Masters on the Mountain 42 Oct. 17 & 18, 2015

Masters on the Mountain 42 Oct. 17 & 18, 2015

masters 42In Truckee Calif. at The Fight Club,
10960 West River Street

Godfathered by ‘Uncle Bill’ Willem de Thouars (The Magus of Denver) and a Possee of Heavy Hitters and Healers

Special Featured Guests
Including Sergey Makarenko of ‘Systema’

Open to anyone in the movement arts with a sense of humor

Friday 8 p.m. October 16
“Finding the words between FIGHT or FLIGHT”
Readers of their own works including Uncle Bill, James Painter, Eugene Robinson, Chuck Stahman and YOU

$50 per day — includes Saturday potluck
and free DVD of event.

Truckee Hotel has special lodging for this event. Call Diane 530-414-1037.

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Eureka Wins Big at International Film Festivals

ICFF mailing graphicEureka Productions is proud to announce that three of itsvideos have been named as official selections for the 3rd Annual Indian Cine Film Festival, to be held September 19th in Mumbai , India.

  • “World Peace Tour” follows Satpal Maharaj on a trip to tour Japan, including the bomb site at Nagasaki, connecting the the rebirth of that once decimated city to the current push for peace in our world.
  • “Wedding of the Century”chronicles the pagentry and traditional splendor surrounding the ceremony joining Shri VibhuJi and his wife on their happiest of days.
  • “Kumbh Mela” is an inside’s look at one of the biggest festivals in the world, held in the most auspicious of years in Haridwar, India.

The objective of ICFF-15 is to create a platform for the meeting, sharing & development of great cinematic ideas. The festival will host international competitive film screenings, as well as film market & industry oriented master classes & discussions. The festival will provide a central point where industry people can share business and new opportunities shall be created for new talent.

The ICFF-14 was a grand success with participation from more than 45 countries. Now the third edition of Indian Cine Film Festival is aimed to set new milestone and it’s an endeavor of Miniboxoffice to make it relevant for each & every participant.

WilliFEST mailing graphicEureka’s video, “Trevor Thomas, Blind Hiker: Envision the Path” has also been named as an official selection for the 6th Annual Williamsburg International Film Festival, to be held September 24th-27th in Brooklyn, NY.

The video showcases accomplished hiker Trevor Thomas as he sits for a few moments at the end of the Tahoe Rim Trail and shares his thoughts about being a blind hiker. Trevor’s blindness hasn’t stopped him from hiking an abundance of trails in the continental US, including a solo hike of the 2000+ mile Appalachian Trail, a first for a blind hiker.

The Williamsburg International Film Festival, voted top 20 coolest film festival by MovieMaker Magazine, was established to provide a platform for the creative visions of today’s emerging artists of all disciplines. The film festival is an opportunity for filmmakers to enhance their careers by exposing their projects to a powerful audience, gaining crucial media exposure and strengthening industry relationships.

Eureka Productions specializes in cutting edge presentations of qigong, meditation, healing, and the internal martial arts, as well as award-winning documentaries of various social and ecological issues; — all the news that doesn’t fit at a prime time of your convenience.

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Eureka Video Selected to Run at NYC Film Festival

Eureka Productions was notified last week that is documentary of a blind hiker has been selected at WilliFest in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Read the note and watch the video below.

Dear Sam Edwards,

Congratulations! ‘Trevor Thomas, Blind Hiker: Envision the Path’ has been accepted as an Official Selection of the Williamsburg International Film Festival (WILLiFEST) – a fun-filled film and music festival, featuring film screenings, musical events, Q&A’s, panels, networking opportunities, after-parties and awards. I understand how much hard work goes into creating a short film and I appreciate that you took the time to submit yours for consideration in our 2015 program.

On behalf of the Festival Programming Team, we are honored to be able to screen your excellent short film and hope you are able to come to New York City for your screening this September 24-27.

For more information about the Williamsburg International Film Festival (WILLiFEST) please visit our website at

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Our Man on The Spot: Living Down in Brooklyn

IMG_3189By Anders Edwards

Here is my current place of residence, one chevy van parked in a lot in south Williamsburg, Brooklyn — beneath the M train.

I met a man named Stan with a taco truck who said I could park  the van in the lot in exchange for a couple hours of work everyday.

This photo was taken a few weeks ago after the epic of van troubles. It began with the engine dying on 17th street in Manhattan. At the time I thought it was as simple as the battery being dead, so I had two friends guard the van while I spliced an extension cable into a phone booth to charge a battery pack.

This of course did nothing, the van has a great sense of humor and would not let a problem be fixed so easily. So I walked across the bridge to Brooklyn and bought a new battery and walked back with the battery in my hand, arriving at the van 5 hours later.

For a day after that my hands were molded to the shape and task of carrying a battery and had a hard time remembering how to perform other functions. I installed the battery and was thrilled when the van whirred to life. The next day I drove out of there, got to Brooklyn, and pretty soon the lights died, followed by the engine. The van gave me a break this time and got into a proper parking spot before dying. So I then realize of course the battery wasn’t the issue, rather the thing that is supposed to charge the battery–the alternator-was at fault.

I spend the next two weeks going back and forth between the van and autozone as they sell me the wrong alternator repeatedly. At last after walking miles down Atlantic avenue into the heat haze abyss to a different autozone they give me the right alternator, I walk back and put in the van and the van rightfully doesn’t start.

The van sits in this spot another week, collects some graffiti, and some debris around the wheels. Somehow I avoided not being towed or booted, or someone ransacking the contents of the van which would be easy enough since there was not glass but merely a wool blanket for a rear window. Around this time I get a gig overhauling 32 bikes and through the owner of the bikes I meet stan who says “get the van towed over here.”

So I do.

During the day I would liberate abandoned bikes (bike thieves work by night, I am simply a bike liberator) and fix them up and sell them, and in the evenings I would contemplate the van. I made good friends with a young man named Christian across the street from the lot who I found playing a steinway piano on the sidewalk outside his apartment.

One day Christian leaves and gives me a key to his place to use the kitchen and such. I go over there and remove the key from its hiding place and fuss with the door for about 5 minutes until an undercover cop car rolls up and 4 gigantic officers accuse me of attempted burglary.

I somehow wiggle my way out of being arrested. A few minutes later Christian shows up and tells how just as he was walking around the corner to his place he saw me being interrogated by the cops and had walked right through us without me even noticing.

He kept walking only because he is living in America illegally and couldn’t risk a cop asking him to produce an ID of which he has none, besides he says “I could tell you were breathing right and therefore were exempt from NYPD tactics.”

I finally got the van started just by asking it to (as well as flipping around the starter relay which had been installed incorrectly, by my own hands no doubt). I then drive to Baltimore to pick up will and we set out on tour the very next day.

By the time we arrive in Charlotte, North Carolina the van is backfiring and misfiring so severely I have no choice but to pull over in the first lot I see. There the van sits for a few days while I imagine the possible causes of this.

Maybe the points on the distributor have corroded so that the sparking order is all mixed up, or maybe there is a hole in the intake manifold and the manifold air sensor is modulating in attempt to give the right amount of air to the cylinders.

All of this is way out of my expertise to fix. But after two days in Charlotte I pop the hood and notice that for some peculiar reason the engine would smooth out when I placed my hand on the dipstick for the transmission fluid.

This makes absolutely no sense but I look further and realize the dipstick is resting on the alternator mount which is missing a bolt and presumably is fluctuating between a grounded and ungrounded state. I had no bolt handy but learned from the airplane guys that steel wire works good enough in place of just about any proper part.

Now I am back in Baltimore where the time can be ascertained by how recently a police helicopter has flown overhead, where the cops twirl there nightsticks on the corners to intimidate but unlike new york aim to make no arrests instead of making as many as possible (this of course is not always the case).

Just finished Huckleberry Finn and don’t understand why I wasn’t made to read it sooner. Erik just read it for the first time too, in his jail cell, and relayed the necessity of reading it, especially for the mischief prone.

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“The Day of Forgetting” by Daan Heerna Van Voss, A Response

Brooklyn (1 of 5)From Our Man on The Spot


I too lost my memory, as did you, at about the same date though more appropriately on the Coney Island end of Brooklyn. I fit as you say into the statistical age group bubble of those who suffer T.G.A (Transient Global Amnesia), which as you researched, lasts approximately two 20 hours — “a one day thing.”

I was in Brooklyn where, for a few hours, I had been under some physical stress (systematically so).

The Q train to Brooklyn.

The Q train to Brooklyn.

You say, “No words can accurately describe the feeling of losing your memory, your life!” The truth is that in my case I actually felt pretty okay about it all; it was more about someone finding me a GPS, or simply telling where I had come from.

I think the thing is that no matter on how rudimentary the level, I still knew who I was and I could count on something more primal to guide me. Just as when soaring a glider, and being a little long without oxygen, then, when back at the airport to land,  I could not figure out the changed landing pattern.

I just relaxed and stopped figuring, and my hands seemed to know exactly what to do. Maybe even here in the West, the habit of meditation can be useful.

My problem in Brooklyn was simply that it was time to go and I had no clue how I had gotten to Neptune Avenue or where therefore to return to. Not a clue!

Actually I didn’t really know where ‘there’ was, either here or there! So others, who seemed friendly, believing I was, “putting them on” said, “Go back the way you came.”

‘Thanks a lot,” I probably said to myself.

Brooklyn (4 of 5)You say, “Underlying the loss of facts is a deeper problem: The loss of logic and causality. A person can function, ask questions, only when he recognizes a fundamental link between circumstance and time, past and present.”

If, as you say, “No word is without a word that came before,” then the only words that came before my question were the bemused: “Go back the way you came.”

There in this ‘there’ were no “friends, relatives and former loves” (as there were for you), “telling me about what they thought were the elements of my life.”

So realizing there wouldn’t be a bemused cadre of support, I could though see the stairs with a door at the bottom to what turned out to be Neptune Avenue, so why not see what I would see when I walked through.

I have to say that I did not feel any of the terror of unknown “causality” so long as I did not allow my mind to stray onto the unpaved shoulder of the road of suspended thought.

I knew I had better wait a bit before thinking about my “condition.” I realized I had just better put my thoughts into my feet and remember if homing pigeons can do it, so maybe could I.

When I got to the bottom and opened the door, it could have been left or right on Neptune so I took the shorter length of the block to the left. When I got to the corner, it seemed there was more action down the next block without crossing the street and the idea of public transportation entered my mind as a probability.

And when I came to what appeared to be a major subway between ‘here and ‘there,’ wherever they were, some recognition that uptown on the Q or the B seemed to be where things came from. I had a Metro Card in my pocket, so why not!

Brooklyn (3 of 5)Shortly after boarding, a man I presumed a street musician by the encased conga he was rhythmically tapping — though, as the car was nearly empty, it was pretty clear he was not going to ply his trade to an audience of but me.

In some odd way that I’m sure somebody more knowledgeable than me could explain the tapping actually seized my attention. Perhaps that was because nobody was home in my conscious mind, so with plenty of room for rent, why not let rhythm take a seat?

However, after several stops a posse of boom-box attention-grabbers came in and occupied all possible decibel levels.

Then he with the covered and now overwhelmed conga, however, kept tapping. Though seemingly impossible, I could isolate and attend his beat.

After a few stops the boom boxes vacated in a crush, and my man continued on with his seemingly mindless doodle drumming until I think Prospect Park, where he stood up by the door until it was time to vacate or stay aboard, which is what I hoped he would do.

Out he went, however, and as he paused on the platform I scurried to the door and hollered out, “Thanks.”

His reply: “That was for you.”

By my stop I realized I pretty much knew where I was and the memory of Lafayette, and his sojourn out of time inspired me again.

And Daan, your closing remarks are perfect for my reply to you: “Former patients often remember their day in oblivion as being light and carefree…”

Brooklyn (5 of 5)

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A Simple Woolen Jacket: Our Man on the Spot

A Simple Woolen Jacket: Our Man on the Spot

Blue Sweater

By Willem de Thouars

Writing has never been my best subject in the nature of my heart and soul. Only by illustration in artwork can I describe myself the best.

A little summary about the story in my painting, above, is about Shah ‘Za’ Edwards, who was driven over by a careless truck driver in Truckee, Calif. She left to the world of the unknown and will always remain a spark for us to grow.

Za was always a great and caring friend – a musician, the best a mother could ever be to her children and the best of a caring friend. She never lacked energy and never let any negativity overcome her positive nature.

The painting is all about a blue and woolen jacket that Za gave me some years ago, in Daniel’s home, a house he built. When she gave me the jacket, she said, “Willem, I bought this for you, and know you might like it.”

With those short but brief spoken words came a great story. The woolen jacket was light to fit any situation of weather, in summer or winter. I always dress light to find comfort not to restrict my movements.

On a Thursday in February 2015, for some peculiar reason I picked the same jacket Za gave me some years ago to play golf on my most favored golf course, the Thorn Greek gold course, a city owned course. The city of Thornton is over 50 years old, and the course is only 30.

The beginning of the start of my hyperactivity in golf was started at hole no. 3. That particular day became overwhelmed for the experience alone. Hole no. 3 is always an interesting hole to play, with many obstacles to force one to hit them straight. When I stopped my golf cart at midfield of the course, and was ready to step out of my cart to hit my ball, there was suddenly an electrical shock. Za appeared out of nowhere suddenly, barefoot and dressed in pink. She told me, with similar words, about the blue jacket: “I thought you might like the jacket.”

The whole field, just for a few seconds, seemingly a lifetime stopped: Suddenly, I was in the house that Daniel had built, and in a hallway near the large kitchen, where she gave me the jacket as a present. She came to appear to me only in seconds, and she disappeared as quickly as she came. It took me a few minutes to recover my shock.

Our world of the unknown is a world in the far beyond, unsure to most of us, the living, of reassurances. It is hard to overcome the world of spirits outside our physical world – that we just inherited a box we line in at birth.

I have experienced similar appearances before to understand.


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Man on The Spot: Giants 3, Surveillance State 2

Man on The Spot: Giants 3, Surveillance State 2

Bruce Bochy said Joe Panic sat for nine innings and then came up and squared the ball for a run and the win Friday night against the LA Angels.

Santiago Casia did in holding them to a run and might have had the win if Pagan had been able to get the ball out of his glove the first time he tried. And what with his good arm he could have got the out Thursday night, the night we, my friend Ginny and I, had hurried down to San Francisco.

We were there to hear Robert Sheer detail the unforeseen but intimate progression of the surveillance state to the fellow travelers of liberal corporate technology companies, who are more than happy to do the dirty work of snooping for them, just as Snowden heroically revealed Sheer was speaking along with a lawyer from the electronic privacy foundation at City Lights Books poetry events space, a room still hosting the indefatigable spirit of Lawrence Ferlinghetti, one of the few base line poets still held upright in the residual energy of the ‘big bang ‘ of the “Howl” generation.

A relatively compact gaggle of possibly progressive or at the very least so called independent thinkers had crammed into the traditionally limited confines of the poetry loft as well as the stairs leading up in order to hear Scheer lament our passion-free surrender of all notion of individual privacy and introduce his new book, They Know Everything About You and subtitled How Data – Collecting Corporations and Snooping Government Agencies are Destroying Democracy. The cover illustration is a chart with the silhouette of a man with tag lines to his occupation, salary, recent phone calls with their duration and content,mortgage payment, recent purchases, blood pressure and everything else.

Silicon Valley’s seemingly progressive tech companies are in cahoots “to create a brave new world of wired tyranny” and that world already exists and to keep our ‘fix’ of acquiring ‘the right stuff’ easily we have surrendered entrance to our individual autonomous realities and most of us don’t care enough to resist or follow the example of that dwindling posse of whistleblowers being hounded bleak heartedly by the Obama administration.

Sheer told us that he enjoyed and used the current availability of information devices that made it possible to gather information without having to take the number two subway to the New York City Library. However it comes at the cost of ‘them’(they) knowing every little eccentric thing about us. And if we don’t live in a technologically advanced country then they are the drone eye in the sky checking out if they so decide our every so called ‘free ‘ movement.

“With the dominance of the internet….we have been overwhelmed with the illusion that surveillance and freedom are compatible”

“Even now in the early phase of mapping our minds––this more precise entry point into the mind of the consumer––this access to our thoughts already exceeds the powers of the most invasive Big Brother government that Orwell imagined. At the command of internet-driven signals people everywhere in the world have been willing to abandon the concerns and safeguards of privacy developed painstakingly throughout human history for the convenience of plucking that perfect item off a virtual shelf and paying for it without looking up from their “…for the convenience of finding the best local diner, we surrender the most important piece of information a secret police ever wanted to have on the population it was surveilling — one’s physical location…’can we use your location’ the device messages. Yet from the start… tracking one’s journey –– actual as well as virtual–– is routinely realized, achieving what oppressive governments had never even fantasized about attaining.”


The Giants’ game the next night with that inter-league bogey on the radar gun but rarely in the same ball park -– the L.A.Angels–– would be for us a last minute possibility following the pilgrimage trail of Muni buses traversed by this paper’s editor and arriving on the #47 at the last stop which was a couple of blocks from AT&T Park.

My companion, Ginny, warned me not to try to go through the metal detector line run by women as they would not fall for my country bumpkin line that the work knife and multi-tool were merely part of the rural work life and shouldn’t be considered contraband and dangerous but could be safely stored downstairs somewhere till after the game. Forget about it! It’s not.

But when whining to a security guy who clearly had developed an enduring tolerance of the meatloaf behavior of people like me he directed me to across the street where there was a bar which would for a consideration sometimes put stupid stuff people brought to the game behind the bar until the people who should know better came back to claim it. And sure enough they Walking back to the stadium at the stepping -over -people- to-get to -your- seat time I steadied into a hobble -along trot remembering I have a stepdaughter who gave birth to her own daughter named Madison the day Madison Bumgarner hit his grand slam and she would never believe I’d been there without a ‘selfie.’ Instead I took a picture of my thriving seat neighbors.

Not to mention that my friend Gretchen had the previous week been featured on the league website by her nice catch of a foul ball. These thoughts reminded me this is why we hurry to the game. it always has a chance of being a participatory sport for anyone below the nose bleed.

We of course were in fact seriously in the nose bleed upper section of the stands but pretty much behind home plate and with the best view in the city of the bay on a clear and drought-riven unseasonably warm night. We also had the equivalent box seat view of balls and strikes from the giant tv screen beyond the outfield.

My seat mates just in front and just behind were young Hispanic American couples who exemplified the heritage of the current wave of great young players descendant of kids like the ones I met while filming a documentary about Sandinista Nicaragua who would do whatever it took to play catch-and throw including catching and throwing with the same hand if that was the only glove available; possibly instilling those lightening quick reflexes in the genetic code.

We were offered popcorn by the couple in front and when it got San Francisco chilly by the sixth inning and I fumbled for another dollar bill to make the exorbitant six dollar hot chocolate price (served out of a back pack container not unlike what some small time ‘growers’ in the eighties used to water their plants); one of the young women behind said “times are hard now” and offered up a dollar to the vendor-who it should be said could have humbled any of the zillion dollar a year athletes on the field with the number of times he could run up and down the stadium stairs. I thanked her but didn’t accept so in the eighth inning I had a cup of chocolate placed in my hand which as I thanked her “was the best cup hot chocolate I’d ever had!”

And it was great to stand and stamp my feet and cheer when appropriate with Giant Nation.

However after some unlikely bad ball-handling by the usually adept Brandon Crawford, shortstop, and Angel Pagan, center fielder, the score was tied in the ninth. And lest we forget, the Angel’s pitcher, C.J. Wilson, (who found L.A. where money grows on palms) had pitched for the same Texas Rangers featured in a World Series game in Arlington, noticed in this paper, when the presumably non Mendo-lib fans at Dick’s bar in Mendocino saw the camera pan around to ex-President Bush close behind home plate. That’s when the entire gaggle of patrons rose as one and the America finger accelerated explosively in the air breaking the sound barrier with a whoosh. And those same patrons provided their own caustic commentary on America.

But on Friday at the bottom of the ninth, the symbolically named Joe Panic, as Bochy said, got off the bench after nine innings and calmly drove in the winning run.

As we were being herded down the giant walkway to the exit, the escalator being so to speak, “down” a man walking beside me and with an accent I couldn’t place, gestured to this amazing crowd of all percolations and persuasions and said, “This is what American should be.”

And I felt despite what Bob Scheer says about the consuming public there is still plenty of hope in the nosebleed sections of this country and despite my awe and respect for City Lights, maybe they should have a giant flat-screen TV but only on for Giant’s games.

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