25 years old and just as important as ever, if not more so. A friend found it and gave it to me. Now that is a good friend.
Thursday, April 2, 2015
Dharma Gaia
I just finished reading a book that was published in 1990, Parallax Press, called "Dharma Gaia" by Allan Hunt Badiner.
Monday, March 30, 2015
Flying Virginia Opossum
Ice and snow all gone
Cars go faster
sleepy opossum meets disaster
tending wandering hens
a moment of silence
flattened fury friends
Black feathers shine
rustling in the leaves
Vultures dine
opossum yesterday
meat today
Soaring Turkey vulture tomorrow
Winter hibernation
Spring migration
Summer's feathered elation
Thursday, March 5, 2015
Friday, February 27, 2015
Two kinds of Science
There seem to be two kinds of science, that which reveals truth, and that which exploits it.
I am all for the first and have limited use for and suspicion of the second.
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
Reasonable actions and individual responsibility
Excerpt from the Roger Barnes book "The Dinghy Cruising Companion"
On land we inhabit an increasingly artificial environment. Although we enjoy the comforts of modern civilisation, perhaps we feel that something has been lost. Or why is it that so many of us take long aeroplane flights to distant lands, where life seems simpler and less artificial? It is as if we want to chase down the last remaining scraps of primitive authenticity before they too are lost, and in doing so we contribute to their inevitable destruction.
On land we inhabit an increasingly artificial environment. Although we enjoy the comforts of modern civilisation, perhaps we feel that something has been lost. Or why is it that so many of us take long aeroplane flights to distant lands, where life seems simpler and less artificial? It is as if we want to chase down the last remaining scraps of primitive authenticity before they too are lost, and in doing so we contribute to their inevitable destruction.
Sunday, January 4, 2015
a River, the Sea, the Rain
If I reach down and scoop up a handful of water
is that the River?
If I climb up on a nearby mountain and look down upon just a mile of shimmering water that flows from north to south,
am I seeing the River?
When the rains come and the banks are topped
is that the River?
In August, the dry season when sand and stone are exposed and the water is shallow
is that the River?
If an oil tanker goes up and runs aground spilling that thick black toxic sludge and trapping and killing all life
is that the River?
At what point does a rain drop cease to be a rain drop and become a particular river?
At what point does the river become the sea?
At what point does the sea become the cloud?
At what point does the cloud become the rain drop?
If I am a river, then how can I be separate from every other river, separate from the sea, from the rain?
How do I exist here and not also there, and then?
Can a part of me be scooped up and taken away and still be called "me"?
"I" am a river, a name given to an idea. A way of identifying a process and a connection to so much more. I am always moving, changing, forming, blending, mixing, being born and dying.
A raindrop that lands on the top of the mountain and drips from the rock to become a part of the brook, that leads to the river to then join the sea only to be drawn up into the cloud to then once again fall as a raindrop onto a different rock to then join another brook. Which part of this never ending cycle is me? Which raindrop is me and which is some other?
is that the River?
If I climb up on a nearby mountain and look down upon just a mile of shimmering water that flows from north to south,
am I seeing the River?
When the rains come and the banks are topped
is that the River?
In August, the dry season when sand and stone are exposed and the water is shallow
is that the River?
If an oil tanker goes up and runs aground spilling that thick black toxic sludge and trapping and killing all life
is that the River?
At what point does a rain drop cease to be a rain drop and become a particular river?
At what point does the river become the sea?
At what point does the sea become the cloud?
At what point does the cloud become the rain drop?
If I am a river, then how can I be separate from every other river, separate from the sea, from the rain?
How do I exist here and not also there, and then?
Can a part of me be scooped up and taken away and still be called "me"?
"I" am a river, a name given to an idea. A way of identifying a process and a connection to so much more. I am always moving, changing, forming, blending, mixing, being born and dying.
A raindrop that lands on the top of the mountain and drips from the rock to become a part of the brook, that leads to the river to then join the sea only to be drawn up into the cloud to then once again fall as a raindrop onto a different rock to then join another brook. Which part of this never ending cycle is me? Which raindrop is me and which is some other?
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