inee

Once upon a time Inee was a weaver in Kampot.

She wove cotton and studied English at PTC, a training center. She met Orphan. He was passing though. He helped her with educational resources.

He passed through years later. They met again. They were estatic to see each other. 

She'd graduated from PTC and worked at a real estate company.

I study electricity at a local university, she said. I teach Khmer to foreigners. My plan is to attend university this fall. I will study to be an accountant and a teacher.

Great, said Orphan, I am so pleased. You're doing fantastic. Realize your dreams.

Picasso and Dali discuss life

They are speaking in A Century is Nothing.

"Have you thought of a name for your new work my friend?” asked Dali.

   “Guernica comes to mind,” Pablo said.

   “How appropriate,” Dali replied, stroking his exquisite mustache. “It will become a classic. It will connect the wild subconscious and rationality. It’ll make you famous, old boy.”

   Picasso’s Guernica commemorated the small Basque village of 10,000 in northern Spain. It was market day on Monday, April 27, 1937. In the afternoon waves of planes from the Condor Legion, Heinkel 51s and Junker 52s piloted by Germans blasted Guernica. Survivors found 1,660 corpses and 890 wounded people in the rubble.

   “Be that as it may,” Pablo replied. “Art historians and critics will have their say hey kid. It will shock supporters of social realism and propaganda art in France and Spain.”

   “How did you do it?” Dali queried.

   “From May 1st to June 4th in 1937 I made forty-five drawings on blue or black paper. I incorporated the bull, the horse, classic bullfighting figures and the lantern from my 1935 Minotauromachy. I used the weeping Dora Maar because she has always been a woman who weeps. Guernica is a bereavement letter saying everything we love is going to die. And that is why everything we love is embodied in something unforgettably beautiful, like the emotion of a final farewell.”

   “I still think your vision aspires to greater heights,” said Dali. “Your work contains your fantasies meeting the objective violence of history.”

   “You are too kind my dear Dali. People are talking about your work. Your intentional dreams, so strangely manifested, in the way you masterfully allowed your subconscious free rein on the canvas. Most amazing, your Persistence of Memory.”

   “You are too generous Pablo. I merely reflect the ongoing crisis in society, the surreal absurd nightmare, with shall we say, a twisted rather sordid but truthful elusive creative beast we must acknowledge to allow our perverse authenticity freedom wherever it leads us.”

   “So true my friend, for we are only the conduit of the magic,” said Pablo. “We paint what we see with our innermost senses, born by authentic inner visions.”

   “We are the mysteries speaking through the mysteries,” said Salvador. 

myth stories

Namaste,

the stories we live
comprise the mythology
of our lives
and in that mythology
lies the key to truth and mystery

Metta.

Chase

Namaste,

There was a man in a poor village.

Everyday he went into the mountains searching for gold.

Everyone said he was crazy.

After 40 years he found gold, returned to the village, exchanged the gold for cash, bought a rope, tied the money to one end and tied the other around his waist.

He ran through the village dragging it behind him and everyone said he was crazy. 

 “What are you doing?” they yelled at him. 

 “For 40 years I’ve been chasing money and now money is chasing me.”

Metta.

rest

Namaste,

Once upon a time there was a small village in Nepal. It rested on a mountain ridge between Kathmandu and Pokhara. Before the highway was built people walked from one city to another. It took seven days to reach the village from K, another two to P.

One day, everyday in the village a man carried a wicker basket full of rocks down a mountain to a construction site. A new kind of back breaking site with no connection to a spider's social network web.

He walked and walked. He dumped the rocks. He climbed the mountain and filled his basket.

In a noisy city filled with silent yellow temple candles a tired girl near her green vegetables and a lock fell asleep. She dreamed of education, clean water, friends and play in shadows. Where is her key?

Metta.