In a culture like ours, one sometimes forgets the power of a poet's words...


Here is an open letter from the poet Sharon Olds to Laura Bush declining the invitation to read and speak at the National Book Critics Circle Award in Washington, DC. Feel free to forward it along if you feel more people may want to read it. Sharon Olds is one of most widely read and critically acclaimed poets living in America today. Read to the end of eloquence.


> Laura Bush
>First Lady, The White House
>
> Dear Mrs. Bush,
>
> I am writing to let you know why I am not able to
> accept your kind invitation to give a presentation
> at the National Book Festival on September 24, or
> to attend your dinner at the Library of Congress or
> the breakfast at the White House.
>
> In one way, it's a very appealing invitation. The
> idea of speaking at a festival attended by 85,000
> people is inspiring! The possibility of finding new
> readers is exciting for a poet in personal terms,
> and in terms of the desire that poetry serve its
> constituents--all of us who need the pleasure, and
> the inner and outer news, it delivers.
>
> And the concept of a community of readers and
> writers has long been dear to my heart. As a
> professor of creative writing in the graduate school
> of a major university, I have had the chance to be a
> part of some magnificent outreach writing workshops
> in which our students have become teachers. Over the
> years, they have taught in a variety of settings: a
> women's prison, several New York City public high
> schools, an oncology ward for children.
>
> Our initial program, at a 900-bed state hospital for
> the severely physically challenged, has been running
> now for twenty years, creating along the way lasting
> friendships between young MFA candidates and their
> students--long-term residents at the hospital who,
> in their humor, courage and wisdom, become our
> teachers.
>
> When you have witnessed someone nonspeaking and
> almost nonmoving spell out, with a toe, on a big
> plastic alphabet chart, letter by letter, his new
> poem, you have experienced, close up, the passion
> and essentialness of writing.
>
> When you have held up a small cardboard alphabet
> card for a writer who is completely nonspeaking and
> nonmoving (except for the eyes), and pointed first
> to the A, then the B, then C, then D, until you get
> to the first letter of the first word of the first
> line of the poem she has been composing in her head
> all week, and she lifts her eyes when that letter is
> touched to say yes, you feel with a fresh immediacy
> the human drive for creation, self-expression,
> accuracy, honesty and wit--and the importance of
> writing, which celebrates the value of each person's
> unique story and song.
>
> So the prospect of a festival of books seemed
> wonderful to me. I thought of the opportunity to
> talk about how to start up an outreach program. I
> thought of the chance to sell some books, sign some
> books and meet some of the citizens of Washington,
> DC. I thought that I could try to find a way, even
> as your guest, with respect, to speak about my deep
> feeling that we should not have invaded Iraq, and to
> declare my belief that the wish to invade another
> culture and another country--with the resultant loss
> of life and limb for our brave soldiers, and for the
> noncombatants in their home terrain--did not come
> out of our democracy but was instead a decision made
> "at the top" and forced on the people by distorted
> language, and by untruths. I hoped to express the
> fear that we have begun to live in the shadows of
> tyranny and religious chauvinism--the opposites of
> the liberty, tolerance and diversity our nation
> aspires to.
>
> I tried to see my way clear to attend the festival
> in order to bear witness--as an American who loves
> her country and its principles and its
> writing--against this undeclared and devastating
> war.
>
> But I could not face the idea of breaking bread with
> you. I knew that if I sat down to eat with you, it
> would feel to me as if I were condoning what I see
> to be the wild, highhanded actions of the Bush
> Administration.
>
> What kept coming to the fore of my mind was that I
> would be taking food from the hand of the First Lady
> who represents the Administration that unleashed
> this war and that wills its continuation, even to
> the extent of permitting "extraordinary rendition":
> flying people to other countries where they will be
> tortured for us.
>
> So many Americans who had felt pride in our country
> now feel anguish and shame, for the current regime
> of blood, wounds and fire. I thought of the clean
> linens at your table, the shining knives and the
> flames of the candles, and I could not stomach it.
>
> Sincerely,
>
> SHARON OLDS

The goods.

"Whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it's time to pause and reflect."
Mark Twain

Couldn't resist.


> While on his morning walk, Prime Minister John Howard falls over, has
> a heart attack and dies because the accident and emergency ward at his
> nearest hospital is too understaffed to treat him in time. So his soul
> arrives in Heaven and he is met by Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates.
>
> "Welcome to Heaven," says Saint Peter, "Before you settle in, it seems
> there is a problem. We seldom see a Liberal around these parts, so
> we're not sure what to do with you."
>
> "No problem, just let me in; I'm a good Christian; I'm a believer,
> "says the PM.
>
> "I'd like to just let you in, but I have orders from God Himself. He
> says that since the implementation of his new HeavenChoices policy,
> you have to spend one day in Hell and one day in Heaven. Then you must
> choose where you'll live for eternity."
>
> "But I've already made up my mind. I want to be in Heaven," replies
> Howard.
> "I'm sorry... but we have our rules," Peter interjects. And, with
> that, St Peter escorts him to an elevator and he goes down, down,
> down... all the way to Hell.
>
> The doors open and he finds himself in the middle of a lush golf
> course. The sun is shining in a cloudless sky. The temperature is a
> perfect 22C degrees. In the distance is a beautiful
> club-house.Standing in front of it is Bob Menzies and thousands of
> other Liberals luminaries who had helped him out over the years -
> Harold Holt, John Gorton, Bill McMahon, etc. The whole of the Liberal
> Party leaders were there .. everyone laughing, happy, and casually but
> expensively dressed. They run to greet him, to hug him and to
> reminisce about the good times they had getting rich at the expense of
> 'suckers and peasants.' They play a friendly game of golf and then
> dine on lobster and caviar.
>
> The Devil himself comes up to Howard with a frosty drink, "Have a
> tequila and relax, John!"
>
> "Uh, I can't drink anymore, I took a pledge," says Howard, dejectedly.
>
> "This is Hell, son. You can drink and eat all you want and not worry
> and it just gets better from there!"
>
> Howard takes the drink and finds himself liking the Devil, who he
> thinks is a really very friendly bloke who tells funny jokes like
> himself and pulls hilarious nasty pranks, kind of like the ones the
> Liberals pulled with the GST and the Free Trade Agreement promises.
> They are having such a great time that, before he realises it, it's
> time to go. Everyone gives him a big hug and waves as Howard steps on
> the elevator and
> heads upward.
>
> When the elevator door reopens, he is in Heaven again and Saint Peter
> is waiting for him. "Now it's time to visit Heaven," the old man says,
> opening the gate.
>
> So for 24 hours Howard is made to hang out with a bunch of honest,
> good-natured people who enjoy each other's company, talk about things
> other than money and treat each other decently. Not a nasty prank or
> short-arse joke among them. No fancy country clubs here and, while the
> food tastes great, it's not caviar or lobster. And these people are
> all poor. He doesn't see anybody he knows and he isn't even treated
> like someone special!
>
> "Whoa," he says uncomfortably to himself. "Bob Menzies never prepared
> me for this!"
>
> The day done, Saint Peter returns and says, "Well, you've spent a day
> in Hell and a day in Heaven. Now choose where you want to live for
> eternity." With the 'Deal or No Deal' theme playing softly in the
> background, Howard reflects for a minute ... then answers: "Well, I
> would never have thought I'd say this -- I mean, Heaven has been
> delightful and all -- but I really think I belong in Hell with my
> friends."
>
> So Saint Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down,
> down, all the way to Hell. The doors of the elevator open and he is in
> the middle of a barren scorched earth covered with garbage and toxic
> industrial wasteland, kind of like the eroded, rabbit and fox affected
> Australian outback. He is horrified to see all of his friends, dressed
> in rags and chained together, picking up the roadside rubbish and
> putting it into black plastic bags. They are groaning and moaning in
> pain, faces and hands black with grime.
>
> The Devil comes over to Howard and puts an arm around his shoulder. "I
> don't understand," stammers a shocked John, "Yesterday I was here and
> there was a golf course and a club-house and we ate lobster and caviar
> and drank tequila. We lazed around and had a great time. Now there's
> just a wasteland full of garbage and everybody looks miserable!"
>
> The Devil looks at him, smiles slyly and purrs, "Yesterday we were
> campaigning; today you voted for us!"

Out? In? Make up your bloody mind will ya?!

Well, I've decided, seeing as Fiona is still away (till tomorrow) that I'll be staying in Cochabamba for longer than I had lately thought (under all the giddy excitement of seeing more of this continent). I want to stay and finalise my classes, contacts and friendships.

But I don't have to cancel my classes at the institute because why? I was fired. I'm pissed off about it quite frankly although I feel like a oughtn't be given I didn't express it as harshly at the time as I feel now. I wasn't really fired but my class got cancelled (lack of attendance, different levels, etc.) - effective immediately last night when I got to work to give them their exam. The director told me he was going to give the exam instead of me (to save money on paying me), so I could go home. I said well I'm here to work and now I'm going home? Thanks. No chance to say a proper goodbye to my students, prepare presents, nuthing. So I said a makeshift goodbye out the front on their way in, displayed my anger at the institute for them, my sorrow to leave them. They were all sad, and all got my number and a couple said they were leaving too then. So that's good. A little validation.

Last night though, at the Trova (I went alone to practice a shakily confirmed stage debut) I met four lawyers, shitfaced, who have been searching for English classes, and want to start Monday from 7-9pm, maybe 6 of them. That's 300B a lesson! How long will we be here for? Who knows... That's another reason I want to stay. Make some serious doshies. Woooh! 300B. That's A$50!! ... yep.

Fiona called today, half cut in a bar in Santiago. Sometime tomorrow night all going well. There are such things as "love hotels" here in Bolivia (heart-shaped beds, mirrors on the ceiling... etc.) of which Cochabamba shares an apparently unfair monopoly... so let's see if we can't find a non-seedy one...

Your Friendly Neighbourhood dying-of-desire Bolivian Correspondent.

Niños, Mariachi and where the hell is Fiona??!

Well, it's Friday again. I can't really concentrate on constructing full sentences in correct English, nor Spanish for that matter.

I have a feeling that Fiona will come back early to surprise me.

On Tuesday night, at about 12.36am I was sound asleep subconsciously waiting for my alarm clock to blakker at me 6 hours later, when all of a sudden that house dream I was having (the one where all of the share houses I've had in my life merge and all of my compañeros de casa come burling up and down the stairs choosing rooms and not getting on very well (you had to be there - terrifying!) was rudely interrupted by very large music. So loud in fact that I was convinced that I was still dreaming and that it was in fact my phone. I reached for it, woke a little more, realised that my phone doesn't have that volume nor the capacity to play music like that, I stood up, walked to my second floor window, looked down at the garden to behold a fully decked out Mexican Mariachi band, with their big fat guitars, big fat hats and big fat voices.

One electrifying thought as I stood at the window was that Fiona had discovered what was (WAS - didn't happen) in order for her when she arrived in La Paz many months ago and she'd organised the same for me.

As it turns out, the girl downstairs was being seranata-ed for her birthday by her novio. How sweet. And what a surprise. You should have seen her prancing around dancing the Cueca in her jim-jams. We went down, enjoyed the band and a glass of champagne.

In other, more important news, it was Dia de Niños yesterday. Kid's Day. How many times were we told by our parents, even before we finished asking "You've got Mother's Day, Father's Day, when's Kid's Day?" that "Every day is kid's day". Well, not here. Seems like it's just yesterday.

While there was much fun and nonsense organised to be had, a lot of effort was put into the more serious aspect of the rights of the child. I see many many loving parents here, just as everywhere, but it's a sad fact that Bolivia has a high level of child abuse - emotional, physical and sexual abuse, child labour and prostitution, malnutrition and drug abuse. More than other countries? I don't know. But the discussion I had last night with a friend brought to light the level of unreported crime in Bolivia and abuse of kid's rights is included in that terrible omission.

So, Fiona leaves Cuba on the 17th. That's 4 days away.

Gullumph.

A little Marfling plug.

"MO," written and directed by first time director Brian Lederman and starring Erik Per Sullivan (Malcolm In the Middle) is an amusing, yet poignant true story about a boy living with Marfan syndrome.

Here's some links about the movie and where it's screening:

"Mo" <http://www.ticketweb.com/t3/sale/SaleEventDetail?dispatch=loadSelection Data&eventId=129321> is premiering at the Malibu International Film Festival
<http://www.malibufilmfestival.com/>; on Saturday night, April 14th. You can get your tickets online <http://www.ticketweb.com/t3/sale/SaleEventDetail?dispatch=loadSelection Data&eventId=129321> for only $10 each! A great release <http://home.businesswire.com/portal/site/google/index.jsp?ndmViewId=new s_view&newsId=20070404005217&newsLang=en> went out on the Business Wire online last week.

Have a look to find out what it's all about!

If you are anywhere near Santa Monica (the location for the venue of this particular screening), go out and support this film. We have a lot of people in the Southern California, so it would be great to see a big turnout to support the film and the National Marfan Foundation. The more attention the film gets, the more it will translate into public awareness about Marfan syndrome and the NMF as it gets in front of more and more people!In case the above links don't work in your email reader, you can cut and paste them from below.

Tickets:http://www.ticketweb.com/t3/sale/SaleEventDetail?dispatch=loadSelectionD ata&eventId=129321

Malibu International Film Festival: http://www.malibufilmfestival.com/

More on "Mo":http://www.mofilm.net http://www.mofilm.net/;

Business Wire release:http://home.businesswire.com/portal/site/google/index.jsp?ndmViewId=news _view&newsId=20070404005217&newsLang=en

Bodgy birthdays and preemptive posting.

Well, Fiona may soon be back in Bolivia from her jaunt smelling the bitter-sweet odour of lefty poolitical action. Soon may mean May 2. Soon may mean two weeks earlier than that, at around April 16, which is only six days away from now and "back in Bolivia" means La Paz where I'll meet her.

When this happens, then what happens? I hear you ask. Well, the reason that I don't just follow up with a straight answer is because there is none.

Fiona is incommunicado (I've never heard a Latin Americano say that word, but my old host head of the family, Gonzalo just coincidentally walked in here and asked how Fiona was, and I showed him "Fiona is incommunicado" and he seemed to understand, so it's probably a Spanish word... yep.). So, Fiona is incommunicado and when she finally calls me or writes to me she'll hopefully make clearer the question on everyone's lips - when am I leaving? (Well, the question on everyone's lips except mine is "When are YOU leaving?")

When she gets back to La Paz I meet her, then we go to Macchu Pichu (which is only just nowdays not being a surpise to me - I had dismissed the place as purely a tourist trap, but I've come to realise, having made close connections with indigenous culture that it is a place I'd actually like to visit!) That is, we go to Macchu Pichu if I have my ... passport and visa, which I've not seen for over 9 months now (actually I did see a glimpse of my passport in a folder in La Paz immigration but only for a beautiful, sacred second...)

Then we come back to (oops, nearly wrote "Australia"... that would have been a balls up, wouldn't it! You can tell where my mind is...) back to Cochabamba for some time (undefined, due to a general confusion of where I want to be) and then travel around Bolivia, Argentina, Chile.

There's a point to get across here and it's this: don't write to my Uyuni address anymore. Nor to my Potosi address. In fact, as of today, I count myself also as snail mail incommunicado. I could catch some mail on my way back through after Macchu Pichu, I could have it forwarded to Correos in other cities... but the quality of the mail I've got so far renders me to dismiss these ideas as too risky.

Thank you all so much who gave me some of my greatest pleasures in real time mail from home and abroad.

And now, a picture or two for those who don't read the entries...

"Happy Birthday to yoooooooouuuu!!!" Mauro's birthday on Saturday included a surprise party that turned out strangely: I organised for he and I to arrive at my place after some drinks at the restaurant down the road while everyone else got to the house. As it turned out only four other people were present, one was my housemate (below far right), the other was Cinthya (below left), and Gustavo and Sandy (below right and centre respectively) were with us for the drinks! Felt a bit stupid when we all walked up the stairs together, got into the house and then said "surprise"...

I posted a picture a while ago in January where I'd fallen victim to the "take a bite out of your birthday cake" tradition, only to be pushed in head first. They told me it was only for stupid gringos to fall for, but even though Mauro saw it coming he was compliant anyway. And I can't let it not be said that Mauro ended the night in the back of his work (the Tirana Hotel) in an arm chair throwing up into a cardboard box. I had to almost carry him home, then the next day I made up some things that he did that didn't actually happen. Whee.

*shrugs* I suppose it's better than this system...

Right. This is important. Seeing as the Australian Government are being irresponsible and underhanded (need I say it - again!) I need to make sure my vote is counted when they call the election. I want to be told exactly when the election is called as they don't list the Australian polling booths around these parts until an election is called and I'm going to need as much time as I can to get to one of these suckers. So, can you tell me? Email. Blog it. Call me. I want to know.

How are the government specifically being underhanded (again)?

Well, we used to have seven days after the election date was announced to actually enrol, but this time the polls will close to new voters at 8pm - the very night the election is officially called. If you're too busy or don't hear about the election in time and aren't already correctly enrolled, you won't be able to vote on Election Day.

Not sure if you're enrolled correctly? Just click on the link below. You can join the call to revoke this legislation and tell politicians to make it easier, not harder, for all of us to have a say at election time. You can also make sure you're correctly enrolled before the polls close in record time.


www.getup.org.au/campaign/DontLetThemStopYouFromVoting.



It's up to us to make sure we get a voice on Election Day.

Thanks! PS: On April 16, new ID requirements and extra red tape come into effect, so if you're in a rural area or overseas especially, make sure you get on the roll now (that means ME! But I checked - I'm still on the roll).

Your (totally unBolivian-related) FNBC.

Backwards & Friedbrains

Clifton Hill. 1999. A haunted house (a long long story). Melbourne venues began to have its own hauntings of a pool-playing duo of Overseers, facing such supervillians as The Rock, The Buckaneer, and the Stingray... Terrible times of high crimes... Strawberry milk and bakery-hot bread helped us on our nutritious way. Flying chalkboards and our very own Hell-Catwoman.

There are days when I can't believe how time flies and they're usually the ones that make you want to relive days like this.

Thanks Rupert, see you soon-ish.

Capricorn scorn.

Capricorn

It will do you a world of good to retreat from the pressures of the outside world and just curl up by yourself for a while. If you can lower the volume of your life for a few days, some helpful introspection is bound to come. What other people have to say about your life is just noise right now, since no one can truly understand what you're feeling (despite what they say). Rely on yourself for the answers -- if you believe that you have them, they will come.



Always the way, just when I'm busy...

Although I've found relying on myself for my own answers is very good for getting things right, it's sooooo much easier to do what other people tell you to.

One year out of the country and counting...

*cheers of adulation, admiration, salutation and enviation*

*he bows*

Thank you... thankyou.