Fear Mentality

People in Cambodia love to look back, said Rita, It is a passionate DNA genetic molecule of fear, doubt, healthy uncertainty, adventure and surprise, a childlike innocent curiosity wanting or needing the past tabla rasa. Yes. Focus on needs, not wants.

Needs manifest desire. A desire for something to believe with clarity. We are all passing through. They look back to see if they see a ghost in their vivid reptilian imagination.

Hungry ghosts of family, friends and lost strangers seek identity. They seek clues and meaning at their personal ground zero. Post genocide reality and perpetual fear of the dead. One point seven million (+-) hungry ghosts wander around looking for relatives, homes, fields and imaginary memories.

They’ve arrived from distant galaxies. Human habitation sites were discovered in Khmer jungles 500,000 years ago. Primitive agriculture began 7,000 years A. Go. So it figures, mathematically speaking with evolutionary premise and factual data, their DNA star chart continues its genetic dance today.

We live in talking monkey zones. They pretend to be exactly who they are. They use their faint star energy to look w/o seeing. All the wondering. 

They look without understanding.

Food is cheap here. Medicine and education are expensive.

This has nothing to do with simians, said Devina in Jakarta. It indicates two women sitting in a neighborhood food joint. Plastic chairs face a tall cinderblock wall. Chickens, goats, cats and orphans prowl, peck and forage through garbage dreams.

One woman sits in a deep meditation. Chattering oral storytellers play Bronze Age drums, pounding out 3rd century you tunes.

Heal the people with music.

Males wash their literary typing machines. They study accumulated grime under long yellow curling fingernails. They play chess at knight along roads waiting for passengers. People eat spicy rice mixed with tofu, chicken, veggies and green and red chilies.

Have you eaten yet is what we ask people first in Utopia, said Leo.

Eat your dreams. Masticate. Emasculate. Procreate. Protect. Kill.

One human creates a Brave New World.

See literary outlaws create new futures with existential joy. It’s their assessment on process in a data based star cluster. Dream mask mirrors swim to Cambodia.

We are Visceral Realists, said Devina, Zeynep, Rita, Leo ToldStory, Tran, Omar, a Grave Digger and Laughter, a reliable narrator. 

Book of Amnesia Unabridged

Tribal Narrator

After they cut out my tongue I started writing script.

I found a compressed black Chinese ink stick with yellow dragons breathing fire. I added a little water to a gray stone surface and placed the ink in the center.

Using my right hand as Master Liu in Chengdu taught me I turned the stick in a clockwise motion. Black ink ebbed into liquid. A drop of water rippled a pond.

I picked up my bamboo brush with pure white wolf hair. After soaking it in water for three minutes to relax it’s inner tension I spread out thin delicate paper.

I placed my right foot at an angle, left foot straight, my left palm flat on the table with fingers spread.

I dipped the brush in the recessed part of the stone to absorb ink then slowly dragged it along an edge removing excess.

I savored the weight and heft. My brush has it own personality character. There are at least 5,000 characters in my written language.

I have much to learn and a long way to travel with this unknowing truth.

I stood up straight, took three deep breaths and exhaled into emptiness.

I centered my unconscious on the paper filled with nothing. My wisdom mind of intent became water. It was quiet, calm and still with concentration and focus.

I listened to brush, ink and paper. I am a conduit.

Be the brush, be the ink, be the water, be the paper.

Each essence is pure, free, clear and luminous.

My useless tongue flapped in the cold December Himalayan wind. Stories and songs were birds. I heard children laughing and singing. Playing with strings of word pearls they greeted each other in the babble of nothing,

They dreamed with eyes open.

When we are asleep we are awake.

I memorize ancient chants with black ink soaking through parchment skin.

I am not of this world.

I sit with a diamond in my mind. It reflects 10,000 things.

It is free of the three dusts: desire, anger and ignorance.

I sing my tongue-less body electric.

Where do I park this empty vehicle?

I have paintings, poems, stories, translations of oral traditions to finish that I haven’t even started yet.

If I had more time I’d make them shorter.

Wat Bo 22 May 2020

Tribal Narrator

After they cut out my tongue I started writing script.

I found a compressed black Chinese ink stick with yellow dragons breathing fire. I added a little water to a gray stone surface and placed the ink in the center.

Using my right hand as Master Liu in Chengdu taught me I turned the stick in a clockwise motion. Black ink ebbed into liquid. A drop of water rippled a pond.

I picked up my bamboo brush with pure white wolf hair. After soaking it in water for three minutes to relax it’s inner tension I spread out thin delicate paper.

I placed my right foot at an angle, left foot straight, my left palm flat on the table with fingers spread.

I dipped the brush in the recessed part of the stone to absorb ink then slowly dragged it along an edge removing excess.

I savored the weight and heft. My brush has it own personality character. There are at least 5,000 characters in my written language.

I have much to learn and a long way to travel with this unknowing truth.

I stood up straight, took three deep breaths and exhaled into emptiness.

I centered my unconscious on the paper filled with nothing. My wisdom mind of intent became water. It was quiet, calm and still with concentration and focus.

I listened to brush, ink and paper. I am a conduit.

Be the brush, be the ink, be the water, be the paper.

Each essence is pure, free, clear and luminous.

My useless tongue flapped in the cold December Himalayan wind. Stories and songs were birds. I heard children laughing and singing. Playing with strings of word pearls they greeted each other in the babble of nothing,

They dreamed with eyes open.

When we are asleep we are awake.

I memorize ancient chants with black ink soaking through parchment skin.

I am not of this world.

I sit with a diamond in my mind. It reflects 10,000 things.

It is free of the three dusts: desire, anger and ignorance.

I sing my tongue-less body electric.

Where do I park this empty vehicle?

I have paintings, poems, stories, translations of oral traditions to finish that I haven’t even started yet.

If I had more time I’d make them shorter.

mask eats face

He broke down.

He returned to the bamboo shock shacks in deep rutted fields. Under cover. She wasn't there. Massage love called a sprite of 25 wearing flower ring on her finger. Silver with seven petals. Open. Consternation in his weak heart. He felt the sense of loss. Accept loss forever.

This symbol, how it transformed men's eyes into want.

This silent metallic flower only now, under a weak light as mama smiled through her destined crooked teeth, saying, Money.

Ling's 25-year young friend is beautiful, they all are, in an immature, petulant way.

Lack of confidence met betrayal.

Betrayal knew the stranger desired L.

The sensitivity of seeing the future with Awareness - Attention – Non-attachment.

Transference - emotions - an instinctual way of living objectively.

POWER

Masks - good or (d)evil?

           - money or sex

           - relationships

           - life and death

           - beauty and truth

The mask eats the face. 

Maybe, she said, being a Player. Lying in her Ling heart. No intention. Intention is karma.

She got what she needed. Money. Traded her passion for cash. You can't put passion in the bank. You can't eat passion, it eats you. Grasping is suffering.

Solvent with clear heart. Heart had nothing to do with passion. Passion sang its joy describing her minor character.

The 3-act play ran five weeks in Luang Prabang.

On opening night her love opened like a flower. It rained flowers over a lonely man.

Mutual needs were satisfied.

Intuition augured well, laughing.

It's difficult to take any of this seriously.

Posture. Breath.

Plant heliotropes. Night aroma in gardens. 

Desire

Ling shows up. Eat. Bed. Desires. Fatigue. Joy.

Trembling breasts, her eyes closed, arms over her head.

I am buried in her forest.

Discovering blood filled purple lips and vagina.

Throbbing photons of pulsating waves allow her the bliss of love.

Slow and gentle. Touch.

Sing a song of pleasure principles all morning.

Dance in slow motion.

Senses are pure immediate and direct.

Curiosity in the purest sense.

One story - theme - small vs the big - treachery & humor, revenge, betrayal, alienation, loneliness, boredom.

                - locale

                - time

                - characters

Coffee should be black as hell, strong as death and as sweet as love - Turkish proverb

Awareness in the moment.