It’s not that time again.  Or is it?

A call to action.  Darfur Now, a film written and directed by Ted Braun.  In theaters now!  For more info, check out myspace.com/darfurnow

Two strangers from different parts of town exchanged commentaries about who’s hot in the used rock section.  At least six new ones were released this week.  One pointed out the genius and production details in some while the other listened and vice versa.  At the end of browsing various nameheaders, however, they found each other on opposite aisles emptyhanded.  Perhaps next week, they thought.  Each ventured over to electronica, wondering.

Toddlers swarmed the playpen area. Their daddies sat on the red velvet benches in watchful mode. Not far from the Scandinavian tables, their mommies pointed at the freshly-wiped glasscase for plain and bluebbery bagels to go along with two large nonfat lattes. Friends and neighbors joined in the morning pleasantries. Some opened up the daily news; others preferred the weekly for the latest haps around tinseltown. A few dared to raise conversations about “riots” and the changing of guards half a world away – to live out of the ordinary, to disrupt routine, and to demand the unexpected. The rest walked in and out without much to spare, not even the change they placed back in their pocket.

Supposedly after war comes peace. But what of carnage and life after exile? There is fighting. Everywhere. There is danger. Lurking. There is democracy. On the rise. There is hope. Within. There is freedom. For all.  But first the work.

The clock was set to go off at 5:48 am. But all night lime green neons kept breaking up dream-like strolls into footsteps into standstills into shadows evaporating like clouds. Dawn finally arrived and it became unnecessary to wish for anything more than mute voices to start the day. Repeated snoozing too.

The aisles had met traffic from early bird specialists interested in red tags and price cuts. The bins had been ransacked like the abyss of undergarments was somehow finite. The fitting rooms had accommodated all shapes and sizes. The numbers one to a hundred had been called. The cashiers’ smile and upbeat greeting had faded. And there was not much left to do except anticipate multiple returns and lost receipts. Damn blowout!

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DISTANT LANDS | December 25, 2007

It used to be face-to-face.  From house to house.  On the block.  Down to and around the corner.  Elders summoned youngsters to offer new visions.  Youngsters partook and sought advice from them.  Local worlds (r)evolved through the exchange of words.  They still do – except today we text from distant lands.  Hours of conversation captured on a telephony screen.

Rolling Stones Magazine lists it as the number one album of the year. KALA.  By M.I.A. of UK!

How about it?  Another opportunity to go green.  For the measly cost of under two bucks.  With partial donation to the growers.  “So, how about it,” he insisted.

“No, thanks!”

Bags just don’t feed mouths.  They never have and they never will.  That chump change could very well mean a meal or two or three for some persons around the globe.  Besides, a pair of healthy hands could handle the burden.  (starting with this one)

He too sensed them calling all the way from the north coast of Alaska.  But he didn’t have to make the trek.  Their cousins have ridden the currents and now co-inhabit the shores of an alcove in the point for kings.  A protected reserve.  Visitors flock to its magnificence and watch the sun give birth to pink stars.  Sometimes enthusiasts cast wishes for oysters with more than blackened pearls.  Today, we just devour.