Forget Magazine. Remember, Remember, Remember.

Vancouver, June 23ish

Yesterday, in Vancouver I circled through the energy of nations and met an engineer from Ghana, beautiful as their black star.

We discuss the absence of light, the cost of heating food, each Ghanaian using 10,000 times less energy than a Canadian.

Through coal skin and diamond eyes she tells me about deserts of families, her family, eating one meal from one bowl.

"You're so lucky, you cannot understand," she says slowly, sad. "But you know," her mouth stretching over pearls when she sees my embarrassment. "It just means less dishes."

She teaches me about the penny mites (a reference to the Bible) and we idealize the possibility of a global power grid, ways to change.

"We're not asking for much, only enough to cook a meal cleanly."

On a German television beside us, her Ghanaians route the Americans at football, charging them home from the World Cup.

Around us nine children, the Kutapira Youth Marimba Percussion Ensemble, give birth to sound so moving it's underlined over and over in my journal.

Not even Bill Richardson can believe that on a Thursday afternoon in Vancouver: 500 people from United Nations are dancing together spontaneously.

During this I'm told the Dalai Lama will visit.

And for an instant, I feel the hope of a grown up Vancouver; for an instant I feel the slow energy of our revolution at hand.