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The wind carves shapes into the beach sand

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#1451 - Thursday, June 5, 2003 - Editor: Jerry  


Happy Anniversary to Us  

June 2 marked our 4th year of publishing The Highlights. We were so busy putting out the Highlights we forgot about it!  


Bijoy speaks  

Visit his website:  

Flowers, by Katinka Matson:  

contributed by Freyja  

more flowers...  

Yosy Nasrudin  

dear friends, lobster ed asked some time ago to share real life nasrudin-like situations. well, the following tale has, imho, certain nasrudin qualities (i will appreciate your opinion on this...)

ps. :) as lobster knows, i smoke dope for medicinal purposes; i hope the subject will not offend anyone on the list..


As you may know, friends, in spite of 'peace' and official diplomatic relations, there isn't much love - yet - between the Egyptians and the Israelis. The Egyptians take advantage to enforce their drug laws ruthlessly. Quite a few Israeli youth caught with even small quantities of dope in Egypt are serving long sentences in unpleasant conditions; one person accused of smuggling heroine is on the Egyptian death row in Cairo for more then ten years now..

I was on my way to Sharem al sheikh with two ladies, (one an elderly 'guru' from Berkley, ca.) and we arrived at the border crossing in Taba, in northern Sinai.

The terminal was almost empty. When I came to the security check on the Egyptian side of the border, while passing the magnetic gates the ringer buzzed. After the keys, lighter etc were removed from my pockets, and the buzzing continued, eventually out came a small brass box I carry in my vest pocket for emergency, containing some delicious marihuana flowers and rolling papers. ( a supidity; bringing grass to sinai is like 'bringing coals to newcastle'...) The official's reaction was stern. He immediately called the officer in charge and handed him the box and my passport. The officer, serious like pneumonia, signed me to follow him and I did, assisted by each side by an armed cop. We marched through the back corridors of the terminal. "Well, yosy, now you will have an opportunity and time to learn Arabic properly." I thought to myself, while telling the shocked ladies left behind not to worry. Finally we arrived at the Taba commander's office. We walked in. behind a huge desk sat an elderly, tough looking general, two aides standing at attention on his sides, Egyptian flag and some other government icons behind him. The officer saluted, approached the desk and handed him the box and passport with some words I did not hear. The general opened the box and asked me in a sonorous voice: "what is this?!" "I forgot it in my pocket" I answered, while thinking, "we both know very well what it is, don't we?" (Egyptians love dope and most of them smoke it). He became morose. "Drugs in Egypt." hanging the sentence in mid-air, he made a throat cutting gesture. "Shit," I thought to myself, "seems I'll learn writing and reading as well." while aloud I said: "Allah karim..." (god is great). What else was there to say? He gave me a penetrating look and extended forward both hands crossed in unmistakable 'handcuff mudra'. "Ten years - minimum!" said. I raised both my arms and said, resignedly, "kullu min Allah!" (All comes from the lord). Key sera - sera. his look softened a little. He made an imperceptible sign. One of his aids took the box and emptied the flowers on the floor, squashing them with his foot, and handed me the box. "This time - no jail!" said the general. "Thank you" I said. "What about the papers? 'Waraga' (papers in Arabic)' I added, seeing his disbelieving look. The corners of his mouth moved up, and his eyes sparked. "Tfaddal" he said, handing me the papers and my passport, waved his finger and said: "be very careful, mister yosy. Drugs in Egypt - extremely dangerous!"

We walked back to the terminal in silence, the officer dumbfounded. When we reached the main hall, he turned to me and said: "mister yosy, you are extremely, extremely lucky!" "You're telling me?" I said, "ilhamdullah."

(Btw, the first Bedouin friend we've met when we reached Nueiba, said: "yosy, wait a moment, I have something special for you!" he walked away and upon returning gave me a beautiful, nearly foot long flower. After a week smoking and sharing it freely I still brought half of it home across the border - but this is another story lol)


by the way, friends, tonight is the eve of the hebrew "shavuot", traditional "feast of the weeks", a jewish holiday celebrating the harvest season in israel.  shavuot, (which means literally "weeks"), refers to the timing of the festival which is held exactly 7 weeks after passover.

shavuot also commemorates the anniversary of the giving of the ten commandments to moses and the israelites at mount sinai.

:))  so happy shavuot all, and enjoy the harvest...


Jerry NDS  

you're walking straight ahead
down the street
and birds fly close overhead
toward you
going to where you came from
you don't turn around
you don't even look forward
the mass of birds eat the seeds you have left behind
the extremely rare one 
lands on your shoulder

Vicki Woodyard   The Seeds--Part I

I left my bag in the open field today. It was not my
intention, but it had grown too heavy. The bag was filled with
seeds of knowledge. I had been toting this burden over the
years, thinking that someday I would plant the seeds in
orderly rows and water them with precision.  

I had sat down to take off my shoes and rest when I saw that
the bag had a small hole in the bottom and that the seeds had
been dribbling out unbeknownst to me. No wonder I felt better.
My burden had become lighter.  

I looked down and saw some ugly old crows eating my hardwon
seeds. Damn them. These seeds were meant for the ones who
really needed them the most. Now these crows were into
conspicuous consumption of my stash.  

I was a scarecrow out of work and I knew it.  

Suddenly I looked up and squinted. The sun was in my eyes. The
crows' feathers shone purplish under its

The seeds left in the bag were few. It was time to let the
last ones go...knowing full well that they, too would be eaten
by crows. That is the way of the world.  

From now on, I am a scarecrow without a job. If any of you
find my seeds, don't worry about returning them to me. Without
a planned use, they will surely be more useful.  

Let them spring into spontaneity wherever they see fit. The
bag was a burden and a temptation. I was always on the lookout
for bigger and better seeds...perhaps some hybrids that would
yield a bigger and better crop.  

I was never sure of myself when I carried that bag. Now I
am.....I am.  

The Seeds....Part Two  

The seeds of knowledge that I carried remind me of Irina
Tweedie, who wrote Daughter of Fire. Her sheikh, Bhai Sahib,
knew of the treasure that she carried within, for she was of
his house.  

Every day through sun and rain and illness and mental
sufferings she would go and sit with him. And unfailingly he
pushed her into her darkness.  

He knew that the uncooked karmic seeds were making her useless
to him and so he pushed and pushed until another seed would
get cooked.  

This was a love-hate relationship on her part. An old woman
should not be treated in such a way. Indeed.  

We are so sanctimonious that it has made us blind to our
hatreds, so lovingly have we concealed them. Only a Bhai Sahib
can unearth these festering wounds in order to gently bathe our own healing tears.  

Ah, I wish that I had known Bhai Sahib.....if He'd have kept
his distance.  

Vicki Woodyard

J. P. NDS  

It has been said by someone somewhere
that the Guru manifests in everyone
and in everything everywhere.

In my blindness, in my deafness,
who do I see, who do I
hear in the broken words
that come from the torn heart and mind
of this, my brother, my sister?

In my pride of understanding
what I only pretend to comprehend, 
In my claim to a Love that
I do not even feel as much
as I would care to admit,
can I sense the Guru's hidden presence
in the tormented dissonance
of this fevered voice?

Did not my own voice once sound
just like hers, like his?

Will my voice not yet again sound
just like hers, like his?

Can I allow the voice to pierce me
to the marrow and instruct me?
Or will fear, pity, disgust cause me to
seek shelter in an imagined
fortress of silence 
of trickling sands
wherein I hope
to remain untouched?


Here It Is 

Here is your crown
And your seal and rings;
And here is your love
For all things.

Here is your cart,
And your cardboard and piss;
And here is your love
For all of this.

May everyone live,
And may everyone die.
Hello, my love,
And my love, Goodbye.

Here is your wine,
And your drunken fall;
And here is your love.
Your love for it all.

Here is your sickness.
Your bed and your pan;
And here is your love
For the woman, the man.

May everyone live,
And may everyone die.
Hello, my love,
And my love, Goodbye.

And here is the night,
The night has begun;
And here is your death
In the heart of your son.

And here is the dawn,
(Until death do us part);
And here is your death,
In your daughter's heart.

May everyone live,
And may everyone die.
Hello, my love,
And my love, Goodbye.

And here you are hurried,
And here you are gone;
And here is the love,
That it's all built upon.

Here is your cross,
Your nails and your hill;
And here is your love,
That lists where it will.

May everyone live,
And may everyone die.
Hello, my love,
And my love, Goodbye.

(L. Cohen)  

When you're happy, I'm not
When you're sad, I'm not
A crane thinks of flying north or south
A swallow thinks of its old nest
Autumn moon and spring flower thoughts never end
you only need to know yourself right now
- Tao Chu'an

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