Lines

Greetings,

“Anybody have any spare change?” queried a waif with panhandling dreams.

“Hmm, well, there’s a faint star at a conjunction of the head and heart life line. Does that mean anything?” said a kid fingering palms approaching Easter Is-land.

“Depends,” a child orator ranted, standing on a dove shaped soap box. “Do you mean faint as in non-distinguishable or feint as to throw one off the tacit socially agreed upon path implied by pretending to understand anything at all while processing information with a deft movement?”

“Yes,” a child philosophized with the wit of Camus. “It’s a sublime paradox, this sleight-of-hand absurdity theater. We have aspects of knowing. Freedom is terror. It’s not so much that there is something strange about time. The thing that’s strange is what’s going on inside time. We will understand how simple the universe is when we recognize how strange it is.”

“You’re just saying that,” said a young voice.
“All we know is what we think we know.”

“Sounds like __________ speaking of strange,” one resident commented to no one in particular.

“Please pass the Democracy.”
“No lie flutterbye,” sighed a Monarch’s wings in Greek orastory.

“What’s that have to do with the conservation of angular momentum?” queried a child rotating tires doing wheel reel feel alignments for their friends.

“Do I love you because you are beautiful?” pondered Rose. “Or are you beautiful because I love you?”
“Both,” sang the chorus.

“Time on a mountain top runs faster than time at sea level because gravity is stronger at sea level and gravity slows time down,” a scientific kid postulated, devouring Everest.

“You get what you pay for,” said a kid spreading their map out over 300 count linen.
“The map is not the territory,” observed a shrink-wrapped child reading The Dictionary of Symbols. They shared a story about dance.

“Dance is about process, becoming, the passage of time. Shiva symbolizes the union of space and time and also indicates creation. This is why dance is one of the most ancient forms of magic. People wear masks to hide their transformation, seeking to change their dancer into a god or demon. Dance is the incarnation of eternal energy.”

“Well, all right then!” said a kid, dancing in their death mask. “Let’s trip the light fantastic.”

A couple of engaged children took turns speaking play lines.

“I thought you’d never get here.”
“Sorry, I was delayed.”
“Obviously. Are you staying?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know, you’re such a mystery child to me.”
“You talk too much.”

Peace.

MK 36 plays the blues

Greetings,

The sound of gunfire is heard off in the distance. MK 36 gets it all down and out as love rocks their little world. Love is in the air. Run for cover. Rockets red glare, bombs bursting in air.

"Give me shelter!" she screamed.

This is what happened to them, living in a foreign country.

"Carpe Diem," he yelled, sifting through debris, the remnants of their relationship.
"Where's the remote?"
"We sold it to buy bread."
"We need more channels, more love."
"Here," she whispered, "take my heart. It's all I have to give."

Peace.

Tonal Awareness

Greetings,

You'll be pleased to know Tonal Awareness has been discovered in China. Scores of scholars and scientists have flooded the terrain seeking clues as to its origins.

It was initially heard floating near anxious catatonic university students rummaging through invisible texts while meditating. They faced a huge exam in exactly 18 days.

"Breathe in, breathe out," whispered their teacher, an Irish Druid. They fidgeted in their seats. They were bored. They were hungry. They struggled to sit still long enough to breathe.

"Your monkey mind ego loves the circus of daily sensory entertainment. Meditation puts it to sleep," streamed the Druid goddess. "No past regrets, no future fears. Be present."

They calmed down. One courageous soul played the "Violin Concerto: III. Toccare" by John Adams and Philip Glass with the Houston Symphony while breathing.

Another performed "Glassworks" by Phillip. Notes danced around their still, calm, focused, highly concentrated forms.

"Hello," said a subconscious spirit muse. "My secret name is Pay. Pay Attention."

Peace.

Shocking

Greetings,

A cheap Mobile Ear Cleaning Phone-y money honey blasted the Asian market today to wild applause from a gallery of fools. The louder addicted talkers yell, the deeper the rich silver spoon edges out unwanted noise, rumor, gossip and useless verbiage in ear channel canals. Rotate clockwise.

People are raving. Raving with delight at high decibels. Ding-dong, ring tone your abs. Tonal quality in high definition wide scream, ear splitting credulousness recovers dusty memory blanks.

Far away in a unique reality sound bite an old woman on a bare bones pension placed a needle on an old revolutionary vinyl recording entitled, "THE LONG TALK."

It blasted down polluted rivers, over lakes, slithering into dorms where frustrated, lonely, bored college students slept, perchance to dream as wealthy rats scoured their totalitarian universe seeking high speed DSL connections, inflated currencies, cheap rice, soggy green veggies, memorized texts, abject indifference and greasy callous attitudes dancing with piles of smelly unemployed laundry.

Beggars disguised as bureau-c-rats enjoy daily competition with packs of wild savage dogs investigating ubiquitous heaps of garbage, trash, raw sewage and restaurant leftovers. One beggar got real lucky.

"Look," she yelled, "I found a Mobile Phone-y, with unlimited mileage."

"Cool," said her independent friend. "Let's yell, for help."

Peace.

Building 18 - Ward 54

Greetings,

(Editor's note: Since the story broke 6 weeks ago they've closed Building 18. Ward 54 is the new monster and Bushmeister recently paid an apologetic courtesy call on paraplegics and wounded vets. The old story of delayed action-response.)

"...Bobby Muller, president of Veterans for America, said Bush didn't see areas of the hospital most in need of change. He cited Ward 54, where soldiers are suffering from acute mental health conditions, and outpatient holding facilities where soldiers see long waits to get processed out of the Army."

Here at Walter Bleed Hospital life is a bitch.

I live in Building 18. The walls are full of holes. Mold and fungus grows wild. Roaches run rampant. Let me tell you, the living conditions in Iraq were a far sight better than this hell hole, that is, until I lost my eyes bringing freedom to Babylon. Let's just say on that fateful day I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like here and now.

Now, I ain't well educated but here I was stumbling around looking for someone to help me find out-patient care for treatment and they gave me a map. Can you imagine, a blind grunt with a map of Bleed grounds.

Voices pointed here and there and over yonder's wall so I humped my disaster over to Fred's bed and Fred, well he has a serious brain injury sustained by an IED and he whispered to me in a conspirator's tone of voice you know, like real low and silent, "These idiots refuse to accept the fact my brain is fucked up. They said I'm just a slow learner. They said they're going to discharge me tomorrow because they need the bed for some wacko job coming in from Afghani land."

"What did they give you?"
"A one way bus ticket out of town and a handful of brain pills."
"Man, you got it good. All they gave me was this useless map."

Peace.