Iznibz 4 Haiti

HAITI, the first Republic founded by Free slaves, now down to 2% of it's indigenous trees and totally ravaged by Earthquake. This news doesn't seem to have really hit home with the people living on the tail-end of Empire in London. The last thing Haiti needs now is the insidious tendrils of Slavery re-establishing itself there in it's time of need. For help from outside to be equitable, it needs integrated people to be part of a community rather than imposing inhumane alien values; people to communicate and inspire, and take resources to the place direct without profiteering on disaster. Who understand poverty because they live without spending money, without the compromise that the abuse of money affords, whose intellegence has not been corrupted by the unnatural imbalances that are inbuilt into the commercial system.
Meet "Iznibz Wazir", a gardener, designer, communicator, philosopher, flute-player, craftsman, sanyasin. He's going to Haiti in April, with his hoe, seeds, and 2 crails of tools, to build a garden, plant trees and help build a permenant cultural community centre. You can read about Mr. Iznibz, otherwise known as Reinold, on his blog, www.dancingwithahoe.blogspot.com
I will endeavor to keep you posted on his progress from this end too.

London Crash

Frenetic Cliques absorbed in mutually exclusive games, hoovering resources for fun and pay, doesn't matter anyway... The event horizon is narrowing, crenellated ring-fenced minds assuming projected self-images are truth, going down the Hole. London is caught in a Repeat-Loop of unprecedented proportion, a retro-fitted remix culture going nowhere faster than ever before. Commercial interests rule, if you can't pay you can't play. The flood is coming, ripples on the moonlit sea wash the island free. We are caught on a prison island, the gate of Westminster decides who goes forward as the great white hope of the generation. Meanwhile the real people, they who for whatever reason did not swallow the program whole, keep their heads down lest they be lost. Slavery is encrypted here, hidden behind the capital letters on birth bonds, lost in small print on contracts, and tolerated for an 'easy' life. And the tide of aluminium empties keeps the streets crunchy underfoot, the party after party rinses care from the collective lexicon, the hangover is coming and no-one wants to know. I am dreaming of rolling hills, 3 mile walk to the shops, moving soil and placing stones nestled in a space where they cry out the memory of the life they once had. Birdsong not programmed by mobile phone chirrup, rising above the monoxide sump to oxygenate parts of mind here locked by environment and habit. Talking to the weather, the only clock the solarsystemical unwinding of time as I spend the infinite credits of potential wisely. No need to pretend. Simple. Honest. Reciprocal. Lasting. True.
I hope I can navigate there. It feels a long way away... wish me luck.