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The playlist for Sunday 10 August 14 8pm to 9pm Pacific Edition of The Justice Department: Musique sans FrontieresWho luvs ya, baby?
~~ "The Earth Turned Into Sour Flesh" ~~
1 - War -- "Slippin' Into Darkness"
2 - Sly and The Family Stone -- "Family Affair"
3 - Counting Crows -- "Colorblind"
4 - Living Colour -- "Burned Bridges"
5 - Nina Simone -- "Wild is the Wind"
6 - Michael Franti and Spearhead -- "Soulshine"
7 - Alison Krauss -- "Can't Find My Way Home"
8 - Santana -- "Europa"
9 - Miriam Makeba -- "Mbube"
10 - Mamadou Diabaté -- "Tunga"
11 - Red Hot Chili Peppers -- "Castles Made Of Sand"
12 - Dengue Fever -- "Uku"
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Go ahead, now you can listen while roaming the Big Orange and beyond!
And if all those who meet or even~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
hear of you become witness to what you are—
a white country of blight beneath the last snows of
spring. Could we remain quiet on earth
and bear it, the war we make inside
what is—it’s a long time to be here, to be still,
to feel the rot inside now—bone-scrap, char, sheets of stars
at the edge of a field where we are once again
taken from ourselves. Could we remain here,
witness to grief, one last bright dire call-and-reply,
each birdsong or siren extinguished where some
trueness abides, some portion we have lost our right
to claim or know. It comes into any mind that would
perceive it, leaf-rot, speech-rot, the deliberate ribcage
of the deer, these abrupt chalk cliffs over which
the confused animals fling themselves, and you,
obscure, receive no response that is not suffered
as the days grow long and distortions
come to seem the natural course of things—
what trees whose creatures stray into space—
and they find they cannot land though the eyelid
struggles open—no answer, no resolution—
a window opened to the mute green world,
weedy and driftless, a wind drilling rain, dirt,
the parameters of uncertainty, of hope,
what we might be against what we have done,
bees crawling through the lips of the one
who would say the earth turned into sour flesh—
What strange rooms, what soundless movement of sky
over desert where the flesh again is beaten
and the emptiness extends itself while some old man
looks on, a raptor in waiting, the sand-field
around them blown thinly toward sun—no longer
ourselves in the afternoons, evenings,
weak, vague, clutched at the mouth—
because we did nothing, because we lost count.
(Field of Tournesol Normandy, France / copyright Justice Putnam
Voices and Soul appears on Black Kos Tuesday's Chile; poetry chosen and critiqued by Black Kos Poetry Editor, Justice Putnam.
(Chateau de Valicourt Montmorancy, France / copyright Justice Putnam)
Question: Who is your audience? What are you here for?~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Answer: Tribal Alliances, Heart-felt Convictions, Passionate Reason, Random Abandon, Sustainable Civility and a kiss; to comfort the sad and the mad Ones; the Ones roaming the International section of the American Supermarket at night; or roaming the neglected streets looking for an angry malaprop to sink their teeth into; the Ones who seek without seeking and learn as much as they teach; the Ones who embrace and kiss and embrace again; the Ones who sing the song of the city and the ballads of the forest; the Ones who chant the rhythm of the sea and hum the melody of the desert; the Ones who sing the prayer of Her name and Her name is the World. Yes, those are the Ones. -- JP
Okiciyap (we help) is a 501(c)(3) non-profit organization, your donation should be tax deductible. Okiciyap, located on the Cheyenne River Reservation in South Dakota, is working to provide a food pantry, youth center, K-12 educational support, GED & Lakota as a 2nd language class support for youth and adults. The word Okiciyap is Lakota for "we help."
The Daily Kos Fundraising for Okiciyap group was formed to support the pantry. More information is available at the Okiciyap diaries published here at Daily Kos.
So that explains it... !
... Or does it?
I took another small sip of water as the next questioner rose, this time by the stacks of French novels. She was cute; red hair, tall, maybe 5'9" or 5'10", well proportioned. Had to be another doctoral student in Comparative Literature at Cal; so even at 24 or 25, was too young for my wandering eye.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"You stated," she stated determinedly, "and I quote; 'Comedy, Poetry and Fiction are only effective and only become Art if there is a Truth behind the humor, the verse and the lie.'"
"Yes," I uttered to fill the small silence.
"In your writing; in your humor, verse and lies, are you telling a Truth about yourself?" she asked, "or are you telling a Truth about the Culture and Society as a whole?"
"Yes," I answered.
(Motown NN14 Detroit, Michigan / copyright Justice Putnam)
(Chair, Floor and Electric Cord Berkeley, California / copyright Justice Putnam)
"The most unostentatious, the most inexpensive, the most ridiculous chair, if a chair can be ridiculous, which could be devised. Brassai chose precisely this insignificant chair and, snapping it where he found it, unearthed what there was in it of dignity and veracity. THIS IS A CHAIR."~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
-- Henry Miller
"The Eye of Paris"
(Rail Road Crossing Sonoma, California / copyright Justice Putnam)
(Farm Road Olema, California / copyright Justice Putnam)
"Many heroes lived before Agamemnon, but they are all unmourned, and consigned to oblivion, because they had no bard to sing their praises."
"Still the race of hero spirits pass the lamp from hand to hand."~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
-- Charles Kingsley
(Lamp and Post Berkeley, California / copyright Justice Putnam)
(House Ruins of Poet St Pol Roux Brittany, France / copyright Justice Putnam)
The Off Ramp to Terra Azul~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"If it were possible to know the outcome of every journey, few journeys would be undertaken," Farouk Hazim said into the cell phone. "But I know the outcome of this journey. There is nothing mysterious about it. So I just hit the turn signal and turn right at the end of the off ramp."
I could hear an angry buzz in reply from the cell as Farouk held it away from his ear. He looked at me and smiled. After several moments he let a small silence elapse and then put the cell to his ear, "Do not worry. I will off-load by 10 am, I have my top helper with me today."
Farouk closed his cell and put it in the holder. He shifted the big semi and changed lanes. He checked both side mirrors and continued our conversation.
"It's all a matter of what you first notice in life," he said, "at each benchmark, what do you notice?'
I didn't hear his statement as a question at first, but finally I realized his request,
"I wrote a poem about that issue," I proclaimed, unconsciously full of myself, "I wrote about an argument about which came first, Light or Sound. For me the first sound was a heartbeat."
"Aha!" Farouk Hazim exclaimed loudly, "That is very important. You are a Romantic, be careful my friend," he lowered his voice in seriousness, "as strong and intelligent as you are, Romantics have a high death rate."
He laughed in his singular, Farouk Hazim manner. If you didn't know that Farouk came from Lebanon, you'd think he was descended from Zorba the Greek.
"None of us escape what we're born into," Farouk continued, "we can move from place to place, we can rub elbows with people of different classes, one can do any number of things to escape. But we can never escape."
"I always felt the great equalizer," I interjected, "is education. Social mobility is attained with education."
Farouk laughed loud and long again. His eyes were gleaming when he responded,
"Yes! You are very correct. The thing about education, though, is that the more of it you have, the more you know that we can never escape that which we're born into!" Farouk laughed and laughed.
"But I don't understand," I said, truly confused. "I look to you as an example of what can be attained. I mean, look at you, ten years ago you were cleaning offices and now you own your own trucking firm. Your kids go to private schools, your wife is beautiful."
"It still doesn't matter," Farouk Hazim was shaking his head, " there is no escape. Not for you, not for me, not for my children or my beautiful wife."
Farouk checked his side mirror as he shifted gears. He was silent for a long moment and then continued,
"The first sounds I heard were bombs exploding in my village. The first pain I had was from shrapnel in my leg. The first thing I saw was a rifle firing. The first time I met other people was at a funeral. Aha!" Farouk suddenly said, "we have arrived!"
I looked up and saw the exit sign. Farouk turned right at the end of the off ramp. He slowly built compression in the big semi and shifted gears as we approached the city limit sign, welcoming us to Terra Azul. Everything looked familiar, as if I was born into it.
We passed the sign and I had a sinking feeling.
Written in small graffiti-like letters next to the Chamber of Commerce plaque was the invocation,
"Death to All Who Enter Here."
Rest in Peace Aaron Schwartz
(Morning Fog And Surf, Muir Beach, California / copyright Justice Putnam)