Ambivalent

Bursa, Turkey residents heard, “Woo, woo,” and clip-clop hooves grooving asphalt.

A thin man who’d escaped the Armenian genocide in 1914 by hiding in a mountain cave with Plato’s shadow of illusions hovering over his formless form commanded a rolling wagon filled with shredded silver wire.

A black trash bag on the rear contained cardboard and a draft of The Language Company.

He snapped a long whip at a white horse wearing brown blinders. Red, green, yellow and blue wool tassel tufts waved from its sweat beaded neck. Small copper bells tinkled.

His wife’s thin, happy hungry face was a skeleton of bones. Her senses were accustomed to roots, soil, inhaling damp earth smells and back breaking labor in spring rain, summer heat, cool autumn winds and frozen earth.

Riding next to her husband hearing leather lash skin felt good. A reassuring stimulus snapped air. The horse pranced along cool be-bop jazz cobblestones in time with Monk on piano, Pastorius on bass, Rollins blowing his horn, Blakey pounding percussion and Zeynep's cello complementing the steady clip-clop rhythm.

They were richer than a poor parent’s skin. They owned their stomach’s hunger.

“Here we go,” they sang in Kurdish.

Nearby, a cafe below the TLC teachers’ apartment went broke. A wild garden blossomed.

An old man arrived with his scythe. His well-adjusted eyes surveyed nature's vociferous beauty. He unwrapped a golden yellow scarf from the curving blade of his hand-me-down tool.

The scythe was eight feet long tapering to a sharp point.

Sitting on a wooden stool he refined an edge with wet-stone strokes.

Waving, he cut a waving garden.

Death watched. Ambivalent.

At that precise moment a blue monarch butterfly probing nectar of the gods whispered turquoise wing secrets to a red hibiscus in Laos.

The Language Company

CPR on Martha Ann

A minstrel tuned a lyrical oud singing.

I look up to the tree house balcony and scream to myself to slow down because there is a speed trap up ahead but no one hears me or cares.

Wind - ruh - in Arabic meaning breath and spirit, filters my voice, sounds of oral history away.

My fingers are a sparrow hawk diving on unsuspecting prey.

fredom is knowing how big your cage is

I suspect he’s found a sleeping policeman stretched across the road near the intersection on Hard Drive south of Tacoma where the young girl got blasted by the partially blind old retired man living on a pension going to the drugstore to get his wife’s prescription filled last winter as she walked her dog along Bride Sport Boulevard braving hard slashing winter squalls flying East across Budget Sound full of homeless derelicts and sexual offenders out on parole from Paradise prison where 2,500 convicts incarcerated for drugs, sexual crimes and murder repair bicycles.

They donate them to charity. They make furniture for $.26-36¢ per hour in a Classless IV state owned operated “tax reduction” industry producing chairs and tables doing draftsmanship, sewing, upholstery, laminating, cutting, measuring, finishing, sanding, packing, and shipping maple office materials near state hospitals for the criminally insane and military bases full of calibrated B-52 bombers, with Cobra attack helicopters collecting dust on runways in the city of Lakewood facing financial cutbacks in police states and garbage collection taxes due to voter initiatives, rising interest rates, trillion dollar debt, and a collapsing economy.

It was foggy with crumpled forgotten leaves next to the young girl’s broken life as her dog licked her hand trying to say, “It’s ok now, get up, let’s go home,” as drivers blasted their horns out of callous indifferent anger because they were late for dinner yakking on cell phones negotiating magnificent commercial deals with con people, scam artists, confidence men and sharks swimming below the surface of appearances looking for the key to financial consumer heaven impatiently pulling around innocent bystanders trying to glimpse the disaster inside the labyrinth without a center.

The heat from my last bitter cigarette says it’s too hot for smoking. I know all too well that chemicals in the smoke, such as nicotine, create growth factors causing scar tissue. The beta TGF§ is an autocrine cytosine - meaning once it is elevated due to smoking it creates its own synthesis and eventually forms tumors in a slow deadly process.

I accept my addictive habit as a genetic DNA snub or behavioral choice.

My fingers fly. Bird shadow mirror paper as harsh hot dry winds whip down the Willamette Valley.

Perspiration slides down creased faces as motivated men dig graves and hammer nails with machines in the heat of making it happen, making it perfect and serene in the superficial media controlled culture. They create fantasies of new promises and utopias surrounded by manufactured needs exceeding passionate desired appetites called Desire and Greed.

I sit in my fragile tree house living on the edge of somewhere else keyed into vibrating hammers striking nails home. In my tree house I put it down where it belongs. Chamber a word round, aim and fire. The American way is to fire first and aim later.

Lock and load crashing echoes through space, followed by another crashing bore expending taxpayer’s dollars and foundry worker finances.

I scream hot molten lead words.

My youthful naiveté led me across an ocean of innocent waves to hot humid heaven jungles.

I was born dead in Vietnam and slowly came to life. 1969.

I’ve missed sitting here doing this. Confronting my shadow, my primitive, instinctive nature is scary.

I want to get up stretch my long thin arms go for a run burning calories and fat molecules. I swallow air savoring the world.

I am too full of sorrow to eat anymore.

I need a cold drink, need to paint a watercolor or manipulate a digital image with Dada surrealism placing a dragonfly rippling silence with translucent wings inside a Japanese ZEN meditation garden with carefully raked oceans of sand.

I meditate on my breath and the process of death.

I forget how to type on mirrors received from Mongols along the Silk Road.

I whisper to myself, “I would rather do it well than badly, but I’d rather do it badly than not at all.”

Ten talons tear at twenty-six keys.

I need to stop people from dying.

I need a commitment-free lover to explore the vocabulary of touch.

My mirror is a hard reflection in my pale hands. I digest words, strings of vowels and consonants forming letters held together with cosmic ethereal portable imaginary glue invisible indecipherable delicate foreign symbols.

Faces blur in the heat of rotating emergency lights reflecting off a magic prism hearing a frantic 911 AMR plead for someone to get the IV going. Administering CPR to the child, I remember my sister, Martha Ann, 13, when she was dying from leukemia and needed life.

I follow procedure. I shake Martha Ann, screaming, “Help!” open the airway, look, listen and feel for a pulse. After two breaths I check the carotid pulse near her Adam’s apple, find the landmark on her chest and do CPR for 1 minute, pressing 1 - 1 1/2 inches deep. I do five compressions and administer a breath every five seconds.

Drenched by tears I look up as traffic swirls past us.

I resume CPR knowing I have, at the most, two minutes to help her. I know two things about this reality:

1) the dead can’t feel any pain and 2) they can’t talk.

Below me oral traditions echo through my heart-mind as nails sing, brushes excavate ancient papyrus. Camel hair caresses rice paper shovels and doors. Silver axes cut the forest down for small caskets.

“Look, it is one of us,” the Turkish tree said when the axe handle came into the forest. Slamming hammers beat nails into coffins.

I hum an old tune. Language is a virus. La-de-da.

Spinning emotional fire visions flow, associate, blend, dive and dance on point performing a plié at the barre.

Steeled letter keys strike hammers, blasting iron nails, merging into Maple, Ash, Cherry and petrified wood.

Iron forged edges bite hard earth releasing soft dust. Brushes reveal artifacts as conspiratorial alarm bells bing bang bong salutations at the end of a line.

A manual typewriter carriage slams home inside the middle way.

Buddhists say you should cultivate the perfect balance of wisdom and compassion.

If you have too much wisdom you are unfeeling, cold, like marble.

If you have too much compassion you become too sentimental.

I resume CPR.

Weaving A Life, V1

emotion expression

Everything going in an ear comes out as language.

A tool for emotion and expression.

The greatest sorrow is the death of the heart.

Life is found in a desperate situation. - Chinese proverb.

All you have to do is take out the garbage, said a writer. Separate the cans, glass, plastic, paper products, adverbs, and adjectives. Editors want it short fast and deadly. They want to feel a character facing obstacle(s) and their motivation. They want characters to reveal themselves through dialogue and action. How is the character living and feeling? Focus the lens through the protagonist’s eye. Live forever.

Make it immediate and dramatic. Show their vulnerability, their worries, hopes and fears. Use active verbs. Be specific so we feel the experience. Clarify the narrator's interpretation.

Please continue with your delightful story, Jamie.

Yes, well, it needs a central character, like Omar here, he's a good one with a woven thread and laborious languorous tension to move it along now doesn’t it? As I was saying before you went off a tangent Point, which I see you are prone to do, he understood their wingspan.

See, one of the largest nesting colonies of tawny vultures in Europe was here. While living and hiking in the region he’d seen several species: the golden eagle, Hieraetus fasciatus, Aquila heliaca, Hieratus pennatus, and Circaetus gallicus. Goshawk and the Egyptian vulture also inhabited the Sierras.

Amazing. I once was a screaming eagle in Vietnam, said Point. Strange place for eagles eh? Remind me and I’ll spin you a tale about them.

Ok. A large vulture grabbed air toward the mountain cliffs, sailed along the rocks and it was difficult to keep it in focus because their brown body blended perfectly with trees and mountains. It sailed, banked, disappearing into cover. Breaking through clouds another vulture flew into the sun splashing hillside and peaks in blazing light. It dropped in elevation, turning, showing quick flashes of golden feathers, brown body, in and out colors as the bird played on the air. Really incredible I tell you.

Then it flew near ridges turned toward his position for a moment, just long enough displaying complete wingspan and I’d guess a good 6-8 feet across, then it blended into the foliage finding its mountain perch.

Excellent. Nothing like a little free form flying exercise in the morning I say. Free morning drafts. Gets the blood flowing, lowers the heart rate and strengthens the spirit, said Omar.

Spirit of flight, flight as freedom the vision they must have, said Jamie. Imagine, if you will, how it feels to be rising on air, feeling the slightest push or pull as wind whips past you and you climb into and through clouds flying past you. You circle through endless space able to maneuver, balance, floating higher and higher. He felt good feeding small birds watching big ones fly. Always maintain your awareness.

History is the symptom.

People are the disease.

Language is a virus.

Weaving A Life, V1

Freedom. Choice. Plenty.

The self is coming from a state of pure awareness, from the state of being.

*

Literary Agent: Give me international investment fund managers manipulating Goldilocks, NGOs skimming 70% off the top in Asian countries, greed, corporate monopoly play money profit and an orphan with no motivation but survival.

Give me heartbreak, emotional tragedy, drastic home foreclosures, massive unemployment, millions dying of C-19, jealousy, pride, and make sure pride is filled with glimmering prominence. It brings people down, crashes empires, creates and resolves conflicts.

Give me disabled homeless angry American war veterans struggling with PTSS, divorce, authenticity, domestic famine and revenge, a central motivating factor  ... Give me imaginary borders in a crazy fucked up world.

Crossing borders is a transcendental act of courage, said Z, Ascertain the intention before the motivation, said Zeynep staying on a true line. The agent climbed a literary mountain. If there’s no literary mountain, she said, The publishing road would be flat, short and paved with gold.

Give me a new paragraph with short dirty realism sentences, said lit agent … Give me a classic Greek drama in three acts … Give me romance and treason, deception, intrigue and mayhem  ... Humans are the only animals that can scheme and deceive. 

Give me a life sentence with no chance of parole … Give me 1.7 million Khmers on death row tormented by hungry ghosts … Give characters fear, forgiveness, shock and awe …

Like Orwell give me the unpleasant fact about a Burmese man, on his way to the gallows, stepping around a puddle of water … Give me his awareness of impending death and quick generous insight into his frail gentle human life.

Strap me into my chair living in a kingdom with twenty-four virgins. Virgins strike for equality. Give me a lethal literary injection. Drip by drip. Yes, the metaphor of a single drop of lethal mind numbing, fumbling, bumbling drama intrigue and chaos.

Entropy - the 2nd law of thermonuclear dynamics. The center cannot hold, said WB Yeats.

Find the big metaphor Zeynep.

Give me revenge and betrayal - the how and why wars began … Give me a dumb downed version of primordial Faust … Give me humans selling their soul to the Devil down at the crossroads at midnight to achieve immortality. Ain’t nothing but the blues … Give me a heart-wrenching tale of abandonment, loss, misery and redemption. Tie in hope, the last thing that dies with gravity and arc.

Hope walks through the fire. Faith leaps over the fire.

Allow your characters to explore their feelings, thoughts, and reactions with total comprehension knowing the scientific fact that the universe is 13.7 billion years old and approaching TOTAL COMPLEXITY. Some refer to total complexity as God.

You may want to move this fact to the brutal satisfying conclusion, said the agent. This means the long now or 20,000+ years of human evolution is speeding up. Period. It’s becoming more random and chaotic. There’s a huge difference between complicated and complex. If you can write in God’s voice, it may sell. Many have tried few are chosen … God has a huge slush pile.

Earth, this is God … I have someone who’s interested in the property and I want you OUT by the end of the month. How’s that? Imagine an accelerated space program? said Z, Only the very rich can afford a shuttle seat. So it goes.

Book of Amnesia, V1

Creative People

I'm one of those people who has learned through living that there is nothing and nobody in this life to cling to.

I am a metaphor looking for a meaning.

I feel free to move away from safe familiar places and keep moving forward to new unexplored areas of life. Floating. If I had a penny for every time someone asked me when I’d settle down I could afford a world hypothesis!

Yes. I could bid on blessings. I’d sacrifice pre-linguistic symbols and create silent metaphorical abstractions. My linguistic skills would evolve into love, into discursive logic. 26,000 year-old Paleolithic iron and copper paintings create a secret symphony of ancient stories in a Spanish cave. Shamans experienced visions for the tribe. Oral transmission said a Griot.

No lengthy drawn out off-the-wall abstract explains my small empty self to anyone by virtue of who I was, am, and will be.

Life is a palimpsest. Trade security for adventures.

“There are two stories in the world,” I said to the Moroccan as we carried boarding cards through the Casablanca terminal. “A stranger arrives in a village or a stranger leaves a village.”

“Yes,” said Omar, a blind writer overhearing their conversation, “we might add there are also stories about love between two people, stories about love between three people and stories about the struggle for power. Stories are about characters revealing emotion through dialogue and action.”

He handed me a pile of yellow papers wrapped in rushes.

“A gift for you. It contains a farrago of evidence. Keep it simple.”

“Thank you.” Where do I find you?”

“In the caves south of Ronda. It’s a long walk.” He disappeared into Baraka.

ART - Adventure, Risk, Transformation, A Memoir

Human beings and creatures flowering and dying in the void.