MY UPCOMING GIGS, as featured poet

[1] JULY 24 (Tuesday), 9 to 11 PM

with Caleb Beissert, Aaron Price, and Sarah Phoenix Noel

Battery Park Book Exchange 
and Champagne Bar

1 Page Avenue, Asheville, NC 28801
(828) 252-0020

Part of “Peace is a Flower” Summer 2012 Gig Series

[2] AUG 8 (Wednesday), 

8 to 10 PM.

Mind Gravy Poetry, produced by Al Black

Drip Coffee, 729 Saluda Ave at Five Points, Columbia, SC
Part of his "Red is the Color of my Night" road gigs for summer of 2012

INQUIRY: Catherine Durner Ball, 828 252 7798 or Marta Osborne, 828 280 1555,

or email pasckie@yahoo.com

INFO: http://ashevilletravelingbonfires.blogspot.com/ http://www.mountainx.com/ae/2010/041410traveling_bonfires_unpacks_for_pritchard_park/

http://www.mountainx.com/article/8410/Playing-with-Bonfires

https://www.facebook.com/asheville.travelingbonfires

Love on Credit

THERE’s a certain disturbing parallelism how we wade along an acquired credit card/financial loan culture and current way of life—with the manner in which we have come to regard love (primitive, pristine kind of love) and try to sustain a relationship. It sort of feeds each other, in some absurd yet socially-acceptable way… 

     In our quest for life’s comfort and convenience in pursuit of happiness, we buy in to a “give me some good stuff now and I’ll pay you later” ticket that has been sold to us the moment we sign up as member of society. It seems to be the most normal, smartest, and reasonable way to live a life—a social contract that is facilitated by a bank or any societal/community edifice that is erected and fueled by corporate profit.
      Problem is, we are, most often than not, unaware or oblivious of the longevity or future of our capability to pay—since, like addiction, we savor the moment and disregard what’s up next. “Next” is taken care of by a job arrangement that is as shaky as an unpredictable weather, or some inheritance money or business savings that could dwindle in time as inflation and recession hits reality check. Although bigger acquisitions (cars, business capital, houses, education) take 15 to 20 years of nonstop payment, the enticement of present comfort and convenience that these acquisitions offer is stronger. We want these amenities and luxuries now, so we got them on a mouse click—yet we don’t really own them, yet… We have to work hard to fully own them later.

IN LOVE, we know we feel it when it happens—we have it inside. We know it’s reality within than without.

     Despite current studies that say lesser people show interest in marriage or committed relationships, majority of single people—61 percent, according to Pew Research—still hope to get hitched and savor matrimonial bliss. We all want to hold on to love.
     Last Valentine’s Day, consumer expenditures reached almost $18 billion, according to a National Retail Federation finding—up 8.5 percent from 2011. A Time article, citing business and academic sources, estimate that an average of 220,000 wedding proposals are pronounced on Valentine’s Day each year (10 percent of the annual total in just one day). And that, 70 percent of singles said they wouldn’t mind a blind date for the occasion.
     Meantime, romantic fiction accounts for more than $1 billion annually in US sales. Harlequin—the brand name alias for romance novels—sells more than four books each second. Many are still gasping over Stephenie Meyer’s silly vampires in love and whoever The Bachelor or The Bachelorette chooses as his/her longtime mate…
     But LOVE is not a daydream, reality TV, or Shakespeare’s sonnets. We want a piece of that good stuff—and we want it to last, we want to touch and feel it. Love has to enter into a social/human “contract,” or a relationship (partnership, marriage) to be able to, at least, acquire a semblance of holding on to love.
     Pretty much the same way we treat material acquisitions—we try our best to find the man/woman of our dreams on the get go. We have to be sure that the person we want to coexist with under one roof, and build a family with—is also financially capable of paying back what both acquired, or help both enter into more acquisitions to make life “more convenient.”

HENCE, we keep on looking—and we prefer convenience and accessibility, as well, in terms of finding the right partner. Dating sites—which number an estimated 1,500 with a projected net worth of $2.1 billion, based on recent figures—offer that user-friendly service. There are about 54 million singles in the US, and some 5.5 million of those use dating services. Smartphone users spend on average 81 minutes using mobile apps compared to only 74 minutes on the web.
     You see, even finding love and relationship is tied up to business—hence, finding lovers and spouses has got to be business-like, too. But aren’t relationships—and love—like life, an interactive flow of reflex/response that is nourished and nurtured as two people work around it? Compromises and negotiations, patience and tolerance, synergy and teamwork. Isn’t happiness/good living and love/relationships working projects that are built and fortified as both work around the bittersweets and rollercoasters of life? That life and love aren’t gift-wrapped packages—signed, sealed, delivered—and all figured out?
     The financial burden of living has gone too steep to climb, too high to hurdle, that the only way to make sense of life is to find someone who is physically/materially capable of bailing us out of what we have acquired. Sadly, when we meet that life’s partner who’s financially capable—we often go on acquiring more…
     So where do we place LOVE in that context—that ridiculous itch, swashbuckling idiocy, unreasonable insistence—that make us all human, when focus has shifted to paying bills and loans and we are frantically working for the money like there’s no tomorrow? Love needs time and attention, beyond the constraints of hours spent and dollars paid, far from the limits of gilded four walls. It is difficult indeed, given the circumstances that seem to entrap us, but there is always a way. We just have to start somewhere, somehow. It is on how two people in love talk about it, if they have ample time for those moments, that is. And if they do have time, the next ultimate move is... Just do it: Give love the chance to regain its bearings and be the way it is--for two people's lives. Love can wait, but not for long. It doesn't pause when it decides to stop--unconsummated, unattented love dies a natural death.

THE JEREMY LIN STORY: Race, Business, Game, Himself, and New York City

“IF Jeremy Lin were of Italian, Greek, or other European descent, there likely would not have been a comparable article speculating about this topic.” –A post in NYTimes message board.

In response, let me elaborate on Jeremy Lin:

(1) HIS RACE: Look back in time, the “firsts” in competitive sports, in terms of hurdling the racial barrier in white America—Sugar Ray Robinson, Jackie Robinson, Jesse Owens, and most recently, Tiger Woods (golf) and the Williams sisters (tennis), who excelled in sports games that were once dominated by whites (whether they were Irish, English, German, Italian, Swedish, Australian etc). Jeremy Lin is the first legitimate Asian-American sports personality who actually created such a tremor of an impact. It’s uprecedented, it’s new, it’s novelty. Imagine if there are 15 other Asian-American superstar millionaires in NBA, would people be this Linsane? There’s Ichiro Suzuki, Daisuke Matsuzaka, Tim Lincecum (and the upcoming Yu Darvish) in baseball, Troy Polamalu in football, and Manny Pacquiao in boxing—but Lin, so far, is a lot more than his game of basketball. For one, he is Taiwanese or Chinese descent: We are talking about the most gargantuan heap of humanity on Earth—who, whether we are happy or not, kind of controls the world’s economy at this point in time. When the Chinese of the Universe yell “LIN!” expect a tsunami.

(2) THEIR BUSINESS: Time Warner and MSG fixed their quarrel in the name of cable TV profit, all NBA arenas that Linsanity visits posts record-highs in attendance, sale of shirts and merch is simply Linsane (there’s even one dude who just moved to copyright“Linsanity” as trademark), and VOILA! Chinese all over the globe are watching like the kid is their biological kid—Asia bought TV/NBA coverage rights in all Knicks games, which means moolah generated from this hoopla is even bigger than the Super Bowl. And corporate America is just warming up.

(3) HIS GAME: It all boils down to his game. Lin can play ball, no doubt. He is a multi-tasker: he shoots, passes, steals, rebounds—and he’s only 6’3” and 200 lbs. He is not the typical ball-hog or selfish ball player, he makes his teammates look good as well. He turns the ball over quite frequently—it’s primarily because he’s all over the court most time (more than 36 mins per game), handles the ball 80 percent of the way, and takes more risks than the average point guard. More than all, he wins games. When he was given the nod to take the floor by his coach, he almost single-handedly put New York Knicks back in a winning pace from a badly-losing situation.

(4) HIMSELF as PLAYER: His rise to stardom is an enticing and intriguing Hollywood feelgood blockbuster. After receiving no athletic scholarship offers out of high school and being undrafted out of college, the 2010 Harvard University (Economics) graduate reached a partially guaranteed contract deal later that year with his hometown Golden State Warriors. Lin seldom played in his rookie season and was assigned to the National Basketball Development League (D-League) three times. He was waived by Golden State and the Houston Rockets the following pre-season before joining the Knicks early in the 2011-12 season. He was again assigned to the D-League and continued to play sparingly. In February 2012, he unexpectedly led a winning streak by New York while being promoted to the starting lineup.

[5] HIMSELF as HIMSELF: He has sterling humility—a trait that is not usually seen in most superstar athletes these days. He doesn’t trash talk, he acknowledges God and his teammates before he even mentions his achievements on a particular game. Before he shot to prominence, he was crashing in his bro and friend’s couches—since he wasn’t even sure if his non-guaranteed contract will amount to anything. That was about two weeks ago. He is the ideal role model: Modest beginnings, immigrant dreamer, accomplished academic background, God-fearing, humility/determination/perseverance/hard work, exceptional ball player. No wonder, people from 5 to 75—irrelevant of color, creed, culture and social standing—come out to join Linsanity. He is the personification of the Great American Dream, especially at these times when the Dream seems to be fleeting away…

[6] NEW YORK CITY. Linsanity happened and is happening in New York City, the grand stage of America’s insane love affair for bombastic melodrama, boisterous fanfare, and magnificent corporate brawn.

An Open Letter to my Son (and the world) on Occasion of Christmas...

“IT’s been more than a decade since I stopped believing in Christmas. I am puzzled in the fact that my dad runs through the metro early every 24th to buy every kind of toy he could fit into his tightly budgeted salary, stuff them all in a huge bag made of raggedy cloth, park them in our front door and finally knock at exactly 12 midnight—only to pretend in front of his kids (and even to himself, perhaps) that it was Santa Claus who brought all those gifts… I do not believe in it, but Christmas might mean everything to storm-stricken families. Tonight, what are they going to have? That question, I admit, struck me deeply today.” [--excerpt from my son DUANE’s Facebook post. Manila, Philippines]

DEAR SON,

The beauty and wisdom in being children is BELIEF, just because… Because kids believe in Santa Claus—their dads and moms believe in them, too. But that “belief” in Santa, isn’t really about Santa—it’s about belonging, love, joy, acceptance, being there, being “saved”…

     What could’ve happened if you didn’t believe in Santa, in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, in the thought that dogs and chimps actually can talk (yes, you did believe in those)—then you could’ve felt my pain. I could’ve handed you my sorrows because you understood those—you become my sounding board, my punching bag, my blues comrade. It’s all because our “realities” were one.

     But no, you deserved a break—you deserved some peace, you needed to play. I was happy that whenever there’s chance to frolic and have fun, you did. Each time a hiphop song came out of the radio, you went bouncing like rubber ball wherever we were: our tiny living room, my work place, jeepney and bus, moviehouse aisle, you were unstoppable. Funny that when that horrid July 1990 earthquake was rocking the `hood, you thought gods were dancing up in the sky. You exclaimed: “Gods will be done dancing soon, Papa…”

     Or what if, I told you, those rap lyrics were bad and violent, and maybe Batman was misogynistic or sexist? And Superman was a capitalist devil who invaded so many poor planets for their fancy pineapples and gold nuggets? Maybe you will understand me? Or will you simply resign in the corner (in the dark, like I was when I was 5), and weep because there’s no one to call a hero anymore? That all that I could share you were bad news? What if I simply handed you a grown up world’s bitter pill and said, “Hey son, this life sucks! Let’s be angry, you and me. Swallow this pill, you got no choice.”

     Your lolo always said that I was the most questioning, doubting child he had: I questioned many things when I was a kid—why a transistor talks, a car runs, an airplane flies, my mom weeps, my dad was always gone, the sky pours rain, the sea is endless, why my dad was always fighting with aunt about an ancestral house, why six kids share one Ligo sardines and one kid throws away pork chops to his dogs, why everybody hates Marcos when Imelda says “All Filipinos are my children”? Because of that, I felt the pain, and it tormented almost most of my childhood—I couldn’t understand the world of grownups. Why were they always complaining about stuff, and the only way that they could settle differences was to fight first?

     My dad or mom never gave me answers, or responses that would’ve satisfied my child’s mind. So I sought out my superheroes for sufficient answers. I found the time to find my Santas—my superheroes: Buck (the dog in Jack London’s books), Batman, Spiderman, Sgt Saunders (in “Combat”), Huck and Finn, Charlie Brown, the sirena (mermaid) and Darna, my komiks heroes. At a time, when I saw many children starving and dying in typhoon areas while politicians feasted in the palace, and barrios were bombed because tribes didn’t want to leave their land, I found solace in the thought that there might be superheroes who’d save these kids.

     And when I became a dad, I made it a point to share toys and burgers from my meager salary to/with these impoverished kids in “da riles” and squatter areas every time I brought you and your sisters your “pasalubongs.” Those poor kids called me “Ka Pasckie,” and it was like I was a savior to their days… and I believed I was Ka Pasckie all my life, like some superhero.  And it felt good to be one at a time when heroes were all washed away by monsoon rains and swept to oblivion by typhoon floods.

    So my son, it’s okay to be cynical because it gives you an other vantage view of life, the grim version of reality. But it’s also okay to believe. Balance keeps us sane, balance makes us write poetry or paint or craft a song. Artists are dreamers and realists that find peace in their work—it balances them, hence they survive. Because if they couldn’t—as did Van Gogh, Hemingway, Woolf, Plath, Cobain etc etc… their world will cave in. I was far from being those guys, but my world almost “caved in” in 1995—and I “died.”

     I wasted myself because I thought life was so real, so fucking painful that I couldn’t take it anymore. But why did I choose to call out loud to God (“If you are true, and you are such divine and superhero, fucking make me live again—because my kids believe in me, they need me, and I don’t want to go unhappy. Just make me live again, please!”)—God was my superhero and he/she made me live again because I wanted to be Santa knocking at the door on our Christmas eves again, or stay a Ka Pasckie in squatters areas. I wanted to share my little superhero-ness to the world…

     BELIEVE that it’s possible, my son. It’s okay to dream…

     Where do I find wisdom in life? In those poor typhoon areas: each calamity, these poor humanity weep—the truth cut them to pieces, they weep until no tears are left to shed… but on Christmas days and fiestas, they celebrate like there’s no tomorrow. They exalt life’s little blessings like a sack of rice or a small hand-me-down shoes or a toy actually came from superheroes and Santas who will be gone by the time the first rain comes down in July… And when the next devastation happens, they will take it—but when they survive, they will celebrate again.

     In an affluent country like America, most stopped believing, or we have become more cynical. We suspect control, abuse, and manipulation in all fronts. We stopped believing that there is a God… in saints, in Santas, in the beautiful pristineness of the past, in “politically incorrect” characters, in heroes real or imagined—we only believe in what we can touch but not those that we can feel… Hence we are sadder than the wounded but smiling and laughing humanity in 7,107 islands back home who still believe that some superhero will blow out of a bleeding rainbow and save them from misery—even for a day, a Christmas, a fiesta. They believe no matter how crazy things are…

     Believe, my son—because if we don’t, that dude that knocks at the front door on Christmas eve will not be a jolly old grandpa in red with a bagful of gifts—but a grim reaper with a box of misery. The world needs a break sometimes, and Christmas is the time to hang out and chill.

     Stay cool! Happy Christmas!

--PAPA

Asheville/Candler, North Carolina

Why Asia Isn’t Occupying

THERE was a time, not too long ago, when street turmoil ruled Asia: Thailand, Indonesia, South Korea, Japan, Laos, Vietnam, Philippines etc. There may be a number of far in between civil disturbances lately—but certainly, not in the magnitude of Occupy Wall Street’s ruckus and its loud ripples all over the US and Europe.
     Why is that? It’s because Asians are less frustrated with its financial well-being compared with its Western neighbors. While the US and Europe sink in economic quicksand and shudder in mass protests, most of Asia remains relatively unscathed… As early as 1994, I observed that the East has already prepared good, and smartly.
     (And, mind you, I am not talking about China, which started their ascent to capitalist firmaments in the 80s… Beijing pretty much acts on its own—in utter disregard of its regional neighbors, but that’s not my object of discussion at this juncture.)
     The four Asian Tigers—Hong Kong, Singapore, South Korea and Taiwan—spelled out economic policies that ignored the neo-liberal ideas by the US (that serve the greater interest of huge banking systems). Instead, they pushed for workforce education, technology advancement, and import substitution. These days, all four nations have developed into high-income economies, and have become world-leading financial centers…

IT should be recalled that Asia, at least for a time, wobbled in currency crisis that sent South Korea reeling when its stock market crash in 1997—although Singapore and Taiwan were relatively unshaken… Hong Kong came under intense speculative attacks—but then HK is China, so how could you beat Beijing? The crisis didn’t last long—all four economies rebounded strongly (as well as Southeast Asian neighbors like Thailand and Malaysia). South Korea has managed to triple its per capita GDP in dollar terms since 1997.
     Then there was the initiative of the Tiger Cub economies: Indonesia, Malaysia, Philippines, and Thailand. These nations pursued an export-driven model of economic development, focused on developing goods for export to highly-industrialized nations. Domestic consumption of foreign products was discouraged through government policies such as high tariffs. Then, education was singled out as a means of improving productivity… Like South Korea and Taiwan, most Tiger Cub nations are now doing great in manufacturing information technology.
     And why is it most call centers are in the Philippines? And why even my two kids are training/teaching Koreans to speak conversational English? Asians didn’t have to travel to the US to study English, they could learn right next door, and less expensive at that.
    The West recognized progress in Asia, hence—they brought their business there to the detriment of their own people. How could giant financial institutions lose or resist the temptation of amassing more money from very low wages—plus the benefit of employing a relatively “obedient” workforce and highly-educated, at that? Profit. Gargantuan profit—none else.

IN a related discussion, Europe’s leaders—notably, Germany’s Angela Merkel and France’s Nicolas Sarkozy—recently negotiated with banks to rescue its ailing economy. Sadly, most of these remedies are band-aid solutions that only benefit giant financial institutions more.
     And what do you know, the European Union also plans to borrow money from China—and private lenders (which are essentially, banks), instead of putting up more of its own money. What has happened to Greece’s vaunted shipping industry? Vietnam’s resins trade has soared up in the last two decades, coming from the ruins of war…
     Global power has tilted, indeed. China is the scary one--esp. when time comes (knock on wood) when it finally seized control of the oil-rich South China Sea/Spratlys etc. Meantime, Asia/China holds the West by the neck because of our consumerist mindset and over-dependence to oil-driven technology. They got the factories and the microbytes/workforce that build our e-baubles and computers.
     The West may have controlled the oil in Saudi Arabia and Kuwait--and now Iraq and Libya--but who process those crude oil and petroleum products before we, in the west, can use them? Asians, or workers beyond America and Europe.
     As an aside... Macau, which is (again) essentially China, has collared most of casino investments out of Las Vegas and Reno. The Chinese has the West all figured out: they even know how to lure "sin city" out of the desert...

MOREOVER, the US dollar and Euro keep on competing/investing in the classic brinkmanship style, but these are obviously not working. Wells Fargo et al are so greedy they want everything of the world (WF is trying to buy a huge chunk of Swiss giant, UBS, as well), giant firms bring factories out of the mainland—in expense of their own people.
     Now, the people are out in the streets. Compared with Asia… maybe 20 or 30 years ago, social unrest was ripping Asia apart—but now, they just work, get paid, enjoy their electronic gizmos, and be splurging tourists in the US and Europe (the Chinese, for example, have spent billions in the US in the last 5 years by just being tourists).
     Years ago, export of workforce (called “overseas Filipino workers) saved the Philippines’ economy; now, it’s the importation of work (via call centers and export processing zone contracts from Taiwan, China, and South Korea) that saves the country’s economy…
     This is a lesson to Washington: while thinkers and wizards at the Oval Office were busy head-butting with Iran and Venezuela and North Korea etc, Asia was silently focusing on what should be prioritized, internally: It’s own economic standing and how to utilize their own people serve those plans and policies.

A CASE in re ALABAMA’s H.B. 56: “What if I am a Small American Farmer?”

WHAT if I am a small American farmer? I may have inherited my apple orchard and potato farm, as well as my current Mexican farm-helps, from my dad or grandparents. The Garcias from Juarez, Mexico have been working for the Smiths of Somewhereville, Alabama for 50 years now…

     I am paying $4 an hour—plus free rent and some food—to my Mexican workers and they seem to be fine with the arrangement. My wife, who’s an accountant, pre-calculated that if I pay my workers $8 an hour, I won’t be able to spend or invest more on other farm implements and expenses, including internet marketing. I am always scared that the giant retail store, or stores that seem to be all over these days, will easily gobble my business up.  

     And because I only pay $4 an hour to my amigos and amigas, I am able to lower my apple’s cost that I haul off to the farmers’ market with Luis, my able helper, each weekend. We also drive cross-state to Georgia and elsewhere to deliver some more of my produce. Definitely, my apple is less expensive than what these huge retail stores are selling. With that, I am able to keep my business… I can “compete.”

    Now, my Mexicans/$4-hr workers are gone. They are scared and furious. But then, I can’t miss Luis and the Garcias although I love Luz’s burritos and enchiladas. I have a business and farm to run.

     Most Americans want jobs, like my college buddy and golfing partner, Dantley Cooper, who just lost his job as supervisor in a frisbee plant next town because his job—and the plant—have been shipped to Guangzhou province in China. Darn, he’s been there since graduation—like, 30 years! Hell, I don’t think Coop is cool with $8 an hour though.

     But my other neighbors is fine with it, of course… $8/hr at least, and 40hr workweek. To be able to pay their salaries, I need to cut down on operational expenses, as well. Besides that, my $8/hr workforce only wants to work 40 hours: I won’t be able to meet my week’s and month’s delivery quotas. My current American workers may oblige to $4/hr but, that’d be insane—that money isn’t going to pay their bills, mortgage, car loan, college loan, health insurance, and other credit card acquisitions (computers, cellphones etc). They may get some orchard/farm job but only for a time until they get “real” employment…

     Meantime, my fear has evolved into paranoia. As a small farmer, how’d I be able to keep my business? The store space that I am renting has also jacked up lease cost because it has been bought by a real estate owner who also runs a bank in town. Also, I need to raise the price of my apples to at least recoup the extra $4 than I am paying my current American workers. And I also need to pay my own bills.

     Holy mackerel! A longtime customer exclaimed, “What? Your apple costs $5 now?!? What’s wrong with you, Junior? The apple that my wife bought is only $2! But, hell, it’s imported from Taiwan!” Lordy, I am losing business! I heard, my stall may be taken in by someone who just moved in from Florida, who pays better. I heard he also put up a café beside his store, and has some unemployed kids providing free music. Hell, my son even plays music in there…

     Listen, last week, a dude on Brooks Bros suit, approached me and offered to buy my farm (that I inherited from dad and his ancestors). Tough! My son and daughter are about to enter college… My son said he’ll go to war so he could continue college. Hell, no! I am also behind my mortgage payment on my 7-room house. I only wanted a better life for my kids, you know… life that I didn’t experience growing up.

     Another lady who looks like Dolly Parton, sans the big hair but equally huge breasts, talked to me about simply marketing or distributing apples imported from China. She certainly doesn’t look like Chinese to me yet she seemed more concerned with China than Alabama… Kidding aside though, her deal seems doable. If I cut her a deal, I don’t need to go out there under the sun and cold and supervise my farm anymore… And I won’t be able to hire workers—Mexicans or Americans anymore—and worry about accounting and taxes and stuff. I will also have some front-office help from a calling center in Manila and Hongkong. My wife and daughter don’t have to do that: they have all the time in the world to Facebook and Tweet, whatever.

     Meanwhile, I sit down and contemplate: Do I need my Mexican farm-helps back, really? Or should I just do away with my farm, sit in front of my iMac, text buddies who left their family behind—like Coop—who’s now working in China, advising Chinese workers how to make awesome Frisbees.

     I don’t know. I gotta get going though… The wife wants me to buy her some new shirt at Target. I just hope that it’s not made in China. Ah, I miss Luis—he should be driving me to the mall, my back starts to ache and my insurance says it doesn’t pay for bad back that emanated from working a farm with Mexican workers.

     Hell, I’m just kidding.

--Pasckie Pascua

Just a dude--not Chinese, Mexican, or Alabaman--just a dude like you and him…

Recycle the Cycle

FIVE summers ago, as I sat by a curb on Mission Viejo in San Francisco on a coverage assignment, the sight of a middle-aged man laboriously dragging a pile of trash – or recyclable trash – mostly plastic soda bottles, empty aluminum canisters, and beer cans meticulously stacked on three grocery carts caught my fancy. I reckoned, he earns dinner money and probably, his rent (assuming he wasn’t homeless) by translating his garbage bounty into cash.

     This enterprising gig is made handy via The Dream Machine, a reverse vending machine manufactured by GreenOps that provides access to on-the-go recycling. Consumers can drop off recyclables and receive points redeemable at either the host venue or Greenopolis.com, an interactive community provided by Waste Management that promotes recycling and rewards recyclers.

     Interesting.

     Back in the islands, when I was a kid, I remember a man who visited households on Friday afternoons to trade rice cakes for emptied bottles of all sorts of condiments, spices, and stuff. He then transported these “reusable” vessels to the open market and sold them to vendors—who, in turn, refilled them with homemade and cultured soy sauce, cooking oil, rice vinegar, and what not. The man also collected old newspapers and magazines that were refurbished as bags for rice, salt, beans, veggies, fruits, and sugar.

     Such an ingenious way to recycle, isn’t it? These “consumed” materials didn’t actually go to complex recycling machines—they were simply passed on to the next user, and so on and so forth. Used softdrink (soda) and beer bottles were returned to the store—to be handed back to delivery trucks… I assumed, they’d wash those bottles again and filled them up.

     Imagine how much will the government save if such “recycling cycle” is practiced in America? For example, New York City alone spends something around $55 million per year in recycling efforts, based on 2002 data. As early as 2003, Fort Worth in Texas was making $1 million from their recycling program. But the question is – who earns that dough? Most of these recyclables go to privately-owned MRFs (Materials Recycling Facility). Let’s do the math—billions of dollars go to private companies that recycle our trash… Americans dump an average of 4.6 pounds of trash per person per day, the most in the world. That’d be 1.5 pounds of recycled materials per person per day in the US. Translated, that would be 251 million tons of trash per year.

     Lots of money.

     So is it possible that what I saw when I was a kid in my island days could be done here? I don’t think so… How could that be when we are so scared of catching colds and all sorts of skin infections in case we reuse these used vessels, boxes and cans? Besides, how do we tax these people who collect trash for money? That’s the reason why our carefully sifted recyclable trash are collected separately. These are “golden” commodities—big money to government and huge profit to business…

     Times have changed, indeed.

     A long time ago, hog feeds and dog food were rehashed leftovers. We didn’t use aluminum foils for grilling; banana leaves were a lot better and easy to obtain. There no Goodwills or thrift stores even—people randomly traded clothes and shoes in the same way we traded chicken pork adobo with chicken noodle soup.

     Transactions were easy, uncomplicated. I learned meditation and tai-chi from a 72-year old rice farmer, in exchange for work in his farm. My family’s laundrywoman was the village herbalist and massage therapist and got paid with a dozen eggs or few kilos of rice. Cost of commodities and foodstuff at the open market were not fixed and food staples were mostly negotiated right there. What was called daily interaction is now called business transaction; spontaneous sharing is now “upgraded” as professional consultancy…

     Oh well, oh well—I digress.

     Meantime, I can’t help smile whenever I think about that middle-aged dude in Mission Viejo dragging a pile of recyclable trash. Imagine how many small entrepreneurs in open markets or farmers tailgates would be so happy to buy his merchandise. And how many kids will be so glad to welcome him—and surrender those emptied bottles of Coke and canola oils—for a bag of blueberry muffins…

[From, "The Indie of Asheville," Nov 2011, Asheville, North Carolina]