tv [untitled] August 22, 2010 5:30pm-6:00pm PST
entrepreneurial thinking, with our eyes on the future. in breaking ground the transbay transit center, we are laying down the first steps for the grand central station of the west, connecting cities and communities throughout the region and state. it will be a crossroads of commerce, john, transit, and retail, will increase public transit options, reduce congestion on the roads, and cut carbon emissions. this project represents the best product of a strong public- private partnership, a thriving center for economic activity, a center for a good paying jobs, and a better quality of life for local workers and families. it is about sustainability. the mayor spoke about that.
he has been a leader on that issue. increasing access to quality transportation and improving san francisco's infrastructure have long been among the top priorities of our delegation in congress. that is why we have fought to secure critical investment from the government for transbay, not just the money for today, but the recovery act, $400 million in funding, enough money to put people to work sooner with good paying jobs and reducing the overall cost, over all by $100 million. [applause] starting in 1998, more than $60 million in designated federal transportation funds getting us ready for today. this year -- thank you, mr. secretary -- a $171 million loan
from the department of transportation. i would like to hear some applause for $171 million. [applause] out of these investments and partnerships with private businesses and local and state governments, transbay will create at leastç 48,000 jjobobr a seven-year construction period, 5000 for the rest of the year just to get started. when completed, it will boost the gross domestic product to $80 billion in increased personal income in the area by $1 billion. [applause] transbay success will mark a significant step forward with the dream of high-speed rail
across california, and is central to our work to invest in the nation's infrastructure and rebuild and renew america. it is like a makeover for california. in this congress, we have made an unprecedented commitment to high-speed rail, creating jobs and connecting communities, never occurred act, -- the recovery act, $2.34 billion for california. the president's budget for fy10 has another $2.5 billion. projects like the transbay transit center are part of our broader vision for a growing, thriving, dynamic economy. it embodies the spirit and goals of what the president and congress are pushing for in our making it in america strategy.
manufactured in america, enabling people to make it in america. [applause] that is because we know when we make it in america, we create jobs and lead the world economy. our manufacturing agenda will close loopholes encouraging job to go overseas. that is how we will reinvest the money into real and -- infrastructure in america. we will create clean energy technologies, and the wind turbines and solar panels the world will buy. the idea sprang from here, and then the manufacturing took place somewhere else. not under our made in america agenda. the idea and innovation is here, the manufacturing is here. we are here to compete, to win, to prevail, in the global
economy, and all of that start by building our infrastructure. that is why we are here today. one of the goals in putting this for -- and it is a specific and concerted effort -- to make sure we have jobs for all the effort -- purposes i mentioned, for all of our veterans to come home to work in a clean energy economy, somewhere that is worthy for the sacrifice that was made by our veterans. secretary lahood, please give the president to our appreciation, thanks, gratitude. when he became president, he stood on the steps of the capital and asked for swift, bold action now.
to create jobs for the future, and education, we will use the soil and wind and sun to run our cars and fuel our factories. you know the list, it goes on and on. health care for all americans is a right, not a privilege. one week and one day after that speech, the house of representatives passed the recovery act. [applause] because we were ready and had worked with the president in advance with his vision and leadership. the senate took up the bill, and as the senator said, weeks later, was signed into law, and here we are today because of it. so thank the president, and as we break ground, for the
families in san francisco, and the bay area, because of the work done here, our hopes are rising. thank you all very much. [applause] >> thank you, madam speaker. this concludes the speaking portion of the program. i would like to invite the speakers to join me for the historic groundbreaking. if you could please exit the stage, and then we will be providing you some ceremonial shovels. if the speakers could exit right and left and join me in the front. thank you.
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. >> on march 5th, 2007, a car bomb was exploded on mutanabbi street in baghdad. mutanabbi street is a mixed shia-suni area. more than 30 people were killed and more than 100 were wounded. this locale is the historic center of baghdad book selling, a winding street filled with bookstores and outdoor book stalls. named after the famous 10th century classic poet, al-mutanabbi, this is an old and established street for book selling and has been for
hundreds of years. mutanabbi street also holds cafes, stationary shops, and even tea and tobacco shops. it has been the heart and soul of the baghdad literary and intellectual community. this tragedy is part of a wider and continuing tragedy, but one that we want to isolate and address, not only for the loss of lives but also for the implications underlying the destruction of a street where books were sold. book selling on mutanabbi street is no different from book selling here. we traffic in memory, ideas and dreams. in that sense, we feel that mutanabbi street starts at the front door of all of our book shops. mutanabbi street starts here. our first reader will be sinan
anton. >> when i was torn by war, i took a brush immersed in death, and drew a window on war's wall. i opened it, searching for something, but all i saw was another war and a mother weaving a shroud for the dead man still in her womb. there was a photograph of an iraqi boy on the front page of the "new york times". he sat on the edge of the truck, 8 or 9 years old, surrounded by his family, his father, mother , and 5 siblings were asleep. his head was buried in his hands. all the clouds of the world
were waiting on the threshold of his eyes. the tall man wiped off the sweat and started digging the 7th grave. the next reader is going to be diane dupris. thank you. >> i'm going to read a few things that i wrote sitting in a hotel room in, oh, whatever year that was, 01, i guess, when we started bombing afghanistan. these are short poems on the afghan war. 1, small bones of mountain children in the snow. two, bags of rice burst open, burlap flaps in the wind. even the label, usa, is fading.
three, we air drop transistor radios. can you eat them? will they keep you warm? this one is called les american, october 5, 2001. we are feral, rare as mountain wolves. our hearts are pure and stupid. we go down, pitted against our own. there's one other short thing. we gathered there frequently, old scholars, printers, book collectors, old and young writers pass through the place on any given afternoon. all kinds of activity came to the shop in the years i worked there. they were the early years of the black awareness, robert williams was active in south carolina.
there was a period of time when the cot in the back of the store was a drop off for various disassembled armaments. sometimes someone we didn't know would put something under the mattress, making the cot unusable for several days. someone would come by and take the hardware away in a shopping bag and that would be it for a week or so. there was often a black photographer who would come to the shop with an empty shopping bag. when he left, he with leave in a zigzag and eventually get on a bus going south. >> i wanted to read a poem that was sent by the poet that i invited to the recent san francisco international poetry
festival from iraq i've been in touch with for more than a year and a half. after the united states would not give him his visa, i asked him -- i told him about mutanabbi street and he wrote a poem and he wrote it in english, though he writes in, of course, in arabic. but this one he wrote in english. so i'll read it. one figure in the poem you should know, humbaba, which is an ogre, a monster of immemorial age. that was a special big garden, a forest, where all types of trees and flowers grew. the trees bending down gently flinging branches. our orchard grew like a crown
on the sun's eyebrow. where did humbaba come from? his mother was just a cave, his father unknown. who made him a friend pretending guardian of the orchard. did those nice shrubs need fear to go begging for a garden and have humbaba in his treachery ilk. those plants and flowers were like books everyone could read, not cut and throw away. their different fantastic colors had formed our blood so our veins ran smoothly, our 7 wonders showed. then humbaba made a whirlwind of fire and snow. who crowned him king? who showed him our garden was but a jail? humbaba was great and scary, but not so very strong, though no one could ever conquer him as no one would ever try.
time and again, when things grew old, humbaba alone believed himself eternal and young, still powerful, able to defeat all. humbaba didn't want to know one fact: that accumulation will lead to eruptive change. but, sadly, when suddenly he realized it after all, he chose to check its power on all, the tall. he crushed all the shrubs and plants leaving them creeping and broken all over. he damaged the flowers and colors, the flowers withered, their leaves all burned and soon they were throwing their seeds every which way and when the whole orchard changed into a dry, gray waste, humbaba, his mind like stone, shouted his horrible cry of fire and burned all that gray and yellow, birds
of all kinds were flying away with ashes in their beaks which humbaba couldn't oversee any more or ever set on fire. then, grandfather ended his day and continued closing his big thick yellow book, turning to his grandsons and daughters and anding them a big red bud, then bidding them good night and laying his head on his yawning book, he glances solemnly at the full moon in the core of the sky, his eyelids blinking once, searching for that big, silvery rose. the next reader is dima shahabi >> i'd like to move on with an iraqi poet, one of the most
prominent and brilliant poets of her time recently passed away in cairo, in june, actually. she was not only a poet, she was luminous and free-thinking pioneer in establishing the theory of what has come to be known as free verse in arabic poetry. in addition to her extensive laments on oppression of women and melancholy. she left. no cheek turned pale, no lip trembled. the door did not hear the story of her death. no window curtain overflowed with sorrow and gloom to follow the tomb until it disappeared. the moon lamenting its
depression. the night surrendered itself without worry to the morning. the lights brought the voice of the milk girls, the fasting and the moaning of a starved cat of which nothing remained except bone. the fussing of salesmen, the struggle of life, kids threw stones at one another in the middle of the road while dirty water flooded the avenue and the wind toyed with gates and roof tops, alone in a state of semi oblivion. . >> on the day al-matarazzo street was bombed, did you notice how quickly it folded in itself? or the broken tea cups and
coffee-stained saucers, the gray matter, and just before the street was eviscerated by those, just before that moment, did you hear the patter, the proclamation, the prayer as they wrangled and swore, denied and affirmed, did you hear the words as they fell? for a thousand years we have, two thousand years, more coffee? what do you think? but this book says -- map, border, industry, collusion, resistance, truth, spirit, faith, doctrine, domain, love, free, portal, wind, cut. did you hear the euphony of the street like a rain forest of
song birds pefrpblged among the crinkle and fluttering leaves of newspapers as they addressed if not solved, defined if not created the problems and the promise of tomorrow? did you hear the explosion, the screech, the howl, the scream? did you even know of the dreams imploded inside the molten iron, splayed blood and torn guts across the narrow book-lined street as debate turned to barb's screeches, philosophy into choked smoke and a thousand years of history was buried in the rubble. or was there nothing except an inxoerable deadly silence. and the next reader is rick
london. >> i'm going to read a few poems by the palestinian poet mahmud darish. i have the wisdom of one condemned to die. i possess nothing, so nothing can possess me and have written my will in my own blood. oh, inhabitant of my song, trust in water. and i sleep pierced and crowned by my tomorrow. i dream the earth's heart is greater than its mouth, more clear than its mirrors, and i was lost in a white cloud that carried me up high as if i were a hupo and the wind itself my
wings. at dawn, the call of the night guard woke me from my dream, from my language. you will live another death, so revise your last will. the hour of execution is postponed again. i asked, until when? he said, wait till you have died some more. i said, i possess nothing, so nothing can possess me, and have written my will in my own blood. oh, inhabitant of my song, trust in water. this last poem has an epigraph, the cypress is the shadow of the tree and not the tree itself, and has no shadow because it is the tree's shadow.
the cypress is in pieces like a shattered minaret. it's asleep in the road in its own aesthetic shadows, green and dark, just like it is. no one has been harmed. cars pass by, speeding over its branches, rising dust settling on their windows. the cypress is in pieces, but the dove that chose it doesn't move its exposed nest to a nearby accommodation. overhead, two migrating birds circle the sufficiency of its nesting place and trade gestures. a woman says to her neighbor, i wonder, did you see a storm come by? no, nor a bulldozer, and yet the cypress is in pieces. and someone passing the debris says, maybe it got bored from
neglect or worn out by time, for it's as long as a giraffe and as meaningly as a dust broom and it provides no shade for lovers. a small boy says, i used to draw it without air. its lines were easy to follow. and a girl says the sky today is lacking because the cypress is in pieces. and a young man says, no, the sky today is complete because the cypress is in pieces. and i say to myself, it's not obscure or clear. the cypress is in pieces. there is only this. the cypress is in pieces. . >> a poem i wrote shortly after 9-11. the terrorists for rachel cory and all