It was a marvelous night, the sort of night one only experiences when one is young. The sky was so bright, and there were so many stars that, gazing upward, one couldn't help wondering how so many whimsical, wicked people could live under such a sky. This too is a question that would only occur to the young, to the very young; but may God make you wonder like that as often as possible!

White Nights - Dostoevsky

Today they celebrated the Earth Day here at Tech, although the real Earth Day is on Monday, the 22nd. But wait isn't every day we live on this planet an "Earth Day". I wanted to write about my concerns of the environment and the state of the planet as I was walking back here, ofcourse after getting the customary free t shirt. But since eloquence escapes me I give you the words of Chief Seattle to the President of United States. Read them and reflect on how civilization has taken us far from who we are: a thread in the web of life.

CHIEF SEATTLE'S LETTER

"The President in Washington sends word that he wishes to buy our land. But how can you buy or sell the sky? the land? The idea is strange to us. If we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water, how can you buy them?

Every part of the earth is sacred to my people. Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods, every meadow, every humming insect. All are holy in the memory and experience of my people.

We know the sap which courses through the trees as we know the blood that courses through our veins. We are part of the earth and it is part of us. The perfumed flowers are our sisters. The bear, the deer, the great eagle, these are our brothers. The rocky crests, the dew in the meadow, the body heat of the pony, and man all belong to the same family.

The shining water that moves in the streams and rivers is not just water, but the blood of our ancestors. If we sell you our land, you must remember that it is sacred. Each glossy reflection in the clear waters of the lakes tells of events and memories in the life of my people. The water's murmur is the voice of my father's father.

The rivers are our brothers. They quench our thirst. They carry our canoes and feed our children. So you must give the rivers the kindness that you would give any brother.

If we sell you our land, remember that the air is precious to us, that the air shares its spirit with all the life that it supports. The wind that gave our grandfather his first breath also received his last sigh. The wind also gives our children the spirit of life. So if we sell our land, you must keep it apart and sacred, as a place where man can go to taste the wind that is sweetened by the meadow flowers.

Will you teach your children what we have taught our children? That the earth is our mother? What befalls the earth befalls all the sons of the earth.

This we know: the earth does not belong to man, man belongs to the earth. All things are connected like the blood that unites us all. Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.

One thing we know: our God is also your God. The earth is precious to him and to harm the earth is to heap contempt on its creator.

Your destiny is a mystery to us. What will happen when the buffalo are all slaughtered? The wild horses tamed? What will happen when the secret corners of the forest are heavy with the scent of many men and the view of the ripe hills is blotted with talking wires? Where will the thicket be? Gone! Where will the eagle be? Gone! And what is to say goodbye to the swift pony and then hunt? The end of living and the beginning of survival.

When the last red man has vanished with this wilderness, and his memory is only the shadow of a cloud moving across the prairie, will these shores and forests still be here? Will there be any of the spirit of my people left?

We love this earth as a newborn loves its mother's heartbeat. So, if we sell you our land, love it as we have loved it. Care for it, as we have cared for it. Hold in your mind the memory of the land as it is when you receive it. Preserve the land for all children, and love it, as God loves us.

As we are part of the land, you too are part of the land. This earth is precious to us. It is also precious to you.

One thing we know - there is only one God. No man, be he Red man or White man, can be apart. We ARE all brothers after all."

Love and Peace to All. Sashi

Notes: "In 1851 Seattle, chief of the Suquamish and other Indian tribes around Washington's Puget Sound, delivered what is considered to be one of the most beautiful and profound environmental statements ever made. The city of Seattle is named for the chief, whose speech was in response to a proposed treaty under which the Indians were persuaded to sell two million acres of land for $150,000." -- Buckminster Fuller in Critical Path.

Some more beautiful words: I do not know. Our ways are different than your ways. The sight of your cities pains the eyes of the red man. There is no quiet place in the white man's cities. No place to hear the unfurling of leaves in spring or the rustle of the insect's wings. The clatter only seems to insult the ears. And what is there to life if a man cannot hear the lonely cry of the whippoorwill or the arguments of the frogs around the pond at night? I am a red man and do not understand. The Indian prefers the soft sound of the wind darting over the face of a pond and the smell of the wind itself, cleaned by a midday rain, or scented with pinon pine.

The air is precious to the red man for all things share the same breath, the beast, the tree, the man, they all share the same breath. The white man does not seem to notice the air he breathes. Like a man dying for many days he is numb to the stench. But if we sell you our land, you must remember that the air is precious to us, that the air shares its spirit with all the life it supports. This we know; the earth does not belong to man; man belongs to the earth.

To read the whole speech go here: www.webcom.com

Riding on the sea horses seeing all things purple, bruises on your neck, marks I made with my teeth; I rage, my nerves rage as I hear your silence tolling far away bells.

Some play clarinets, some play the guitar but baby Time plays with my heart, in this town they call Tears City.By the way adios is another word for goodbye,another jackpot that I didn't expect to win.

The world is an interesting place, there are safaris going out all the time to watch the chicks, on the main drag they say people are lined up two feet deep searching for this miracle called love. But I am stuck here duelling with my whiskey and gin, riding on sea horses.

On the end of the line she says, "Oh boy, you are such a catch", I say "Thank you maam, but I don't belive in that nomore". She says, "You are a good person but you are not good enough for me". I have nothing left to say, so I jump into my saddle and ride away.

Tonight I see the neon lights waving at me. There are people on the street where Jaguar pours out thunder and beat. I see seas lapping at all those feet, why is my vision blurred and why is there salt on my lips,why does my chest heave and why are my fists clenched? Bring me my horses, I wanna ride away.

I go to bar and sit in a corner, she says "What can I get you ?" I say "I need a hug but I will take a beer instead". On the TV they call a car "she" and she invited me for a free ride. Everyone wants to sleep with someone else but none know where to begin so they fight each other to death. "Hey you! bring me my bill cos I am checking outta here."

I roam the desolation, how does the air taste without your smell don't ask, I devour the summer sky, what does the dark hold without you, don't look. I am riding this train beyond the end of the line, watch me wave through windows panes as you wait for the train to pass, cos baby this time I am riding away on my sea horses into the deep dark unkown seas.

Cos baby I am riding away into the seas... riding away...

2002:04:20 22:00 Atlanta

Here landscape has turned jade, and general attire has become shorter. I too wear shorts occasionally and occasionally eat American. Not often.

In my dreams, there hangs a gulmohar bleeding flowers, in my dreams I still row a boat in rivers of dirt covered men. And gunfire? Today's news carried enough.

Fashion, that I don't know. Which shows top the charts, that I don't know too. In the weave of days and nights I prowl rattling the cage. I etch my words on silences.

Exile is a evocative word, I have frequented it's use in the streets of red light districts. There eyes line up every night to catch a ferry to this land in a fair exchange of flesh and cash.

Today rain closes the sky in steely bars of water as time attempts a closure of wounds that bloomed rabidly. Everywhere your ghostly kisses still pierce my skin like rusted accupuncture needles which now cause pain.

I take long walks in wild grass and carry home clothes burnished with scattered seed. Scattered too is Myself after I set out on drifting continents. Sometimes I measure my waist and sometimes I measure my forgetting Like this.

2002:04:21 23:30 Atlanta