 3GS, Hipstamatic app (Salvador 84, Pistil)
Sunday, February 6, 2011
These factories. These machines of culture polute the air with notions of class. In the fog people loose themselves, traveling down a path to vanity. With tolls every morning; the wayfarers believe this the road to paradise.
Against the tide of the 7-11 masses, poverty has many faces. Some poor in spirit are big tippers. The line, the cashout, the line, is the rhythm of the nobility. Ancient ways of home preparation is a lost art and even frowned upon as black magic.
Witches and sorcerores who make their own brew, oft wish for exile. Waking up before birds, the boiling cauldrons, the spells can be tiresome. But their coin does not permit otherwise and they accept this.
Look, something wicked this way comes... Oh, another Starbucks.
Photo: coffee cup taken with iPhone 3GS, Hipstamatic app (John S, Pistil, Cherry Shine)
Thursday, February 3, 2011
This guitar is made of blood. Activists write chords to marching feet. Boney, nimble fingers of the Youth, so idealistic because they're fresh from paradise.
January presses skin against steel against wood to make music of this struggle. Bloggers write songs. Political prisoners write songs. Mothers waiting for protesters to come home write suites to a peoples' passion.
If Mubarak breaks our fingers, we play with our tongue, Hendrix style.
Photo: Sylvia, taken w/ iPhone 3GS, Hipstamatic app (Lucifer VI lens, Pistil film)
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone