February 2012, Toronto.

There are a few small-but-playful flakes in the air outside my window.  I can hear the B&B owner (now my friend – I’ve been coming for ten years) arranging breakfast in the room next to this one –  we will sit there together an hour from now, eating from outrageously refined (and imperfect) 100-year-old china.  There’s a mirror over there framed in gilt baroque, and to my left on the wall an italian master’s drawing of a lion’s rump, framed more quietly (tho still gilt).  I love it here.

I am away. Far enough away to take a good long look around, not so far that I can’t recognize who and where we are.

From here I can see that we are dangerously mal-nourished,  and we don’t even know it.

[I removed a long rant from here because I don’t like publishing run-on-negative.  Broody I can be – dour, my dad calls it, but I prefer to avoid toxic.  Feel free to virtually insert your own rant – it’ll be as true as mine, perhaps more so.  Wall street, China & Tibet, pharmaceuticals, Monsanto, derivatives, the Greek tragedy of debt, the American tragedy of denial…. it’s all there ripe]

The sane thing – the brave thing to do is hard to get right-
Find a truth and tell it so it’s heard

so it’s told again

again true story gets told, again sent back through
like Newton’s cradle –
smack the shock through the unmoved ones to the last

who smacks it back through again

Some Tibetan monks are left with nothing but suicide as a means to tell the truth.