Mud

Young men and women haul mud from an excavation site where the owner will build an extension to his home.

One man chops it with a shovel, a girl grips a severed block and dumps it into a bucket. Another girl carries the bucket through mud, handing it to a boy who dumps it into a cart.

Women do the heavy work. Lifting and carrying and pushing.

He pulls and she pushes the cart down a narrow alley, turns right and maneuvers along a narrow potholed road jammed with motorcycles. Beep-beep. They get it to a central dumping zone filled with discarded bricks, debris, plywood and used mud. They dump it. Their return trip to the excavation site is light. They repeat the process.

Metta.

Balloon people

You'll be pleased to know the sound of jackhammers, chisels and motorcycle beep-beep music fills the air.

The poetics of balloon men and women walking world streets hawking air filled color. One old grizzled man in Turkey existing in a boarded up concrete cave below a domed hammam did his daily work to get to one of life's little intersections where he would stand and wait.

A young balloon boy in Indonesia did the same, following his plantation dirt trail through fields of discarded plastic bags, garbage, chicken bones, burning refuse, and broken dreams under construction by teams of hammering no-name boys stranded in a gated community to stand and wait nearby air-conditioned malls and choking vehicular streets.

Here, a woman and girl stand and wait and converse late on a humid night at a roundabout, their purple, green, orange shimmering air toys playing above their muted voices as cycles, cars and people traverse their destinations. Beep-beep.

A man pushes his balloon bike cargo down a narrow street. Excited kids run out to see all the colors, shapes and floating dreams.

The poetics of balloon love.

Do what you love and love what you do.

Metta.