If you love this planet
Starring Dr. Helen Caldicott, a vehement critic of nuclear armament
Directed by Terre Nash

~
1983: The U.S. Department of Justice declares If You Love This Planet a propaganda film. The same year, it won the Oscar for best documentary short and was screened worldwide.

~
Video information and link courtesy of the National Film Board of Canada. More information available here.

To my godson André
by Rhoderiezl, now a godmother of two

My godson André,

When you read this, you should be old enough to understand my message through your own experiences, while your mum and I should be young enough to still be able to relate with the trends of young adulthood. I myself was, am, and will be young no matter what. My youth transcends time and space. Haha.

This is about you, though, and how wonderful your life has been so far. I am happy for you and your accomplishments. Cherish your childhood and the simple things in life, such as walking barefoot on the sand, eating ice cream, and singing in the shower. Look forward to the future, for ‘the future holds the most to those who have faith in it.*’

I am writing to the man that you have become, even before I have met the child that you are to be, very soon. Your mother and I can only hope that we provided wisdom and guidance enough for you to get out of the nest on your own. Each teaching is like a feather carefully placed on both your wings. We have allowed you to make mistakes so that you can fly higher. Remember that you are unlimited.

When I first heard of your existence, I was genuinely happily surprised. Your mum and I were supposed to visit China together, but then you showed up, which means all three of us will have to go someday, if we haven’t already. Your other IV-5 aunts were supportive and excited, too–imagine the hype! Every pregnancy has a story, and your mother’s was difficult, especially emotionally. We are, however, thankful for the hardships because they build strength. I always meditated for your wellbeing, and you made my coming back home to the Philippines after a long two and a half years extra special.

You are now in search of your essence, and this search is scary, exciting, bewildering–the path is is not easy, and it shouldn’t be! Travel, learn, love, relentlessly search for the truth. Whatever you decide to do, I am always with you, mistakes and all. Especially the mistakes. I love you very much.

Love yor mother and treat her well. Tell the truth. ‘Let your light shine and be a blessing.**’ Live in peace. Love your country, and always give more than you take.

Whatever we had in our past lives, I am glad to have you again in this one.

With much love,
Ninang (Godmother) Rhoderiezl

~
*From Sensei W. Platt, my sensei’s sensei. Other similar quotations exist.
**From Mother Marie Louise de Meester, founder of ICM in the Philippines.
I shall give a handwritten version of this letter to André when he comes of age.

the great advantage of being alive
by e. e. cummings

the great advantage of being alive
(instead of undying) is not so much
that mind no more can disprove than prove
what heart may feel and soul may touch
–the great(my darling)happens to be
that love are in we,that love are in we

and here is a secret they never will share
for whom create is less than have
or one times one than when times where–
that we are in love,that we are in love:
with us they’ve nothing times nothing to do
(for love are in we am in i are in you)

this world(as timorous itsters all
to call their cowardice quite agree)
shall never discover our touch and feel
–for love are in we are in love are in we;
for you are and i am and we are(above
and under all possible worlds)in love

a billion brains may coax undeath
from fancied fact and spaceful time–
no heart can leap,no soul can breathe
but by the sizeless truth of a dream
whose sleep is the sky and the earth and the sea.
For love are in you am in i are in we

Lolocopter
By Rhoderiezl, when she was fourteen years old
Written as an article for the school magazine she was part of

When my cousin’s grandfather died, she told me how lucky I was to have both sets of grandparents alive. I thought, “Yeah, lucky me.” I have a grandmother who refuses to be called Lola (She wants to be called Mimi) and still lives in the 20th century, and a futile grandfather (Lolo Aga) whom I haven’t seen for six years.

My Lolo Aga used to be very handsome, as seen in his black and white photos and according to Mimi. He was a successful dentist, having his own clinic in Manila and Cabanatuan, Nueva Ecija, his hometown. Life was going great for him until he started smoking and drinking, vices that damaged the family.

When he started smoking and drinking, the first thing I noticed was that he and Mimi did not sleep beside each other anymore. He moved his stuff to the downstairs guestroom, where he would smoke for hours on end. I didn’t like going there because I would have coughing fits. Lolo Aga would also come home late, and then he and Mimi would have a fight. The house would be filled with shouting and screaming and smashing.

Because of his bad habits, he was operated on the lungs and liver. My aunts were amazed on how he survived. He had these huge stitches on the back and abdomen. One of my aunts even joked that he just refused to die.

I remember waking up one morning to yelling and breaking. My mother ushered me to Mimi’s room where everybody was gathered. Their eyes were scared and so was I. What was going on? Then Mama said that Lolo Aga was sick, and that it was dangerous to go out of the room. After a while the shattering stopped. I peeked below the terrace and saw batteries and figurines on the garage. I was terrified. “What if Lolo Aga would harm us?”, I thought.

When I was eight years old, the family moved to Canada except for us**. I thought Lolo Aga would be cured, but I was wrong. He asked us to send him his favourite brand of cigarettes and his beloved beer. Of course my mother didn’t send any, and slowly but surely, he became a hopeless case that everybody gave up on him. Nobody took care of him, and it was even considered that he be put in an institution, sort of like Golden Acres***. He wouldn’t take a bath, drink his medicine, or sleep early. He would justy sit like a dead fish washed up on the shore.

So he had cancer of the lungs. Right now he’s in Canada, fighting for dear life. I can imagine his snow-white hair, wrinkled face, and tall, lanky frame. There is only one good memory imprinted on my memory about my Lolo Aga. He used to hold me up until my fingertips could brush the ceiling. Then he would turn me several times and I would shriek with delight. He would say, “Helicopter!” When he put me down, I would raise my arms and scream “Helicopter!” I would go for this adventure ride over and over and over again.

I want my grandfather to reach Christmas, his favorite time of the year. It would be sad if he died this Yuletide season. Then again, he was considered spiritually dead already, this is more like his physical death. It would be good for him to reflect upon his tragic life. This Christmas season is the birth of a new hope for my family, a lesson learned, and a time that can never be brought back.

By the time you read this, my Lolo Aga would probably be dead. But every time I see a helicopter, I remember my helicopter ride with my Lolo Aga and promise myself that I would never allow vices and bad habits to conquer my being. I will be just like my helicopter ride, soaring and free.

~
My grandfather did reach Christmas and died the following month in January 2001. His body now lies beside one Michael Jackson–no kidding, that’s his grave-neighbour’s name.

*Lolo means grandfather; Lola, grandmother.
**Us - my mother, brother, and me.
***Golden Acres - a home for the aged. In the Philippines, allowing senior family members to live in such an institution is considered abandonment, lack of respect and duty, and taboo.

A Modern Version of the Way the Rosary Was Once Said Throughout Western Europe in the Late Middle Ages
by Dara Wier

I’m not sewing velvet patches on a woolen blanket,
not putting silver buttons back where they belong,
not sweeping or folding, not in my right mind,
not knowing what I owe or to whom I should
bow down or thank or praise, no neither am
I putting aside, not storing up good deeds
I’ll need when I need bailing out, not putting
my house in order, no, not preparing
to meet my maker, no, nor do I wish to settle
old scores, no not keeping wolves at bay,
and I’m not disturbing antbeds, not in touch
with fine madness, no, I’m not skipping rocks,
not counting how long it takes a ship’s wake
to subside, nor waiting for the big one
to wash ashore and overwhelm its itty bitty
ancestors, no, I’m not trying to fathom a stew
of rotten flowers and rainwater I’m not pouring
from a vase at the left-hand backcorner of a
freshly white-washed tomb, no, I’m not getting
ready for company, not biting my tongue, though
a little bit of chafing can feel good, not baring
my soul, I’m not hiding under the kitchen table
not wanting to listen anymore, not lost in a
camphor-reeking satchel inside a chiffarobe,
not stretching under a bed on a cool linoleum
floor, no, I’m not sitting on top of a mule
surveying the sun and the moon, nor am I watching
strands of hot sugar fall into cool water, no
I’m not climbing into a fig tree to be close
to mockingbirds and out of the way of hoopsnakes,
and I’m not falling asleep next to a crate of melons,
nor am I staying awake in case I might miss something,
no, I’m not staring forever into a fire,
nor walking through a rainstorm into a cypress
grove, no, and I’m not waiting for lightning
to strike, no, and I’m not pulling aside a
curtain so I can’t see a man with a raccoon
looking over his shoulder or a woman holding
a cup of steaming coffee or hear what’s passing
between them, or see a man at the end of a day
taking off his shoes, or a boy dressed in clerical
clothes dispensing frankincense, or a hand
shifting into reverse, or a hand turning numbers
to get into a safe, no I’m not sitting on top
of a mule surveying the sun and the moon.

Link from The American Poetry Review: http://tinyurl.com/25sgyx

Taken from the Foolish People blog:

I. Written on Feb 14^th, Valentine’s Day, posted by Frater Kaotec

What is life?

A brief moment with its pleasures and pains,

mostly its tedium.

Its surprises and dissappointments.

Its memories, that stretch back making it seem long.

Old friends forgotten, new friends unknown.

Aspirations, dreams of long standing

broken on the shores of time?

Fears suppressed and erupting,

often prophecy.

Past times are they meaningful?

Once perhaps.

Death? A waste?

An ultimate proof of meaninglessness?

The ultimate certainty and truth!

We will meet it soon,

should we wait?

II. Continued on 18^th Feb, my birthday, still from Foolish People’s post

Four days on.

Two days of free fall into the pit,

not denying, accepting and experiencing.

At the bottom lies a still place.

The darkness so great, a light emerges.

Above us a dark tunnel,

Beyond us an open plain.

What was once a narrow dark vision,

now an open plain of possibility.

Meaning is not found, it is made.

By our own efforts alone can we be reborn,

alone and in great company,

The solidarity of the fallen.

III. Finished on March 6, my best friend’s birthday, by me

If chance causes great opportunites

begotten, created, sought, seized

Then each challenge is a chance.

How do I move forward into the light?

Weapons in my hand

A battlecry from my throat

A goal in my mind

The spirits around me forge my courage.

I feel the earth shaking, vibrating

with the energy of the force.

One thing I have forgotten:

To lift my chin up, for above me lies hope.

~ Happy birthday my Miel, my best friend, my life partner, mahal kong Miel ng buhay ko. Mahal na mahal kita.

The fox tames the snake
A tale as hidden as the elephant inside the boa constrictor,
from the Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.

written by R. Tigris

Yellow, as the desert where he came from, was the snake, slithering through the grass, green as the first spring day.

‘It is done,’ he hissed. ‘Everything went according to plan.’

‘He did not suspect at all?’ A voice answered from within a hill.

‘The Prince?’ The snake answered, ‘he does not suspect anyone, not the humans, nor his beloved rose.’

‘All is well, then.’ The fox emerged from his hiding-place, yawning and stretching. He was white, blinding white, and his eyes were a cold green-grey. Those eyes greeted the deep purple slits that were the snake’s own, and the fox thanked the snake.

‘My Master would thank you a hundredfold. He can give you all the rats that you wish.’ The fox declared proudly.

‘I do not desire to feed on rats.’ The snake silently replied.

‘Well, we have to finish the job. Where is the body?’

‘Beside the well. I hid it from the human. I wanted to bite him, but he knew I did not have enough poison for a second victim. All I did was scare him.’

‘He is not part of the plan. Humans have never held much interest for the Master.’ The fox paced back and forth, then stopped.

‘Is the human gone?’ The snake nodded in answer.

‘You will lead me to the Prince.’

The snake and the fox slithered and walked their way through the meadow, the garden, and on to the well in the desert where the Prince’s body lay. Acting as a rope, the snake tied himself around the Prince, while the fox dragged the burden all the way to the temple where the Master lay.

‘Master?’ called the fox, tired and panting.

‘Is that you,’ a voice cried weakly, ‘my most loyal servant?’

‘Master, I have found you a worthy shell. It is young, fresh, and pure; I am sure you will like it.’

‘Is it innocent? Will it last? I am so tired of this body, my child, I grow weak everyday.’

‘I understand, Master. What you do, your task, requires strength beyond immortality.’

The snake listened quitely by the door, curled in a swirled cone, resting.

‘Who is your friend?’ The Master asked his servant.

‘He is not my friend. He is merely an instrument necessary for the fulfilment of our goal. He did very well and deserves our gratitude, my Master, but he is not my friend.’

The snake remained silent.

‘I see. Thank you for helping my servant. What do you wish for in return?’ The Master asked the snake kindly. ‘I can grant you anything, as long as it is within my power to give.’

‘What can you give, my lord?’ The snake asked timidly.

‘I do not usually give, but I take. I am the poison in your venom. I am the wedge of the blade, the spirit of thirst and hunger, the vacuum of breathlessness.’ The Master explained. ‘However, if you wish, I could refuse to take your soul, and you could go on forever.’

‘I am grateful, my lord, but you are cursing me.’ The snake said. ‘To be immortal is to be cursed, and that is not what I wish. I wish–’

‘I know what you wish, and I cannot give that to you. You must seek it yourself.’

‘But if you tell him, ask him, he will obey you!’

‘I cannot ask that of him. He is free to tame whomever he wishes.’

With that, the Master retired to his chamber and addressed the fox. ‘Thank you. I am fine now, you may leave. You shall lead the snake back to the desert, and when he desires it, I shall give him his gift.’ He picked up the Prince’s body delicately, carried it in his arms, and shut the door.

The fox was left behind with the snake. ‘Thank you. My Master now can go on happily with his job.’

‘Happily? Is there happiness in death?’

‘Why, you give it to beings freely, do you not?’

‘I have no choice. It is what I was made to be. To survive, I must kill another. I wish I were like you, a blessed creature.’

‘Chasing chickens is not blessed. I also kill to live. Don’t we all?’

‘Yes. The cacti kill the ground by robbing its water. The weeds kill the roses. The night kills the day…’

‘Wouldn’t you agree, that the funniest of all are the humans? They kill themselves to live.’

‘The problem with humans is that they never tamed themselves.’

The snake and the fox reached the desert. A violent sandstorm was gathering, the strong winds hurtling rocks and sand all over the place.

The fox shouted, ‘Come, you must not stay here.’

‘I have nowhere to go; this is my home. Sandstorms are as common to me as blizzards must have been to you.’ With that, the snake slipped away and disappeared into the dunes.

‘Wait–’

‘Watch out!’

A heavy, massive boulder was right behind the fox, and it shook with the wind, threatening to collapse at any moment.

In a flash, the snake whipped the fox out of the way, and the boulder crumbled into a pile of rocks, burying the snake underneath.

The fox tried to free the snake, but the storm was too wild. So he waited, a white dot in swirling yellow, a stranger, a creature loyal to the end.

At last, there was silence. The snake’s head found its way through the rocks, and he called the fox. ‘Please, tell your Master, I got my wish. I never knew what it meant–to be tamed–but now, he can give me death in peace.’

The fox, no longer white, but a smatter of yellow, brown, and grey, walked away. A hen was laying an egg; he chased it, killed it, and had it for dinner. And so the cycle of dying for living goes on.