Saturday, September 15, 2018
All that we seek guidance from is colonial, those we believe have the answer correct that often gets us into trouble because their truths are assumptions of guidance all developed from fear that we believe is correct and believe is correct because there is the misunderstanding that belief is truth... belief is trust of another, truth requires evidentary reliance. Can prove it? Yes and show it as well. Proof and evidence are, truth is, no person required... its like stating the sun is in the sky, doesn't matter, it is, believe it or not...
Friday, September 14, 2018
Canimao climbed out of the boat and let the cold of the great water wash over his legs. Looking back across the sea where so much of their lives had been spent in the recent months of their voyage. Here they arrived to find and explore the land of men with no color that would bring them to the land of the men they sought, the men who died in a terrible storm that lashed the shores of Canimao's home land. Saddened by the lost men and their failed quest...Cinimao's quest succeeded with his warriors quest to bring them home.
Canimao gathered his warrior's and searched for the items of the lost men. They were pale men challenging what is known by the people's bohiques, surmising the dead man's origin and considered adding the found men to return them to their people and their land...
Canimao's spear, tethered to his waist, a shield held in his arm, six warrior's, all exhausted from there long trip, still healthy and fit but thinking of rest and hunger. They found a place to camp among in the tree, hidden from view of any natives. Finding their bodies laid about the beach, Canimao asked his people for volunteers, to help gather their bodies and things then try and transport them all back to their homes, a dangerous and great distance away...The dead men were sailors from a land over the horizon. A consult with the chiefs and bohiques led them to understand where the pale men were from.
Canimao once heard of people like them who's color was pale compared to him and his people. Their home, a journey long and far away on the great water and much preparation would be involved.
Canimao, I have heard of these men but have never seen them, they are explorers of riches and only riches, the riches of others; they seek wealth from others to add to their already stolen wealth as their own. Your quest is your own but know that their lust stains them as blood. But know the consequences of your journey.
In the year 1491, inhabitants of a land far across the Atlantic, arrived on the shores of Portugal. Canimao and his crew arrived in a large seaworthy vessel with the personal belongings of the men they found after having succumbed to a terrible storm off the shore of Canimao's land. Each, equipped with survival pouches, and information describing the men whose lives they tried to save; men who arrived across the ocean in a land they believed was in Portugal.
"Canimao, how will we find those who knew those men?"
Shaking his head side to side, "I don't know yet, we don't know the language, who the men were, I don't know how but we shall try with their goods of trade."
Canimao and his crew disembark from their sailing ships and scan the forests perimeter, looking for signs of life while dragging their boats up from the waves onto the shore. They quickly unloaded the boats of their goods and packed the remains of the men of no color, the items that were theirs and lay them beside the their own and the lay down to relax and rest and ponder their journey. After some thought they walk along the edge of the forest without straying too far from shore to prowl along the forests in search of someone who might help them find the origins of the men they helped. Without calling attention to themselves. Skirting along the edge of villages they judge who they will try and communicate with... They watch the daily lives of the inhabitants of this new land and they wonder...
Wednesday, September 12, 2018
Papi used to tune the 6-cylinder to his Chrome blue Chevy Impala with a warm glass of rum.
On Saturday mornings, after spending the start of the weekend sleeping, Papi used to walk out to the car, which he kept parked in front of the red brick tenement we lived in, in Brooklyn. In the trunk he kept his tools and likewise in a greasy brown bag an old drinking glass stained with use and a bottle of dark Puerto Rican rum. He opened the bottle and poured a half glass of rum, warmed by the summer heat that turned the trunk into an oven and cooked whatever was inside. Then he walked around to the front of the car and leaned forward to unlatch the hood through the front grill, lift the hood, take a small sip of rum and then place the glass on the right front fender.
As he worked, Papi would take small sips from the glass for each part of the car he worked on; checking plugs, wires, air filter, belts. Then he would check the engines idle that would actually cause the car to shake more or less.
Taking a small screw driver, he would reach reach deep into the carburetor and turn the idle screw. He watched the glass of rum as he turned the screw and judged his work based on the ripples that formed in the rum. The ripples started at the center of the filled glass, then radiated out to the edge of the glass, then bounced back, creating a storm of waves that seemed to boil the rum. Often I stood beside the glass and watched the storm grow in the rum, until Papi tuned the car. He continued to turn the idle screw until the car settled, and the rum settled. Finally the car didn't visibly shake, but the rum rippled ever so gently; like the warm pools of water in the mountains of Puerto Rico. The ripples had become shallow, even and fast.
The car was tuned; and Papi was glad...
Papi would stand in front of the car and admire the engine. Then take the warm glass of rum and pour the rest down his throat.