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Entries in asia (464)

Wednesday
Nov182015

alive is a miracle

Alive is a miracle.

Smile. Hunt with a camera.

Words are dancing airplanes winging southwest with orange balloon morning and hungover Mekong tourists.

Word weave shuttles. Fire. Spirit. Fog, river, a boat, current, mystery wills, orange glow coasting past a flow. A bell.

Japanese sensitivities in a cloud break.

Mekong sings new puzzling futures, passing, pulsating, wearing an umbrella to protect statues for eye glazed travel books gripped by design opticians with lost favorable vacant eyed distrust and disquiet.

The DISQUIET of chopsticks probing teeth smiling tremendous labor unrest as a character,

A wisp of porcelain skin finalities gently lowers her eyes sublime gesture.

Writing down bi-lingual laughter (a sling was the first human vehicle) a mother sang, cradling her infant from eye candy distractions.

Fleeting retinas shield eyes real eyes realize real lies.

Accelerate around a corner of a dream with a lotus blossom.

Yangon, Myanmar

Tuesday
Nov172015

Shame sings in Tibet - TLC 60

My name is Li Bow Down. I am in charge of the Tibetan Monastery Re-Education Through Reform Program.

My masters called me out of retirement. I was screwing concubines playing mahjong and enjoying Fujian tea with friends at Shangri-La Free Land Resort. Authority ordered me to get my old ass back to Lhasa and take care of THE problem.

They gave me a fire extinguisher to douse immolating monks. Ah, the ignobility.

Give a man a match and they’re warm for a moment.

Set them on fire and they’re warm for the rest of their life.

Li showed Lucky a grainy B&W image. Here’s an uncensored image of what happens to people in the pogrom program. See this woman. She is denouncing her family, friends and most important, herself in public. We are big on shame.

We are the masters. Peasants are the puppets.

“Shame on you,” yelled 1.7 billion puppet people. “Shame. Shame. Shame.”

This is one of our most popular and effective methods of creating a harmonious society. It works wonders because memory serves me well and it does, mind you, serve me like a slave.

We’ve been coercing people for 5,000 years. Pick your favorite dynasty.

We use to put them in wooden stocks with their crimes painted on paper necklaces and parade them through town. They confessed. We call it self-criticism. Samzen. They were denounced in public. Talk about blatant social disapproval.

Now we just shoot them down like dogs in the street.

Maybe you think I am joking, making this up. I didn't make it to the top of the egalitarian scrap heap by bowing down to big nosed foreigners telling me how to maintain Control and Power in Tibet to keep monks serfs and slaves quiet.

They are all illiterate peasants.

As you know because I say so the Lhasa monks provoked the young, naive, scared, armed and alarmed People's Reactionary Liberation soldiers on March 10th in Year Zero.

The rest is history, well, not real history because we rewrite history when it suits our propaganda purposes. It’s easy and convenient. Speak memory.

Life is cheap here. More tea?

History is the symptom. People are the disease.

The Language Company

 

Thursday
Nov122015

open hand holds everything

A waterfall discovers a curbed grate. Grateful gravity.

A thin blue line is mindfulness.

A dragonfly hovers those words. A fragile and precious object.

Riding Mystery in LP one day before Xmas. 

Ghost-self passed: elephants, ticket agents, airlines, guest houses, women sweeping, cooking, aroma, pizza, golden wats reflecting dawn, TRIBES of sad bleary-eyed European tourists stumbling along their personal path of insight, peace, serenity, calm heart-mind.

Ghost-self sang, "oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day, everything's going my way," humans stared as words penetrated ears - sounds swirled through layers of sensation seeking meaning. ZAP!

A young orange robed monk swept the world's dust.

Cleaning the world of sensation and perception.

Dancing down days with Laughter.

Laughter's soft eyes gestured, An open hand holds everything.

Sunday
Nov082015

grains of rice

Clean clear cold foggy dawn.

5 a.m. is shawl shadowed on a blank deserted street.

You walk in a glimmer of silence.

Smell cooking smoke. Yellow fire flames on a corner. The woman from last year.

She has a long partial memory.

Her wok oil bubbles in cast iron bowl above forested wood, glimmering bright yellow caresses orange.

Heat. Ritual of fire is repeated from mountainous Phongsali in the north to the south.

Fire & wood.

Before sunlight beams orange silent monks walk single file.

They greet worshipers offering grains of rice.

Dreamlike apparitions follow daily step by step along a path whispering their eyes seeing fire.

No attachment in this transitory visual blessing.

Wednesday
Nov042015

Man Delay, Burma

 

Wandering Mandalay.

Hey Orphan, your Mystery bike is faster now.

Yeah, we visited a shop after seeing the old tire hanging on a nail next to a white shirt drying in the sun.

It had four months of accumulated dust and grime and road songs.

He was a nice guy, filled the tires, blasted Mystery with water, soaped and scrubbed it down, air hosed it dry, oiled the chain, re-calibrated Shimano gears and said, I'm going to Japan next year to see my family.

Say again. Spin them wheels.