Omar Sings the Blues - TLC 82

As if it was yesterday in the long now exploring the Sahara removed from death, chaos, sirens and heavy equipment filtering dust while conducting 3,000 funerals the day after 9/11, Lucky who’d arrived in Morocco by chance, timing and fate having left the states of confusion on September 1, 2001 did not take possession of that towering event.

He suggested to Omar, a Touareg ghostwriter it was about poverty, economics, revenge and fanatical religious beliefs.

Conditioned to survival, bartering and getting the best price with ABC Omar understood. Clearly. “A person cannot drink or eat more than they need.”

Hospitality described 90% of the population with nothing to do. Five million made less than $1.00 a day.

His Touareg tribe migrated from Mali, Southern Algeria and Mauritania. Prior to 1956 six million Touareg lived on nine million square kilometers of desert. Now 7-10,000 internally displaced Touareg lived in the Sahara Occidental.

“Your enemy is my friend,” he said. His tribe conquered and ruled Spain for centuries.

Timing, the secret of everything shifted dynamics and frequencies.

Omar had seen planes above sands of time. He’d seen boring television with screaming commenters selling fear. One size fits all. He considered TV the most insane invention of all time. It was an artificial projection stealing someone’s consciousness.

He didn’t buy the propaganda lies media soft machines tried to sell 24/7.

Towers up. Towers down. Miracles of aviation history were made in Hollywood. Ratings. Reruns. Media and governments increased advertising and defense budgets selling cheap ignorance, fear and terror to blind sheep.

The Language Company

Beatific Shy Lover

Masks hide the consciousness of fear.

Molecular structure.

Reconnected with a beatific shy lover on the edge of town after 17 dazed.

The dirt road is lined with salons, massage parlors brown hearts and shattered dreams.

Her thin gentleness is tempered by the fear of others,

the ugly fat one is disappointed in memory.

No one wants me.

Others eat vegetables.

She has a diamond implanted in a canine.

The two of them stay behind a curtain. Plywood walls.

They have an hour.

She is not impatient. They accept the implied unspoken gentle nature, the infrequent dressing.

All her clothes fit in a plastic box. The mattress is thinner than her. Two pillows.

Her cell phone and used phone cards litter a Boeing 747 used as a table.

O

She is 20+ and rail thin. He considered taking her away to the coast. Another poor girl will take her place. They never go. The coast is too far away.

The absurd human condition is illuminated in a nano-second.

Before Indonesia - TLC 75

Behind reinforced plate glass Istanbul airport windows near conveyor belts and x-ray security machines was everyone who stayed behind - guards, cleaners and Konya dervish dancers.

An attractive thin-legged blond duty free clerk finished her day shift and stripped down for her baboon floorshow at Kitty Cat Night Club. Get down sweet thing, said a Turkish Deep State operative. Shake your moneymaker, said his bodyguard.

She drifted through life with clowns, misfits, literary outlaws, gravediggers, social deviants and manic depressed tourists waiting for airline workers to clean toilets, load beverages and MSG processed food onto Luftwaffe flight 3343 destined for Bang Cock as late afternoon light slashed through terminal dungeon zones of serenity.

“Travel isn’t supposed to be fun. It’s an adventure,” an American father said to his whining son on a rooftop cafe overlooking the Phosphorous. Staring at golden needle mosques, blue waves and catamarans sailing the seven seas they slathered red jam on toast.

After a year soaking in a wet misty Turkish hammam, this abject polite and emotionally distracted future tense void-like dream sequence passed through frequencies where idle people sat around showing no incentive and no desire to be creative or think for themselves as if their loss, their fate was always a long now.

They’d failed to take control of their lives as willing victims in life’s short sad joke.

One was the sullen masked security woman in her 20’s, forced by economics to meet and greet departing strangers. Lucky put his Eagle pack on the conveyor.

A laptop, 120-year old Monte pocket watch out, Leica rangefinder and cell phone went in a plastic tray. Stuff rolled away. She approached. “Do you have any knives in your luggage?”

“Yes,” he said to her death mask, “in the checked bag. They are from Tibet. They are silver with turquoise and coral stones. The handles are yak bone streaked with brown earth colors.”

Insecure security personnel wore death masks to confuse angry spirits eating incense minus verifiable identification. 

Her mask said, I could care less, I'm so tired, so anxious, so bored about everything in general and nothing in particular I could shit a kebab sausage shaped like a small powerful package of torpedo feces grilled to perfection in a tomato based food culture served with onions and wedges of lemon garnished with sour reality. 

“Open your bags,” said her edgy mouth behind cotton fibers.

“Which bag would you like me to open, big or small?”

“The small one and where’s your passport?”

She’d never have one. He handed it to her and she really wanted to be important, self-sufficient, self-reliant, strong, courageous, adventurous, and other impossible to imagine allegorical brave daring metaphorical nightmares in her short sweet life controlling the situation with this Bardo traveler free on parole from a dusty Byzantium archeological dig caressing pottery shards, glazed Ottoman tiles, castles and mosques while stirring musical sugar cubes in brown tea and weaving magic carpets in Kurdish villages under perpetual attack by Predator drones released by aggressive profit motivated war mongers to keep the anxious populace guessing and manipulated 24/7 by terrorist media FEAR propaganda machines controlled by moronic corrupt inefficient political idiots serving as an excuse to waste money on expensive military toys as global environmental, educational and health care systems collapsed under the weight of corruption, greed and eight billion starving mouths. 

After dusting off Patriot mussels and fixed-wing Turkish military aircraft for Syrian no-fly zones, hand carved Meerschaum pipes, glazed ceramics and Roman ruins he unzipped the small Eagle bag.

Winter Hawk flew free.

Lone Wolf ran free.

Shocked back to a fake reality she rummaged. She found music. She couldn’t hear beatific notes blooming along broken-hearted trails of Turkish and Kurdish women fleeing from arranged marriages.

She didn’t hear singing, keening women drumming soil above a wooden Ankara casket six feet down or melodies composed at transcendental borders coalescing with feminine songs birthing, cultivating children like seeds after a quick rain. 

She went through the motions.

“You can go,” she ordered in a short, fast deadly sentence.

Go was music to his ears.

The Language Company

 

Look Back - TLC 73

Asian survivors looked back with reinforced healthy doubt and fear rather than face courageous futures.

In Laos, Vietnam and Cambodia genocide/war survivors said more to a person’s back than their face. Leaving was abandoned. Bye-bye and good luck to your family.

Zeynep and Rita turned a page.

Rice grains in a broken bamboo basket sustained crows blacker than shadow faces hiding inside deep dark structures watching the road. Always watching. They stare with hard eyes, said Rita, their eyes dance over flat countryside covering lost forgotten patient rice paddies waiting for a drop of water nourishing green rice or staring at palm groves, coconut, banana trees surrounding stilted bamboo thatched homes as naked children playing above buried landmines sail dream kites.

They watch. They never close blind eyes. They watch for invaders from Thailand, America, Vietnam. Patient forever they wait watching for wives, husbands, children, strangers, soldiers, amputees and Apsara dancers. Their blind eyes are always switched ON observing minute cosmic details and subtle imperceptible movements across miles of flat land mined country penetrating thick green foliage.

Their eyes dance with waiting. Waiting caresses eyes as lovers feeling fluttering lids and soft retinas tremble with visual sensory information data sensing rational coherent mysteries. Eyes cultivate patience, an essential visual nutrient.

Watching without seeing is their Zen.

Their life is a sitting meditation.

Seeing without understanding is their life.

I don’t know and I don’t care.

Tropical heat destroys my DNA.

Living in perpetual internal darkness they cultivate essential immense critical survival intentions. They stare far away with telescopic acuity. This consistent hard eyed vision burns up 85% of their daily energy. The remaining 15% is used for procreation, eating, dancing making music and singing.

Eyes practice the eternal art of being silent.

They watch past another person during a conversation.

They watch each other’s back.

We survived by paying attention, said survivors. That’s life.

They face watching beyond wild where everything known and unknown matters infinitely. Everything here happens simultaneously.

         Everything goes and nothing happens.

         Everything happens and nothing goes.

One anxious dreaded moment in their life recognizes fear. Disguised as ignorance and indecision fear asks is it safe?

What if never entered the conversation.

What is the difference between watching and seeing, asked Zeynep expanding passive and active verb signifiers.

Real eyes realize real lies, said Leo.

Survivors read sky for rain. Survivors read mad dogs yapping, growling, fighting and fucking in deserted black broken streets without electricity, said Rita. Screaming yelling male adolescents and genocide survivors read kick boxers fighting on national television every Saturday/Sunday afternoon at 2. It’s standing room only in packed tea/java houses.

                                             KILL HIM!

                                             KILL HIM!

                                             KILL HIM!

Killing as Entertainment. I love this, said Death. They are really into Power, Humiliation and Revenge. Reminds me of millions shouting their anger at killing fields while murdering 1.7 million. If I kill enough maybe I will survive. No one kills the killer. You prove your ability and allegiance by killing. Don’t push your luck, said Authority.

Violence never changes only the players, said Zeynep.

It’s our latent repressed anger gene, said Rita. Denial will kill you and anger is expensive.

Women meditate talk and laugh. They live longer.

Boy men scream at televisions.

Idle youth squeezing pores waiting for Godot read acne in a motorcycle mirror. They haven’t seen the play. They are the players.

No one shows up, nothing happens.

Hungry girls wait for Freedom at night.

Destiny rested as noon heat waves reflected improbable shimmering anxieties. Sad working girls washed beige underwear in a lazy brown river. Water’s exhilaration introduced a cloud. Thunder clapped. Lighting flashed. Tears flooded dirt roads.

Banlung children wearing red and white Santa caps dragged expectant mothers toward dusty chrome plated display cases in the market. This one! This one!

“Your life is an art project. The world is one big art museum. Buy a ticket. Take the ride. Yeah, yeah,” said a UXO worker in a bright yellow Mines Advisory Group (MAG) vest fanning soil with a detector near The Plain of Jars outside Phonsavan, Laos.

The Language Company

Smile. We will help you practice.

See the Beauty and Cruelty without hope or fear.

The Middle Way - detachment and wisdom.

Our perceptions are empty.

Suffering is an illusion.

Passion and process.

It existed somewhere between an object and a concept.