It doesn't interest me what you do for a living I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.
It doesn't interest me how old you are I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love for your dreams for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon... I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain mine or your own without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy mine or your own if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful be realistic to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure yours and mine and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes."
It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after a night of grief and despair weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.
It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.
It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.
For those who need to be happy..
Current mood: happy
I was showed this by an amazing person who wanted to cheer me up. So this is for you-and especially for you, you who know who you are, and those who need to be cheered up!
One Train May Hide Another (sign at a railroad crossing in Kenya)
In a poem, one line may hide another line, As at a crossing, one train may hide another train. That is, if you are waiting to cross The tracks, wait to do it for one moment at Least after the first train is gone. And so when you read Wait until you have read the next line-- Then it is safe to go on reading. In a family one sister may conceal another, So, when you are courting, it's best to have them all in view Otherwise in coming to find one you may love another. One father or one brother may hide the man, If you are a woman, whom you have been waiting to love. So always standing in front of something the other As words stand in front of objects, feelings, and ideas. One wish may hide another. And one person's reputation may hide The reputation of another. One dog may conceal another On a lawn, so if you escape the first one you're not necessarily safe; One lilac may hide another and then a lot of lilacs and on the Appia Antica one tomb May hide a number of other tombs. In love, one reproach may hide another, One small complaint may hide a great one. One injustice may hide another--one colonial may hide another, One blaring red uniform another, and another, a whole column. One bath may hide another bath As when, after bathing, one walks out into the rain. One idea may hide another: Life is simple Hide Life is incredibly complex, as in the prose of Gertrude Stein One sentence hides another and is another as well. And in the laboratory One invention may hide another invention, One evening may hide another, one shadow, a nest of shadows. One dark red, or one blue, or one purple--this is a painting By someone after Matisse. One waits at the tracks until they pass, These hidden doubles or, sometimes, likenesses. One identical twin May hide the other. And there may be even more in there! The obstetrician Gazes at the Valley of the Var. We used to live there, my wife and I, but One life hid another life. And now she is gone and I am here. A vivacious mother hides a gawky daughter. The daughter hides Her own vivacious daughter in turn. They are in A railway station and the daughter is holding a bag Bigger than her mother's bag and successfully hides it. In offering to pick up the daughter's bag one finds oneself confronted by the mother's And has to carry that one, too. So one hitchhiker May deliberately hide another and one cup of coffee Another, too, until one is over-excited. One love may hide another love or the same love As when "I love you" suddenly rings false and one discovers The better love lingering behind, as when "I'm full of doubts" Hides "I'm certain about something and it is that" And one dream may hide another as is well known, always, too. In the Garden of Eden Adam and Eve may hide the real Adam and Eve. Jerusalem may hide another Jerusalem. When you come to something, stop to let it pass So you can see what else is there. At home, no matter where, Internal tracks pose dangers, too: one memory Certainly hides another, that being what memory is all about, The eternal reverse succession of contemplated entities. Reading A Sentimental Journey look around When you have finished, for Tristram Shandy, to see If it is standing there, it should be, stronger And more profound and theretofore hidden as Santa Maria Maggiore May be hidden by similar churches inside Rome. One sidewalk May hide another, as when you're asleep there, and One song hide another song; a pounding upstairs Hide the beating of drums. One friend may hide another, you sit at the foot of a tree With one and when you get up to leave there is another Whom you'd have preferred to talk to all along. One teacher, One doctor, one ecstasy, one illness, one woman, one man May hide another. Pause to let the first one pass. You think, Now it is safe to cross and you are hit by the next one. It can be important To have waited at least a moment to see what was already there.
Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal by Naomi Shihab Nye
After learning my flight was detained 4 hours, I heard the announcement: If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic, Please come to the gate immediately.
Well -- one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there. An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress, Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly. Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she Did this.
I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly. Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick, Sho bit se-wee?
The minute she heard any words she knew -- however poorly used - She stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been cancelled entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the Following day. I said no, no, we're fine, you'll get there, just late,
Who is picking you up? Let's call him and tell him. We called her son and I spoke with him in English. I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and Would ride next to her -- southwest.
She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.
Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and Found out of course they had ten shared friends.
Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering Questions.
She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies -- little powdered Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts -- out of her bag -- And was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California, The lovely woman from Laredo -- we were all covered with the same Powdered sugar. And smiling. There is no better cookies.
And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers -- Non-alcoholic -- and the two little girls for our flight, one African American, one Mexican American -- ran around serving us all apple juice And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.
And I noticed my new best friend -- by now we were holding hands -- Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,
With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought, This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in this gate -- once the crying of confusion stopped -- has seemed apprehensive about any other person.
They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too. This can still happen anywhere.
Not everything is lost. Revenge
At times ... I wish I could meet in a duel the man who killed my father and razed our home, expelling me into a narrow country. And if he killed me, I'd rest at last and if I were ready - I would take my revenge!
But if it came to light, when my rival appeared, that he had a mother waiting for him, or a father who'd put his right hand over the heart's place in his chest whenever his son was late even by just a quarter-hour for a meeting they'd set - then I would not kill him, even if I could.
Likewise ... I would not murder him if it were soon made clear that he had a brother or sisters who loved him and constantly longed to see him. Or if he had a wife to greet him and children who couldn't bear his absence and who his presents thrilled.
Or if he had friends or companions, neighbors he knew or allies from prison or a hospital room, or classmates from his school... asking about him and sending him regards.
But if he turned out to be on his own - cut off like a branch from a tree - without mother or father, with neither a brother nor sister, wifeless, without a child, and without kin or neighbors or friends, colleagues or companions, then I'd add not a thing to his pain within that aloneness - nor the torment of death, and not the sorrow of passing away. Instead I'd be content to ignore him when I passed him by on the street - as I convinced myself that paying him no attention in itself was a kind of revenge.
20 percent off tattoos....might have been nice to know before I got my very expensive tattoo. Still, for other IVAW members out there, and those that would like to become IVAW members, good to know!
Now, on to the GI Bill. I've another video that I found says a lot of it better than I can.
..
Here's the thing. Yes, many soldiers were attracted by the idea of going to college. Going to as good a college as their brains could bring them to. The notion of not having to pay for school, their service being their payment.
They didn't read the fine print. They weren't supposed to read the fine print. They were never supposed to know how terrible the GI bill is.
Look. Let's be honest with each other and with the country. The Army money won't pay for a good school. While you're in, or while you're out, it simply won't do it. The Army assumes that its people don't need decent schooling. We can be shoved off with community college money, that is actually below what decent financial aid would cover. No matter how brilliant you are, the Army simply wont' pay for your schooling.
And this hurts the Army as well as its soldiers.
If the Army would pay for me to go to a decent law school? I'd honestly probably be willing to go back as a JAG officer. I've been tempted. But they won't pay for a decent school-just the kind of crummy school I could pay for on my own. The GI Bill currently doesn't pay for living expenses either, so you still need a full-time job to pay your rent. And again-find me a college that accepts tuition on a month-by-month basis. Please.
Jim Webb's bill proposes something radical-that soldiers deserve to go to the best public college in the state. It doesn't go as radical as I'd like. To be honest, I think a great GI Bill would be one that paid for whatever school the soldier could manage to get into, paying the money directly to the school. If I can get into Harvard or Yale or Columbia? Let the Army pay for the college I can achieve, rather than the college they feel I deserve. They've certainly used my brains to the utmost during my time of service, I know they know they're there.
But it's the best bill on the table right now.
And if it "hurts retention" because soldiers leave to actually go to school, what does that say about the current GI Bill, and what an illusory promise that is?
There's some sort of internet-fu, called scribd, where people post all sorts of interesting things. One of my old high-school friends has taken to posting things about our old high school there.
From the early 1900s.
Apparently, it was a hotbed of rebellion.
For the easily amused, or those who care about Stuyvesant High School, read on
The best love poem ever written, by Taylor Mali for Marie-Elizabeth. They're both two really great people, and amazing slam poets. I was fortunate enough to hear this piece live. This is a love poem written by a man who is not afraid-and I have to give serious props. Their relationship is an amazing thing, but it could never have been all that without the intense courage of both.
Without further ado..
"I want a woman" by Taylor Mali
I want a woman. Somewhere out there the perfect woman is patiently waiting for me. A kindhearted dogloving independent slut with a PhD I want a woman who I think is beautiful even though she may not think that And I want a woman who I think is skinny even if she thinks she's fat. I want a woman who I admire, respect and honor, and need who's insightful, and smart, and so fucking sharp that her thoughts always make my brain bleed. I want a woman in whose presence the room becomes suddenly hot who when lost in her beautiful eyes I completely am articulate not. she supports my writing career-she likes going out with a poet and if two words don't really rhyme she doesn't really mind and she forgives my periodic departures from traditional form and metrical structure I want a woman who likes dressing up and staying out til the wee morning hours but who likes going camping and also likes going two or three weeks between showers I want a woman with a washboard stomach covered in a downy fuzz I want a woman who can take care of herself and lets me watch her while she does I don't want a woman who will kiss me all cute with her lips all perky and pursed No, kiss me as if my mouth were pure water and you were dying of thirst I want a woman who can be so frenetic she makes Robin Williams seem like a bore I want a woman who's so fucking flexible she makes Gumby look like Al Gore She's the perfect mixture of Janet Reno, Michelle Pfieffer, and Tammy Wynette Some of my poems make her wet her pants laughing others, just plain wet. Her body is a beautiful foreign tongue in which nightly she tries to instruct me And she's equally comfortable screaming "I LOVE YOU" as she is in whispering 'fuck me'. I want a woman who thinks the word vagina is just too anatomically blunt She hates the word 'prick' favors 'cock' over 'dick' and of course prefers 'pussy' to 'cunt'. She has a profound respect for the vulgar and a love for the truly absurd and when I don't have the time to find a perfect rhyme she will always help me find the perfect word. she'll sniffle on the phone when I'm far from home and I tell her how much I miss her but she has fierce and loyal Amazonian friends with whom she drinks beer when I piss her off. I want a woman who loves her own body who every month says "Whatsamatter, buddy? You afraid I'm unclean, that I'm nasty and mean or are you scared to get your pee-pee bloody?" She says she thinks women are beautiful and I don't think she's being ironic because she has old girlfriends that she says she loved and I don't think it was strictly platonic. I want a woman who loves telling her friends about the very first time that we kissed. but who won't let me or anyone else tell her what it means to be feminist. She says I can say what I want I can wear what I want I can scratch wherever I itch and if I tell you to cuff me, blindfold and fuck me, you best do it, you sonofabitch. Sunday mornings, all she wants is black coffee, onion bagels with cream cheese and lox she stands in the kitchen in my soft flannel shirt a G-string, and a pair of wool socks In short, I want a woman who can bring home the bacon and then fry it up in a pan and who never, ever, will let me forget that she loves me just as I am.
it'll be like a democratic presidential campaign: it seems like a great idea, but ends up with you standing in an empty ballroom with a bottle of stale champagne wondering where it all went wrong
it'll be like watching a sci-fi channel movie: a guilty pleasure which slowly turns into shame and anger as you realize that you've seen it before and you're forced to repeat it again and again
Anyone have any more? They have to be totally nonspecific.
I'll say this. This is already proving to be the most fun race. Guys who think that you aren't interested in politics at all, but like music videos and scantily clad women...this is for you. Mike and Brendan, you guys /need/ to watch this for sheer omg factor.
animated
happy