melimeli

2009-05-14T15:07:00.001-07:00

The use of power is art; the misuse of power is domination.

Ursula Leguin

Big Book wisdom:

2009-05-11T11:37:00.000-07:00

"...any life run on self-will can hardly be a success. On that basis we are almost always in collision with something or somebody, even though our motives are good. Most people try to live by self-propulsion. Each person is like an actor who wants to run the entire show; is forever trying to arrange the lights, the ballet, the scenery, and the rest of the players in his own way. If his arrangements would only stay put, if only people would do as he wished, the show would be great. Everybody, including himself, would be pleased. Life would be wonderful. In trying to make these arrangements our actor may be sometimes quite virtuous. He may be kind, considerate, patient, generous; even modest and self-sacrificing. On the other hand,he may be mean, egotistical, selfish, and dishonest. But, as with most humans, he is more likely to have varied traits.

What usually happens? The show doesn't come off very well. He begins to think life doesn't treat him right. He decides to exert himself more. He becomes, on the next occasion, still more demanding or gracious, as the case may be. Still the play does not suit him. Admitting he may be somewhat at fault, he is sure other people are more to blame. He becomes angry, indignant, self-pitying. What is his basic trouble? Is he not really as self-seeker even when trying to be kind? Is he not a victim of the delusion that he can wrest satisfaction and happiness out of this world if he only manages well? Is it not evident to all the rest of the players that these are the things he wants? And do not his actions make each of them wish to retaliate, snatchign all they can get out of the show? Is he not, even in his best moments, a producer of confusion rather than harmony?"

Its connected

2009-03-14T12:57:00.000-07:00

"What most say they share with the president is the conviction that faith is the foundation in the fight against economic inequality and social injustice."

NYTimes, on Obama.

2008-12-28T14:37:00.000-08:00

"The Spaniards pursued the Indians with bloodhounds, like wild beasts; they sacked the New World like a city taken by storm, with no discernment or compassion; but destruction must cease at last and frenzy has a limit: the remnant of the Indian population which had escaped the massacre mixed with its conquerors and adopted in the end their religion and their manners. The conduct of the Americans of the United States towards the aborigines is characterized, on the other hand, by a singular attachment to the formalities of law. Provided that the Indians retain their barbarous condition, the Americans take no part in their affairs; they treat them as independent nations and do not possess themselves of their hunting-grounds without a treaty of purchase; and if an Indian nation happens to be so encroached upon as to be unable to subsist upon their territory, they kindly take them by the hand and transport them to a grave far from the land of their fathers.

The Spaniards were unable to exterminate the Indian race by those unparalleled atrocities which brand them with indelible shame, nor did they succeed even in wholly depriving it of its right; but the Americans of the United States have accomplished this twofold purpose with singular felicity, tranquilly, legally, philanthropically, without shedding blood, and without violating a single great principle of morality in the eyes of the world. It is impossible to destroy men with more respect for the laws of humanity."

tocqueville.

(aron notes that there were difft densities of indian pops in north & south. but anyway..)

group, story, power

2008-12-24T17:42:00.000-08:00

The group image is a mystification. In real social movements, involve-
ment ebbs and flows, coalitions form and dissolve, fictitious organiza-
tions loom up and fade away, would-be leaders compete for recognition
as the representatives of unorganized constituencies, leaders make
deals with police and politicians. At the extreme . . . professional social
movement organizations manage to keep movements going despite
little or no contact with the publics on whose behalf they claim to be
acting; they manage by finding elsewhere the resources to sustain a
challenge. What is more, organizers, brokers, some participants, and
some authorities commonly know that they are not dealing with a
group durably organized around a well-defined interest. Yet they
collaborate in maintaining the illusion. Why?

-- Tilly

The Song: Salman Masalha.

2008-07-03T05:19:00.001-07:00

The speech of the Arab:
Whenever I say, I am hungry
A clever general grants me a rod.
He sends me to fish
in the desert. But I fish
only scales. And because I do not drink
the sand, I cannot urinate.
And above that, I suffer from constipation.
But because I am hungry and love life,
I eat my fingers from sharpest regret
at accepting to go and fish
in the muddy sands.

The speech of the Jew:
Whenever I say, I am hungry,
A clever politician sends me, to
drink the water of the sea, and I urinate
fish without scales. I cannot
put this on my table,
it is forbidden to me.
And because I am hungry and love life,
I return it to the sea. And it dies of thirst,
Because I have drunk its water already.
And I laugh from despair. Since,
in my current state, I am not able
even to die
from laughter.

The speech of the silent majority:
Death to the hungry!
Death to the hungry!

The speech of the fish:
I am tired of silence.
I am tired of silence.
If you don't stop, I will not speak
and I will not urinate after today.

The song of the poet:
Enough!
When will it end,
this song?

from "Aduma/Hamra" collection.

الأغنية: سملان سصالحة

خطبة العربي:
كل مرة اقول فيها, اني جائع
يمنحني جنرال محنك, صنارة.
ويرسلني لكي أصيد بها الأسماك
في الصحراء. غير أني أصيد
القشور قفط. ولأني لا أشرب
الرمل, لا أستطيع أن أبول.
وفوق كل ذلك, أعاني من الإمساك.
ولأني جائع وأحب الحياة,
أكل أصابعي من شدة الندم
على قبولي الخروج للصيد
في الرمال العكارة.

خطبة اليهودي:
كل مرة القول فيها إني جائع,
يرسلني سياسي محنك, كي
أشرب ماء البحر, فأبول
سمكة بلا قشور. لا أستطيع
أن أضعها على مائدتي.
إنها محرمة على شرعيا.
ولأني جائع وأحب الحياة,
أعيدها إلى البحر. فتموت عطشا,
لإني شربت ماءه من قبل.
فأضحك من أسى. لأني,
في وضعي الراهن, لا أملك
حتى أن أموت
من الضحك.

خطبة الأغلبية الصامتة:
الموت للجوعى!
الموت للجوعى!

خطبة السمكة:
سئمت من الصمت.
سئمت من الصمت.
إن لم تكفوا, لن اتكلم
ولن أبول بعد اليوم.

خطبة الشاعر:
كفى!
متى تنتهي
هذه الأغنية؟

Morning prayers

2008-05-05T06:18:00.001-07:00

The Rav of Breslev knew how bright shines one
who carries God like a burden,
in a heavy sack,
held by the strings of his heart.

Let us drag God along,
it is painful,
but we drag him through dusty streets,
tugging at our hearts from twine,
wrapped in a sandy cloth,
God in a hobo's sack, held with wood or string
or muscle or bone.
Like our only possessions we carry him,
and we without home,
there is no place we can store him,
to return to, to forget and yet keep,
we must walk and carry.

Now a rock. Our sack is caught,
we keep walking, or trying to walk,
straining against it,
until we almost feel our heart
might be pulled from our chest.
We don't know why.
We look down and wonder at this,
the stains of blood,
a spotted shirt,
that an organ is trying to leap out of flesh,
and of all organs, our heart!

God bless the angel
or the wind, or the friend
that steps behind silently
and shifts the rock aside.
A rock still on the road, but behind us at least,
so that our sack of God can move again,
and we continue our way.

Salah Jaheini is a chubby and cute poet.

2007-12-06T21:28:00.000-08:00

and we have a country

2007-12-06T21:27:00.000-08:00

"and we have a country of no borders, like our thoughts
of the unknown, narrow and wide. A country..
When we walk upon its map it constrains us,
pulls us to a gray tunnel, and we scream
into its maze: we still love you. Our love
is an inherited disease. A country.. when
it throws us out into the unknown.. it widens.
Its willows, its features grow. And its grasses,
and its blue mountains. And the lake grows,
in the north part of the soul. And in the south,
the spikes of grain rise. The lemon seed gleams
like a candle, into the immigrant's night. Geography shines
like holy books. And the string of hills
becomes an ascension, to the above. To the above.
"If I were a bird, I would have burned my wings",
says the exile to himself. The smell of autumn becomes
a picture I do not welcome... the light rain steals
into the dryness of my heart, and imagination opens
to its sources, and became the place, that place,
the true and only one. And everything far away
returns, like rural country, like the beginning, as if
the land still brought itself forth to meet man, lowering
itself to the ground level of its paradise. And I say:
this our land is pregnant with us.. when were we born?
Can a man marry two women? Or shall we be born
again, so that we may forget the crime?"

mahmoud darwish, "and we have a country", out of "don't apologize for what you've done"