Karinaland River

  Loving to Death     Blue Heart Stone by Marya     When Emma – who is in her early thirties – tells me  she noticed how most American police TV series have the same formula of the cop being the hero and good guy, I am relieved and thrilled to hear her actively inquiring where the obsession with guns, violence, and mass shootings might partially originate from. How it is secretly embedded everywhere in our culture. The entertainment most of us are happily and innocently digesting. How we are unknowingly brainwashed. Thrilling violence titillates our senses and wakes us up from numbness. Perhaps this kind of entertainment is teaching us all along violent behavior as a normal way to be alive, she wonders.    To solve our problems with guns. For me, cop shows are a continuation of the old “Western” mentality.  Every Man for Himself with a Gun . (Notice the always gendered association.) Of course, the whiter the hero the better, the villains are always dark. This is the daily food for many

  light rain    tea leaves    smiles   flowering    irrepressible    the laughter from yesterday   listening    bending low    intoxicating fragrances The other day, pruning in the drizzle. With its green wetness, the garden is inviting deep breaths, and sighs. On hands and knees, I crawl into undergrowth. Musky scents, all around a subtle hum. When I emerge, the sun comes out for a brief moment, and the world alights into a sparkling magic realm. Everywhere raindrops, glittering, glistening on leaves, blossoms, branches, buds. Raindrops – hanging still – suspended in time. Waiting…  But really all is falling.    After the brief rising, flowering, lingering, comes the dripping, falling, crumbling, composting, evaporating, and then “it” is gone. Raindrops, cities, walls, life, mountains, earthly existence….     Later I go for a walk, light rain blessing all, including me…  

  A New Year – what needs to be learned? What wants to be heard and be known?   Juxtapositions     Finally, fog and clouds have lifted.    The last light of the day reveals the bay. The grey tones of clouds, ocean, island, hills, bridge, trees, and houses – a stillness, exquisitely equanimous ­– blending seamlessly the elements of water, air, earth, and wood into a muted world. A mirage.      Removed from the killing fields not far away.   They too must be known in order for new vision and paths to flourish.     A numbness grips us by the throat, we cannot speak about this much daily violence. So close by. We pretend it did not happen. What else is there to do? Our mouths and hearts are shut. Only the radio and media keep repeating endlessly the same sound bites, like an old record stuck in utter disturbance. Helpless. Numb. What have we dreamed of last night? The old bricks collected, to be used again some time. Or the spindly music stand, to be folded up for travel. The borders to be