Armen Kassabian

Strategies for Integrating Immigrant Children into the European School System

2012-01-18T11:17:00.000-08:00

Strategies for Integrating Immigrant Children into the European School System
With the immense influx of immigrants to Europe, European society has
become increasingly multicultural. How do these various cultural
elements affect the education system in each Western European nation?
Immigrants move to Europe for a greater economic opportunity, seeking
asylum or to escape political and social unrest in their countries.

But how do the children of immigrants, either first or second
generation, adjust to the education system, in order to contribute the
society once they become adults? How are families integrated in the
educational experience of their children, when they do not speak the
dominant language of the European Nation? Finally, how can European
and non-European children be taught the values of tolerance and
compassion towards cultural diversity, rather than develop and believe
more radical non-acceptance attitudes?

It is important to create a strong bond between the families of
immigrant children and schools. In order to do this, hiring assistants
who speak the same language of children, enables families to be more
involved. Also, creating more multi-lingual websites and resources for
immigrant parents, enables them to be more informed about their
child’s educational process. The reality is that children of
immigrants are often living bi-cultural and bi-linguistic lives: their
lives at home and their lives at school. The question becomes, how can
the daily movement between home and school be a gradual and positive
transition? The systematic incorporation of Resource Person, who
serves as a cultural and linguistic mediator for the reception and
orientation of pupils and children may be one option.

Both the children of immigrant families as well as the children of
European families must be taught how to understand, tolerate, and have
compassion for each other’s cultural differences. Rather than
diversity being seen as a hindrance and weakness, children can be
taught that linguistic and cultural diversity is a strength. But in a
reality in which social and political extremism is increasingly
present in Europe and Globally, both amongst those born in Europe and
those who immigrate to Europe, children must be inculcated and
educated in a more empathetic educational system. An educational
system that teaches both local European history and languages, as well
as the non-European languages and perspectives of history.

With an increasingly globalized world in which people are increasingly
mobile, children must be taught how to think for themselves, rather
than blindly believe what they are taught by their parents. They must
learn how to speak more languages, as well as deal with the
uncomfortable realities of discrimination and racism at a young age.

By teaching children how to speak about and celebrate cultural
difference, all children benefit from forming a more tolerant society.
All children must be taught about each other’s cultures, so that they
can more comfortably interact with someone who is different than them
religiously, culturally and linguistically. By better integrating
immigrant children into the European education system, both European
and non-European children begin to gain a deeper understanding of
other.

In order to help children adjust to the European education system,
they can also teach them their native language. Some nations in
Europe, offer course work in schools to those immigrant children who
live in densely populated immigrant communities, the opportunity to
learn in their Heritage Language. This is based in the fact that if
children learn how to write, read and spell in their native language,
than they are more capable to learn the local European language as
well, because they are more educated. By teaching children their
heritage language, this gradually helps bridge the gap between their
linguistic and cultural reality at home and the reality of living in a
foreign society. In such communities that have great cultural
diversity, the European children can also be taught these non-European
languages as well.

However, children must all be taught the local European language, in
order to be more integrated in European society in the future.
Otherwise, they run the risk of developing the complex of being an
“outsider” in the society in which they live. This is a sensitive
issue, because the European education system must celebrate the
diversity of their students as well as teach the local language and
culture. Otherwise, many nations may run the risk of loosing their
European identity, in the process of integrating many immigrants into
their society and becoming over culturally sensitive.

To conclude, if the children of immigrant children are to be successfully integrated
in the European Education system, they must feel that they are able to
maintain their personal cultural and linguistic identity, as well as
become part of the European society where they are living.

The Gift of ADD

2011-10-14T10:36:00.000-07:00

The Gift of ADD

I went from being in a Special Education program with children with Autism and severe behavioral issues, to being on the honors list in high school, and graduating from college. I was expelled out of high school for a month for an impulsive decision, but utilized this time to develop and hyper focus on my urban gardening and poetry skills. I was encouraged to not take a second language in school, because it may be “too much” for me, even though I’m now conversationally affluent in Armenian, French and Spanish. I am very energetic and prefer to be moving rather than sitting, so I’ve done teaching jobs that involved working with children. These examples reflect how I used the traits of ADD/ ADHD as skills, in order to build up my self-esteem.

At Clark University, I created a major about teaching Focusing, Mindfulness and Self-Regulation skills to students through utilizing Tai Chi, stretching and breathing techniques. Mindfulness has had an immensely positive impact on my concentration, impulsivity and emotional stability. I began to realize that my ADD/ADHD ailments, once debilitating, were directly soothed by my mindfulness practice. Mindfulness is learning to sit with your experiences, accept them and work constructively with them rather than fight with them. It’s about training your mind to be present in the moment, rather than being swept away by fantasies or impulsive behaviors.

I’ve taught Tai Chi at a Charter elementary school in the Bronx, and yoga to elementary students in Manhattan and to middle school students in Massachusetts. I’ve written an article on Education and Stress Reduction skills that were published in a book in Vietnam and an article on ADHD and alternatives to medication that was published in Tikkun Magazine.

How many times do we consider Attention Deficit or Hyperactivity Disorder as a gift verses a curse? Traits of hyperactivity, an inability to sit for extended periods of time, lack of concentration on traditional academic tasks and a wandering mind, are the most common descriptions. Yet the true question is: in what kinds of environments can people transform these traits into gifts that allow them to excel in learning, working and building their self-esteem.

ADD/ADHD has enabled me to develop a creative perspective in regards to school, work and life. I’m willing to experience my creative energy because my creativity heals myself and others. This may be scattered mental energy or hyperactive energy at other times. But learning how to use sports, writing, singing, mindfulness, supportive friends or healthy eating habits as alternatives to substances to “chill out,” has enabled me to celebrate and accept my ADD/ADHD traits. It’s about how I use this label to work for me, rather than against me.

Today, I’m teaching English in an elementary school in Martinique, and perfecting my French. It’s my gift of ADD/ADHD, that has enabled me to take the risks in doing things differently than others, and that has made all the difference.

Pre-departure Poems

2011-09-30T09:24:00.000-07:00

I've gotten a job to teach english in Martinique, a small French Islanad in the Carribean. I will start a new blog on this... and add a few pictures and poems to this site as well. Got stuck on lay over in Porto Rico for 24 hours. Not a big problem, though!

You are located at:
Conrad San Juan Condado Plaza
999 Ashford
San Juan, PR, 00907

Poem blood and Breeze
Rolling down da highway
My way or your way,
Display derail sails to
Da cheaper gas station in
Jersey Burst freely to da source of creative heavens
Where bread is leaven and
Christ is reborn through
Da thrown of Blood and Breeze.
Poem Pre-departure
Stepping into the unknown of da wind blowing,
It blows da bows of a sale boat forwards
As the purring Liat Turbines of a 744 Barbados
Plane heads towards a a sunny island destiny
With equatorial monsoon, a sleeping Pele Volcano
Below da moon, pristine light blue ocean
Swarms of fishes reborn, warm 10 am sand rubs in
between my pale toes, borne motions zoul dancing mellow
palm trees coconut sating “sak am fete?”
to friends foods of Potatoes, Fish, shrimp, and yucca
dressed in Caribbean curries saying “Nap Boule!”

I sit on an orange and yellow hammock starring into da abyss of
The ocean, my soul, and mind and find many expectations,
But for what? For better or worse, may appear now or later,
last or first, every verse Of a seagull long wings busts
as it divers head first for fish thirst immersed in Caribbean
Antillian French Creole, perched on warmly rattling tongues
to ears to souls appear, the water warm but cooler than the moist air,
almost difficult to breathe in, all burning under callused toes
on hot plate sand, without a seagulls care, I bear to dear to say,
today is just another day along the shores of Riviere Sale.

Poem
Moods swerve hydroplaning
on Grand Central Parkway
From LaGuardia to JFK,
Breath hard on chest rain
drizzling through window
Breeze wind shield wipers
waving to passing
Cars on 495 East to Long Island,
bullets of rain spraying the air everywhere

Poem Lift off
Waiting patience sentence by tense sentence
Immense relentless rain droplets drop on this
Plane, drop by drop thunder rumbles atop
da clouds so loud and proud to show off its power to
our tiny plane as it drives from left to right, held up
in a huge taxi of planes waiting to leave tonight,
runway smoothly slicked pavements hydroplane
tires before turbines fires desires flight attendants
legs crossed tells me “you need a wife or at least
a girl friend to remind you to put on your belt and
put your back on the overhead bins!”

Rainbow mirror reflects on clearer streaming though cloud
beaming down, Rumble rubble motor bubble joom boom
Exhaust hear it fear it feel it exhilarate to top notch
speed till da nose spins up the sounds of a broken blender is
coming out from under the wings a bit of turbulence as
the whiteness of the cloud moisture reverberates as we go
higher the pitch turns higher and lighter the sun beam stronger
as we go longer up above the cloud storms that make seeing
clearer, you hear me, easier, the shadows of the clouds dancing
in the Caribbean, African, European, Indigenous spirit on the bathroom
door, soars onto the rainbow sun window floating downwards to the floor,
rumble and roar and purring to still the loud but not stabbing eardrums
with tacks sound in the recycles air we share with each in the plane.

We make it over the clear eyed ocean Atlantic,
no need to panic above the glaring sun pointing southwards
Towards warm sunny beaches of San Juan, Porto Rico,
Where the mountain lizards Speak Spanglish, “Como esta brodder,”
And the security guards sing “Waaayhpah” to each other and travelers,
Guidos are playing in el Campo fried empanads con pollo Sizzling drizzling
and Guapa sun sand tanned mamacitas y mujeres with belly showing
Con grande chicharonnes with bikinis showing more than hiding anything
Strolling, the sun beaming, warm, nurturing, with sazon,
Carribean flavor, spiced with Adobo, McDonalds and Chillis.

Egypt in 20 hours

2011-09-23T08:53:00.000-07:00

Egypt in 20 hours

We arrive without a clue of where and whether we are even allowed to ¬stay and sleep in the airport in Cairo. On arrival we are shuffled over to a counter and are told for two 15 dollar visas we can stay in a 5 star hotel that was owned by a rich Arabian prince from Qatar before the Egyptian Revolution in January. This includes three authentic Egpytian dishes with Fool Nabed, Fava bean soup, Meats, Grape leaves and the rest can be left to your stomach’s steaming imagination. For whoever is a traveller, this may be a good glitch to replace staying in airports for extended times during international travel, some airlines may cover a stay in hotel if there is sufficient time between two flights.

I think to myself, so much for my two peanut butter and apples sandwich plan for sleeping on the hard plastic chairs in the airport, off to the 5 star hotel. But before leaving the airport, I have my first taste of Egyptian Bakish, which as delicious as it may sound like warm baklava dripping of your lips, its actually an informal tipping and bribing system. The guard dressed in a white freshly ironed military suit looks at my dad, and whispers something in Arabic while hiding his fingers rubbing together behind the passport, "Baksheesh?" My dad smiles and pretends not to understand and grabs his passport out of his hand.

We arrive and settle into the hotel and eat plentiful buffet with fresh beef, rice, fish, chicken, fresh hummus, Egyptian Feta, Olives and fried Egyptian veggies. My father and I than go to the concierge, and my father asks “if it is possible to organize a personal tour of Cairo for tomorrow, before we leave for our plane in the afternoon?”

Hady, who works at the front desks, says “mumkin,” maybe. He speaks to Youssef and then goes with my dad to meet another man, and finally he speaks to the fourth man, Gamal who will be our driver. Whatever tip Gamal will make will surely be split between the three men before him. After deliberation and friendly hushed bargaining, the price is set 60$ for a five hour tour of the city. Before going to bed, I hear some traditional music playing, and there ends up being a Christian Coptic wedding occurring at the hotel that night. There was a beautiful white skinned woman in practically sea through thong wearing red dresses gallivanting around. In a fairly traditional Egyptian majority Islamic culture, it was hard not to glance over at the wedding. They then played debka dance music as the bride and groom dance in the middle of a circle, while camera flashing.

The next morning, we quickly eat our breakfast of fresh foul from the foul bar, with ample choices of Tahini, Zatar, Paprika, baby limes, oil and the Foul Fava beans, an Egyptian staple which is in a warm metal container, still boiling from the stove. We nibble some and than run into Gamal’s black Mitsubishi, with lightly tinted windows, which we later find out had a governmental license plate. The car is owned by the Hotel, which used to be called Iberohotel, but is now called La Paradise, since after the “thowra,” revolution, the ownership changed to hands the Egyptian people.

My dad explains to me the government is doing their best to take care of tourists, probably because they want us to feel safe here, and encourage others to do tourism in Egypt, since tourism is a major source of economic
development in the country. We visit the Citadel which was built by Salah al-between 1176 and 1183 CE, to protect the country from Crusader invaders, the world-renown pyramids, the first Egyptian Mosque, where my father lived in Zamalak, and a perfume shop. I wanted to visit the Khan el Khalil markets, but because it was midday by the time we arrived there, we would have been stuck in traffic for at least an hour both ways if we tried to enter the deadlocked Egyptian downtown streets.

As I stood beneath the Sphinx, by the towers of Giza, it was a moment of joy to return to the birth place of my father, with him, and re-experience the country where he grew up. Our driver Gamal explained that the area leading towards the Giza pyramids, just 20 years before was all farm lands. As we drove through the highway, the stark contrast between the city and the rural areas right underneath the highway made me think am I in a city or countryside. Gamal says; “this area, which is a farm right at the edge of the desert, the farmers live in that shack right by where they work, so they can take a break when the sun is hot. At night, animals like desert foxes even come out when they smell the food from their little camps, and try an steal what they can, before getting rocks throw at them.

We drove by a cemetery, and saw a satellite sticking out of what looked like a mausoleum. Gamal said “Free housing.” I ask, “do people actually live there right next to the dead bodies?” He says “yes, they do some sort of ‘security’ of it. Not bad, free housing. In Egypt, if you own a house from your family, it’s not as difficult than if you don’t own anything, and have to work from scratch in order to earn enough for you family to eat.

We arrive at one of the medium sized pyramids, and are immediately accosted by the camel renter. They don’t budge and after many “No Shakruns,” Gamal mumbles something to them in a serious face and they disappear for a bit. As my dad snaps his camera at a faster and faster rate, we notice a man in black glasses who is looking over us. We see him again at the larger pyramids, still staring at us. When we look in his direction he sometimes pretends to look around and sometimes straight stares at us. My first taste of undercover Egyptian security, Gamal later explains they want tourists to feel safe here so they have increased the security for this reason. I want to take advantage of this catering to tourist, so I ask an angry military colonel doing lookout if I can’t have a photo with him, he angrily replies “la Emshy,” No walk.

As we walk towards the smaller pyramids, a man with a light blue scarf over his head stands up and shakes the hand of Gamal. He says “hi,” shakes my hands and starts talking quickly. Before I know it, a white head scarf is wrapped around my head, and a half guy my age is lifting me up into a camel. My father is saying, “No pictures forget it,” and he is walking away. I’m a bit amazed at how I ended up on the camel. So I ask to get down a few times.

Eventually Gamal says something they get me off. “Bakshis,” the blue scarf man and the camel driver start repeating like parquets. I say, once second, I need to speak to my father. I’m trying to reason with them how much do I need to pay for the picture with money that I just cashed two hours before and can barely count. I say out loud in English “if 6 Egyptian pounds is 1 dollar,” as I am pulling out 20 ponds, than how much is fair? Gamal passes the man with a blue scar 6 pound. But without asking for “20?” I finally
understand what they word “Mashy” means, walk as well as let’s go, it’s never enough what you’ll give someone as a tip anyway.

We walk into a temple where there are faded hieroglyphics on the wall. Underneath there is a tunnel and ladder where at the bottom there is an opened esophagus. I placed my hands on it, and the cold stone was gently pulsing a warm powerful energy into my palms. Gamal and my father weaseled and wedged their way down and
towards the back where I stood. Gamal says “This cover is so heavy, how was it possible that they could have lifted this up down here on top.” My dad says “They were masters of harnessing energy!” As we walk out two kids are running down, and one slips after banging his head on a low wall, but he bounces up like nothing hit him.

Before leaving the pyramid area, Gamal, took us around his neighborhood by Giza pyramids. We pass through unpaved roads, where camels chewed on grass, ladies sell veggies by the road, pita bread was freshly baked and
chicken were freshly fried by KFC. God Bless America. I surely need my Kentucky Fried Chicken Fix right now after seeing the pyramids. What American would come all the way to Egypt and eat American Fried Cholesterol heart attack food by the foothill of the ancient Phaoronic pyramids? I am afraid to know who that may be…

As we left the Cairo, we went towards Heliopolis, which was the way that we were going towards the pyramids. The traffic became worse and worse, until we were barely moving at all. Its 230 and we need to be back by 250 for our bus. We pass by a main road going to Heliopolis and airport. We were 15 blocks from the Citadel in the
area of town where leather is process, before it is sent to be made into jackets. A man with the hides of animals, which looks like goat or cow skins on the back of his motto drove down on the elevated sidewalk. Gamal says “Egyptian people can create a road anywhere.” A mini truck zooms by my head on pot holes on
the wide side walk as well, I wonder to myself “how did he get up there? We drive right along the Roman aqueducts which were built before Islam arrived here.
We stop off at a perfume sale shop for 15 minutes before going to the hotel. Egypt is also well known for their unique aromas of perfumes. The man had me and my dad sit down, and they served us both hot tea. My dad encouraged me to do the bargaining for the price. For 60 $ they would give me one bottle of perfume, with exotic names like Nubian desert and Sahara pleasures, but I knew that this was much too much. But the man wouldn’t seem to budge on his price. Than my dad butt his head in and started speaking in Arabic out loud about how these prices were much too much. The man began to say, “Speak softly in Arabic,” so that the other tourists around us wouldn’t hear about how the prices were in fact negotiable. My dad said that we’d pay 30$ for a smaller amount but we wanted three types. Eventually the salesman said yes, but that they would only fill up the bottle 1/3 of the way. Another worker came to fill up the bottles, and showed us in a hidden way that he would fill up to the rim. We passed him a couple pounds of Bakshish, and went back into Gamal’s care.

We return back at 3, and bus wasn’t leaving for another hour, and our flight was a 5. We grabbed a quick goat stew rice meal with a fruit salad, jump into the shuttle, and got onto the plane from Cairo to Beirut. I look at all of the heads, as I sit in the second to last row, 40 C by the window. Only Black colored hair on people’s heads stair back at me, and in some strange way, I find my trip to the Middle East in some way a sort of exodus back to an ancestral homeland. I’ve always felt close to, but never knew how to explain in words before today.

Rammalah and trying to get to Amman

2011-08-24T05:58:00.000-07:00

So much has occurred yet so little whe3n I don't think to much about it! I've been at the convent for around two months now. Only recently getting a bit more back into speaking Arabic with friends by spending more time outside of the convent. A whole group of American Armenians came, it was nice to see them and connect. I also am coming along with the oral history project of interviewing community members about their reflections of what its like to live at the convent, and how the spirit of the place is alive to them in their memories and imaginations.

As my visa was up I had to journey to Jordan, ion order to renew a visa .I was quite amazed and frustrated at how difficult I found doing this was. Mostly because I went one day it was closed after Saturday, since much of the city close s down on Sabath.
.Than on Sunday I went and was told I need to go to Rammallah to get a visa from the Jordanian Consulate which wasn't cheap.

Than I went back and there were no more buses I came back exhausted to the monastery and just chilled and set there dumb founded about how sometimes when you try something so hard, but its doesn't work, its partially because God and the universe doesn't want it to happen yet. That doesn't mean give up, but it does mean relax a bit around the nervous compulsive energy that keeps pushing you to reach from a goal that in the moment is not working no matter what you do.

Coming back after getting the visa, took like almost two hours, as for some reason I was held with Palestinians, and we were one by one let across the metro style metal cylinder door, which would only let in three people in at a time. A unique experience for sure. I was curious about how it would be to live like this everyday, how much it would have a tax on once stress waiting at this Ramallah border. It was certainly not as long of a wait as the Bethlehem Border.

So I than got a call from my friend Arsen, to go to a birthday of his cousin, in all places, but Ramallah. Mind you this was in a time period less than 24 hours, that I went to Ramallah three times. It's very different to go to Ramallah by car verses by bus for sure.

Vardavar- Armenian Holiday at the Armenian Vank in Jerusalem

2011-07-31T09:46:00.001-07:00

Vardavar is one of the most ancient Armenian holidays. It was celebrated by the pagan Armenians and, therefore, the holiday's customs of pagan times including spilling water on each other, making the pigeons fly etc., are still maintained. By tradition, Armenian month Navasard begins on the day when Noah finds his refuge on the Mount Ararat during the Flood and then comes down from the top. Noah orders his sons to pour water over each other for the memory of the Flood. Vardavar holiday is also related to the Flood and the Noah's decent from the Ark.

Vartevar, in Jerusalem, water splashing from left to right everywhere you walked in the cobble stone courtyard, you can see water being thrown on people from all angles. Water bottle splashing from left to right. Kids running screaming. Boys running with garbage bags in their hands, standing on roof tops, dumping gallons upon liters upon gallons on those sitting below. The win blowing slightly, the sun slamming the face, till it wants to burn on fire, the air moist with particles of water blowing through the air.

Footsteps, a big jump,
Slam the water slaps someone in
The face like a slapping flapping
Fish swung against the cheeks,
Rooted in a pagan holiday from
Thousands of years back, Vartevar
Commemorates the days of
A holy feast today in the Christian
Tradition, as Armenians from around the
World slam water on each other during this
Blessed holiday, cleaning of the soul of impurities.
As we run around with water bottles in our hands,
And slam each other with bottle after bottle
After bottle, all I can do is laugh, smile,
And continue the water fight of Vartevar.

Jourenys from Jerusalem to Tel Aviv to Netania

2011-07-28T03:32:00.000-07:00

Layla Navan/ White Night in Tel Aviv
After my fifth day of cleaning the convent Garden and weeds, I had the opportunity to go to a training in Natani, Friday morning, for a program called Football for Peace. They teach peace values to children from Israeli and Palestinian communities in Israel. I went to hang out with my friend Tali Thursday evening after a day of cutting weeds in the courtyard in front of the Gulbenkian museum, of the convent and cutting tall beige wheat like grass the size of my hips with a larger pair of scissors.

I met Tali in Tel Aviv in front of a Natural Foods Market, where I finally found ground Flax seeds, which were a health item I’ve been looking for the past month. We walked around Tel Aviv from 12- 5 am, during what is known as White Night, in Hebrew it is called Layla Navan, which is a yearly event of life music shows throughout Tel Aviv.

It felt like most of the city’s young people weren’t asleep, we wandered by men sleeping on benches, high school students dancing to house music, as it played on their head phones, which could be rented for 30 sheckles, in order to not disturb the communities where thousands of drunk young people were convening in the streets. The night is fresh and warms, there’s an electricity in the air that warms my heart as the occasional cooling breeze blows into my skin.

As 430 am, as the light begins to shine between palm trees overlooking the Mediterranean and Tali and we wandered the streets trying to find a taxi that will actually stop for us, but each one was taken. The one taxi that does stop, as soon as I get up from the stairs where I was semi-sleeping I let out a strong sigh and stretched and the cab driver just drove away, he probably thought I was another drunken guy. So we walked downtown to the board walk, where the buses started, since I’d be more likely to get into one if I grabbed if right at the beginning of its route.

I step onto the line for the bus, but it’s so immensely Israeli and long and a bit disorderly that even by pushing my way into it, I know that it will be impossible to enter. So I see some guys stretching the back door open and hoards of people jumping through one by one through the door . Tali sai d “don’t’ go,” but I know that if I wanted to get on this bus I’d have to become a bit more Israeli and assertive about getting on, so I jumped onto it, and the bus eventually started rolling forwards towards the Takanat Merkozeet, Central Bus Station.
on the way, I watched a few guys hanging from the bar on the ceiling and there were just as many people standing as sitting, all talking loudly . Some guy s in the back started clapping and singing about how the drivers mother is a whore, and the driver stopped the bus one time, and waited for ten minutes, Some guys jumped off from the back and walked ahead of the bus. Some girl from the front of the bus screamed something in Hebrew, which I think meant the driver wanted people to pay, since most people just jumped on for a free ride.

Than he drove two more blocks, during which some of the guys who had gotten off earlier, ran along side the bus and hung from one side of the window, and all of a sudden the bus stopped, and he just walked out to have a cigarette, I looked around and some him pacing back and forth, he eventually disappeared and was nowhere to be seen. Meanwhile the guys in back of the bus who screamed profanities about the drivers mother came to the front of the bus, and played Israeli house music on the drivers speakers so the whole bus ringing with the sound of Israeli House dance music, a few Arab Jewish guys started to dance and clap alternating hands high in the air, and some were dancing on the seats. Some people were laughing on the bus including myself, at the fact of actually witnessing a bus revolution underway, I was curious if the bus would start rolling away to the sea soon or who knows where.

I waited in the bus for half an hour and eventually left, realizing that the bus driver may be very well gone for good. I walked around Rothschild street for an hour until I reached the Bus station in South Tel Aviv. I felt like I was entering an African Refugee camp / an Israeli night club. I grab the bus to Natania, a city 30 minutes north of Tel Aviv, and end up sitting on the floor, because there aren’t any seats left. I don’t really care, I close my eyes to sleep until I hear the driver call out Wingate, and I wander out to the Wingate institute, a sporting school and facility for sports instructors, unsure of what to expect next.

Foot Ball for Peace
Football for Peace is values based football program that uses the medium of this sport to create interpersonal skills between children from Arab and Israeli communities that may not regularly interact with each other if it wasn’t for this program. I found out about it two weeks ago and was told I could volunteer for it. It supported by the EU and British Council, and most of the coaches are either Israeli or Palestinian, and some of the coaches are from Europe as well. I was the only American there.
We learned various athletic games, that enable children to interact with each as they normally would do, and then after every few activities, we take small reflection break, and see what Teachable moments there were, which basically means, what really worked well in the game and what could have been improved upon. And also to clap our hands for anyone who may have helped others during the game or shown compassion in some way. In this was children can begin to learn the values of Trust, Responsibility, Respect and Inclusion and Equity through practical exercises and reflection.

It was a great opportunity to also meet more Arab and Israeli youth from the region. This week I will be a counselor for the camp in Jerusalem, at the Hebrew University. There are around 10 camp site throughout the country, that are doing similar work. I‘ll let you know how it goes.

Haifa Trip
I decided to go to Haifa after my trip to Wingate institute to see two Clark Friends, Tali and Tara. Before I found them, since neither of them were answering their cell phones when I arrived to Tara is working at the Bahia international center and Tali is working for an American company in Tel Aviv. It was great to reconnect with Clarkies, and reminisce.

Goenka Vipassana Retreat in Israel

2011-06-29T03:49:00.000-07:00

10 days of silence, is a powerful practice to become more self-aware. We kept to a strict vegetarian Diet and this course, which is given totally based on donation throug out the world, was a powerful experience in seeing how my mind, breath, body and physical sensations affect my behaviors and habitual thinking in my daily life.

The retreat center is situated on a Kibbutz, and for ten days a group of 40 people were in semi summer camp like situation and spent it together in silence. We would work every day on enhancing our sila (morality), Samadhi (concentration), and Pania (mental purification of negative habits and mental defilements. It was a great experience to be traveling externally in Israel, as well as internally, by looking into how my own mind works for ten days. We‘d awake at 430 am and until 9:30 pm an night we’d be primarily sitting noticing our breath for the first few days and during last seven days, we were told to notice the sensations throughout our bodies.

The basic teaching of this contemplative technique involved first becoming more of our breathing, in order to develop a calmer mind. Since our breathing is one physiological process that can help us become more aware when our minds are less focused and balanced. For instance, if you are relaxed your breath may be stable and calm, while if you’re angry, excited, or depressed, the rhythm of your breathing will become more irregular. The practice of Vipassana, isn’t about controlling the breathing, to be calm and focused, it involves becoming aware of exactly what we are feeling in the sensations of our body or at the tip of nose and above the lips, in order to become more self- aware. By merely becoming aware of our breathing, the mind calms its self, but don’t take my word for it, try it yourself, try doing this scientific self-observational process on your mind, body and breath, to see how you feel?

By practicing focusing on the breath, one trains their awareness to become more concentrated. After you learn how to calm your mind systematically by returning to your breath, no matter how many times your thoughts float you away from your body, you can eventually practice directing your awareness intentionally. For the rest of the retreat, we’d practice becoming more sensitive to the subtle sensations in our body.

Basically, when we feel good and happy, this is physically associated with a subtle light flowing energy and sensations in the body, and when we feel upset or angry, this is associated with a heavier, stuck, painful energy and sensations in the body. By judging our feelings, we in fact exacerbate averison and clinging to things in our lives outside of ourselves, when the source of aversion and clinging, is to the sensations within the body.

The practice of Vipassana, involves becoming more aware of what we are feeling physically in the sensations of our body, and learning how to not be attached to or have aversion towards any sensations arise in the body in the present moment. By learning how to directly experience our sensations, rather than just experiencing our thoughts “I feel happy if I get this or I’m angry because of this person,” we become more aware of the impermanence of our sensations in the body, as they are felt in terms of sensations in the body. Hence, we begin to see that happiness and anger and the whole slew of emotions and thoughts that are created in the mind, all have their origination in the sensations of our body.

By learning how to objectively observe the sensations in the body, we begin to see that no sensation, no matter how difficult or enjoyable, will stay forever in the body. But our minds can very easily become stuck in thinking a sensation will last forever, and actually have a negative impact on prolonging the stay of sensations in our body, through agitation or grasping for that which it doesn’t have or want.

In this way, we create our own suffering, for true happiness or unhappiness, lies within each one of us. If your take two people and put them in the both frustrating sensation, why is it that one of them become depressed and stops trying to achieve their life goals and the other person keeps pushing forward, regardless of the circumstances outside of their control, and stay realistically optimistic? The key is in how we are able to develop our ability to view situations in our lives from various perspectives, rather than merely the ego perspective of Me, Mine, I and My.

Unhappiness often occurs whenever we want something to be different than it is in the present moment. A primary quality of unhappiness is rooted in an internal agitation that arises in our minds, and results with a feeling of aversion or clinging towards the sensation, which is the subconscious source of our thoughts, as they arise from moment to moment. This is the wisdom part of the practice, learning to see the nature of nature, which is in a constant state of flux and transformation, as is present in the sun and moon, the ebb and flow of the ocean, or changing temperatures of the seasons.

As we more intimately practice vipassana meditation, we begin to see the impermanence our sensations, and not be so attached or averse to whatever is occurring in our bodies from moment to moment. Hence we begin to develop the capacity to a live with a happier and more equanimous state of mind and develop our self-awareness, from within.

Armenian Pilgrimage to Israel

2011-06-29T03:15:00.000-07:00

For 10 days, I went on a trip of the Armeian holy site in Jerusalem, Nazereth and Bethlaham. We also went to the dead sea and spent quite a lot of time at the Armenian Convent. I went with a group of 35 other Americans, it was a great oppurtunity, and we were luckily supported by a beneficient and humble philantropist, who helped make this trip possible. I feel blessed for the oppurtunity to be in Jerusalem. I have started a blog on my experiences that relate to my Armenian Pilgrimage, it can be accessed here:

After the group left, I took the train to Tel Aviv, and found my friend, Tali, who lives in Yafa, a traditionally Arab city, that has now merged to become one with Tel Aviv. There is a youthful energetic feeling in the air of Tel Aviv, as Tali and I walk along the beach, and it is much hotter than Jerusalem, since it is right on the Mediterranean. Since Jerusalem is quite high up in the mountains, its cooler during the evenings. We go to the Armenian church in Yafa, which is right on the water front. I get a cool jumping picture. We than go to Mod’in, to visit a friend of hers and than I go north to Ber Shiva to a camping and Vipassana retreat center, near the Sea of Galilee, and the city of Tiberias.

Trip to a Druze Village in Israel

2011-06-29T03:03:00.000-07:00

Druze Journey to Madjal ShamsFar up high on the northern end of the Golan Heights, a fertile plateau of land that is today split between Lebanon, Israel and Syria, there is a town on the Israeli side that is called Majdal Shams. The city is close to the Heron Mountains in the North of Israel, which for two months of the year, this mountain receives enough snow for skinning.
Madjal Shams used to be part of Syria, before the 1967 war commenced. Some members of the city prefer to remain part of the Israel, while others would like the city to return to being part of Syria. Today, of course the people speak both Hebrew and Arabic, but Arabic is the cultural language spoken by Druze in the region, who also live throughout Lebanon and Syria as well.

In Israel, they are generally a successful ethnic group, and well-known for their construction and engineering skills. As we entered the city, you could see the buildings with pointed roofs and tile roofs, reflected another style of architecture than what you typically would see throughout Israel.

We hunted around for some authentic Druze food. My dad asked a women dressed in a leopard colored T-Shirt where to go eat, she says “up the block” in Arabic to him. She than goes into her car and hands me some Khabs, flat Arabic style bread. In Armenian, it is called Lavash. I accept it and give her some dates that we purchased in the previous Druze town we visited at the bottom of the hill from where Madjal Shams is located.

My dad is semi jokingly semi seriously asking her for her facebook, even though she is surely married and she is on her way back to work, where she is a secretary at a local technical school, but she invites us to have coffee after our lunch.
Our lunch was at a sandwich shop that had recently opened. We ate in the typical Lebanese and Israeli fashion, with meat that is served on a plate with 9 smaller plates of flavorful dishes you can put on the meat. There was the thick style of pita bread, and plats of hummus, babaganoush, salad Turkia, olives, cabbage, a spicy red sauce and other things I can’t even try an pronounce in Arabic.

Afterwards, we step in to the technical school to meet Mahmud, the principal. Sahan, the women who invited us for coffee is heating it on the stove. He’s sitting in a dress shirt in front of a pile of papers, my dad starts saying stuff in Arabic, his friends Myra and Martin start to speak in Hebrew, they say “we have a Druze man from Magdal shams who works on our house, they mumble a name…. do you know him?” Yes says Mahmud, he’s an expert and even gives lectures to student here at the school. We smile a bit, than my dad ask Mahmud, so Druze is the religion like Islam or different?

Mahmud looks at us and pauses for a moment and then says “it’s secretive, but in the past they would read the bible, than the Koran, I can’t really say I don’t know much.” My dad says I don’t want to push it, I understand, “heard that the Druze believe in Reincarnation. Mahmud says yes, they believe in reincarnation.

Those who are well studied, from various traditions have even proven this through research studies. He looks at us for a moment of silence a lull in the rhythm of his speech, not sure how we’d all react to his comment. Myra, Martin’s wife agrees and says “I do believe in past lives, through experience, and it’s not easy to convince me of things, but this I do believe.

“I used to train people how to experience their past lives,” my father says. Mohammad nods with interests. My dad says ‘in a way, I feel as if I found my people here. Sahan, the women who invited us to coffee, says in Arabic, which is later translated for us in Hebrew: “My father died when he was young, I was one. And than years later we met a man from a neighboring town, and were showing him family photos and he knew the names of the people in it. He also remember details that only my father new.”

Mohammad says “there has been much research done on this as well, and those who are well studied, have found that the topic of reincarnation to be true. We tell him thank you, since we still need to get down the Golan heights and get home, and are very honored for their hospitality.

We drive down the winding roads, and as the sun sets over the mountains in the East, Myrna says “now I know why they call it Madjal Shams, Tower behind the Sun.” We stair into the air, and all we can see from one angle is the sun being block by the clouds, but you can still exactly sense and imagine where it is. Than as we go down a hill, we see a little corner of the sun pop out. A magical, mystical place truly, in the middle of nature, resting atop the mystical mountains of the Golan Heights.

Dead Sea and Kibbutz Hitchhikers

2011-06-29T02:51:00.000-07:00

Journey to the Dead Sea
My father and I meet Martin, his longtime college friend from when they studied engineering together at Mcgill University in Montreal, Canada. They had reconnected through facebook and Martin has lived in Israel since 1970. We meet him at the Bokho bus station, basically right on the Dead Sea. We walk to the dead see, my father and Martin talking a mile a minute as I sit across the highly salty sea. Its so salty in fact that if you get any in your eyes it will sting for a good 10 minutes, and if you don't drink a lot of water immediately afterwards, death through dehydration can be imminent, if you don’t get medical help immediately afterwards.

Martin says they make these small mounds in the middle in order to collect salt for industrial usage. The salt has Nitrogen, Sodium and Phosphorus, which are very healthy ingredients for fertilizers. Back in the 1970s, when Martin lived on his Moshov, which is a land that is privately owned, but with a group of other people, who have their land in the same compound. For his first three years in Israel he survived by selling vegetables he and his wife would sell at a local farmers market. He later found an engineering job. He still has an Olive tree grove.

The Dead sea salt water is so boyount, that I was bouncing in the water, and it would keep up 1/3 of my body above the surface when I’d lie on by back. When I stopped paddling and looked down to see only sand , I places some sand on top of my foot and with the other foot, balanced the sand on the foot, until I could reach it with my hand. I picked up a fist full of salt and stared into the crystals glistening back at me, I dripped them back into the water and let them tumble down slowly down to the ground. The salt in the water makes it very viscous against my skin. I came out put some mud that we purchased for 10 sheckles with roughly a little less then 3$, and just let the mud cake on my skin under the sun, in order for it to remove dead skin and allow the minerals to seep into my skin.

Kibbutz HitchhikersOn our trip back from Eliat to Tiberias, one of the most southern to most northern areas in the country, we stop for a hitchhiker girl. She is from a Kibbutz about an hour away. She studied Art history in Jerusalem, and was on her way home from spending time in the city. Although she was a few years older than me, we both felt connected with the feeling of so many people in their 20s, as we were on the search for meaning in our lives.

“Life is about how much you accept in it,” says Sara in a heavy Israeli accent in the back of Martin’s car, waiting in line at the border of the 1967 parallel. I say “Life is how much we expect out of it? Where we think we should be at a certain age, and what we should be doing with our lives. Is that what you mean?”

Sara gives me a blank look on her face. She says “I’m leaving the Kibbutz, today is actually my last day. I’ve lived here my whole life with my family, I’m 27, I’m finishing school, and I feel its time for me to go find my way, my life and what I want to do.” I say “me to, that’s interesting.” She says “but I’m 27, and your 23, that’s the difference. “I feel, I want to make my life, here there a very few people my age in their later 20s. For instance, guys my age are only around 8, and I’m interested in maybe meeting someone to settle down with someday as well.

"So today is my last day living on the Kibbutz,” she says. Martin later says “the Kibbutz concept was loosely based on the concept of communism, since whatever you earned outside of the Kibbutz was for the benefit of the kibbutz and many people lived and worked on the Kibbutz. But today, many people leave, because what they study has little application on the Kibbutz, and they would like to find work that does. This is probably why she wants to leave.

We enter where she lives, and go into this religious kibbutz. It isn’t Orthodox Jewish with all of the black clothing and big furry hats, but a conservative Jew`ish community. We walk through the central meeting hall area, where there is a cafeteria, and to the carrot processing factory. Carrots either go to the animals or to humans . I grab a few for the road. We pass by the spice factory, Sara says “at one time this was quite successful, but it isn’t doing as well now.” We leave the kibbutz into the darkness and go home, tired, but with our bellies filled with carrots and fresh new sense of how Kibbutzeem are formed.

Poem on Yitchshik Rabin Highway
Clouds sky bubbly rolling seemingly standing still but moving very slowly in the air above wild flowers and domesticated cactus and peach trees as far as the eye can see, a dry river drains, tiny irrigation pipes around the roots of baby pears, wild purple flowers by the highway Nazeene Oz Shiekiem, next town driving down to Jerusalem, from the sea of Galilee, each weekend from Thursday flocks of young Israelis in the Army migrate home. The guys usually serve three years and the girls serve two years. After service many go on trips to India, Thailand or South America.
A Heavy gun without the ammunition cartridges sits in the lap on a guy, his head leans against the window to sleep a bit. The sky opens blue with clouds floating through, no matter what we think, I’m still me and you’re still you, silhouetted in to the now my forehead, with thick eye brows etched into them, staring at my reflection in the window.

On the Road to JerusalemI leave my father the morning of June 1st, in order to go meet the Armenian group at the Hotel. The trip from Tiberias to Jerusalem was 2 ½ hours. On the road to Jerusalem, the traffic increase a bit 20 km from the city. Driving through snaking roads towards the new and old city, winding up and down mountains, passing Arab and Israeli towns along the way, the bus jerk and go, jerk and ho, down the hill at the sharp curb, by Beit Zeyit, we enter the Jerusalem, on a hill pointed trees right before the horizon and smaller shrubs to the left, pine trees above them, and a Jewish cemetery to the right.

Walking from Acaba Jordan to Eliat, Israel

2011-06-29T02:30:00.000-07:00

Did you know that you can walk the border from Acaba, Jordan to Eliat, Israel? Upon the shores of Acaba, as the evening sun sets in the distance over the Israel shores right across the Red Sea, I stare into the light blue water turning to a darker blue, disappearing into the night. A warm gush of wind blows into the air as it is bowing softly across the sand that lightly trots against the shores. The beach is a bit rockier on the Acaba side, but the reefs are worth it. I only spent two days in Acaba, and the one day I went for a swim, the water was quite murky due to the occasional sand storms. Both Acaba in Jordan and Eliat in Israel, are two cities built into the middle of the dessert. The Israelis have certainly perfected the technology of creating green desserts, through their irrigation process.

Arrival to Jordan and the Deserts of Wadi Rum

2011-06-03T14:44:00.000-07:00

The Deserts of Jordan
We sleep in our second airport, after Barcelona, we were prepared to get a cold and had warmer clothing. We arrive in Amman, no deluxe hotels for national travel. Our flight to Acaba, in the south was at 7 the next morning. We slept in what felt like a dream. I watched many men dressed in Bedouin wear, with checkers colored cloths on their head, and long shirt like clothing. I later realized that Amman Jordan is very close plane ride to Mecca and a stop off for those going on Hajj to the Holy Land.

We get to the hostel. Which we find out has an outdoors sleeping arrangement. I swim in the water, with a rocky beach and murky water from a dust storm, which left many dust settlement in the water, making seeing the world-famous coral reefs quite difficult. At night, I’d sleep and be attacked by more mosquitos than thoughts running through my head. I’d try to throw covers over me, but they’d still get underneath, and go straight for the bones of my ankles and fingers.

Wadi Rum
Saying yes to the unknown and learning how to trust in it, is a skill just about anyone can learn from. My father and I go to grab the bus to Wadi Rum, from Acaba. As the driver tries to charge us 3 dinars for each of us, my father responds in Arabic “Anna barif itnan dinars,” I know its two Dinars. And so, his persuasive Arabic skills get us the local price for the hour trip.

Wadi Rum is a valley of sandstone and Granite rocks, which roughly translates as The Valley of the Moon. We took the bus, and we warned that there will not be any bus coming back from Wadi Rum. We went any way. On the way there, my father and I split the 3.90 Dinars salad, Chicken Sharma and French Fries. In Jordan, Sharmas are made with a Shikra, skinny bread and some French Fries in, and salty pickled vegetables to the side, as well as some tomatoes and cucumbers.

The bus driver explains that in order to get from the place where he sha
ll leave us off at, we’ll need to walk another 15 km, through the desert. Mind you, I’m already quite sensitive to spending large amounts of time out in sun already. My father and I are becoming increasingly apprehensive about how we’ll even get back home, let alone get to the Wadi Rum site right in front of where all of the ladies dressed in black hijabs covering their whole faces accept for a slit for their eyes, I notice a man with his girlfriend Dred locks in front of the ladies.

I ask him are you going to Wadi Rum, he say “yes, do you have the guide book?” I say “no, we were hoping to join up with you if possible?” He says sure, let’s talk when we get out. The bus stops, it cost 10 dinars for two people to enter the park and 26 dinars for two people to ride a camel for an hour and a half. We meet up with the broker Bedouin, who takes us to the village, where he jumps out of the car and is accosted by 6 Bedouin kids around 14 years old, who are bargaining with him to be able to take us out on the Camel ride into the desert. They speak in an emotional way, with their hands and the broker Bedouin fellow, who is no older than 25, is almost pushing them off of him. He eventually chooses to fellows.

I jump on the son camel and my father jumps onto the father camel. We walk into the desert outside of the town. Sand is swarming around making a fog in the distance that rubs into my eyes. I wear my blue sunglasses, and place a shirt over my mouth and nose, which helps me breathe better. I look up into the sky, and the gigantic crevices of rocks and granite etched mountains that are in columns, ridges, climbing up to the Heavens.

The mountains are climbing up at various heights, but as far as the eye can see into the distance, eventually disappearing into the sandstorms in the distance. The sand would create micro climates, in which it would blow quickly for 20 seconds and then subside after words, but only in selective areas of the desert.

Sin was leading the camel I rode on, taking in all of the images around us. We stop at a Bedouin touristic tent, with tea and items for sale. I just sit with my father and Rhys and Anna, from England, whom we had met on the bus. Sin explained that he comes from a big family, with 10 brothers, 8 sisters and that his father has three wives. I noticed that the town seemed a bit barren of people right before leaving Wadi Rum, and I didn’t see any women at all.

Sin explained that women aren’t allowed out as much in traditional Bedouin culture, since they are quite religious. We were by Sin to hitch hike to Rashdeen, which is 25km from Wadi Rum. Once we get to Rashdeen there are buses which we can find. We say “Shukran… Masalamma,” thank you and bye. I stick up my thumb as soon as I see the first car driving towards us.

He stops, he has his two boys, Ahmed and Mahmoud in the back, I sit with them and my dad sits in the passenger seat. My father introduces me as Ahmed, and his name is Abu Ahmed, which translates as the father of Ahmed. As my father and speaks about politics in the world, corruption as I sit in the back taking funny photos with the kids, making weird faces at each. They drop us off, and we wait for a bus for an hour that never shows. Eventually one truck stops, and may dad asks “wahead dinar” one dinar, and the Bedouin man wearing a red and white scarf over his head.

We get into the truck and go home towards Acaba. My father talking a mile a minute about many things in Arabic… I stare at the mountains, and get lost in the spirit of them, the wind from the open window gushing into my hair, blowing it backwards. All that is left to do is smile, and be grateful. I get quite sick that night from dehyrdation, and when I wake up I can barely move to get out of bed. My father has to litterally pick me up initially. Off to Israel tomorrow, hope I want have any issues at the border…. I have nothing to hide… so probably not… we’ll see!

Reflections on Visiting Beirut

2011-06-03T13:59:00.000-07:00

Reflections on Visiting Beirut Lebanon is a beautiful mountainous country, with ample amount of nature at every corner that you turn. I visit the Harissa, 400 meters above sea level of Beirut. This is a Lebanese Christian pilgramage site, devote to the Virgin Mary. We climb up winding mountain roads to the Mary pilgramage spot. There are Christians from various sects. I even occasionally notice an Iranian Muslim woman wondering around the holy site, since Mary is a saint in their tradition of Islam as well.

We arrive to this mountain which is devoted to Mary, the mother of Jesus in the early afternoon 640 meters above the altitude of the sea, to a Lebanese Pilgrimage site called Harissa. In order to walk up to the stature, you need to walk around a winding path way 8 stories in the air. From there you can view all of the pine trees in the distance leading down towards the city of Beirut and neighboring cities near the city. The Mediterranean is in the distance, going until what looks like infinity.

A top the mountain my father and eye lightly pray and feel the healing energy of Mother Mary on the Mountain. I think to myself “this is surely a powerful spiritual area, I wander if it a fusion of all the 100s of thousands of people who have came to pray hear as well as the loving, warm, northing energy of Mary. Mary stands their majestically, with her head looking up to the sky, to god, the sun shinig above her, making any shot I can take with my canon, blinding the clarity of the details on her face. As if the sun and the statue were one and the same image, showing the shining luminosity of Mother Mary a top the mountain.

I wonder if before Christianity there may have been shamans or animistic believers who cam up the to this spot to pray as well, to be closer to their creator? I wonder if their creator is my creator? I wonder how different I may actually be than them in the essential nature of human-ness any way. So often and easily humans get lost in their religion, being the only right one, and hence a need to destroy other who’s religion is different than their becomes present.

Poem
By the hostel in Gemayze
The motorcycle engine revs so loud
That you can feel it turbines rumbling
through the concrete of the bridge
and into your bones, the loud boom
almost exploding ear drums.

That evening I went home to my youth Hostel, called Saifi Gardens, in the Gemayze neighborhood of Beirut, right by the Martyrs square and downtown souk. This area, which is south of Martyrs square has traditionally became a Christian area, while areas that are north of the Martyr square have come Muslim. Of course there is mixing in of where people live, but these neighborhoods and their religious constitution and majority are of a result of wars.

Lebanese Food is Divinely Delicious
The following day I eat lunch with family members, visit the American University of Beirut, where my cousin studies engineering and then in the afternoon go swimming by the Pigeon Rock. This is a well-known site in Beirut. We take a group service car, which coast around a 1$ for each person, based on how far out of the city you’re going. We walk underneath a guard railing and find a rock, where people are diving off of it into the fairly cool water of the Mediterranean.

My father and I visited my uncle Jano’s cool music festival in downtown Beirut, and even got to see live Lebanese traditional music and rap performance. I was able to meet his wife and my first cousin, Jack who is a really cool kid too. I even got to meet Jack Kassabian, who with me, Raffi and Ara Kassabian, will be continuing the Kassabian Lineage and name into the future.

My father and I would meet family during the day, and than go home to our hostel, Saifi Gardens. This hostel, also served as an Arabic café, Shisha lounge, café and restaurant. Every morning, we’d eat a life changing Foul Madamas. This is a hearty breakfast of Chick Peas and foul beans, which are cooked slowly for hours. Than salt, pepper and paprika is added, with some green pepper and olive oil at the very end. It is served with fresh tomatoes, cucumbers and Olives and eaten with pita bread in your hand. For a meal, it is a deep spiritual experience or at least a gastronomical orgasm. I think I just made up that work!

Em Naizi, who is the mother in law of Mac, the man who runs the hostel, makes life changing Lehmujna, which is like a middle eastern pizza with out the cheese but meat instead. She makes both the bread and puts the meat on fresh with every breakfast order. She lets it sizzle on both sides of the bread on the sage, which is a traditional Lebanese inverted bowl, used to heal bread and Markouk, which is a kind of thin bread sandwich. Easily reaching my top five meals I’ve eaten in my life. Its so healthy yet so delicious.

Another favorite place of my father and mine was surely, Bourjahamoud, which is traditionally an Armenian neighborhood of Beirut. It was settled by Armenians, after the Genocide, they walked through the Syrian Deserts to Syria and later came to settle in this neighboorhood. Some of these homes, were they same ones that were built by people when they straight from the marches, or as we call it in Armenian "Chartera"

We’d spend hours on end, just eating Shawarmas, buying Soujouk and Basterdma and drinking Sarkis Juice. Our stay in Lebanon was short, only four days. But we were able to see many things, and most importantly spend a considerable amount of time with my family. This was the first time I met everyone there. I always feel blessed when I can meet people who have the same blood running through their veins as I do.

This trip with my dad was a true blessing to connect with family on the other side of the world, my next stop is Jordan. My trip has been made, I met my family, and can’t wait to see them again. Next stop, Amman, Jordan airport, than to the South Acaba… we’ll see...

2011-06-03T13:55:00.000-07:00

Arrival to BeirutLearning leaning underneath the stars of Beirut by the side of the Highway at the Saifi Urban Garden, across from a pile of three story houses colors yellow with free shutters, on one side and in ruins on the other side. Trees growing out of the foundation of the building below, which has not second floor, just the foundation.
Across from where I am typing, after an hour immerse in the screen and the Techno playing synchronized to the purple and white flashing lights, dancing in the Beirut nights, amongst the stars shining above in the distance. I yawn and look to my left and seeing gapping bullet halls littered across the wall of sizing ranging from ½ an inch to a foot.

Beyond the distance of the techno music drown between the occasional car passing at 2in the morning here, I feel truly blessed to have the opportunity to be in Beirut to meet my family here. We arrived, and couldn’t find the immediately.

My father with a puzzled look on his face, I took control and casually asked a man sitting down, “how can I dial this number in Beirut, I’m looking for a friend?” He says “no 011, just the 091 straight.” I than say, “do you know of any phone that takes coins around here?” He takes out his cell and dials the number for me. Lena was right in front of us, just by a crowd of girls who were yelling for some famous Lebanese actor who just step out of the arrivals area.

The man asks Lena, what languages are you speaking, she says Armenian. He says “Anna Turkia,” I’m Turkish. He asks about me “ and him too, he’s American.” Lena says “we’re family. No problem though. Thanks for the help. My great uncle and aunt live in an area overlooking the city, starting on the hills of Beirut overlooking the sea. My father and Alas, the wife of Hagop share stories with each other for a few hours, we eat homemade Armenian goodies made by a maid from Sri Lanka. We make our way back to the hostel, and I listen to the night unfold as the dars motor s vibrate, into my spinal chord, I better go to sleep, the weeds like tree says to me waves good night.

Egypt in 20 hours

2011-05-23T08:28:00.000-07:00

Egypt in 20 hours
We arrive without a clue of where and whether we are even allowed to stay and sleep in the airport fi Cairo. On arrival we are shuffled over to a counter and are told for two 15 bucks visa’s we can get free 5 star hotel housing for free, with three square meals. For you travellers out there, this may be a good glitch to replace staying in airports for extended times, some airlines may cover a stay in hotel if there is sufficient time between your two flights. Check it out!

I think to myself, so much for my two Europe Barcelona peanut butter and apples plan for the airport, off to the hotel. But before arriving I have my first taste of Egyptian Bakish, which is an informal tipping and bribing system. The guard dressed in a white freshly ironed military suit looks at my dad, and whispers something in Arabic while hiding his fingers rubbing together behind the passport, "Baksheesh?" My dad smiles and pretends not to not understand and grabs his passport out of his hand. We arrive and settle in and eat plentiful buffet with fresh beef, rice, fish, chicken and over goodies like fresh hummus, Egyptian Feta, Olives and fried Egyptian veggies.

We than go to the concierge, and my father asks “is it possible to organize a personal tour for tomorrow, before we leave for our plane?” Hady, who works at the front desks, says “mumkin,” maybe. He speak to Yousef, and than goes with my dad to meet another man, and finally he speaks to Jamal. After deliberation, the price is set 60$ for a five hour tour of the city. Before going to bed, I hear some unique music playing, and there ends up being a Christian Coptic wedding occurring at the hotel that night.

We awake, eat our fresh foul from the foul bar, with ample choices of Tahini, Zatar, Paprika, baby limes, oil and foul, a kind of brown bean, an Egyptian staple which is in a metal container, still boiling from the stove. We nibble and run into Gamal’s car. Which is owned by the Hotel, which used to be called Iberohotel, but is now called La Paradise, since after the “roua,” revolution, the ownership changed to the Egyptian people. The hotel and casino is owned by business man from Qatar though. We are in a black Mitsubishi, with lightly tinted windows and some sort of a secret license plate.

My dad explains to me the government is doing their best to take care of tourists, probably because they want us to feel safe here, and spread the word to others. Since tourism is a major source of economic development in the country. We visit the Citadel, pyramids, the first Egyptian Mosque, where my father lived in Zamalak, hookah shop, a perfume shop and general tour around the city as well. Not bad for four hours in Cairo traffic.

Seeing God in Everything
I learned a powerful lesson that was burned into my eyelids today. Its one thing to do what you want, but its another thing to trust and allow God to lead you towards he wants for you. But there is also the goals that I set in my life, what I want and the actually day to day reality of how will I get there.

Learning how to do actions for God, rather than always for myself, and only what I want and need and thinks are my immediate needs is a powerful action. But on the other end, being to too open, and trusting and thinking only God will take care of my prayer or intention is naïve as well. I need to act and be active in how I actualize my prayer, but also know how to prayer for Guidance from God in the process. A subtle practice and balance between planning and letting go is surely needed, in perfecting the power of prayer, and being open to the universe.

He Sphinx Cool
As I stood beneath the Sphinx, by the towers of Giza, it was a moment to job with the joy to return to the birth place of my father, with him, and re-experience the country. Its explained to our driver and friend Gamal, that the area leading towards the Giza pyramids, which in Egyptian Arabic one pyramid is called Haram and the plural is Algazeera, just 20 years before was all farm lands.

As we drove through the highway, the stark contrast between the city and the rural areas right underneath the highway was extremely different. Gamal says; “this area, which is a farm right at the edge of the desert, the farmers live in that shack right by where they work, so they can take a break when the sun is hot. At night, animals like desert foxes even come out when they smell the food from their little camps.

We drove by a cemetery, and saw a satellite sticking out of what looked like a mausoleum. Gamal said “Free housing.” I ask, “do people actually live there right next to the dead bodies?” He says “yes, they do some sort of ‘security’ of it. Not bed, free housing. In Egypt, if you own a house from your family, its not as difficult than if you don’t own anything, and have to work from scratch in order to earn enough for you family.

We arrive at one of the medium sized pyramids, and are immediately accosted by the camel renter. They don’t budge and after man no Shakrun’s from us and Gamal, Gamal says “Wallah” which means. As my dad snaps his camera at a faster and faster rate, we notice a man in black glasses who is looking over us. We see him again at the larger pyramids, still staring at us.

A man with a light blue scarf stands up shakes the hand of Gamal as we walk towards the smaller pyramids. He says hi, shakes my hands and starts talking quickly. Before I know it, a head scarf is wrapped around my head, and a guy my age is lifting me up into a camel. My father is say “No pictures forget it. And is walking away. I’m a bit amazed at how I ended up on the camel. So I ask to get down a few times.

Eventually Jamal says something they get me off. “Bakshis,” the blue scarf man and the camel driver says. I say, once second, I need to speak to my father. I’m trying to reason with them how much do I need to pay for the picture with money that I just cashed two hours before and can barely count. 6 Egyptian pounds is 1 dollar. Gamal passes him 6 pounds and he scrams. But without asking for “20?” I finally understand what they word “Mashy” means, walk as well as let it go, its never enough what you’ll give someone as a tip anyway.

We walk into a temple where there are faded hieroglyphics on the war. Underneath there was an opened esophagus. I placed my hands on it, and the cold stone was gently pulsing a warm powerful energy into my palms. Jamal and my father weaseled and wedged there way down and towards the back where I stood. Gamal says “This cover is so heavy, how was it possible that they could have lifted this up down here on top. My dad says “They were masters of harnessing energy!”

Before leaving, Gamal, took us around his neighborhood by Giza pyramids. We pass through unpaved roads, where camels chewed on grass, ladies sold veggies by the road, pita bread was freshly baked and chicken was freshly fried by KFC. God Bless America. I need my Kuntucky Fried Chicken Fix. What American would come to Egypt and Eat American Fried Cholesterol heart attack food by the foothill of the ancient Phaoronic pyramids?

LeavingAs we left the city, we passed through towards Heliopolis, which was the way that we came going towards the pyramids. The traffic became worse and worse, until we were barely moving at all. Its 230 and we need to be back by 250 for our bus. We pass by a main road going to Heliopolic and airport, 15 blocks from the Citadel in the area of town where leather is process, before it is sent to be made into jackets. A man with the hides of animals, looks like goat skins drove down on the elevated sidewalk. Gamal says “Egyptian people can create a road anywhere.” A mini truck zooms by my head on pot holes on the wide side walk. Beyond the old aqueducts which were build a 1000-1200 years ago, when Islam arrived here.

We return back, grab a quick goat stew rice meal with a fruit salad, jump into the shuttle, and get into the plane from Cairo to Beirut. I look at all of the heads, as I sit in the second to last row, 40 C by the window. Only Black colored hair on people’s heads stairs back at me, and in some strange way, I find my trip to the middle east in some way a sort of exodus back to an ancetral homeland, (since both my grandparent are born there) I’ve always felt closs to, but never knew how to explain in words before today.

Last Night in Barcelona

2011-05-23T08:24:00.000-07:00

Its my dad and my last night in Barcelona, we want to make it fun, so we go with Alex, an eccentric Russian fellow to the beach on the Lacuna stop off of the L3 light yellow metro line. As we wonder in the general direction of the beach, we find two French girls walking in the same direction, they ask me in Spanish, “Sabes Donde esta l a playa?” I say “no se, pero podemos buscar juntos.”

We walk and my dad talks a mile a minute in French with them, I go jumping into the waves of the Mediterranean, as some beautiful young perky breasts and some less beautiful breasts are topless on the beach. I swallow a bit of whatever up my nose and mouth during one particular high waves though. I end up finding my self vomiting by garbage 100 feet from the beach. A Spanish woman who is a nurse passes me some pills to help stop the vomiting, that is once I get all of the salt water out of my system.

The five us go back to the hostel, I chew coal tablets which are good for the stomach, according to my Russian from Perm. There is some sort of a dance party with syncopated drumming right in front of the Kabul Hostel. We than go to a pasta joint right up the block from the George Orwell plaza, I order the special which is pasts, pesto and linguini. There is also copious amounts of olive oil, garlic and parsley. This is a very common spice here in Barcelona. It is the basic ingredient to how seafood is cooked various seafood joints in the city as well.

My dad and I split from the girls, Vanessa and Anais sadly, because we need to start preparing for our flight to Milan, and than Egypt the next morning. We dragged our bodies to the airport at threer in the morning because we knew if we didn’t do so, we’d never make it. But before we left I watched and maybe even had a little 1 Euro sangria punch shot for the road. Kabul hostel was a party as always. We had signed up from the 24 person room, but decided against it, since we knew its impossible to actually sleep there. As we walked up Las Rambles, to Plaza Catalonia, there was a protest of a few thousand young people in the central plaza, protesting the world’s economic situation, lack of jobs, and the corruption the IMF.

I started taking pictures of the protests, which bothered my father, since he really wanted to just got on the damn bus and get out there. He was very driven. So when I took one to many, he became a bit frustrated vocally saying “give me camera now, I said I’d break it and I will,” louder and louder. I had a mini memory of a toy I brought on a trip to Europe like 15 years back and how he broke it, so I wasn’t about to let my 300$ camera get into his hands. But truth be told as he grabbed from let to right around me for the machine.
People all began to stop around us, and he kept on talking louder and louder, until 15 people were around all our sides. One of the cleaning men said to me “give him back his camera,” We walk away and I say “no soy ladrone, estamos juntos.” And we walked onwards. We made it to the bus, which was arriving every 15 minutes, and made amends over the civil war we just had.

I sleep on my yoga matt on the first floor of the airport in Barcelona. Some lady talks to herself most of the night and these two older ladies speak in some Turkic dialect as my dad says “quiet” to them in a language that they don’t even understand anyway. We jump onto the plane to Milan, wait at the airport and go to the Cairo International Airport. We have absolutely no plan for how or where we’ll stay in Egypt. We go to the main desk for Egypt Air, which is an airline that is owned by the government. We are told that we can stay at a 5 star Iborotel Casino and Hotel for the evening for free, with meals included.

When we finally get to the point after we’ve been accepted by customs to enter the country, and just purchased our 15$ visa, a man in naval clothing rubs his two fingers together hush hush and winks baksheesh (this is how Egpyt functions I gather), which is an under the table kick back, into my dads eyes, he pretends he doesn’t understand and grabs his passport out of the man’s hand. We wait for an hour, every 10 minutes an Egyptian taxi driver would ask us if we need a ride.

My dad would say, “Na’ am, Shukrun,” No thanks… and not make too much eye contact with them. One fellow, kept saying to my dad "Ma Fish falouz …katir,” There is no money… much… And than he’d smile playfully, the Egyptian cab drivers stand in drove, probably around 15-20 of them waiting to pick up the next person. They talk with their, hands, almost hitting each other, in very close proximity, you could see the sweat and exhales touching.

We jump into a our shuttle, eat lamb and rice hummus and Godly Egyptian Olives. It’s been fifty years since my dad hasn’t been to this country. I watched the beginning procession of a Coptic wedding at th Hotel. The Copts are the descendants from the Pharonic times, they are Christian Egyptians. He sets up for 60$, a private tour with a taxi cab who will take us to some of his favorite spots in the city. I can’t wait to see how it is! Signing out for now! Armando!

Barcelona by la Playa

2011-05-20T04:59:00.000-07:00

Barcelona

Barcelona, the air is warming almost tropical. The rhythm of the city is flowing with a movement of alternative Catalan speaking in the air. We arrive at our hostel, called Kabul, placed strategically on one corner of Plaza Real. It is as if a party was constantly happening here each night. With music playing, pool table by the fooze ball and an photography art show on the a walls. On the walls a map of Europe’s famous hostels is on the heard wall and says “Sleep with someone famous…”
We have a dorm room with two guys from Argentina. I went to Sagria Famillia, which is Gaudi, the most famous architect from Barcelona. This master piece of a church which started in the late 1800s, has in fact been under construction for more than 100 years.

Gaudi was an eccentric artist architect who had rheumatism as a child, so he spent much of his time in nature and developed his imagination, studying the way caves made stalagmites. He would later apply the geometric shapes of nature into his architecture. For his most famous exhibition was surely the Sagrada Famillia, which has been in the process of being made for the past 100 years. It is planned to be finished by 2026.

I found the geometric shapes the collumns that were shaped like tree trunks curling into the air. I also visited Parc Ouen, which was a park overlooking the city which was financed to be built by Gaudi, by a rich fellow named when. This area is overlooking the expanse of Barcelona, and where the mountains and Mediterranean surround the city in the distance.

My father, I and a Girl named Meghan from San Fran, met in the Kabul Hostel and walked to El parque de Montjuïc, which took a couple of hours. From here you could see the whole city, and there were various canons from the Franco times, atop a castle we mounted. We took the metro from there and went to the bull fighting ring, which is about to be transformed into a mal, since Bull Fighting has been officially eliminated from Barcelona and all of Catalonia, as it is viewed as cruel in this region. The people of Barcelona have had a long history of autonomous survival, and hence the city has this alternative feel, when you walk down the streets of Plaza Catalonia across from the Soviet style looking architecture building, and see a girl with a half shaved half dread locked head, wearing 5 inched military boots with holes inside of the rubber.

http://w3.bcn.cat/XMLServeis/XMLHomeLinkPl/0,4022,290652295_303652261_2,00.html

The Catalan people who live in this region, are not Spanish, as one might generalize. They speak a language which is rooted in the region, and a mixture of French and Spanish, but have worked hard to maintain their identity and sovereignty, amongst political and social years of suppression by various rulers in Spain. Francisco Franco, was a brutal dictator during for 40 years in the country, he would actually have people killed if they spoke Catalan. I visited the Santa Anna Church, which was Gaudi’s favorite church, where he’d visit every day to find peace. It was also a church where the sides of the entrance are littered with bullets, in which Catalan or people who were against the Franco regime were massacred.

I check out the beach today, where I’ve heard there is 13 km of it, which is be lovely. I’ve been staying at a history youth hostel called Kabul in Barcelona, which is right on Plaza Real, underneath a Jazz Flamenco club. It is a constant party here, with beer flowing on the beer pong tables, and breakfast and dinner included as well. My father and I have been in a room with four people, than just the two of us, and today, we were set up to sleep in a room with 24 people, but we decided against it, since we’ve heard it can get pretty loud in there. Of to Beirut tonight, we’ll have a stop over in Milan and than Egpt for a bit as we wait to go to Lebanon...

Crossing the Atlantic in two weeks

2011-05-20T04:53:00.001-07:00

A father son journey we had that began in New York on the first of May. What direction it may lead no one can exactly say. We left JFK midday and arrived at the Hollywood airport and slept there until the next morning. Amongst the Haitian being spoken by the maintenance at the airport, we slept across from a drunk man who would take swigs of bourbon between coughing in his sleep. We walked out the next morning, and take a taxi to the port. On arrival, we walked on the magnificently large Ruby princess boat, which sails that evening at 5.

During the trip on the boat, there were various activities I love doing. I would wake up with water that my dad would pour on me at 7 am and we'd go to an aerobic stretching class with Andrei, an Olympic style wrestler from Romania. I do dancing with elderly ladies, and learn the cha cha and waltz. i try to not eat too much which is pretty impossible on a cruise, since there is always so much to eat at every meal. There were various formal meals as well.

We went to various cities during the two week cruise. We stopped at Madeira, an island part of Portugal, 12 hours from the coast of Morocco by boat going at 21 Nautical miles per hour. On this little island they were having their annual flower festival. During it there were floats on cars with 100s of little kids all day long dressed up in colorful clothing and other young people dancing to the music blasting on loud speakers. The city was filled with flowers.

We next went to Cadiz Spain, which has historically been owned by the moors for 800 years. There were many mosques which had been transformed into churches, but there still remained elements of the minarets over the horizon. We than passed through the straights of Gibraltar and saw Spain and Morocco to our two sides. We found ourselves at Allegro, at the North of the island of Sardinia. The city was small but had some ancient castles. I played football with local man and juggle in the sand. This city used to be part of Spain, which is why some of the people here still speak Catalan.

We than went to Rome, at the port of Cittavechia. The crowds at the Sistine chapel were insane, but partially worth it. We than went to Florence by train, I met an Italian Muy thai teacher as well. We than went to Monaco, and watched a man who “has the best Armenian girlfriend in world” as he described it, preparing seafood underneath a yacht club, at a class café. We finally ended in Barcelona. More to come...

2011-05-20T03:03:00.000-07:00

LeavingAS the wind is blowing the air, over our faces, we wave over the edge of the boat to the people who are scattered across the coast line of Fort Lauderdale. With a boat with more than 3,000 people traveling at 20 nautical miles per hour we steam ahead towards Europe from Florida, which is quite a trip to be done in a mere 7 days of travel. We pass mansions on the coast line to the inlet leading out of the Port of Fort Lauderdale. A coast guard boat flies across the splashing waves, and rings his siren, waving in our direction. Eating- Pan- Fried Barramundi Picada Perch Filet on Onion, Eggplant and roasted Red Pepper Stack, Spanish Garlic and Nut Crumble.

Motions of the oceanOn the 12 floor, the boat rocks from left to right. At the underbelly of it, I feel its motions repeating in a rhythmic manner. It’s my first night of sleep on the boat, and I considering the 12 floor to be quite high, considering that we are above the level of where most of the waves slap against the boats surface. But regardless, we are in a large piece of metal that is floating and flowing across the great Atlantic Ocean. Towards the ports of Fuchal, on the island of Madeira, this is part of Portugal, but still a good day long trip on boat, in order to reach the coast of Morocco. As the boat flows forward against the current, heading towards the Northern- Western seas onwards, around the Bahamas islands, towards the unknown deep blue in the seemingly never ending horizon.

Oceans Motions

2011-05-20T02:43:00.000-07:00

Translucent whitish water reflecting the light blue of a cloudless sky, the air of the Atlantic making goose bumps bubble up on to my skin, the pool water shakes back and forth with the motions of the boat, as it floats forwards towards the ports of Cadiz and the straights of Gibraltar on the Atlantic. Sun with a whitish golden orange energy come shining down onto the Atlantic reflecting the air against the hairs growing on my body as my skin turns into a darker shade of olive, swimming pool waves rocks up higher and higher with each waves that flows in the current below us.

Hotel Dilijan Resort

2011-04-25T19:53:00.000-07:00

Describe a trip to a specific place you’ve traveled to? Bring it to life with careful choice of descriptive words and phrases. Use similes, metaphors, personification, and vibrant words. Bring the destination alive — physical setting, emotions, expressions and actions.

Hotel Dilijan Resort
Driving down the bumpy hills and mountains high up in the caucuses of Near East Ex- soviet Armenia, the manual car cluck clucks up ever increasing inclines. En route to a small town called Dilijan, my mom’s friend Garo, is driving us down and up these semi treacherous roads with ease and confidence, where buses have rolled over rocky cliffs with rusted metal guard rails. A woman is cooking corn on a fire on the side of the road, the smoke funnels into the sky sending Soviet SOs Morse code to the Mountain Gods above.

Rolling up and down the hills we discover Concrete Street with potholes like acne bombs scattered along the path. Road paved by Soviet machines and Armenian sweat. Heavy soviet construction material the size of a tank, that was surely refurbished with traded parts from the 1970s. The Armenian hands here have an amazing capacity of handyman quality that allows them to keep machines that we in the United States would throw out in three years, alive for more than three decades. Probably out of necessity, but regardless an ingenious skill of intuitive prowess.

Armenia is small nation, the first Christian nation in the world with Turkey to its West and Azerbaijan to its East, both of these borders are functionally closed because of ethnic cleansing and political disputes. To the North is Georgia, a nation that cannot be trusted according to Armenians, and vice- a- verse. However, we do receive items such as cars and food from Russia through Georgia. To the South there is Iran, we do quite a bit of trade with them as well.

Rolling through the hills, to a destination I do not know is alright, I learn how to trust Garo behind the wheel as our pack leader, my mom in the passenger seat and me in the back. We stop at an ex-Soviet resort that has been refurbished, with purple and white flowers around the entrance, and we walk inside. Garo comments while sipping in the fresh air in between cigarette puffs, people come here, especially to Dilijan, because of the high quality of the air that can actually heal the sick.
We are immediately taken up stairs to a quaint room with two beds. We settle in and have some lunch with bread the size of my head, boulghour, and some squash soup, ample salt accessible to Garo’s finger tips at all moments. Armenians love dowsing salt on all foods. Jermuk water bottles, the national water of Armenia from the Jermuk springs sits across my left fist.

A little baby plays with her spoon and drops it to the floor, crying slightly in between laughing colorfully. After our meal, we walk out and wander the abandoned old factory town streets along the river. Karo says in Armenian “they used to make metal here that they’d extract out of the mountain.” I watch the water roll through stones and rust-ridden metal, half jutting out of the water, like a harpoon thrown by Zeus that missed its salmon, and stays as a reminder to all, that even gods can fall.

We took a short ride to Goshavank church, which is but two miles up the road from the hotel, was built in1188 by Mkhitar Gosh, a notable Armenian scholar. Today it lays in semi-ruins, after Armenia became part of Soviet Union in 1920, the Soviet Government greatly discouraged Armenian’s to practice Christianity. To them, “Religion was the Opiate of the people,” as Marx said it. So, within the ruins of the church, one could see the Khach Kars, which are holy rocks that Armenians would artistically draw cross onto, which were cut in half. They were being used for many years in this area as concrete for building.

As the air smooth’s over my skin, and me and Garo stare at the rubble stones In the heart of the Churches chapel, I stare in amazement and awe trying to imagine how this impacted the people who lived in the soviet union, Garo stares at it as if it were yesterday, because he lived through it. What can one imagine that another person lived through, I ask the walnut tree? I only hear the wind slapping against a rusted wind chime of a small village house with moss and ivy growing up the side of it
We return to the hotel and wait for dinner. We talk and walk in the backyard of the hotel, and I breathe in the air softly into my lungs. There is a more relaxed quality to how you breathe here in Dilijan. Cool. Relaxed. Soothing. Fresh. In Yerevan the capital of Armenia, there is a certain heat in the air, from all the people, cars and fact that it is on a lower plane topographically.

In Dilijan, the mountains and the clouds fuse together to create a fresco, a collage of light and dark greens, all draped in the misty grey fog floating through the sky, sitting on the sides of mountains patiently. Floating all the way down to the bottom of the hill where the three of us stand by pine trees, down to my eye and cheek, leaving a thin coat of condensation on my skin that coagulates into rain tear droplet, rolling down my cheek.

To speak is to kill the moment. To think is to over think the beauty and kill the senses. To want more when you have everything you already need, is to overfeed oneself. To touch the light and love of the earth, as she serenates us with the gift of nature, and to become one with what one sees is to love. To try to kill the spirit of the land and the people of the caucuses who lived here for thousands of years is futile. The lushes mountain range around the Hotel Dilijan Resort, the clouds floating above, the jagged rocks jutting out in between pine trees, the memory of it all, still as fresh as a dew droplet on a grass blade, waiting to fall.

Hola For Challah- Yalla

2011-04-21T13:30:00.000-07:00

My name is Armen Kassabian. I'm 23 year old, from Pelham, New York, a suburb 30 minutes from New York City. I'm excited to be part of the MatadorU community, and share my writings with others as well as read what others write. I studied International Development and Social Change and Contemplative Practice in Education. The latter major focused in teaching children and adolescents life skills to help them manage stress, focus better and self-regulate Attention Deficit Hyper Activity Disorder, rather than primarily solve educational and social challenges of students with pharmaceutical drugs. More information here: [url=http://www.tikkun.org/article.php/sept_oct_09_Kassabian][/url]

Matador U Reflections

I've been out of school for two years, and consider myself a travel writer and pilgrim of the spirit since the seventh grade. What this means, is that I try my best to align my actions, words,emotion and thoughts, with the practice of being and doing activities that make me feel most alive, that breathe life into my sense of existence. Of course I can't feel like this constantly, but I find that breathing techniques, meditation yoga, writing, being in nature, physical exercises, that help me feel the essence of life beating through my heart my clearly and calmly.

I've been to a number of countries in my 23 years such as Mexico, Armenia, Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam, Canada, France, Spain, Belgium and the Netherlands. I wrote during some of journeys, but often kept my writing to myself, as there are many notebooks of writing and poems amassed in cabinets at my house. I would like to utilize my excitement and energy to write, and focus it so that I may share my writings and experiences with others, an become a published travel writer.

I have been working as a substitute teacher in the Charter and Private School systems in the Bronx for the past year, and will be embarking on a month long journey with my father starting May 1st. We shall leave from Miami, go to a few sites in Europe, such as Sardinia, Monaco and Barcelona. We will than take a flight to Egypt, where my father was born, than to Beirut to visit family, and finally to Israel, where I shall meet a group of young Armenians, with whom we'll visit holy sites.

I've never been to the Middle East, but always aspired to go, since I am Armenian- Egyptian. Because of my father's personality, and growing up in Egypt, a country that filled with people bargaining, he his quite effective in discovering good deals. I would like to both personally learn and share these strategies with others. Its not every day one takes a two week 600$ boat trip to Europe, so I intend to document the experience.

My intention and expectations for this course are to: (1) Hone my travel writing craft and the art of the personal essay; (2) /utilize the writing exercises to develop stories about my travel writing experiences; (3) Learn about the business of travel writing and how to pitch stories to cruise companies; (4) By the end of the course, have at least one story, that I can potentially sell to the cruise company with whom I shall go to Europe with; and (5) Write a lot and have fun doing it!

Write about 3 people who have influenced your life?

2011-04-12T05:55:00.000-07:00

Write about 3 people who have influenced your life?

Well, the smell of the fresh air in Pelham in the morning with a semi dreary sky, greyish purple, but at dawn the buttery sun spread its shimmering glitter upon the face of the horizon overlooking northern winds pushing into the squirrels ruffling fur. The art of astonishment of the details of life, the art of noticing, the art of being in the moment and capturing what I see there , when I show up 100% to noticing life unfolding in front of me, rather than complaining about what I see in others and me. So you ask: who has affected me most in my life?

Without a doubt my 11th grade creative writing teacher Mrs. Miller taught me to believe in myself like no other teacher in my life has done. One day, after a poetry workshop in the class, she took me individually to the library and said “you should take out this book on the collected poems of Hart Crane.” Although he used gigantic words that I could barely understand at times, I was deeply moved that she wanted to share with me the work of this poet, with whom she felt I’d resonate.

The way Hart Crane would intricately place words across the page, making a symphony of meaning and sound fusing into my heart, I was hooked, poetry was it, I found what I loved. I had been writing since 7th grade about life, in raps and free writes, but as I begin to study poetry more, my craft developed. I found a way to express my feelings and heart others and to peer into the worlds of other writers as well.

Poetry and stories are a beautiful way to travel, without ever getting up from your seat. Stories can transform one’s life. To truly just hear how poets such as Hart Crane, Allen Ginsberg, Frank O’hara, Amiri Baraka, Jack Kerouac, William Blake and Walt Whitman, would bless the page with their pens, I was hooked from then onwards.

I’ve also deeply been influence by spiritual teachers, in my life, especially Sri Sri Ravi Shankar. There is this metaphor of a seed of awareness, being planted inside one’s mind, and it grows at a time that is at its own pace, but it will grow. But just alike a seed that is planted in the ground, watered and left to mature at its own pace, there is a natural pace in which nature matures seeds that are planted in the earth of our consciousness. He planted seed in my mind and heart of compassion, service for others and meditation.

I took my first introduction to meditation class when I was 17 with my mother in 2006. I met the meditation teacher, Sri Sri Ravi Shankar, who happened to come to New York City from India. The organization he started is called the Art of Living, which aims at reducing the harmful effects of stress and violence in society. They do this by teaching people powerful breathing techniques as well as doing humanitarian projects in over 150 countries around the world.

Once I started college, I became distracted by the perennial question “what should I do with my life, and slowed down my practices of the powerful breathing techniques I had learned. But the seed had been planted to seek for higher knowledge than merely what is occurring on the surface of life, and were beckoning to grow. I eventually majored in International Development and Social Change, which involved learning about how countries have become developed and underdeveloped. I also created a self-designed major called Contemplative Practice in Education, which involved teaching stress reduction skills to children and adolescents, as an alternative to them taking high dosages of pharmaceutical drugs.

In retrospect, that one meeting with Sri Sri Ravi Shankar, had deeply impacted my sense of who I am, and the seeds slowly sprouted into two majors and aspiration to be of service to humanity. I would like to become a Art of Living Youth teacher for this reason. You never know how someone may deeply affect you, no matter how short the actually meeting may be. The trajectory of one’s life can change at the flip of coin, so be aware and open to it.

My mother, Iris Tatian, has deeply impacted me as well. Her patience, love, perseverance in difficult times, artistic outlook on life and diligent work ethic, has helped make me who I am today. Without her, I would surely be nothing; I could have fallen down various negative paths if she hadn’t fought hard in a custody battle or advocated for me during school. She endured a difficult marriage with my father, in hopes of making a family for us all. But what has most deeply impacted me about her is her quality of love, compassion and sense of justice for others.

She is by far the kindest person I have ever met. As an Art teacher in the New York City school system for more than 40 years, she has seen and positively affected thousands of children. I believe that because of all of those students, she has practice spreading her supportive love on all of them before she had me, which is why I now work with children as well.

Furthermore, my mother is my connection to my Armenian ancestors from Turkey. Since we do not have an y families members living there anymore because of a Genocide and political and religious persecution, all that is alive of my ancestors, is alive in my memories and stories I’ve heard from her. It is easy to forget a memory from the past as an unimportant story. But in fact, it is all of these memories and people who make have came before us, who make us who we are today. Without them, I never would have existed.

I am blessed to have met Mrs. Miller, Sri Sri Ravi Shankar and my mother Iris Tatian. Who has influenced you deeply in your life, and given you the gift of who you are today?

Quick Relaxation meditation |Stree Relief | Sri Sri Ravi Shankar Meditation | The Art of Living

2011-04-08T21:04:00.000-07:00

Online Guided Meditation | Quick Relaxation meditation | Guided Meditation | Stress Meditation | Stres Relief | Relaxation Meditation | Sri Sri Ravi Shankar Meditation | The Art of Living | The Art of Living

I found this helpful for me when my energy was low and mind was heavy of thoughts, fears and worries, that only create a cycle onto themselves always leading down inner paths of self-contempt and self-deception, rather than birthing self-confidence and self-compassion! For as these photos from Chiapas, Mexico during a journey I took in 2006 reveal, there is fear, but there can also appear courage and love in the moment, if I allow myself to let go of who I think i am, and just connect with the present moment, with others and nature, without judgement.

Practice remembering as Sri Sri Ravi Shankar said in the above meditation: 1) I want nothing 2) I do nothing 3)I am nothing...

ACYOA Lenten Retreat in Michegan (Learning to Pray)

2011-03-27T19:34:00.000-07:00

ACYOA NATIONAL LENTEN RETREAT:
Conversations with God for a New Generation

led by Very Rev. Fr. Daniel Findikyan, Dean
St. Nersess Armenian Seminary
New Rochelle, New York

March 25-27, 2011

This was a really cool retreat I went to about the practice of Prayer here are some photos! Enjoy! If you have the opportunity to go, do try an go to an event, its very informative and interactive.

Learning to Pray
This past weekend, I attended the 2011 ACYOA National Youth Retreat at the Columbiere Retreat center in Clarkston, Michigan. It was a wonderful opportunity to not only deepen my understanding and practice of prayer, my relationship to God, but also to learn this amongst a group of young Armenians, from New Jersey, Wisconsin, Virginia, New York and Illinois. The event was led by Rev. Fr. Daniel Findikyan (St. Nersess Seminary), Rev. Fr. Aren Jebejian (Pastor, St. Gregory Church, Chicago, IL), Rev. Fr. Garabed Kochakian (Pastor, St. John’s Church, Southfield, MI), Nancy Basmajian, (ACYOA Executive Secretary) and Lydia Kurkjian (Chair, ACYOA Central Council).

From Friday night until after Sunday morning service, we spent time learning, talking, eating and just hanging out with each other. Father Daniel gave a lecture about a famous Armenian Mystic named Saint Gregory of Narek, who is known for his writings on prayer throughout the world. Fr. Daniel taught us how to practice quieting our mind and learning how to read Saint Gregory of Narek in a contemplative manner with our hearts and minds, by relating the words to our daily lives.

Fr. Gareabed gave an interactive lecture about the history of the Psalms section of the bible, and we created our own personal Pslams. Fr. Aren Jebejian gave an engaging lecture about how prayer is less about praying for something you want, but more about learning how to say “God may they will be done.” Nancy Basmajian gave an overview of practice steps one can take to engage in doing prayer in one’s daily life. Some of these steps include: spending more quiet time with oneself, learning to pray more for others than yourself and learning to give thanks for everything that we have, rather than only worrying about what we want in the future.
I’ve learned that prayer is not an activity that should be selectively done at church on Sundays. Prayer is a means of self- purification. By learning to quiet and focus our minds and praying to God and his son Jesus, we become Christians. Rather than viewing prayer as asking for something that you want, Prayer can be seen as an action to transform the person praying.

By learning how to pray with our minds and hearts, engaging in stimulating and interactive discussion at this year’s ACYOA National Retreat, I’ve seen how important it is to spend reflective time with other young people, learning about what it means to be an Armenian Orthodox Christian. I feel blessed to have gone to this retreat with other members of the ACYOA, and look forward to praying with my heart, soul, thoughts, words and actions in the future. So I ask you: how do you pray in your daily life?

Trip 2 Spring national Park Pictures (1 hr and 30 minutes from New York City

2011-03-27T19:30:00.000-07:00

Ella es Loca

2011-03-23T12:58:00.000-07:00

A punch can arise out of nowhere. At 125 street waiting for the 6 Uptown train to go to Brook avenue stop in the Bronx, all of a sudden, I see some pushing and shoving in the first train, and then immediately a couple of people funnel out of the doors, that are trying to close on their surprised faces, but can’t. Some Spanish speaking ladies say “ella es loca,” and I look at a lady no taller than five feet two inches, with her hair tied back with a black scarf. She is with a larger man who is holding her hand back as she flails her arms in the musty air of the 5 train and screams in what sounds like gibberish beyond the train exhaust and loud Ipod headphones playing in the foreground. But her facial features say “no one is gonna fuck with me, and If you try to, than I’m gonna fuck you up. Than the door slams shut for a few seconds and opens again, as a man sticks his body in between the doors, a couple more ladies come walking out, one says “she might have a knife on her, you never know!” Than that same man blocking the doors walks out of the train saying “someone call the police with his cell phone in hand, but not knowing what number will work two stories underneath the ground with no service. He is bleedings down his faces, with 4 obvious scratches of nails etched into his cheeks, which had dug deeply into his face, scratching pass the surface down to the layer beneath acne, into the inner epidermis, where only sweat knows how to reach at, with a look of horror reflecting against the blood dripping down his face.

My Art of Living Story

2011-03-11T06:53:00.000-08:00

(Use a separate sheet of paper to answer this question. Your candid answer is our way of getting to know you and a way for you to clarify your intentions for applying.)

I took my first Art of Living course with my mother when I was 17 years old. I was having a difficult time at school, frustration within family relationships and managing my impulsive behavior. After taking the Art of Living course, I was deeply transformed by the potential that Yoga, Meditation and the Sudarshan Kriya could have on my life, my relationships and my performance at school. I practiced my Kriya regularly for a few months, and eventually took the Sahaj course as well. I met Sri Sri Ravi Shankar at 17, since I took my Part 1 course during a week in which he was visiting New York.

Like all powerful contemplative practices, they are only as effective as you practice them on a daily basis. For a few years during college, I stopped practicing the Sudarshan Kriya, but kept up with my semi-regular Hatha Yoga and Zen meditation practice. Sometimes, you need to lose something for a while, in order to realize how valuable it is. But the seed of Art of Living planted by Guruji and the power of meditation had been deeply planted in my consciousness, and so it could only grow.

I eventually self-designed a major at Clark university, called Contemplative Practice in Education. It involved a fusion of classes from the English, Management and Psychology disciplines. The major’s focus was researching the educational benefits of Meditation and Yoga for children and adolescents with ADD/ADHD or living with the stressors of the Inner City. My life's Seva is to help young people discover non-invasive, non-pharmaceutical approaches to managing impulsivity, enhance emotional regulation, concentration and overall psychological and physical wellbeing. I've published a number of articles about this topic as well in the Mindfulness Bell Journal, Tikkun Magazine and in a book called Buddhism and Education, published in Vietnam, part of Socially Engaged Buddhism conference.

I also studied International Development and Social Change, with a minor in Spanish. My interest in Art of Living’s humanitarian work around the world, also aligned with my studies. My intention for doing Seva at the Ashram for a few months is to deepen my understanding of the Knowledge that Sri Sri Ravi Shankar teaches and to live in an intentional community. I also aspire to become a Yes and ARTexcel teacher in the future, when the time is right. As I am functionally fluent in Spanish, French and Armenian, I look forward to the potential of being able to use my linguistic talents in teaching. After speaking to Hannah Sard, an AOL and Sahaj teacher in Mongolia, she commented that there would certainly be a need for a YES AOL teacher who can speak Armenian in Armenia. I look forward to giving back to my community, by first living at the Ashram and later becoming a teacher.

I volunteer in New York with AOL at the Universities by fliering about upcoming events, such as YES courses and Sri Sri Ravi Shankar’s lecture at Lincoln Center in April. I also volunteer with Narciso Cruz, Harry and Michael in the Long Island School district YES and ART excel programs in schools. After taking the YES + course in January 2011 with Uma Viswanatha and Vineet Agrwal, I have maintained my Yoga, Meditation and Sudarshan Kriya routine ever since. The practice is so natural and adds deep qualities of ease, joy, patience and compassion to my daily life. Out of this regular practice, a sense of Seva and wanting to give back has naturally developed in my heart, which I aspire to share with others however possible.

Abilify Kills??

2011-03-08T09:23:00.000-08:00

Ignite the Might of Light

2011-01-26T06:33:00.001-08:00

Ignite the Might of Light

Free write, ignite the inner might, let the light write
What it needs to write, without da fright, to
Trust in Jesus’s light, no matter what’s the plight.
Fear hate shame blame based ideologies of idolatry
For Money-Sex-Media-Drug Gods polish eyes,
Of youth and elderly to an early demise,
Try an seize the bit of God and Jesus left
In da atmosphere, before Green house
Gases kills the grasses and lungs of love with fear,

Cause da snow is slamming spots it never
Slammed before, earthquakes shattering
Lives in Haiti more, Freezing weather killing
Animals in Vietnam, poverty starvation
Bombs in Af-ghan-is-tan, child-soldiers
In da Congo amputated arms right before
Explosive are disarmed in Gaza or Tel Aviv.
I try and breathe but choke while people in da city
Are more concerned about a new I-Phones,
Than they could care about someone without a home.

Maybe Darwin was right, survival of the fittest fits us,
I’d say we have a brighter future that has yet to hit us.
So I try to stay calm and see the meaning in what
God Gave us, and try to not let impulse,
Technology and Desire enslave us, but the rave is,
That with so many temptations to give in
To the physically pleasurable sensations, at the
Bodily level, we lose a deeper God divination,

So I try to make sense of very temptation
As a test sent from above with love, to help
Me touch a deeper place of peace and direction,
If I can make sense of why and what to do,
Rather than get lost in thoughts rooted in me vs. you,
To see the bigger picture, to see God and his son Jesus,
In every moment that seizes me by surprise when my eyes
Are closed shut tight at night, and remember to-
Free write, ignite the inner might, and let the light write
What it needs to write, without da fright, to
Trust in Jesus’s light, no matter what’s the plight.

rap by MC SolAAR

2011-01-06T12:53:00.000-08:00

LÈve-toi Et Rap Lyrics

Né au Sénégal mes deux parents venaient du Tchad

Fils du Sahel j'avais l'énergie du roi Faad

Mais j'suis venu ici dans un foyer à Saint Denis

Avec mes frères et sœurs, on déménage pour Evry

Ma mère fait des ménages dans des centres hospitaliers.

full lyrics

more lyrics

A poem to remember

2010-12-11T22:27:00.000-08:00

A poem to remember

So life is life as it is,
wish I could talk in such
poetic ways all these days
because what much more sore,
the world would be, if I
had to live without creativity.

Greatly I live in a world
where the need for a sense
of visionary community for
humanity is my personality,
rather than linearly materialistic
multiple choice careers voices...

repeats around me, but I see
a new reality that lets me be me,
not force me to try an become somebody
who is already not inside my body,
but I gotta make some money,
to pay of these college loans,
I search for a creative grove
to where I can shake and make moves

I've seen how helpful meditation
gives me a calming sensation
in overactive mind body sense inflations,
to be more aware of my ideation,
body, and essential nature divine,
to find a higher body soul mind,
and remember a more true nature behind...

all the complaints I paint inside,
For beyond is some silence surely,
I try an listen to my slow breathing,
but so often, all I can do is hear me!

This helps me remember, what helps you?

http://zenpractice.webs.com/

I also enjoy learning about History, check out these two video clips about the Khymer rouge times. I spent some time in Cambodia, it would behoove every human to know a bit more about the genocide that occurred there during the 1970s.

Learning about Underearners Anonymous

2010-12-02T11:16:00.000-08:00

Check out this cool program I discovered today, based on the format of Alcoholic Anonymous, but its called Underearners Anonymous. They have meetings in New York, London and LA as well as some other spots. They have phone meetings as well.

check it out, It looks pretty cool to me!
http://www.underearnersanonymous.org/phone.html

I am giving all credit to the follow three tretises to the Underearners Anonymous staff and website. I copy and pasted it in hopes that you may overview it an learning something new! Enjoy!

Just For Today
Just for today I will try to live through this day only, and not tackle all my problems at once. I can do something for 12 hours that would appall me if I felt that I had to keep it up for a lifetime. Just for today I will be happy. This assumes to be true what Abraham Lincoln said, that "Most folks are as happy as they make up their minds to be". Just for today I will adjust myself to what is, and not try to adjust everything to my own desires. I will take my "luck" as it comes, and fit myself to it. Just for today I will try to strengthen my mind. I will study. I will learn something useful. I will not be a mental loafer. I will read something that requires effort, thought and concentration. Just for today I will exercise my soul in three ways: I will do somebody a good turn, and not get found out; if anybody knows of it, it will not count. I will do at least 2 things I don't want to do - just for the exercise. I will not show anyone that my feelings are hurt; they may be hurt, but today I will not show it. Just for today I will be agreeable. I will look as well as I can, dress becomingly, keep my voice low, be courteous, criticize not one bit. I won't find fault with anything, nor try to improve or regulate anybody but myself. Just for today I will have a program. I may not follow it exactly, but I will have it. I will save myself from two
pests: Hurry and indecision. Just for today I will have a quiet half-hour all by myself and relax. During this half-hour, sometime, I will try to get a better perspective of my life. Just for today I will be unafraid. Especially I will not be afraid to enjoy what is beautiful and to believe that as I give to the world, so the world will give unto me. --- Family Group Headquarters, Inc.

The Twelve Steps1. We admitted we were powerless over underearners—that our lives had become unmanageable.
2. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him
4. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.
5. Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.
6. Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.
7. Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.
8. Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.
9. Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.
10. Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.
11. Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.
12. Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these Steps, we tried to carry this message to others, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.

The Twelve Traditions?1. Our common welfare should come first; personal progress for the greatest number depends upon unity.
2. For our group purpose there is but one authority—a loving God as He may express Himself in our group conscience. Our leaders are but trusted servants; they do not govern.
3. The relatives of underearners, when gathered together for mutual aid, may call themselves an UA-Anon Group, provided that, as a group, they have no other affiliation. The only requirement for membership is that there be a problem of underearning in a relative or friend.
4. Each group should be autonomous, except in matters affecting another group or UA-Anon as a whole.
5. Each UA-Anon Group has but one purpose: to help families of underearners. We do this by practicing the Twelve Steps of AA ourselves, by encouraging and understanding our underearning relatives, and by welcoming and giving comfort to families of underearners.
6. Our Groups ought never endorse, finance, or lend our name to any outside enterprise, lest problems of money, property and prestige divert us from our primary spiritual aim. Although a separate entity, we should always cooperate with Alcoholics Anonymous.
7. Every group ought to be fully self-supporting, declining outside contributions.
8. UA-Anon Twelve Step work should remain forever nonprofessional, but our service center may employ special workers.
9. Our groups, as such, ought never be organized; but we may create service boards or committees directly responsible to those they serve.
10. UA-Anon has no opinion on outside issues; hence our name ought never be drawn into public controversy.
11. Our public relations policy is based on attraction rather than promotion; we need always maintain personal anonymity at the level of press, radio, films and all media. We need guard with special care the anonymity of all UA-Anon members.
12. Anonymity is the spiritual foundation of all our Traditions, ever reminding us to place principles above personalities.

http://www.underearnersanonymous.org/media/UAAnon_meeting_format.pdf

Two Voices....Two Choices

2010-11-28T10:53:00.000-08:00

There are two convergent voices, one of confidence,life vision and another of insecurity and lack of life vision. We're all on earth with a life purpose, sometimes we are aware of it and sometimes we are not. I found that after graduating college, I left an internal space of vision and confidence in my voice and action and took the voice of insecurity instead. Meaning, I felt I had a sense of vision, motivation and It’s not a conscious choice, as much a little voice that creeps up from deep within the consciousness, and grabs your balls. It takes the sense of vision and confidence and slaps it in the face. It takes motivation and tries to quell it. It takes action oriented thinking, and slows it down. It takes insecure thoughts, and allows them to dominate the words that allows us to think and talk about our world.

These two convergent voices are constantly playing their melodies in our mind. Some of the melodies are positive and some are negative. When I decided to move back home after college, it wasn’t as much as a decision, as what seemed like the only viable option left. There was a quality of being trapped in the situation of returning back to live at home with my family. Although my family loves, me there is a certain time in your life when you feel enough is enough, it’s time to grow up. Start working full time, be confident with whatever I’m working on, and just move out. To not complain about moving out, but to just do it, but somehow more than a year and a half has gone by, without any sort of true sense of confidence and vision in my eye or vocal tones. And why, where did it go?

My philosophy is, what the point of living if you aren’t living for something you deeply believe in. But you see, there is the constant friction between that which we deeply believe in and that which society tells us to do. Whether or not we buy into the societal vision of what a 23 year old is or isn’t supposed to do, we will find that the voice of confidence and incompetence will be in a constant state of tango. Push and pull, one voice tone will always try an lead its way through your actions, emotions, thoughts and words. Much of it, are life, is a result of the quality, quantity, intention and level of attention that we bring to our actions, emotions, thoughts and words.

In this tango of the voice of confidence and incompetence, who will win? Who has the final say on my words and actions? Who has been winning? Who has more power? How will I act, in a way that strengthens one voice or the other? Is there one voice who has been winning more within me than another voice? Yes, I’d say for whatever circumstances, be them internal or external that I have found myself in, the voice of insecure incompetence has been strongest in my body mind. And what can one do about this? what a great question. To each their own because there isn’t one answer to this existential real question. My answer could be “ I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” But will this truly spark confidence in the mind’s eye.

In any moment, there are two choices we are always making, the circumstance is either shaping our mind or is our mind shaping the circumstance. Do we have a sense of at least semi-control over reality? Who is in charge, me or the circumstance? Who is right? Well they are both right, its mostly based on what perspective we look at our life from? So I ask myself right now, am I looking at myself with confidence or with a sense of incompetence. See after finishing college, it was like hello real world slaps you in the face. You just can't understand it until you do it.

It has been so long since I've actually written in this blog, because for quite a while I haven't felt that a big time exciting thing has happened in my life. What is next what voice will be of more power in me? It's hard to know since every day, had a different quality. So the choice that is left is only to do activities that inspire us more. Activities that I know that inspire me greatly are hanging out with friends, doing yoga, meditation, creative writing and Tai Chi! What activities inspire you most to allow you to choose the positive visionary and confidence voice rather than the other one!

ADD-ADHD Mindfulness Matters Musings

2010-08-20T13:29:00.000-07:00

ADD-ADHD Mindfulness Matters Musings

Where action, reflection and Education intersect

2010-08-19T10:15:00.001-07:00

Neo-Humanist Education in Bloom from Natasha Florentino on Vimeo.

with mindfulness we smile

2010-08-18T07:59:00.000-07:00

Music from Plum Village

2010-08-06T21:42:00.001-07:00

Top 10 Tai Chi Teaching Tips for Teaching Kids

2010-08-03T08:49:00.000-07:00

Top 10 Tai Chi Teaching Tips for Teaching Kids

1.Your power is in your tone of voice, and your facial expressions. For the young children ages 6-9, they often are more likely to listen and follow activities, unless they are true energizer bunnies. While for the older children 10-12, they are more filled with a feeling of attitude and I'm too cool to do this sometimes. But there are some older 10-12, who are very capable and interested in learning a new way of exercising, their body, minds and organs. I found that when I smile a lot, the students see this often as a sign of being an equal, being a joker, and that I enjoy them doing funny things during our tai chi practice. But its key to maintain a semi-serious yet light expression on your face, so that they children know you mean business. Even when I want to laugh, its key to keep my facial composure serious, so that the students understand that you want them to take you and tai chi seriously. This semi-serious facial expression goes in hand with a deeper more commanding voice. Its paramount to speak from your abdomen, your dan tien, your source of power. Whenever you feel a loss of control or power over the class, it probably started with a loss of control over your, breathing, your source of vitality and being. But if you can speak with a tone of voice of confidence and power, deep from the belly, than you can maintain a sense of calmness but control over yourself, your voice, your facial expressions and extend your affect over the class.

2.Don't be attached to how a class happens, or if it doesn't work exactly as you had intended for it to work. You will find that some students, age groups or classes will greatly connect with Tai Chi, while others may have an immense block or aversion to even attempting to learn and practice something so different and new. But it is your responsibility as a teacher, to create creative ways of engaging those students who are least engaged. Its important to remind student “you don't have to like or even understand what tai chi is to gain the benefits, you just need to practice it and feel what the affects are for you. Be able to create a plan, as well as be aware and open to modifying your plan if it doesn't work how you wanted or expected.

3.Encourage Competitions in which everyone feels like a winner. For the final class, having a Tai Chi competition/test enables students to feel they that they are working towards a goal, for the certificate, and they truly do want to often try to the best of their abilities to win the award. For the some children, they may not be as interested in just what you are teaching after a day or two, because some may feel, “I want the attention, I don't want to just follow this teacher.” This can be the same for younger kids as well. It's important to get those children who are either the most disruptive, least interested or most enthusiastic to come up to the front and teach with you from the beginning. I've had younger kids who weren't very engaged in doing tai chi tell me “I'm bored, we keep doing the same moves.” But as a response, I tell them until we can learn these moves perfectly we can't move on. Children as well as adolescents love competing for as well as feeling they won a competition. I found that with the older children, I'd have them compete to see who could balance the best, or doing the Tiger strikes punching activity with the most coordination. I noticed that when the older kids were broken up into smaller groups, in fact, they were more interested in winning. And even more when I had the class split between boys and girls, and I had them choose their favorite moves and teach them back silently without my help to the opposite sex, in order to see which group could teach it back the best. This competition had a class of particularly loud girls, practice being silent in a group, and serious in their concentration and demeanor, for around 4 minutes. This may have been the most amount of silence that they have experienced in many weeks, while being in a group of young people, but practicing and activities that helps them learn how to better concentrate, calm down and have more balance.

4.Practice as much tai chi as you can before and after teaching. The more you internalize and the more you yourself can realize how tai chi can affect your mental health, as well as your energy levels and sense of happiness, the more you can share this with young people. Simple movements and breathing may not seem to have a large affect on one's well-being, but even over a months time of practice four times a week with a group of students, I've found a great affect on my energy levels and focusing ability.

5.Engage students in questions, constantly, rather than trying to feed them information as they often may already experience while in school. They have a lot to teach each other if you can ask the kinds of questions that can in fact encourage them to think creatively and inquisitively and teach each other. Often, when I'd hear a child say a particularly insightful question, I would ask that student to repeat what they said to a person at the two ends of the group. I'd than choose a student who may not have appeared to be paying attention, to engage them in a question, to make them feel engaged as well. It is your responsibility as a teacher to encourage students to think creatively and to pay attention, if they aren't you may not be presenting the information in a manner that is most attractive and alluring to their learning style.

6.PRAISE, PRAISE PRAISE. Praise much more than you put any student down. When a group of teacher students are done teaching, ask the class mates “how do you think they did?” Than say “I think they did very well, let's all clap for them. Now three more teachers.” Its very important to have students praise each other as well, as often, there can be more name calling, disrespectful behavior, that this kind of encouragement amongst themselves can be truly novel and rewarding. Never miss a moment to praise a child, they are so often told no or what not to do, or only given attention for what they do wrong, that by encouraging them and praising them, and saying “Wow you're doing this move with so much concentration and balance,” than other students may become even more interested and ask “how am I doing, will I win?” This sort of “buy in,” is of the utmost importance to acquire from the get go from as many students as possible. It enables them to feel that they can get attention, positive attention if they can follow the rules, they get rewarded with a compliment. Through offer each student a sincere compliment, you can surely encourage them to develop their self-esteem and believe in themselves.

7. Always be very clear about when it is your last day. If you do not say good bye to students at the end of the time that you were working at a site, they may expect you to return next week. And if you do not, they will may be greatly disappointed. I've had children who remember I taught at their school and honestly in an upset tone of voice asked me “Why didn't you come back to my school?” I had no clue how to respond or what to say. I felt quite guilty for neglecting to say when it was my last day. Children truly do build up their expectation when with you, so it is best to be able to be as clear as possible with them, so that they do not build up their expectations about you.

8. Encourage leadership. Every student to practice being a teacher. Once they learn the movements after 1-2 times. They should all potentially be able to follow them. All it would involve was their ability to listen, learn and follow the group movements. It's best to have at least three student teachers so that they are encouraged to work together to teach. You can offer hinters for certain moves if they don't seem to remember, but emphasize how this is “a test to see who has the best memory, best form, best balance and focus.” This can raise the bar of motivation, interest and performance. Students love to have attention. If they don't get it doing something positive and constructive, than they can try an act out to get another form of potentially negative attention. By encouraging each student to practice being a leader, they can gain a sense of confidence and attention for following directions and being rewarded positively for it.

9.Have students teach each other information that was learned. Questions such as why do we do tai chi, or what might the benefits be of certain moves, will surely engage some students, but not all of them. Some students are more engaged through auditory stimuli such as listening, others through talking, others through seeing the moves practiced and other through doing the moves with their body. So when you can see that some students are incredibly engaged while others are looking all around or seem very unmotivated to practice Tai Chi. Have the students that are speaking, repeat whatever the answer it is that they are giving to the students who are less motivated. And than test that student who seems less engaged, by asking him the same question you asked the more motivated student see if they paid attention the second time. By repeating this process with each question you, students are tested in their comprehension through active listening and speaking. Otherwise you have no clue what might be going through their minds.

10. Always award the students with Certificates or some form of praise at the end of the week of Tai Chi. Create a Tai Chi Test competition and emphasize only the people who prove that they have learned. This greatly increases students motivation and interest in proving that they have learned the moves and that they are capable of doing them. By doing this, students of all skill levels are empowered to feel, I can do it, I can win this award. They see a goal in front of them, and they systematically, with focus, ease and grace work towards reaching that goal, by proving that they can do Tai Chi in silence, with correct form, focus, visualization, balance and strength.

POEM- GUST OF WIND

2010-08-02T09:52:00.000-07:00

Here are some cool photos from a Retreat I went to in New Mexico.

Here is a poem I wrote in Connecticut
GUST OF WIND
In the shade of CT white pines,
where bumble bees and humming
birds spend their time pollinating
tiny purple flowers click click of cicadas
and humming chorus of crickets,
A parachute monarch butterfly glides
through sun, the milk thistle in fields
is about to prepare to pollinate in Mid-August
those fields will be filled with 100s of butter
flies their wings glistening glimmering in Suns
heat, the wind breezing its way through leaves
of food, A gust of wind , but a reminder from Above.

POEM-OCEAN OF EMOTIONS

2010-05-28T08:20:00.000-07:00

Ocean of emotions!
Time doesn't happen in the same way, when you're lost in your brain waves,
insane waves of thought actions misbehaved ways displays, a slave
to anger or fear dismayed displayed decayed delayed ways,
thoughts crash on rocky shores of the physical plains of pain,
nuclear bomb spreads from eye to head, from tongue to leg,
foot to arm, armed to do inner harm thoughts rapidly swarm,
clear in the ear nuclear radioactive sand pebble idea bombs spread,
every image created by head, dead, angry, or bored upset waves,
hate for how is we, who I be and who I see, lost in the undertoe
pulls on my toe, ocean of emotions, drowning in the waves of reality.

Art Tatum plays Ain't Misbehavin'

2010-05-18T22:08:00.000-07:00

Poem- Bird Chirps

2010-05-11T06:13:00.000-07:00

poem- Bird Chirps

Awaken sun light stuck in belly
beef ribs and burps birds chirps
litany of birdlings smirks,
if I am Armenian and She's a Turk,
should I love or is she a Jerk?

The hush exhaust of a car motor
purrs, birds tiny beaks speaks
in spurs, to a fox in the suburbs,
as I burp Greek Olives in heaves,
trains steam streams from my dreams
world into the physical reality scenes.

the poetics of fatality, a litany of
mystical myrical these spiritual words
are coughed off my lips, my eyelids crust,
pupils crossed, birds babies out in the cold,
chirp and squirm, hungry for worms,
hungry to learn, each poem a new lesson
opening the book in my heart a blessing.

Each moment, a new teaching starts to speak,
with birds tongues, strong or weak,
There is a lesson to learn, with love it burns,
I don't need to always think think think,
because with each blink blink blink,
I may miss the teachings that are,
because my head is often off away so far.

The Overburdoned Child: Split Pea Soup!

2010-04-06T12:12:00.000-07:00

The Overburdoned Child: Split Pea Soup!

I was most moved by J. Wallersteins article "The Overburdened Child: Some Long-term Consequences of Divorce,” since I too was a child when my parents were divorced. I enjoyed seeing how various children develop their personalities and identities around how they grew up and how their parents interacted with them. And also what I describe as the sense of "inner split that often results in kids of divorcees, because as their parents split up, a kid may feel this fissure or crack in their sense of who they are also.

Interestingly enough, sometimes children are given counseling or blamed for being emotionally unstable or somehow academically stunted, if they are not performing up to the level of their peers in school. But throughout my younger years, I felt that the situation was someone my fault, me not doing well in school, or having to see therapists, as if there was some problem that I had. When the reality of the situation was- "if a kid grows up in an unstable home environment- DAAAAAAhhh, they may bring that sense of inner instability into their relationships with peers, teachers and their academics." But this article gave me a sense of Alleluia, someone is acknowledging how divorce isn't a boom bang bye bye event, it can literally impact a child's sense of relationships or self-esteem for their whole life. If they don't gain the opportunity for introspection, understanding their life story narrative and to compare themselves to the various children's reactions to how divorce affects other kids, than they may be stuck in the "overburdened child" mode for years.

There is no question that the parent is as Wallerstein stated, in a state of "declined adult functioning during the divorce," which may last up to 4 years after the event. And that is just at the level of adults, who's concepts of time is different than children. Imagine having a sense of time of a child, which to me when I was younger was infinite, since the world of my imagination was immense and almost more real than the physical world. And than seeing two adults, who brought you into this world not saying the kindest words or actions towards each in front of you. As a child, it can create a sense of inner split and confusion, where you may feel like the sides of your being are literally being split like split peas in a Sancocho soup! Because as a kids, I looked up to my parents, I wanted to be like them, but as I grew into being an adolescent, I didn't want to even be seen with them or be associated with them in front of peers. But here is the question, what if this split occurs before an age that is developmentally appropriate?

Intensify the relationship of the parents polar opposites explosive in their pockets with whet knives, so the house drama becomes too intense so courts and lawyers get called and you've got one parent telling the child the other parent is bad, while the other parent tells the child the first parent is bad, and you've got at the least a confusing situation, which can intensify that sense of internal split of the two halves of the kid, since all of us at the root of the birth of our existence, came from ma's egg and pa's sperm.

A parent may just allow the other parent to gain custody of the kid, showing what Wallerstein called a sort of disconnection from the whole situation. Or, a parent may attach to the kid during the divorce. They may try an use all means possible to gain or win custody from the other parent, so they may paint pictures of the other the way the Biden/ Palin ballot wrote dirt advertisements about how Obama/McCain are so bad, or vice a versa.

The competition between the parents, on the surface may seem to be about the kid, but in fact the overburdened kid just becomes a calf idol that must be won! That inner split in the child intensifies. And so arises confusion in a sense of self-identity, self-esteem, who am I and who loves me, who should I love and who can I trust become realities when their playmates are still playing Pokemon cards after school! This can create lasting and "persisting psycho -social problems" as Wallerstein calls it, until the child understands how they've been socialized during the ordeal and the parent understands the impacts of their actions on the child, and why the child may be rebelling against them as they get older!

Inner Change Is Social Change: ADHD and Mindfulness Activism

2010-04-04T17:27:00.000-07:00

Inner Change Is Social Change: ADHD and Mindfulness Activism
By Armen Kassabian

In elementary school I was diagnosed as being Emotionally Disturbed (ED) and Learning Disabled (LD), and having Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD). I was kicked out of school twice and had interactions with the law due to impulsive behavior. My first experience with paying attention to the present moment occurred at the First Unitarian Church in Worcester, MA. At weekly mindfulness meditation group meetings I noticed how the practice of paying attention to my breath helped me gain more self-control. I also spent time in Plum Village, where a fellow meditator said he saw a lot of growth in me, and noticed that I had calmed down greatly.

As a hyperactive young man I was deeply affected by my mindfulness practice. Over months of practicing mindfulness with my breath, thoughts, and body during my freshman year at college, I noticed that my impulsiveness and my emotional reactivity were not as severe as they had been before. I began to realize that my ailments, once debilitating, were directly soothed by my mindfulness practice. I learned to sit with my experiences, accept them, and work constructively with them rather than fight with them. Mindfulness had an immense impact on my concentration and emotional stability.

When I biked to the Unitarian Church every week, I would pass the most socially unstable areas in the city, where drugs, gangs, prostitution, and homelessness were rampant. I wondered how inner city kids could benefit from mindfulness, which isn’t only a middle class luxury, but is for everyone. I had practiced sitting still and walking deliberately, as a middle class student with ADHD, to find my path.

With the mounting stresses at college, I knew I had to integrate mindfulness into my life more fully, so I designed a major called Contemplative Practice in Education at Clark University. My main focus was teaching mindfulness-based stress reduction skills (developed by Jon Kabat-Zinn) to inner city students and to students with ADHD.

I am a product of the ADHD generation, which views Ritalin as the primary solution to achieving higher standardized test scores and more obedient students. The long-term effects of over-prescribing drugs like Ritalin are still unknown and may prove to be negative, especially during the most sensitive developmental stages of childhood. Drugs can debilitate a person’s sense of awareness, shut down parts of the brain, and make one dependent on them to achieve a sense of well-being.

Mindfulness meditation, on the other hand, allows a person with ADHD to deliberately strengthen their innate capacity to slow down, and to become more aware of thoughts, emotions, and actions, integrating all parts of the brain. It’s been shown that mindfulness practitioners can rewire their neural pathways over time. Mindfulness can empower one to make more conscious choices, to access inner resources, and to gain self-confidence in the ability to focus. Instead of being primarily dependent on a drug for well-being, practitioners learn to regulate themselves.

I noticed that inner city children with ADHD did not have the resources that I had had to find safer, more natural forms of treatment than Ritalin prescriptions. These children could be using mindfulness as a means to cope with their behavioral struggles. In order to help inner city children learn new ways to reduce behavioral problems, my first step was to use a grant from the Worcester Cultural Coalition to teach an after-school program called Citizen Schools. The grant also allowed me to teach the art of mindfulness to at-risk high school students who had been kicked out of school. Later, in the Dominican Republic, I taught meditation and yoga classes for first graders, many of whom were hyperactive and overtly aggressive. All three classes aimed at teaching stress reduction skills to young people living with the stresses of the contemporary urban lifestyle. Mindful breathing and stretching and group discussions enabled students to learn skills in slowing down and relaxing their agitated bodies and minds.

My journey into mindfulness has empowered me to know that diagnoses of ADHD and ED are not lifelong ailments. Instead, they are conditions that can hinder my performance in school, relationships, or work if I do not regularly practice and strengthen my inner capacity for stillness, calmness, and focus.

My spiritual practice has empowered me to pursue social action through inner transformation. I believe that inner change is social change and becomes community change. I am committed to sharing mindfulness with young people with ADHD, and those from inner city environments, as an alternative to pharmaceutical drugs. This desire for social justice has come from the roots of the practice that have flowered in my own life and the lives of others around me.

Armen Kassabian graduated from Clark University in 2009, with a major in International Development and Social Change, Spanish, and Contemplative Practice in Education. He works for two mindfulness educational organizations and practices with Empty Hand Zen Center.

Two morning poems: ACS dreams & Forgotten

2010-04-04T06:42:00.000-07:00

ACS Dreams
wow dream land is an interesting hand of the universe,
bringing me closer to my true essence in verse!
I remember getting a call from a women who work at
ACS who tells me I got a job teaching yoga to
Foster care kids. Since I had applied, and didn't get it b4
because of being "too young, and not having the experience of a
matured yoga teacher. But at the same time my young age
was a true benefit for being able to connect with their
world, which is different but not to different from my world

Forgotten
Where is the sand, my belly filled again, a poem in hand
yet to be written again, and the fan of ancient egyptian
pharaohs furrows by my scrunched eye brows, a magically
holy shiny cow smiles in the distance of knowing nothing going no where
and being no one, the sun is streaming deep in the sky,
my eye nearly blinded by this endless harpooning of
whales in Japan or the seas of the Caribbean. Who seas
the sea with conscious of God's creation, who is willing to
re-burn the ashes of christ for cremation. In the depths of
world burdened by clear nuclear destruction, escape into the
imagination is my only saving grace. so I pace forth and back
in a yoga pose or with my tai chi clothes, trying to come a bit
more close to what is beyond what I only think what is, sinking
in this almost eternal; burning of the soul and reminding me of what
really makes me whole, so I walk back on the sandy beaches of
normandy and try an feel free on this earth, even though my species
is locked in a war state of mind, that I try an leave behind, but as
hard as I try the blood still drips from my eye, and kids are still
killed by unmanned aerial vehicles in the middle east, and I'm but
a yeast infection in the eye of the government, chemicals thrown
in my direction, so I may be forgotten, my purpose to them: is rotton.

unsung sun poem

2010-04-01T05:03:00.000-07:00

poem- UnSung Sun

sun streams into the dream of my 3rd floor life in suburban existing and the air frigid on my lips chapping, fingers snapping morning alarm babbling, crapping, asking me to awake eye sleep swollen shut, in a nut shel, the hell and heaven of earth rebirths this true worth in the head of knowing not knowing, and where the clouds become one with this everlasting breath that life is exhaling Im succeeding and failing at different ventures, but at heart of it all, is the melting sun in my eye singing the hum birds melodies left yet unsung!

Rusted Two cents

2010-03-17T08:55:00.001-07:00

Rusted Two cents (bop poem)
I am a Forgotten rusted M16 screams streams, by Cu Chi tunnel’s Vietnam dreams,
I’m on a city corner Returned to America “baby killer,” gave my blood to this nation.
Returned to PTSD, substance abuse, lack of support from family,
I was at 801 East shelter in DC, for two years three months before Veterans
affairs, finally gave me my apartment. my capital, is in the top 10 for homeless-nesss
nationally, with HIV rates of sub-Saharan Africa actually.

Train us to kill, let us rust back at home, forgotten drones, hate us and blame us, give us
your pills ignore us alone, were just trying to earn and give our two cents in poem.

I am homeless, 23% of Vets also know this, but government services Is only for
one in 10 Vets in need, it costs $ 400,000 to train a one solider to make others bleed, Titunim M60E4 machine gun's uranium tipped bullet wounds oxygenate skin in my dreams,
I stare at body of a friend maimed in Iraqi sun, his hands splattered with bloody legs now
a mass of cattle muscle melting in the dessert sun and sand, rage palatable in hand peddling for pennies, business man angered, by scotch on breath, I begin to question death?
We need job assessment and placement assistance, not only placement into mental Health Institutions or Incarceration, VA hospitals don’t heal us, months before I meet one doctor.

Train us to kill, let us rust back at home, forgotten drones, hate us and blame us, give us
your pills ignore us alone, were just trying to earn and give our two cents in poem.

“homeless people are like everybody else, But I ask God sometimes why things are so hard,
but I know He Does things in his time. So we all have to be patient, even when we don’t want to. At the end of it, I’m blessed for today but I don’t know what tomorrow will bring.
When I got discouraged, I still kept my faith, sometimes people want to move on.
But if you keep your faith in God, he will be your strength to keep on," a forgotten rusted M16 still be polished clean of ware and tare, weathered despair, but your only care is to..
Train us to kill, let us rust back at home, forgotten drones, hate us and blame us, give us
your pills ignore us alone, were just trying to earn and give our two cents in poem.

Split this Rock 2010 poetry reflections

2010-03-15T01:24:00.000-07:00

This week, I went to a great conference that happens only once every two years in Washington DC called Split this Rock. It started by a group of poets who were activists, who believed that poetry and creative writing has the power to create social change. More info here- http://www.splitthisrock.org/who.html

I was visiting Howard, the historically African American University, and my friend Lizy randomly told me that there was a poetry Conference I should visit. I bought this ticket months in advance to buy the bus, a small universe is interconnected on many nerves and veins. Here are the great workshops I took, All extremely informative.

1) Warriors Writing: Teaching Creative Writing to War Veterans
(Lovella Calica, Cathy Che, George Kovach, and Laren McClung)

This panel will focus on teaching creative writing to veterans, fostering a safe and open workshop setting, creating communities, suggestions for pedagogy, resources, and addressing relevant issues such as PTS, otherness, catharsis, and witness. The panel will also focus on how to begin a new program in your community. Panelists have taught with organizations such as Warrior Writers, the Iraq Veterans Writing Program at NYU, and the Vet Center in Brockton, Massachusetts.

2) Documentary Poetics
(Mark Nowak, Philip Metres, and Martha Collins)
Busboys and Poets, Langston Room
Using journalistic investigation, poetic collage, and narrative film techniques, documentary poetry seeks to preserve, in verse, a record of events, much like the Depression-era photographs that were its inspiration. In this panel, we will explore the role of the poet as documentarian and how poets have incorporated news reports, government documents, legal testimony, statistical data, and other source material into what has been referred to as a “poetics of fact.”

3) Yoga & Poetry in Changing Times
(Yael Flusberg and Carly Sachs)
“I consider myself a soldier, but a soldier of peace”
Mahatma Gandhi

In this experiential workshop, we’ll use yoga and poetry to explore the archetype of the warrior as an activist, creative, and spiritual path. Is the outer battlefield a metaphor for inner wrestling? Are there skillful means in waging battle? Is non-harming the same as non-violence? Join us as we move bodies, ideas, and pens in reflecting deeply on our individual and collective warriorhood.

Note: Expect periods of yoga practice interspersed with time for writing. Wear comfortable clothes, bring a mat, your favorite notebook and pen, and an open attitude. Neophytes and seasoned practitioners of both yoga and writing are most welcome, but if you have doubts because of an injury or disability, or any other questions/concerns, please feel free to contact one of the facilitators before the workshop (Yael Flusberg or Carly Sachs)

4) Write from the Source: Breath, Gesture, Word (Janet E. Aalfs)

This workshop will combine breath awareness, movement and rhythm, writing, and spoken word in an exploration of internal and external sources of poetry and activism. Working with the figure-8, we will experience the "third thing" which is about balance, relationship, and paradox—and share learning across cultures. Through individual, partner, and group exercises, participants will be encouraged to work at whatever level feels possible, and supported to take risks.

5) Radical Diversity: The Presentation of Poetry as an Agent of Radical Change
(Rich Villar, Lynne Procope, and Marie-Elizabeth Mali)
True Reformer Building-1

The LouderARTS Project’s mission is to radicalize the inner dialogue about the self--shifting the definition of other. Poets and curators from the New York-based nonprofit discuss the popular 11-year reading series and the programming formats developed over the years to celebrate and canonize the poetry of writers that have been overlooked or labeled as “marginalized.” The panel will share examples of how the teaching and presentation of well-crafted poetry from those diverse communities has served and can serve to shift political viewpoints and opinions on an individual level, and in turn, a societal level.

Poetics of Family reconnecting!

2010-03-15T01:21:00.000-07:00

How was does doing is the engineering whiz, sprite fizzling? steak sizzling? doing this evening? Here is a rap for you and the fam, that will surely be appealing madame- as "Christ’s light dismal but bright plights to fight flight inside this insight, the might of fright with bights of confusion and happiness suffice, coughing and breathing in passiveness, with crappiness and delight,

so spring break breaks over the plate of God’s weight and we re-find family, in this mental sentimental anomaly, cannibally cremating past family's strange decisions, to cut off brothers from sisters for no other reason, but conservative cultural values a treason, breathing in breath pace spoken softly, in Armenian Words to Greek earlobes silenced coaghing," but we all got the same breath fate, and inside the meshed face, of grace of holy-ness of human-ness there is this is-ness, of shared blood and phone card decisions,

the imagination of memories, are playing tremendously, in my pen's ink, flowing free as I blink blindly, thinking of how Czerchezian Hovaghimian blood is running freely, above floor boards from Australia to New York to Florida to Montréal to Belgium, to God knows where else in tandem, finally family rebreathes existence, from forgotten resistance, into healthy mellow “hellos” with persistence, rather than tense forged memories, once blocked out tremendously, endlessly lost and found, in the sea web of humanity,

now re-birthing slowly, from a thirsting holy well spring oasis, each day like a flower, opening its petals a bit more, than closing at moonlight on delta shores, as the son and daughters of the sun are shining on our chiseled faces, wide open smiles like crescent moons embrace lips, grace is, paces, discovery in each day's paradise, inner homeostasis, we remember what it means, to re-find another family members eyes, once lost in the abyss of the night, now howling with the oceans wind, beside the darkness by moon light.

Health Ego Development (Mindful Communication excercise)

2010-03-10T07:49:00.000-08:00

Healthy Ego Development

I live at home, I'm 22 year old unemployed college grad, so of course me and my mom step on each others toes a bit. But today was different, I learned a lesson from an experience. My mom was frustrated about getting less social security, since my dad will also get a portion of hers, and her pension from working, since they were married. She is discussing her disgust with the system and him, I listened patiently. But what can I do, as she goes on and on, I want to offer some help, but I feel increasingly impatient, invisible, helpless and fed up with hearing the same old vicitm story again.

The conversation frustrates me because I feel like I don't exist, I can't say anything to make the situation better. When she asks me "I hope its okay that I am sharing this with you, I don't want it to make you upset?" I say "its fine," even though I know it really makes me angry to say this. To deny my ego from saying a basic need.

I am a pleaser. That is what I do, try please people however possible when I meet them. Where do you fit on the spectrum? Meaning, I try an adjust my personality and act in a way that will make others feel comfortable around me. But the problem can be that I can loose my sense of identity, the ego disappears. I am like a vacume of thoughts or being. This is when I go into the deer in headlights mindset. I stare blindly, and feel that I have no thought to offer coming from me. Because all I want to do is be liked by the other person.

The results of this semi- improper ego development, can be: frustration, anger, confusion, lack of confidence, indecision or other emotions, or mind states that have the potential to have a negative affect on ego, if not deal with when the annoyance is small. If not properly dealt with at the root of the ego, it can grow quite large later on. So as my mom expresses herself, I stop existing by allowing her to spew her anger all over, without saying "Hey, I don't feel comfortable with this" clearly, I start becoming increasingly angry at myself. Because I do not know how to properly deal with the situation, I begin to blame my mom for the anger I'm feeling. I don't know how to de-escalate the anger I'm feeling inside, because my ego couldn't express its basic human needs, so I try to calmly show her my frustration, without making a scene. Otherwise, it become bigger inside of you if never expressed in a health manner. The result can be an impulsive destructive action toward another person or towards oneself, if the ego hasn't properly asserted itself during the interaction.

Five minutes after our conversation, I was feeling a burning rage, so I as semi-calmly expressed to her: "Mom, I really would appreciate if you could try to not express your anger with me! I'm dealing with my own stuff, and can't handle taking on someone else's stuff as well." Mind you my mom is a very upbeat fun loving lady, but like all human she has her days. But the issue for me was to be ASSERTIVE. Something I struggle with, using my voice, to speak clearly, with confidence and precision, knowing what I'm saying is meant to be heard. I'm always to being the nice guy and forget taking care of myself. This interaction was a powerful lesson in learning how to respectively express my needs, and experience proper ego development without hurting myself or others. I was still angry of course, and went out for a 1/2 hour jog, which lightened my body with oxytocin and endorphins.

So I ask you: Share a story in which you either did or didn't experience a healthy ego development? Where you asserted a need of yours, and expressed it to another person who was bothering you? Was it done respectfully, or not exactly? Did you feel better or worse after the interaction? Did you loose yourself, in a way that you felt you couldn't speak up for yourself, but afterwards, felt so frustrated you didn't say this or that? Share one experience, I'd love to hear some experiences.

gOd's apocalyptics

2010-03-05T08:15:00.000-08:00

gOd's apocalyptics
that some hot shit you drip from lip, your pen drop to the page, rethought the sources of rage, rapped on the stage, like heads wrapped in saran wrap talking da ghost of johnny cage,I enjoyed the flow of your banana split with , hot shit, vanilla fudge or chocolate, pass the roach to the left before it gets awkward or apocalyptic, lips stinks of pink fake sugar soda drink I think that the egyptian sphinx, is the top of humanities struggle, jewish slaves were meant to behave under the pharaohs rule, only a fool would rebel as well as Moses could tell, what God asked him to do, follow the intuition of inner vision, beyond the confines of religion, deepening his soul's consciousness conviction, filling up his body with God's lightness, so he could go fight this oppression that night is, teach a lesson to the bureaucratic hippocratic crack addicts in power, with oaths of bull shit locked in the basements every hour, he lead the people free from poverty defilement.

I enjoyed to hear your raps flow into my ear lobes, no fear appears when they raps flows like king kong gorrillaz tears to Michael Jackson's thriller, Mariylin mansion style killers in mansions, talking to chimpanzees in japanese, bumping knees in greasy ease toilet stalls, wet those balls with pink soap, the pope extracted from skin lime of slave mimes, who follow the words like God's word, or like sergeant war lords spoilage telling Ugandan kids to place land mines in their mama villages,pillages storm, reborn the thorn in the lions main, pain the game of life each suffering, a lesson, a knife to the chest, a bleeding blessing of hate and love mixed with a pinch of salt, to eat with cobalt, pass out each night and re-awaken in morn, to say its God's fault, aint it strange, in our life... when something goes good for us, we take credit for this, but if something goes horrible, we blame God sin, scream for an end, what an odd ball bellies up frail frog tails up tense resistance, to the existence we keep livin' in.

http://go.microsoft.com/?linkid=9712958

ZEN Poetry Written after a Mindfulness Retreat in Worcester, MA

2010-02-26T13:14:00.000-08:00

poem
Morning dew flowers on Lotus flower,
beyond what we think of sun soil on flower,
lies a power beyond words thought of it,
can you feel it and hold it still inside?
A mid-day Carribean sky with,
not a cloud to be seen in eye

Poem When I go...o
Within I hear the constant chatter annoyance
anger frustration and wonder am I
really all these things I think of myself,
or is there something else?
More or less to be accounted for?

Belly poem
Belly gurgling to rhythms of faucets
dripping into earlobes of submission,
a vision of who I am and should be
fogs my mirror, than the he who sits here
patiently watching a slither of sunlight
draws shadows and long white shapes
on a quilted carpet, outside children
playing with crayons,
following their sketchbook of intuition.

Rutterless Sailing
Beyond thought what is there what there be,
a life fully lived rather than fought against constantly,
staring into the eyes of a neighbors pitbull,
I mistake these fierce coughing growls
as aggression when all he wants is a pat on the back

Fear persists I walk to other side of street,
my feet a mind of their own,
my monkey mind,
a sail boat with no rudder
or wench, were to next?

wind wait for when the wind is ready to push me forward
backwards again and again.
like a merry go round in a small pond,
this bought of my body does circle habits
thoughts tension in body and I watch it all
play out on the boat of my life each moment
either strom placcid waters or seagulls craw,
what more is there now, but this body mind
but floating amongst the waves upon a rutterless sail boat.

Poem Silence
Silence draws poems not yet written by the ancients perennials
beauty: a baby yet to be born.
a chick yet to hatch,
a pumpkin seed yet to germinate,
a thought yet to be acted on, all of the same
nature, coming and going from tonight to day,
from sound to silence, universe plays the guitar strings
and I but another seed yet to be planted.

Stress reduction strategies to hanging out at home too long

2010-02-24T13:12:00.000-08:00

If you have trouble sleeping use one of the body scans, it really helps!

if you feel sad, go out side in nature and read poetry by a loved poet. If you don't have one I recommend:
Suheir Hammad, Willie Perdomo, Carl Hancokc Rux or Tracie Morris!

One more Knish? (Buddhist Poetry~)

2010-02-23T15:48:00.000-08:00

Walking in Upper West side unknown territory,
I fear what is happening, anxiety confusion fuming,
A hunger to eat, to stop the annoyance, to fight it
Is sparked in my head. I step into a Kosher store to get
A Knish, and first ask myself “Am I really hungry?”
I check in with the tightness in belly and know: “No!”
But the nerves are still there, so I stare at Kosher tuna finish
Sandwiches, mind switches as each though twitches.

All of a sudden I stop, and just walk outside, impulse after
Impulse pumping my eyes, to never confide, I start seeing that
Yes there is an anxious state in me, and no, I can’t stop it right now,
But the anxiety is in me, it isn’t all of me. This sense of allowing
Me to experience what I’m feeling but not react and act
on it each time, is what slows the my brain enough to return
to the body mind stuff.

It hits me: that my ego, thoughts are racing,
Changing every moment, one second I love tuna, the next
I hate myself, the next I don’t like the feeling of rain in my socks.
And the stories, comments are endless, but there is beyond them
An eternal perennial stillness, that acknowledges the annoyances,
But doesn’t fight them off, sees them there, and allows them to stay.

Truly seeing that the thoughts don’t need to be identified with constantly.
Because they are fickle and jittering. But the stability of one breath rising
And falling is calling me back to me, and beyond anxiety attacks and
Impulsive eating there is a fact: I am more than me.

There is truly No one me or I, but a series of states constantly changing around and within me,My responsibility is simple: to trust this step, return to this breath,
not blindly believe and reacting to each thought like mental slavery.
Because I just might get caught, walking in unknown neighborhoods again,
My only friend in the moment may just end up being the way my belly bends.
Sends shivers down my spine, walls of thought still storm, but I am more than them,
I embody them, beyond the glasses of thought, a still composure, clarity in action.

one sits

2010-02-23T01:33:00.000-08:00

When one sits in meditation,
one sees the people
coming and going
over the avenue bridge
as trees growing deep in the mountains.

Japanese Zen Master Daito
Kokushi,

Old Roomate memories in Worcester!

2010-02-18T17:35:00.000-08:00

Bight my tongue realign the old with the young, drink a Heineken and remember past days with my amazing roommate in 60s de Puerto Rico salsa dancing extraordinaire, no despair or care, who says “entra to me,” as I drop by his place around 730. He’s got a new nice lady, he’s known for a few months, wondrousness, he explains how this is a new TV he got at Christmas, and he turns up the salsa music mystic, and lets it adorn me with holiness greatness, his cool Taino Puerto Rican cut cheek bones, he reminisces on “ I almost made it to the Phillies, but I got drafted to Vietnam.” I ask “but you couldn’t stay to play?” He says “no, when they call you got to go!”

He came back four years later, after being shot almost in the left nut sack; he got the purple Medal of Honor. And he starts playing the salsa music and there it goes flowing away and onward, and up till skyward. Wow, the music his feet tapping to their rhythm, who slides over Bongos and starts rambling away on them. Then I give a go at it, as he hits foot to the floor. Back again its great to the house of my old roommate. What great memories there are here. He says he’ll be marrying her in a few months. How great this is. What a great man, cool man, you got to love him!

Mindfulness of ADD: 15 Minutes Beaks Might Just Save the ADD fate of My Generation

2010-02-15T12:55:00.000-08:00

Mindfulness of ADD

Mid Qi Gong/Ta'i ch'i I had a few deep realizations about the nature of Attention Deficit (Hyper Activity) Disorder ADHD/ADD:

I'm always or most off the time off of planet earth, the sensation in the body is literally floating.
I'm often late to events, and a bit to disorganized to get my life together. But is this my fault?
Am I stupid? Floating Dreamer? Lazy? Retarded or Worthless? or Is my brain just wired differently?
I will choose option two for me, for the sake of confidence and optimism, what will you choose for you?

This term I use, "I feel like I'm off planet earth" is very powerful, so try an become aware when you to feel disconnected
from your body, do to moving to fast, thinking about 15 things with one mind, feeling overwhelmed by
overstimulation of the senses or whatever else gives you that feeling. By doing so you can stop your self from going down even more self-destructive paths. This is call Mindfulness of ADD. I'm not dumb, I'm different, I just float off the earth very easily. And need a little Mindfulness anchor to keep me on the ground more. I say this to myself so often, I have so many great ideas, but can seem to do any of them! One main reason is: because you can't keep your mind and body united long enough to actually complete the task at hand. Like a helium ballon with no wire, good luck not floating with the clouds. Understanding this explains why I can never get done as much of what I want to do in my life! But do we need to be victimized by this ADHD reality?

I realized that I eat food, even overeat it, so that my fast running wandering mind can actually stay on earth longer. So that is one strategy that kind of does and kind of doesn't work. Another I experiment today, is I do QI gong Movements or yoga! I consciously enter my body, or at least become aware of how often I'm not in it, just be setting this intention of "enter the body for myself.

The next realization is soo simple yet so amazingly powerful for my ADD brothers and sisters:
I can guarantee it will help you a great deal. Because it has help me finish a grad school application in one day!
Granted I had the paper written before, but the mental organization and focus need for ADD minds to even get anything
done is immense, everyday is a struggle really, since I don't have the structures of a job or school, I am always dealing with
being scattered. There is nothing obliging me focus! Except in New York city, cabs are great this, when I walk, and almost
get hit by them because my mind is floating off away from my body, it certainly wakes me up fast, get back into your body, no more dreaming!

So the Secret for it: to stay more grounded, is: instead of trying to finish a big project in three hours straight, take stretching walking non-self-destructive tangent breaks every 15 - 20 minutes. My body goes nutz, if It can't move I feel like I hate being in my body, just crazy, this is the body saying take a break. Usually I keep forcing myself to work, and get more angry, and have no clue why. Well here is a secret. Take a break, stop, breathe, stare out the window. Enough forcing yourself to reach unreachable goals in unreachable time. Stay grounded connected to the body, and be aware that by taking breaks, you can take a break from a severe state of mental disturbance and low self-esteem that ADHD/ADD can often accompany. In my mind there are many negative words about myself, that are constantly triggered by even the smallest judgement of a friends. Its incredible how hard it is for me to finish one email task without changing to singing the music that is playing on ITUNE Batchata Radio. Than I shut the music off, and get bored, because I love that high stimulation feel. That is why ADD people often do a few things at a time, somewhat well. Rather than one thing really well.

Then before I know it, the day is gone, than the week, than the whole damn month, and than months. Sometimes I feel angry that I haven't done more with my life, like I've been lazy here in new york these past fours months I've been here post graduating, but it in all honesty, it has boiled down to me being in a vacillating state in which I couldn't focus long enough on any one thing without changing my mind. My feet were not on the ground, I've been floating off of earth. Imagine it, you people who don't have ADD, try an look at our world from our eyes for three sentences. You're trying to make a decision of where you are going in your life, or what you are going to do for the next 15 minutes, but can never finish your objective goal, because the ground you were standing on is like made of clouds, or slick ice, so you can't walk with out tripping over, losing sense of your body floating away and getting really angry at yourself for falling down, not getting done what you want to or hearing non-add people say, "You're so lazy!" Not phone some people live there whole life like this, constantly judged, and ADD becomes associated with low self-esteem, because people feel that whatever they try they will fail at. But maybe our approach to healing the struggle of ADD in children and adults is wrong, not the people?

To me, the reality, the Mindfulness of ADD truth is.. it's not your fault, it is who you are, and the more you hate who you are ( I hate this feeling!!!) the more you want to be like other people. But the harder you try to be other people, the more likely you set your self up to fail...you know why? You will always be better at being yourself than you could ever be someone. But this doesn't mean we should blindly accept our strengths and weakness. We just need to approach ourselves and the activity we are trying to achieve with a different perspective. A perspective of forgiveness towards when "we judge ourselves," or tell ourselves "idiot, you messed up again worthless, you keep making the same mistake over and over, you'll never learn." ADD can be like this, constant distractions flowing in the brain, like a baby playing with hot plate without realizing it's burning the baby more and more.

So the secret may just be to work in 15 minute segments, and take lots of breaks. This just may be our ADD/ADHD fate. I've noticed I can study or work much better when I limit the amount of time I work on a project, rather than let myself float away into doing it for hours, in a state of disgust saying "I can never focus." What human being wouldn't get frustrated sitting working on a project for hours. We're not coma zombies, we're humans, who need to move around. Rather than get angry because you can't focus on something take a break, eat a carrot, stare at a squirrel, stretch a bit, do some qi gong/ ta'i ch'i and try again. Keep working like this, it may help the daily struggle that is being ADD, without taking those MEDs constantly. If we can't imagine a new approach, than we'll be stuck in the same ADD habits, when in fact we can gain control of it over time. The most important question for my ADD brethren to keep asking yourself is: " Am I floating of earth?" If the answer is yes, than ask yourself what concrete actions you can take to either keep yourself floating or come back to earth. Make a list on a page, half of it floating actions, and the other grounded earth actions. Looking within, is where all the answers are. And like Mindfulness- Based Stress Reduction, you can not mess up. If you loose focus of your breathe, don't get angry at yourself, just come back to the focus point gently, no need to judge yourself.

Write back... let me know if this helps at all for you, your kids or your family?

Poem- Illegal Immigrants

2010-02-10T22:47:00.001-08:00

illegal immigrants!

uranium geranium restraining them with made up hymns,
crimson criminals subliminal advertisments lying hints,
armegettan waiting to hit em, if we can't stop em, than lets just forget em,
or join em, Golden God dollar hollers corporate lies in em,
like church locked ideologies of idolatry, pagan worship seems
to be, a dream of epic deamonous seamon is deems these lips
lies to us, giving head to da sickest system's greedy lust,
erect cock cancerous rap sermons thrust, rape native cervix,
nicknamed unchristian savages who paid us,
the ashes of king Atahualpa's bones desire-a-fire in eyes of ire,
Pizzaro worn supreme preened finest things, stolen Incan golden rings,

bling blings for today too, still stored in US fort knox, texas box,
for goldman and sax to relax, kickin our ball sacks, blinding eyes with tacks,
tying tubes of native americans so no kids enter uterus tracts,
Bank of America's $25 billion bail out funds, taken out our damn tax,
squirming AIG CEOs got another $100 million bonus off our damn backs,
government ready to fucking bone us, no rubers onerous butt fuckers,
build up the economy? a lie to me actually, cause they cut down the jobs,
rapidly, like amazon trees, killing public schools, building prisons,
privatize fools, wharesome em into jails or minority filled militaries,
send em to Iraq, Afghanistan, or Haiti maybe, get em killed or give em PTSD,
with GI bill benefits for free, as corporate slobs get more trips in Hawaii,
if you ask me, the whole system is made up so some get away,
and others get caught black handed, Madoff made off with millions,
got locked away till 2076, but his two guilty son's still see the light of day,
Fannie Mae's Daniel Mudd sees millions in severance pay today,

glazed outline of my face in the grey clouds, speaking to God outloud
with breathe like a kosher knife slicing my shout, what can an anti suburban
dwelling peon do? as the government, media, politics, business,
poo on or think I'm just a pink lemon flavored urinal cake to pee- on too,
I waken up to the pain I'm feeling, they're peeling my skin off
with carrot peelers, congealing my heart each day I pass a homeless man,
or a mother with a child who can't, no childcare, close to foster care,
dds about to take kids away, who could care? Cause meth got the better of her,
her lover was only around to pound into her endometrium to put it in her,
bounced after baby popped out like burnt poptarts from her furry twat part,
baby heart beating in her fist, that deserves nutricious love and nourisment,

a social misfit mist abyss, poetic gift grafted to my lips, tatoed to finger tips,
grafted to conciousness, in causticness of sinfullness new york city toxicness,
taxi gas God is grim with this, popped the puss dribbled onto us like piss,
and bloody brain droplets of a baby veal or octopus, so lets delete the phetus,
before he becomes like us, in sicks systems vomiting bolemeas conceits us,
to forget, eating ayahuasca staring into this magic gennie bottle God ask us,
"are you still bursting blood sweat bullets from your earlobes?"
I stare back disgusted, blind mute and dumb unable to feel or talk, locked up,
hearing how sick the system is, and "how democrats and republicans
are as sick as the child molesters?" who once at 5 were molested as kids,
give him a food stamp hand and psychotropic drugs to the head instead,
of teaching him to fish in these city sewar pipe ponds, pipe dreams
for radioactive fish growing gills on my arms, I only focus on one body part
to forget the other parts that are burning and falling apart.

breathing under water, son of sam, the son or daughter
of pamalee anderson, seems to be the main focus of my penis
hokis pockis, societally, jokers and crack smokers take a mental
break and move down to the first chakra, so life gets number,
and we each get locked up in a casket, God got each one of our
numbers in his holy basket, ask it... the universe when your turn is?
it will burn into your skin with maggots com-ing into your eye ball
running to the edge of inhumane measures, cause America
cares more about sweat shop maquiladores treasures in haiti,
than they could ever give a shit about a dying diahree baby
or how a narlens levy cracks and kills blacks, its crazy,
I stare at my passport and wanna cut its wrists, risk this disgust
busting into my eye crust, crying to the edge of my tear ducts, till
piss starts streaming down my cheek bones, each poem,
weakens my knees, groans in the breeze, each poem I feel more alone,
worthless and helpless, God tell me what help is, I trust in what your plan is,
but am confused by who the man is, who makes billions of the dying,
sighing, crying. In Haiti, American construction companies competing,
I ask myself, as God watches Pizzaros Gold bleeding burning, what is wealth?
and what is another Haitian, an American, a Mexican, a chinaMan,
a Spaniard, A french man, AIG, Fannie Mae or Goldman and Sachs
Ceo man, Puerto Rican, Dominican, but another illegal immigrant!

@ every Venture

2010-01-23T19:26:00.001-08:00

At every venture God is alive
Wanting to be found, to be felt,
There is no thinking, only feeling,
God says “follow my path, not you own.”

I ask God what should I do when I feel insecure
“keep feeling insecure, in fact feel more insecure!”

And for school?
“don’t worry it’s all in my hands

“Laugh more than you think!”

Forget what you want do what fills my needs
Your destiny is in me, no where else
Keep talking to me, everywhere, how ever possible
I am awakening

1 20 07

Golden Plated Buddha

2010-01-23T19:04:00.001-08:00

Gold plated Buddha chipping fading once vibrant, now turning back to red
bronze beneath blood color, no viens seen beneath Bodhisattva Guanyins
Satin Robe, Leg double lotus, feet to Heavens, toes aligned with stars
that sky can show at 3:32 Pm
Bathing in Artifical light of musea de Montreal, behind glass box
protection, can he breath in there
He wears a Lotus flower on his red heart charka and green solar plexus and
a red sapphire on his 3rd eye, his mind eye.
His eye liods hide his vivbrating eyes what a western doctor calls REM he
knows as Satsori Dhayani, his black hair combed, not a loose strand falls,
only waves of crow feathers, growing from his flat scalp above his
incandescent, chipping eyelids. His ears stretch. After years of wearing
red Diamond encrusted shimmering jewellery. He wears peace in his smile,
Quivering light red bottom lip, Calm rosy pink top lip.
There are scratches on his face, howèd they get thereÉ Did they drop him
on his journey from Ming China 1368 to this moments canda 2007 time zone
Buddha
Peace two red skinned thumbs barely grazing, palms flat a top each otheré
Every breath tangents to enlightened state,
Like petals on a wet black bough.
His meditation
Bronze body, bornze breath
Gold chipping skin, impermance
Fading like my misty breath on glass case,
Hes been breathing four 639 years, mudra hands
Still chest
Gods eyes
As marten Gianka, Asdvadz einch shunz ne,
This manes life, is gods breath.

Free right Haiti and Affirmations

2010-01-19T07:53:00.001-08:00

Free write
Gag bang gang bang thangs and earrings and steering these new wheels to new ways to feel out the shouts and I cry and crimes are repeating on the Haitian streets, as my Worcester heart beats feel wooden floor beneath feet, and the river of a shower roads in store for the future none knows if the who world may one day become like Haiti, mother nature attacking back the human hands that it feeds it seep that the tides of sunken quite low on Santo Domingo, and none know to where

we shall flow in the universal bursting thirsting atmosphere of greenhouse gases that appear on the global map that’s here, and my tears drip into tainted rivers where once millions of species lived in, but know near to instinct ion in the Amazon forest, the chorus of birds sign, flying o broken wings that hunter think is delicious but, how would a human feel if they had their two legs broken, unspoken injustice!

In my world I can eat my cow burger, as long as I don’t have to be the murder and no guilt seems to appear in this ear and out the next, magical hex infects that which rejects this insurance of insecurity repeating in my, lost in this not know how fuck cows, and the whole worlds eye brows.

Staring deep into the river of life of unknown, wind blown on my forehead I, I forgot head rots snots out the shouts about feeling the not real feeling in my skin of a lovers touch and visualizing the rush of heart that is beating blood to feet to walk, but to wherever none would dare ask pass the pass, and crash this crash test, as life unfolds in every breath, no death just rebirth is every moments worth!

Affirmations (while listening to bossa nova on ITunes international radio)
I’m successful I'm successful I’m successful im wonderful I’m wonderful I’m wonderful, I’m worth it, I’m worth it I’m worth it, I’m worthy of all the success in the world I’m worthy of all the success in the world I’m worth of all the success in the world.
I make lost of money I make lots of money I make lots of money I make lots of money, I make lots of money I make lots of money I make lots of money I make lots of money I make lots of money, I follow believe and achieve my goals deeds, I follow and believe my goal and follow my dreams to the even I follow my dreams,
Today is a good day, I can feel today it a good day I can feel it, today is a good day, I can feel it today is a good day, I can feel it today is a good day I can feel it!
All I do manifests to greatness al I do manifests to greatness all I do manifests to great all I do manifests to greatness, I trust the universe I trust the universe I trust the universe I trust the universe I trust the universe I trust what the universe chose me to do on earth I trust what the universe chose me to do. I trust universe!

Haiti's Hades

2010-01-17T19:15:00.001-08:00

Haiti's Hades

When I stare at the news,
It gives me the blues,
Who had to choose
Haiti to loose?
Maybe 100,000
people's bodies
rest peaceful,
Brownish purple
White dust full,
blackened skin imbues
concrete spews
on pews,
Who thought nature
could do
War on the
poor too?

7.0 heartbeats beat,
Earthquakes unequal
beneath rumbling feet,
To others before, more
bones tore, amputees pour
into street graveyards sore,
Tremors trembling signs for
Port-au-Prince fault lines tour.
Shines in rubble of bodies snore,
Oddly mothers, brothers finds
Fathers, uncles, aunt's body minds.
Hear it, nightmare visions
Haunting ghost spirits pigeons,
make me question religion,
wondering why again, Haiti's pangs reigns,
as natural disaster pain rains
Global warming our brains.

Kids want to not mind,
All those they know
now left behind,
Who they knew who
Now lay below dirt skin blue
Once black, above, or
Beneath, concrete homes,
Churches, hospitals, babies alone,
clenched teeth, orphans cringing feet
cries bore to no one at home.
Who will hug orphan bugs?
While prison thugs bring
Knives violent muggings.

In the US we send 10$ Texts
For Haiti Aid, Doctors Without
Borders, UNICEF,
501501-Yele foundation
90999-American Red Cross,
Patience, as we watch CNN, bodies
cross the roads, screaming when
“is the aid, food, water, hospitals,
or roads to be paved?” dollar paid,
but hunger stays, showering this tiny
Caribbean nation dismayed,
building more military road blockades.
Death from dehydration
Death from starvation
Death from open wounds
alive in my contemplations,
of patient prayers sensations,
for the Haitian Nation to be
saved from Hade's annihilation.

2010-01-13T17:36:00.000-08:00

NEW Years 2010 in Montreal

2010-01-06T01:00:00.000-08:00

New Years in Montreal with Kassabian Family

This new Years, I spent it with family in Montreal, Cananda, freezing my you know what off, but happily. Here are some photos of family members, giving gifts, new years, event, Armenian dancing and my girlfriend Olivia jumping over snow! I went to an AGBU event with 150 ARmenians, at a formal banquet, it was very classy! ENJOY

New Years

Poem- Forgotton Spirits!

2010-01-06T00:58:00.000-08:00

Forgotton Spirit!

what rap, it aint no mishap, cause I drop lyrics into the hat, and
watch em flow into love or comabt, I do love it, the Armenian rapping
comedian persona, I grew with rap flows on ya! want to take a stab at
drooping a track to attract more high masses onto these mental
facebook grasses, taking passes at diligent militant murderous hideous
purposeless pissing dissed, visions missed, lost in holocaust mist,
forgotten pissed is the people we are, from where none could care to
dare ask or try an repair a Turkish Armenian relationship, Thanks for
not giving a shit England or France! My hips sway with heavy babies in
kurdish villages, at least a million in Turkey today, Armenian blood
dripping in the veins pillages my night mares disdain complain, rat
playing around dead corpses dug into force less pits Cambodian Khmer
rouge style, the vial violent silent remembrance tense in the
senseless murderous of bombs dropping on Afghanistan plans for
Democratic development, coughing, roughly singing with a voice that is
hoarse and ugly, hate me love, me rapping these melodies of
melancholy, with brocolli and cauliflower rain showers, frequencies
independently rising off of body, soul floating in etheric space, I
chase Armen Chase ARmen oddly, with raps he flows, so my lyrics
follows, I glow a smile and respond for this while, from the mystical
mythical dream land, asking in rhyme:how are you man?

Grad app for Journalism school- ahh- finished!

2010-01-04T10:38:00.001-08:00

Writers have the power to become the story tellers of a society. Whether through poetry, short stories, academic papers, or journalistic activist essays, the written word has been a prime medium for communicating my passions. I live to observe, reflect, write and analyze personal, social or political stories, and describe it from various perspectives.
I'm from a family of eccentric Armenian Egyptian artists. My mother has been an art teacher for 40 years and my father has gone from being a photographer to a hypnotist to a web developer. From my stroller years, I've been influenced by my mother's activist activities, starting with when I went to my first march on Washington protesting the Iraq war in the 1990s. My mom is an advocate for human rights, and her sense of social justice has been instilled in me.
As a student at Clark University, I studied International Development and Social Change and partook in a Mayan studies program for Anthropological research in Chiapas, Mexico. The field school involved interviewing local NGOs, and Zapatistas, and researching issues regarding health care, education, and the usage of chemical fertilizers in rural Mexico. I conducted interviews in Spanish and co-wrote a paper that was presented with peers at the Society for Applied Anthropology Conference in Tampa, Florida.
My mother's family was partially saved by a marriage to a Muslim Turkish military man, so I have a unique perspective on ethnic conflict and war. My family members were both killed and saved by Muslims, causing my existence to be rooted in a dichotomy of love and hate towards Turkish people. From birth, my perspective has been slanted emotionally, socially and psychologically. During the 1915 Armenian Genocide, approximately one million Armenians died in Eastern Anatolia. In the 21st century, an age in which war is as common as Crest Toothpaste, the tensions between groups of people in the world has been escalating steadily. I intend to study International Reporting to supplement the curiosity I’ve had with international issues since my awareness of Armenian-Turkish relations.
Because of my interest in contemplative practices such as meditation, I am able to view a situation from many contexts and perspectives because I know how to listen to others non-judgmentally- a skill practiced in meditation. When interviewing someone, an effective journalist must be connected to the interviewee and be aware of their needs, emotions and thoughts, to create a safe and comfortable space for the person to express their truth. The medium of researching knowledge involves creating healthy relationships as well. When interviewing homeless people, Mexican immigrants learning ESL in Massachusetts, inner city high school students, Haitian Migrant workers in the Dominican Republic or Mexican farmers in Chiapas, I've utilized the journalistic lens of transparency. My research goal was to make writing express their essence and world-view, rather than mine.
When I analyze international situations like the Palestinian-Israeli issue, these stories from abroad deeply affect daily relationships in America. For instance, my mother's best friend is a Jewish Zionist, and my mother is sympathetic to the Palestinian cause. My mother sees the Palestinians aspiration for a homeland similar to the plight of the Armenians in Turkey during the 21st century. I've found myself as a peacemaker, counseling my mother after some heated debates. International Issues, in a globalized world have became localized as well. The media has the power to control the American consciousness through deception or telling of “facts”. I'm a compassionate person, who can make anyone feel comfortable with me. I've volunteered at a synagogue making food for the homeless as quickly as I say "Marahaba" to Egyptian street vendors on the corner of West 40th street. Being able to view a story, debate or a person from various perspectives non-judgmentally, allows for the most effective presentation of facts and truth.
Of course the concept of "truth" is always relative to who you ask and what they want you to believe. Journalism in its un-doctored state aims at portraying both sides of a contentious issue, rather than the writer infusing their views on the essay. But in the media shmorgishborg of America, where there is radio, tv, internet, blackberries and magazines all feeding our senses, it’s hard to not ingest the highest quality of mind food. From Fox 5, to Cosmos to Democracy Now, the media in America can feed on the fears of its citizens in order to illicit a reactive response in the population or it can empower people to become active citizens. Journalists are the gatekeepers of knowledge and truth in the American Consciousness. Although media has became highly corporatized and censored in the United States, I view citizen journalism as one of the highest representations of free speech in democratic society. By empowering the public to play an active role in reporting facts, journalism can become a tool of the oppressed and socially silenced segments in society.
At Clark University, I was placed in an environment outside of my safe milieus. I excelled academically by choosing courses that involved active learning by traveling, writing about my experiences and doing community service in diverse settings. I learned about Participant-Based Research and Cultural Anthropology that enabled me to help facilitate focus groups about female youth violence and teach English to Spanish speaking immigrants. I've also volunteered at a summer camp in Armenia for children with Cerebral Palsy and I was a tutor in the Worcester High Schools as well. I was also an intern at a school in the Dominican Republic part of a human rights organization called One Respe. Traveling across the globe has caused me to have a broadened perspective on international issues. I have seen and experienced issues found in the words of news articles, causing me to be aware of another side to what I read and have a broader sense of the truth.
Writing has the power to save lives as well. At Clark, I wrote a grant for AIDS Project Worcester to receive more portable HIV testing kits and I offered volunteer Thai Massage and Reiki energy healing services to HIV positive patients. My presence at the HIV clinic caused people to feel safe and happy. When I volunteered Massage and Reiki to HIV positive patients, I brought a light, respect and love to people, that would enable a deeper human connection. Rather than view them as only HIV+ and different, I began to see them as human beings, not much different than myself.
I self-designed a major about the field of Mindfulness in Education, titled Contemplative Practice in Education. Mindfulness is one's capacity to pay attention non-judgmentally to the present moment. The movement commenced in 1979 in Worcester, MA, when Jon Kabat- Zinn founded the Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction (MBSR) class. The class trains students in secular yoga, meditation, non-violent communication skills, and a body relaxation, to learn about the physiology of stress and become active participants in their well-being. These practices have been proven to develop concentration, clear thinking, and reduce stress and anxiety. As part of my major, I took these lessons on mindfulness into Worcester public schools. I taught teachers how to do yoga, lead a meditation and other mindful techniques for stress reduction so they could utilize them in their classroom. My work in schools was funded by a Worcester Cultural Coalition grant I wrote called the Art of Mindfulness. The end product was a 70 page non-fiction manuscript about teaching Mindfulness in inner city educational settings.
My strengths are my inquisitive and outgoing personality. I can talk to just about anyone about anything. During my travels in Thailand, I met a massage teacher, who I befriended in the back of a vegetarian restaurant. She taught me massage for two weeks. I find intercultural interactions to be the highest form of relationships because one must put aside their judgments about a group, and just be with the other, and learn how to see them as equal and more similar than different.
My aspirations when applying to the CUNY journalism school are to hone my writings skills and learn how to do international writing. Since I'm fluent in French, Armenian and Spanish, I intend to write in various languages for various ethnic, economic or religious communities. During University, I'd find myself in a Mosque, a Jewish temple, a Bahai discussion group, Buddhist meditation groups or an Armenian Orthodox Church. I would research and write about my experiences at these religious centers, which would enable me to try and grasp how other people see the world. During Travels in Cambodia or in Vietnam, I'd constantly write about whatever was happening. Story telling through the journalistic lens has the power to change the world, one word at a time, one person at a time.

Poems- Slavic Fung Wah, No Diving, & Flapping Tuna Heart

2010-01-04T08:35:00.000-08:00

Poem- Slavic Fung Wah

Inhaling swig of Russian skinny cigarettes, Fung Wah Bus driver from small town in province of Siberia, Russia, exhales outward in moist connecticut snowing evening drizzles dripping down our square windshields. his phone beeps once, he flicks the butt out of the window , ass slush mounds are mutilated by our eight synthetic tires, the wind buzzing by my ear until he shuts the window artificial light dousing the reddened hardened knuckles on my right hand. He beeps a grey Camry twice, going slow in fast lane, as he zooms by him in the night time mist, 84 West to new york City from Boston.

Poem-No diving
No diving in the pool, the picture depicts a id swimming in the blue toilet bowl water, and I stare down toward where I'm peeing and thin can any babies body fit down their head in that little whole? we roll down potholes on the Triborough bridge, my head bangs the ceiling, I aim my pee straight as the bus swerves and sways left and right.

Flapping Tuna Heart-

I heard a fish slapping in Tokyo, Japan, It is a deep sea Tuna and it smells of salt and seaweed. Its canned in Hiroshima and boarded a cargo plane in Nagasaki arriving at upstate New York Warehouse, by day 6 since captured. By Day eight, the tuna can made it to a Mexican Supermarket in New Rochelle, where my dad buys it for 1.75$. He opens it, it is mixed with fish grease and water. I look at my plate and smile, at its raw fish taste in my nose, dousing it in ginger oil and lemon. Its raw and been flapping out in the open once beating in the heart lovingly tasting slat through its gills. And you, open my heart like a raw can of tuna, and it swells, its delicious, it delivers fumes entering our pours, as I pour more White wine, and listen to the flapping beats of the tuns tail 10 days before this tale and my heart beats, skipping a beat each time our feet touch, raw red, soft, gentle, nourishing my tuna heart is waiting to smell your smile again, love pulsing blood into our little Tuna hearts bubbling in unison.

2010-01-04T08:29:00.000-08:00

FLower mind poem

Flower mind, petals opening and closing,
due to the amount of sun and light,
cold and wind, I stare into myself,
and hate what I see, but know not
where to go or be, to be happy!

A fun call from a friend comes,
encouraging me to teach yoga to
some young ones. Right now
my flower petals are wilted,
selling Jewish Bagels in the city.

Shitty one day, is the manure
for my flower's color to go
from grey to pink red okay.
and still I fight myself, my heart
closes, as I stare at the wind of fear,
the bitter coldness of confusion
and the darkness of lost vision.

The petals of my flower arms,
stretching far, trying to transcend
its ADD diffuculties without Adderall,
because pills may make my petals fall
off completely, than I ask: Who is left of me?
the pill my rip my petals down, but a the
same time I know that touch happiness,
I must understand my flower mind,
and what actions, thoughts and feelings,
bring on a sense of crappyness!

Doris River Spirits

2009-12-24T07:43:00.000-08:00

Doris River Spirits

In the forest was a florist named Doris. She wrapped her head in vines, and spoke to Jaguars, Monkey and mimes. She designs great designs in the heads of all of the villagers who come to her chair. With out a care, you can hear her fingers snapping away the metal hinges of her scissors with great incession. I envision her artist eyes. Above the sky is dancing with clouds, why, because that is what the clouds do, they dance in our eyes.

Doris, heard the chorus of the rain forest in the falls and river spirit calls to her "Doris, Doris, drip drip, I go, remember to wash their hair with much care. Doris, doesn't dare to question the river's spirit's advice. In fear that her business may ice
over. The spirits told her to have no fear, and hear with a pure trusting ear and do that they say. Doris a simple villagers, would never pillage another in her town of 130 people.

Doris staring in the hair that was cut on the ground. Brown curling. She sees an ant crawling beneath it. Staring at the ant, who jumps on a locust. Who can no longer dance, as 30 little ants come from the ground, imaginary holes they are coughed out of. They all attack the Locust. First from the eyes, pocking them out so its body is blacked out from sight. Next to Doris delight, the ants start pulling apart the locust piece by piece and they scatter across the jungle floor, back into mother earth, from where all is birthed.

Doris stares at the sun, that doesn't shine to hard under the forest mid day canopy. But a top from where the birds do live, one can hear them squawking incessantly. Almost as if annoyed by the sun overheating their tiny bodies. Doris, but a simple villager trusts whatever the spirits tell her to do.But one day they told her to use the scissors in another way on the village chief, next time he came for a hair cut.

They told her "Doris, Doris, the chorus of river birds chirped, "his time has come to pass onto the next life time. He has been a respectable leader, living a long life to 49. His wrinkled skin, it's time for it to be creamated. Even though his children are much stronger than him, and will be the inheritors of his land, the eldest son of his respectable position, He's outlived all elders by 10 years.

Some believe he is impenetrable, as great as the river Gods. Eternal, more powerful than a jaguar and sly than a bee eater. Doris, for the first time, began to question whether the spirits, motivations were pure. What would Doris Karma be in this life and the next, if she were to kill him? Would the other villagers know it was her. Should she tell his sons. What would I do with
the body? This is crazy, I can't kill this man, he delivered me from my mothers belly. It's not possible. It must be a mistake, I'm not a killer, I cut hair. I don't cut human skin, I'm not a hunter or butcher.

Weeks past, Doris merely ignored the message the spirits sent her in the beginning of the rainy season. But her nightmares became intense, and she even developed terrible sweating fits. Where her body would drain itself of so much water, that she could barely get up after wards. Her hut would smell heavily of urine and sweat, and she could not control her bodily liquids every night. With her nose dripping, and yellow colored tears dripping from her eye lids.

The most terrible dreams she remember would start with her scissors on the first floor. Then one ant would crawl onto of the scissor. Than another, than three more would come on the handles. Before she knew it the ants were swarming the scissors, until it disappeared. Than immediately they storm away as they heard Jaguar roar. They'd leave and the ground all around the scissors would start filling up with a dark blood, almost brown. Doris would stair at this picture, until the whole river would be filled up from this spot where the blood was spitting up and out of the ground like a hot spring! The whole river filled with blood, Doris sees the head of the village chief floating down it, than a jaguar jumps atop the blood scissors hot spring splashing into, the village chiefs left hand hanging from his lips.

Pop.. Boom... Bang... she always hears each night, and sits up in bed immediately. She can hardly breathe. She is barren and her husband died three years after their marriage. She sits in her hut alone, no children, some clothes, and her livelihood: the scissors. Only the crickets accompany her each night, rather than a lover's touch.

The day came when the village chief needed a haircut. He came to Doris hut, which is on the outskirts of the village, by the local river. He arrived at 1230, traditional lunch time in the village. Normally there would be people cleaning themselves or clothes but all were eating lunch. He said, How are you, "may we eat lunch together before the cut?" "Sure" she said. She prepared him a meal on a banana leaf, the traditional plate in the village. middle of the leaf there may be an odd number of fried items like small circles of chips made of yam , thin frilly wafers called Appalams, rice chicken curry and a scoop of warm sweet milky rice called Payasam for desert.

After they ate, the chief slept for 45 minutes on the ground. Doris sharpened the knife for the hair cut. Siesta, times of resting after eating are quite a regular practice of men after they eat. While women beginning doing house work , taking care of children or preparing the meal for dinner. When he awoke, he walked to the chair. Doris began cutting the hair of the top of his head. Thinking to herself "I can't do this... this is crazy... he's a respected elder." In the breeze between some banana leafs she hear the slightest growl and both her and the chief shook a bit. The scissors sliced against his cheek, and a bit of blood flow down his chin. He grabbed a hold of his machete, saying "if there were any jaguars, worry not, I'll protect us. Doris wiped the blood of his chin with an old tee-shirt.

The brushing the bananas she heard it say "do it, yes... its time, you can throw his body in the river, its time for this old man to leave. He's been on earth too long. His family will be sad, but its enough of this, his body is shriveling up and you can barely even see a bit of skin that hasn't been weathered from over use. DO IT, DO IT, DO IT, DO IT DO IT!"

The chief says "what a beautiful day it is.." while Doris is cutting a bit of hair right by his ear, she feels a presence, a warmth, a wind pushing her gently, the scissors towards his neck. Then, out of the brush jumps a jaguar, and she screams jabbing the scissors into the chiefs neck by a pure impulsive reaction. The Jaguar's eyes look fierce. He must have smelled the Chicken curry cooking from miles away. He darts toward the chair where the chief sitting and begins gnawing on his face. His blood dripping into the dirt." She is screaming "Nooooooo." The jaguar bights at the chiefs arm, and rips it off, throwing it towards the door or Doris's hut. She here villagers screaming, saying they're coming the jaguar roaring viciously bights at the chiefs neck biting the head off. He here's a gun shot, and picks the head up in his mouth and runs back into the dense from where he came. Doris passes out.

She awakes but is still sleep. there, she looks on her body, and what is left of the chiefs. People are shaking her to awake. Beneath the chair is a puddle. An ant crawling onto of the scissor. Than another, than three more on the handles. Before she knew it, the ants were swarming the scissors, until it disappeared. Than immediately they storm away as they heard panter roar. They'd leave and the ground all around the scissors would start filling up with a dark blood, almost brown.

The forest spirits are the wisdom that is. They are the forest, sky, humans and ants, all factors acting. Who is the director of this play. We may never know. Lord Ganesh — the elephant-deity riding a mouse, has many forms, and can be Brahma happiness and construction or destruction and suffering in the form of Vishnu. All we can really be sure of, is that the wind will keep brushing in between the banana leaves, above the river, with a smell of the coconut curry chicken permeating the air.

Poem- The Golden Head Rush

2009-12-22T18:58:00.000-08:00

The Golden Head Rush

the light of breathe is upon us,
the light of death is upon us,
with each breathe comes a new dawn,
a yawn, a water crystal becomes mist,
which than drips into dew on my lips.
my vision is hazy at dusk,
I stare into the deep void of
a dark forest, where owls hoot
above jaguars paws shoot their fangs into
where little porcupine legs and neck hangs.

Where the breath becomes the wind,
where the wind becomes my friend,
where the poetry becomes no different
than the reality that it mimics,
when the mime and the word,
reflect the same essence in different ways.
When I hear the voice of Charly Chaplin
speak, in a 1930s silent film, then I can
understand what the silenced filmed.

Capturing the essence, of a tense
time in the Gold Rush, Great Depression,
not to different from 2009's Depression lesson
when Chaplin began eating his black shoe,
icicles, beneath his whiskers,
in a salt and cabbage salt stew,
staring out into the snowy mountains,
counting the tongues under the roof,
and the tongues on the feet.

When the barrel of wheat was empty.
My eyes closed slowly, and I stared
at my empty plate, to contemplate
my life, before hunger changes its form
with a knife, Bushido this life, slowly
is nice, as the the light of breathe is upon us,
the light of death is upon us,
with each breathe comes a new dawn,
so I yawn at roosters coca doodle,
and doodle on my page one more poem,
to remember the sun light, where in the end,
to the dirt, water, flowers, air, back I'm goin'

The Healing Touch

2009-12-22T12:17:00.000-08:00

The Healing Touch

In American Society, we don't touch much to heal another anymore. Doctors, nurses, therapists, they heal people only on the physical or mental level, using drugs, or operations to heal the body mind spirit, that is this human form. I chill with a friend, who had an operation. He seems in pain in his leg. I wanted to go upstairs and meditate and pray. But I see his pain, and know I can share some positive energy with him. He was commenting about something negatively, which isn't usually how he talks. So I knew something strange was happening. I had to act, constructively.

So I sat by his leg, giving him reiki, therapeutic touch while doing the Jesus Prayer. The prayer just involves saying to yourself "Jesus have mercy on me," while turning inward, attention towards the heart from the head, you repeat it with your lips. As I say it again and again, and move my hands to the rhythm of holy words coming out of my hand, I know that this little bit of touch to one who is pain can help.

Touch in America society is only acceptable for sensual or medical reasons. The healing touch doesn't seem to matter much. But in my heart as I try an rediscover my hearts true passions and lovers: I remember how much I need to engage that which energizes me and fills me with positivity and happiness. For about one day, I've been reflecting on my past, and reviewing what activities make me feel happy. Since I was feeling a bit heavy energetically and negative. I see that hands on healing, poetry, reading mystical texts, writing on my blog, and zen are activities that I must do more of, to remember the love for life I have.

Shamanic Chocolate Covered Raisin

2009-12-20T17:39:00.000-08:00

Shamanic Chocolate Covered Raisin
12.17.09
Short Story

I was once eating a pure milk chocolate raisin on the 10th floor of the New School for Social Research building on 13th street, Union Square, in lower East side Manhattan. The air was tepid that evening, the lights make a slight buzz and there was a strange looking pebble by the window, on my table there sat a daily news paper with a picture of Tiger Woods.

What a strange looking chocolate raisin I think to myself, how it makes my tooth have a sharp pain. It makes me feel a bit light headed. I hear a crack, as my head falls to the table, I don't remember much after that wretched chocolate raisin. But have only one image of me flying in front of the Whole Foods building in Union Square New York City.

As I floated 100 feet above ground and I saw a Sikh fellow walking out of a taxi cab, he was wearing pink bunny slippers. I floated down to meet him, but he walked into the 693 salad bar whole foods before I could say hi. His car parked in the middle of the bus lane, I look up to the crispy moon, and next I hear a smack crash cracked bus bumper, his car smashed to smithereens.

He walks out with a hoola hoop he just bought, that is hanging above his head like a Jesus Halo. He asks me as I float down, "Wa, Wah, Wahtt, what happen to my cab in a Punjab accent?" I say, "the bus, it gave it a fast kiss, and and and that it." Filled with rage this poor fellow ripped off his Sikh Hay an threw it across the street, I was hovering three feet in front of him and I grabbed the end of it. The velocity he chucked it at, it went on and on, until it met the forest across 14th street. How did he fit such a long fabric around his head?

"What will I do now?" he said. "I'm out of a job and my immigration papers expire in two days if I'm not employed, I'm screwed!" I stare into his eyes as he begins to cry furiously, tears spit out his eyes and nose, everything is color a light purple coming out of his liquid body. In front of the Whole Foods , his tear drops slapping the ground, like fat translucent babies being slapped fresh out of a mom's wombs. Down on his knees to the concrete with a bubblicious gum stuck to his big toe edge of his black leather shoes.

I bend down to ground and cried with him how hard it was to really see this fellow cry so I handed him a whole foods marked napkin. I looked up t o the moon, half blocked by grey stars and saw a pigeon mid flight by moon light, through the misty haze of clouds, tout a coup, a bald eagle the size of a a baby elephant fetus dove down to grab the pigeon in the beak.

With two bights the pigeon was down the eagles neck. You could see it fight tying to get out of the dark neck mucus esophagus, and with one swoop up and then down the eagle swooped down toward the ground using gravity to get the pigeon down his gullet, to start mixing into his bellies juices. So he did a quick spinning dance mid air, and sat down on a Subway light and it turned on pink as soon as he landed.

He was strong in his fierce eyes and as I stared deeply into those black pupils, I noticed no more fighting back in the eagles belly, the pigeon must slowly be being digest, the eagle stares me down and I was lost in his gaze, when I finally awake from this hyper focus I was lost in for a moment, I noticed I was staring at the chocolate raisin on the table. It must have been a realistic holotropic chocolate psychedelic dream. I went to the doctor next day and found out that I had H1N1 virus. I took the vaccine, and paid 2,007 $, it sucks not having insurance.

It must be that those raisin were chocolate that was from a factory in Juarez, Mexico, where the virus orginates, all be weary of H1N1 chocolate covered raisin treats, you just might bight into more than you can handle.

Drum Censorship

2009-12-20T15:23:00.000-08:00

Drum Censorship

Six uptown train tracks tremble, I stumble over my own feet, on train car number three, to see three dread lock brothers step on to drum, and begin hitting those Afr- I-can melodies. All of a sudden, two white Irish looking cops walk, one wearing a brown mustache smirk, the other blue cop shirt.

They simultaneously tell the three guys to stop, I get a mental flashback historically to the universal PTSD in me remembers of " days African slaves weren't allowed to talk to each other in native tongues, on arriving to the Americas. English had become the language of slavery in Americas, forced to speak the language of oppression, they creatively came up with Ebonics to regain power over enforcing mental psychic slavery. Music as we know it today, is deeply rooted in the historical African American history of slavery and healing processes.

Drumming became a means of communication with each other and with God Divine. In Shamanic cultures, drums were used to even transform the rhythms of ones heart beats and their wave length, allowing for one to enter another spiritual space. This is why music play such a great role in the releasing endorphins, the hormones of happiness (http://www.ehow.com/how_2063616_release-endorphins.html). Drums sounds are a form of non-verbal musical communication between people that is still being censored. The cops carry off the three black guys with drums in hands, it hits me, slaps me in the face that these guys can't play their drums because it's not legal to do so in the subway without a permit!

But what is the real reason? That three guys can't play their music because it's illegal to drum to be black, these cops facts are saying to me to seems a big lie, how the cops took them off the subway power in their cps heads, I wasn't that interested as they played, but once I saw the cops walk in, and stop their free form of expression I knew something was wrong.

The Healing Touch

2009-12-20T12:04:00.001-08:00

The Healing Touch
Societally we don't touch much to heal anymore. Doctors, nurses, therapists, they heal people only on the physical or mental level, using drugs, or operations to heal the body mind, leaving out healing the spirit healing, for churches to do. But the human form is composite of emotional, physical, mental and spiritual elements, which must be address for healing to be deep.

I chill with a friend, who had an operation for a broken hip. He seems in pain in his leg. I wanted to go upstairs and meditate and pray, but I see his pain, and know I can share some positive energy with him if I share my prayer with him. He was commenting about something negatively, which isn't usually how he talks. He said "I talked to my friend, because its really the only thing I can do, my only option." So I knew something strange was happening, I had to act, positively, in order to help him get out of that mental state.

So I sat by his leg, giving him reiki, therepuetic touch while doing the Jesus Prayer. The prayer just involves saying to yourself "Jesus have mercy on me," while turning inward, attention towards the heart from the head, you repeat it with your lips. As I say it again and again, and moved my hands to the rhthym of holy words coming out of my hand, visualizing gold on the injured area. I know that this little bit of touch to one who is pain can help them

Societally, touch in America is only acceptable it seems for sensual reasons. The healing touch doesn't seem to matter much. But in my heart as I try an rediscover my hearts true passions and lovers: I remember how much I need to engage that which energizes me and fills me with positivity and happiness. For about one day, I've been reflecting on my past, and reviewing what activities make me feel happy. Since I was feeling a bit heavy energetically and negative. I see that hands on healing, poetry, reading mystical texts, writing on my blog, and zen are activities that I must do more of, to remember the love for life I have.

The Mystic Path to Cosmic Freedom by Vernon Howard

2009-12-19T09:25:00.000-08:00

DAILY POWER ALONG THE MYSTIC PATH"
We do not suffer because we fail to fulfill a false desire. We suffer because we posses the false desire.

There are no such things as sad days or happy days. There are only sad and happy people.

If we work on ourselves when things go right, we will know what to do when things go rotten.

AT this moment, we are creating our tomorrow.

To change what you get, you must change who you are.

HOW TO SMASH THE BARRIERS AND SPEED AHEAD:

Don't hesitate to abandon yourself to higher ideals.

Say yes to everything that moves you forward, and no to whatever holds you back.

Learn to say quietly to people and objects that attract you, "No, I will not give you power over me!"

Some people enjoy depression, they harmfully love negativity.

No enjoyments last, no successes satisfy, no gains have meaning unless accomplished in a state of wakefulness. (aka Mindfulness)

SOME PLEASANT SURPRISES ABOUT YOURSELF:

Whenever you don't understand life, dismiss your mind and live without straining to understand.

We cannot escape from self-imprisonment unless we observe it as a fact.

Instead of dwelling on the desert of a situation you mind find yourself in, focus on where you're doing, the mountain top view. A gush of power comes from sighting that we are actually working for ourselves.

Union Square 816 pm

2009-12-16T06:47:00.001-08:00

Union Square 816 pm
Mitzvah Tank truck plays Chanukah songs downtown NYC.
It I didn’t know any better, I’d think I’m on a cold Jerusalem
Downtown street, Skateboard wheels on the stone ground
wind on face, garbage trucks clank to metal cans,
skateboard flips to my right,
Hasidic Beard drinks coffee blasting music
in Jewish Christian Melodies,
Is he from Brooklyn?
Chinese guy darts on silver bike, sky dark blue is still bluer
than a deep ocean with grey clouds amounting,
Helicopter with blue and red lights.
My head, but another sound splattered on the painting

Reflecting on the Graduate School of Journalism (CUNY)

2009-12-15T12:32:00.000-08:00

At the Graduate School of Journalism, "a student can get six years of experience in a year and a half," Professor Tim Harper's said, teacher of a Craft Class. In the convergent fields or journalism involving writing, reporting, technology such as pro-tools, podcasts, video and photography, this CUNY school trains students to become journalists, with diverse amount of skills after a year and half of school

Harper said "I got into the field of journalism, because I wanted to travel, meet interesting people and write their stories, which is exactly what I did." With a cup of coffee in his fist, he said "see that student, he just published an article in the New York Times, three months ago, he didn't know much about journalism. You must ask yourself, do I want to do this kind of work?" In writing news, a journalist may have a few hours to do all of the reporting and writing necessary before it goes into print. In Harper's class, students write at least a story a week during the 16 week semester. They are always due on the dot at six, to practice working with deadlines.

The speed of news today is much faster than before. A journalist is first and foremost a reporter. They must collect information, researching various sources, interviewing people and writing it all down is the last step other than editing. A journalists job is to convey facts, not their opinions. People don't read the news for the opinions of the writers, but for the story. When reading articles or newspapers, for aspiring journalists, they can ask themselves what sources did the writer use for this article. The more you read the more you can understand more about the art of reporting.

http://www.journalism.cuny.edu/about/

The eight cookie limbs of YOGA!

2009-11-30T10:49:00.000-08:00

The eight cookie limbs of YOGA!

a-Atha yoganusasnam- Now yoga gaze at front of room place cookies out! on plate- (each one represten mind medofiations, judgement/ experiences with people!)

b- Yoga citta vriti nirodhah- the restraints of the mind stuff modifications is yoga hold 1 cookies staring with love the battle of hands,

scene 1 dharana- concentrate the mind! (on the phone with Pa) Hey son do you want to go to Egypt? What do you mean? No questions, yes or no do you want to go? It’ll be a great trip starting in Barcelona, we’ll go to Italy, Greece, Cairo, and Malta, you’d love it. I sprained my ankle I don’t’ think its possible! I’m going to the doctor tomorrow! Okay, I say. Really knowing if I can’t spend 5 minutes on the phone with this guy how could I spend 10 days on a cruise with him? Later my mom talks to him and tells me “Armen, when I told your dad it was very nice he was inviting you to go on a cruise.” he said, “what do you mean, he’ll have to pay of for the cruise of course!” he neglected to mention, father trying to swindle his own son, that's luv!" cookiedad- Fuck u! dharana- concentrate, I tell myself- dont let cookie dad control you..... look at cookie half calm, half nutz! eat it dear cookie, he complains I’m not working or that i'm doing a yoga teacher training, ! Some people are just filled with negative energy, like a turkey is filled with lard, or a twinkie with shit. When I think or talk to this nut job (throw nutz into the crowd!), I am Concentrating only on his negative qualities. But dharana is to concentrate my mind on what I choose, rather than be a slave of my thoughts. In anyone moment, I can CHOOSE - ME HIM, YOU COOKIES OR MY BREATH! i I'm responsibile for what I think how to not be control by my destructive cookie thoughts. but how cookie how? HOOOOOWWWWW?(SCREAM!?)

scene 2 Yama- rules of social conduct! (late at night no sleep bed time!) Sexually hungry dunk me into her body wanting her oddly body to body hunger is feeding into body’s hunger and no sense comes from these tense convulsions bodies juices melting into her moon my sun funnels commmmmbuka squash into her aura's poSh surfaces. "o cookie what will I do?"
(finger to head realization)_ gong! cha chiina ahhh! dear cookie! Brahmacharya, control sexual energy. Hard to do with a hard on, but builds strength to control mind, and body, rather than be controlled by the mind and body. But O lover Cookie(soft lovey voice!) what should I do? (I hold the cookie in my hand shaking looking at it, as if I’m looking at her, and I come close to kissing it and caressing it, as if its her face or body, and as I touch it I place it to the side, and say to it ) “I need time alone to work on myself, this this Isn’t working for either of us anymore!” what to do? so I run away eat cookies!

scene 3 Dhyana meditation (mom's home) " Hi mom, how did the day of cleaning go? I’ve done a lot, come look at this closet of sheets I’ve folded all day. whisper - All around the bedroom, I see books and clothes piles on her bed, taxes by the toilet, and tacks and broken glass on the floor towards my room. O shit, I just step on some glass fuck! FFFFFFFFFFFFFFF FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUCK! LUCKily I had my shoes on! Mom I can’t handle this mess anymore. I love you so much but the way we live. Its’ too much, I’m gonna move out soon if it doesn’t change Armen you know im trying my best, I’m disabled when it comes to throwing things out! enter meditation body! dear cookie! Dhyana meditation, comes upon me, and I sit, staring at that cookie thinking, GOD I want to eat it so much! The cookies sits there in front of me, as my meditation point, rather than the cookie having control over me, I am in control of the cookie

scene 4 Asana postures (atmananda studio!) (try myurasnana 3-4 ) saying cookie I want u! relax into shivassanh saying cookie, I don't want u! Difficult people/life situation are like Marusansa peacock or pigeon and frustration situations are like shivassanh Dear cookie! When I feel inner balanced, I don't need you, when I feel annoyed I need u! the stronger my mayurasna, the more inner strength I find, and less depends I need on u!

scene 5 Pratyahara, bringing my senses within, dear cookie! I say no to this destructive thought 2 eat, and see it as a thought, before it beecomes an action. yoga trains me to link my body mind and breathe! Practicing non-clinging aparigraha to that thought, “eat, eat” keeping power inside me, rather than sending it to food or my belly or to an annoying person outside, I stay centered, every chance an annoyance stance comes to flank its spanks on my ass! I say, no thanks! I'll pass!

scene 6 Pranayama- breath control- it brings me toa slow and deeper sense of calm within! dear cookie! kalabati scream!

scene 7 Samadhi – contemplation- Dear cookie, a month after yoga tapas self-disciple didn't burn you away yet, why? fuck u ! Transcending the body and mind, empty of all cookie desires, empty of self, in wind of mind I hear your calls saying “eat me, eat me,” still learning to let go, to watch that cookie thought urge flow bye bye, come, burn hard in my body hi hi, and float away bye bye, into the distant as quick as it came, like the wind in the rain! remembering isvara pranidhana-prayer to God/ universe, I write- Dear cookie " I will channel God's light into my life consciously, because he is y I am who I am, when I am what I am when I am right now accept what I am." pick up cookies. throw to ground! Stare at crowd meditation point tell teacher to clap after 5 seconds! To start it!

We are all Muslims, Jews, Christians and Buddhists

2009-11-30T10:46:00.000-08:00

“We are all Muslims,Jews, Christians and Buddhists”

What is a little Armenian American Christian boy doing in Mosques de Paris during Ramadan at 1 pm on a Tuesday Sun shining? He’s searching for a deeper meaning to life, beyond the appearances of surfaces of material pleasures and personal identities. In the Suffi Muslim tradition, it was the usage of Poetry that would express personal experiences of practitioners. Commencing in Iraq, and spreading as West as Turkey and as East as Afghanistan, a mystical sect of Muslim ascetics, living simple lives. Their main goal in life was to overcome sensual desires of the body and come into a deeper union with God via their spirits and various practices.

Suffi Muslims remind me of the ascetic Buddhist tradition of dhanga, or “wandering monks” practiced in Thailand. A Theravada Buddhist country, where monks move from village to village, begging for food as the Buddha did once a day, practicing meditation; and reciting suttas (religious Buddhist texts) in caves, mountains and jungles. These practitioners didn’t believe what the eye, ear, mouth, touch taste, consciousness or mental formations was feeding them either. They wanted to purify their senses. They had faith that there was something beyond the visible material world, known as Dhamma, “the true reality of what is.”

At Armenian Protestant Church, the preacher advises regular reading of the bible and prayer to Jesus. He encouraged everyone to pray for 15 minutes a day. This practice can purify the body and mind as well.

In Muslim, Buddhist and Christian traditions, the spirit can be thought of as a form of energy that every being has beyond the obvious material aspects of the world. There are more subtle aspects that mystics would study and practice in their daily lives, rather than only intellectualize and preach. In the Islamic tradition, it was the intermediaries who were capable of hearing the divine “voice,” coming from beyond the mere physical world. As Mohammed did, in being capable to hear the voices of Allah (Glory to him), or as Jesus did to hear the voice of God.

While in the Buddhist tradition, which isn’t monotheistic (don’t get dualistically lost in the world of words!) the Buddha listened to his true inner nature, the voice of his heart, intuition, of nature that he isn’t separate from, known as “Buddha nature.” Muslims also speak of purify the body and mind during Ramadan, in order to get closer to Allah within, and cultivate a pure heart. A Christian Monk wants told me “there is a belief that we can find and live up to our savior Jesus Christ, if we really get to know him within.”

As I sat listening to the afternoon Muslim prayer, I was filled with a deep fear initially. As an Armenian, my people have forcibly migrated out of our Homelands in Eastern Anatolia by Turks partially because we weren’t Muslims. For the 3/4th of my population that no longer breathed after 1915, it seems a great deceit to be in a mosque right now. An uncountable large number of Armenians have assimilated into Muslim communities in Turkey and the desserts of Syria. Children wandering under the sun were taken into some tribal Bedouin or Kurdish families, in order to be saved from imminent desert death. The only way many Armenians were able to save their lives, was immediate conversion to Islam. So what the hell am I doing here, in this mosque?

I’m sitting with two feelings of fear from the past memories and an utter amazement for how beautiful of a religion Islam is. Counter dominant media fed beliefs growing up in middle class American Christian Milieus, Muslims aren’t all terrorists. But for so many Americans, this fear of darker sand colored skin people is real. It’s a black white dualistic view of, good and bad, simply plain, creating views of violence, fanaticism, and dogmatism in myself and the world.

Praying, bending, repeating “Allah Akbar” with my brothers or listening to the Imam do the invocation prayer chants, I felt a union with what in my mind has always been the “others.” I felt our bodies for a few moments were one, in front of the divine light of Allah and the Prophet Mohammad (Peace be upon him). A community of unity, Sangha, as the Buddhist call it was present, and so to was an energy in the room I could feel infiltrating my aura, spirit, veins and heart beats. Being with a community of like minded practitioners, brothers, all doing the same thing at the same time, building a powerful group energy. The exact same action Christians do in Praying to Jesus, Muslims do in reciting the Koran and Buddhist do in meditation. Similar actions and intentions of purification, spoke in different languages.

Hearing people to my left and right whisper prayers of “Il Hammdul Allah,” sent energy shivers down my spine. Africans, Arabs, Turks and Europeans and an America Armenian, all equal for a moment under the light of Allah (his magnificence).

I came to the Mosque with the intention to pray. If you ask me If I honestly identify as a Muslim, I’d say, “No, (not yet, maybe never) but I’d love to learn more.” I tell this to African people at the entrance, “my dad is born in Egypt, I grew in New York, not going to Mosques much and haven’t learned Arabic either.” They tell me that I don’t need to pay the three Euro tourist fee as long as I am Muslim. I nod my head up and down, and the African lady says “there no way I can know you’re Muslim unless you say it, it’s a religion of people with my skin color, yours or theirs,” she says pointing to two Algerians. I say “Shakrun, Masallamah,” in Arabic means “Thanks, Bye bye.”

As I sit in meditation before the 1632 prayers begin, I have this intuition that “all major religions of Islam, Christianity and Buddhism (not excluding others either) are of the same nature. There was a prophet, he preached to his following the practices needed to achieve inner peace and love for humanity.” But these prophets took various forms in various cultural contexts, since you can’t speak the same essential truth in any language or culture, without a change transformation after translation. So I sit in this awareness that, “yes I am Muslim, as well as Christian and Buddhist, its my duty to learn about how my human relatives see the world, to better understand myself and them.”

My Armenian family history from Khapert, is that they were both killed by Muslim Turks and saved by a Muslim Turkish man named Memed. In me rises feelings towards Muslims, especially Turks, that are ambivalent, thankful and confusing at the same time. But I can’t get lost in these initial sense impressions, I must learn to purify my heart, spirit, mind and body of these impurities and mis-perception,

So I go to the mosque to clean my eyes, ears, nose, mouth, forearms, hands including each finger and feet. Am I Muslim? “Yes! I feel this affinity toward the religion I don’t understand clearly, that both enchants and scares me, I want to learn more…” So down to the basement of the Mosques de Paris I go. Saying “AsAlam alkeum and than Walakum AsAlam to passing brothers. Cleaning these body parts, sense organs of all the impurities of daily life is a self-purification of the impurities. Similarly meditation, has this affect on my mind and body, and prayer to Jesus as well, making me feel more at peace and purified of mental and physical toxins.

Until we learn effective ways to “not kill, not let others kill and not support the any act of killing in the world, in our thinking, or our way of life,” we will see Islam, Christianity, Judaism and Buddhism as separate religions. But the unity we feel when practicing rituals, prayer or meditation in a group of like-minded people, can be felt with anyone. All we need to do is learn to cultivate “non attachment to dualistic views and discriminative thinking.”

The thought, “I am Christian, inherently can mean, Christianity is a better religion than Buddhism or Islam. But attachment to this thought, believing it, can lead to harmful actions arising from “anger, fear, greed and intolerance.” Before I said I was a “Muslim,” I was just viewed as another tourist. But as soon as I said my dad was from Egypt, but I don’t know much about Islam, and I’d like to go pray, I felt warmth for people at a new reception. I felt a different warmer reception; it is the way many people in religious settings react. Their personality may dramatically be dependent on what religion you are. This is an attachment to dualistic views, and creates great divisions between humans, who are at the root the same breed.

We must ask ourselves what practices do I use to purify my body and mind of toxins and impurities? Whether Atheist,Jewish, Muslim, Christian or Buddhist matters not, it is the practices or religions that we feel best suit us that matters. So next time someone asks you what is your religion? Don’t be afraid to say “Christian Jewish Buddhist or Muslim!” Because all of humanity is one community, and what another person does, is a part of what you do as well. Experiment, Be Open and Practice with many people to discover what best fits you. Just as the brain wouldn’t work if the heart didn’t beat it blood and the feet didn’t walk to the table for food. We are all part of the same tradition, the same breath, same song, prayer or meditation, but in different languages. Visit a mosque, a church or temple, and tell me what touches you?

Kapalabhati Breathing

2009-11-26T07:02:00.000-08:00

TOday I awoke after just a few hours of Sleep and did three sets
of Kapalabhati breathing excercise, which is part of the Yogic way of breath control or pranayama. It's a wonderful way to wakeup when you feel drowsy, you can do it even when you lay on you back.

You do a forceful exhale from you nose, pushing your belly in towards your lower back, and than the inhale naturally happen, and do another exhale from the nose again. You can experiment with sets of 1 minute, 1 minute and a half and two minutes. Please try it out and let me know how you feel?

Here are two great video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IFOJvLBjo3U

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gd--NTii-L8

have a great turkey Day!

FAITH

2009-11-25T13:08:00.000-08:00

i am I am
emotions pure emotions flowing
after the laughter of yoga
being with loved ones,
I find my mind in wierd signs,
I go to the library
and nibble on Brazilian Nutz
and coconuts, chocolate milk that drips out the
straw into next door ladies braw
down my cheek in L shape,
dribbling onto the ground!
making popping sounds,
alive in the heart,
dead in the head,
with the constant feelings running
from what I thought to what I did or said.
and happy is sad, as smile is tear drop.
all emotions flowing through my being
my ego, attaching to me for a moment
of seeing, and than dissappearing.
I am what I am, not only what I think
feel or see what is to be me on the surface!
I am holy, I trust in this. in that
which is more than me! I believe only this truly!

Medecine san Frontier Fundraiser

2009-11-13T22:21:00.000-08:00

The Medium of Memoir Film: Waltz with Bashir

2009-10-25T20:34:00.000-07:00

The Medium of Memoir Film: Analysis of Waltz with Bashir
Armen Kassabian
10/24/09

Waltz with Bashir is a 2008 Israeli animated documentary film directed by Ari Folman. A winner of best foreign language film by the Golden Globe Awards and Best Animation by Los Angeles Film Critics Association, I highly recommend it. I watched it at the Empty hand Zen center (www.emptyhand.org) in New Rochelle, New York, which has a monthly movie showing.

It depicts Folman in search of his lost memories from the 1982 Lebanon War. He meets with various members from his army squad, in order to regain lost memories. It is an animated film that uses mental images, music and flashbacks, directly bringing the viewers into the thought process of the director-narrator. The end of the film shows how the 1982 massacres of two Palestinian refugee camp villages unfolded, at the hands of Phalangist, a right-wing Lebanese political party. Folman makes comparisons between the violence he saw at refugee camps, streets filled with dead bodies, with images that were similar to the Warsaw Ghettos, during the reign of Nazism. The narrator had to deal with the reality of being a witness to this violence, even if he didn’t directly do it, and why it had been blocked out from his memory for twenty years. The images were triggers of stories that had not received not been organized into a narrative yet, which is why he blocked them out.

The film outlines the complexity of the issue, showing that the enemies were not the Israeli army members, and the good guys were not the Palestinians and Phalangist, or vice- a-versa. It outlines the complexity of putting everyday people into situations of either being killed by snipers, fighting back, hiding from enemies, or being slaughtered. Under all circumstances, there isn’t a pure 100% good or bad guy always. The movie returned the humanity and dignity to soldiers who could otherwise be viewed as mere aggressive killers, without a heart or human part to them. It returned the humanity to all parties involved in the war.

One person in the crowd, felt offended that movie was not a fair portrayal of the IDF (Israeli Defense Forces), so he ended up leaving after five minutes. His intense emotional reaction brought all in the room to higher awareness of how intense emotions, if they aren’t appropriately dealt with, can become disruptive to others and to one especially. His frustration was legitimate, but seemed a bit extreme and reactive, considering that the film had ran only five minutes before he left. Rather than listen to the movie with an open inquisitive mind, the portrayal deeply bothered him, even though the director was an Israeli person, merely reflecting artistically a vision he had. His intense reaction to film taught me how emotions can block people from being able to listen non-judgmentally to each other, or other’s opinions. We must always ask ourselves, why is this person reacting as intensely emotional as they are, rather than to demonize them as wrong always.

The movie was a riveting portrait, a memoir in cartoons, of how the director was dealing with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), which is a very common result of people who have seen war or partaken in the killing of others. And similar to a book I’m reading called Shimmering Images, by Lisa Dale Norton, all about writing memoirs. Waltz with Bashir embodied all of the principles that she describes in her book as effective tools to writing a memoir. Memoirs are a tool for inner transformation. By voicing stories of difficult past experiences, one can order the chaos of their life into a narrative. This narrative closes the chapter of your life, rather than you always repeating the memory to your self, feeling as If you were the victim. One is able to eject the memory from their body. By writing an experience in a way that can actually transform the experience on the page, and transform people who read it as well. So that memoir writing becomes a tool for social change.

Lisa Norton describes memoir writing, as the “ability to take a slice-of-life, by identifying a potent period and exploring it through vivid imagery, honest voice, stunning compassion, and a deep awareness of the larger issues at play that guide your story in a subliminal way.” She describes tools such as the usage of Shimmering Images, as a tool to use “memory in consciousness, photos pulsing with meaning, that shimmers with an energy behind it,” reflecting the need for a story to be told.

In Waltz with Bashir, the narrator is using all of his mental images that keep repeating in his dreams, to try to understand what happened during that fateful night of the massacres that he has blocked out. He can only remember himself walking out of the Mediterranean by the shores of Beirut. To Norton, all effective stories are about challenges, trouble and the process of working through those challenges. Because whether you realize it or not, readers identify themselves with the narrator in stories, because they want to learn “how can I learn about my life from theirs?” The narrator in Waltz with Bashir uses these mental images as a fuel for his search to understand what they mean. To Norton, we must list and trust these images, even if we don’t understand their story immediately, as containing a story and energy behind it, that can be understood through deeper inquire and exploration. Hence, the film must have triggered some intense emotionally reactive images in the mind of the man who left after five minutes.

Norton encourages memoir writers to use another tool, called the Mountain Top Metaphor, to help writers find the beginning, middle and end of their story. They should visualize themselves on top of a mountain, looking down on a river, and write down ten challenging experiences along the meandering river. Since all effective stories must pose a “problem” that will be “solved” during the course of story. To Norton, a problem can be as subtle as “the reader following a narrator as he unravels the impact and comes to terms with some life complexity.” In Waltz with Bashir, the narrator did exactly this in attempting to understand why repeated nightmares images of the 1982 war were blocked out of his memory, although he had seen so much combat.

Waltz with Bashir, is a memoir film that is an example of how in the digital age of animated cartoons; movies at their most basic form are stories that can still evoke deep human emotions, if presented artistically. As the author of Shimmering Images states, “Story, the essence of narrative, is art. Art is creation. Memoir is art. Writing life stories borders on the mystical because you, the writer, become the master of reality. You make sense of chaos. Narrative (story) that has a beginning, a middle, and inevitable close (an end) is a kind of art that soothes the soul.” Waltz with Bashir is one of these memoir films that can soothe the soul.

Myrtle the Chicken

2009-10-22T09:55:00.000-07:00

Myrtle the Chicken
Is finger looking good?
at KFC or McDonalds
finger looking good,
With Mayonnaise or ketchup,
barbecue or hot sauce,
finger licking good.
from suburbs to hoods,
from factory farms to buns,
veins run with estrogen,
testosterone hormones,
she moans like Barry Bonds,
blood burping steroids in arm,
Myrtle tastes like Lysol.
a pinch of salt and robot piss,
So enjoy your burger in fist,
at KFCs or Mickky Ds.
Testosterone she burps in breeze,
and shaking in her skinny knees,
This is her chicken Disease

COMPASSION IS SUFFERING WITH OTHERS

2009-10-19T05:10:00.000-07:00

Compassion is suffering with others
Armen Kassabian
10. 18.09

Compassion is suffering with others. Compassion is your passion and ability to suffering with offers, non-judgmentally. Mom comes to me; expressing a suffering she has with her ex, my dad. Immediately, I’m feeling shitty and don’t want to hear any of this garbage. Farfetched and unrelated and depressing to me, it is just blocking my mental clarity. She asks “son I need a Buddhist opinion on this?” You father came, and I gave him some old lens of his, and they reminded me of times when I had given him so much. Money from divorce, the house of my aunt, whish he won, and other goods of relatives. And I felt like he was stealing something of my uncle, and this filled me with rage. As you know, I’ve suffered greatly do to this relationship in the past. But today I am much better. But it was this little interaction left me feeling so angry and cheated. I felt like he was trying to cheat me again.”

Hearing my mom spew all this emotionally frustrated energy about my dad, just makes me angry, because of my past triggers. She has hers, you have yours and I have mine. And so the sign to me was to just not push her away as I normally do. My normal pattern when hearing her say anything negative about my dad, is to shut her out, became rage full and to even scream. But she asked me honestly, “how do you think would be best to deal with this feeling that came?”

I paused for a moment, and feeling this great urge to just leave this situation that I felt was raging me and intoxicatingly destructive, I stayed in it. Slowly speaking “Well, when I had an intense reaction to something he said to me in the past, I knew I shouldn’t talk to him in the heat of the moment, because I would say even more destructive things. He merely commented that I change my answering machine, which says I’m not in the country anymore. But because of past comments, hyper sensitivity to him, I immediately took hi word as a direct attack on my being. I had to take responsibility for what I was feeling. For even though his comment really offended me, I had to express this frustration in a compassionate, clear minded and respectful manner. So I told my dad that “ I am very sensitive about not having a job yet, and what people tell me about this situation. I realize you didn’t intend to be offensive, but because of my sensitivity, I was hurt and reactive to your comment. Logically what you said makes sense, but for some reason your comment got me rage full, because it felt critical of the efforts I’m doing now. Aware of past difficulties in the relationship just cropping up now, so I ask him “Can you try an do your best and before you give me advice ask yourself if what you’re saying is positive and constructive. Because of my sensitivity, I need you to try an understand me.”

So my mom nods. “I told him that I am sensitive. I realized I need to establish personal boundaries between us. So I don’t 100% blame him or you for my anger. And you can try the same? Its so easy to blame others, and so hard to take responsibility for a feeling.” My mom says “okay.” I’m feeling more angry as I am talking to her, because these are feelings I don’t like to share with her, because I empathize more with her frustration and the anger seething out of her pores, my lungs are drinking it up. Sucking it up. But I try an stay present to this really negative emotion in me, I want to push mom away, and get out of this situation that reminds me of past pains. But then it will just come again and again. If I don’t than it will be like a small thorn left in foot for years, that needs to be amputated, because it wasn’t dealt with at the source of the pain. This is out reaction patterns of sensitivity.

I tell her, “the first step is to be aware that you’re feeling angry or upset. Second you want to identify what your particular reactive sensitivity may be. Third you want to try take responsibility for what your feelings are, rather than 100% blaming the other person. Fourth you want to express to the other person in kind speech, “ I am sensitive and reactive to_____, and I know you didn’t intend to hurt me, but because of my sensitivity and history, I perceived what you said as hurtful, and that’s what I responded or acted strangely or inappropriately after wards.” I collect some cray-pas, turn on Hawaiian Reggae and start drawing to the music as it comes out of the speakers, my hands and the colors melting. This is compassion, to be present to what is arising and knowing how to take care of yourself, when destructive or negative emotions arise within, is the practice of compassion. To see joy and suffering of yourself and others, rooted at the same source. To be with it skillfully, rather than destructively, the emotional or physical pain, to show compassion to it, which is just another way of saying “suffering with others.”