The second volume of his collected works, Weaving A Life (Volume 2) is alive and dancing on Amazon.
Here.
Creative nonfiction blends memoir, travel, journalism, anthropology, history and diverse cultures.
Existential experimental ephemeral experiences.
He is a compass without a needle. We are here to go.
Sewing in Mandalay, Burma.
Mandalay to Lashio train. 16 hours of rock n' roll elevations. 4 a.m. to 9 p.m. Sublime.
Ride the rails click clack click clack click clack nature visions bamboo forests silver rivers feeling fresh air hanging out the door of a rock’n roll train rail alliteration.
Stars at 9 pm open the sky
A red shaped leaf fields of lilacs purple black and gold, butterflies, sense of stillness, renewal of free rolling spirit, yellow bamboo leaves at lower elevations, then green exploding higher lush gardens, fir, pine.
Fields being planted.
Women men children hoe plant water.
Say yes to everything.
The hard scrabble reality similar to Phonsavan in northern Laos, oxen, weathered fases, wood/thatch homes, small train station shops in the middle of nowhere.
Women logged in loading baskets of green vegetables, men wrestle iron timber on board, teens shuffle loads of wood into a train car door space racing long lonely whistle blasts. Here we go.
German Italian Japanese Australian senior citizens on train platforms snap Burmese people with no interaction projecting real true attitudes behavior at the T Bow exit.
Farewell my lovely.
A lone stranger enjoys the final four hours to Lashio.
Sublime beauty near and far butterflies, homes rolling hills golden rust colored labor in fields raving children urination copious food sources.
Staring at a writer sitting in market tea place morning broken lights curious faces, voices whispering is doing this being flowing “pen fountain” said the laughing boy standing on a cement slow all the men staring at this transitory process.
The expansive tradtional market is excellent. No foreigners in a chilly hilly labyrinth of morning. A source of fascination. Zen of sitting nourishment. Monks barefoot meditation an open hand holds everything.
Burning coals. Tea. Fractured light flowing energies.
Lashio artists
Character is action.
Tell me a story. The train stopped in TiVo where 24 nurses pulled on their acts wasted away onto shoulders descended to the platform took selfie declined images unloaded packs into tuk-tuk took off for Golden Dragon hotel.
Lone traveler stayed on the train. It slowly rolled north. The conductor walked through the empty car. He stopped at an empty seat, collectived empty plastic water bottles, chopsticks, food wrappers, Styrofoam containers, dreams, nightmares and fantasies mixed with rising expectations, desires and needs.
He dropped everything out an open window. The train rolled through starlight.
The Commander’s Wife Buys Confectionery
In northern Shan State once upon a time there was along running insurgenc over land, freedom, natural resources, gold, rubies, star sapphires, opiates all golden triangle profit.
A shiny green army pickup truck pulled up at the New Sign Moon Bakery in Lashio.
A soldier and green jumped out and opened the cabinet door. The wife got out–longhair, white and silver dress, designer purse, serious face. Six soldiers exited the truck. They were on a mission to liberate cakes, cookies, sweets from glass shrine.
The commander got out. Short wearing a camouflage jacket like a forest with depressed green pants and black shiny shoes. Epaulets on his shoulder.
His sharp black eyes stared at a stranger scribbling at an outdoor table.
Zero expression. His eyes lay buried in his face of recessed emptiness. His commander war camo boonie hat sat a rakish angle crashed in front. Decorated with a golden military symbol of happiness compassion and love.
His life climbed steps into a new son. Her husband uttered quick syllables to number two.
Number two had war military bearing without a care in the world. He barked into a walkie-talkie.
A military policeman guarded the front of the truck. Soldiers stood around smoking as motorcycles loaded with fresh strawberries streamed goodbye.
She came out followed by a salesgirl trundling bags of roles and buns. A soldier put them in the truck. She spoke to her husband. He knew words were unnecessary. He followed her to the market. Soldiers marched behind.
Years later they return with bags of strawberries apples and bananas. They loaded everything into the truck.
Someone called the commander. He pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt. He opened his mouth. Perfect white teeth. If you knew words. He smiled. A soldier open the door for his life. She got in. Commander got in and took off his office party hat. Smoothed his hair. The military police stopped traffic and they drove into a dream come true.
Real–not true
True–not real
Elemental. You are the sky. Everything else is just the weather.
Painting with light shadow sky sunset relationship based in market. Wonder and wander free-spirited in a free world. Absorbing the energies. Innocent child-like play. See with soft eyes. Gratitude. Abracadabra.
Sitting inside sun street morning surrounded by women voices asking who is the stranger? Noodle mama. Voices of laughter. Kerry roses smell fragrance. Tea house people stare smile forget. Spiderweb sparkle diamond radiant from the center. Process Tibetan - Burma language.
I am a rainbow. I am twinkling.
old woman
deep lined face
gray hair pulled back
empty begging bowl
woman without arms
sits under umbrella
empty begging bowl
Loving their phones
Market people laugh
Selfies, games (easily amused)
Wicker basket on her back
Silver coins jingle jangle
Light passage humor
Red thread solid black background
How’s it feel this magic show
meditation caught in the quiet
absorbing diversity wandering
sitting visual symphonies
zones of cement shells
steel shutters, mercantile commerce
set it up…sell…tear it down…go home.
transition images
light shadow
adjust to eternal flow
energies
senses whisper confident poems easy.
Have luck will travel. A Giresun songbird gave Lucky the all-clear signal. Go.
At 0609 pulling a wheeled bag down 65degrees of click clack Roman stones he met a healthy golden brown dog. They walked to the ULUSOY bus station. The dog picked up a new scent, wagged his tail thanks for the company good luck and wandered away.
Down in the cold BAY piss chamber Lucky played his C harp singing an old blues song, “All my Love’s in Vain...”
Echo passed through: “When the train/bus/plane left the station there were two lights on behind...one light was my baby and the other was my mind...all my love’s in vain.”
Today - Bayram is Sacrifice, a national holiday. Make a sacrifice. Write hello my little fear and hello my littleanger on pieces of paper. Burn them.
Red, yellow, golden autumn leaves littered ground with sound. O sweet season. Mountains conversed inside foggy forests as curling chimney smoke swirled through bone cold villages.
Ukiyo-e. Floating world.
Sacrifice watched people watching people going to visit families. Someone somewhere waited for relatives to arrive with money and stories. Stories were cheap. Money was expensive. Layered characters using verbs wore leather shoes, new designer rags and carried big time.
Lucky remembered a story about a dignified man in Guatemala who walked barefoot from his village to town carrying his best shoes in a bag. On the edge of prosperity he put them on. Envious eyes followed his every step until he walked out of town. He carried them home. That’ll show them.
In Turkish villages after a breakfast of tea, tomatoes, black olives, yellow cheese, brown bread and thin sliced salami men wandered down trails to join friends at a cafe for tea and talk. Some read newspapers. Others fingered anxious worry beads. Passive men focusing on the idiot box watched a Teflon PM slap a grieving Soma coalminer in the face, No one boos me. Take that, idiot.
One man looked for his name in the obituaries. The grim reaper hasn’t found me yet. My luck is holding. I am that I am.
Men cleaned dirt from nails. They brushed lint or a meandering story thread from suit jackets. A gravedigger washed his hands. Someone evaluated the volume of black ink in a fountain pen before spilling words on paper.
The Black Sea was flat blue. A ¾ moon hearing cellos sang shit puke thunder and lightning.
Turkish citizens texted survivors, looked at big time or yakked their hearts out on cells with anxious intention celebrating Sacrifice.
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