fascinating

You are an object of endless fascination and speculation, said Orphan.

A stranger among strangers alive and well singing a blues song about disorientation, the unfolding process, dynamic. You are a ghost. People here see them before now later. 1.7 million to be exact.

Fear and superstition.

They pray to dead soul spirits because they are afraid of the dead. And it's theoretically possible to say local people have an EI or Emotional Intelligence of -7. This simple truth or unpleasant fact is revealed through behavior, attitudes and verbal communication. It’s a lack of maturity.

Zero personal individual incentive, initiative and growth.

It has nothing to do with culture, families, chance, fate, destiny, education or life social skills. I witnessed the same reality teaching in China, said Orphan, a survivor of Gulag #101.

Should living and learning come before teaching, wondered Orphan. Everyone is a student on peace street where life’s lessons are small and magnificent, said Elf.

There are book smarts and street smarts, said Orphan.

Children are a tool, said a wealthy Chinese man in Laos. He had 2.

more channels!

“More channels!” someone screamed. “We need more channels!”

Media buys people.

There was a preponderance of rumors. Hard evidence at G Zero was charred beyond recognition. It’d need DNA analysis and carbon-14 dating.

Social worker locusts swarmed out extolling virtues of well being, hope, trust, and bravery in the face of adversity, ethics, free choice and impending sales at outlet stores. People seeking outlets and outlet stores found solace in their ignorance of how the world worked on molecular, political, religious, economic, philosophical and cultural levels.

Long festering animosity and cultural bias danced circles. An invisible Orobus constricted their heart. Their myth was part idealism and realism standing on it’s head. Socially, culturally, geographically and emotionally deprived children listened, shaking their heads, learning a hard life lesson. One that escaped their parents.

Kids knew when adults were bullshitting them.

Scholars with erudite studious means to an end started speaking Arabic, reciting Sufi poetry and 1,001 stories about the rise and fall of civilizations. Stories written well before their meager time with hieroglyphics and cave paintings. Caves were full of survivors. Candles sales were brisk. 

“A tisket a tasket we need a casket,” sang multi-lingual children.

Historians, political scientists, talk show experts, taxi drivers, fortune tellers, beauticians, and morticians took calls on hotlines. The number of callers increased exponentially. Suicide search and rescue teams were put on alert. Citizens packed hospital emergency rooms. Medical schools increased graduation classes to meet needs.

Demand outstripped supply when it came down to fear and consumption.

Wow, that’s some heavy sociological shit. Media buys people.

laosattitude

how does it work in laos, said elf.

a frenchman told me this, said orphan. he's lived here 6 years. he has a young son and daughter. he had, past tense, a marriage with a local woman. they met. they married. he invested time and money to develop a guesthouse. they had 5 properties. they had problems. her extended family smelled a huge profit. she threw him out. she wants all the land. 

i saw her one day when she brought their daughter to school. fat and unhappy. both.

so how does it work in laos, asked elf. you didn't answer the big question from a small person.

men make the rules, said orphan. women take care of the home. it's all unspoken subtleties. they do their thing. women worship in the temples. they do their meditation. men sit around getting drunk, discussing new night girls, ethics, morality and behavior.

what happened to the french man and the kids, asked elf.

he plotted a way to get them out of the country. let her keep the land and buildings, he said.

many people here never leave their village. why. everything i have is here. a village maintains the other world.

silent style

elements of silence said farewell

a series of eyes investigated decompression 

while swallowing fresh yogurt with peach slices

near afternoon's languishing empty promises

intent on discovering

explanations have to end somewhere

in her village she threaded new beginnings

her loom waited for the pressure, the tightness

between notes

truth police

I speak on the condition of anonymity because I am not authorized to reveal the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth or value meaning. So, help me. Help me. Truth is classified. The source of truth about Everything is classified.

Ossified.

I am authorized to say, with complete anonymity without revealing sources that truth is filtered, compartmentalized, abstracted, excerpted, sliced, diced, parsed, fossilized and classified inside a buried locked black box.

The crypto key is classified top secret, for your blind eyes only. A gravedigger has the combination, the algorithm. The encrypted key is not on a hacked social network site designed to distract your faceLost, mind, heart or Spacebook personal profile timeline. Lost time.

If only time would behave and stay inside the lines the world would be a safer, saner place. As if place cares. Real friends are a dime a dozen few and far between. Truth, as Pessoa said, has few friends and they are suicides. Artificial friends are aliens on life support.

The key, for the Time Being, is inside the sharp arrow of time flying into Greater Complexity.

A woman, man, child somewhere in Cambodia, or XYZ carries the world on their back. They are the key.