Had meant to post this earlier last month for perspective on what media may project as 'what happens', and feels to be all the more appropriate with the recent intensification in the Middle East.

One after another seeing the headlines just streaming by of what 'they did to whom and why'. It is known on some level throughout society that what happens and what we are told are generally not the same thing, for 'security reasons'. But on some level there is also the understanding that governments do not necessarily operate for the reasons there are said to. If this is resonant to you in any way, then I support the ability to not lapse back into just accepting what is being touted as 'news' and to look deeper(I'm speaking from experience). To examine and read things that may feel uncomfortable, things that you may come across that you would not normally read, perhaps even seeking these out to get a wider feel of experience that occurrs in the world. Even from someone you know you don't agree with, just to get a better feel for how they are experiencing the world, projecting it. For awareness' sake. (for example: I once read through a KKK website)

Shibumi was a book that I read at 20, that resonated strongly and I had no doubt in mind that there was truth to it, confirmed what I had already felt. It is a very great read on many levels: societal, spiritual, environmental, etc.

With the ever increasing body counts and devestation of land, people and cultures...it can be very helpful to truly question deeply and to investigate life, how life is being lived and to what life is in service to, what is it supporting:
Awareness or ignorance?

It is really no longer about "what can I get" or "my life", but to question what it is you want your life to have been lived for. If you were to die today, what would that be? And is life as it is being lived honoring this?

As Ferris Bueller so aptly said:

Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.

Namaste, Skeye


Shibumi
by Trevanian
www.powells.com/biblio
(Excerpt)

Washington

The screen flashed 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3 . . . then the projector was switched
off, and lights came up in recessed sconces along the walls of the private
viewing room.

The projectionist's voice was thin and metallic over the intercom. "Ready when
you are, Mr. Starr."

T. Darryl Starr, sole audience member, pressed the talk button of the
communication console before him. "Hey, buddy? Tell me something. What are all
those numbers in front of a movie for anyway?"

"It's called academy leader, sir," the projectionist answered. "I just spliced
it onto the film as a sort of joke."

"Joke?"

"Yes, sir. I mean . . . considering the nature of the film . . . it's sort of
funny to have a commercial leader, don't you think?"

"Why funny?"

"Well, I mean . . . what with all the complaints about violence in movies and
all that."

T. Darryl Starr grunted and scrubbed his nose with the back of his fist, then
he slipped down the pilot-style sunglasses he had pushed up into his cropped
hair when the lights first went off.

Joke? It damn well better not be a joke, I shit thee not! If anything has gone
wrong, my ass will be grass. And if the slightest little thing is wrong, you
can bet your danglees that Mr. Diamond and his crew will spot it. Nit-picking
bastards! Ever since they took control over Middle East operations of CIA, they
seemed to get their cookies by pointing out every little boo-boo.

Starr bit off the end of his cigar, spat it onto the carpeted floor, pumped it
in and out of his pursed lips, then lit it from a wooden match he struck with
his thumbnail. As Most Senior Field Operative, he had access to Cuban cigars.
After all, RHIP.

He scooted down and hooked his legs over the back of the seat before him, like
he used to do when he watched movies at the Lone Star Theater as a boy. And if
the boy in front objected, Starr would offer to kick his ass up amongst his
shoulder blades. The other kid always backed off, because everybody in Flat
Rock knew that T. Darryl Starr was some kind of fierce and could stomp a mud
puddle in any kid's chest.

That was many years and knocks ago, but Starr was still some kind of fierce.
That's what it took to become CIA's Most Senior Field Operative. That, and
experience. And boo-coo smarts.

And patriotism, of course.

Starr checked his watch: two minutes to four. Mr. Diamond had called for a
screening at four, and he would arrive at four—exactly. If Starr's watch did
not read four straight up when Diamond walked into the theater, he would assume
the watch was in need of repair.

He pressed his talk button again. "How does the film look?"

"Not bad, considering the conditions under which we shot it," the projectionist
answered. "The light in Rome International is tricky . . . a mixture of natural
light and fluorescent overheads. I had to use a combination of CC filters that
brought my f-stop way down and made focus a real problem. And as for color
quality--"

"I don't want to hear your piddly-assed problems!"

"Sorry, sir. I was just answering your question."

"Well, don't!"

"Sir?"

The door at the back of the private theater opened with a slap. Starr glanced
at his watch; the sweep second hand was five seconds off four o'clock. Three
men walked quickly down the aisle. In the lead was Mr. Diamond, a wiry man in
his late forties whose movements were quick and adroit, and whose impeccably
tailored clothes reflected his trim habits of mind. Following closely was Mr.
Diamond's First Assistant, a tall, loosely jointed man with a vague academic
air. Not a man to waste time, it was Diamond's practice to dictate memos, even
while en route between meetings. The First Assistant carried a belt recorder at
his hip, the pinhead microphone of which was attached to his metal-rimmed
glasses. He always walked close beside Mr. Diamond, or sat near him, his head
bowed to pick up the flow of clipped monotonic directives.

Considering the heraldic stiffness of CIA mentality, it was inevitable that
their version of wit would suggest a homosexual relationship between Diamond
and his ever-hovering assistant. Most of the jokes had to do with what would
happen to the assistant's nose, should Mr. Diamond ever stop suddenly.

The third man, trailing behind and somewhat confused by the brisk pace of
action and thought surrounding him, was an Arab whose Western clothes were
dark, expensive, and ill-fitting. The shabby look was not his tailor's fault;
the Arab's body was not designed for clothes requiring posture and discipline.

Diamond slipped into an aisle seat across the auditorium from Starr; the First
Assistant sat directly behind him, and the Palestinian, frustrated in his
expectation that someone would tell him where to sit, finally shambled into a
seat near the back.

Turning his head so the pinhead microphone could pick up the last of his rapid,
atonic dictation, Diamond closed off the thoughts he had been pursuing.
"Introduce the following topics to me within the next three hours: One—North
Sea oil rig accident: the media suppression thereof. Two—This professor type
who is investigating the ecological damage along the Alaska pipeline: the
termination thereof by apparent accident."

Both these tasks were in their final phases, and Mr. Diamond was looking
forward to getting in a little tennis over the weekend. Provided, of course,
these CIA fools had not screwed up this Rome International action. It was a
straightforward spoiling raid that should not have presented any difficulties,
but in the six months since the Mother Company had assigned him to manage CIA
activities involving the Middle East, he had learned that no action is so
simple as to be beyond CIA's capacity for error.

Diamond understood why the Mother Company chose to maintain its low profile by
working behind the cover of CIA and NSA, but that did not make his job any
easier. Nor had he been particularly amused by the Chairman's lighthearted
suggestion that he think of the Mother Company's use of CIA operatives as Her
contribution to the hiring of the mentally handicapped.

Diamond had not yet read Starr's action report, so he reached back for it now.
The First Assistant anticipated him and had the report ready to press into his
hand.

As he glanced over the first page, Diamond spoke without raising his voice.
"Put the cigar out, Starr." Then he lifted his hand in a minimal gesture, and
the wall lights began to dim down.

Darryl Starr pushed his sunglasses up into his hair as the theater went dark
and the projector beam cut through slack threads of blue smoke. On the screen
appeared a jerky pan over the interior of a large, busy airport.

"This here's Rome International," Starr drawled. "Time reference: thirteen
thirty-four GMT. Flight 414 from Tel Aviv has just arrived. It's going to be a
piece before the action starts. Those I-talian customs jokers ain't no speed
balls."

"Starr?" said Diamond, wearily.

"Sir?"

"Why haven't you put that cigar out?"

"Well, to tell you God's own truth, sir, I never heard you ask me to."

"I didn't ask you."

Embarrassed at being ordered around in the presence of a foreigner, Starr
unhooked his leg from the seat in front and ground out the almost fresh cigar
on the carpet. To save face, he continued narrating as though nothing had
happened. "I expect our A-rab friend here is going to be some impressed at how
we handled this one. It went off slick as catshit on linoleum."

Wide shot: customs and immigration portal. A queue of passengers await the
formalities with varying degrees of impatience. In the face of official
incompetence and indifference, the only passengers who are smiling and friendly
are those who anticipate trouble with their passports or luggage. An old man
with a snow-white goatee leans over the counter, explaining something for the
third time to the customs officer. Behind him in line are two young men in
their twenties, deeply tanned, wearing khaki shorts and shirts open at the
throat. As they move forward, pushing their rucksacks along with their feet,
camera zooms in to isolate them in mid-close-up.

"Those are our targets," Starr explained needlessly.

"Just so," the Arab said in a brittle falsetto. "I recognize one of them, one
known within their organization as Avrim."

With a comically exaggerated bow of gallantry, the first young man offers to
let a pretty redheaded girl precede them to the counter. She smiles thanks, but
shakes her head. The Italian official in his too-small peaked cap takes the
first young man's passport with a bored gesture and flicks it open, his eyes
straying again and again to the girl's breasts, obviously unfettered beneath a
denim shirt. He glances from the photograph to the young man's face and back
again, frowning.

Starr explained. "The mark's passport picture was taken before he grew that
silly-assed beard."

The immigration official shrugs and stamps the passport. The second young man
is treated with the same combination of mistrust and incompetence. His passport
is stamped twice, because the Italian officer was so engrossed in the redheaded
girl's shirtfront that he forgot to use the ink pad the first time. The young
men pick up their rucksacks, slinging them over their shoulders by one strap.
Murmuring apologies and twisting sideways, they slip through a tangle of
excited Italians, a large family pressing and standing on tiptoe to greet an
arriving relative.

"Okay! Slow 'er down!" Starr ordered over the intercom. "Here's where it hits
the fan."

The projector slowed to one-quarter speed.

From frame to flickering frame the young men move as though the air were
gelatin. The leader turns back to smile at someone in the queue, the motion
having the quality of a ballet in moon gravity. The second one looks out over
the crowd. His nonchalant smile freezes. He opens his mouth and shouts
silently, as the front of his khaki shirt bursts open and sprouts blood. Before
he can fall to his knees, a second bullet strikes his cheek and tears it off.
The camera waves around dizzily before locating the other young man, who has
dropped his rucksack and is running in nightmare slow motion toward the coin
lockers. He pirouettes in the air as a slug takes him in the shoulder. He slams
gracefully against the lockers and bounces back. His hip blossoms with gore,
and he slips sideward to the polished granite floor. A third bullet blows off
the back of his head.

The camera swishes over the terminal, seeking, losing, then finding again two
men—out of focus—running toward the glass doors of the entrance. The focus is
corrected, revealing them to be Orientals. One of them carries an automatic
weapon. He suddenly arches his back, throws up his arms, and slides forward on
his toes for a second before pitching onto his face. The gun clatters silently
beside him. The second man has reached the glass doors, the smeared light of
which haloes his dark outline. He ducks as a bullet shatters the glass beside
his head; he veers and runs for an open elevator out of which a group of
schoolchildren are oozing. A little girl slumps down, her hair billowing as
though she were underwater. A stray has caught her in the stomach. The next
slug takes the Oriental between the shoulder blades and drives him gently into
the wall beside the elevator. A grin of anguish on his face, he twists his arm
up behind him, as though to pluck out the bullet. The next slug pierces his
palm and enters his spine. He slides down the wall and falls with his head in
the elevator car. The door closes, but reopens as the pressure pads meet the
obstructing head. It closes again upon the head, then reopens. Closes. Opens.

Slow pan back over the terminal. High angle.

. . . A cluster of shocked and bewildered children around the fallen girl. One
boy screams in

silence . . .

. . . Two airport guards, their little Italian automatics drawn, run toward
the fallen Orientals. One of them is still firing . . .

. . . The old man with the snow-white goatee sits stunned in a puddle of his
own blood, his legs straight out before him, like a child playing in a sandbox.
His expression is one of overwhelming disbelief. He was sure he had explained
everything to the customs official . . .

. . . One of the young Israeli boys lies facedown on his missing cheek, his
rucksack improbably still over his shoulder . . .

. . . There is a largo minuet of stylized confusion among the gaggle of
Italians who were awaiting a relative. Three of them have fallen. Others are
wailing, or kneeling, and one teenaged boy is turning around and around on his
heel, seeking a direction in which to run for help—or safety . . .

. . . The redheaded girl stands stiff, her eyes round with horror as she
stares at the fallen boy who just seconds ago offered to let her pass ahead . .
.

. . . The camera comes to rest on the young man sprawled beside the coin
lockers, the back of his head missing . . .

"That-a—that-a—that-a—that's all folks!" said Starr. The beam from the
projector flickered out, and the wall lights dimmed up to full.

Starr turned in his seat to field questions from Mr. Diamond or the Arab.
"Well?"

Diamond was still looking toward the white screen, three fingers pressed
lightly against his lips, the action report on his lap. He let the fingers slip
to beside his chin. "How many?" he asked quietly.

"Sir?"

"How many killed in the action?"

"I know what you mean, sir. Things got a little wetter than we expected. We'd
arranged for the I-talian police to stay clear of the area, but they got their
instructions all balled up—not that that's anything new. I even had some
trouble myself. I had to use a Beretta so the slugs would match up for
I-talian. And as a handgun, a Beretta isn't worth a fart in a hurricane, as my
old daddy would have said. With an S&W, I could of dropped those Japs with two
shots, and I wouldn't of hit that poor little girl that stepped out into my
line of fire. Of course, in the first part of the action, our Nisei boys had
been instructed to make it a little messy—make it look like a Black September
number. But it was those panicked I-talian cops that started spattering slugs
around like a cow pissing on a flat rock, as my old—"



From the Trade Paperback edition.Copyright © 2005 by Trevanian