I'm going to try to turn a pet peeve into beauty; let me know how well I do.
I get very annoyed whenever I hear (or read) about the "unprecedented" violence, unrest and precariousness we face "in the world today."
There is nothing "unprecedented" about it. Instead, there is a constant voice, in each age that cries out that we are on the brink of total disaster. (At least since people began writing down their ideas, about five thousand years ago. Maybe writing is the trouble...)
I do not deny that we face serious problems and danger, and that these take new forms than they did before. But, we survived the Ice Age, the Dark Ages, and at least the beginning of the Atomic Age. The unthinkable happened – events no one had thought to worry about – and here we are.
More than this, for the first time in recorded history, we have structures such as child labor laws, and domestic violence laws, and the UN – that often fail, yes, but that exist to protect the vulnerable, that we now take for granted, and that never existed before on such a scale.
Maybe there is a function in human perception that causes some to insist that we are on the brink of total unprecedented disaster.
Where are the voices that celebrate how we are evolving ever-more into peace-, justice- and kindness-loving creatures?
Here’s mine: we are so screwed up, we fail, and yet we keep creating beauty.
How’d I do?
Monday, March 16, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Three Cups of Tea
Have you heard about this book, or Greg Mortenson? Maybe what’s flicked across your radar is the story of a man who failed to climb K2, instead found, in a tiny village on the edge of its glacier, sustenance so deep and nourishing that he promised to build the people a school, for their children whose classroom was a teacherless hillside, math done with sticks in soft earth.
He has since built 78 schools for boys and girls across the rural areas of Pakistan and Afghanistan. When he made his first promise, in 1993, he owned nothing – he lived in his car, worked as a nurse. He had no idea how to raise the $12,000 needed to build a school.
He had no political agenda – he simply built schools, and paid the teachers the people chose among themselves. Of the two fatwa’s issued against him, one was overruled by the Ayatollah’s of Iran themselves, the other by a local shariah court.
While the Taliban is once again energetically blowing up girls schools, Mortenson travels eight months a year here to raise funds and awareness, and four months a year in Pakistan and Afghanistan to check in on existing and future schools.
His vision is so powerful and effective, this book is now required reading for our State Department.
Read this book and let your notions of possible and impossible, and scarcity and abundance be thrown into a swirling, heady, welcome chaos.
He has since built 78 schools for boys and girls across the rural areas of Pakistan and Afghanistan. When he made his first promise, in 1993, he owned nothing – he lived in his car, worked as a nurse. He had no idea how to raise the $12,000 needed to build a school.
He had no political agenda – he simply built schools, and paid the teachers the people chose among themselves. Of the two fatwa’s issued against him, one was overruled by the Ayatollah’s of Iran themselves, the other by a local shariah court.
While the Taliban is once again energetically blowing up girls schools, Mortenson travels eight months a year here to raise funds and awareness, and four months a year in Pakistan and Afghanistan to check in on existing and future schools.
His vision is so powerful and effective, this book is now required reading for our State Department.
Read this book and let your notions of possible and impossible, and scarcity and abundance be thrown into a swirling, heady, welcome chaos.
My Stroke of Insight by Dr. Jill Bolte Taylor
Imagine if you reorganize how your mind processes information, releasing painful triggers and keeping only happy ones. For good. This is what Jill Bolte Taylor, a neuroanatomist, got to do. Well yes, at age 37 she had to suffer a massive debilitating stroke from which she took eight years to recover for the privilege, but she did get to do this.
Sometimes a book comes along and so touches my life that it ever after informs the most intimate inner processes of my thinking and feeling. This book did that for me.
Consider this: when something triggers an emotion in us, a series of chemicals which we experience as fear, excitement, grief etc. goes through our blood stream in 90 seconds. Any experience we have of that emotion longer than 90 seconds is because we VOLUNTARILY keep thinking about whatever triggered us. We chose these thoughts. We can chose other thoughts.
But generally, we don’t – we mull and attach and prolong the feeling. Sometimes this is a good idea, sometimes not, but it is always a choice. Knowing that is incredibly freeing.
This is just one tidbit from Taylor's story, which is amazing both in terms of how wisely and imaginatively she handled her recovery back from a pre-verbal state, and in terms of how she made use of the fresh start that had been forced upon her.
For anyone who’s tried to meditate and wondered what the heck they were doing, this is for you.
Sometimes a book comes along and so touches my life that it ever after informs the most intimate inner processes of my thinking and feeling. This book did that for me.
Consider this: when something triggers an emotion in us, a series of chemicals which we experience as fear, excitement, grief etc. goes through our blood stream in 90 seconds. Any experience we have of that emotion longer than 90 seconds is because we VOLUNTARILY keep thinking about whatever triggered us. We chose these thoughts. We can chose other thoughts.
But generally, we don’t – we mull and attach and prolong the feeling. Sometimes this is a good idea, sometimes not, but it is always a choice. Knowing that is incredibly freeing.
This is just one tidbit from Taylor's story, which is amazing both in terms of how wisely and imaginatively she handled her recovery back from a pre-verbal state, and in terms of how she made use of the fresh start that had been forced upon her.
For anyone who’s tried to meditate and wondered what the heck they were doing, this is for you.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
What if... joy?
What if we were exactly perfect the way we are? What if we could all just groove on our innate perfection, delight in how much bad TV we watch, laugh at our inconsistent behavior, rejoice in the messes we make.
So much gets caught up in how we want to be seen by others and by ourselves, sometimes we don't savor an aspect of ourselves because our only relationship to it is trying to change it. I'm not against change. Not by a long shot. I see how certain habits of body or mind do not serve me and I work to eliminate/adapt /update/release them.
But what if we allowed for the idea that, along the way – no matter how fat, lazy, broke, dishonest, undisciplined we may be – we never cease to be magnificent. The movie Leaving Las Vegas was a sort of homage to that idea.
I believe that all our actions of body and mind can only serve to reveal the joy of our lives, or veil it. We cannot create joy, anymore than we can destroy it. We can only interfere with our experience of it – and even then, some of the ways we chose to block our own joy are downright beautiful in their absurdity, the way rust on iron can be a beautiful color.
What if .... joy?
Friday, January 2, 2009
Seven Pounds
I just saw Will Smith's latest movie last night, Seven Pounds. Deeply affecting when I saw it, it haunted my dreams all night.
Without "spoiling" the plot or ending, I can tell you that the reviews I read missed the point completely. They say it is a strange and failed vehicle for a story about redemption, or forgiveness, or repentance. It is none of these things.
It is an incredibly beautiful character study of a man who is going down, unstoppably. Suffering from what I would call a terrible mental illness induced by a horrific trauma, he does not perceive any way or reason to stop his own descent, but he does see a way to harness its sheer energy and give it meaning, make it resonant and beautiful.
This is a tragedy, a man whose fatal flaw is that he ceases to perceive his own value, but his strength of character and beauty of soul are such that he strives to use his life to bring beauty and possibility around him.
A devastating storm has its beauty, and as one watches it one can only pray that one's home is never touched by it.
I was especially affected by the story as I have a cousin who suffered the same trauma, and, after careful, painful years of rebuilding his life, became a whole new person. In a sense that is what Will Smith's character strives to do. See this movie, and tell me if you think he achieved it.
Without "spoiling" the plot or ending, I can tell you that the reviews I read missed the point completely. They say it is a strange and failed vehicle for a story about redemption, or forgiveness, or repentance. It is none of these things.
It is an incredibly beautiful character study of a man who is going down, unstoppably. Suffering from what I would call a terrible mental illness induced by a horrific trauma, he does not perceive any way or reason to stop his own descent, but he does see a way to harness its sheer energy and give it meaning, make it resonant and beautiful.
This is a tragedy, a man whose fatal flaw is that he ceases to perceive his own value, but his strength of character and beauty of soul are such that he strives to use his life to bring beauty and possibility around him.
A devastating storm has its beauty, and as one watches it one can only pray that one's home is never touched by it.
I was especially affected by the story as I have a cousin who suffered the same trauma, and, after careful, painful years of rebuilding his life, became a whole new person. In a sense that is what Will Smith's character strives to do. See this movie, and tell me if you think he achieved it.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Season's Greetings
For Mary, and for You and Me too
long journey. darkness. silence. doors slamming shut.
you most exhausted with your massive weighty belly: no way out.
worn out, disgusted by the barn, unwashed animals,
not even a small bowl of clean water or the tiniest lamp.
each of us has been here, wondered, why me? wondered, why go on?
yet the waters break by themselves.
into the dark manger of our fears, our shame, our divine new life is born.
not without excruciating labor, but when the bright new babe is in our arms
pain and past are washed clean, washed away,
in the starlight of joy,
the brilliance of the eternal present,
the sparkling magic of Christmas.
long journey. darkness. silence. doors slamming shut.
you most exhausted with your massive weighty belly: no way out.
worn out, disgusted by the barn, unwashed animals,
not even a small bowl of clean water or the tiniest lamp.
each of us has been here, wondered, why me? wondered, why go on?
yet the waters break by themselves.
into the dark manger of our fears, our shame, our divine new life is born.
not without excruciating labor, but when the bright new babe is in our arms
pain and past are washed clean, washed away,
in the starlight of joy,
the brilliance of the eternal present,
the sparkling magic of Christmas.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Creativity
Today I wish simply to share this quote from Rainer Maria Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet:
In one creative thought a thousand forgotten nights of love come to life again and fill it with majesty and exaltation.
And those who come together in the nights and are entwined in rocking delight (even if they have made a mistake and embrace blindly), perform a solemn task and gather sweetness, depth and strength for the song of some future poet, who will appear in order to say ecstasies that are unsayable.
This to me is the cycle of beauty. Were I to have a religion, this could be its credo. How thrilling to find it expressed so perfectly, over 100 years ago.
In one creative thought a thousand forgotten nights of love come to life again and fill it with majesty and exaltation.
And those who come together in the nights and are entwined in rocking delight (even if they have made a mistake and embrace blindly), perform a solemn task and gather sweetness, depth and strength for the song of some future poet, who will appear in order to say ecstasies that are unsayable.
This to me is the cycle of beauty. Were I to have a religion, this could be its credo. How thrilling to find it expressed so perfectly, over 100 years ago.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Loving Kindness
Dinner with a friend recently spurred the following musing in my mind: what if no matter what do, we embody loving kindness?
Mostly, I’ve thought of the practice of loving kindness as an effort, a mindfulness, a way of regarding and treating people that is different from my normal reactive way. But assuming we are indeed divine creations, can any of our actions not be loving?
I’ve been spared so much by turning away from people who were mean. In a sense, they were guard dogs against danger. Every time I’ve been hurt or angered, I’ve also been spurred to move on to a truer place, impelled to find a job/lover/home/perspective where/with whom I could best become who I want to be, who I believe I was born to be.
I think of the Zen koan, ‘Before enlightenment, chop wood and carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood and carry water.’
What if loving kindness were not so much about altering how we behave or perceive others, and rather accept that there is nothing we can do that does not become fuel for our own or others’ eventual evolution and greater capacity for love and awareness? What if we all are (and all we are is) loving kindness, and our only task is to accept that?
Am I on to something here, or is it just another grease fire in the brain pan?
Does this make sense outside my head? Pray do tell.
Mostly, I’ve thought of the practice of loving kindness as an effort, a mindfulness, a way of regarding and treating people that is different from my normal reactive way. But assuming we are indeed divine creations, can any of our actions not be loving?
I’ve been spared so much by turning away from people who were mean. In a sense, they were guard dogs against danger. Every time I’ve been hurt or angered, I’ve also been spurred to move on to a truer place, impelled to find a job/lover/home/perspective where/with whom I could best become who I want to be, who I believe I was born to be.
I think of the Zen koan, ‘Before enlightenment, chop wood and carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood and carry water.’
What if loving kindness were not so much about altering how we behave or perceive others, and rather accept that there is nothing we can do that does not become fuel for our own or others’ eventual evolution and greater capacity for love and awareness? What if we all are (and all we are is) loving kindness, and our only task is to accept that?
Am I on to something here, or is it just another grease fire in the brain pan?
Does this make sense outside my head? Pray do tell.
Monday, November 3, 2008
This Moment
Like many of you, I’m thrilled and anxious when considering the outcome of tomorrow’s election.
By some grace, though, a joyous, steadying thought keeps coming back: we made it this far. Through the campaign, through the last fifty years, last four hundred years.
The past two elections disappointed me deeply, not only for the resulting administration, but also for the alienation I then felt from the rest of the country.
Now I’m looking around, and I like what I see. While nothing is certain, one thing is clear: an African-American man has a very clear shot at becoming our 44th president, less than fifty years after young men and women of his skin shade had to protest for the right to vote (not to forget the open savage violence when they attempted to register).
Has this been pointed out enough? Can it be?
1963
By some grace, though, a joyous, steadying thought keeps coming back: we made it this far. Through the campaign, through the last fifty years, last four hundred years.
The past two elections disappointed me deeply, not only for the resulting administration, but also for the alienation I then felt from the rest of the country.
Now I’m looking around, and I like what I see. While nothing is certain, one thing is clear: an African-American man has a very clear shot at becoming our 44th president, less than fifty years after young men and women of his skin shade had to protest for the right to vote (not to forget the open savage violence when they attempted to register).
Has this been pointed out enough? Can it be?
1963
2008
I like the new signs better, don’t you?
I’m not saying racism is over in this country. I just want to say I’m proud of us. I look across the ocean to France: the Algerian Revolution ended in 1962, and Arabs in France have made few real gains in status. Not to oversimplify, as that is a multi-dimensionally different situation, but look at us.
Just look at us.
I don’t know how I’ll feel on Wednesday; emotions are riding high. But right now, for the first time in a long time, I am proud to be American – not just a New Yorker!
Friday, October 17, 2008
p.s. it’s the economy stupid
To clarify, the previous entry was in no way an attempt to prove that Obama is the better candidate. I know that economic policy choices will make an enormous difference in how the next administration affects our country. I also know that I don’t sufficiently understand our economy, or what it needs, to make a good determination along those lines. I am voting based on what I do know and understand.
That’s the idea: everyone is voting that way.
That’s my common ground with people whose politics appall me. Holding to that perspective keeps me from being so angry or anxious.
That’s what beauty does for me, and that’s what I’m doing here, trying to find the beauty.
Comments welcome, as always.
That’s the idea: everyone is voting that way.
That’s my common ground with people whose politics appall me. Holding to that perspective keeps me from being so angry or anxious.
That’s what beauty does for me, and that’s what I’m doing here, trying to find the beauty.
Comments welcome, as always.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Love thy Republican as thy Self
I’m dreading voting day. Or rather, the day after. Will there be that cataclysmic disappointment, that same wondering who-the-hell-are-my-fellow-Americans as there was back in ’04?
In anticipation, I’ve done some soul-searching.
In my life today, there are some very wonderful people who I know are going to vote republican. This does not change my affection for them. I’m disturbed by the faceless masses, the ones ‘out there,’ the alleged 36 or 48 or 52 percent of Americans who think McCain/Palin is the way to go.
Just as I may be disturbing them.
I’m voting for Obama because of his interest in civil rights, that is, for example, early childhood education, legal abortion, legislation for gays. I think the world is a better place when women can trust they are covered for the 1% their birth control fails, where children can read and count and where people are encouraged to love.
This may be as crazy as voting for someone because of gun control, or the life of an embryo, or fear of terrorism.
I’m voting for the leader who makes me feel more safe and more free than the other.
Isn’t that what we are all doing?
If I can keep that in heart and mind, maybe this time I will stay whole when we learn which way the country is divided. Neither too glum, nor too gleeful, as the case may be. Rather, ready to build bridges. To somewhere. (wink)
In anticipation, I’ve done some soul-searching.
In my life today, there are some very wonderful people who I know are going to vote republican. This does not change my affection for them. I’m disturbed by the faceless masses, the ones ‘out there,’ the alleged 36 or 48 or 52 percent of Americans who think McCain/Palin is the way to go.
Just as I may be disturbing them.
I’m voting for Obama because of his interest in civil rights, that is, for example, early childhood education, legal abortion, legislation for gays. I think the world is a better place when women can trust they are covered for the 1% their birth control fails, where children can read and count and where people are encouraged to love.
This may be as crazy as voting for someone because of gun control, or the life of an embryo, or fear of terrorism.
I’m voting for the leader who makes me feel more safe and more free than the other.
Isn’t that what we are all doing?
If I can keep that in heart and mind, maybe this time I will stay whole when we learn which way the country is divided. Neither too glum, nor too gleeful, as the case may be. Rather, ready to build bridges. To somewhere. (wink)
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Clouds and diamonds
Joy: Yesterday, I shared with my mother the awe-inspiring sight of overlapping mighty gray and bright white cumulus clouds, against shining blue sky. Yesterday my mother lifted her blue-green-gray eyes and gasped at the sky and put her hand to her mouth, something she hasn't done in months. Then we smiled at each other completely. All our love is in this.
How to explain what it is like to love someone when all context is gone? I love her because of the past, yes of course, but I love her too because of who she is in this moment. Almost more than ever, for disappointment and expecation and roles are gone.
Does she think me her daughter? Her mother? Does it matter? And who is she to me? No longer parent, certainly still family, somehow become native country. She is my native country. More than the country where I was born or the one where she was born.
I weep for missing her active daily presence in my life, but I weep more at the beauty of the grace of learning to love someone so purely, the grace of being loved with the shimmering, penetrating embrace of innocence and complete acceptance.
I wish you all this grace, though it tears life open, though it breaks one’s heart completely, for it is the crack in the earth which reveals all the diamonds.
Shine on, you crazy diamond.
How to explain what it is like to love someone when all context is gone? I love her because of the past, yes of course, but I love her too because of who she is in this moment. Almost more than ever, for disappointment and expecation and roles are gone.
Does she think me her daughter? Her mother? Does it matter? And who is she to me? No longer parent, certainly still family, somehow become native country. She is my native country. More than the country where I was born or the one where she was born.
I weep for missing her active daily presence in my life, but I weep more at the beauty of the grace of learning to love someone so purely, the grace of being loved with the shimmering, penetrating embrace of innocence and complete acceptance.
I wish you all this grace, though it tears life open, though it breaks one’s heart completely, for it is the crack in the earth which reveals all the diamonds.
Shine on, you crazy diamond.
Friday, July 18, 2008
My Body is My Temple
The first time I heard someone say, 'No, I won't eat [that], my body is my temple,' it was the 70s and I was about 10 years old. I was struck by the comment, but had no idea what it meant.
Now, I think I’m starting to get it. A temple is where we worship, where we go to find peace and solace, to seek the experience of God however we define that.
I have often gotten caught up, instead, in worshipping the temple.
But lately I’ve come to understand that when I think, My body is my temple, this is not vanity.
My body is my temple in so much as it needs to be a peaceful place through which I can experience the divine. To be peaceful that way, this body needs 9 hours sleep, meditation, good food, lots of walking etc., and also the company of friends, the joy and sorrow of love, the experience of wilderness and all forms of beauty, perceived and expressed.
Seeing myself this way changes the way I look at others too. When I really get into it, I no longer see young or old, slender or fat, distinctions that are all about status and worldly power, anyway.
When I really experience my body as a temple, I get to see everyone else’s body as a temple too. And then, well, I have a really nice day.
I hope you have a nice day too.
Now, I think I’m starting to get it. A temple is where we worship, where we go to find peace and solace, to seek the experience of God however we define that.
I have often gotten caught up, instead, in worshipping the temple.
But lately I’ve come to understand that when I think, My body is my temple, this is not vanity.
My body is my temple in so much as it needs to be a peaceful place through which I can experience the divine. To be peaceful that way, this body needs 9 hours sleep, meditation, good food, lots of walking etc., and also the company of friends, the joy and sorrow of love, the experience of wilderness and all forms of beauty, perceived and expressed.
Seeing myself this way changes the way I look at others too. When I really get into it, I no longer see young or old, slender or fat, distinctions that are all about status and worldly power, anyway.
When I really experience my body as a temple, I get to see everyone else’s body as a temple too. And then, well, I have a really nice day.
I hope you have a nice day too.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
... and a chipmunk in a pear tree
From outside my window, something sweet for you as the holiday weekend draws to a close.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
come see the water fall
There is a fairy goddess creature on the East River of Manhattan. She stands so tall, facing north, and you cannot really see her face. But if you approach her from the south, especially at night, you will see her ever-flowing white hair pouring off her shoulders. Or you might think someone had opened a zipper in the night sky and let the heavenly waters pour out.
I am not making this up. Well, maybe the part about the zipper and the fairy, but not the part about the water, and the 100 foot fall from the sky. If you don't believe me click here.
New York City has been graced with the work of Olafur Eliasson and his vision of four waterfalls around the East River and under the Brooklyn Bridge.
I love and cherish the interest of artists from around the world to grace my home town with their wild ideas, and I am so grateful that this city is a place for wild ideas to flourish and be realized.
Most of all, visiting the falls last night, especially as darkness set and rendered the scaffolding invisible, while the light on the falling water made them glow, I experienced a very adult and childlike sense of magic and wonder, one where my intellectual understanding of what I saw in no way interfered with the near mystical awe.
Thank you Olafur, thank you New York City, thank you Public Art Fund.
And you who read this, come and see for yourselves. The falls will be there through mid-October. And try to be good: resist the urge to climb the scaffolding and ride the cool white wave...
Thursday, June 26, 2008
on a lighter note
Paul and I went recently to MoMA. They've moved some paintings since I was last there; I missed seeing Klimt's Forest but delighted in the Pollack room where my eyes feasted a long while. (above, detail from "Full Fathom Five")
Is it odd or fitting that it was in this museum of visual art that I discovered how easily the world can be deprived of color?
One hallway, on the third floor I believe, was drenched in yellow light. All other colors vanished. I tried to remember how colors work... Ah yes, blue lets in all the colors except blue which it reflects back. So what if there is no blue in the light? In this case, everything -- faces, clothing, hands -- was in gray scale of yellow to black. No orange, red, pinks, purple, blue, green or white. It was awful.
If I were ever captured and jailed in some distopian future, that would possibly be the worse punishment. I did not know this was possible without prior injury to my eyes or somesuch.
It surely made me hunger for color immediately -- Paul and I raced through the long pool of yellow light to the other side of the corridor where colors returned.
I need all my colors. The deep purples and the soft greens and sunny oranges. They feed my eyes and my soul. Sometimes I envy the birds' and the bees' ability to see even more colors than I do. Not one color less will do, no, not even one less.
Is it odd or fitting that it was in this museum of visual art that I discovered how easily the world can be deprived of color?
One hallway, on the third floor I believe, was drenched in yellow light. All other colors vanished. I tried to remember how colors work... Ah yes, blue lets in all the colors except blue which it reflects back. So what if there is no blue in the light? In this case, everything -- faces, clothing, hands -- was in gray scale of yellow to black. No orange, red, pinks, purple, blue, green or white. It was awful.
If I were ever captured and jailed in some distopian future, that would possibly be the worse punishment. I did not know this was possible without prior injury to my eyes or somesuch.
It surely made me hunger for color immediately -- Paul and I raced through the long pool of yellow light to the other side of the corridor where colors returned.
I need all my colors. The deep purples and the soft greens and sunny oranges. They feed my eyes and my soul. Sometimes I envy the birds' and the bees' ability to see even more colors than I do. Not one color less will do, no, not even one less.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Yesterday's Post, last month's news
I don't often read the newspaper, so I found out from some friends on Monday that the Bodies Exhibit has been forced by the NY Attorney General to post the following disclaimer at its NYC exhibit entrance and website:
Disclaimer: This exhibit displays human remains of Chinese citizens or residents which were originally received by the Chinese Bureau of Police. The Chinese Bureau of Police may receive bodies from Chinese prisons. Premier cannot independently verify that the human remains you are viewing are not those of persons who were incarcerated in Chinese prisons.
This exhibit displays full body cadavers as well as human body parts, organs, fetuses and embryos that come from cadavers of Chinese citizens or residents. With respect to the human parts, organs, fetuses and embryos you are viewing, Premier relies solely on the representations of its Chinese partners and cannot independently verify that they do not belong to persons executed while incarcerated in Chinese prisons.
Worse, yes it gets worse: in China, the families of executed prisoners, when they are even notified of the death at all, have a choice: pay for the room and board of the prisoner’s incarceration, including the bullet used for execution, or receive a large sum of money for the body parts.
I am horrified that people can know this and still pay almost $30 to see the exhibit. I am horrified that the exhibitors know this and still collect the money instead of immediately closing the shows, which are all over the world.
That is what yesterday's post is about. Like I said it is not pretty, but perhaps sometimes outrage can be a form a beauty? What do you think?
Disclaimer: This exhibit displays human remains of Chinese citizens or residents which were originally received by the Chinese Bureau of Police. The Chinese Bureau of Police may receive bodies from Chinese prisons. Premier cannot independently verify that the human remains you are viewing are not those of persons who were incarcerated in Chinese prisons.
This exhibit displays full body cadavers as well as human body parts, organs, fetuses and embryos that come from cadavers of Chinese citizens or residents. With respect to the human parts, organs, fetuses and embryos you are viewing, Premier relies solely on the representations of its Chinese partners and cannot independently verify that they do not belong to persons executed while incarcerated in Chinese prisons.
Worse, yes it gets worse: in China, the families of executed prisoners, when they are even notified of the death at all, have a choice: pay for the room and board of the prisoner’s incarceration, including the bullet used for execution, or receive a large sum of money for the body parts.
I am horrified that people can know this and still pay almost $30 to see the exhibit. I am horrified that the exhibitors know this and still collect the money instead of immediately closing the shows, which are all over the world.
That is what yesterday's post is about. Like I said it is not pretty, but perhaps sometimes outrage can be a form a beauty? What do you think?
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
This one will not be pretty
Six cents for the bullet to the back of the head
Of your man
Whom you have not seen in months
Who was taken from your bed in the middle of the night
For a crime that he may or may not have committed,
A crime that may or may not be a crime.
Six cents on top of the room and board
For which you will have to pay
The room being his tiny prison cell
The food being maggotty rice
A bill for things you never wanted.
A bill that is more than you can afford,
and already the children's bellies growl.
Ah! but they offer you a way out: let us sell his body for parts
Sell his body, he's dead now, what difference does it make.
Better yet, we'll pay for everything, we'll even give you money
Lots of money
and we won't even charge you the six cents.
This could be a great honor! He may go from
being a bad criminal to saving lives!
A kidney for a poor young mother whose children need her.
Who knows, he could become famous, yes famous in America!
Altantic City, Las Vegas, New York City.
World famous: Budapest, Madrid, Vienna
Smart people will move his body into a shape -- so clever!
Looks like he's playing soccer! Patty cakes!
Dancing a happy dance!
Good for science. Good for education.
Many people will pay big money to see him! More than you make in a week!
Many fancy people will line up to see him, without his skin, looking like he's playing soccer.
So clever.
So much better than you paying six cents for the bullet we put in his head.
Don't worry over him so much. Did you really like him so much?
How can you like an enemy of the state? What are your political affiliations?
Where were you last week at 9 p.m.?
Of your man
Whom you have not seen in months
Who was taken from your bed in the middle of the night
For a crime that he may or may not have committed,
A crime that may or may not be a crime.
Six cents on top of the room and board
For which you will have to pay
The room being his tiny prison cell
The food being maggotty rice
A bill for things you never wanted.
A bill that is more than you can afford,
and already the children's bellies growl.
Ah! but they offer you a way out: let us sell his body for parts
Sell his body, he's dead now, what difference does it make.
Better yet, we'll pay for everything, we'll even give you money
Lots of money
and we won't even charge you the six cents.
This could be a great honor! He may go from
being a bad criminal to saving lives!
A kidney for a poor young mother whose children need her.
Who knows, he could become famous, yes famous in America!
Altantic City, Las Vegas, New York City.
World famous: Budapest, Madrid, Vienna
Smart people will move his body into a shape -- so clever!
Looks like he's playing soccer! Patty cakes!
Dancing a happy dance!
Good for science. Good for education.
Many people will pay big money to see him! More than you make in a week!
Many fancy people will line up to see him, without his skin, looking like he's playing soccer.
So clever.
So much better than you paying six cents for the bullet we put in his head.
Don't worry over him so much. Did you really like him so much?
How can you like an enemy of the state? What are your political affiliations?
Where were you last week at 9 p.m.?
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Faith on a wing
I found a dragonfly wing this morning. It caught the light just right on my path or I would never have seen it, transparent miracle that it is.
This photo (found online) doesn't show the wing's rainbow irridescence when tilted toward the sun. But it captures exactly the wing's awe-inspiring intricacy.
I am brought to think of a quote from the New Testament Gospels, Matt 6:28-30 28, "And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?"
For those of you who don't know me well, I could not be confused with a Christian, but I have faith -- sometimes large, sometimes little -- and I dip my bucket in many wells.
Sometimes I find a well in texts, scripture and otherwise. Sometimes I find one even deeper, in the impossibly fragile construct of a dragonfly wing.
Where do you dip your bucket?
Friday, June 6, 2008
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