When Evil Turns to Sacrilege

I woke up this morning to the continued sound of ecological destruction during a time of year when Nature is softest with infinite potential and hope. It pains me to see the steel tines of “progress” desecrate the ancient lands which have given life to countless generations of coyote, rabbits, ravens, snakes, lizards, quail, chuckars, yellow balsam root, sage, rabbitbrush. What was once curvaceous wild hills upon a dark sky is now terraced into submission and polluted with streetlights.

If you are going to pillage the Earth,

subdue it

control it

break it down

With iron tines of adapted war machines,

called backhoes, bulldozers and rock crushers

Then at least have the courtesy to do it at the high noon of summer

or the dead of winter.

Ravaging in the rain in early spring,

when birds sing their song of hope

where plants brighten with lushness

how flowers show their vulnerability

while soil opens with fertile receptivity,

Pain turns to torturous despair

as the ancestral lands give stillbirth

and the blood of terra erodes,

devoid of life.

The sacrilege of doing something more perverse than what is already evil.

The equivalent of killing somebody, but killing a pregnant woman.

Where evil turns to sacrilege.

“Overture” Film Review

 

A longer film by Dan Sachar, “Overture” is another melancholic story reminding us of profound archetypes.
Filmed in a post-apocalyptic world, a lone man tries to piece together a broken memory while doting over a delicate young tree in an otherwise inhospitable world. A mysterious woman who seems to have uncanny wisdom and compassion forces him to look at the past and accept what happened to humanity. The desertification of the city slowly expands into the remaining life of nature.
In the end he returns to source and the woman is what I assume as Nature herself.

Overture / אוברטורה from Dan Sachar on Vimeo.

“When It Will Be Silent” Short Film Review

 

A short film by Dan Sachar covering powerful archetypes which will bring tears to all but the coldest eyes.

Poetry could be described as art focusing on that which is not said. Or in other words “reading between the lines”.

This video perfectly fits that definition.

Filmed in sepia almost to the point of black and white. A dead landscape showing what is oil or blood dripping down a heart symbol drawn on a wall. Puddling near a dead bird with feathers being blown by the wind. A broken bridge. A man in a truck wearing a gas mask. Drudgingly digs a hole in the dust. He pulls out the body of a woman draped in white from the back of the truck wearing a wedding ring. Of skin blistered with chemical burns. The mask wearing man carries her down the valley of the broken bridge and into the hole he dug. He lays next to her and takes off his mask, looks at the corpse of the young woman and dies next to her from what we assume is a toxic air. The video ends with oil or blood dripping down a heart drawn on a limestone wall. Soberly melancholic as it brings up the ancient archetype of love, loss and grief with and an unspoken undertone of environmentalism. 

When it Will Be Silent (כשיהיה דומם) from Dan Sachar on Vimeo.

For The Familiar Singing Of Flighted Friends

 

For the familiar singing of flighted friends

For the caress of etheric invisible which blows during the equinox

For the soft sustenance, the stem cells beneath my feet

The rugged giants of compassion swaying gently with me

The cool blood of life dripping down and from the stones

The ancient faces of rocks, they are the bones

Standing silently on the edge

We are never alone

Circles and spirals

They are the cycles

Ebb and flow

To and fro

I am grateful.

 

Knowledge Is Not Understanding and Words Are Not The Truth.

 

Knowledge is not understanding and words are not the truth.
Understanding happens when you feel the bulldozers rip sacred soil as you feel your own flesh being torn apart. When you shed tears as you witness a dying bee cling to a clover flower with such true and authentic Love. When you take your shoes off and feel the roots growing from your feet into the earth. When you witness a beautiful sunset. When you see the clouds as your own thoughts. When you have seen the soul of a rock and consciousness of a tree. When you see all plants, animals, streams and mountains as your equals; as your brothers and sisters. When you encounter a rattlesnake on your path and tell it “I am sorry for what we have done, please forgive me.” When you nod in acknowledgment to the bird in the sky. When you smell the freshness of rain as the plants smile with glee. When you caress the delicate lace of ferns and grass as if gently touching a lover. When you melt into oneness and nothingness with nature. When you let down your ego. When you surrender. When you save worms from sidewalks. When you sway with a tree in the wind and marvel at lighting storms. When you no longer fear nature but accept her. When you realize how loving nature is. How kind plants are to give us fruits and berries.
Only when you shed tears and tremble with pain as you witness clearcutting, dams, mutagenic-pollution, tainting of purity. Where you long with all your heart the chatter of coyotes instead of barking dogs, the whisper of wind instead of zooming cars, the smell of fresh rain instead of dryer sheets, the sight of stars on a dark night sky instead of streetlights, the rolling sensual hills instead of terraced development, soft fertile soil colored with lichen and moss instead of concrete and asphalt
There is a better way.
There is a better way.
And it does not involve intellect. It involves wisdom. It was our intellect that got us here and it will be our wisdom that will save us.

The Way A Bee Loves A Flower

 

While in the house, I found an insect on it’s back slowly moving it’s legs in futility. I investigated and found it to be a dying bee too weak to right itself. I thought “if I was going to die I would want to be outside on the coolness of the ground under the warmth of the sun”. So I gently scooped up this little bee and went outside to put it on a clover flower. It was too weak to hold on so it tumbled off. I picked some clover flowers to place near it. The way I saw it embrace that flower brought tears to my eyes. This is the definition of Love. The way a dying bee loves a flower. The way the flower loves the sun. The way I love the bees and flower. This is Love.  If only people knew this Love at a more conscious level.

Poetry – All Is One

 

Alas we are all little raindrops in a waterfall of which will soon join the same river of life they emanated.

I am free.

I am here.

I am now.

We are flow.

We are one.

Beauty in all.

All is one.

Everything and nothing.

Now only exists.

Truth is free.

Sun always shines.

Wind always blows.

Wisdom is here.

Wisdom is there.

Ebb and flow.

To and fro.

Infinite potential abounds.

Life is free.

All flows energy.