I walk out to the small garden out back. There is no morning dew. That
is a bad sign. The sun will bake the earth. The rain has moved around us.
City water will travel along its path to my doorstep. I may water the garden.
I pay a small price for water from a nearby lake. Sometimes I wonder where
the city water is at in Africa. If they can lay a telephone line at the
bottom of the ocean surely our billionaire friends can ship water buy UPS?
Or we could have OPEC lay a water line. May be they can use all that energy
that they extend on video games to ship fresh water to Africa. Do you think
the young men would mind paying a video water to Africa tax?
I see a peaceful morning.
Does any one know anything about “Ten thousand Villages”?
I walk alone, I see.
I am the scapegoat, the pawn that falls, the end of the line.
I am the smile on the face with a crooked tooth, the smile that you will walk away from.
To naive to believe, too peaceful. Mothers lay me on the altar to die.
I walk alone, I see.
There are some peaceful people, not I,
that will stand and confront danger without a weapon.
They will die for what peace that dwells in their being.
They see no danger, they only see another being.
I walk alone, I see.
I'm sticking my nose into a book.
Reading what some other mind has written.
Historical words of 1965 to the present.
How could anyone control us? Who among us is being controlled? Is not
that the reason we were at Morningstar? We were free to be with no control.
The only organization we know is that we know that we cannot be controlled.
Ramon kept us informed, otherwise we are still uncontrollable. The
world lives around us, we live with all their organization. We sometimes
play their games, but we know that we are in control of our lives. We move
as we wish to move, sometimes with the flow, sometimes against the flow,
we know which way the water flows and it is not flowing into Africa.
We have all seen the sparrow flying on the hawks' ass, looking a little upset. It is a common site here in Kentucky, I am sure it is rather common site elsewhere. I sympathize with the sparrow.
I tell Laurel about the sparrow while I stick my fork into my green Chef's Salad and then lift the hard-boiled egg to my lips.
Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down.
Because of the high heat and the mother cat is sick. She is at the vets with a high fever. The kittens are in the house. This home is perfect, there is a constant variety of objects to see and play with here. The kittens are in seventh heaven, jumping and leaping, twisting and turning. Falling to sleep in the place where they land. I am sure that there is a weeble under something somewhere in this home.
There is a hard steel that you can bend with heat and a large hammer. Steel heavy, hard to move, hard on the muscles. A constant heavy strain, work the body until the body gives way. There are thousands of men whose bodies have been abused by arrogance, their own and their employers. These men now sit and wonder how they got hurt? The constant lift of steel does that.
I wish I had a photographic memory, so that I could remember every detail of your struggle for survival. I could shake hands to people I saw forty years ago and remember their names. I could remember everything I learned in high school and pass with flying colors. I could create wonderful thought and weave it into mind enhancing books. I could eliminate all evil though sheer compliment and knowledge.
Maybe by passing though the dust my dreams will come true.
I know the difference. I do know where I am at each day, simple being, simply being.
I love to move the words. I see into the words, the definitions of meaning are deep into our history.
The continued message, the fragments of the whole, words that can be ignored or seen. They can be smooth and shiny, tattered or obscene. Repetitive, rubber-stamped, stapled and collated.
Words from one of many, making no sense, making sense.
I'm hanging my coat on the rack.
The open commune opened the door and we never stopped. We all stayed for dinner, we never left. There are no exits or margins on an open commune. We are mentally there, alone at home.
The message continues, fragmented, distilled and cleaned.
Repetition, a constant beating on a rock, shaping it to your desire. Dabbing a color on a canvas, creating depth and movement over and over. Constantly tapping keys, entering data. Pounding and pounding the earth, turning and turning the earth. Entering numbers more numbers. When does it stop? Repetition, a constant beating on our hearts.
That is what I am doing, I do not think I'm any different from anyone else. Working, pounding two keys over and over, entering data.
When does it stop? It will stop when I finish. Who's digging a hole, creating a mountain?
In part, not part.
Part in part out.
Some part in, some part out.
Somewhat believable, somewhat not.
Carrying part of the load, carrying nothing at all.
Through the doorway, stepping out.
Half full, half empty.
Wishfull thinking, wishy washy.
Web sites I have just now found.
Janis Ianbonga,bongaJim Croce
"At Seventeen"bonga"Operator"bonga"Time in a Bottle"
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