Blages

Friday, May 24, 2013

Serve Spontaneously!

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Cover of "Bhutan"

my dear politicians, politicos, campaigners, party members, workers, would be public reps & (voters), fellow drukpas:

what separates us little compared to what unites us
we share a little yet vastly blessed kingdom in the sacred Himalayas
we come from villages
all of us love chillies
dried beef jerkys
the more than occasional wine
archery
bantering jokes
and if prodded we be related!
then we share the same Monarchs of the Dragon Kingdom
and indeed grew up receiving their profound words of wisdom and pragmatism
guided as such and privileged to be the recipients of their peerless service
kindness
care
concern
compassion
and so much more
as the winds of change storm
as the tides of torrential falls drum and thud the ground beneath yer feet
perhaps it's apt that these are the periods where we are most vulnerable
yet opportunities arise
in such disguises
perhaps these are testing times
but what's a life if not the eventual wait for death?
when little things gets immersive
the bigger view is dimmed
this is when we should be most alert

Gangkhar Puensum from Cher-tang-la (Pronounced...

alive
aware
for if ya actually keep the faith
give it back tenfold or more
whether ye be elected or rejected
remember to serve is to receive
and most people serve on a daily basis
some sweep the streets
others fill in the potholes
many keep yer toilet tanks & sceptics awashed and safe
then there are the majority-
they farm
walk
toil
often making no more than the next meal
or no meals at all
or schools for their kids
hospitals for their health
then we have public servants
they make do with routine-work
doing their bit
day by day

English: Bhutanese people at the Wangdi Phodra...

as accountants
drivers
peons
et al
we have the biz-folks too
they keep the rest employed
try to revv up the economy
the engine that's necessary to keep pace
if not lag behind
often at losses
now when ya understand these even emotionally
if not by intellect
you'd know that to serve is the noblest of callings
to serve as an elected rep of yer own constituency
that much more of a privilege


Taktshang Monastery, Bhutan Français : Le mona...

to serve yer country
such an honor!
and to serve right and humbly
to keep yer ground sound
yer speech right
yer actions well-motivated
yer concerns genuine
this if ya remember and seek fervently-
you're already accepted
remembered
not just publicly
but within yerself
as yerself
since we're a dharma kingdom blessed with living siddhas that ya all know so well
remember the dharma
it will guide yer karma
accept yer karma
it will strengthen yer dharma
and in the end-
you will know more than i the profound words of Nagarjuna:
"all the happiness there is in the world comes from wishing happiness for others; all the misery there is in the world comes from wishing happiness for the self"-
for we are all serving one way or another
if that be the case
why not serve in that ancient and noblest of traditions as our seers and predecessors have done?
as our kings continue to demonstrate without fail
without bail
no other anchor but the brave sail
in purity
striving at nothing but the walk on the Noble Path paved by the Shakyamuni Buddha
who toiled in a manner similar
who wanted to serve but did not know how
hence sought the scriptures
the yogas
fasts
renunciation
self-emaciation
till he found his calling
realized his failings
came to his buddhahood
and served and taught;
lived and served...

and my dear fellow Drukpas of The Glorious Dragon Lineage-
perhaps its apt that yer reps represent you in all fairness-
if they're what they are its a reflection upon thee
if the reflections good credit too goes to thee
but when it turns sour do not be so dour
for two slapping hands make a sound
or a folded lotus
or a jacking hammer
to just blame is lame
to just cuss and curse is a shame
we're all mirrors really
reflecting each others good, bad and ugly deeds
and such-
should vote minus the rotting rote
take no nonsensical note
then placing such morals for yerselves and yer reps to come
thumb in the ink naked and bold
Bhutan-Pos
this is us
cast the ballot with no hold
always remembering the frailty of human nature
communities
societies
countries
and the need for temperance
tolerance
patience
compassion
thus remembering the bigger picture always
in light of the daily details
keep abiding in the temporal triple gems
and the profound triple jewels!

Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!
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Wednesday, May 22, 2013

Monthly May Bees

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Sarfrida by Sara Johnson
i like my ego
it keeps me from bloatin & floatin away;
just as i like my pride
reminds me to avoid exaggerated rides;
i like death
reminds me to live alive
just as i like impermanence
tells me to let go
i also dig attachments;
shows me the freedom of detachment
and the wisdom of ignorance;
telling me i know nothing
forgetting the buddha
the sangha
and the dharma
fashioning reminders of my blunders
and when hallucinations take over with delusions
there's a monkey prancing around-

Talisskeleton by Sara Johnson
gauging my reaction
making sure i don't remember-
the four-noble truths-
and the eightfold path;
you see
every single manifestation that meets the eye,

sounds the ear
speeches the tongue
actions the body
fills the mind-
are essentially telling you what you are
and what you are not!

never quite know where you goin till you go
stay gone to see you still gotta go farther
even when you're not gone
sitting on yer ass
breathing itineraries
in and out
out and in
finding nothing in between
but gaps of gasps
expanding awareness


now go with the flow
for the flow goes with or without yer board
here and now
there and everywhere
where cities become villages
a skyscraper a hut
a hut a mat
a mat a spot
a spot an ass
an ass no more
now gone are the grosses
the crasses
the masses
along with butts & if's
the five Ws
the singular H
and every issueless issue
like dissolving tissue
this is what sitting on yer bottom does to yer top
yer topless head
dramatized heart
mind full of motions
until there are nothing but shadowy visitors
who come & go
take a peek
try a knock
snatch a glimpse
and just as shadows of the deep
disappear back to evaporations
letting you be
just the way you are-
perfect!

 
i abhor violence
when thoroughly necessary
i engage
wholeheartedly
ready for consequences
emptying all excuses



respect yer dharma kings & queens
but question the public wanna be reps-
its what's expected
& thoroughly logical

skinned earth
with a massage
some call it gardening
others find it enlightening
the weeds spoke
why always us?
we be plants as well
no different from flowers such as roses
or lilies of the valley
right i said
we are tweelings
my kinf looks at nature
as if it exists outside of the self-
never knowing in their screams of conservation
that we're nature as well
that skins & skims other naturals
this eco thing
this organic stuff
that biological bull
these environmental preachings!
the weed wept
then smiled a little
and blurted in extreme generosity:
"you like grass?"
it was my turn to grin stupid ;D

 
our calendar together is short
the goodbyes will hurt
i ignore time
live dime by dime
tho' its magical
all phenomena is temporal
right now it rains rainbows
laughter & songs
discoverying exchanges

changing like seasons do
all i can and will do
is be here
live & be alive
if forms of fortitude come out of nothingness
one's gotta be grateful for everythingness
and laughing at tragedy
grinning at comedy
one smiles on
beyond samsara & nirvana
and every realm in the way
yonder & beyond


beyond bondage & adage
saying 'i do'
or 'adieu

brilliant moon
rains comforting beams
santiago shephards
alchemy returns
beauty falls in graces
making beautiful losers
a catcher in the rye

i'll try
junkys done
tho' i'll burrough some!

if words fail to describe yer feelings use signage-
lot of noises will do too-
clicks are tolerated ;D

if nothing works, try everything
failing which
retire
resign
have a notorious cup of coffee!

it was never the journey ;D
nor destinations-
it was always about the driver!

Face Phases, Brace Paces in Doses- unTie Knotty Laces & Ageing Graces my Bristleless Toothbrushes... along with Tintless Stained Sunglasses

god isn't in heaven
sipping nectar
watching benignly yer daily rote
now god isn't in hell either
or in examples of parables
stories
miracles
magic
god's in hell
if there's an actual hellhole
rescuing spirits gone astray
or something to that likeness
as metaphors
similes
catalysts
literals
if that's yer thing
and god's in heaven
spacious
relaxed
chilled
bowling
pooling
carrom-boarding
telling us:
do not be fixated on me-
my heaven
my hell
or my paradise
focus on yer godliness
and enjoy the ride
ye fools!

 
concrete blocks
a fragile flower wills, cracks & blooms through!
beyond petals
& flowers powers!

tis ok
after ya pop it
kick the bucket
sling a noose
die a death
everyone hate u gonna like u
even strangers u never knew
matter of fact-
u r well liked once yer gone!

if yer love's made by shrinkage
leakage
breakage
sniff & snuff
hide & seek
see & saw
drill & draw
allthebest!

awakenings
dissolutions
dull envelopes
nightly hallucinations
morning after disorientations
a lul
toilettic refuge
refusals
leakages
renunciations
no abhorations
arisings arrive
form shines
day happens
cyclist cycles circular collaborations
paints yin
draws yang
canvases sky

earth
from edges
to centers
of weird theater
absurd plays
rationale dyes
logical reincarnations
unfathomable bull
measurable horns
scientific pig
spiritual chicken
nice cow
good goat
sheepish hellos &-
fvcking french loafs!


zoos & goldfish
we see 'em & go "po animals!"
somewhere there's gigantic beings decoratin' their rooms with the earth-
with us in it-
"cute lil fvckers!" they be sayin!

as ya grow older yer none but yer apa,
yer ama teaches ya by simply being yer mother;
just as yer achos watching yer back- literally & otherwisely-
and asheys & nomeths just make yer world that much more brighter-
which reminds me i gotta be bloody good son and a bro and obviously- an apa
and yet all of these are seeds one must nurture into a rooted plant that ain't cut- rather bearing fruits & giving shade as they all done for ya & that ye must do for those ye have given life; asking not how much can ye give but how do i give...
this is the alley-gully of the well-intentioned-dharmabum.
cheers & adios ;D
This Way of Life
This Way of Life (Photo credit: Wikipedia)





Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!
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Sunday, May 19, 2013

Afghan Girl: A Life Revealed

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Afghan Girl

A Life Revealed

Her eyes have captivated the world since she appeared on our cover in 1985. Now we can tell her story.


By Cathy Newman Photograph* by Steve McCurry

She remembers the moment. The photographer took her picture. She remembers her anger. The man was a stranger. She had never been photographed before. Until they met again 17 years later, she had not been photographed since.
The photographer remembers the moment too. The light was soft. The refugee camp in Pakistan was a sea of tents. Inside the school tent he noticed her first. Sensing her shyness, he approached her last. She told him he could take her picture. “I didn't think the photograph of the girl would be different from anything else I shot that day,” he recalls of that morning in 1984 spent documenting the ordeal of Afghanistan’s refugees.
The portrait by Steve McCurry turned out to be one of those images that sears the heart, and in June 1985 it ran on the cover of this magazine. Her eyes are sea green. They are haunted and haunting, and in them you can read the tragedy of a land drained by war. She became known around National Geographic as the “Afghan girl,” and for 17 years no one knew her name. 
In January a team from National Geographic Television & Film’s EXPLORER brought McCurry to Pakistan to search for the girl with green eyes. They showed her picture around Nasir Bagh, the still standing refugee camp near Peshawar where the photograph had been made. A teacher from the school claimed to know her name. A young woman named Alam Bibi was located in a village nearby, but McCurry decided it wasn’t her.
No, said a man who got wind of the search. He knew the girl in the picture. They had lived at the camp together as children. She had returned to Afghanistan years ago, he said, and now lived in the mountains near Tora Bora. He would go get her.
It took three days for her to arrive. Her village is a six-hour drive and three-hour hike across a border that swallows lives. When McCurry saw her walk into the room, he thought to himself: This is her.
Names have power, so let us speak of hers. Her name is Sharbat Gula, and she is Pashtun, that most warlike of Afghan tribes. It is said of the Pashtun that they are only at peace when they are at war, and her eyes—then and now—burn with ferocity. She is 28, perhaps 29, or even 30. No one, not even she, knows for sure. Stories shift like sand in a place where no records exist.
Time and hardship have erased her youth. Her skin looks like leather. The geometry of her jaw has softened. The eyes still glare; that has not softened. “She’s had a hard life,” said McCurry. “So many here share her story.” Consider the numbers. Twenty-three years of war, 1.5 million killed, 3.5 million refugees: This is the story of Afghanistan in the past quarter century.
Now, consider this photograph of a young girl with sea green eyes. Her eyes challenge ours. Most of all, they disturb. We cannot turn away.
“There is not one family that has not eaten the bitterness of war,” a young Afghan merchant said in the 1985 National Geographic story that appeared with Sharbat’s photograph on the cover. She was a child when her country was caught in the jaws of the Soviet invasion. A carpet of destruction smothered countless villages like hers. She was perhaps six when Soviet bombing killed her parents. By day the sky bled terror. At night the dead were buried. And always, the sound of planes, stabbing her with dread.
“We left Afghanistan because of the fighting,” said her brother, Kashar Khan, filling in the narrative of her life. He is a straight line of a man with a raptor face and piercing eyes. “The Russians were everywhere. They were killing people. We had no choice.”
Shepherded by their grandmother, he and his four sisters walked to Pakistan. For a week they moved through mountains covered in snow, begging for blankets to keep warm.
“You never knew when the planes would come,” he recalled. “We hid in caves.”
Soviet troops (in right row) withdrawing from ...
Soviet troops (in right row) withdrawing from Afghanistan in 1988. Afghan government BTR on the left. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The journey that began with the loss of their parents and a trek across mountains by foot ended in a refugee camp tent living with strangers.
“Rural people like Sharbat find it difficult to live in the cramped surroundings of a refugee camp,” explained Rahimullah Yusufzai, a respected Pakistani journalist who acted as interpreter for McCurry and the television crew. “There is no privacy. You live at the mercy of other people.” More than that, you live at the mercy of the politics of other countries. “The Russian invasion destroyed our lives,” her brother said.
It is the ongoing tragedy of Afghanistan. Invasion. Resistance. Invasion. Will it ever end? “Each change of government brings hope,” said Yusufzai. “Each time, the Afghan people have found themselves betrayed by their leaders and by outsiders professing to be their friends and saviors.”
In the mid-1990s, during a lull in the fighting, Sharbat Gula went home to her village in the foothills of mountains veiled by snow. To live in this earthen-colored village at the end of a thread of path means to scratch out an existence, nothing more. There are terraces planted with corn, wheat, and rice, some walnut trees, a stream that spills down the mountain (except in times of drought), but no school, clinic, roads, or running water.
Here is the bare outline of her day. She rises before sunrise and prays. She fetches water from the stream. She cooks, cleans, does laundry. She cares for her children; they are the center of her life. Robina is 13. Zahida is three. Alia, the baby, is one. A fourth daughter died in infancy. Sharbat has never known a happy day, her brother says, except perhaps the day of her marriage.
English: US airstrike during the battle of Tor...
English: US airstrike during the battle of Tora Bora. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Her husband, Rahmat Gul, is slight in build, with a smile like the gleam of a lantern at dusk. She remembers being married at 13. No, he says, she was 16. The match was arranged.
He lives in Peshawar (there are few 
Tora Bora Mountains in Afghanistan
Tora Bora Mountains in Afghanistan (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
jobs in Afghanistan) and works in a bakery. He bears the burden of medical bills; the dollar a day he earns vanishes like smoke. Her asthma, which cannot tolerate the heat and pollution of Peshawar in summer, limits her time in the city and with her husband to the winter. The rest of the year she lives in the mountains.
At the age of 13, Yusufzai, the journalist, explained, she would have gone into purdah, the secluded existence followed by many Islamic women once they reach puberty.
“Women vanish from the public eye,” he said. In the street she wears a plum-colored burka, which walls her off from the world and from the eyes of any man other than her husband. “It is a beautiful thing to wear, not a curse,” she says.
Faced by questions, she retreats into the black shawl wrapped around her face, as if by doing so she might will herself to evaporate. The eyes flash anger. It is not her custom to subject herself to the questions of strangers.
Had she ever felt safe?
”No. But life under the Taliban was better. At least there was peace and order.”
Had she ever seen the photograph of herself as a girl?
Front cover of the June 1985 issue of National...
Front cover of the June 1985 issue of National Geographic Magazine (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“No.”
She can write her name, but cannot read. She harbors the hope of education for her children. “I want my daughters to have skills,” she said. “I wanted to finish school but could not. I was sorry when I had to leave.”
Education, it is said, is the light in the eye. There is no such light for her. It is possibly too late for her 13-year-old daughter as well, Sharbat Gula said. The two younger daughters still have a chance.
The reunion between the woman with green eyes and the photographer was quiet. On the subject of married women, cultural tradition is strict. She must not look—and certainly must not smile—at a man who is not her husband. She did not smile at McCurry. Her expression, he said, was flat. She cannot understand how her picture has touched so many. She does not know the power of those eyes.
Such knife-thin odds. That she would be alive. That she could be found. That she could endure such loss. Surely, in the face of such bitterness the spirit could atrophy. How, she was asked, had she survived?
The answer came wrapped in unshakable certitude.
“It was,” said Sharbat Gula, “the will of God.”


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