Where Are You?

“The plain fact is that the planet does not need more successful people. But it does desperately need more peacemakers, healers, restorers, storytellers, and lovers of every kind. It needs people who live well in their places. It needs people of moral courage willing to join the fight to make the world habitable and humane. And these qualities have little to do with success as we have defined it." ~ His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama

~

“For, so inconsistent is human nature, especially in the ideal, that not to undertake a thing at all seems better than to undertake and come short.” ~ Harriet Beecher Stowe, Uncle Tom's Cabin

*

Whatever you bring forth it's all about nativity at last. That's in our blood. One who can wear a thicker membrane of imposture mouthing the slipping away ideals, usually business-self-interest-oriented, has just created a ghostly vacuum now simmering with gnawing mayhem, thanks for that dream for uniformity, the uniformity of such uniformly saluting, 'Viva Big Brother! You are our role model. You are the most impeccable progenitor.' Now that sensitivity, the ugliest weakness of humanity (how 'happy' are animals), has been heightened; now even a modest disposition like of a nomad has been alerted into floundering and bluffing out what? To say he has his uniqueness, 'individualism-mania'. Now even he can wear that protective mien marked by muteness and insulation but so busy with toying his dear gizmos. Now, on the human being at large level, every wise-sounding head and brain has found their nativity leaving the scatter-brained mass in desperate burlesque of wringing something out of himself or herself. Now it's all about what you have up your sleeve to shine forth, to disport as worth-heeding. And the simple fact is that when one is made to wring out so he can only lean on his nativity (creed, dogma, animism, etc.) Then face it!

The Halo-Bearer

For your holiness, the 14^th Dalai Lama, my Guru

As I build on,

As I get more equipped,

The will quails,

The spark dies—

The necropolis of words,

Unapplied and lacquered,

Remains staring back at me.

As I see more and take in more,

It looms like a smirking aura.

Could it be of the time, now—

Not so much about the essence

As it is for the minutely glossed over images?

Or have I gone deaf and blind,

The play of fuss for image, identity and solipsism?

She says, “Just begin it.”

He says, “Just leave the trash.”

But, while chuckling, I wonder what they think of me,

This just cranky muser, the best word.

The serious one comes around and whispers,

“As media even online is erratic.”

Then what happened to one great pillar of the Enlightenment?

Yes, stampede of footsteps,

As I couldn’t look and size up and accost at—

The gall or gallantry only at the command of self-interest—,

Could be noted;

It reminds me where I stand—

Like an odd plastic scrap amid glossy sugar maple leaves

I have set myself adrift.

Then the time for small recognition,

(The suffrage in five years,

Said as the needy chaos,

To fish out our head and voices),

Sadly reminds me I have a makeshift home there,

The abode of the halo-bearer, my source of refuge.

It’s thou, your holiness, the Dalai Lama!

I am momentarily brand new one,

Reinvigorated with a vision,

Not just shallow ideals of modernity and secularism—

The forerunners' aphorisms have long tarnished.

It is just as simple as letting go of,

To break free from the rooster coop of individualism-madness.

Yes, it is simply about being like a beggar, a sniffer.

A spark glistens,

A will nudges,

I have to wake up myself not to be that intransigent.

It is as much about letting go of…

As it is about learning to give ears to,

Not only to the awaited clink.

The mental image of your broad smile gives birth to them here,

Where only azure void and solid ground can be counted on.

IRON WALL OR RABBIT WARREN: Paranoia/Hypochondria

* CPPCC: It is said its members can raise hands in NPC but don't have right to take part in decision-making.

* I tried to draw it by relying on the source: http://www.china.org.cn/english/features/state_structure/64401.htm

* I added and tweaked further as to have the basic idea of their mode of running with no mention about Finance, Health, Election, Education, etc.

* I am not sure if my translation is right for CPS (Central Party School): Teaching nationalism, namely allegiance towards the Party, instead of Education.

* At last, wish it can be of some help for any interested ones. 

And I Shed

6 months and 17 days passed; 5 months and 14 days left--His 80th Birthday. The recitation, 3 times a day, of the poetic prayer-work, Ode to Arya Lokeshvara by His Holiness the 7th Dalai Lama Lobsang Kelsang Gyatso, has taken me off to a yonder land, off the brawl and ruckus of Sikyong-Chithue Elections plus Uma-Rangzen, the wafting of the same fermented smell despite the reality of ground slipping away below our feet. I wonder, if not now at such tragic time, when the rhetoric like Chigdril, Gyalshen, Miriklagya could be put into action marked by giving closer ears and eyes and hands while saying, "We are the fated ones."

*
It's only up to the shadow of narcissism looms, casts a form usually after petty romantic daydreaming of all tenderness or need. When the thread snaps, the melodrama takes such form of tragedy without the beauty of telepathic monologue condoning or creating up. To put it frankly, I take it as its, the overused sentiment, dystopian version or what it's now. Many, many lonely souls without the means of being so and getting what real freedom is like. Busyness is said as happiness. That makes me retch, that makes me distance myself and observe fussy movements like laying the ground for eternity. Can such soul have time for wondering how this life-supporting formation (78%+22%) keeps suspending in the infinite void that is what it is, not just up to our perception of Solar System and petty ventures?

འུ་ཐུག་གམ་སེམས་དཔའ་ཆེ།

སྐུ་ལུས་མེ་མཆོད་ལ་འབུལ་མཁན་རྒྱལ་གཅེས་དཔའ་བོ་དཔའ་མོ་རྣམས་༼འུ་ཐུག་༽ ནས་འདི་ལྟར་གནང་པ་རེད་ཅེས་པའི་གསུང་འགྲོས་འདིར་གཏན་གཏན་གཟབ་དགོས་པ་མིན་ནམ། ཡང་ན་ཇི་ལྟར་འུ་ཐུག་ག་ཆད་ཚུལ་གསལ་པོ་གསུང་དགོས་རེད་སྙམ། མི་སྒེར་ཞིག་འུ་ཐུག་ཐབས་ཟད་པ་ནི་གཙོ་བོ་སྒེར་དོན་དང་འབྲེལ་བར་གོ་ཆེ་ཞིང་དེ་ཡང་གནས་སྟངས་སྐྱོ་པོ་ཞིག་འདྲེན་ཡོང་། བོད་བསྟན་སྲིད་མི་རིག་གི་དོན་དུ་རང་གི་ཆེས་གཅེས་པའི་ལུས་སྲོག་ལོངས་སྤྱོད་དང་བཅས་པ་འདོར་བའི་ཞི་རྒོལ་ནི་ཚད་མཐོན་པོ་ཞིག་ཡིན་པ་ལས་ག་ཆད་འུ་ཐུག་པ་ཨ་ཡིན་ནམ། བོད་བསྟན་སྲིད་མི་རིག་ཆག་འཇིག་གི་གནས་སྟངས་གཉན་འཕྲང་དེ་ལས་སྐྱོབ་པའི་དོན་སྨིན་ལྡན་པའི་ཐབས་གཞན་བྲལ་ནས་ཡིན་པར་ཟེར་ན། འགྲེལ་བརྗོད་གསལ་པོ་གནང་དགོས་རེད་སྙམ། གཟུ་ལུམ་དུ་འུ་ཐུག་ནས་རེད་ཅེས་བརྗོད་ན་འོས་འཚམ་ཕར་ཞོག་སྣང་མེད་ཚོར་མེད་དུ་མི་སྣང་ངམ། སྤྱིར་མིང་ཚིག་འདིས་གོ་དོན་གང་འདྲེན་དང་། བདག་པས་གཞན་གཅེས་པའི་གནང་ཚུལ་ཞིག་འུ་ཐུག་ནས་གནང་སྲིད་དམ། ངས་འུ་ཐུག་ནས་ཁོའི་ཁར་ཉན་པ་ཡིན་ཞེས་ལབ་ན་གང་འདྲེན་ནམ། འདི་གཞན་གཅེས་པའི་བྱ་སྤྱོད་ཅིག་ཡིན་ནམ། ངས་མིན་པར་གོ  ཡང་༸རྒྱལ་བའི་ནང་ཆོས་ལྟར་ན། རྒྱལ་སྲས་བྱང་ཆུབ་སེམས་དཔས་མི་འཇིགས་པའི་སྦྱིན་པར་འཇུག་སྐབས་འུ་ཐུག་པའི་གནས་སྟངས་ཤིག་ཨ་ཡོད། རེད། སོ་སྐྱེ་ཕལ་བ་ཞིག་གིས་ཀྱང་རང་གི་ཡོད་ཚད་སྤྱི་དོན་དུ་བཏང་ན་འདི་འུ་ཐུག་ནས་ཡིན་ནམ། དེ་སྔ་རྒོལ་ཚུལ་འདི་འཚེ་མེད་ཡིན་མིན་དང་ད་ལྟ་འུ་ཐུག་པ་རེད་ཅེས་བརྗོད་ན། གཏན་གཏན་རྗོད་བྱེད་དམ་རྗོད་ཚུལ་གྱིས་ཕོངས་པ་ལྟ་བུ་ཞིག་མཐོང་གི་འདུག མདོར་ན། གཞན་གཅེས་དང་འབྲེལ་ན་འུ་ཐུག་དང་བྲལ་དགོས་སྙམ་མོ།། 

Pallor: Three Parts

Our Democracy

The theme of question is to outwit,

While the tail of position curling behind,

“What is your plan?” Misty eyes grind—

Indolence self-vindicating—guffawing fit.

The mildewed old sensitivity still reigns

Despite litany of self-praises, our goodness—

The bestowed people’s rights to meekness.

Criticism-Resistance-phobia in form benign.

Our Common Enemy

“How much you could say against yonder?”

The said ambiguous enemy, the tool of time

When just to silence off a voice on a dime—

One aimed inwards or against one’s dearer.

Yes, oh, shouldn’t I ask myself,

“How much it’s intended to hurl there

Rather than mouthing grandiloquence

And, so disgustingly, siding aloof?”

My Fate

Squishy golden autumn leaves matted out before me—

The fallen gold and the hanging gold illumine a sepia splendor,

In which I deceive myself the time is healing, always lovely;

The effect is of the overcast sky and shaded vibes. They glisten.

As so saddening a close friend estranging away

As my own fellow fall narrower; as odd conceit

Keeps us apart as my own odyssey, the one I need,

Numbs me from being able to figure out myself—the oddity, my fate.

Now my own side pops up,

A voice carrying such tender venom,

And wants me to galvanize into gyrating so—

“Learn farming by looking at your neighbor!”

If I do so,

Then how we will look and fall?

Should I do so?

Little Angels

'ལུང་པ་རང་ལ་མེད་ན། གཞན་གྱི་བྲན་གཡོག་ཡིན་ནོ།།' Ringing the lines from the lyric in my ears, I want to say:

Tibetans are enslaved in Tibet. Then why not outside. We should know what we are. The process of great mixture of people through globalization has tarnished its shine. Now as we can see in the West, people are connected more by virtual world than personal interaction through basic understanding of human senses, will and envie. Seen are those sour expressions, now insecurity expressed by taut faces too ready to flip into another twisted form like swerving one's steps on a path dotted with potholes filled with water. Despite being so infectious it is learning after all, but only through self-mirroring. Yes, as a few of so rare experiences, I have come across so lovely smiles emanated from lovely cosmopolitan faces younger than 10. I should say they have healed me so far.

*

One of my fellow compatriots here in France, who I met a few days ago after almost a couple of years, has left me sort of trying to figure out how to see through his eyes. He has changed a lot. Now equipped with a smart phone, an iphone, with constant beeps indicating influx of incoming messages on Wechat, he switched between personal interaction with me and dealing with his phone like he was rather semi-consciously hovering betwixt the two. Once poked at his fuss, he nervously behaved like he wasn't paying attention to the other. Knowing him so far, even back in India where he used to be a loner, I had the impression that he might be seeing me as just there, a company who breathed and talked. Once spotted something of his interest on me, he sneered and seemed to be seeing me as a comic figure trying to compose myself in letting appear less lagged behind. Or, as per his own fuss or semi-consciousness, as a drifter, a lost one. It was like our insecurities communicating themselves without our conscious knowledge. That is what we have become aside from the more fussy businesses of searching for, having yet not satisfied with a drudge. Not seeded with a viable learning root, we just let ourselves become alienated from us. But we pose to be interested in our cause as ambiguous as relying on, mouthing in quandary like a child learning to speak for the first time.