Siva's Moondance, Third Ave, NYC

The full moon creates strange passages. At the peak of powers, when the shadow of the sun reflects strongest onto its silver surface, the journey descending to the underworld again begins. At the height of victory lurks imminent death, one that no one escapes.

I had just been reading about Ashoka, a devout spiritualist that reigned over a vast stretch of India for 40 years (272 to 232 BCE). Acquiring his political stance through a violent war, he eventually found his way into Buddhism, spending the rest of his career reversing the negative karmic effects of his previous bloody reign. While he still ruled with a tight fist – conversion did not stop him from maintaining control of his land – he attempted to turn his kingdom vegetarian and promoted Dharma by creating sustainable communities centered in Buddhist thought. To this day he remains a pinnacle of government-turned-good, one able to foster a civilization aimed toward the enlightenment and prosperity of the individual, a rare idea in this world ruled by nationalistic ideologies.

As I began walking west on 14th St, the late summer sky settling over Manhattan dusk, an intriguing blend of Arabic instruments bubbling in my earphones, I heard a loud screech of car tires. Instantly my attention turned upward where across the street I witnessed a young man hit straight on by a VW Beetle. I saw the impact of the car against his body, him flying nearly 20 feet in the air, his shoes haphazardly tossed from his feet mid-flight, smacking against concrete and rolling another 20. Then, nothing. A communal gasp was exhaled on the crowded corner, myself caressing my stomach, suddenly twisted and hollow.

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