No ha ha’s here, I’m afraid. Teacher Martha Rivera Alanis was teaching her class in Monterrrey, Mexico, when a shoot out broke out, outside. She makes the kids lay on the floor, and then she sings songs with them (as people outside are being killed) to keep them calm. Incredible courage, and compassion is shown in the video. You can read the whole story here.

I grow old… I grow old…

I shall wear the bottoms of my trouser rolled.

- T.S. Eliot

I am old. I finished growing old at least a decade ago; now I shrink into myself like a rotting peach. Days without pain and stiffness are far behind me. Where once I ran, I now hobble. Where once I danced and leapt, I now creak and sway like a ship trapped in ice… for what else is an elderly person, but a human being rent asunder by the relentless pressure (from all angles) of time and it’s bastard child entropy. If I had the saliva I would spit and curse them both, but I am old and robbed even of my ability to damn my enemies. All the juices sour and then dry up, leaving only the dust of memory, if you’re lucky. I’ve seen friends, family, and even enemies lose their memories, lives, and finally their humanity to senility.

The brain dessicates and blows out through the ears, bit by bit, like beach sand. That sand is then used by the Sandman to put children to sleep. Where do you think dreams come from? They are the scattered memories of the countless millions before you, reconstituted in the tears of the afflicted. Why do you think young children fight bedtime so passionately? The Sandman is a demon. That’s why he comes at night… and one day fragments of your wedding day will pollute the dreams of a child not yet born.

When you get old enough, you see the patterns emerge.

I have been getting a little more into my Hindu, advaitist side. It just snuck up on me. I started reading the Bhagavad Gita, and then… boom. I’m all spiritual… kind of. For me. The deities in the above picture are (from left to right) MahaLakshmi, Ganesh, and Saraswati.  I have had a fairly consistent connection with the latter two, and I’m starting to et acquainted with the former.

In short, I’m getting a notch more spiritual. It’s a good thing.

From my island home I feel a chance
To kiss the tired ghosts of time and circumstance
So give me peace of mind and let me dance
Bury all my pain of years beneath the sand

Youdopia, This song moves me in its simplicity, vulnerability, and tiny shimmers of hermetic insight that the boys used to provide before Kashmir went south. It’s beautiful, and it speaks to me at this time in my life.