invisible bird lament

He decided to end it. Ling was too expensive. Her heart was good yet money/greed was her basic underlying motivation. He'd been contributing to her welfare for five weeks.

"Money for mama and papa. Money for my friends. Money for the festival. Money for my motorcycle. Money for my son. Milk money."

He’s a soft touch.

They shared their desires, lust, loneliness, curled up together in the dark night of the soul as wild cats howled before a invisible tropical bird sang its long lament at dawn.

Yes, he'd had enough playing this rescuing role.

If you pay you owe.

He ended it on Valentines Day. Break my heart.

There was no emotional attachment to the sight.

It was an unpleasant fact.

Moleskine sketch #1

Desire

Ling shows up. Eat. Bed. Desires. Fatigue. Joy.

Trembling breasts, her eyes closed, arms over her head.

I am buried in her forest.

Discovering blood filled purple lips and vagina.

Throbbing photons of pulsating waves allow her the bliss of love.

Slow and gentle. Touch.

Sing a song of pleasure principles all morning.

Dance in slow motion.

Senses are pure immediate and direct.

Curiosity in the purest sense.

One story - theme - small vs the big - treachery & humor, revenge, betrayal, alienation, loneliness, boredom.

                - locale

                - time

                - characters

Coffee should be black as hell, strong as death and as sweet as love - Turkish proverb

Awareness in the moment.

the blind man and his daughter

He wore a felt hat. He gripped a wooden staff. His face was long and sallow.
The girl was 11. Wearing cotton, her face was solemn, shocked.
Both wore plastic flip-flops.
She held his hand.

They came to an intersection. Small buses, bikes, lost fat Europeans, orange robed wandering monks, silver vans. Women carrying bamboo baskets spilling oranges negotiated pavement.

The girl led the man across the street.
Their pace steady, yet hesitant.

She was his eyes. He trusted her implicitly.
A stranger drawing in his notebook watched them.
He pulled a 20 Kip note from his pocket.
He gestured to the girl, Take it.
She froze.

She spoke quick Lao words to her father.
Questioning, doubt, healthy uncertainty in her eyes.
The stranger gestured the 20.
She remained still.

He got up and slowly approached her. His hand extended the money.
His hand said, take it.
Her small hand emerged with caution. Her small fingers accepted the gift.
She smiled placing her hands together.
Her fingertips touched her chin meaning, Thank you.

She whispered to her father, it's 20.
His blind eyes darted back and forth.
He mumbled, Thank you, joining his hands.

His wooden staff hung in the air like a pendulum.
She led him away.

They disappeared. 

  

The Enlightenment Factory

I drag my mother to impossible places, said Asian daughter #1.

I follow my daughter to impossible places, said her mother, following her daughter's shadow. The slanting afternoon sun in LP is behind and beyond them.

Mother's shadow comforts her daughter's back.

Mother carries water.

Her daughter carries love seeing her husband, a thin bearded memory waiting.

Memory waits.

Patience becomes Memory.

Memory dances with sparrows.

Attention! says frangipani releasing itself, falling.

It landed on a steel PSP roof.

Bang. Thunk. Not hard and not soft enough to create a sounds wave.

It bounced into stillness. Air twirled it, it flew up, away. It floated to the ground. It's floating Beauty penetrated eyes, cones, retinal rods of a man sitting. He picked it up. He inhaled fragrance. Zap.

Beauty has no tongue.

Practice is allowing everything in your life to wake you up.

beauty has no tongue

Be the rhythm, said a woman with flaming hair.

They meditated in the weaving village. 

Lucky loved her passion for silks.

Elephants danced with zodiac symbols.

Weavers click clacked threads.

Beauty has no tongue.

Practice is allowing everything in your life to wake you up.