Elysian Fields

Title-less

earthlyLN — Sat, 19 Apr 2008 20:23:51 GMT

I count up the balance And every time it’s different They got me on that financial fence. Called modern banking called modern society. Hanging from the rope. …what I believe. What I think you see when you see me. And what they mean Is not what I hear them say. So I sling the thing over the side and make a knot for where I hide. Not long enough for the dying. May I learn forgiveness. I have never known what looks at me from the other side. Its right my left. Its strife my challenge. Its abuse my habits. And I don’t want it. It’s tragedy is my numbness. Too afraid to dump this Thing I thought was me. But all along it’s been a foreign species. Its crowfeet sunk in shoulders I hunch and think. Why so heavy Why like up a hill both ways Does my heart beat? And will she take this Thing from me. Give me a chisel for chipping away Down to the baby Whose trust like leaves Followed the sun across the sky’s belly. Who believed that for everything I am the lush blue would want the inhale and x And would want bare feet on solid rock. To see the change To be the change to want to change Walk with me. Past the klling machines. We don’t need it Help me believe in the piece of me In the piece of you That is peace.

I Got the Job

earthlyLN — Tue, 26 Feb 2008 21:28:24 GMT

Grant Writing in Denver... Here I come big Citeeey!

Remembering the Dis-membered

earthlyLN — Sun, 10 Feb 2008 04:29:45 GMT

Echoes along an adobe alley. Of the mountains we came from. On people like us the eyes fix far across valleys that speak of the last time we crossed. When we came down from the heights Building streets for their cities Dry veins cracked like the earth. Dirt specks finer between fingers. I am thirsty. Dreaming of the heart and blood so thick sustenance that sticks. exiled from mother for years whose gift was water flowing through arteries and between white on sheets But when I unzip the pack and pull out the pen nothing sits. A squatter in this house of silence. Where even the sound of her name doesn't exist. stories to heal strain of growing and stunting stories for going backwards God whispers between the bars.

Liberate This

earthlyLN — Fri, 08 Feb 2008 09:12:11 GMT

From: Dahlia S. Wasfi, M.D. www.liberatethis.com "I speak to you today on behalf of relatives on my mother’s side—Ashkenazi Jews who fled their homeland of Austria during Hitler’s Anschluss. It is for them that we say 'Never again.' I speak to you today on behalf of relatives on my father’s side, who are not living, but dying, under the occupation of this administration’s deadly foray in Iraq. From the lack of security to the lack of basic supplies to the lack of electricity to the lack of potable water to the lack of jobs to the lack of recon-struction to the lack of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, they are much worse off now than before we invaded. 'Never again' should apply to them, too..." When Iraq was invaded more than half the people there were children.

First Snow

earthlyLN — Sat, 29 Dec 2007 20:27:56 GMT

When the moon reached her house made of Night. Oba had a gift for her Moon was bestowed with a light that melted the underside of heavenly bodies. So that the crystal shavings came floating to ease earth's aches. From frozen stars to snowflakes

I Pray for Grace

earthlyLN — Sun, 25 Nov 2007 00:28:14 GMT

Why must I feel like this today I'm a soldier but afraid sometimes To face the things that may Block the sun from shinin' rays And fill my life with shades of grey But still I long to find a way So today I pray for grace I take a moment to myself So I can myself To feel myself And be real myself Life's addictions and afflictions Cause abrasions from their friction Sometimes, it's easier to live in fiction I can run, but I can't hide From the pains that Reside deep down inside There is no pill That can be swallowed There is no guru That can be followed There's no escapin' From my own history Those that I hurt, And those that hurt me I was dead for a million years 'Fore I was born and I'll be dead for a million more After I'm gone So I live, to give somethin' That can live on Like the way you hum a song when the music's gone Like the warmth on the sand When the sun goes down And I'm sittin' with myself Nobody else is around but, (chorus) Been a long, long time Since I been away Been a long, long time Since I felt this way Been a long, long time I found the words to say How much I'm grateful For my life today 'Cause under every cup You might find a nut Behind every corner You might get jacked up At the end of every rainbow, You might find gold The last bite of your sandwich, Hope you don't find mould 'Cause none of us Can live the perfect life The kind that we see on nick at night And sometimes, we all Just lose sight Of the pain that will guide us From dark into the light We fall down yes, but we get up, And sometimes we just need A little bit of love To help make it Through another day Into the night, into the light, Into a Saturday So in the morning when I'm waitin' For the sun to raise And my head's a little foggy Like I'm in a haze I remind myself that Everything is gonna be okay I take a breath, slow down and say.... Michael Franti and Spearhead

Tagged

earthlyLN — Thu, 25 Oct 2007 03:38:43 GMT

10 random things about me: 1. I hate TV 2. My dad was in his late sixties when I was born 3. I started running away from home before I could walk 4. My mom wanted to name me Lisa Bernadette 5. I have neices and nephews that are older than me 6. I like labrynths and mandalas 7. I like people and I fear them 8. I've had almost 20 teeth pulled 9. I like to dance but can't dance with a partner 10. My favorite people are the freaky ones

On Wind

earthlyLN — Fri, 28 Sep 2007 19:50:50 GMT

From his chest the dove once at rest Flapped many feathered wings And returned to the place Where storytellers weave sky into space. The wind has been there and says, “Burying the dead, does not stop them. Your bones are the momentum of ancients. You are an exhale You are the wind’s deposit, You are what is left from what is trapped and taken away.” I heard “you are an exile on dry land.” Season after season refusing to breathe. Determined to retrieve the first family. River in my veins receded. Under the fire shocked sun. And under gravity’s duress My spirit obeyed and down it stayed. Until they put tubes in my chest To suck the air out So the breathing would come back. And maybe lungs are veined wings Meant for carrying regret and other grieving things Spinning so many words reaching That far star where the teller of tales Turns them into teachings.

Yoga for Peace

earthlyLN — Thu, 06 Sep 2007 21:04:30 GMT

Yoga for Peace BODY – Saturday, September 8, 2007 2:30pm – 5:30pm We want you to be there, to be a part of this great event. New York • San Francisco • New Haven CT • Santa Cruz • Brunswick ME • Santa Fe • Savannah • St. Louis • Dallas • Boulder • Honolulu • Boston Kansas City • Washington DC • Chicago • Bali • Tokyo • Toronto • Reykjavik Dearest Friends: On Saturday, September 8, 2007, thousands of Yogis from around the world will come together to create PEACE through Yoga, by performing 108 Sun Salutations in unison. Last year, 8 cities around the world held a Yoga for Peace event, and as you can already see above, other cities have joined in the upcoming 2007 Yoga for Peace event. This invitation has been sent to you to invite you to participate in creating Peace through Yoga. Why Yoga for Peace? It was in response to the events of September 11, 2001 and the massive violence and destruction brought on by a few individuals, that Yoga for Peace took birth. For if there are people who chose actions of destruction, violence and disharmony, then why can’t others choose actions of Peace. In 2002, Jackie Stolte, a yoga instructor and the founder of Yoga for Peace, had this idea to create an “Action of Peace” by holding an event where yogis can come and perform 108 Sun Salutations, as a group. The power and magic of the specific postures of the Sun Salutation, done 108 times, creates in the mind and all the body's organs and systems, greater harmony and alignment with Natural Law, and as well, more of one's connection to spirit. This demonstration not only contributes to the local, national and world’s collective consciousness, but also reminds everyone that Peace is a choice, and we can choose peace at every moment throughout our day. And lastly, that this event reminds us all that Peace is something for which “I” am responsible for creating. Not having to wait for others to do something, rather ... peace is alive, and it lives within us, not outside of us. So, then, let us come together and create a massive Mala of Peace. On this September 8th 2007, one can chose to sleep late, do chores, or take part in generating Peace for the World. We ask that you choose to be a part of this great event. All are welcome no matter what your experience or age. BODY has decided to further promote peace by donating all proceeds to the Esperanza Shelter. What greater way can peace be promoted then through peace in the home. $10 per person donation is appreciated, but not required. Come share in promoting peace in the world. For more information please contact Kendra Arnold at marketing@bodyofsantafe.com or visit the BODY website at www.bodyofsantafe.com. Namaste, Kendra L. Arnold Marketing Coordinator BODY of Santa Fe 333 Cordova Road Santa Fe, NM 87501 505-986-1111 ext. 112 marketing@bodyofsantafe.com

Fire Belly

earthlyLN — Thu, 30 Aug 2007 23:51:37 GMT

By the time I look up Your eyes snapped to the floor. I get the feeling you want more. The owl that is me soars to the nearest ledge to watch you, your strength and innocence. I know you know that I watch you watch me back. But this stone my heart beats behind, Is past betrayel complete. Even though it had nothing to do with me. That fearful family. And like so many of the winged I am out of reach. Attached to the faraway moon by a web's silken thread. I am human and surrounded by figures chatting and planning. Duly the long legged dog makes a path behind me. With his nose following an old memory through two hands. I turn in a circle and find the future looking down at me. The shadow across his forehead meets two ends of a low slung smile. Dark ink up the hand extended to me. I take it hoping there's less on my face than there is on my mind. And speak words out shined by the thundering sound in my veins.

The Two Legged Suspension

earthlyLN — Mon, 20 Aug 2007 00:07:56 GMT

It is a quarter to eight on this sprinkling July Where spiderwebs weave the sky and come to earth on sounds and thunder. So much to fix your eyes on in this life. I move quiet and slow up the silken ladder surrounding me So as not to shake time awake to be prey to the past because I could never repay for the mercy like drops on the woven web returned to the day's end.

Jasmin

earthlyLN — Mon, 13 Aug 2007 03:22:08 GMT

I look up in the stars and hope you are there and that you know you are missed you are loved I hope the pain is gone now you were needed maybe in another lifetime I miss you girl you were so beautiful

Take Back the Night

earthlyLN — Mon, 06 Aug 2007 20:25:38 GMT

August 11th for women and children everywhere who are the first to suffer from the effects of war poverty hunger violence and more

The Sun Poem

earthlyLN — Tue, 24 Jul 2007 05:02:06 GMT

His glow fixed on her belly’s skin so that when she laughed his light bobbed to the surface. Like a bulb under water clinging to the top. Rows of cotton fanning the sky. The round women’s thick fingers pluck and pinch their whispy heads disappear In a rough bag so long that as she lifts her strong body it hovers on dandelion tops. Somewhere in the licks of fire features made of flame, A moment and another stand on top of each other. Stretching to get a better view of the sun’s invisible face.

Who the hell IS this guy?

earthlyLN — Fri, 15 Jun 2007 06:22:00 GMT

As seen on Craig's List (what's REALLY wrong with the world) To the ladies: You have to understand, my job takes a heavy toll, and it's hard to maintain a stable relationship. If you don't handle stress very well, my advice to you is this: don't date a field agent. We aren't always around, the hours for my job are highly erratic, and I'm often too tired or traumatized when I get home to make whoopee. Yes, my life seems glamorous and exciting. Yes, I exude a brooding sexiness with my skills in unarmed combat and hostage negotiation. However, if you are forced to spend one whole day and night with me, you may not like everything you see. But damn it, I get results. During my years of covert government service, I have gone through hell and back. Yes, I am proud to have served my country, helping to avoid many horrific tragedies. Rules are meant to be followed, but I have a history of insubordination. While the methods I employ may seem harsh, I always have one goal in mind: saving lives. In the process, I have had to make some tough decisions, often within seconds, in order to avert disaster. To my friends: I'm sorry for not telling you everything. It's not that I don't trust you, but we are operating on a strict need-to-know basis. But when I'm in a jam, I hope I can count on you. Whether it's illegally hacking passwords of suspected terrorist financiers or keeping your mouth shut about my smack habit, I really appreciate everything. And if you ever find yourself unavoidably chained to a weapon of mass destruction counting down to zero, you know I'm the first one there with an ax. You can even use my belt to stop the bleeding while I radio Division for help. Sorry I can't stick around to accompany you to the emergency room, but there's still work that needs to be done, so get me that chopper. And set up a perimeter right away.

World Be Free

earthlyLN — Tue, 29 May 2007 04:46:19 GMT

Like a bird that knows to fly south At the leaving shadows My father returned to majestic mountains, Sentinels holding the sky up. If I could see inside his still heart Would I see fossilized tides mirrors to the sky? He studied patterns of light and dark with each season. And saw the words captured in droplets Hanging in the air Galaxies for many legged ones Drawing lines to rocks to oceans Sunsets and canyons. My father must have known the sun’s Secret to life Because it was so strong in him. And in his last exhale life was passed on to me. So that I may breathe a blessing to this planetary trajectory.

Iraq: Send in the Clown

earthlyLN — Fri, 18 May 2007 03:23:35 GMT

by Emine Saner Jo Wilding’s unembedded reports from Fallujah brought home the horror of the American assault on the city. But when she wasn’t blogging, she was wearing stilts and trying to cheer up Iraq’s traumatized children. She tells Emine Saner why she risked her life for total strangers. It is hard to imagine how Jo Wilding’s kidnappers reacted when she told them what she was doing in Iraq. They were in Fallujah, a city under siege in 2003 - and this British woman was claiming to be a clown, in a circus she had brought to a country in the middle of a war. “We could have been anyone,” she recalls, “there to spy or assassinate someone. The only foreigners there were Americans - and they were there to kill them.” She seems remarkably generous about her kidnappers: “From their point of view, what else could they have done?” In fact, she does not even refer to them as kidnappers: “I don’t really think of it as hostage-taking because they didn’t take us for political or financial gain. It was purely for security reasons: they wanted to know who we were.” But when she writes about it in her book, Don’t Shoot the Clowns, her fear is palpable. How to describe Wilding? She’s 32, a mother and a newly qualified barrister, who lives in Brighton with her partner. But she is also an activist, blogger, unembedded journalist, documentary star, human rights worker and a clown with a talent for making balloon animals. “Jo was the only one of us foreigners in Iraq who I was absolutely sure was doing something useful,” says Naomi Klein, the author of No Logo. The journalist and film-maker John Pilger is another fan. “Living with families and without a flak jacket, she all but shamed the embedded army of reporters in her description of the atrocious American attack on an Iraqi city,” he wrote last year. He said her dispatches from Iraq, posted on her blog, were “some of the most extraordinary I’ve read”. The writer, director and academic Jonathan Holmes has written a new play, Fallujah, which draws heavily on Wilding’s experiences, among others. Wilding and her friends Jenny, David, Ahrar and Donna were leaving Fallujah when their car was fired at by US marines. They were forced to turn back into the path of the mujahideen, and one of the rebel fighters jumped into their car and directed them to a nearby Jeep. Forced to get out of the car, some were tied up and the group was separated, but all were driven to the same house, where they were individually interviewed and watched by armed guards. Did she think they would kill her? “I wasn’t convinced they were going to kill us, but I wasn’t convinced they wouldn’t, either. This was before anyone had been beheaded, but it was frightening. It was also terribly boring. We had nothing to do - we were just sitting there in a room waiting, not knowing how long we were going to be there or what was happening. Also, this was Fallujah - it was being bombed and houses were being raided.” Wilding’s story checked out - one of the others had a video camera with footage of the circus and Wilding on stilts, dressed as a clown - but she still spent the night wondering how and when the kidnappers would kill them. Then, in the morning, just as suddenly as they had been captured, they were allowed to go. They had been in Fallujah delivering supplies - disinfectant, needles, bandages, food, water - to a hospital in the US-controlled part of the city and were using an ambulance to bring injured people to a makeshift hospital in a small clinic in another area of the city. There, with no anesthetic and where bags of blood were kept in a fridge and warmed up under the hot tap in a bathroom, a young boy was brought in. “He had been shot in the head. His family had been trying to get into the car to flee and they [US soldiers] shot him. I think they had just been told to shoot at anyone. Certainly they had been told that ambulances had been carrying weapons and I know from my own experience that they were shooting at ambulances.” Wilding says she was in an ambulance on their way to get to a pregnant woman who had gone into labor too soon, when marines shot at the ambulance, through the windscreen. A tire was shot out and the ambulance driver screeched back in reverse to the hospital. With the ambulance out of action, they never reached the woman. Wilding first went to Iraq in 2001. After hearing an activist give a talk about the effect of the sanctions placed on Iraq, she had been involved in the campaign against them. In 2001, she was arrested after throwing rotten fruit at Tony Blair at a protest, but much of her campaigning involved acts of solidarity such as sending over vitamins. They were token acts: even if you were able to send vast quantities, vitamins would not make much of a difference in a country whose economy had been crippled by the sanctions and whose people had a desperate need for food and medicine. “In the end, I felt I needed to go there and see for myself what was happening to people. Also to take things, such as aspirin, medical journals, a medical training CD-rom. Doctors were faced with new illnesses they couldn’t treat and they weren’t getting up- to-date medical information.” Her visa allowed her to stay for only 10 days, but in that time she saw a great deal and struggled to make sense of it. “I had read a lot about it but it can’t prepare you for the reality. There were consumer goods on the street, but there were things you just couldn’t get, such as medicine. You could buy fresh fruit but it was way beyond most people’s income. A lot of people were completely dependent on the food ration, and they would sell part of their food ration to buy medicines or to pay for bus fares. Going into the hospitals, I knew I was going to see a lot of children who were desperately ill, but I don’t think you can prepare for what it feels like when you’re there. A child went into a coma in front of us. He had leukaemia and the doctor said they just didn’t have enough platelet bags to treat him. His mother was pinching his cheek and slapping his face, trying to wake him up and howling with grief. There was this stick-thin nine-month-old baby and her body was just the shape of her skeleton. You could hear her rattling breathing.” The attacks of September 11 happened shortly after she came home, and in 2003, when it became clear that Iraq would be invaded, Wilding decided to go back. She went with Julia Guest, a film-maker whose documentary A Letter to the Prime Minister is about Wilding’s trip. She decided to return there because she felt it was important that the voices of ordinary Iraqis were heard above the din of cruise missiles, cluster bombs and army and political rhetoric. “The mainstream news focused primarily on what was being said by military and political figures and not on what Iraqi people were saying, partly because it was so difficult for journalists to hear them. I was just writing about what happened day to day and putting it out on the internet.” Her blog started out quite small, but soon thousands of people all over the world were reading it. Wilding admits she was scared. “You go on a leap of faith. I didn’t know what was going to happen, how long I was going to go for. I hadn’t decided I was staying for the war, it was something to take as it came. I didn’t know if I would be able to leave once it had started. You can imagine the rumor mill: everyone western is going to be hung off a lamppost, we’re all going to be taken hostage … every worst possible scenario. I had a conversation with a young Iraqi woman and she said, ‘Why are you staying here? Most Iraqi people would leave if they had anywhere else to go.’ But there were people who didn’t have that choice and didn’t have a voice that was going to be heard outside. The news covers the first house that’s hit and maybe the second, but it stops being news when hundreds of houses are hit and so there’s nobody to document the more mundane things. I think that’s important. You can’t talk about democracy and ‘Do you agree with the war or not, did we do the right thing?’ if you don’t know what we actually did and what actually happened to people. I was just in one city and I talked to a fraction of the people who were affected but still, I think I was able to hear and then tell a lot of people’s stories. The number of people who read the blog and responded to it backed that up.” She got the idea for the circus after seeing her friend Shane blowing bubbles for a boy they met in a hospital in Baghdad during the bombardment. His sister had been killed and the rest of his family injured when a rocket tore the upper story off their house. “He followed the bubbles with his eyes and then he put out his hand and popped one and smiled. It wasn’t going to heal the trauma he had been through, but that image really stayed with me,” says Wilding. “The idea wasn’t completely random - I knew that circuses had gone to other places during conflicts and it was a way of bringing a little bit of normality for a period of time.” But still, a circus in Iraq - wasn’t that the last thing they needed? “They need medicine, blankets, decent food and basic security. They need to be able to go to school, they need everything. They don’t need clowns. I remember really doubting it, thinking this was just the most stupid, patronizing, trivial thing. But then you could see that it wasn’t trivial, you see the children starting to laugh. I remember seeing these two men standing at the side of one show, hugging each other.” The group of four clowns performed for street children and went to several schools and squatter camps. The schools were in an appalling state, but nothing could prepare her for the squatter camps, crammed full of displaced families. They weren’t classed as refugees because they were still in their own country and they did not receive aid. In one camp, 125 families were living without adequate food and water, shelter and medical care. There was no sewerage system. A two-month-old girl died because of the cold and a four-year-old boy had his legs badly burned from the open paraffin stove his family used in their shack built of breezeblocks and canvas; with no medical care, he lay there with his legs oozing pus and blood and riddled with infections. A young man had his fingers blown off because he would take bullets apart to sell the tiny bits of scrap metal. “I was angry that there was all this money - the planes, bombs, guns, the contracts that were given to Halliburton - going to people who didn’t need it. There were these children dying for lack of blankets and basic medicine and shelter,” says Wilding, her voice rising with fury. “They were living around open sewers, without anything. How could you not be angry? They was always so much need and so little you could do that I was never thinking, ‘I’m so clever, look what I’ve done.’ It was always, ‘Is that all you did?’ People were always asking me to help on a more material level, for cooling fans, money for operations, all sorts of things. A woman at the camp asked for clean knickers and sanitary towels.” Even with the £10,000 Wilding had raised for the trip, she could not meet every need, although she did help pay for the installation of drains and pipes in the camp. She had been in Iraq for six months and westerners had increasingly become targets. Wilding realized she was putting herself and the people around her - drivers, translators, the groups of children that would gather round her wherever she went - in danger. She decided to come home. “There didn’t seem anything more I could usefully do, let alone justify the risk that I was putting other people in.” What was it like to be back? “The overwhelming thing I felt was incredibly lucky. I would cycle to university, essentially in complete safety. I would come home to my safe house, turn on the light switch and know I’d got electricity, or turn on my taps and know clean water was going to come out. “At the same time I was incredibly angry that that had been taken away from millions of people who had no control over what was happening. When I gave birth to my son [at home], I knew that an ambulance would be with me in minutes if I needed it. I should be able to take that for granted and so should women over there. I met one woman who told her daughters not to get pregnant because what happens if they went into labor at night and they couldn’t get to hospital? There are refugees who are just living in this limbo where the best they can hope for is to stay alive. It’s the most appalling disaster.” Fallujah by Jonathan Holmes is at the Old Truman Brewery, London E1. A Letter to the Prime Minister will be screened at the Institute of Contemporary Arts, London SW1, on May 23. Don’t Shoot the Clowns is published by New Internationalist, price £8.99.

Feds Seek to Impose Terrorism Sentences on Environmental Activists

earthlyLN — Wed, 16 May 2007 04:52:06 GMT

Modern day Jesus with his arms wrapped around a tree..... Eugene, OR-On May 15, U.S. District Court Judge Ann Aiken will hear arguments as to whether federal “terrorism” sentencing enhancements should apply to 10 environmental activists who have accepted plea deals for crimes of property destruction. The hearing takes place in the Eugene Federal Courthouse at 405 E. 8th Ave. at 10 am. A press conference by the defendants will be held at noon. The crimes charged under the government’s “Operation Backfire” indictments involved damage to property, but no injury to any living being. Most of the crimes were arsons, for which the median sentence is normally 5 to 8 years. In the 2006 plea deals, the government recommended sentences ranging from slightly over 3 years to nearly 18 years for various defendants. The terrorism enhancement, Section 3A1.4 of federal sentencing guidelines, could add up to 20 years to each of the sentences laid out in the plea agreements. Formal sentencing will take place starting May 22 through June 5 in Judge Aiken’s court. In existing statutes and the majority of public opinion, terrorism is linked with purposeful violence aimed at injuring people. While recognizing the seriousness of the crimes of arson in these cases, filings for the defendants argue that those facing these draconian sentences went to great lengths to ensure that no humans or animals suffered physical harm from their acts of sabotage. In all counts, the actions targeted property, not people. Some of the targets included slaughterhouses and holding facilities to round up wild horses intended as pet food, a ski development pushing into endangered lynx habitat, and a meat-butchering plant. Federal authorities now claim that these fires count as “terrorism,” under the pretext that such arsons were designed “to influence or retaliate against the government.” Attorney General Alberto Gonzales has even claimed that those arrested were “the country’s number one domestic terror threat.” “This is the first time in history of the U.S. that the federal government is seeking this enhancement for property crimes that did not result in injury or death to humans,” said attorney Lauren Regan, whose law office defends civil liberties of activists working for social change. “When everyone is a terrorist, no one is. The further we broaden the language of what a true terrorist is, the less security we really have. If a monkeywrencher is the same as Osama bin Laden, where is the distinction drawn?” The USA PATRIOT Act broadened the application of terrorist enhancements, counter to the original intent, which applied to international terrorism resulting in bodily injury or death to humans, or threats to federal infrastructure like the power grid or waterways. Now criteria includes acts intended to influence the government. Besides increased sentences, the enhancements, if accepted by the court, could land the young defendants in maximum security prisons. Attorneys for defendant Daniel McGowan said, “The terrorism enhancement is not merely a useful statistic for the Dept. of Justice in its ‘War on Terror,’ it is a label inscribed on the prisoner himself for the duration of his or her sentence… and beyond. It is an inscription uniquely associated with evil intent.” A press packet with current related articles, background information, and a history of F.B.I. repression of political activism will be available at the event. Court filings are at www.cldc.org

Yippeee!!

earthlyLN — Mon, 14 May 2007 04:02:19 GMT

Hey everyone, I got the job I wanted at Esperanza shelter for battered families raising funds! I feel like this is what I've been waiting for and already have been inspired to write about the issue Much Love my NorCals, my locales and my not-met-yet electronic elves I see their faces under the water Turning to watch me or look away in grief Between the white lines my legs cut through. I’m in the bath hot from tears sliding fast, “With all the corruption the terror and subjugation what can I do? And how can I do it without you?” at the vigil Women of all ages their voices beautifully carrying names of the disappeared high to the heavens Angelina’s, Marisela’s, Lilia’s and Margharita’s. Painting pictures of empty desert’s except for the two unknown figures Along with all manners of devices and intents for inflicting Pain on the women of Juarez on their families and homelands On their husbands sisters and sons. She prays for the end to come fast. For a blow to knock consciousness from her. But their deadly hold seems to be also a hold on her soul Forcing her wide awake at the specter of escape. Her cries covered the sky completely. Like film through her mind remembering before work that morning’s light that curled upwards jolted her from a muffled Lullaby she sang her son as his father slept. The baby all night was awake She loved the softness of his round dome the hair a puff of Winter fire smoke. Four minutes later she was dressed. Yesterday at work everything was permeated with a mixture of machine and human sweat. It still hung on her clothes and bag. As she ran down the hill the sun’s reflection caught the bus she was to catch And it glared in her eyes driving away and following the curves down the hill. She stopped-frustrated- The momentum kept pulling her down stumbling and puffing And realizing she would have to walk and make fast time She steadied herself navigating sliding rocks crossing pavement To the right side of the road. Maybe someone she knew would be heading that way today. That’s where they found her and that’s where they slid the car over like it was a knife Through the center of a fish cutting it in two. And now it was someone else’s life she was remembering A resilient, loving, living women she was no longer. They buried her there in the sand with no marker even the morning sky was in denial Shinning like nothing had happened. And as her soul broke away to gain reprieve in the soft hands of her Tia The men and their conspirators were back at the Maquiladora’s gates Waiting for the next woman late and locked out. And there are as many keys as there are people The American voice is amplified and We all have gifts, talents and abilities to realize justice in this human family

My Attempt at a Story

earthlyLN — Thu, 03 May 2007 23:24:12 GMT

I'm walking back to my car from the coffeeshop rave (god I feel so old) cause I remember when they were in warehouses. Or maybe I'm just out of it now and don't know where the warehouse parties are or more likely the FBI has shut the whole thing down 'cause all that freedom in one place....if it's not illegal it should be. Anyway, they didn't even have the sense to move the potted plants off the dance floor I was about ready to knock one over. Hannah showed up and left the acquaintance I talk to is so busy acting uninterested enough for me to suspect that it is an act and I should be as repelled and insulted as I am. Damn where's my NorCal crew and all the love I thought this was all about. Most of these kids probably had to sneak out of their milliondollar homes to get here. ANYWAY I'm finally on the way back to my car. Just as I'm opening the door I hear crazy breathing sounds I look up and on the sidewalk my friend Brad is leaning on his cane like his life depends on it. Now I've seen Brad at the same bars and clubs for a decade, he shakes and when you hold his hand it feels like an iron grip like he's a freezing man in the ocean grasping the last peice of wood there is. "Are you okay? Do you have asthma?" I say, thinking that he must be really drunk or something. "I've got everything." He tells me through gritted teeth. He coughs and tears are running down his face spittle out of his mouth. My heart jumps and I look up at him wondering if he's going to fall on me. I'm not even sure what the hell is keeping him up there's duct tape at the top of his cane. After twenty minutes he gets into my car. My mind is racing, Is he totally drunk? He's not slurring his words. His speech is fine. Is he going to stop breathing in my car right now? Here's a napkin, Steve "It's Brad not Steve," he says "Well your coat says Steve." The Paramedic gave that to me. Have you seen any paramedics lately? I'm afraid to tell him that I'm just going to take him to the hospital. I decide to start driving and think of what to say when I drop him off there. "Thank you, Thank you I'm not trying to ruin anyone's night here." Yeah dude I don't want anyone dying in my car. But I guess people don't really gracefully decide where they are going to die." ......to be continued

Donations!

earthlyLN — Thu, 03 May 2007 17:18:22 GMT

Calling all Spring Cleaners . . . Little Earth School is asking for donations (clothing, household items, baby supplies, etc) for their annual yard sale. The money raised goes to Little Earth's Parent Association and they use the funds for school related extracurricular activities. Drop off is May 7 to 11 at the school, located at 321 W. Zia road just east of Capshaw Middle School.

The Green Man

earthlyLN — Mon, 30 Apr 2007 21:59:47 GMT

Across broad forehad ancestral locks lift In the breeze of centuries passing. The colors in his eyes flicker golden, emerald and azure. Human strife and the land's sacrifice in his sight. Civilizations' raise and are razed. He holds rosary, koran, hoop and chalice equal. For Green Man's existence means cultural survival. There are no chosen people. Only chosen gods. Each a reflection of the hearts connected to this round earth. The Green Man is a champion of peace In all it's futility. of Nature and of her diversity. Of the silent soldier with no name Green man called profane Is only the knight of the exiled goddess. Her forests rendered tame. He delivers ancient scroll with a message that she will rise again. Only Green Man knows when.

-Past One-

earthlyLN — Thu, 26 Apr 2007 04:34:57 GMT

I want to sort myself out. Your features imprint on my hands. I live where the ocean’s wide laugh meets the sands constant roll And slides into trees that say nothing. Arboreal gods silent They convey to me “Would I miss you this much?” Sleep on the floor. Laugh less. Daily feel inadequate re lat I on sh ip Never had a longer break from battering me. And I wonder when condition like I’m missing a limb Will secede And you will reach ocean where everything meets and everything disintegrates. re la tion s hip White hot pain releases Searing blue companionship. A blinding sun blowin my mind. Wish I could seize All the perfect moments disallow time from the ships prow. But in its wake Cuts through the sea Cuts between you and me Then pushes us into one another. Find myself looking out of your eyes. And I’m gone. Where you are it’s past one.

Violets are Red and Roses are Blue

earthlyLN — Tue, 24 Apr 2007 04:16:52 GMT

The first time the brilliance of your eyes held in mine. once a stone settled between the rocks, It left with the tide. I have no reason to drift or not You neither for that matter. This time you swore I would get and comprehend ecstacy. I am still so sorry for the way down the staircase spiraling and flipping. Between driving and indifference there is little difference. False feeling that it's all under control with the flux in pedal. The half tons, tons on air. Love can hiss like air out of a tire. But it's not the air caught inside Rather the desire behind the wheel That yearns for simple stone caught drifting to stay. A princess never hugged a bumblebee nor caught the hummingbird for long. Flight exists for the flying. Not love for the binding. The sooner bound the more eager to flee. Impatient love lost more than it found. I envy no green, no mass or muscle. Just love for itself. Surrendering ownership means plenty for everyone.

Shelter

earthlyLN — Sun, 01 Apr 2007 18:48:56 GMT

Ray and shadow dance to the river below reciting the coded wisdom Of three auburn highlighted sisters Branches designing the sun’s geometry The earth says to me My children roam endlesslessly And call the machines they make independence. You are no more self sufficient than these standing Cedars. You look in the eyes of their brothers and Do not recognize creation looking back at you. You choose exile lost in crowded city streets. Forsaken in cages unable to shut out the sound of my call. Like a mother to her daughter, The earth says you can always come home Come home to my winged night To my mind made of the great bird’s nest And wind that takes no rest. Come home to my hands that Gave ascension to these pebbled hills. Return to my blood water Whistling over rocks singing at the roots Take out your TV earplugs Relinquish a past that has you mugged Come home to where your ancestors break bread for all dimensions Where ray and shadow dance in tone to the rhythm. Listen your way back to me