wow, said elf, what an amazing year, all 365 dreams. we celebrated beginning in cambodia.
in march we celebrated snow altitudes in nepal. in cambodia we celebrated summer heat. laos called in fall and wa-la, presto magician, here we is. again.
once upon a whisper paid attention to sensations. a heavy deluge increased density of murmurs. ideal voices sat silent.
it's hyohakusha, said a zen monk named basho. one who moves without direction.
metta.
I found a temporary room at an expensive private suburban hospital. Clean sheets, a cot and three daily hots. It was an intensive care color spectrum zonal theory filled with young lovers in their emotional zombie reality of lies and uncertainty.
Downhill from the hospital a crying man waiting at the Metro station held a cardboard hospital chart and paper package. An orange paper folder discovered papers from a doctor, a lab, a prognosis, a definite definitive defining medical history. It revealed a story about someone dying, a wife, uncle, someone he loved.
He waited in heavy unconditional silence for a green Metro to collect him and his package of fear, loss and regret transporting him down the line. Home. Where he’d spill the contents on a table surrounded by friends and relatives sharing his tale. Loss and hypodermic needles of pain, pleasure, desire, sloth, envy and assorted fabulous conversations laughed.
A bird pressed itself against a thorn to make herself sing.
A stranger passing the hospital smelled wild roses. A bird sang. He whistled. Bird answered.
The bird’s song were short sharp sounds, a trill, long deep vibrational throated mysteries, harmonic scales, warbling.
“Now I know why the caged bird sings,” whispered an orphan child scrambling across mined fields next to her Cambodian bamboo home.
The man and bird carried on this musical conversation until the bird was satisfied the stranger knew the music. It flew, singing.
I can’t hear them. It’s a blessing. I read lips screaming I want food. I want love. I want education. I want medicine.
I had a dream.
A grandfather in Laos is an idiot. He runs his calibrated truck. It’s his solace. I love the smell of pollution on Sunday morning. His daughter burns plastic trash. Parents and children inhale fumes. Ancestor worship.
In Vietnam it’s incense. In Laos it’s exhaust and burning plastic. In Cambodia it’s cow shit.
Youngsters respect their elders. Shut your mouth. Do not say anything to venerable grandfather. Birds sing with hammers. I feel vibrations.
Their traditional silence kills them softly. Truth is a powerful weapon. Most people are afraid of truth. Hearing, speaking, realizing truth entails risk. Daring is not fatal. Truth is a deaf mute seer in Cambodia.
Everything here is a secret. Shhh fingers on my lips. I am secretly married to a false dream of going to Australia with Thorny. He is 50, married with family there. He works for an NGO in Cambodia. He builds fake bamboo homes. He plays my father figure and rescuer.
tell me a story, said orphan. about landmines in cambodia. stuff below the surface appearances. aftermath stuff.
add, subtract, divide and multiply = 40,000 amputees.
sure. here it is.
the cosmic free writing curious explorers
began an admirable multi-hued
rainbow experience
inside
outside
their small infinite
portal of no fear dialogue
sensing light and color
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