Drummering












Kesha

“I'm a bit of a stalker. I love south. And boys. And boots. And boners. And beer. And babes. Balloons. Barbeque sauce. Big balls. Bonfires. Babes. Boobs. Butts. Bonnie Raid. Blowjobs.”

Talisman

“Fcvk- A Dirty Word,
That Comes Out So Bloody Clean;
Ask Jack Kerouac...”
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Phantom Rating (PR)

“On the road
Goes this dharma bum
Writing his own fluid rules
To damn all rigid rules
All the world's bums walk beside you...”

Delete…HaHaHa. (Pause) HoHoHo (ShutTHeFuckUp)

“It’s The Haiku Night,
She Asks Where the Mid-Night-Bright is.
I Says In The Loco...”

“Homer's Spider Pig,
Does Not Swing and Wears a Wig;
It’s Still Homer's Pig.”
“She Calls Me Silly,
Says I Shouldn't Use "Fcvkin'' Words;
Sorry Honesty.”

“When Times Are Like These,
Forget All Your Known-Knowledge;
Listen To The Gut.”

“These Are Blood-Haikus,
Borne Of Furious Anger and Vengeance;
Don't Wrong The Right Man.”

“I Live In My Head,
Your Castles Give Me the Headaches;
Hence the Painkillers...”

“Happiness Is Bought,
Sadness Is Bargained About;
Alright. Set The Scales...”

“You Want Permanence?
Go Out and Fcvkin' Grab It;
It’s Already Gone?
Too Bad You Didn't Cash It Fast.”

“Coking Five You All,
I'm A MotherFvcker;
Who The Creep Are You?”

“BAD TATTOOS....are like bad blowjobs - still good!
Become a Fan, Get More Ads”

“What's on your mind?
Fuck- A Dirty Word,
That Comes Out So Bloody Clean;
Ask Jack Kerouac...”

Phantom Rates (PR)

“It’s The Haiku Night,
She Asks Where's The Mid-Night-Light?
I Says In The Loon...”

“Homer's Spider Pig,
Does Not Swing and Wears a Wig;
She Is Spider-Pig.”

“She Calls Me Willy,
Says I Shouldn't Use "Fcvkin'' Words;
LLaallaappaalloozzaa.

“When Times Are Like These,
Forget All Your Grown-Grease;
Cut Out The Gut Please.”

“These Are Blood-Haikus,
Borne Of Frustration and Peace;
Don't Right The Wronged Man.”

“I Fly With the Cloud,
Dissolving Into Monsoon Rain;
Become Solid Tales...

“Happiness Is Sought,
And Sadness Is Ejected;
Your Premature Shoots…”

“You Want Permanence?
Come to Me and I’ll Show You;
It Is Drumming Me…”
Sold!!! Too Bad You Didn't Cash It Fast.”

This- His Tiger! This Is His Dragon! This Little Guy, He Does Imaginations; Strokes Them With Colors...

“The Tathagata,
And The Eight-Fold Noble Path;
What-else do You Need?”

“These Bothersome Bros,
They Hide and They Meander;
Blow Your Dark Whistles- Take Your Cheap-Pot-Shots...”

“Keep Hiding Your-Selves;
And Building Your Allusions,
No Matter How Grand...They Are But Grains in the Sand,
That Time Will Let Slip,
And When The Slippers Come Off...
Beware Of The Charge.”

“Patience Is For Saints,
What Intolerance Is To Me.
I'm A Sinner- Do Not Fvckin' Pull”.

“The last samurai...he was an alcoholic, traumatized by his past transgressions,
But he overcame his alcoholism and sharpens his mind through practice of Bushido, the way of the samurai...”

"I Said I Was A Sinner- Not A Samurai.
But I Am A Pure Sinner. The Righteous I'll Kill Wherever I Encounter Them."
I Said That...Not the Samurai.

“You save a Pony,
Letting It Gallop the Wind;
They Call It An Ass.”

Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

Smoked!


If you're indignant that your boss just shut the smoking room and outraged that you have to leave the bar to light up, take heart. Life could be worse. You could be Bhutanese. I didn’t write that. An exalted reporter for an American magazine did. Nonetheless it’s interesting to note the last line. Life is definitely getting worse. Not for lack of cigarettes but for lack of cash. You see, it’s all going up in smoke.

Hi, I’m WDHO Wills. People in the know call me Wills. I’m a nicotine addict. No, I’m not here to seek help, I like my cigarettes just fine, thank you. I’m here to bring to your notices the rising insane and inhuman prices of cigarettes. Yes, I can find and buy a pack of cigarettes whenever I want. The problem’s the deep hole it keeps burning in my pockets rather than the supplies. No, I haven’t pondered quitting, you see, it’s become a fashionable forbidden fruit, plus nicotine has the reputation of being the most addict-able substance, certainly not something one can just shrug off on a weekend.


The country made international headlines with the ‘Tobacco Ban’ in 2004. If you Google it, these are some of the banner headlines you get:
“The first nonsmoking nation.” “Smoking is stubbed out in Bhutan.” “Bhutan forbids all tobacco sales.”
“Bhutan's total tobacco bans a breath of fresh air.” “The butt stops in Bhutan: Tobacco banned.”
“Bhutan: Smoke-Free at the Top of the World.”

We sure did hog the headlines and boy did it excite them! People abroad assume nobody smokes in Bhutan. Couple that with the Shangri-La and GNH make-up and you get the picture perfect postcard- a fairytale smoke-free kingdom you can write about and broadcast to admirers the world over. Four years later and the number of smokers have not decreased. It’s just how things are. Human nature cannot be banned. Even totalitarian states with cold blooded dictators with all their armies and their gulags failed to ban what their citizens desired.

The winter cold bites as does the reality. Now that it’s become a contraband product and a necessary one at that, we’ve smugglers and blackmarketeers. The market is flourishing and mushrooming, clandestinely. It’s hidden rather smugly and we all play a part in it, out of some well intended cultural politeness that makes us all ambassadors of ‘Brand Bhutan’. The religious fold would say smoking is anathema, spiritually. Respect to that. Those of my fold could ask, ‘What about alcohol? We even produce them in honour of and to commemorate the reign of our kings’. This is where I get confused! Are we in effect saying to our young, ‘do the drinks but not the smoke?’ The act is over. The curtain must fall on this charade.

The hospitals record more alcohol related complications than tobacco and illegal drugs put together. The government makes no money out of the ban. The consumers pay through their lungs and policing such a lucrative trade is a jolly good luck affair that probably diverts the little detectives we have from preventing actual crime.

There are probably a hundred more pressing issues that call for the ban. Corruption, nepotism, apathy and the lot come to mind. But again that’s not measurable. I’m WDHO Wills and my appeal is for a ban-free legalized tobacco that is reasonably taxed and regulated. We tolerate responsible drinking; smoking can also be moderated and segregated. The ban makes more criminals. God gave Adam and Eve a paradise with a ban on apples. That’s exactly what they bit and ate. It was god’s fault; you don’t give someone a garden minus the flowers. This is not a pro-tobacco rant; it’s against stupid laws. Perhaps it’s worth a debate in the National Assembly. Happy New Year!

**They Did Debate It And Then Strung It. The Jury Is Still Out On This Albeit Mixed Smokes And Signals!!!

Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

God's Day


By POE BALLANTINE

I used to pray a lot.

I don’t much anymore. It’s not that I don’t believe in prayer. It’s just that I don’t know what to say. Asking God to bless my mother and father and all my cousins and my next-door neighbors and the spotted owl over all his other creations seems more like an Incantation of Myself than any sort of heartfelt communication with the one who invented time and space and avocados.

And there was one night when I was walking to the liquor store in a blizzard, and it seemed I heard the babbling prayers of all mankind, the blizzard of O Lord, gimme, O fix me, O help me, O ease my busted heart and let me sleep with a long-legged Finnish girl, but it turned out it was my own voice, which sounded all the more pathetic in its yearning chorus.

Over the years I’ve developed a dubious idea of what it might be like to be on the other end of all that begging, groveling, and petty bargaining. Having a faint intuition of why God may have put up the “Gone Fishin’” sign, I’ve gotten off my knees and whittled my daily petition down to a more sensible and honest “Thank you, God.

I know I’m a fool.” Still, there is one day in the year when I go plumb God-happy. It’s a made-up holiday pulled randomly from the calendar, as far away from the retail conspirators and their chocolate bunnies and sawed-off pine trees as I can get; a twenty-four-hour period of gratitude, humility, and atonement I call “God’s Day.”
On God’s Day, from midnight to midnight, I do not eat, speak, work, smoke, read, enjoy electronic media, or accept visitors. I contemplate, and I pray. The praying is not formal; it is more conversational, something along the lines of “I hope I’m of some pleasure to you, God. I hope I’m not getting this completely wrong. I hope I’m not an asshole.

I feel terrible about that bucktoothed kid I beat up in sixth grade. And no, of course I shouldn’t have slept with her. Or her. Or especially her.” I avoid the syrupy-sweet, goody-two-shoes approach that I suspect has put the Old Man into a diabetic coma. If you’re talking to the Divine Ground, the Ultimate Reality, the Truth and the Way, no amount of sugarcoating and verbs ending in -th are going to mitigate the facts.

Upon the advent of my holy day, besides my fasting and contemplations, I give up something significant, a token sacrifice. Once, I destroyed a good story in progress. Another time I gave up watching the Michigan–Ohio State game. I always throw money away on God’s Day, walk with a twenty-dollar bill into the darkness and leave it somewhere.

Though this practice is supposed to demonstrate my detachment from worldly things, over the years I have begun to derive a childlike satisfaction from the thought of someone needy or deserving finding the money. I put one twenty in the pages of a library copy of Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Several times I have dropped the money over the fence of a house in disrepair. Another time I slipped the cash into the slats of a bench in a park inhabited largely by winos.
One year I walked from my motel room to the cemetery-monument company across the street.

It was early November, a cold wind blowing sandy snow. Around the back of the monument company was a neglected stack of tombstones: rejects, perhaps; misspelled, unpaid for, or abandoned in a sudden change of sentiment. There was one for a Staff Sergeant Vernon Frederick Brack, who’d died on my birthday in 1996. Another featured the names and birth dates of a married couple, only the wife’s death date inscribed.
The heap of headstones guarded a weed-covered path that traversed the railroad tracks.

And it was here where people like me — people without cars — would walk across the tracks to get to the store or to work. Unless a train derailed here, no one but the poor and autoless would have any chance at finding my devotion. My real hope was that the Dirty Man, who walked all day and never spoke, bathed, or looked anyone in the eye, would find it. I had seen him in every part of town: walking the railroad tracks and the highway; on a bench by the grocery store, eating out of a discarded pizza box; or simply standing in an aisle, hands at his sides, fingers curled, staring upward, stinking and dazed, the customers flowing warily around him.

Most people did not want to admit that with an unexpected turn of fortune — a low draft number, a renegade gene, a bad marriage — they might’ve been the Dirty Man themselves. But I knew how close I’d come, how close I might yet be. I was, in a manner of speaking, going nowhere myself: getting older, still alone, and not making much progress toward my lofty goals. I had already suffered one major breakdown just two years before.

I was well acquainted with the crack of Fate’s cudgel on my skull; the look on his goofy, sadistic face; his missing incisor and sneaky laugh. And every time I saw the Dirty Man trudging toward me, his neck collared in black skin that had once been white, shattered soul turning in his shipwrecked eyes, I felt a shiver of recognition, a vision of Christmas future. Once, I’d tried to give him money. It had felt almost like a bribe. But, too proud — or too confused — he hadn’t acknowledged me. My recent breakdown had given me a keen insight into the frail psychic condition of all sentient beings, a kind of bleeding affection for anyone immersed in the cruel playground of earthly existence, even dogcatchers and Donald Trump. But privately I could not think of the Dirty Man as anything other than lost and gone forever, dreadful sorry, Dirty Man.

I lifted the top stone — which simply read, DWINNELL — in the stack of forgotten grave markers and slipped in the corner of the twenty-dollar bill, which flapped vigorously in the breeze and met all my standards for high visibility. Satisfied, I returned home to finish my day of worship.

Though this is a hair-shirt holiday, and not a turkey-gravy-and-Detroit Lions one, I have never been in any danger of being swept up into ecstasy. I empty my mind of earthworms and onion rings, gossip and news, 62 percent of sex and up to 42 percent of daydreams, but no pictures of God have ever replaced them. I have never received a prophecy or a revelation on this day. I am never steeped in mania or visions. I have never spoken in tongues or burst into Mahalia Jackson song. No trace of stigmata or image of Christ’s face on a cocktail napkin has ever appeared. I do not become charismatic. I just feel good for a while, cleansed, my accounts squared, and I try to linger at the edge of this crumbling precipice before I am sucked back into the sludgy swirl of el mundo.

For my midnight breakfast I had a big dish of chicken cacciatore, two chocolate brownies, and a Coca-Cola. Then I sat by the window of my motel room and smoked a cigarette and watched the snow fly past the glass. From the radio I learned that I had won all three of my recent football bets. The money I throw away always seems to come back to me this way. “Cast thy bread upon the waters,” the Good Book says, “for thou shalt find it after many days” — though this has nothing to do with the purpose of the holiday.

At 1 A.M. I went to bed, listening to the soft hiss and tick of the granular snowflakes on the window. Even though I have expended little physical energy, I never have trouble sleeping after God’s Day.

The next morning it was still snowing, the same hissing, dry, crystalline flakes blowing straight-as-a-bullet sideways. I needed some groceries, so I walked the railroad tracks to the store. The twenty was still flapping in the breeze between the tombstones. Daylight had just risen. There was not a great deal of traffic yet through the frozen weeds beside the tracks, but some trailer and motel dwellers would be along shortly for the first shift at their cement-factory and tech-support jobs. I figured the bill would be gone by the time I returned from the store.

But an hour later the bill was still there. What is wrong with these people? I thought. I have been robbed twice, had bicycles and stereos stolen out from under me.

I am owed money by more people than I can count. And here I am giving it away, and there are no takers. I almost talked myself into reclaiming the twenty. I could’ve used it: I lived on four hundred a month. It wasn’t my fault that no one had picked up the money. My intentions had been good. But I knew it would feel wrong. The money was no longer mine.

The next day was sunny but still cold, and I went to check on the twenty. Still there, bold and flagrant as a whore waving a handkerchief at a train. My neighbor hadn’t gotten his government check yet that month and claimed to have just seventeen dollars to get him through the week.

I thought of telling him, “Just go to the store, man. Walk to the store. Trust me.” But that would have been too obvious, like a silly treasure hunt. Besides, the government was taking care of him. He’d be all right. You can’t force these things. The one who needs it most will find it on his or her own.
The bill flapped unmolested between the tombstones for three days, snow piling up around it like sand. I couldn’t understand why no one could see it. Then it occurred to me that maybe people were superstitious about fooling with tombstones. Or maybe it was too easy, hidden in a place so conspicuous no one would ever find it.

On the fourth day it began to snow again, heavily, and I decided to relocate the bill. If it got buried, it might be lost forever, a fruitless sacrifice, of benefit to no one. I was missing the point of the exercise, of course, but I was stuck on the completion of my charitable endeavor. I lifted the stone marked DWINNELL, removed the bill, shook the snow off it, and stowed it away in my left pocket — the nonspending pocket.
For several days I walked around feeling nervous and incomplete, the soggy bill accumulating moral weight, like something stolen or unreturned. I looked for needy children. I looked for the Dirty Man. He had always ignored me as he passed, slogging along in his cloud of eau de homelessness, but I figured I could slip the money into his jacket pocket somehow. He could buy a pizza with it, or toss it down a sewer grate like a candy wrapper — whatever he did, it would be off my hands. My conscience would be eased. But he was nowhere to be found.


Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

BeautfulGarbage



An AUTUMN LEAF FLOATS THROUGH THE WINTER SKY,
A BLADE OF GRASS SITS GREEN AND SPLENDID AMIDST A PILE OF RUBBISH.
Sensuous TEMPTATIONS OF THE BODY AND THE MIND PARALYZE PASSING PEDESTRIANS.
Bountiful TIMES ARE HERE AGAIN!

In THE FEVERISH HUNT FOR PLEASURE AND SATISFACTION, A THOUSAND AND ONE VICES ARE COMMITTED, WHERE IS THE PLEASURE, WHERE IS THE SATISFACTION?
What IS PLEASURE? And WHAT IS SATISFACTION?

Neon LIGHTS AND NAKED FLESH, MINDLESS MUSHROOMS OF THE IGNORANT GRASPING GROUP,
Yet WHAT ARE THESE LIGHTS? And WHAT ARE THESE MINDLESS MUSHROOMS, AND WHO ARE THESE GRASPING GROUPS?

Broken BONES AND SHATTERED HEARTS, WEARY TOES AND SORRY EYES,
And AMID THE HURLY AND THE BURLY, A SPLATTERING OF UNEXPECTED KINDNESS AND COMPASSION.

Crossed FINGERS AND A LOOK OF DAZE ARE ALL THAT IS LEFT,
After A DAY OF PLUNDER AND PAIN.
Injected WITH HUGE DOSES OF BOREDOM AND BLUNDER.

I WONDER.
And STILL WANDER.
Nothing.

Absolute YAWN.
Nothing STILL, REPETITIOUS,
One, TWO,
And COUNTING STILL…

And SOMETHING, A PEEP INTO THE WORLD OF NO-SELF,
Nothing WITH SOMETHING, SOMETHING WITH NOTHING,
And EVERYTHING.
Duality DREAMS AND DANCES.
Drama, DRAMA!

Watching.
No WATCHER,
Boredom AND FREEDOM, JUST A MOUSE CLICK AWAY,
And ALL IS, Yawn...No-YAWN..?...!....

?
,
.
.

Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

Depressive-Talks-Revisited!


(The Intricate Web of Depression)

I have to confess I have no idea what the term ‘depression’ actually might mean in the jargon of medical establishment. But I’m not a medical know how anyway, I’m just another regular layman who happens to be perennially depressed and have discovered to my own astonishment what a study of self discovery depression can be, with a bit of self amusement thrown in.

Most of my life I have been enveloped in or clouded by various kinds and shades of depression, and depression seem to come in stages and phases of my life, depending on innumerable causes, factors and surroundings, of a nature that is at once complex and yet simple. I have come to recognize my own at the level and drama of the physical biological self, the emotional chemical turmoil at the level of the heart, the confounding neurosis of the mind and the existentialism of the soul.

What the heck am I talking about? That’s another depression symptom. You just have an abundance of non-clarity. But to continue babbling, here are the rest of the examinations;


At the level of the physical self, I have been fairly depressed at the many attributes of life I was born into and not born with. Among the many things I was born with and depressed about were the look on my face, the pimples that kept popping out when I was a hormoned teen, the non-co-operative movement of my hair, the absence of Schawarzeneggeric muscles, towering heights and the strength of Hercules.

I pretty much wanted to be superman and when I found out I was everyman, the shock and the depression were pretty intense.
These were purely at the personal superficial level. Next came the depression of many things I never had, the right shoes, the fitting blue jeans, the cool black leather wears, the motorcycle I never had, the girlfriend I dreamed about, the non existent life of glamor and gloss and the like. Time goes by and you are older. The Nike shoes are now affordable, the blue jeans become a way of life, there are products to keep your hair gelled in one place for an eternity, and girlfriends have come and gone.

And you are still depressed, and the depression is now focused on the ego of who you are and more importantly who you are not. The physical biological depressions have become way too old and have to give way to the new dominant issue of who you are and of your place in the sun. You discover slowly but painfully, gradually but wisely, that you are not superman, first and foremost, and then you realize Al Pacino is just another illusion, Tom Cruise is just another allusion, and who the hell is Mel Gibson?

They are not you, you are still not you, and that is driving you mad and furious, confused and dazed, and in a moment of vulnerability, all pretenses are dropped, all defenses are down, all aggressiveness absent, and there's a marvelous feeling of peace and completeness. But you are still not aware you are feeling a state of artificial bliss and harmony produced by the illusions in your mind of the books you have read about enlightened mind, of enlightened beings who lived the perfect life of harmony and accordance with oneself and with nature. You are now officially a member of the drugged world, a dimension where earlier imitations of life lived through the pages of romance and sentimentality come alive.

The stories of the Buddha and the Christ come alive. And in their example you try and live the life of the sage with a good dosage of help from all the pharmaceutical artificiality that now induce and seduce you in a strangle for survival. It’s a fatal attraction for the mind, and now living the high life dependent on a multitude of drugs mass produced for the benefit of people with a high degree of mental acceleration is pretty satisfying in the beginning, a bit troublesome down the road, and a wretched existence at the sad end of it.

The visions of Buddha and the Christ become deathly hallucinations, and every breath is a struggle for painful physical survival.
The ecstasy is long gone, the laundry of memories drift by in fragmented bits and pieces, and your life is not worth a blade of grass in the fields.
The realization brings about the darkest depression you have ever sunk into, and you keep falling, deeper and deeper,
Thud!

The landing is often fatal. You lose friends, you lose family, you lose your personal foundations of goodness and self-esteem, confidence and virtue. Right and wrong are though just a decision away, and optimistically a potential life at the end of it.
And so you awake, after what seemed like a long silent comatose of consciousness, to venture out into the world again.

You hear the calls of the birds outside and the cries of the babies in your family. You wake up to the apparent business of life surviving and evolving all round you, and you realize you are but a part of this huge complex web of life that is evolving at all times, learning from bitter experiences and memories, of what not to do, and when to give in, to the stream and strength of life.

This is the birth of the heart of the warrior, the fighter trying everything in his disposal to contain the invading armies of the treacherous mighty mind. And yet peace is just a recognition and a compromise away. Harmonium of the soul is not such an accidental task; though accidents might help bring it closer to the absorbing view of the heart, which might feel it and dissolve it away.

The mind might take another route, but recognizing it as such might ease the bumps on the road for the journey of the heart and of the soul. Eventually there's still depression left in the heart, the soul and in the mind. And the depression carries on infinitely until there's a recognition of the heart, the mind and the soul as being one in nature; ultimately, the ultimate depression is caused by the duality of one's own sense of self. And that is then the birth of the depression of the soul. Which one might say is the most refined form of depression in existence.

And why is that refined? I don’t know. I just know writing a story’s not my cup of coffee.
Maybe babbling in lines none can follow is.

Ps: What in the world am I talking about up there?
U see it’s a real thin line. The mind is one crazy son of a bitch.
It has more personality disorders then, well, use your imagination there.

Pss: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

Old Poems



As the days roll by, my minds’ a hollow blankness staring at clearly blurred pictures and raging thoughts of fearsome falls seeming to land on nothing at all.

Everyday ushers in a refreshed brand new day that was the same as yesterday and no different from all the tomorrows to come dissolving back in the millions of yesterdays.

How do I go figure?
Roaring savannah coated lions shatter the quiet grasslands, primates shriek from hanging branches on high tropical trees, nosey hyenas laughing their way to the carcass and the kill, vultures at the ready to snatch someone’s’ hard earned meal.
The wilder beast keep stampeding in numbers you couldn't count and elephants laze about in the cool waters of sun drained Africa, and a Thompson’s gazelle keeps wiggling its tail without a pause.
Is it chasing a fly or a fear?

Hippos wallowing in the mud with jaws the size of a hut with cheetahs chasing their prey with a speed that spells the wind.

As I watch this scenario unfold dramatically on Discovery, my eyes are wide shut, my mind's a feast for thoughts, my ears just barely attentive to the sounds of the world enveloping me in layers of routine boredom, as I’m welcomed to the mechanized kingdom.

Fragile shells of an egg gone cracked, charging gongs of a high raised bell, gardens of flowers, lakes that wash away sins, and in the midst of all that, a beautiful butterfly entangled in a spider's web.

Is the fate of my karma written in a nutshell? My questions are answered by an eerie silence, my thundering thoughts have no sound, mindful minds of an unmindful soul, lost in a sea of seas, a forest of trees, a bird singing a haunting melody in the middle of a barren desert, why do I need someone to confirm my presence here?

Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

SittingBlues



Counting My Fingers,
Multiplying All Those Years;
It's Still Algebra!

Looming Departures,
The Fate Of Coming And Going;
How And Where And Why?

Flights Of Fantasy,
Checked By Chores Of Reality;
Lao Tzu's Butterfly Dream!

Galactic Insights,
To Molecular Issues;
What Is The Big Deal?

I Read The News Today Oh Boy!








I read all the newspapers. It’s a Nu 120 weekly addiction. Am I getting my money’s worth? I doubt it! Let’s just say its my way of contributing to the print media bloom which is still in need of nutrients. Plus its an old habit and old habits, as they say, die hard. It used to be that Kuensel used to hog all the stands, exercising virtual monopoly in the absence of other newspapers. It was hence a refreshing welcome when the two privately run newspapers were launched. There was a sense of much needed alternative media expansion in the air. Now there are four! Evolving into Two Dailies and Two Weeklies!

This introduction jolted the staid Kuensel out of its routine slumber, making it compete in the face of rivalry. That’s what market forces do, should provide the consumer with an alternative- raising, enforcing certain standards. But as time goes on, things fall back to their respective cushions of comfort. Worse still, some of them get sidetracked and totally lose the plot.

I started out my pursuit of the journalist’s journey, joining Kuensel in the mid 90s. Then I got fired as fast as I had joined. Marijuana consumption posed a very dodgy risk to the paper’s clean cut image. That was it. My career as a journalist was prematurely aborted. I was barred and barren.

The next couple of years went about dabbling in various sectors; tourism, hotels, discos, a teaching stint and travels galore. These travels and protracted stays in foreign lands compelled me take up jobs no one in educated-Bhutan would touch with a prayer-flag-pole. Desperate times call for desperate measures so waitering, dish-washing, janitoring, construction, road-running, night guarding and a number of miscellaneous jobs trained and taught me in more than I could remember; about what it means to live in a real world. Dignity of labor is lipped about but try a little manual labor and you’ll understand what the term really exposes.

In retrospect, the Kuensel termination was a blessing in disguise. The experiences post-Kuensel were priceless. The fact that I never gave up my love of writing and love for reading just about anything; magazines, periodicals, newsletters, novels, books, fliers, brochures, newspapers et al contributed to the craft.

Then you come back home and see how the media is flourishing. That is an encouraging sight. You start working in one or two. The weak link is very clear- too many inexperienced sailors helm the captain’s chair.

Without sermonizing the captains, I’d say that even in the face of obvious storms, they move on right ahead. So what you have is a boat tossed about in turbulent waters.
Slowly you take stock of the scenario. Things change for better or worse. So it was with my perception of where the various newspapers stand. Now they entertain me more often than they inform. I find, along with sanitized information on plans, policies and programs, tedious entertainment articles, parched quotes and brusque headlines.

There are the usual government 'ads' calling on all bidders for a tender flesh; they say she’s young and that she’s earnest hence an advance- deposit must be done. They leave you with a footnote. It goes something like this: If you are not bedding, you can call us for aid on our Mother Teresa hotlink. When it beeps, you can tell us your problems with the tender and we’ll have an automated raspberry voice servicing the line, “It’s in due process. We are looking at it.”

Then there is this newspaper. Recently it has embarked on a no-holds-barred mission to kiss the PM’s butt in full public view. Such candor is rare! It began with “phenomenon”. Now it’s evolved into avatars such as “man of the people”, “true son of the soil” and a basic vein of “he-who-can’t-do-no-wrong” running through the epic-narrative which has become a weekly hymn in process.

Off-late the focus has shifted. They now do 'Special Investigative Reports' and narcissistic 'Impacts.' The last culprit of this sting-operation was the arrest of farmers who were selling wild marijuana hashish. Good for them, bad for the villagers.

Either the editor has lost his marbles or he’s trying to get as many as he can from the PMO’s office. Funny, I thought the PMO’s office would be decked with furniture, working stations, paper trails and coffee mugs. Marbles completely take me by surprise! Now for the latest tantrum thrown by the same paper in its weekly editorial shenanigans: The sorry recipient this time was the Ministry of Education for its inability to sell the minister’s book and build private colleges. The tantrum concludes prematurely with another Sucker-In-Chief pyrotechnics patting the PM’s back for his wizardry in opening the first private college. Confused? So am i!

What they omitted was the fact that they are the publisher’s of the minister’s book and the PM should be covered objectively, not write sonnets trying to build him into a cult figure.

On the freedom of the media, an online enthusiast echoed Gorbachov’s “Glasnost” and “Perestroika”. One term refers to transparency and the other to restructuring. The “Balalaika” was omitted. That’s a dance you gain as bonus when you play “bricks”. And eventually to how these transferences broke up the erstwhile USSR. Now these states are playing nuclear chess with each other. Most recently it was “Gas”. A blatant omission was the “Vodka”. Whether the mention of such esoteric terms was to guide, warn or chide readers was beyond me. The language though was 'par excellence' and the writer must pat himself, every now and then.

I skip to the next paper. The apple in obeisance is Kuensel. In a personal somber tribute to his own rather exemplary life, the former Chief and Ace of Writing Grace penned a parting memoir, without remorse or regret, to his beloved fans and readers. How he believes in “Karma” and his rather unique road to success; dining with presidents and criminals, from the White House to penitentiaries, from the chambers of the Golden Throne to a common man’s shack in rural Bhutan. The personal memoirs and reflections essayed in his book,'Within the Realm of Happiness' is a treat, reminiscent of warm Bhutanese 'Thups' on cold winter mornings.


The next paper takes me down desolation row. One more adage affixed to some decomposed teacher and I’m seriously becoming an agnostic. One more word about GNH and I’m coining my own revolutionary concept, Gross Natural Hiccups.

I’ve resided long enough (and one should retire from the colony in due time)in the realm of Dharma books and the innumerable perfect teachers that have left us with wisdom aplenty to drown us farther down the ocean of suffering. The abyss comes to mind, a rather unexpected good picture that deals with USOs (Unidentified Swimming Objects). One pearl peering out of the Dharma master’s 'Book of Jackasses' was the question whether I had recently heard the 'Roar of a Constipated Rabbit?'

Yeah. Sure. That’s a no-brainer! I can do better than that. Just gulp in a couple of bottles of cough syrup with solid foods and I guarantee you, you shall hear me do the “Roar of the Constipated Ass”.

As we wrap up this silken stool, we must pay homage to one more newspaper. If you want to capture the Bhutanese attention, go tabloid, if you want to harness the Bhutanese imagination, make sure the spots and stripes printed are clear enough. A final tip; throw in some lactating voluptuous mammals. Nothing beats nudity in a paper; crystal-clear with a high density resolution. Now watch the gawkers que in.

If Business Bhutan is 'Dealing You'... Watch out for 'Drukpa'... it will 'Engage You.'
That's a promise.
Cheers!

Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

JunctionDrivingHaikus






What's on your mind? Exited Concrete,
Entered Green Scenarios;
Swinging Pendulum...Do You See That Look?

It Was Borne Out Of Milkshake;
The Kind That You Can Suck.
Exited Concrete, Entered Green Scenarios, Swinging Pendulum!

Time To Heat The Road,
Feel The Bhutanese-Walli Blues;
And Enjoy That Beat! Short-Circuited Fuse!

Sadness Canopies,
The Total Vista Inside;
This Life Transient... Beautifully Sour...Melodious Entrapment...
Really I 'Know' Nothing...

i Like Earthquakes; Now That is Insensitive!
When You Read The News & Know Lives Were Lost And Damages Caused.
I Feel "Helplessness," - It Tells Me "What Can You Do?"

For Starters Let's "Feel" & "Pray;
This "Blessed Rainy Day" Take Those Souls Away: To Better "Bardos" & Benign "Karmas."
How i Like Earthquakes: Now When Is The Flood?

Addicted Smokers...Killer Cigarettes,
Legalized Alcoholics...Socially Sponsored Vices...
And The Drug Addicts...And Those Bureaucrats...And The Insatiable Greed...
And Your Ubiquitous "Desire!"

Now Pick Your Fcvkin' Choice!
A Guitar In Your Hands,
On Your Lips The Songs Of Bob;
Sunny Sunday Blues!

Be Universal,
If You Take In Galaxies;
Insignificance! And Therein Thrives Life!
Immortality,
And The State Called Shangrila;
Are Just Around Us...

Photographs (C) Karin Dechen Lhamo Altmann
Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

Bhutan Posts (I)






Tucked and nudged in-between the high Tibetan Plateau and what is the vastness of confounding neighboring India. Bhutan’s geographical location makes it a buffer of sorts between two very big giants, two established nuclear powers, together accounting for a staggering portion of the world’s total population; the Republic of India and the People’s Socialist Republic of China; stuck between the largest democracy in the world and the world’s last biggest strong hold of communism.

These two megaliths have had a major war in the sixties over claims of territorial lands and border infringements that continue to the day.

I’m glad the Chinese didn’t venture further south when they overran Tibet in the late fifties and the Indians when they came up north and swallowed the kingdom of Sikkim. For that we are thankful to the northern mountains, the southern jungles and the guardian deities. Most countries can afford, rely on and make use of conventional and non-conventional arms and armies to safeguard or further their goals of nationalistic politics.

We have none of that, what we do have are guardians as crazy as it might sound. Four of them, protector-deities of the four directions of the country,; call these the Bhutanese border patrols, and they more often than not deliver keeping our country safe and preserving the continuum of the Buddhist way of life.

This is pretty cool in an age of technological high tech worship, ideological wars and quasi religious crap that now plague and burden the middle-east and George W. Bush’s white house (at the time of writing the W was there still...will Obama bring about a change to that marbled-house!?); mostly with innocent civilians suffering the consequences, as they have always suffered, the first casualties of war are always the commoners. As someone wise once noted, yes we did need a wise ass to note that!

Thankfully spared of the psychological scars of an often long and brutal colonization that have been the fate of many, the Bhutanese have survived, keeping, holding and building forth a country in the hot political cauldron that is south Asia and in a world growing scarier by the day.

So Bhutan’s no Switzerland of the east, it’s never been colonized, is neither a protectorate nor a part of India, is not a part of Tibet or China, is not an authoritarian country but rather a constitutional kingdom with a beloved king at its helm and elected representatives of the people at the highest levels of governance who are subject to the peoples votes with checks, balances and rotations. People are free, the laws are just, and the government just doesn’t tell people what to do and what not to do.

There are debates and discussions at all levels before a decision is reached. Furthermore Bhutan’s not an official ‘democracy’, ‘theocracy’, ‘socialist’, ‘capitalist’, ‘communist’, ‘militarist’ or any other forms of governance. Rather it’s all of these and yet none of the above. Bhutan’s officially a constitutional monarchy, combining the good elements from all forms of governance and making it suitable for the Bhutanese and their uniquely Buddhist way of life, and it’s proved to be a well governing functioning one at that. No mean easy feat this!

“The environmental page”
Considering its size, Bhutan’s been blessed with an abundance of flora and fauna, as it rises from the tropical plains and foothills at 700m above sea level to the alpine north where the highest peak stands at some 7450m. I have never been there myself, but the hundred or so mushrooming travel agencies and their brochures will highlight you on those ascending and descending facts.

The kingdom is thus much bigger than it appears to be. Just as nothing much is what it appears to be. Among it’s many rich collection of flowers, butterflies, birds, orchids, rhododendrons, magnolias, blue sheep, yaks and takins, tigers and snow leopards, elephants and one horned Indian rhinos, golden languor and the enormous horn-bills is the nation wide rampant to abundant natural growth and proliferation of cannabis sativa, or marijuana. For further information on flora and fauna, contact the National Environmental Conservation or the Royal society for the Protection of Nature.

If you happen to be a botanist, naturalist or one of those folks with a lot of affection for our four legged cousins, or of the winged feathered kind, this bountiful kingdom is worth your dollars and euros the government rightly charges.


Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

When the Kings play ball






It’s the centenary year and we are all paying tribute to our precious monarchs. So we should. A hundred years of glorious reign has showered on us and so much has changed; from the way we dress and eat to the way we walk and talk. From Morse code to computers and the Internet Bhutan today communicates in a manner quite audacious from the way things were.

We had wireless operators and a department of wireless. Of cause, everything was weird, but that’s how it was known- the meaning of words might change with newer tools but not the purpose.

Men crossed the rugged terrains of our country with wireless sets and other gear on their backs, moving from one remote dzongkhag to next, conveying message for family members living in different parts of the country. Keeping them connected. In my mind, there is strange connection between the department of wireless and our divine Forth King. Communication comes in many guises, besides technology.

I was born in 1972, two years before He took the Golden Throne; a tender age, even for a king.

Not only did He led the kingdom through two and half a decades of unprecedented peace and development, but He did it through communicating whit His subjects, moving from dzongkhag to another, from one village to another. The man who operated the Morse codes traveled before His Majesty and set up communication camps (my late father was one of them). My first memories of our kings are of the iconic posters with the Forth Kings that hung in every home, shop and office- seeing, communicating to us a sense of identity and belonging that was unique and distinct; something that gave the Bhutanese people hope and assurance.

My first memory of seeing our Forth King in person was on the National Day, /December 17.

I was maybe five or seven. The memories are a bit fuzzy but I remember the seating was Samtse and I remember seeing Him. He was my King; I knew that much and it was more than enough. Sometime in the early 80’s, my father was transferred from Phuentsholing to Thimphu. The capital was a sleepy town of two lanes, almost.

When I was sent to high school in Punakha, things were changing. There were more schools, hospitals and roads than there’d ever been. I didn’t understand any of it. Now I do. The country was on a road of development that would transform the way we lived and saw our country and ourselves and the way the outside world saw us. Bhutan was embracing change, on its own terms. But back in school, we were a bunch of a teenager boy, too full of youthful hormones to notice or comprehend the changes taking place around us and all over the Kingdom.

The King’s occasional trips to Punakha were what we all look forward to. We’d be out on a cool evening walk. Suddenly a siren would pierce the quiet air. It’s His Majesty! It’s His Majesty! The pilot would zip by with a stern look from the guards and His Range Rover would come closer. With our heart in our mouths, we’d bow trying to sneak and peek. One time He stopped and asked us how we were doing. He had a cigar, a big one. We grabbed the cigar and seeking out a quit tavern, smoked the cigar down to the butt. We probably coughed more than we smoked. There were more Cuban butts to come but the thrill of that one was priceless. We’d just smoked the Kings cigar!

He’d make sudden visits to the schools and He came to ours in 1986.He walked into our classroom and we were all paralyzed. I think it was the sheer presence and glory He embodied. He asked us about our studies, the food and told us we were the future of the nation and that we must strive to excel in whatever we did. I was ecstatic! Then I saw Him play basketball in our court. It was a hot day. He played in His gho and He played smooth. I changed the way I played the sports. I became a basketball devotee that day.

When He left, we felt a bit empty. But He’d left us with enough wings to get us through the rest of the semester. When it ended, I vowed to see Him when I got back to Thimphu. It worked out. I was transferred to Paro High School the following semester and then later I became a drop- out, hanging out in the streets of Thimphu. It was time well spent. His Majesty would come down to the Changlimithang Basketball Court every evening at about three or four. I’d be there every day, earnestly and religiously awaiting hiss convoy.

The now familiar pilot-Jeep was a welcome sign and that familiar dark and green-lime-Range Rover would kick up dust as it drove to the ground adjacent to the court.

The games would go on and I’d be watching the way He looked, moved and shot the ball: Captivated by His presence, mesmerized by His plays.

I had a group of local friends. We called ourselves the ‘commandos’ for our love of army fatigues and played hoop from dusk sill sundown. Basketball became our passion. We have no coaches or trainers. We had a ball and His Majesty’s visit to the National stadium to look forward to everyday.

In time the old swimming pool Complex became His Majesty’s new shooting grounds. Three years had gone by and the face of the capital was beginning to change, along with the Kingdom. Political divisions were brewing in the south. WE were oblivious to it all. Playing hoop and watching our King play satisfied us.

One day as we were playing, He walked in! It was so sudden and startling none of us knew how to respond! He told us to carry on and that He’d play against us the next day. I was going to play against my hero, My King! It was hard trying to sleep that night and the day seemed to drag on. The hour finally came and I had my first real communication with the King, with the ball as the mediator. We were badly beaten! The game done, His majesty gave us the game ball as Soera, Which I later learnt was what He Always did. Then He fired us benignly, pumping us up to do better.

Afterward, we were given a treat at the Swiss Bakery. It was my first. I ate a lot hamburgers and moon rocks.
When I decided to go back to school I had about three deflated Michael Jordan balls. I went back to school on trumped-up certified and qualified for college.

I went to Kanglung and became a member of a basketball team. It was 1991. The country was in the grip of the southern dilemma. There were killings all over the border towns. People in the south were leaving the country, out of fear or suspension. On campus there was static vibes between the southern and northern students. We didn’t understand the cause. Why was this happening? We’d never had any problems with our southern brothers. By now, Telecom had replaced the old wireless set and the country was pretty much connected.

We heard, thought the grapevine, stories about the King making visits to the southern dzongkhags, pleading to his subjects to stay back, trying to convince them about the paramount need for a “One country, One people “reality; trying to make them understand. We didn’t grape them how dangerous the visits were to His life and how compassionate His actions.

He was trying to communicate where others were bent on destroying. He visited us in College twice. The first visit, He spoke to us about the problems in the south and how we must stand together. His advice was always revealing, perceptive and rousing with an added emphasis on the magnitude of our roles as future custodians of the country.

Somehow I never seemed to get that part. Maybe I was late bloomer.

He’d eat with us as He did when I was in school. With a few more words of encouragement, He’d be gone. When He came back on his second visit, ‘do anything but come to campus.’ I curse myself. His Majesty played a game of ball with the college team and I missed that too! The principal was later awarded the red scarf. I’ve a feeling that was the reason I was left out. The problems in the south were beginning to abate, though wounds would take time to heal.

I graduated from the college and traveled a lot in India. I lived overseas for about nine years. In all my travels, I was found myself trying to echo the words of my King and talking about His life as an example of enlightened leadership, his personal stand and charge against the ULFA camps, His resolution and announcement to abdicate in favor of His son, the Crown prince, His decision to user in democracy and the priceless gift of the constitution. Why was He doing all this? Now that the elections has been successfully conducted and our Fifth King’s coronation about to be celebrated; I still feel the way I felt when I was a schoolboy and He’d drop by and make everything seem all right. Our Monarchs have done more for us than what we have done for our Monarchs.

Today I’m 37 and still amazed at the farsightedness of His Majesty, The Forth King. He spoke to us, at for us and played for us. When I hear about our Fifth King and the present king-playing hoop, I smile and feel blessed and happy. That same iconic poster still smiles and greets us at every home, shop and office but with deference. A new era of optimistic change is adrift in the air. It is the radiating picture of His Majesty Jigme Khesar Namgyal Wangchuk, “The People’s King.”
God bless our glorious Druk Gyalpos!


Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

Bird-Day-Haikus








Dear M,

You Are Nine Today!
My Dearest Mipham,
A Jolly-Good-Happy-Birthday!
May You Live Kindly...Happily...And May You Stay Forever Young...
And Keep Your Sketching Heart,
Even If The Paint Should Peel Off;
Keep Sketching Your Art!

Traveling Nowhere;
I Was So Much Older Then;
I'm Younger Than That Now.
Having Said My Bit;
Thank You For The Memories...
Those I'll Cherish,
Bite In And Relish;
When I Board Amnesia!

This Constant Drumming,
That Would Have You Explaining;
Until You Explode!

Throw Away That Tie!
Unbuckle And Abandon Those Attachments!
And Just Try And Be...
I'm Telling You,
There Is Nothing Left To Tell;
Or Communicate!

The Meaning Of What?
When From Dusk Till Dawn You Breathe;
And Forget You Live!

Everything Is Quiet,
A Lone Crow Now Caws Far Away;
My Mind Makes More Noise!

Our Lives Miracles,
See The Surroundings Around?
Here Is All We Have.

Do Not Cuss The Cub,
It Could Become A Tiger;
Old Mongol Saying...

The Story Of Genghis,
While He Was Still Temudjin;
Lord Of The Steppes...

Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

Care Less Haiku...





The Laughter In Us,
Will Cut Away All Your Ties;
And Still Have You Smile....!

Monsoon's Almost Dripped,
We Don't Remember Moments;
Now Here Falls Autumn...See How Autumn Falls...!

You Were Once a Man,
Running With Wild Buffaloes;
What Happened To You?

This True Fearlessness, This True Compassion,
Set In Vietnam's Killing Fields; Embodied By This Lone Monk;
Look How He Faces It! The Final Offer! See How The Warmth Spreads!
It Is Not a Flame,
It's Compassion In Action;
Ultimate Courage...The Gr...eat Path Of Ahimsa; We Are Mere Cinders...Embers....Ashes...Read More

Momentarily,
If You Shot Me In The Head;
I'd Say Thank You!

I Read The News Today,
Twenty-Five Hundred Years Ago;
Someone Read It Too!

Phases Come And Go,
Comparisons And Contrasts;
Along Those Wrinkled Lines....Just Try And Be Here...

All The If's And Butt's,
Multiply And Keep Weeding;
Parasitical...

A Billion Faces,
Mosaic Illustrations;
Now Choose Your Models...

All The World's Lovers,
Will Do One Thing In Common;
Suffocate That Love!

This Sedated Heart,
Is Laden With Painful Lead;
Numb In-Difference...

Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!
Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

TellingTalisman: Wherever You Go; There You Are!








Sacred serpents coiled around their clutches of eggs yet to hatch in rock caves had the faithful attending in droves to offer their prayers. Some dubbed them ‘suckers’ while others merely found some value for astonishment and surprise. I felt both; legend of the ‘Guardians of Taras’ floated and the cliff next door with the elephantine protrusion added still more gravity to the story. Yet when I drove past that road I did not feel the need to actually go out and check out the serpents firsthand. People were still hurrying up and down the road from where the snakes lay. What am I gonna do even if I went up there? My lame thoughts came and went, and with that, I was already kilometres away from the scared premises, my son in deep slumbers and me lost in great mental numbers.

I did make a trip to Taktsang though, and found myself panting and praying at the Guru’s Holy Cave. The trip ended with a throw of the dice at the deity’s chambers. The Venerable Singye Samdrup was generous, and gave me a dice of confidence to carry and call on during the coming days that I was gonna travel. The day arrived and I departed Paro Airport with a heavy heart, a sad recurring case every time I leave the kingdom I malign so much.

In-flight, fears of the future, immediate and relative, started hatching their own eggs. Had I been a good son during my yearly sojourn back home? A good brother? A good uncle? A good cousin? A good friend? A good husband? A good Bhutanese? A good Buddhist? A good person? The answers were shouting out in unison, a loud collective thunder roaring ‘No’! That didn’t feel too good, but worse still were my irrational worries about stuff like how would I get to the Royal Embassy of Bhutan? In an auto-rickshaw or an ambassador car? Would the embassy guest house ensure me a room? What if they didn’t really get my half baked reservation? And how would I spend the 48 hours I had at my disposal? Wouldn’t the heat and the pollution be too discomforting? How would my son react to Delhi’s surroundings? Would chicken be safe enough to eat? It was a nice comfortable flight to Delhi.

The first hurdle of finding transportation to the embassy was solved by a chance encounter with an acquaintance I barely knew; she was travelling westwards and had a pickup arranged for her by the embassy. We could join her, ‘Fantastic’ I said and started worrying about the rest of the fears left on my list. The immediate one being, ‘Now that transportation has been solved, what about the accommodation? Arriving at the embassy, I was pleasantly surprised to find out they had indeed had a reservation in my name, though they had had to downgrade me from the ‘suite’ to the ‘deluxe’ room. The going rate was Rs. 2000 a night for two occupants, since I was with a minor, I only had to make do with a 1000. Thankful and surprised, we checked in. I showered while my boy watched Mahabharata cartoons. To double check that it was really my name the room was booked under, I walked over to the reception and asked the man behind if there were any complications with my reservation, ‘No complications’, he replied. ‘No complications?’ I ventured again, totally surprised, ‘No complications’, he shot back, a wee bit amused and cheesed.

The rest of the day passed by like a snail on a sprint, a turtle on the run. The hot and humid Delhi midday heat kept us off the streets, and the deluxe room was really a living room in disguise, nice fat couches and two good beds, with a Flatron T.V to keep us entertained. The kitchen was good, the chicken even more delicious. ‘Not sick, are they’ I asked the reception man, ‘Not at all’, says he and soon enough me and my boy are chomping chicken curries. That done, my fears and their associated worries came back like good old friends. How do we spend coming days? How come the tickets say I am leaving two days later than scheduled? What do I do once I get back to my adopted working country? How do I cope with this, and with that? Night came and I couldn’t wait to get moving, two more days seemed like forever. So many hours to kill! Next day arrives and I’m still caught up trying to figure out how best this day will pass. I look at the tickets and there is still another good 24 hours before we get going to the airport. Another lethargic day trickles by and it’s sheer boredom. Finally dusk gathers, the birds go quiet, and my boy’s asleep as well. I sit on the couch watching football. It’s late at night, midnight, and then the T.V goes blank and zaps. I curse and head for the bed. I’m almost dozing off when it hits me. I looked at the wrong dates! Our flight departs tonight at 1:50 in the morning and it’s already 12:30! There is pandemonium as I sit up in horror and start throwing everything into the bags, look for the reception man, find him snoring, wake him up, tell him to prepare the bills and call a cab. He can’t find the food bills, so I pay him for the room and 500 for whatever we ate, wake up my crying son, get into a Maruti van, and head for the airport with ‘Baza Guru’ on my lips.

It’s a real tussle trying to get a sleeping five year old, a trolley to roll and documents to show with just two hands. We get to our airline and find a long queue of passengers and baggage. An eternity descends when I’m at the counter. The airline man takes another eternity before he declares, ‘No seats’!

Three hours and three thousand mental clogs later, we are boarding Turkish Airlines to Istanbul on an empty economy row. An hour later in Istanbul, we are boarding Austrian Arrows business class to Vienna. In Vienna, we are compensated with a neat 1200 Euros for the inconvenience caused and arrive in Amsterdam, in peace and in one piece.

I just had to think of the Venerable Singye Samdrup, and knew there was something more to deities and dices, serpents and eggs.


Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

THE WESTERN ENCOUNTER WITH BUDDHISM : THE BURNING MONK



Introduction

(By Dr. John Dwyer)

In a recent talk that was delivered to the Temple in Chicago, I pointed out that one of the real ironies of history was that so many people consider Buddhism an other worldly religion - one that doesn't may sufficient attention to the real world. This is not only a stereotype, but it?s a stereotype that is absolutely nonsensical when one considers the evolution of Buddhism since the 1940s, where it has become synonymous with the peace movement, environmentalism, working with Indian untouchables, caring for the aging, and stimulating the kind of anti-colonialism and nationalist fervor that has profound implications for the west.

What North American, for example, would deny the profound social and psychological effect of the Indo-Chinese war. And in this war, Buddhism played a pivotal role, symbolized most powerfully perhaps by the image of the burning monk -- an image so powerful that it now graces the record cover of a popular alternative group called Rage Against the Machine. Alternative groups, as you may or may not know, like to place the most shocking and dramatic images on their product.

The burning monk had a name - Thich Quang Duc. In 1963, he sat down in a street in Saigon in the meditative position.

He poured gasoline all over his body and set himself alight.
He maintained a calm and meditative posture as his body burned, and then he simply toppled over.

His death was dramatic but not all that different in nature and spirit from the deaths of many other Buddhist leaders and saints.

One remarkable difference, however, was that his death was shown on many different televisions all around the world.

Whether you agree with his actions or not, Thich Quang Duc's immolation tells us at least three things that I want to talk about tonight.

The first thing it tells us is a deeply Buddhist, but sometimes forgotten, truth -- that human beings are capable of incredible actions when they practice mindfulness.

It was only by understanding the power of meditative awareness that Thich Quang Duc was able to have the courage to act with such purpose.

The second thing that it tells us is that Buddhism can be an engaged religion.

Thich Quang Duc made a statement about the oppression of the Vietnamese people that will outlast the ideological propaganda of the Americans or the Communists.

The final thing that tells us is that Buddhism ultimately is not about nationalism or particularism, it is all about inter-being and interconnectedness.

Thich Quang Duc's death lamp was lit on television sets all around the world.
Thus, a simple Buddhist monk turned the primary instrument of mindlessness and consumerism into a vehicle for inter-connectivity.



Understanding the Stereotype

As thinking human beings, we are supposed to clear our minds of stereotypes. But for historians, stereotypes can be useful indicators.
How was it that Buddhism?s image came to be seen as that of the removed meditator, seeking the harmony and peace of his or her own mind, without sufficient concern for the social and political welfare of others?

The answer to this question can tell us a lot about the relationship between the Buddhist East and the Christian West.

As Western culture developed, within it grew a strong rationalist ethic.

This ethic was important to emerging Protestantism because it organized the behavior of its adherents and allowed them to use their own minds to break with Catholicism.

In many ways Catholicism resembles conventional Buddhist religion because of the emphasis that it places on religious faith, tradition, hierarchy, and the passing down of the teachings.

The Protestants' faith was of a completely different order. Its purpose was to demonstrate salvation, not to organize behavior. The behavior of the good Protestant was ruled by orderliness, reason, logic and an individualistic attention to one's behavior and the actions of others.

Protestantism may have ushered in a new kind of rationalism and individualism, but rationalism and individualism only really flourished when Protestantism was left behind and a more secular culture emerged.

That secular culture in the West ushered in capitalism, the scientific revolution and the industrial revolution.

It changed the face of the West and eventually the face of the East. In the face of the increasing superiority of the West, the East tried unsuccessfully to isolate itself.

Traditional Buddhist communities were confronted with a new challenge from a Western culture that was still ostensibly Christian. Their reaction was to retreat in one two directions, either to monastic meditation - the ascetics of the woods and mountains - or into an emphasis on preserving formal rituals and ceremonies.

While the reaction was perhaps natural, it was misguided. For better or worse the new intellectual and social culture of the West was here to stay and its political and commercial aspirations were global.

It would inevitably transform all culture. To retreat meant that one had no power to change or amend it. It also meant that Buddhist practitioners got stereotyped as being other worldly, superstitious, overly ritualized, and irrelevant.


Setting the Stage

I've argued in a number of places that, in order to be successful, religion must be integrated and relevant to its external society.

That sometimes means that religion will lose some of its purity and will make mistakes. But, to a historian, the real sign that a religion is thriving is that it is viewed as part of the entire social fabric and is not simply an escape or an add on.

During the late nineteenth-century, Western culture began to go through a crisis. Sensitive people began to question the ability of reason and progress to make a better world.

It is not surprising that it was at precisely this time that the spiritual alternative of the East began to be explored and Orientalism came into vogue. But during much of the period that we've traversed in the course, Buddhist teachings were ways of band-aiding the pain that all human beings experience but that the Western consciousness confronted most starkly.

The wealth and consumerism of the West was no consolation for its loss of meaning and, in fact, merely increased the cravings that are at the root of human suffering.

Buddhism seemed to offer a path out of suffering for many, and a superior reality for others.

It was still far from being a living and breathing religion in the West.

It attracted adherents, of that there is no doubt, but one has only to read the literature to discover how unsettled the followers of Buddhism were, how they were so easily split apart by factions and arguments, how individualized Buddhism was by many of those westerners who practiced it, and how others sought psychotherapists, gurus or substitute fathers who would obviate the need for any independent thinking whatsoever.

But while there was nothing that we could label authentic Western Buddhism during this period, historians can see a framework being established that would be needed for a more robust form of Buddhism. The translation of Buddhists texts by scholars was clearly a key.

The training of Europeans and North Americans in particular forms of Buddhism, and their attempts to pass on what they had learned, was another. Perhaps the most important aspect of all of this energy and cogitation was the gradual introduction of some admittedly basic Buddhist concepts into popular culture.

Nirvana was the name of two popular pop groups, one in the sixties and another in the nineties.
Mindfulness we see even in television shows like Kung Fu, superficial perhaps, but certainly not the worst television show in the world.
Inter-connectivity - something that had been obscured by individualism and capitalism - has found a profound resonance in environmental circles and it is not surprising that environmentalists are among those most attracted to Buddhism as a religion.

All of this set the stage for a more authentic Buddhism in the West. But it is naive to think that, just because you set the stage, it is inevitable that there will be a performance.
It is still not clear that Buddhism will take its place as a genuine alternative to spiritual growth and social evolution in the West. But there is reason to believe that the chances are far greater than they once were.
Not because the West is seeing the light, but because the East has once again become engaged in ways that make Buddhism relevant and vital.

Mindfulness

For most Westerners who practice Buddhism today, mindful awareness is a critical concept.
It is something that was clearly a major part of the Buddha's teachings in the Pali Canon and was instrumental to his own reaching of awareness. So important is mindful awareness to us, that we prefer to refer to mindfulness as opposed to meditation.
Mindfulness means being absolutely in touch with one's being and environment without any distractions from thoughts, whether they be of the past, the present and the future.

Mindfulness means that time itself is removed as a barrier and a moment of mindfulness is worth more than a thousand years of well-meaning activity.

What mindfulness tells us is that there is no coherence or continuity, only change. There is no individual or self, only oneness.
Emotions themselves are delusive transitional states.
We can never escape our feelings or even the sufferings that they cause.
But what we can successfully do is to stop them from running our lives.

Mindfulness is sometimes talked about in a vacuum, which has nothing to do with the stillness or the void that we tap into. The vacuum is one that posits mindful awareness as a separate state of being.

Mindfulness, rather, is something that puts us in touch, that makes us available, that allows us to act.
It is the most powerful social ethic imaginable, since it minimizes the cravings that distract us and the fears that incapacitate us.

It is an immense source of energy.

The Buddha's discourse on the Foundations of Mindfulness was an important part of the Asian canon. But it got pushed into the background and into a few monasteries as Asians retreated from Western acculturation.

It was only when the people who most deeply understood Buddhism themselves began to meet the challenge of the West that mindfulness was restored to its proper place and Buddhism revitalized.

Buddhism moved out of the monasteries and onto the offensive.

In Burma in 1941, a Buddhist monk by the name of Mingun Sayadaw began to teach practical courses on mindfulness to ordinary people. Since then, 45,000 students trained in Mingun's Rangoon Center- including many Europeans and Americans.
These, in turn, have taught at least another 600,000.

The impact of this and other Burmese monks has been immeasurable. Working in what is called the Vipassana tradition, these monks eschew dogmatic orthodoxy in order to focus on practical experience.
That adaptation alone made Buddhism much more approachable for Westerners who, if they can understand some of the dogma, have real problems with ritual and tradition.

And because this Burmese tradition steered clear of any of the ideological isms that characterize politics and religion, their message was one that could be adapted to a diverse society like North America.

Although the Burmese message was non-sectarian, that did not stop followers from adapting it to their own convictions, specializations and ideological positions. Those who were trained in the Vipassana tradition have gone on to establish Buddhist communities that are committed to political causes, environmentalism and feminism.

Some psychoanalysts who have been attracted to Buddhism have gone so far towards practicality as to redefine the religion in psychological terms. To someone with deep religious convictions, this may appear to be a travesty of spirituality, but it is also a sign that religion is relevant.

And wherever a religion is relevant, there will be those who will explore its deepest reaches.

Inter-connectivity

The focus on mindfulness allowed Buddhism to create a teaching instrument that transcended cultures. It also unearthed a concept that might make it easier for a highly individualistic society to reconnect with one another.

Again, this was a spiritual direction that came from those most intimate with Buddhism and its teachings. While it certainly was not a North American innovation, it has potentially profound consequences for Europeans and Americans.

It is the concept of empathy.

Going back to the teachings of Gautama Buddha, the Vipassana teachers emphasized that fact that meditation did not detach us from our fellow human beings and make us feel superior.

Quite the contrary, it effected a systematic cultivation of loving-kindness towards others.
The vipassana teachers returned to the Mahayana Buddhist teachings on the Bodhisattva.
This is a teaching that has been there from the early days of Buddhism, but Buddhism is a complex religion and one that can lead in many different directions.

By asserting loving-kindness, the vipassana teachers were directing Buddhism in a potentially fruitful direction.

I talked about the Bodhisattva Ideal in my third talk, so I wont go into it in any detail here (although I'll be happy to give you a copy of that talk if you missed it, or you want to go over it). What I will do instead is make some suggestions as to why this direction was so important for Europeans and North Americans.

As capitalism developed in the West, many thinkers and writers struggled to create a new moral and social code that would be consistent with individualism.

They hit upon sentimentalism, a cultural force that is extremely powerful emotionally but more difficult to translate into practice. Essentially, sentimentalism says that individuals are naturally connected to one another by sympathy or the desire to feel others joy and pain. By cultivating our sympathy towards others, we can become better neighbours, friends, parents and lovers. Sentimental literature encourages us to have a little cry at the suffering of others, on the grounds that this will strengthen the social bond. A classic example is Dicken?s A Christmas Carol which remains a perennial favourite around Christmas time, the sentimental season.

But neither Christianity not sentimentalism have shown themselves to be very powerful at stopping the kind of greed, self-centredness and desire to win that now consume Western society. Many perceptive Westerners are aware that there is a real dissonance between our actions and our ideals that are not being bridged by culture. Enter Buddhist empathy or loving kindness. Loving kindness goes way beyond sympathy, which is a form of pity, right to the absolute and immediate identification with others that we sometimes call empathy. During meditation, we become aware that the self is simply a fiction and that we are totally interconnected with all other beings. In their deepest sense, all other human beings are Buddha?s.

This understanding, especially when suggested as part of our practice, makes meditation less of a self absorption than a connection with everything around us. It is an exhilarating connection, and one that makes us want to do everything we can to help those around us. It is an ethic that encourages us to make ourselves more available for other. And it is not a stretch or contrived because it comes out of a deeply rooted spiritual experience.

While intrinsically Buddhist in nature, loving kindness bears a sufficient resemblance to Christ?s Sermon on the Mount when he told us that the greatest commandment was to "love thy neighbour as thyself" or sentimentalism?s exhortations towards general humanity and specific acts of kindness. But, in a word where personal cravings often upset good intentions, Buddhism provides the discipline and the insight to make our good intentions stick.

Engagement

Westerners find it difficult not to seek to control all aspects of their environment. As Buddhism develops in the West, one of its greatest challenges will be to transform the clutching hand into open palms -- accepting what comes, whether it be good or bad.

In the meantime, however, it would be difficult to conceive of a religion making inroads into Western society if it did not at the very least offer a real possibility of creating a better world, if not in our own lifetimes, at least in the foreseeable future. All relevant religions do this, no matter how much their focus may be on a heavenly kingdom or the millennium.

Buddhism is no exception. It has had its share of millenarian and reformist phases. But if we want to single out the episodes that have demonstrated Buddhism?s commitment to social reform in the twentieth century, we need again to look -- not to North America or Europe -- but to Asia. We need to look specifically at Vietnam and Tibet.

The story of Vietnam should be familiar to many of us. When I was young, I saw the Vietnamese war being fought on television. At that time, I was all for the Americans and for freedom as opposed to what I saw as Communist aggression.

Like so many others, I learned that the issues were not so simple and that the Vietnamese had suffered greatly and deserved to create their own society, free from warring ideologies.

Into this debate stepped perhaps the most influential of modern Buddhist teachers Thich Nhat Hanh. Nhat Hanh brought together many strands of Buddhism simultaneously. He promoted Buddhism as the national religion of Vietnam and as a cultural vehicle for unification.

He showed that dogmas and isms need not be victorious by creating a Unified Buddhist Church for Vietnam, the first time "such a feat of reconciliation has ever been achieved."

And he demanded that Buddhism modernized its outlook and connected with the social issues of the day.

What did Buddhist engagement mean to Thich Nhat Hanh. It meant rebuilding villages ravaged by the Vietnamese war; it meant helping Vietnamese boat people, even if it meant breaking the law; it meant criticizing unjust regimes, even when this was life threatening. It even meant the burning monk.

Many might consider suicide a quintessentially nonreligious act.

Thich Nhat Hanh praised those monks who immolated themselves in order to make the complacent and the selfish consider the injustices that were perpetrated on the Vietnamese people.

The motive of the monks was to move the hearts of others and to make the most sincere statement possible. For Thich Nhat Hanh, every burning monk or nun was a lotus in a sea of fire. You can?t get any more engaged than that.

A remarkably similar message has been preached by the Dalai Lama, who seeks not only to make the sufferings of his Tibetan people known to the world but also to develop an ethic of inter-being or universal responsibility.

For the Dalai Lama, it is not enough to criticize the Chinese communists for the damage that they have done to his country. He always seeks to uncover the underlying motivation that makes people cause damage to their planet.

Self-centered attachments and hatreds result in deluded thoughts and actions that hurt others. These delusive attitudes can only be removed or remedied by spiritual practice and discipline. But that is still not enough.

The Dalai Lama tells his followers that, even as they begin practising meditation, they should be at least as concerned about the liberation of others than themselves.

What distinguishes human beings from animals and makes them special is that they can wish to work for the benefit of others. He makes a direct connection between the Bodhisattva tradition and Gandhi?s work among the untouchables or Lincoln's freeing of the slaves.

He even goes so far as to suggest that any falling away from this compassion for others is the sign of a spiritual decline that cannot be compensated for by any spiritual realization. Bodhichitta, or the "compassionate wish to achieve Buddhahood for the sake of others," is the "essence of practice."

The Dalai Lama's attack on purely intellectual Buddhism, and his ideal of the Bodhisattva, results in a plea for engagement in the things of this world and helps to explain his popularity in the West.

Unlike many religious writers and thinkers, the Dalai Lama appears to be like one of us.

His compassion and his humanity shine through all of his teachings and many parts of the message that he preaches have resonance for us.

While many Westerners have difficulty understanding or believing the doctrine of karma or rebirth; while few Westerners find the esoteric nature of Tibetan teachings or even the position of the Dalai Lama convincing; all can understand the teachings of inter-being and engagement.

Twentieth century Western culture has enough touchstones to be receptive to the kind of practical teachings of Thich Nhat Hanh and the Dalai Lama.

Even where Western culture prides itself most - on its rationalism - it is now susceptible to Buddhist influence.

Not only are Thich Nhat Hanh and the Dalai Lama able to write and speak in ways that are open and inviting to Westerners, but even where they criticize the Western tradition of individualism and intellectualism, they speak a language that is nearly a century old among Westerners themselves.

Revitalized Buddhism finds many bridges to Western culture.

Epilogue

Nor should this be surprising. As I end this series of talks, it should be clear that Buddhism and the West are not two separate entities attempting to dominate or control one another. Instead, the two cultural developments have been influencing one another for over two thousand years.

The influence of the West on the East has been at least as powerful of that of the East upon the West, although the latter has been our focus in this series of talks. The West not only gave the Buddha his face but helped to create a vibrant and engaged form of Buddhism that is changing Asia and now threatens to transform the West.

The amount of Buddhist activity in the West has accelerated exponentially in the last two decades and, at present, shows no signs of abating.

We may appear to be on the cusp of an enormous religious revival in North America where Buddhism will play a major role.

But we should perhaps pause and measure of our excitement. Earlier Buddhist missionaries spoke of the lotus clinging to the rock in North America.

Its hold is still more tenuous than its influence might appear.

Even in the East, Buddhism was on the road to becoming moribund until it re-energized itself in ways that were relevant to the hopes and aspirations of the society in which Buddhism found itself.

Similarly in the West, we will only know that Buddhism has become a socially integrated religion when its name is invoked as something more than an oddity.

Only when Buddhism outgrows its priestly strings and becomes a more indigenous cultural force will we be able to say more positively that it is here to stay. Only when it more actively challenges the status quo of a consumerist, individualist and divisive society, will Buddhism rise above its present ambiguous cultural position.

Only when Buddhism becomes more than yet another form of psychic masturbation or a substitute for psychiatry, will it begin to remake our culture.

And only when it contributes to alternate frameworks for social interaction and political progress - some of which we may not like - will we know that it has become vital.

By Dr. John Dwyer

Are You Webbed?




“The internet is a global network of interconnected computers, enabling users to share information along multiple channels.” Okay. Clear enough. Global, network, interconnected, information, multiple channels all say one thing. That this thing really is frighteningly connected! But what does it do for common folks like me and you? Broadly put, it brings out miraculous results to a key word or two typed into search engines such as Google, Yahoo and the rest.

It is the ‘information highway’ where you have abundance license to roam.

To me, the internet is, for all intents and purposes, one of the crowning symbols of man’s quest and thirst for knowledge. It took eons for us to get here. The journey continues and that is perhaps more notable rather than some utopian destination or deliverance.

\You see, there is no such thing as a ‘climax’!

Man goes on inventing, evolving, destroying, rebuilding et al. it is what he does and strangely enough, what he should not do and yet he goes on; doing it pretty darn well!

The internet is man himself and man in turn, has become the internet. Our curiosity knows no bounds; our desires never cease; our imagination is vast and our creativity is littered with blood, guts and glory.
In the end, our lack of contentment becomes our inevitable doom. That pretty much takes out the above equations- for if man should possess all of these and yet lack a basic sense of satisfaction and contentment, of what use is all of the arts and crafts that he has painstakingly molded?

The world is beautiful. Look around you- everything is perfect! The mountains, deserts, oceans, forests and all the flora and fauna you can find; all the elements that make these possible and marvelous.
But we are talking about the internet. Well, we have to rewind the archives and take a metaphorical journey back in time.

This is many pages, pens, pencils and white chalks back. This was also many letters, notes, drawings and sketches back. This was when correspondence took place by hand, stamps, envelopes and the mailman’s back. This was when knowledge passed down through oral stories and tales narrated by grandparents’ at dusk, around a hearth, out on cool open meadows and walkabouts around the stupas. This was when knowledge was scarce but sacred; when experiences bequeath wisdom; when students worshipped their teachers and teachers lived the principles they espoused.

The knowledge was scarce but sufficient, retaining a reality of things that were real, comprehensible and pragmatic. People knew enough about how they had to live, whether it was with the forests around them or the rivers and streams and the animals that lived there. They shared with the land around them an intimacy seldom gained nowadays- that intimacy brought them knowledge; about the world and all its open secrets.

This communication between man and the environment sustained. The respect was mutual. There was an innate harmony pervading the air.

In time the knowledge began to pile. It grew bigger and bigger. It had to be archived and became the storehouse of all things man was witness to- within and without.

This gradually became so sophisticated that man knew all there was to know: the open skies were conquered with planes; the oceans were pacified with ships and the land itself was carved in tune with the human desire and its many plays. Mega metropolitan cities grew; time and space itself were manipulated.

Communication had evolved from grunts, growls, gestures and signs to languages that varied as the landscapes did. The rock paintings had become feathered strokes, evolving now to touch-pad styluses’. The bark of the trees and the papyrus became liquid pages and multi-faceted gadgets.

This gave birth to a lifestyle like no other. It evolves even as we speak. This very essay is being typed on an electronic key board with a thousand different alternatives and options. The pages it displays are virtual realities, but the virtuosity is as real as anything.

Today the internet is omnipotent and omnipresent. It is, in a nutshell, what man is and what he symbolizes. It is in a way the supreme incarnation of his achievements. It is the magical portal that connects man to man and man to the world. It has revolutionized life. Today the internet is the refuge and source of all things we deem to be informative and hence, knowledgeable.

It has changed the way I live, socialize and communicate. The pros and cons of such a revolutionary tool cannot be underestimated. In many ways, it is the continuing process of man’s rather distinct method of evolution. The use of the word ‘evolution’ here should denote ‘intelligence’ and ‘knowledge’. This is good news but the trap is also set. Being clever is not necessarily smart. Being knowledgeable is not necessarily wise. Having access to knowledge is different from having innate wisdom.

So we get to this inevitable point. The crossroads beckon and the junction offers multiple directions. The sign board announces the names of the places and their distance in mathematics.

And as unexpectedly, there is a sudden air of dull stagnancy. It breathes heavily without respite. It is restless. That, today, is the hypothetical condition of man. For all of the technology we have at our disposal, our lives have not changed for the better. We have forgotten and lost something precious. We have forgotten our roots and are busy eating the fruits of dependence. We longer possess wisdom; it has been replaced by artificial knowledge.

We have forgotten to live; the ghosts of millions slaughtered at the altar of greed, selfishness, ignorance and hatred have made us uneasy. We no longer communicate with nature; we have forgotten the language they speak. We no longer feel the land we live on; it is littered with ‘progress’.
We have forgotten the ancient stories; capitalism, consumerism and globalization have enveloped us.
That is what the internet tells me; that is what the internet represents. Perhaps there are other wholesome alternatives. The well that dries and drowns also quenches and satisfies.

Without a hint of irony, the beauty is that the internet also houses all of the lost and forgotten secrets of the natives. It is also a flowering symbol of man’s inspirational imagination and flawless creativity. The elders would have marveled at it, proudly.

The question is the same as it has always been. Where do you find the middle path? If we ventured forth with that awareness in mind, perhaps the world will never look the same again and neither will you.

Now Google that!



Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

BUREAUCRAZY!


One tends to wonder if the elected government will ever be able to fulfill their promise of Equity and Justice.
Although our leaders have realised that every vote counts and their career is linked to the peoples love. They must realize that if they do not shake up our bureaucracy it will lead to their downfall. The honeymoon period is now over, the carrot has been given to our civil servants its now time for the stick. if the aims and objective of the elected government is undermined by the same BUREAUCRAZY, democracy its self will be undermined. it is one thing if the right hand does not know what the left hand is doing, but it is really crazy when the little finger does not know what the thumb is doing. when its said the opposition is small, I will disagree because the Opposition seems to be our own bureaucracy, it is time for them to get on with the program and take their jobs seriously instead of taking them self seriously.
Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

Old (S)Wine, New Bottles!


The Calligraphy of Our Psyche


You can only analyze so much. In the end, we have to either accept that an overwhelming
majority of the Bhutanese chose the DPT, or conversely, rejected the PDP. Any which way, it does not matter. What matters is that the losing party should shoulder the responsibility of regrouping and reforming the party’s stance, beginning from the ground upward. That is what the people expect, regardless of the DPT landslide; the PDP should now launch an avalanche of change within.

Five years may seem long, but nothing gallops like time.

Before we know it, it will be time for the second election. In between, what the parties do and what they do not will resound and resonate, with echoes collected everywhere.

The mandate given to the DPT is also a mandate for the PDP to start the rebuilding process. The Bhutanese expect nothing less; all that counts. The PDP president is right in saying, “we’ll live to fight another day.”

The DPT hierarchy is also right in saying that, “it is an enormous burden and a heavy
responsibility.”

This historic election has been well grounded, and credit must go where credit is due; the Bhutanese people and their proactive demonstration of the importance of each and every single vote, demonstrating without a shred of doubt that they are capable of being decisive. The numbers speak for themselves. The votes cast speak for themselves.

In this the real victor has been the Bhutanese people. It was their turnout that erased whatever doubts there may have been. The Bhutanese, it seems, are inherently a political lot. Democracy as a theoretical term was perhaps new, but only in its theory, in practice, the Bhutanese have been democratic all along. Nearly an eighty percent turned-out. Everybody understood the power of the poll, and nobody took it for granted.

Credit must go to our security forces too. The peaceful circumstances under which we voted without fear or favor was in no small measure a sudden miracle. Troops along the borders, law enforcement agencies along the highways did their part and did it admirably.

Minus a strong opposition, “but now what?” is a reasonable reservation. A question can also come loaded with answers, and the answer to that is the very mandate bequeathed upon the winning party by the people. A woman walked 600km. A man made it in the nick of time, paying his cabbie an extra Nu 200 to speed up to his booth 2 minutes before the polls shut. He made it, and so did thousands. The ink-smudges have not yet dried on people’s fingers, they display it proudly. For they contemplated, mobilized and voted, just as our Kings advised and decreed, just as both the parties’ urged and encouraged.

Now we hope the same kind of practical wisdom will be exercised by the new government- elect. That they practice what they have preached. Transform the manifesto into a workable reality. Not only walk the talk but do so with humility. Change the lofty ideals, “Equity and Justice” from a slogan into a practicable reality
beneficial to all Bhutanese.

We have become, either by default or through our own choices, for all practical purposes, the opposition de-facto. Here the opposition party should take heart. They have nothing to lose but everything to build upon. The people too have nothing to lose but their trust. And that is a price too high to pay for the government-elect.
For the Bhutanese are endowed with long memories; and memories shall play a role, as it did in this election, and as it invariably will do so, in the next.


Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

Confuciously!


I Wanted To eat,
And Then I Wanted To Blog;
Now I'm Sighing!

Who The Fcvk Are You?
When You Don't Know Who Is Who;
Come I'll Tell You!

My Cat Waves All Day,
Sitting On It's Silvery Ass;
The Bloody Chinese!

Today We Spoke Dharma,
And Then Tosh Throws Me A Zen;
Where Is It Going!















Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

Going APE


Allocation for Personal Evolution (APE)

It’s New Year’s Eve. I go about the watering holes. Like mine, they are chock-full of pompous overcast faces anxious to usher in the New Year (more out of pattern than delight). Resolutions are talked about. Another yearly malaise that infects remorseful souls! For me, resolutions are proof of how history keeps repeating itself. But life goes on and a lonesome night injected with some meaningful venom can be a real tempter. We are indeed, a poignant horde of headless chickens running amok! And Loser’s just around the corner too.

I’m not cannibalizing the occasion; it’s just how things are; a public depressive form of things. In an attempt to instill a little cheer, I concocted a list of resolutions on behalf of the jokers that we are to the powers that be. If this smacks presumptuous, kick me in the teeth as I’m done with dental feed!

• The immediate construction of a special penitentiary for delinquents breaking the following resolutions. In aptness, the captive abbreviation will be ‘APE’ (Allocation for Personal Evolution).

• No more dull BBS reportage! Not when the bungling houses are in a siesta. Members look dismembered. Is it the open arena and the cameras, a la CCTV style? Guaranteeing unlimited ad-free coverage and the prospect to see which member will pick his nose first and which canary sings the loudest. Should the rigid members feign interest, they may duck the cameras or do an impromptu musical-chair; if not bridge the Mao Khola or go APE for research.

• No more politicians’ grievances! What’s their hang up? Coloured scarves and silver patangs? What’s next? Rhino hide shields and horn-helmets? Someone wrote an optimistic piece about their extended appendages’ symbolic representation of duty. That they can be taken to task precisely because of the empowered ‘bling blings’. On the blunt side, these sanctioned power-emblems go to their heads, with exceptions, forgetting their roots. In short, no more milking the national exchequer for status-symbols. Represent your constituencies’ needs or reimburse the entire said accessory with remorse or go APE.

• No more civil servant rants. It never ends and there’s no solution. The 9-4 (winter concession) officer smugly thinks the nation building exercise is his forte. Should he actually work a good hour, he’s on a high for the next 100 hours. No more personal work in public chairs doing willy-nilly what he wants. Should the boss sight such a subject, an impromptu termination coupled with a one-way ticket to APE for honesty hours be authorized; shoddier fates should await those using public resources for personal prosperity. Collecting public garbage comes to mind.

• No more ACC declarations of powers that rest inscribed in some Yellow Sea scroll. The bullying limbs have grown muscular heights, reminiscent of Hoover’s foot-soldiers. And pray, who checks the ACC? Do go out and trap established and would be piranhas but on clear waters. Make public the methodology employed. Whether it was nets, hooks or dynamites? Was the spear in proportion to the length of the prey? Failure to do so may result in intense public scrutiny and the right to information. If certain scrolls are cited then make dummies and distribute them generously. Inadequacies will result in a humble sabbatical at APE cells or go net the real sharks.

• No more calling officers (civilian, police or otherwise) dashos! All officers carry specific ranks. You address them as such or use the honorific term of ‘sir’. They are way out of their league with the excessive abuse of the honorific title ‘dasho,’ which is exactly that- an honorific title bestowed upon a deserving subject by the king. Should the label apply to a pretender, the person must resist, refuse and protest the ‘moniker’ vehemently. Should the sucker caressing the tshoglham refuse to do so, the sycophant may be conserved at APE as a cobbler.

• No more diversion of issues. If the ineffective ban on tobacco stays, then we expect a ban on alcohol too, along with the ubiquitous doma. The charade is becoming an embarrassing parade. Let those who harm themselves do so at their own peril. Tax tobacco. Use the revenue for better health care. Saving face at the cost of lost revenues and mushrooming black markets is no face at all. Deface the farce or tolerate tobacco traders- along with an explanation on why one house rejects bags and the other bags it? And pray, while the world is in an economic recession, why are we talking pay hikes?

• No more cock-eyed Dorjis and Dems. The RSTA cannot issue licenses as ‘applicants are pretty and giggly’. No more issuance of licenses because the applicants cannot wait to terrorize the roads with their brand new taxis or Prados. Should drivers disregard traffic rules blatantly, vehicles may be impounded and nationalized for public transport. Should those driving luxury vehicles rotate their weight around with dirty looks, wrong turns, double parks and the lot, vehicle may be seized and said Dorji spanked every morning at the Clock Tower Square or learn patience at APE.

• No more street banners. These taunting fliers announcing the gathering of dimwits in some hotel for the duration of whatever days is required to talk and talk with bouts of carnivore buffet displayed on their potty figures and gigantic bottoms gone too far. Do your seminars clandestinely; should banners still appear, anyone may enter and join in the buffet. Those barring entry can go APE for dietary lessons.

• No more use of the term, ‘in due process’ and ‘come tomorrow’. They’re to be banned from the bureaucrats’ vocabulary. Those found using the tag may be reported to APE for immediate detainment and quiet contemplation in solitary confinement. A compulsory notice board to be hung in all government boards with the jingle, ‘at your service’.

• No more lame excuses! If dasho is in a meeting, I want to see him. If dasho has gone on tour, I want evidence. If dasho is busy, I want to know doing what. If dasho has gone out for lunch at 11am or at 3pm, I want to see him eat. If dasho was not conferred that title, refer ‘distorted dasho’ clause and make him APE.

And some assorted desserts deserving the APE bite:

• Doma spats, queues cuts, abusing office computers and fiddling mobile phones when at work and while driving.
Whew! Should the above salient points go unheeded and render this resolution redundant- cackle, chill out and freeze, for we’re all going APE.



Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!

Haikus Within And Without










This Is My Sorry;
This Is My Story,
I Want To Be Gone,
And Follow The Forest Monks; The Elders That Tread The Path.

I Can Learn No More; The World's Been Enough:-
Old Path And White Clouds Beckon...
And I Must Heed The Calling...
And Face All My Fears!

Many Moons Back In Time,
Glistened And Glowed Tempting Me;
The Trap Killed Many.

It Drove Me To Books,
Fancy Imaginations!
Life Alternative; A Customized Life.

Riches Of The World,
The Mind Cannot Comprehend,
Hence Ceaseless Questions!

Sights Of Mendicants,
We Compare With Our Own World;
Thus We Throw Cheap Alms.

Man's Will To Reveal,
Is What Brings Us Our Ordeal;
Time And Time Again!

Today I Got Up,
Brushing My Needs Selfishly;
Forgetting Others.

Compassionate Seeds!
Bud And Bloom When Without You;
From Within Your Soul.

The Masters' Message,
Be Aware And Be Mindful;
The Living Moments.

Logic Cannot Feel,
Rationality Limits;
Listen To The Gut!

What Was Your Real Face?
Before You Came To This Life?
Your True Nature Calls;

Everything We See,
Is Revealingly-Naked!
Opaqueness Restricts.

Everything We Hear,
Sends Us Songs Of Inner Truth;
Listen Carefully!

Everything We Touch,
Is Teaching Us Shunyata;
Form And Emptiness.

Everything We Feel,
Like Waves And Tides Of Oceans;
Web And Ebb And Flow; Knowing That Is So,
Brings Us Immediate Calm;

I Must Learn To Breathe.

Inter-Connectness,
And Co-Inter-Dependence;
Is The Wheel Of Life,
Is The Life-Cycle,
Is The Realm Of Men,
Is What Drives The World;

This- If Understood,
Will Alight The Darkness Within;
Displaying Rainbows!

http://www.what-buddha-taught.net/Books2/Ajahn_Chah_A_Still_Forest_Pool.htm

http://www.forestsangha.org/

http://www.buddhanet.net/bodhiny2.htm

Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!