word.

Dec. 10th, 2009 08:22 pm
lahermite: (Default)
Artists: Raise Your Weapons
by Stephanie [livejournal.com profile] mcmillan

In this time of escalating exploitation, poverty, imperialist wars, torture and ecocide, we don’t need a piece of art that consists of a mattress dripping orange paint, cleverly titled “Tangerine Dream.” In this time, as countless multitudes suffer and die for the profits and luxuries of a few, as species go extinct at a rate faster than we can keep track of, we don’t need an orchestra composed of iPhones. In this time, when the future of all life on Earth is at stake, spare us the constant barrage of narcissistic tweets juxtaposing celeb gossip with quirky food choices.

If we lived in a time of peace and harmony, then creating pretty, escapist, seratonin-boosting hits of mild amusement wouldn’t be a crime (except perhaps against one’s Muse). If all was well, such art might enhance our happy existence, like whipped cream on a chocolate latte. There’s nothing wrong with pleasure, or decorative art.

But in times like these, for an artist not to devote her/his talents and energies to creating cultural weapons of resistance is a betrayal of the worst magnitude, a gesture of contempt against life itself. It is unforgivable.

The foundation of any culture is its underlying economic system. Today, art is bullied to conform to the demands of industrial capitalism, to reflect and reinforce the interests of those in power. This system-serving art is relentlessly bland. It is viciously soothing, crushingly safe. It seduces us to desire, buy, use, consume. It entertains us and makes us giggle with faux joy as it slowly sucks our brains out through our eye sockets.

The system exerts tremendous pressure to create art that is not only apolitical but anti-political. When the dominant culture spots political art, it sticks its fingers in its ears and sings, “La la la!” It refuses to review it in the New York Times or award it an NEA grant. Political art is vigorously snubbed, ignored, condemned to obscurity, erased. If it’s too powerful to make disappear, then it is scorned, accused of being depressing, doom-and-gloom, preachy, impolite, and by the way, your drawing style sucks. Also by the way, you can’t make a living if your work’s not vacuous, cynical and therefore commercially viable, so go starve under a bridge with your precious principles.

We’re taught that it’s rude to be judgmental, that to assert a point of view violates the pure, transcendent and neutral spirit of art. This is mind-fucking bullshit designed to weaken and depoliticize us. In these times, there is no such thing as neutrality -- not taking a stand means supporting and assisting exploiters and murderers.

Let us not be the system’s tools or fools. Artists are not cowards and weaklings -- we’re tough. We take sides. We fight back.

Artists and writers have a proud tradition of being at the forefront of resistance, of stirring emotions and inspiring action. Today we must create an onslaught of judgmental, opinionated, brash and partisan work in the tradition of anti-Nazi artists John Heartfield and George Grosz, of radical muralist Diego Rivera, filmmaker Ousmane Sembčne, feminist artists the Guerrilla Girls, novelists like Maxim Gorky and Taslima Nasrin, poets like Nazim Hikmet and Kazi Nazrul Islam, musicians like The Coup and the Dead Kennedys.

The world cries out for meaningful, combative, political art. It is our duty and responsibility to create a fierce, unyielding, aggressive culture of resistance. We must create art that exposes and denounces evil, that strengthens activists and revolutionaries, celebrates and contributes to the coming liberation of this planet from corporate industrial military omnicidal madness.

Pick up your weapon, artist.

http://www.commondreams.org/view/2009/12/10-1
lahermite: (Default)
you are embarking on a months long road trip of the united states of america. where do you go and why?

aka: where in the united states do you want to visit and why?
lahermite: (Default)
this is my 7 year old son and his hair. he chose to have dreads a few years ago so we stopped brushing his hair. they have formed completely naturally with very minimal assistance from me, and only when a massive beaver tail was forming! he still has quite a lot of loose at the front that doesn't seem to want to dread and we just leave it alone. his hair has never been cut. the white ends in the first pic are his baby hair. he is VERY proud of his hair, even though he constantly gets mistaken for a girl.

http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=30278490&l=d8d06d1089&id=1148433378
http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=30664713&l=046bb56c8e&id=1148433378
lahermite: (Default)
hey parent folks out there. next time your kid doesn't want to take a shower, or generally disobeys your any command, just call the cops and have him/her tasered! then they'll arrest the kid, take 'em down to the station, and process 'em as criminals. how super easy parenting is becoming!

http://www.myeyewitnessnews.com/news/local/story/Police-Used-Taser-on-10-Year-Old-Girl-in-Arkansas/TmJF90vcV0iCT_hYQHl1Gg.cspx?rss=59
lahermite: (Default)
i haven't read this yet but it comes highly recommended, and is available for free online!

http://www.johntaylorgatto.com/chapters/
lahermite: (Default)
"let your life be a friction against the machine"
henry david thoreau
lahermite: (Default)
How can I go forward when I don't know which way I'm facing?
How can I go forward when I don't know which way to turn?
How can I go forward into something I'm not sure of?
Oh no, oh no
How can I have feeling when I don't know if it's a feeling?
How can I feel something if I just don't know how to feel?
How can I have feelings when my feelings have always been denied?
Oh no, oh no

You know life can be long
And you got to be so strong
And the world is so tough
Sometimes I feel I've had enough

How can I give love when I don't know what it is I'm giving?
How can I give love when I just don't know how to give?
How can I give love when love is something I ain't never had?
Oh no, oh no

You know life can be long
You've got to be so strong
And the world she is tough
Sometimes I feel I've had enough

How can we go forward when we don't know which way we're facing?
How can we go forward when we don't know which way to turn?
How can we go forward into something we're not sure of?
Oh no, oh no
lahermite: (Default)
watching movies like chitty chitty bang bang and nanny mcphee i'm always amused by the similarities between those wild un-schooled unruly smart strange single-parented kids and my own.

i take heart in those similarities. it means i'm doing something right. :)
lahermite: (Default)
conversation with the kids included:

we come from a long line of oppressed and exterminated peoples. in just the last few generations, the nazis tried to wipe out our jewish ancestors, the white europeans tried to wipe out your cherokee ancestors, the christians tried to wipe out our celtic ancestors, our rom ancestors, well, everybody's tried to wipe them out, they're one of the original nomads.

wow, when you think about it, it's not surprising mama feels this deep desire to strive for freedom and has this deeply embedded distrust of all things authority and government...
lahermite: (Default)
On bended knee is no way to be free
Lifting up an empty cup, I ask silently
All my destinations will accept the one that's me
So I can breathe...

Circles they grow and they swallow people whole
Half their lives they say goodnight to wives they'll never know
A mind full of questions, and a teacher in my soul
And so it goes...

Don't come closer or I'll have to go
Holding me like gravity are places that pull
If ever there was someone to keep me at home
It would be you...

Everyone I come across, in cages they bought
They think of me and my wandering, but I'm never what they thought
I've got my indignation, but I'm pure in all my thoughts
I'm alive...

Wind in my hair, I feel part of everywhere
Underneath my being is a road that disappeared
Late at night I hear the trees, they're singing with the dead
Overhead...

Leave it to me as I find a way to be
Consider me a satellite, forever orbiting
I knew all the rules, but the rules did not know me
Guaranteed

eddie vedder - "guaranteed" - from the soundtrack for "into the wild"
lahermite: (introduce a little anarchy!)
"The earth is not dying, it is being killed. And those that are killing it have names and addresses.

What are you doing tonight?"

http://www.elfpressoffice.org/
lahermite: (Default)
August 23, 2009

Dearest Wildroots friends and supporters,

With a heavy heart, friend, students, teachers, lovers and admirers of
visionary teacher Frank Cook mourned his loss and celebrated his life this
weekend, here in Asheville, NC. Frank died suddenly but peacefully on
August 19th, of "brain lesions" from what is believed to be a parasitic
infection contracted on one of his international journeys. His final weeks
were spent here in one of his "spirit homes", the Southern Appalachians,
teaching, circling, walking, visioning, and giving freely of his knowledge
and enthusiasm.

For those of us who have walked with Frank or learned from him at other
gatherings and in other communities, this may feel like a tragedy. But
through our empowering and healing community grieving process, which
included a 4 day vigil around a sacred fire, drumming, singing and sharing
stories, it is really the blessings of Frank's life and work that have
come to the forefront. We will always remember this amazing walker of the
Green Path with love and gratitude.

So far, Frank's website www.plantsandhealers.com is being maintained by a
close friend who is posting relevant information and will provide a space
for Frank's communities to express themselves. His written works are
available there as well. Future plans to honor Frank's work include
commencing an annual gathering at this time of his passing, and carrying
on his vision through the Green Path network (essentially Frank's
brainchild). With an annual Green Path spring gathering here in the
Southeast, and continuing on with our Green Path camp at future National
Rainbow gatherings, these endeavors are envisioned as a way for us all to
continue walking "the Green Path" together, and allowing Frank to continue
on as part of our circles. Join the Green Path mailing list (not a
discussion forum at this time) by sending a blank email to:
greenpath-subscribe@lists.riseup.net

Below is a sort of eulogy written by one of Frank's closest friends.
Facebook is another place to find photos, videos, writings and discussion
about Frank's life and work. Search his name on FB and you will find his
page.

Thank you Frank for your vision and dedication to the green growing world.
We will miss you, but you live on in us!


------------------------------------

Frank Cook 1963-2009 by Tim Toben
Today at 9:35am

Pearson Garden, Asheville NC, August 19, 2009. Just hours after his
passing, Frank’s brother Ken spoke from the circle of nearly 200 friends
holding hands around the garden. “I think he saw us all as plant beings
and he certainly was one himself.” Muffled laughter mixed with tears.
Frank Cook was the Banyan Tree.

If the name is not familiar, you’ll remember the man. Frank stood 6’3”
tall with piercing blue eyes and waist length dreadlocks. He wore simple
clothes and sandals and carried a satchel over his shoulder. In Chapel
Hill, his home was a loft bed at the residence of Beth Williams and Alan
Dehmer. He walked everywhere, once across the entire state of North
Carolina, foraging for food along the way. Most of us in these modern
times would die attempting such a trek. Frank feasted – both physically
and spiritually.

Someone once said that we are born with two beings – one that dies and one
that lives forever. That is certainly true for Frank Cook. Frank will
always be known around the world for his plant knowledge and his journey
to “meet” the 5000+ genera of plants. At 47 years old, he was 70% of the
way to his goal. He’d chucked a promising career in computer science 20
years earlier to follow his heartsong, traveling to Namibia to meet
Omumborombonga, the ancestral tree of life, and to India to meet
Buckuchurbu, used to treat stomach upset.

Those of us lucky enough to cross His path were reacquainted with the
native plants we loved as children. Frank could hang with the best Linnean
taxonomist, but he “understood” plants more deeply – their medicinal
qualities, their nutritional values, and their unique role in the
interdependent ecology of nature. And he clearly loved them.


Frank would lean down and shade his small subjects with large hands and
begin telling their story. The breath from his deep baritone voice seemed
to lift the plantain or pipsissewa from its roots, as he brushed the
leaves from around their base. “Choose me, choose me,” you could imagine
them saying. In those moments, we were children again, finding a long lost
love. And he was an “indigenous” teacher.

The meals between walks were just as vibrant. Reminding us that most
Americans eat just 25 species of plants a year, he’d make fresh bread and
soup with at least 25 species gathered during his walk. The flavors and
energy in his food were life giving. He’d make teas by day and meads at
night, always sharing a batch from last year in a pass- around bottle.
Frank’s blueberry and sumac meads were my favorite. His gatherings built
benevolent communities -- families with native knowledge and skills.

His “business model” baffled most. He worked for donations. You paid what
you could, and that was enough to fund Frank’s travels to meet plants
across the globe. He’d recently completed a Masters Degree at the
Schumacher Institute in the UK and written a book titled “Emerging
Planetary Medicines.” His subject matter had expanded to include
“transition cultures” – those preparing for not a low-, but a no-carbon
economy.

Frank had just returned from teaching engagements in the Southwest US, and
before that in South America. What he thought was travel weariness was
apparently a spreading parasitic infection, which spread rapidly this week
and this morning claimed his sinewy body. Thousands around the world, and
several hundred in Carrboro, Chapel Hill, and Asheville weep quietly at
the loss of their friend and teacher. We are ever so grateful for his many
gifts, for the many seeds he planted.

If he’d ever stayed in one place for more than a few months, I’m convinced
that Frank’s cascading dreadlocks would have taken root, like the Banyan
Tree, and grown other Frank Cooks. And if so, what a better world this
would be. Then again, as I looked around Pearsons Garden this damp August
night and reflected on past gatherings at LEAF and Pickards Mountain, I
thought…that’s precisely what has happened.

Godspeed.
lahermite: (Default)
i grew up in england. most doctors in england have their family practice the whole of their careers. so, unless you yourself move, your whole family sees the same general practitioner for everything. doctors do home visits for those unable to make it to the office, something i've never heard of here in the states (not saying it doesn't exist, i've just never heard of it and have never ever seen a doctor willing to do it.) also, here, doctors change jobs frequently (chasing the bigger paycheck?) most of the places i've been registered at have had numerous doctors and i've seen a different one every time. consistency and family/personal knowledge does not exist. also, everything in the states is specialized. you see one doctor for this, one doctor for that. again, consistency and personal knowledge doesn't exist. in england, the family practitioner might refer you to a specialist in the instance one is needed, but otherwise, you see the same doctor for everything, including child birth. if you or your child get sick, you go to the doctor. it doesn't matter how much money you have. if you are really sick, you go to the hospital. you are treated. you never have to worry about paying a bill. in the article i've posted below, i've bolded a bit towards the end that screams so loud i wish all the right wing morons would let it register. of course, i don't think they care about the poor and sick, after all, surplus population is a necessary part of profit....



http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/story/2009/08/16/ST2009081602108.html



In Defense of Britain's Health System

LONDON -- When Britain's National Health Service (NHS) was created in 1948, its founder, the charismatic politician Aneurin Bevan, observed that it was "in place of fear." More than 60 years later, it is fear that dominates the discussion of the NHS in the U.S. debate about health-care reform.

The myth-making ranges from the misleading to the mendacious to the downright ludicrous. Bizarre allegations of "death panels" denying care to the elderly, doctors unable to make medical decisions and "socialized medicine" fill newspapers, airwaves and the blogosphere. These are, without exception, categorically untrue. When it comes to claims about the health of professor Stephen Hawking, not only have the arguments been distasteful, but those proposing them have been proved embarrassingly wrong.

Here are a few things Americans should know about the NHS:

Every Briton is registered with his or her own family doctor, whom they can see when they need -- without paying a fee. These doctors are independent contractors to the health service and are recognized and rewarded for quality in their compensation -- so they can focus on what works, not just what pays. Expanding on the facilities that are already in place, by next year every community in England will have a physician's office open from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. every day of the year, and you can simply walk in and see a doctor, for free, regardless of whether you are registered.

In the unfortunate instance that a patient is diagnosed with a dire disease, such as cancer, it often takes only a week or two for a patient to be seen by all the right specialists, complete all the required diagnostic tests and be ready for surgery or other interventions. This rivals the best care in the United States or anywhere else in the world.


Under our NHS constitution, patients have a legal right to choice of provider. That means any provider -- public, private or not-for-profit. By April 2010 our NHS will be the first health system in the world to systematically measure and openly publish the quality of care achieved by every clinical department in every hospital. It means patients will be able to make meaningful, informed choices on what is best for them and their family. Some of this data is already published.

Many of the mischief-making rumors have focused on our National Institute for Health and Clinical Excellence, the clinically led body, independent of government, that gives advice on the effectiveness of drugs and treatments. Call it fiscal conservatism or old-fashioned common sense, but we think you should pay only for what works. At the same time, it should be remembered that Britain's pharmaceutical industry is second only to the United States in its innovation and the significance of its discoveries. The NHS invents and delivers pioneering treatments, from the first clinical use of MRI in the 1960s to leading developments in robotically enabled scar-free surgery today.

Standing in defense of Britain's health service does not mean that we believe it is the right prescription for the United States. It is not for us to propose the solution for America, but we hope that correcting the record on some of the facts about our NHS will help Americans evaluate the real strengths and challenges of our system, instead of focusing on the misinformation spread by fear-mongers. Indeed, none of the proposals for reform -- from President Obama or anyone else -- would create a system that resembles that in Britain. What we share across the Atlantic are a set of common values: a belief that health care transcends the narrow confines of consumerism and is a moral right to be secured for all; and fidelity to the principle that a good society brings its citizens together in common purpose, where hope can overcome fear.

Fear is the weapon of choice for opponents of reform who have no substantive alternative to offer. America spends five times the share of its national wealth on health as Singapore, and yet life expectancy in each country is roughly the same. Even allowing for other factors, it is undeniable that the way a health system is organized and operated makes a difference. Americans fear that countries such as Britain and Canada ration care -- and that such rationing could and should never be tolerated in the United States. Yet 47 million uninsured is quite an extreme form of rationing. So at this moment, the burden of proof falls upon those who oppose change -- for they stand in defense of fear.

Ara Darzi, a former minister of health and a practicing NHS surgeon, is chair of surgery at Imperial College in London and Britain's ambassador for health and life sciences. Tom Kibasi is an honorary lecturer at Imperial College. They can be reached at a.darzi@imperial.ac.ukand t.kibasi@imperial.ac.uk.

vampires...

Aug. 8th, 2009 10:03 am
lahermite: (Default)


could fossils like this be where the legend of vampires come from? sure looks like it to me!

(from here: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/science/dinosaurs/5980151/Pterodactyl-fossil-reveals-complex-skills-of-earliest-flyiers.html)
lahermite: (Default)
Jensen: What is a shaman?

Prechtel: Shamans are sometimes considered healers or doctors, but really
they are people who deal with the tears and holes we create in the net of
life, the damage that we all cause in our search for survival. In a sense,
all of us — even the most untechnological, spiritual, and benign peoples —
are constantly wrecking the world. The question is: how do we respond to
that destruction? If we respond as we do in modern culture, by ignoring the
spiritual debt that we create just by living, then that debt will come back
to bite us, hard. But there are other ways to respond. One is to try to
repay that debt by giving gifts of beauty and praise to the sacred, to the
invisible world that gives us life. Shamans deal with the problems that
arise when we forget the relationship that exists between us and the other
world that feeds us, or when, for whatever reason, we don’t feed the other
world in return.

All of this may sound strange to modern, industrialized people, but for the
majority of human history, shamans have simply been a part of ordinary life.
They exist all over the world. It seems strange to Westerners now because
they have systematically devalued the other world and no longer deal with it
as part of their everyday lives.

Jensen: How are shamans from Siberia, for example, different from shamans in
Guatemala?

Prechtel: There are as many different ways to be a shaman as there are
different languages, but there’s a commonality, as well, because we’re all
standing on one earth, and there’s water in the ocean wherever we go, and
there’s ground underneath us wherever we go. So we all have, on some level,
a commonality of experience. We are all still human beings. Some of us have
buried our humanity deep inside, or medicated or anesthetized it, but every
person alive today, tribal or modern, primal or domesticated, has a soul
that is original, natural, and, above all, indigenous in one way or another.
The indigenous soul of the modern person, though, either has been banished
to the far reaches of the dream world or is under direct attack by the
modern mind. The more you consciously remember your indigenous soul, the
more you physically remember it.

Shamans are all trying to put right the effects of normal human stupidity
and repair relationships with the invisible sources of life. In many
instances, the ways in which they go about this are also similar. For
example, the Siberians have a trance method of entering the other world that
is similar to one used in Africa.

Jensen: You’ve mentioned "the other world" a few times. Most modern people
would not consciously acknowledge such a place. What is the other world?

Prechtel: If this world were a tree, then the other world would be the roots
— the part of the plant we can’t see, but that puts the sap into the tree’s
veins. The other world feeds this tangible world — the world that can feel
pain, that can eat and drink, that can fail; the world that goes around in
cycles; the world where we die. The other world is what makes this world
work. And the way we help the other world continue is by feeding it with our
beauty.

All human beings come from the other world, but we forget it a few months
after we’re born. This amnesia occurs because we are dazzled by the beauty
and physicality of this world. We spend the rest of our lives putting back
together our memories of the other world, enough to serve the greater good
and to teach the new amnesiacs — the children — how to remember. Often, this
lesson is taught during the initiation into adulthood.

The Mayans say that the other world sings us into being. We are its song.
We’re made of sound, and as the sound passes through the sieve between this
world and the other world, it takes the shape of birds, grass, tables — all
these things are made of sound. Human beings, with our own sounds, can feed
the other world in return, to fatten those in the other world up, so they
can continue to sing.

Jensen: Who are "they"?

Prechtel: All those beings who sing us alive. You could translate it as gods
or as spirits. The Mayans simply call them "they."

Jensen: There’s an old Aztec saying I read years ago: "That we come to this
earth to live is untrue. We come to sleep and to dream." I wonder if you can
help me understand it.

Prechtel: When you dream, you remember the other world, just as you did when
you were a newborn baby. When you’re awake, you’re part of the dream of the
other world. In the "waking" state, I am supposed to dedicate a certain
amount of time to feeding the world I’ve come from. Similarly, when I die
and leave this world and go on to the next, I’m supposed to feed this
present dream with what I do in that one.

Dreaming is not about healing the person who’s sleeping: it’s about the
person feeding the whole, remembering the other world, so that it can
continue. The New Age falls pretty flat with the Mayans, because, to them,
self-discovery is good only if it helps you to feed the whole.

Jensen: Where does the Mayan concept of debt fit in?

Prechtel: As Christians are born with original sin, Mayans are born with
original debt. In the Mayan worldview, we are all born owing a spiritual
debt to the other world for having created us, for having sung us into
existence. It must be fed; otherwise, it’s going to take its payment out of
our lives.

Jensen: How does one repay this debt?

Prechtel: You have to give a gift to that which gives you life. It’s an
actual payment in kind. That’s the spiritual economy of a village.

It’s like my old teacher used to say: "You sit singing on a little rock in
the middle of a pond, and your song makes a ripple that goes out to the
shores where the spirits live. When it hits the shore, it sends an echo back
toward you. That echo is the spiritual nutrition." When you send out a gift,
you send it out in all directions at once. And then it comes back to you
from all directions.

Jensen: It must end up being a complex pattern, because as you’re sending
your song out, your neighbors are also sending theirs out, and you’ve got
all these overlapping ripples.

Prechtel: It’s an entangled net so enormous the mind cannot possibly
comprehend it. No one knows what’s connected to where.

Jensen: How does this relate to technology?

Prechtel: Technological inventions take from the earth but give nothing in
return. Look at automobiles. They were, in a sense, dreamed up over a period
of time, with different people adding on to each other’s dreams — or, if you
prefer, adding on to each other’s studies and trials. But all along the way,
very little, if anything, was given back to the hungry, invisible divinity
that gave people the ability to invent those cars. Now, in a healthy
culture, that’s where the shamans would come in, because with every
invention comes a spiritual debt that must be paid, either ritually, or else
taken out of us in warfare, grief, or depression.

A knife, for instance, is a very minimal, almost primitive tool to people in
a modern industrial society. But for the Mayan people, the spiritual debt
that must be paid for the creation of such a tool is great. To start with,
the person who is going to make the knife has to build a fire hot enough to
produce coals. To pay for that, he’s got to give a sacrificial gift to the
fuel, to the fire.

Jensen: Like what?

Prechtel: Ideally, the gift should be something made by hand, which is the
one thing humans have that spirits don’t.

Once the fire is hot enough, the knife maker must smelt the iron ore out of
the rock. The part that’s left over, which gets thrown away in Western
culture, is the most holy part in shamanic rituals. What’s left over
represents the debt, the hollowness that’s been carved out of the universe
by human ingenuity, and so must be refilled with human ingenuity. A ritual
gift equal to the amount that was removed from the other world has to be put
back to make up for the wound caused to the divine. Human ingenuity is a
wonderful thing, but only so long as it’s used to feed the deities that give
us the ability to perform such extravagant feats in the first place.

So, just to get the iron, the shaman has to pay for the ore, the fire, the
wind, and so on — not in dollars and cents, but in ritual activity equal to
what’s been given. Then that iron must be made into steel, and the steel has
to be hammered into the shape of a knife, sharpened, and tempered, and a
handle must be put on it. There is a deity to be fed for each part of the
procedure. When the knife is finished, it is called the "tooth of earth." It
will cut wood, meat, and plants. But if the necessary sacrifices have been
ignored in the name of rationalism, literalism, and human superiority, it
will cut humans instead.

All of those ritual gifts make the knife enormously "expensive," and make
the process quite involved and time-consuming. The need for ritual makes
some things too spiritually expensive to bother with. That’s why the Mayans
didn’t invent space shuttles or shopping malls or backhoes. They live as
they do not because it’s a romantic way to live — it’s not; it’s enormously
hard — but because it works.

Western culture believes that all material is dead, and so there is no debt
incurred when human ingenuity removes something from the other world.
Consequently, we end up with shopping malls and space shuttles and other
examples of "advanced" technology, while the spirits who give us the ability
to make those things are starving, becoming bony and thin, which is one
reason why anorexia is such a prob-lem: the young are acting out this image.
The universe is in a state of starvation and emotional grief because it has
not been given what it needs in the form of ritual food and actual physical
gifts. We think we’re getting away with something by stealing from the other
side, but it all leads to violence. The Greek oracle at Delphi saw this a
long time ago and said, "Woe to humans, the invention of steel."

Jensen: Why does this theft lead to violence?

Prechtel: Though capable of feeding all creation, the spirit is not an
omnipotent force, as Christianity would have us believe, but a natural force
of great subtlety. When its subtlety is trespassed on by the clumsiness of
human greed and conceit, then both human and divine nature are violated and
made into hungry, devouring things. We become food for this monster our
spiritual amnesia has created. The monster is fed by wars, psychological
depression, self-hate, and bad world-trade practices that export misery to
other places.

We inflict violence upon each other as a way to replace what we steal from
nature because we’ve forgotten this old deal that our ancestors signed so
long ago. Instead, we psychologize and objectify that relationship as a
personal experience or pathology, rather than a spiritual obligation. At
that point, our approach to spirituality becomes rationalist armoring, a
psychology of protection for the part of us that creates the greed monster,
which causes us to kill the world and each other. As individuals, we become
depressed, because the beings of the other world take it out of our
emotions.

Jensen: How so?

Prechtel: When we no longer maintain a relationship with the spirits, the
spirits have to eat our psyches. And when the spirits are done eating our
psyches, they eat our bodies. And when they’re done with that, they move on
to the people close to us.

When you have a culture that has for centuries, or longer, ignored these
relationships, depression becomes a way of life. We try to fix the
depression through technology, but that’s never going to work. Nor will it
work to plunder other cultures, nor to kill the planet. All that is just an
attempt not to be held accountable to the other world. If you’re to succeed
as a human being, you’ve got to live meaningfully, passionately, and fully,
so that even your death becomes a meaningful sacrifice to the spirits,
feeding them. Everybody’s death was a meaningful sacrifice until people
started to become "civilized" and began killing everybody else’s gods in the
name of monotheism. As you grow older, your life becomes more and more
meaningful as a sacrifice, because you give more and more gifts to the other
world, and the spirits are better fed by your speech and prayers.

Jensen: How do you respond to someone who says that the notion of paying a
debt to the spirit world for making a knife is just inefficient, which is
why we’ve wiped out all those cultures. In the time your group spends making
one knife, my group will make three hundred knives and cut all your throats.

Prechtel: If you take up that strategy, then you will have to live with the
ghosts of those you’ve murdered — which means you’ve got to make more and
more knives, and you will become more and more depressed, all the while
calling yourself "advanced" to rationalize your predicament.

Jensen: What are these ghosts?

Prechtel: Before we talk any more about ghosts, we have to talk about
ancestors, because the two are related.

Often, you’ll hear that you have to honor your ancestors, but I believe it’s
much more complex than that. Our ancestors weren’t necessarily very smart.
In many cases, they are the ones who left us this mess. Some of them were
great, but others had huge prejudices. If these ancestors are given their
due, then you don’t have to live out their prejudices in your own life. But
if you don’t give the ancestors something, if you simply say, "I’m descended
from these people, but they don’t affect me very much; I’m a unique
individual," then you’re cursed to spend your life either fighting your
ancestors, or else riding the wave they started. You’ll have to do that long
before you can be yourself and pursue what you believe is worth pursuing.

The Mayan way of dealing with this is to give the ancestors a place to live.
You actually build houses for them — called "sleeping houses" — and put your
ancestors in there. The houses are small, because the ancestors don’t take
up any space, but they do need a designated place, just like anything else.
Then you feed your ancestors with words and eloquence. We all have old,
forgotten languages that our languages are descended from, and many of these
languages are a great deal more ornate. But even with our current language,
we still have the capacity to create strange, mysterious, poetic gifts to
feed the ancestors, so that we won’t become depressed by their ghosts
devouring our everyday lives.

If we can get past the prejudices of the last ten thousand years’ worth of
ancestors, then we can find our way back to our indigenous souls and
culture, where we are always at home and welcome.

Jensen: My ancestry is Danish, French, and Scottish, but I live in northern
California, so how can I find my way back?

Prechtel: The problem is not that your ancestors migrated to North America
but that, when they died, their debts were not properly paid with beauty,
grief, and language. Whenever someone dies, that person’s spirit has to go
on to the next world. If that person has not gone through an initiation and
remembered where she came from and what she must do to go on, then she won’t
know where to go. Also, when a person dies, her spirit must return what has
been taken out to feed her existence while she was on earth. All of the old
burial rituals are about paying back the debt to the other world and helping
the spirit to move on.

One of the ways those who remain behind can help repay this spiritual debt
is simply by missing the dead. Let’s say your beloved grandmother dies. Some
might say you shouldn’t weep, because she’s going to "a better place," and
weeping is just pure selfishness. But people’s longing for each other and
for the terrain of home is so enormous that, if you do not weep to express
it, you’re poisoning the future with violence. If that longing is not
expressed as a loud, beautiful wail, a song, or a piece of art that’s given
as a gift to the spirits, then it will turn into violence against other
beings — and, more importantly, against the earth itself, because you will
have no understanding of home. But if you are able to feed the other world
with your grief, then you can live where your dead are buried, and they will
become a part of the landscape in a way.

Many old cultures had funeral arrangements whereby the dead were annually
fed by the living for as long as fifty years, with the living giving ritual
payments back to the world and the earth for the debts incurred by the
deceased. When that grief doesn’t happen, the ancestors’ ghosts begin to
chase the culture.

It’s difficult enough when you have only a few dead people to mourn, but
what happens when there are too many dead, when there is no time to mourn
them all? When you get not just one or two ghosts (which a shaman might be
able to help you with), but hundreds, or thousands, or millions of ghosts,
because not just your ancestors, but the beings who have been trespassed
against — the women who have been raped, the animals who have been
slaughtered for no reason, the ground that has been torn to shreds — have
all become ghosts, too?

Jensen: Are you speaking metaphorically here?

Prechtel: No, I’m talking literally. The ghosts will actually chase you, and
they always chase you toward the setting sun. That’s why all the great
migrations of the past several thousand years have been to the west: because
people are running away from the ghosts. The people stop and try to live in
a new place for a while, but the ghosts always catch up with them and create
enormous wars and pain and problems, which feed the hungry hordes of ghosts.
Then the people continue on, always moving, never truly at home. Now we have
an entire culture based on our fleeing or being devoured by ghosts.

Jensen: What can we do about the ghosts?

Prechtel: On a finite planet, we can’t outrun them. We’ve tried to develop
technology that will keep us safe: medicines to numb our grief, fortresses
to keep the ghosts away. But none of it will work.

In a village, if a family is beset by a ghost, the shaman will capture the
ghost, break it down into its component parts, and send them back to the
other world one at a time. Then the shaman and the family will set up a
regular maintenance program, to get back on track in their relationship with
the other world. This is the maintenance way of living.

I’m not sure how Western culture could do this. How can members of a culture
that considers the earth a dead thing possibly repay all that debt? How can
they possibly get away from all those ghosts? With everything that has gone
on for so long, can they ever really be at home again?

To be at home in a place, to live in a place well, we first have to
understand where we are; we’ve got to look at our surroundings. Second,
we’ve got to know our own histories. Third, we’ve got to feed our ancestors’
ghosts, so that the ghosts aren’t eating us or the people around us. Lastly,
we’ve got to begin to grieve. Now, grief doesn’t mean sitting around weeping
every day. Rather, grief means using the gifts you’ve been given by the
spirits to make beauty. Grief that’s not expressed this way becomes a kind
of toxic waste inside a person’s body, and inside the culture as a whole,
until it has to be put in containers and shipped someplace, the way they
ship radioactive waste to New Mexico.

This locked-up grief has to be metabolized. As a culture and as individuals,
we must begin feeling our grief — that delicious, fantastic, eloquent
medicine. Then we can start giving spiritual gifts to the land we live on,
which might someday grant our grandchildren permission to live there.

Jensen: What’s the relationship between grief and belonging to a place?

Prechtel: In the Guatemalan village where I lived, you don’t belong
someplace until your people have died there and the living have wept for
them there. Until a few of your generations have died on the land and been
buried there, and your soul has fed on the land, you’re still a tourist, a
visitor.

While I lived in this village, one of my sons, a baby, died of typhoid. When
I lost a child, I mysteriously and suddenly became a true, welcomed resident
of the land. It wasn’t as if I owned the land, but I was an honorable renter
who’d paid with grief, artistically expressed in ritual. My child had merged
with the land, so now I was related to the rocks and the trees and the air
in a bodily way that I hadn’t been before. And since the other villagers
were all related to these same rocks and trees and air, that made us all
relatives.

Now, you might say that all your ancestors from Denmark, France, and
Scotland have been put in the ground in North America, so why aren’t you
welcome here? Why aren’t you related to the rocks and the trees and the air?

It’s because your ancestors who died are most likely still ghosts, still
uninitiated souls who have not yet become true ancestors, because their
debts were not paid with grief and beauty. Once they become true ancestors,
you merge with the region, and you begin to help this world live. At that
point, you’ll find that you have less need for toasters and machinery and
computers — less need for everything. You’ll finally be starting to live
well.

For us to get to that stage, we have to study eloquence, grief, and
sacrifice. I’m not just talking about the type of sacrifice where somebody
takes three days off to work in the neighborhood, although that may be part
of it. I’m talking about giving to the nonhuman, as well as to the human.

Jensen: So you’re saying that we need to deal with the ghosts, and once
we’ve dealt with them . . .

Prechtel: Then we have to talk about maintenance, which is far more
important than corrective measures. This culture is based on fixing things,
as opposed to maintaining them. But once we start to maintain instead of
constantly fix, the problems that vex us will become much easier to solve.
It will no longer be a mat-ter of fixing something as we think of it today.
Right now, fixing something means getting our way. It should mean asking:
"What do I need to do here?"

Our culture also emphasizes individual freedom, but such freedom can be
enjoyed only when there is a waiting village of open-armed, laughing elders
who know compassion and grasp the complexity of the spirit world well enough
to catch us, keep us grounded, and protect us from ourselves.

If the modern world is to start maintaining things, it will have to redefine
itself. A new culture will have to develop, in which neither humans and
their inventions nor God is at the center of the universe. What should be at
the center is a hollow place, an empty place where both God and humans can
sing and weep together. Maybe, together, the diverse and combined excellence
of all cultures could court the tree of life back from where it’s been
banished by our literalist minds and dogmatic religions.

Jensen: Speaking of dogmatic religions, how did the Mayan traditions survive
the influx of Spanish missionaries?

Prechtel: The Spaniards came to our village in 1524 , but they couldn’t get
anybody to go to their church, so they demolished our old temple and used
the stones to build a new church on the same site. (This was a common
practice.) But the Tzutujil people are crafty. They watched as the old
temple stones were used to build the new church, and they memorized where
each one went. As far as the Tzutujil were concerned, this strange, square
European church was just a reconfiguration of the old. (When I was learning
to be a shaman, I had to memorize where all those damn stones were, because
they were all holy. It was like being a novice taxi driver in London.)

The Catholic priests abandoned the village in the 1600 s because of
earthquakes and cholera, then came back fifty years later and found a big
hole in the middle of the church. "What is that?" they said.

By then, the Indians knew the priests destroyed everything relating to the
native religion, so the Indians said, "When we reenact the crucifixion of
Jesus, this is the hole where we put the cross."

In truth, that hole was a hollow place that was never to be filled, because
it led to another hollow place left over from the temple that had been there
originally, and that place was connected to all the other layers of
existence.

For four and a half centuries, the Indians kept their traditions intact in a
way that the Europeans couldn’t see or understand. If the Spaniards asked,
"Where is your God?" the Indians would point to this empty hole. But when
the American clergy came in the 1950s, they weren’t fooled. They said, "This
is paganism." And so, eventually, they filled the empty place with concrete.

I was there when that happened, in 1976. I was livid. I went to the village
council and ranted and raved about how terrible it was. The old men calmly
smoked their cigars and agreed. After an hour or so, when I was out of
breath, they started talking about something totally unrelated. I asked,
"Doesn’t anybody care about this?"

"Oh, yeah," they said. "We care. But these Christians are idiots if they
think they can just eradicate the conduit from this world to the next with a
little mud. That’s as ridiculous as you worrying about it. But if you must
do something, here’s a pick, shovel, and chisel. Dig it out."

So some old men and I dug out the hole. Then the Catholics filled the hole
back up, and two weeks later we dug it out again. We went back and forth
this way five times until, finally, somebody made a stone cover for the
hole, so the Catholics could pretend it wasn’t there, and we could pull the
cover off whenever we wanted to use it.

That’s how the spirit is now in this country. The hole, the hollow place
that must be fed, is still there, but it’s covered over with spiritual
amnesia. We try to fill up that beautiful hollow place with drugs,
television, potato chips — anything. But it can’t be filled. It needs to be
kept hollow.

Jensen: Why is a hollow place holy?

Prechtel: The Mayan people understand that the world did not come out of a
creator’s hand, but grew out of this hollow place and became a tree whose
fruit was diversity. Human beings weren’t on that tree, but everything that
was on that original tree eventually went into human beings. You have gourd
seeds in you, and raccoons, and amoebas — everything.

When the tree finally grew to maturity, flowered, and bore fruit, the fruit
was made of sound, and every piece of it that dropped to the ground sprouted
and gave birth to the diverse kinds of life. Then the old tree died and
became humus consisting of ancient sounds, out of which all things flourish
to this day. Everything we feel, touch, and taste is actually a
manifestation of that original diversity, which means that the tree isn’t
really dead, but dismembered, and it’s constantly trying to "re-member"
itself.

Every year in my village, when it was still intact, the young men and women
who were to be initiated into adulthood went down the hole into the other
world to try to bring the parent tree back to life. They put the seeds of
their holy sounds and their tears into that hole where the old tree used to
live long ago. And the tree grew back. But the rest of the year, the village
devoured the tree’s diverse forms, creating an annual need for new initiates
to re-member the old provider tree back to life. The initiates were able to
go down into that hollow place and restore the tree to life because they
knew how to be eloquent, how to grieve, and how to fight death instead of
fighting and killing other beings.

Jensen: When you say "fight death," do you mean they resisted or denied its
inevitability?

Prechtel: No, on the contrary, I mean they wrestled with death. In order for
there to be life, there has to be a spiritual wrestling match with death;
otherwise, it becomes a literal battle that can kill you.

The problem with death is that its gods are rationalists. The Mayans have
thirteen goddesses and thirteen gods of death. These deities have no
imagination, which is why they have to eat and kill us — to get our souls,
our imagination. Once death has your soul, it is happy and stops killing for
a while. But then you must go down and ask death — with all your eloquence —
to please give back your soul. When death refuses, you’ve got to gamble with
death, because death obeys only one rule: the rule of chance. And so you use
gambling bones and try to beguile death with your eloquence. That’s what we
call "wrestling death." You can’t kill death, of course. The best you can
hope for in such a match is to bring death to a standoff. Then death will
say, "OK, I’ll tell you what. I’m going to give you back your soul if you
promise to continue to feed me this eloquence on a regular basis, and to die
at your appointed hour."

During initiation, when the young men and women wrestle death, what they’re
doing, essentially, is signing a contract that says, "I give up the
idealistic notion that I should live forever." Your soul is then returned,
but you must ritually render a percentage of the fruit of your art, your
eloquence, and your imagination to the other world. That’s the only deal
you’re going to get from death. If you try to strike a better bargain,
you’re going to end up killing a lot of people. When an entire culture tries
to make a better deal, or refuses to wrestle death with eloquence, then
death comes up to the surface to eat us in a literal way, with wars and
depression.

Jensen: Tell me more about the indigenous soul.

Prechtel: Every individual in the world, regardless of cultural background
or race, has an indigenous soul struggling to survive in an increasingly
hostile environment created by that individual’s mind. A modern person’s
body has become a battleground between the rationalist mind — which
subscribes to the values of the machine age — and the native soul. This
battle is the cause of a great deal of spiritual and physical illness.

Over the last several centuries, a heartless, culture-crushing mentality has
enforced its so-called progress on the earth, devouring all peoples, nature,
imagination, and spiritual knowledge. Like a bulldozer, it has left a flat,
homogenized streak of civilization in its wake. Every human on this earth,
whether from Africa, Asia, Europe, or the Americas, has ancestors whose
stories, rituals, ingenuity, language, and life ways were taken away,
enslaved, banned, exploited, twisted, or destroyed by this mentality. What
is indigenous — in other words, natural, subtle, hard to explain, generous,
gradual, and village oriented — in each of us has been banished to the
ghettos of our heart, or hidden away from view on reservations inside the
spiritual landscape. We’re taught to believe that our thoughts are actually
the center of our life. Like the conquering, modern culture we belong to, we
understand the world only with the mind, not with the indigenous soul.

And this indigenous soul is not something that can be brought back in "wild
man" or "wild woman" retreats on the weekend and then dropped when you put
on your business suit. It’s not something you take up because it’s fun or
trendy. It has to be authentic, and it has to be spiritually expensive.

Jensen: Let’s talk for a moment about co-optation. There are two common
positions on the wider use of indigenous traditions. One is that there’s
nothing wrong with making a sweat lodge in your backyard for weekend
retreats, while continuing to be a stockbroker on weekdays.

Prechtel: The consumer method.

Jensen: The other, which I subscribe to, is that we must respect the privacy
of indigenous traditions and not mine them for our own purposes.

Prechtel: I’ve made a huge effort never to do that. The truth is that I
never wanted to write books about Mayan traditions in the first place. On
the Pueblo reservation where I grew up, it was taboo to write, because
writing freezes knowledge, and also because much knowledge becomes useless
when it is not kept secret and used only under sacred conditions. And often
the things that are the most sacred are the most simple and ordinary. When
this ordinariness is framed in subtle, time-honored ways, it becomes
extraordinary and maintains its spiritual usefulness.

Jensen: The traditions you write about are not your native Southwestern
traditions.

Prechtel: No, but I lived in Santiago Atitlán, in Guatemala, for many years
and made my life there. I was married, with children. Then, when the
U.S.–backed death squads came, more than eighteen hundred villagers were
killed within seven years: shot, beaten, tortured, poisoned, chopped up,
starved to death in holes, beheaded, disappeared. This took place in a
village where, prior to 1979, most people had never heard a gunshot. I had a
price on my head and was almost killed on three different occasions in the
1980s. I returned to the U.S. and brought my family with me. My wife later
went back home, taking our two sons with her, and we separated. The boys
soon returned to live with me and are now grown men.

Then, in 1992 , there was another massacre, and I had to go back to
Guatemala. Some young Tzutujil men met me in a pickup truck, which was
strange in itself: before, nobody had owned an automobile. They put me in
the back with a bunch of squash, under a tarp. Whenever we came to an army
roadblock, the soldiers saw just the squash and let us pass. They didn’t
look very hard. (Most of the soldiers really don’t want to kill anybody:
they have to be goaded into it. But they do kill.)

When we’d gotten past all the roadblocks, I got to sit up front. The other
passengers were all kids. This was only eight years after I’d left, and
already they had forgotten the name of my teacher, who had been one of the
greatest and most famous shamans around.

As we drove, they’d ask, "Do you know the story of that mountain over
there?"

"Yeah," I’d say, "that’s called S’kuut. It was originally in the ocean and
was brought up on land by the old goddess of the reptiles."

"Who’s she?"

Pretty soon the truck was going about three miles an hour because they were
rediscovering, through their ancestors’ ancient stories, every mountain,
ravine, and boulder along our route. After about two hours, I asked, "How
come you don’t know any of this?"

"Well," said one, "these two are Christians, so they’re not allowed to know,
and the rest of us don’t have parents. They were killed in the 1980s."

So there I was, this blond half-breed from the U.S. — not even any blood
relation to these kids — telling them their own people’s stories. I realized
then that these children, as well as my own two sons, would never know the
richness of village life. They were losing their connection to this place. I
had to write down what I knew, but I couldn’t write down the specifics —
that we went to the lake and did this and put this offering there — because
then those rituals could be expropriated.

My decision to leave out the details of the rituals has irritated many
people in the U.S. They insist I tell them "how to do it." I always respond,
"It’s not technology."

Jensen: You’ve said explicitly that the power of shamanism is not in the
specific words or the prayers.

Prechtel: My teacher always said that, if there is to be any hope whatsoever
of living well on this earth, we have to take the ancient root and put new
sap in it. That doesn’t mean we need to do something new, but to do
something old in a new way, which takes great courage.

I decided that if I could write these books such that the oral tradition is
evident to readers, memories of their own indigenous souls might begin to
arise. Of course, I tell people not to get on a plane and go to Guatemala.
That would bring nothing but more heartbreak and plundering. The answer must
be found in your own backyard, where you live. The only reason to explore
another culture is to be able to smell the poverty in your own. Even if you
go to another culture and are accepted in some way, you still have an
obligation not to abandon your own culture, but to return to your homeland
and try to coax its alienated indigenous traditions back into everyday life
and away from tribalism, fundamentalism, and corporatized, nihilistic greed.

This is true whether we’re talking about traditions or natural resources.
Right now, "genetic prospectors" are going to Brazil to study plants used by
indigenous peoples. Why? So they can save rich, white North Americans from
diseases caused by the stupidities of their own culture. They’re mining
other peoples’ traditions to fix, mechanically, illnesses that would be much
better addressed if they stayed home and dealt with their own culture’s lack
of imagination and grace, grieving collectively about the inescapable
reality of their mortality.

People should also be aware that many things that are touted as indigenous
are not. Many of the sweat-lodge ceremonies, for example, are about as
Jesuit as you can get. No Indian had ever heard of the Great Spirit before
the 1850s. That’s all from the Jesuits.

Jensen: You’ve said that one problem with Western culture is its use of the
verb to be.

Prechtel: When I was a child, I spoke a Pueblo language called Keres, which
doesn’t have the verb to be. It was basically a language of adjectives. One
of the secrets of my ability to survive and thrive in Santiago Atitlán was
that the Tzutujil language, too, has no verb to be . Tzutujil is a language
of carrying and belonging, not a language of being. Without to be, there’s
no sense that something is absolutely this or that. If two people argue,
they’re said to be "split," like firewood, but both sides are still of the
same substance. Some of the rights and wrongs that nations have fought and
died to defend or obtain are not even relevant concepts to traditional
Tzutujil. This isn’t because the Tzutujil are somehow too "primitive" to
understand right and wrong, but because their lives aren’t based on absolute
states or permanence. Mayans believe nothing will last on its own. That’s
why their lives are oriented toward maintenance rather than creation.

"Belonging to" is as close to "being" as the Tzutujil language gets. One
cannot say, "She is a mother," for instance. In Tzutujil, you can only call
someone a mother by saying whose mother she is, whom she belongs to.
Likewise, one cannot say, "He is a shaman." One says instead, "The way of
tracking belongs to him."

In order for modern Western culture to really take hold in Santiago Atitlán,
the frustrated religious, business, and political leaders first had to
undermine the language. Language is the glue that holds the layers of the
Mayan universe together: the eloquence of the speech, the ancestral lifeline
of the mythologies. The speech of the gods was in our very bones. But once
the Westerners forced the verb to be upon our young, the whole archaic Mayan
world disappeared into the jaws of the modern age.

In a culture with the verb to be, one is always concerned with identity. To
determine who you are, you must also determine who you are not. In a culture
based on belonging, however, you must bond with others. You are defined by
where you stand and whom you stand with. The verb to be also reduces a
language, taking away its adornment and beauty. But the language becomes
more efficient. The verb to be is very efficient. It allows you to build
things.

Rather than build things, Mayans cultivate a climate that allows for the
possibility of their appearance, as for a fruit or a vine. They take care of
things. In the past, when they built big monuments, it wasn’t, as in modern
culture, to force the world to be a certain way, but rather to repay the
world with a currency proportionate to the immense gifts the gods had given
the people. Mayans don’t force the world to be what they want it to be: they
make friends with it; they belong to life.

Jensen: You’ve spoken a lot today about the importance of maintenance. How
does that relate to the Tzutujil practice of building flimsy houses?

Prechtel: In the village, people used to build their houses out of
traditional materials, using no iron or lumber or nails, but the houses were
magnificent. Many were sewn together out of bark and fiber. Like the house
of the body, the house that a person sleeps in must be very beautiful and
sturdy, but not so sturdy that it won’t fall apart after a while. If your
house doesn’t fall apart, then there will be no reason to renew it. And it
is this renewability that makes something valuable. The maintenance gives it
meaning.

The secret of village togetherness and happiness has always been the
generosity of the people, but the key to that generosity is inefficiency and
decay. Because our village huts were not built to last very long, they had
to be regularly renewed. To do this, villagers came together, at least once
a year, to work on somebody’s hut. When your house was falling down, you
invited all the folks over. The little kids ran around messing up what
everybody was doing. The young women brought the water. The young men
carried the stones. The older men told everybody what to do, and the older
women told the older men that they weren’t doing it right. Once the house
was back together again, everyone ate together, praised the house, laughed,
and cried. In a few days, they moved on to the next house. In this way, each
family’s place in the village was reestablished and remembered. This is how
it always was.

Then the missionaries and the businessmen and the politicians brought in tin
and lumber and sturdy houses. Now the houses last, but the relationships
don’t.

In some ways, crises bring communities together. Even nowadays, if there’s a
flood, or if somebody is going to put a highway through a neighborhood,
people come together to solve the problem. Mayans don’t wait for a crisis to
occur; they make a crisis. Their spirituality is based on choreographed
disasters — otherwise known as rituals — in which everyone has to work
together to remake their clothing, or each other’s houses, or the community,
or the world. Everything has to be maintained because it was originally made
so delicately that it eventually falls apart. It is the putting back
together again, the renewing, that ultimately makes something strong. That
is true of our houses, our language, our relationships.

It’s a fine balance, making something that is not so flimsy that it falls
apart too soon, yet not so solid that it is permanent. It requires a sort of
grace. We all want to make something that’s going to live beyond us, but
that thing shouldn’t be a house, or some other physical object. It should be
a village that can continue to maintain itself. That sort of constant
renewal is the only permanence we should wish to attain.

from here: http://www.hiddenwine.com/indexSUN.html
lahermite: (Default)
i'm pretty burned out on humanity as a whole. someone asked me why i'm a misanthrope and i answered that it's probably unfair of me to bunch all humans together and declare hatred of them all, because the aspects i hate can all be bunched together under the banner "civilization", but seeing as, these days, most humans are civilized, domesticated, and seeing as most humans can find someone below them on the strange hierarchy we've created, and therefore support and enforce that hierarchy, it's easy to say, "i hate humanity". i hung out with a bunch of racists for a while at the weekend and got asked, basically, how i can hang with them. it's the same thing. i hang out frequently with, and am related to, people who are capitalists, people who gladly use products tested on animals, people who support war, people who agree with genetic modification, technophiles who love modern technology, people who shop gladly at walmart and don't care the goods are made by slave children in china or elsewhere, farmers who keep non-human animals in enclosures and with the sole purpose of using them for their own benefit, etc etc etc.

i tried purism when i went vegan. it doesn't work. it's impossible. we cannot escape civilization or civilized behaviour. for every aspect of purism we embrace, we are still embracing the very thing we're trying not to embrace. you can't not kill. you can't not enslave. you are civilized.

i find going to the supermarket an exercise in torture. every child that cries bring images to my mind of that child being hit, burned, belittled, brainwashed by an ugly culture. for every product i buy, i have to see the inherant slavery, domination, torture and cruelty that went into its growth, death, and packaging, be it a piece of dead cow, a piece of dead vegetable, a piece of dead tree. every time i look out my window, breathe the air, drink the water, i am participating in the death machine. i can't escape it.

so how do i stomach hanging out with racists? the same way i stomach existing at all.

with great difficulty.
lahermite: (Default)
cleaned out my friends list a bit. if you never post these days, we don't really talk, we have nothing in common, i don't really know you, it's a journal you don't seem to use anymore, etc etc., then i removed you. sorry if this upsets you or offends you. that's not my intention. i'm just cleaning house a little.

*wishing you love and peace*
lahermite: (Default)
all the personal posts in this journal are friends locked, but i leave all others unlocked. i recently reduced my "friends" list quite substantially because i cannot keep up with it. please feel free to friend this journal to read the environmental/political ranting i do, but please do not be offended that i don't add you back.
lahermite: (Default)
hey, all of you with highspeed. wanna listen to a great radio show, check out:

http://icrfm.ie/live.htm

the show is called "across the pond" and is recorded in atlanta by ireland's john cutliffe and then played in ireland. it's a mix of music, americana and celtic and other stuff. superb music! its on at 1pm eastern on a Thursday (today) and 9am eastern on a Sunday.

check it out. i wish i had high speed so i could listen to it every week. as it is, i may have to hope that i get sent a few (more) copies!

reframing

Jun. 3rd, 2009 03:01 pm
lahermite: (Default)
"New Stadium to be One of the Greenest" (http://www.enn.com/top_stories/article/40008) screams the headline. on environmental network news no less. it's gotta be green if the ENN says so.

*this is me screaming loudly* NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

the article goes on to describe all the ways the new stadium will be greener than others.

nowhere in the article is the need for a new stadium, the real need, the need of the earth, the need of the planets species, the need of every other fucking species other than rich sports fan humans, mentioned. the acceptance that building a greener stadium is a good thing is total.

and this from ENN.

you cannot green this problem. STOP FUCKING BUILDING. that's green.

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lahermite

November 2011

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