Cecile Pineda will be talking about the Apology to a Whale: Words to Mend a World project and signing books
during the month of February:
SCHEDULE OF FEBRUARY APPEARANCES
February 1 – S.F.
Occupy Forum at 6 PM
Global
Exchange
2017
Mission St. at 16th Street 2nd floor
San
Francisco
February 13 - PEN WEST at 3 PM
home
of Margret Schaefer
1 Quail Avenue, Berkeley
RSVP
& directions: margretschaefer@mac.com
February 25 – Ethnic
Studies Library at 5:30 PM
30
Stephens Hall (downstairs)
University of California
info:
642-3947
FOUR EYES, TWO WAYS OF SEEING
There’s nothing like writing a book to allow you to see the
world with fresh eyes. Two images: two civilizations. Both have cultures which
speak languages derived from Proto-Indo-European, a language not unlike ancient
Sanskrit.
One civilization moves eastward, the other charges westward
on swift horses, herding cattle, ever on the move looking for new grazing
lands. The other culture keeps to vegetarian ways.
Those riding the swift horse, in a hurry to appropriate
territory, scatter all who came before them, arming themselves with weapons,
governing through hierarchical structures, imposing implacable patriarchy,
replacing the rebirthing cycles of the Earth goddess with a male sky god who ends
the cycle with death, and reigns in His heaven to this day.
Those living eastward ponder existence. Not in a hurry, they
consider the mysticism born of astronomy and mathematics. They write poetry.
Those sweeping westward drive more peaceful people ever
closer to lands end where escape is no longer possible. Those who can’t run
fast enough they exterminate.
Those living eastward worship a pantheon of gods, male,
female, and elephant for good measure.
Long before writing Apology to a Whale: Words to Mend a World on my two-month-long, 3,000-mile passage through India, I came across a temple, perhaps as far south as Madurai, where in the forecourt (an architectural splendor which in the West might be called a cloister) I came upon 46 side shrines (we might call them side chapels) adorned with exquisite frescoes, each housing the identical sculpture—having about the dimensions of a street hydrant—of the lingam and yoni. It was early morning, and yet long before my arrival, the devout had sprinkled each of the 46 icons with a cascade of warm, liquefied butter, and adorned it with flowers.
Although appearances talking about my previous book, Devil’s Tango: How I Learned the Fukushima
Step by Step took me to the Great Lakes States where thousands of Minutemen
silos are still kept on hair-trigger alert, and where recently a major accident
damaged one of these to the tune of millions of dollars, and resulted in the
demotion of several military personnel, I had never visited such an
installation in real life.
Over the past many years, many activists have demonstrated
against the use of these weapons of mass destruction—one of the first being
Carl Kabat (still at it in his 80s, still risking arrest) with whom I occasionally
corresponded during his long months in jail—none of them have thought to adorn any
Minutemen with warm, soothing liquefied butter prior to adorning them with
petals.
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