Rain forest song
Ink dances
What you don't see is fascinating
Rivers of children memorize texts
Listening/speaking predates writing/reading
I can do it. Enthusiastic. Feeling sound pre-language
Drum heart beat
Dancing Lao doctor gestures sky arms feeling free
*
Young pregnant sick H'mong wife
Husband eats soup
We pay pay pay
Me only one
Tired
Shaman's mask, Vietnam.
Greetings,
People here love to look back. It is a passion. It is a genetic molecule of fear, doubt and uncertainty. Perhaps also just a plain childish innocent curiosity of wanting the past, needing.
Yes. Focus on needs, not wants. Needs manifesting their desire. A desire for a ghost. We are all passing through.
They look back to see if they see, yes, in their vivid reptilian imagination a ghost. Their ghost. A ghost from a family, friend, lost. Looking for clues at their personal ground zero.
They've arrived from distant galaxies. Human habitation sites were discovered here 500,000 years ago. Primitive agriculture began 7,000 years ago. A. Go.
So it figures, accepting an evolutionary premise, their DNA star chart continues its genetic dance today.
I live in talking monkey zones. They eat rice. They drink water. They wash one set of clothing and hang it out to dry on poles. They burn down the forest. They harvest brooms. Their shamans bring rain. Tropical downpours allow people the luxury to wash cars.
They use their faint star energy to look, not really seeing, behind them wondering, all the wondering.
Food is cheap here. Medicine and education is expensive. This has nothing to do with simians. It has nothing to do with the two women sitting in a dark neighborhood food joint. Plastic chairs faces a tall cinder block wall. Chickens, goats and cats prowl, peck and forage through garbage and dreams.
One woman sits quietly in a deep meditation. Her friend parts her hair gently, looking for minute insects, cleaning her scalp. They take turns cleaning and inspecting. This genetic behavior is being repeated in zoos, jungles, and rain forests.
Chattering oral story tellers play Bronze Age drums, pounding out 3rd century tunes.
Healing the people with music.
Males wash their little toy machines. They study the accumulated grime under long yellow curling fingernails. They play chess along the road waiting for passengers. People eat spicy rice mixed with tofu, chicken, veggies, and green and red chillies.
One human creates a brave new world. Forging new futures with a patriotic purpose. An assessment on process in a data based star cluster.
Dream mask mirror and swimming...
She showed me how to swim with gigantic sea turtles and practice sitting.
How to dive deep exploring coral and amazing underwater life forms. How to explore below the surface of appearances.
Experiencing the Temple of Complete Reality on a Taoist mountain in Sichuan once upon a time. Climbing through primal forests with young mature smart Mountain-Nature Girl. She lives in the mountain. Some live below. Others live on. She lives in. She knows every herb, plant, flower, tree, river and medicinal process in the forest.
Mountain-Nature girl with Vivian.
How the heartbeat was an eternal rhythm.
Then we were going up. Now we are going down.
How to breath through a mask. "What kind of mask? Is it hand carved from the wood of tribal memories?" I asked her.
"Yes," she said, "it is a manifestation of long lost symbols, a primitive culture. It is a shamanic ritual, a dance trance. When you put on the mask you become the thing you fear the most, your basic human nature."
"Does this mean I will evolve into a being filled with the ability to scheme and deceive?"
"Perhaps. This is a highly evolved trait of human intelligence. Do you remember what you wrote about J. Joyce, how he went into exile with silence and cunning?"
"Yes. He knew how to put seven little words in order. He was a cunning linguist."
"Well, this ability to scheme and deceive is your cunning, your instinctual learned behavior. It separates you from less evolved life forms like apes, plankton and sea enemies-anemone (fish eating animals) and androgynous androids in the deep subconscious."
"Are you a clown fish?"
"Look in your dream mask mirror."
Play your drum music.
Metta.
After watching emergency crews pry a suicidial man from below Asian Minor subway engines after being struck by lightening, I walked through an old expansive cemetery. It was spring. Wild flowers, white headstones, names, dates, and memories rested below tall pines and thick evergreens.
A woman sat on a grave pulling weeds. Tending soil. Nearby, her friend, her sister, her mother, aunt and grandmother from Asian Steppes speaking Tamashek whispered to a child, "She is cleaning the spirit entry. She is drumming, remembering."
The child sang to the woman on the grave, "Auntie! Auntie!" but the woman didn't say anything. She played the soil like a drum. She was sad and remembering her son, father, husband, uncle and grandfather. Their love and kindness.
Her tears watered red, yellow and white roses. A thorn pushed a white haired woman in a wheelchair along a path inside a humid rain forest covering 6% of the planet.
Smoke from a fire created by bamboo and coconut leaves circled it's veins through a heart's four clamoring chambers. Smoke and love echoed from the Forest Floor to the Understory, rose to the Canopy and emerged through the Emergent.
This is where the Bird of Paradise, Eagles and Macaws live.
I walked on, passing chiseled stones wearing Arabic script.
Suddenly there was a quick explosion of metal on stone. An old man with a sledgehammer pounded a collection of memories around a grave. He paused, removed fragments and slammed his sledgehammer again.
The sun went into hiding. It rained. A woman played musical notes.
Metta.
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