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The playlist for Monday 28 April 14 9pm to Midnight Pacific Edition of The Justice Department: Musique sans FrontieresWho luvs ya, baby?
~~ "Cutting The Land Into Large Chunks Of Rust" ~~
1 - Blood Sweat & Tears -- "John The Baptist"
2 - Traffic -- "Forty Thousand Headmen"
3 - Jethro Tull -- "A New Day Yesterday"
4 - Procol Harum -- "Homburg"
5 - Moody Blues -- "Gypsy"
6 - King Crimson -- "In The Court Of The Crimson King"
7 - The Clash -- "Charlie Don't Surf"
8 - Mono Men -- "Daylight"
9 - The Mercury Program -- "Tequesta"
10 - The Lipstick Killers -- "Hindu Gods Of Love"
11 - Daikaiju -- "The Trouble With Those Mothra Girls"
12 - 7 Negro -- "Surf & Roll"
13 - Los Straitjackets -- "Pacifica"
14 - The Bikini Lovers -- "No No No"
15 - Hector Zazou -- "Que le Bongo est Beau"
16 - Karsh Kale -- "Milan"
17 - Kabul Work Shop -- "Trigana"
18 - Garanda -- "Sunda Javanese Gamelan"
19 - The Cinematic Orchestra -- "Burn Out"
20 - Antibalas Afrobeat Orchestra -- "El Machete"
21 - Temple of Sound -- "iZulu Li Ya Duma"
22 - Niyaz -- "Dilruba"
23 - Otros Aires -- "Allerdings Otros Aires"
24 - Der Dritte Raum -- "Blautaut"
25 - Metropolitan Jazz Affair -- "Fourmi Rouge"
26 - Thomas Siffling Trio -- "Jazz Is Like Ginger"
27 - Chris Botti -- "La Belle Dame sans Regrets"
28 - Coralie Clément -- "Le Jazz et Le Gin"
29 - Jazzanova -- "The Morning Side Of Love"
30 - Lyczacza -- "La La Love"
31 - Stacy Kent -- "Samba Saravah"
32 - Club Des Belugas -- "Get Shorter"
33 - De Phazz -- "Cut The Jazz"
34 - Emilie Simon -- "Dernier Lit"
35 - Yael Naim -- "Paris"
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woven plaque basket with sunflower design, Hopi,
Arizona, before 1935
from an American Indian basketry exhibit in
The Arizona highway sailed across the desert—
a gray battleship drawing a black wake,
halting at the foot of the orange mesa,
unwilling to go around.
Hopi men and women—brown, and small, and claylike
—peered down from their tabletops at yellow tractors, water trucks,
and white men blistered with sun—red as fire ants—towing
sunscreen-slathered wives in glinting Airstream trailers
in caravans behind them.
Elders knew these BIA roads were bad medicine—knew too
that young men listen less and less, and these young Hopi men
needed work, hence set aside their tools, blocks of cottonwood root
and half-finished Koshari the clown katsinas, then
signed on with the Department of Transportation,
were hired to stab drills deep into the earth’s thick red flesh
on First Mesa, drive giant sparking blades across the mesas’ faces,
run the drill bits so deep they smoked, bearding all the Hopi men
in white—Bad spirits, said the Elders—
The blades caught fire, burned out—Ma’saw is angry, the Elders said.
New blades were flown in by helicopter. While Elders dreamed
their arms and legs had been cleaved off and their torsos were flung
over the edge of a dinner table, the young Hopi men went
back to work cutting the land into large chunks of rust.
Nobody noticed at first—not the white workers,
not the Indian workers—but in the mounds of dismantled mesa,
among the clods and piles of sand,
lay the small gray bowls of babies’ skulls.
Not until they climbed to the bottom did they see
the silvered bones glinting from the freshly sliced dirt-and-rock wall—
a mausoleum mosaic, a sick tapestry: the tiny remains
roused from death’s dusty cradle, cut in half, cracked,
wrapped in time-tattered scraps of blankets.
Let’s call it a day, the white foreman said.
That night, all the Indian workers got sad-drunk—got sick
—while Elders sank to their kivas in prayer. Next morning,
as dawn festered on the horizon, state workers scaled the mesas,
knocked at the doors of pueblos that had them, hollered
into those without them,
demanding the Hopi men come back to work—then begging them—
then buying them whiskey—begging again—finally sending their white
wives up the dangerous trail etched into the steep sides
to buy baskets from Hopi wives and grandmothers
as a sign of treaty.
When that didn’t work, the state workers called the Indians lazy,
sent their sunhat-wearing wives back up to buy more baskets—
katsinas too—then called the Hopis good-for-nothings,
before begging them back once more.
We’ll try again in the morning, the foreman said.
But the Indian workers never returned—
The BIA’s and DOT’s calls to work went unanswered,
as the fevered Hopis stayed huddled inside.
The small bones half-buried in the crevices of mesa—
in the once-holy darkness of silent earth and always-night—
smiled or sighed beneath the moonlight, while white women
in Airstream trailers wrote letters home
praising their husbands’ patience, describing the lazy savages:
such squalor in their stone and plaster homes—cobs of corn stacked
floor to ceiling against crumbling walls—their devilish ceremonies
and the barbaric way they buried their babies,
oh, and those beautiful, beautiful baskets.
Voices and Soulappears on Black Kos Tuesday's Chile; poetry chosen and critiqued by Black Kos Poetry Editor 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
(Can you help folks in need heat their homes and cook their food on the Rosebud and Pine Ridge Reservations. Navajo has an important diary posted with all the particulars. Even a small amount can work towards building the minimum.
Could you please help?)
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.
(Rail Road Crossing, Sonoma 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
Rest in Peace Aaron Schwartz
(Morning Fog And Surf, Muir Beach, California / copyright Justice Putnam)