Haiku Otres

Life is a beach then you fly.

You sit on a bamboo chair next to bald water sport mannequins wearing snorkeling masks, Lycra shorts, inflatable vests and dusty flippers. They are chained to the wall to prevent mermaids, nymphs and water sprite thieves.

Birds twitter in hydra grandma trees. Slow gentle blue-green waves brush a long empty shore day after day.

Across a red dirt road are bamboo, wood and fancy shacks disguised as guesthouses and restaurants.

Signs litter little red road: Island Tours, Laundry Service, Boat Trips, Late Night Pizza, Sand Removal Renovation, Transport & More, Green House Effect (with excellent bookstore), Mushroom Villas, Dance Until You Die, My Kind of Place, Sandy Crotch Heaven, Barefoot Only the Lonely, European Spoken Here, Massage To Go, WE Serve Sad Depressed Super Serious Fat White Rich Humans Like Russian Mafia and Rude Pushy Inconsiderate Chinese, We Are All Refugees When Everything IS Said and Done 24/7.

Digs run $15-100 a night. Gypsies, Backpackers, Europeans, Japanese and Chinese.

Selfie nirvana.

Here I am on the shore with arms raised. Here I am drinking beer with friends. Here I am all wet. Here I am doing absolutely nothing in particular and everything in general. Here I am in a sitting meditation zoning into universal mindfulness. Here I am in a net of light. I am a rainbow.

Ice coffee runs $1-1.50.  Pay For View. At an upscale Italian joint a ravioli dinner of spinach filled pasta smothered with carbonara sauce, side of garlic bread, tonic water and espresso is $12.65. Smiles are gratuitous.

Cheaper eats decorate red road. Rice is nice.

At 6:15 a.m. you stash your bags in a simple bamboo room, cut through a distorted distracted disrupted deserted zone of empty rattan chairs to the beach. It stretches from northern Sin City to expensive southern resorts. Local m/f teams rake mourning sand.

Sand complements musical melodic waves breaking on the shore day after day. You enjoy a slow walking meditation on a long empty beach. Breathing in - out. Water music laps ankles. Yellow dawn streaks sky. You salute the sun. Celebrate another day of living.

Three green islands float long ago and far away on an event horizon. Bright red, blue and yellow tourist boats plant anchors.

Engines hum.

Day unfolds as a lotus grows from mud.

International couples stroll sand staring inland at strangers staring back. Shades of ignorance.

The majority of walking eyes survey tables, chairs, people and eateries. Strangers all. Scarce few see sea.

No drugs. No weapons. Leave your ego at the door.

Sweating runners with pulse armbands tread grains.

Workers set up beach lounges, switch on expresso machines, fire up kitchen stoves, hack ice, replenish beer supplies.

Waves erase footprints. Sleeping dogs cur into sand.

The beach orchestra builds its daily tempo.

A young Italian woman unfolds a blue towel on sand. She lies face down. Pushing up with her arms she assumes a yoga posture eyes straight ahead on a blue green sea. Her spine weaves vertebrae like a wave. Calm and focused.

Visitors stagger from beds, walk foam, eat, stare at waves evolving from a flat lined horizon holding green island hideouts. People plan to sit or go. Yes go. Go for a walk, a swim, adventure. Discover reality below the surface of appearances. Dive deeper than unconscious.

Nail girls protected by large floppy hats seeking cuticles needing trim canvass sand sun lovers.

String theory bracelet girls traverse grains of the universe. Boys ply sunglasses. The future is bright.

A girl balancing a bamboo platter of pineapples, mangoes, bananas, paring knife, plastic bags and sharp sticks prowls sand from dawn to dusk.

People watch people watching people. It's the thing - look without understanding.

A narrow blue and white boat arrives on sand. A boy throws out a rusty anchor.

Backpackers from islands unload kilos of memories, dreams and reflections. Boatman throws five large empty water bottles toward land grab.

Mid-day sun shimmers above shaded tables as massage clients smothered with oil feel muscled women knead bronze skin tone epidermis as children laugh, run and play in surf near extreme serious a-dolts and retirees wondering how they ended up in paradise removed from frozen Europe hearing dulcimer hammers at a nearby five-story cement project.

Swimmers plunge into H2O covering 70% of Earth.

Couples embrace cold drinks behind mirrored sunglasses.

Fat white Russians slobber UV 30 on skin and drink cold beer.

99.9 % of beach people stare at phones.

Strangers accustomed to cement pavement feel sand. Danger. Watch your step. Cautious sensation.

Babel languages whisper a Sappho wind singing iambic pentameter odes with save face time.

Spit in the ocean.

Restless orange diamond light crashes into sunset.

Red sun, white waves, blue sky, green islands. Floating world.

Silver waves lap shore.

White crescent moon hangs by a thread.

Stars sing with their light. I am twinkling.

Create your sandcastle.

Rinse and repeat.

A brown butterfly dances with green waves singing sand.

Beach

Waves erase footprints. Sleeping dogs cur into sand.
The beach orchestra builds its daily tempo.
A young Italian woman unfolds a blue towel on sand.

She lies face down. Pushing up with her arms she assumes a yoga posture eyes straight ahead on a blue green sea. Her spine weaves vertebrae like a wave.

Calm and focused.

Visitors stagger from beds, walk foam, eat, stare at waves evolving from a flat lined horizon holding green island hideouts. People plan to sit or go.

Yes go.
Go for a walk, a swim, adventure.

Discover reality below the surface of appearances.
Dive deeper than unconscious.

Nail girls protected by large floppy hats seeking cuticles needing trim canvass sand sun lovers.
String theory bracelet girls traverse grains of the universe. Boys ply sunglasses for a bright future.

A girl balancing a bamboo platter of pineapples, mangoes, bananas, paring knife, plastic bags and sharp sticks prowls sand from dawn to dusk.

People watch people watching people. It's the thing - look without understanding.

A narrow blue and white boat arrives on sand. A boy throws out a rusty anchor.
Backpackers from islands unload kilos of memories, dreams and reflections.

Boatman throws five large empty water bottles toward land grab.

Mid-day sun shimmers above shaded tables as massage clients

smothered with oil feel muscled women knead bronze
skin tone epidermis as children laugh, run and play in surf
near extreme serious a-dolts and retirees wondering
how they ended up in paradise removed from frozen Europe
hearing dulcimer hammers at a nearby five-story cement project.

Swimmers plunge into H2O covering 70% of Earth.

Couples embrace cold drinks behind mirrored sunglasses.
Fat white Russians slobber UV 30 on skin and drink cold beer.
99.9 % of beach people stare at phones. Ocean waves goodbye.

Strangers accustomed to cement pavement feel sand
Danger. Watch your step. Cautious sensation.

Babel languages whisper a Sappho wind singing iambic pentameter odes with save face time.
Spit in the ocean.
Restless orange diamond light crashes into sunset.
Red sun, white waves, blue sky, green islands. Floating world.

Silver waves lap shore.
White crescent moon hangs by a thread.
Stars sing with their light. I am twinkling.
Create your sandcastle.
Rinse and repeat.

 

Finch's Cage, Sapa, Vietnam

In Sapa, Vietnam I discovered a side street and thick cold java at a run-down Internet cafe. I sat outside.

Finch had a yellow chest, red beak and brown feathers. It was outside a plate glass door. It’d escaped from its small yet safe bamboo cage in the main room. Someone, perhaps the young mother worried about her wailing infant or her brother worried about dying of boredom or her old mother worried about dying alone had left the cage open.

Finch sang, “Where’s my home? What is this beautiful world?”

Finch hugged the ground. It looked at green trees waving across the street. It saw a deep blue sky. It inhaled clear, clean mountain air. It heard birds singing in trees but didn’t understand them.

They sang about nesting, exploring, flying, clouds, trees, sky, rain, warm sun, rivers, bark, worms, snails, and melodies of freedom.

I wondered if Finch would fly away. I hoped so however I knew it was afraid to go. Perhaps it lacked real flying experience, the kind where you lift off fast beating your wings to get up and get going to escape the weight of gravity or memories filled with attitudes, beliefs, values and fear pulling you down.

Free, you turn and glide, relax and soar.

Finc, being conditioned to the caged world of bamboo with a perch, food and water looked and listened to the world.

Finch retreated from the possibility of free flight and pecked at loose seeds in a narrow crevice below the door. It smelled the dark stale room where the cage hung on a wire. It pecked under the frame. It wanted someone to rescue it.

It sang, “Help! Let me in. I want to come home. I’ve been outside and I’ve seen enough. It’s a big scary place. I promise I’ll never try to escape again. I was curious, that’s all. I’ve seen enough. Let me in.” 

Finch was amazing in it’s beauty. Yellow, red, brown and bright eyed in its aloneness. 

An old woman opened the door. She trapped Finch in a purple cloth and returned Finch to its cage. She closed the bamboo door and snapped the latch shut.

“Did you learn your lesson little bird?” she said.

Finch sat on its perch, enjoyed a long cool drink of water and sang, “Thank you. Now I am truly happy.” 

The old woman didn’t understand this language.

Muttering under her breath about inconvenience she shuffled down a long dark hallway to a kitchen where she killed a chicken for lunch.

 

I am twinkling...

Mandalay to Lashio train. 16 hours of rock n' roll elevations. 4 a.m. to 9 p.m. Sublime.

Ride the rails click clack click clack click clack nature visions bamboo forests silver rivers feeling fresh air hanging out the door of a rock’n roll train rail alliteration.

Stars at 9 pm open the sky

A red shaped leaf fields of lilacs purple black and gold, butterflies, sense of stillness, renewal of free rolling spirit, yellow bamboo leaves at lower elevations, then green exploding higher lush gardens, fir, pine.

Fields being planted.

Women men children hoe plant water.

Say yes to everything.

The hard scrabble reality similar to Phonsavan in northern Laos, oxen, weathered fases, wood/thatch homes, small train station shops in the middle of nowhere.

Women logged in loading baskets of green vegetables, men wrestle iron timber on board, teens shuffle loads of wood into a train car door space racing long lonely whistle blasts. Here we go.

German Italian Japanese Australian senior citizens on train platforms snap Burmese people with no interaction projecting real true attitudes behavior at the T Bow exit.

Farewell my lovely.

A lone stranger enjoys the final four hours to Lashio.

Sublime beauty near and far butterflies, homes rolling hills golden rust colored labor in fields raving children urination copious food sources.

Staring at a writer sitting in market tea place morning broken lights curious faces, voices whispering is doing this being flowing “pen fountain” said the laughing boy standing on a cement slow all the men staring at this transitory process.

The expansive tradtional market is excellent. No foreigners in a chilly hilly labyrinth of morning. A source of fascination. Zen of sitting nourishment. Monks barefoot meditation an open hand holds everything. 

Burning coals. Tea.  Fractured light flowing energies.

Lashio artists

Character is action.

Tell me a story. The train stopped in TiVo where 24 nurses pulled on their acts wasted away onto shoulders descended to the platform took selfie declined images unloaded packs into tuk-tuk took off for Golden Dragon hotel. 

Lone traveler stayed on the train. It slowly rolled north. The conductor walked through the empty car. He stopped at an empty seat, collectived empty plastic water bottles, chopsticks, food wrappers, Styrofoam containers, dreams, nightmares and fantasies mixed with rising expectations, desires and needs.

He dropped everything out an open window. The train rolled through starlight.

The Commander’s Wife Buys Confectionery

In northern Shan State once upon a time there was along running insurgenc over land, freedom, natural resources, gold, rubies, star sapphires, opiates all golden triangle profit.

A shiny green army pickup truck pulled up at the New Sign Moon Bakery in Lashio.

A soldier and green jumped out and opened the cabinet door. The wife got out–longhair, white and silver dress, designer purse, serious face. Six soldiers exited the truck. They were on a mission to liberate cakes, cookies, sweets from glass shrine.

The commander got out. Short wearing a camouflage jacket like a forest with depressed green pants and black shiny shoes. Epaulets on his shoulder.

His sharp black eyes stared at a stranger scribbling at an outdoor table.

Zero expression. His eyes lay buried in his face of recessed emptiness. His commander war camo boonie hat sat a rakish angle crashed in front. Decorated with a golden military symbol of happiness compassion and love.

His life climbed steps into a new son. Her husband uttered quick syllables to number two.

Number two had war military bearing without a care in the world. He barked into a walkie-talkie.

A military policeman guarded the front of the truck. Soldiers stood around smoking as motorcycles loaded with fresh strawberries streamed goodbye.

She came out followed by a salesgirl trundling bags of roles and buns. A soldier put them in the truck. She spoke to her husband. He knew words were unnecessary. He followed her to the market. Soldiers marched behind.

Years later they return with bags of strawberries apples and bananas. They loaded everything into the truck.

Someone called the commander. He pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt. He opened his mouth. Perfect white teeth. If you knew words. He smiled. A soldier open the door for his life. She got in. Commander got in and took off his office party hat. Smoothed his hair. The military police stopped traffic and they drove into a dream come true.

Real–not true

True–not real

Elemental. You are the sky. Everything else is just the weather.

Painting with light shadow sky sunset relationship based in market.  Wonder and wander free-spirited in a free world. Absorbing the energies. Innocent child-like play. See with soft eyes. Gratitude. Abracadabra.

Sitting inside sun street morning surrounded by women voices asking who is the stranger? Noodle mama. Voices of laughter. Kerry roses smell fragrance. Tea house people stare smile forget. Spiderweb sparkle diamond radiant from the center. Process Tibetan - Burma language.

I am a rainbow. I am twinkling.

old woman
deep lined face
gray hair pulled back
empty begging bowl

woman without arms
sits under umbrella
empty begging bowl

Loving their phones
Market people laugh
Selfies, games (easily amused)
Wicker basket on her back
Silver coins jingle jangle
Light passage humor
Red thread solid black background

How’s it feel this magic show

meditation caught in the quiet
absorbing diversity wandering
sitting visual symphonies
zones of cement shells
steel shutters, mercantile commerce
set it up…sell…tear it down…go home.

transition images
light shadow
adjust to eternal flow
energies

senses whisper confident poems easy.

Dance the Paperwork Shuffle in Turkey

Editor's note: Dancing in Turkey became more chaotic in July 2016.

Fill us in on the exciting and rousing conclusion from October 26-31, 2012 to be exact, said Zeynep.

Here we go. The alert went out on Saturday 27 October before Halloween when Sit Down, a native with a degree in Business Management from Tupperware College living at home with mom and dad and working as admin guy at the TEOL school in Trabzon, tried to reach Lucky in Giresun - cherry in Latin - 2.5 hours away.

Sit Down needed his documents to apply for a residency permit.

The all knowing, all seeing, all powerful and all believing Turkish government of bored drones, wanting to force everyone in the food chain to be accountable so they could maintain their power and authority game had told TEOL:

You, Profit Before People running an educational business intent on brainwashing and dumbing down children, young adults, old adults and diseased heart-mind dead humans in quest of an English certificate from your institution have, according to the grand and glorious proclamation from our dead fearless and forever glorified leader Ata Boy, ten calendar days - yes only ten  - act now before its too late - to file the required paperwork requesting work permits for your native speakers born, raised and reared outside our glorious land of sea, sky and succulent tomatoes with their clear pronunciation, these specific barbarians,after filing for their residency permits.

Failure to do so said Authority, Means 1) they cannot be employed by the state of Confusion & Sorrow & High Anxiety 2) they cannot order Allah cart in Kofte diners featuring grilled shit burgers slathered with yogurt 3) they will be decapitated at dawn tomorrow by a sad warrior hero on a white stallion waving a diamond mind blade.

Failure to comply with our Ten-Day Decree means you will need to start the complete bureaucratic sham process all over again. You will lose face. You will suffer personal + national humiliation + our brutal revenge.

You will become a hunted dog in Armenian forests and massacred like 1.5 million. We do not acknowledge this genocide in 1914. We erased the Armenians. We deny their existence.

Prove it.

Denial kills you. Anger is expensive.

Failure to comply and lie with intentional cunning means you will have to haul more word shit and process tedious official documents. You will spend years seeking a stamp from a performing seal of approval. You will raise your greasy baksheesh palms to heaven imploring Ali Baba the leader of forty thieves for redemption and solace.

Tell me you love me. Love and passion create suffering.

WE, Authority do our best to make the paperwork process cumbersome, illogical, frustrating, idiotic, mind numbing, depressing, sushi ideal and heavy real deep shit for brains.

We love paper. It’s why, as you've seen in Bay (male) or Bayan (female) toilets absence of paper products. We use holy water imported from the Vatican via Soapy Arabia to blast orifices. Water is sweeter than pleasure principles smothered with honey.

Everything here needs a permit: breathing, laughing, dreaming, dancing, drawing, writing and meditating. A government issued signed stamped official document.

No paper no chance.

Please note this text message to Lucky from Sit Down.

The Language Company