Myths became stories - TLC 38

Zeynep said, “I am a rose thorn and Winter Hawk. Wings instinct and heart. My razor talon tears meat from bones to feed my creative Hunger Angel.”

“I am a cognitive psycho-neurolinguist,” said a gravedigger. “My specialty is languages. Lost tongues. Wandering deep in the Tarim Basin following the Silk Road through Central Asia I discovered the 4,000 year old Tocharian language and Afansievo culture. It was a proto-Indo European language with Celtic and Indian connections established by trade caravans and explorers. I suspect it is Qarasahr or IA based on an Iranian dialect.”

Mircea Eliade, a historian of religions said, “Myths tell what really happened. Myths suggest a reality that cannot be seen and examined. Myth is truth trying to escape from reality. A myth is a story of unknown origins, sacred stories based on fear and belief containing archetypical universal truths. They are in every place and no particular place.”

History became legend.

Legend became myth.

Myth became story.

This anthropological fact accompanied Lucky wandering among unfinished construction projects and abandoned manuscripts in China, Turkey, Indonesia, Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos.

He joined millions of emaciated migrant refugees passing shattered bricks, broken hopes and strangling dangling cables connected to nothing in particular.

Shoddy incomplete dust dreams and quick profit schemes thrived where political thugs disguised as beauticians, missionaries and NGO social workers living in penthouses and driving Land Rovers exploited villages stealing land, rivers, mountains, children. Extorting money.

Their rule of law was a truncheon named GREED.

* 

Sophisticated command and control procedures thrived. Corruption stole millions. Substandard schools pancaked 10,000+ children from one-child families in a Sichuan earthquake.

Garment factories in Dhaka crushed wage slave workers stitching designer labels at a discount.

In May 2014 an inefficient unregulated profit-oriented private coalmine in Soma, Turkey caught fire, exploded, burned and collapsed killing 301 miners.

The angry Teflon Prime Minister visited the disaster. “This is a fact of life for poor illiterate underpaid miner slaves. It happened in Britain in the 19th century,” he said to widows and families. An angry miner booed him. He slapped the miner. “If you boo the Prime Minister you get slapped.”

His aide, a frustrated soccer player wearing a suit of armor kicked a miner on the ground being held by police. Aide screamed, “Dissent is TERRORISM!”

The ruling AKP Justice and Development party said it was all a mistake: the mine explosion, slap and penalty kick.

Violence, denial and repression are a way of life here, said Zeynep the younger creating a myth.

The Language Company

Transform

Tibetan energies. Joy. Laughter.

This joy - new beginning - transformation.

Empty/full.

At this very moment  they look and leave.

Abstract metaphorical language.

Non-attachment.

Ink whispers secrets of silent mystery.

Where life is discovered in a desperate situation.

Balancing precariously.

Young boys stare at a scriptor.

The blind lead the blind.

Everything is Under Construction at the Source.

The vast self.

Existential awareness.

Cessation of sensation and perception.

It's a walking meditation.

 

love is a blind whore

Do you remember what you said when you were dying? Yes, I said a lot of things like, I  almost wish it were true...and fate played a joke on me.

Laughter is a design.

Once upon a rainy day in Cambodia, Whisper paid attention to sensations.

Whisper paid Now.

Whisper is Now. Not Later.

A heavy deluge increased the density of murmurs.

Ideal idea voices meditated.

Voices heard rain bouncing off recycled Asian war PSP sheets in sheets.

Steady yellow Agent Orange rain hijacked a life jacket.

He shuddered with the sensation that an entire life had ended that day.

Another unpredictable life was beginning.

Inside thematic variations.

Echo recalled speaking memory hastening a chill dance.

Cinema expression without wasting ink.

Gestures of silence washed clothes by hand.

Family loss. Personal joy. Simple pleasures.

Mirrors, weight scale, madness of blind whore called love jumping over the abyss.

Smell rain. Hear leaves rustle.

Extraneous Motivation? Fear? Greed? Poverty? Gratitude? Kindness? Love?

Luminous essence

Tourists find, travelers discover.

A dreamer with controlled imagination.

SLOW CHILDREN...words, lightning bolts - blue butterfly, white sky, green flowers, red leaves, songs of invisibility, piano shadow.

How do you spell loss?

What I called "memory" contained and entire world.

A blind painter paints from memory. A blind writer. A blind poet.

The 6th painted words of yellow laughter.

A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom.

A little voice.

a - the old monk friend in the shade reads to his 95-year old blind sleeping friend resting/dreaming in a hammock

b - the crying wailing infant gets a job as a siren on an emergency vehicle.

All an illusion of a mirage - "the soul filled with silence, an abyss in which the whole world disappears beneath the pressure of a single thought, memory, look."

Meaning and sense: meaning shows itself at once, direct, literal, explicit, enclosed in itself.

Sense cannot stay still radiating out in directions that divide and subdivide. The sense of every word is like a star hurling spring tides out into space, cosmic winds, magnetic perturbations, afflictions.

What does it mean to be human?

How did I grow?

What is the ultimate reality of nature?

Welcome to the freak show.

I am someone else - Rimbaud

Dancing in the ecstasy of divine madness.

Science: systematic observation, precise measurement, disciplined testing. (quantifiable statistics)

Photography: facts, subtleties, nuances...

Outer light = luminous essence, the energy of all things through the inner eye in mind. Before form is essence. After essence is clear light. In light we dissolve into our primordial nature, touching all things across time and space. These are the truths which makes us human and divine.

The world is complex and meaningless.

Hyohakusha - "one who moves without direction." Basho.

Conversations with a ghost and ghost-to-be.

keep it simple

Everything is vague and uncertain.

The Cambodian brick factory blues. 2500 Real ($.60) = 4 hours after school.

397 kids. Primary school. World food free breakfast. One family - 10 kids. Brick owners encourage DEBT.

Live in the present, in the eternity of the instant.

He absorbed reflections, it was a small village in SR. Attracted by no tourists, partly cloudy skies. She slowly undressed. In her silent beating heart she knew he, the old foreign man couldn't, wouldn't, save her. She was happy with him. Not for the money he gave her when their hour was complete rather for his playful kindness.

She signed. He seemed to understand or attempted to understand. It was her willingness to accept, sharing their intimacy. He was a slow patient lover. She trusted her instincts. After knowing him for nine months she'd eventually relax accepting soft passions with certain conditions of intimacy. No kissing. No cunning linguists.

One-eyed blind.

He said, Yes, I prefer doubt to certainty. I am more interested in the traces than the object. I love the fragments.

Where do I place it, this story?

What country on what continent, in what city, village, town or heartbeat?

How do I keep it simple yet moving like a breath?

She asked him, Do you like small? Skin on skin? Yes kneading her shoulder muscles, easing out tissue from her supine sublime spinal chord erasing tension. Her smile said, Yes. Her relaxation exhaled.

She spoke with her hand wings. Short, fast and deadly.

She dreamed of writing a short story, perhaps flash fiction.

Nervous, she selected a pen. She unscrewed the black ebony summit. She opened a black notebook. She made a pot of green tea. She started with flowing calligraphy letters.

My life began in a village. I don't need to leave my village. My village is the world.

She drew a picture. It looked like this.