star's story

How slow can you go?

Slower than a breath. 

Slower than stillness.

Slow slower and slower.

One night star bright moon light senses our mutual loneliness.

Star shows me scar marks on her wrists. My father died. I lived with relatives. They beat me. I tried to kill myself. Twice. I ran away. I became strong. I decided to live.

I met a man. I got pregnant. I had my son. He is 17 now. I studied Lao massage and worked for three years.

A good fool is hard to find.

Acrobatic spine torso. Ride the pony. Flexibility. Drive it home until dawn.

We are buried deep inside narrow dark muddy passages.

We are surrounded by women gossiping, telling stories in the market. They discuss the Lao woman with a tall foreign man. She inspects green beans. With theatrical brilliance she throws them back. Disdain. Too expensive. Poor quality. She negotiates greens, bamboo, vegetables.

You don't see foreign ghost spirits in this market.

 

The Lover

Ling one night. Her smile, vivacious. Take her to another level of pleasure.

Trust your intuition.

Fish new waters. Explore, experiment outside bamboo shack zones after dark. Dark is the night. Cold is the ground.

Sweet and slow. Give her long luxurious pleasure. Return to her rose sensations feeling her need. Curl up in night's silence.

Sleeping alone is boring, said Sunflower, a blind masseuse.

Smell her fragrance. Soft connections w/o fear, haste, tomorrow. One night is all. Positive energies. Far away a bell.

Loves meditation at dawn welcomes restless dreamers. They turn, curl, embrace, soft and slow skeletons in shadows. Shadows on her breast, valley, legs, fingers kissed. No illusions of futures in the long now.

Love's meditation.

Rain. Angular clitoris stimulation's bliss, slow gentle, sunrise. Release rain inside soft fresh air along her skin.

Her skin is a meandering river of valleys, mountains rising hips, slow easy caresses memory's fascination.

Sitting posture dances ink.

Sleeping dreamers take a serene slow pedal along deserted foggy streets in mist.

Mountains across the Mekong sing Zen.

A Chinese painting is a floating world.

move like a river

Move like a river, rest like a mirror and respond like an echo.

Create like a God, order like a King and work like a Slave.

Laughter and Orphan and characters are dazzled by the embroidery.

Help others be more human.

Clean ears of years, tears and fears after four months of hearing V road grime.

Clear hearing channels. Auditory clarity.

Silent orange robed monks pass through.

Roll along a mist river before dawn. Silver surface is quiet.

Nails trim voices, blue cotton fabric discusses threads.

A girl with bamboo baskets of sun oranges balances her long walk from a truck near boats as women pray for sustenance in fog light. Her destiny is uphill past rising smoke, villages, cooking fires, warmth, hot noodles, steaming steps in rhythmic fashion she continues...

The road is made by walking.

The void of substance.

Boua Mon - weaver, 32, once eclipsed since we met at her village loom. Absorb her illuminated smile, grace, centered way.

In her absence everything possible or improbable happened. Ghost-self dreamed her into being as Anita butterfly skimmed the joy of exile. A man on his yellow bike waved, smiled, and rode away. Afternoon sun decorated green mountains.

Shuttle music and hospitality with Boua just sitting as she weaves, aligning threads, sharing food, incomprehensible women conversations. Her smile is radiant.

open hand holds everything

A waterfall discovers a curbed grate. Grateful gravity.

A thin blue line is mindfulness.

A dragonfly hovers those words. A fragile and precious object.

Riding Mystery in LP one day before Xmas. 

Ghost-self passed: elephants, ticket agents, airlines, guest houses, women sweeping, cooking, aroma, pizza, golden wats reflecting dawn, TRIBES of sad bleary-eyed European tourists stumbling along their personal path of insight, peace, serenity, calm heart-mind.

Ghost-self sang, "oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day, everything's going my way," humans stared as words penetrated ears - sounds swirled through layers of sensation seeking meaning. ZAP!

A young orange robed monk swept the world's dust.

Cleaning the world of sensation and perception.

Dancing down days with Laughter.

Laughter's soft eyes gestured, An open hand holds everything.

grains of rice

Clean clear cold foggy dawn.

5 a.m. is shawl shadowed on a blank deserted street.

You walk in a glimmer of silence.

Smell cooking smoke. Yellow fire flames on a corner. The woman from last year.

She has a long partial memory.

Her wok oil bubbles in cast iron bowl above forested wood, glimmering bright yellow caresses orange.

Heat. Ritual of fire is repeated from mountainous Phongsali in the north to the south.

Fire & wood.

Before sunlight beams orange silent monks walk single file.

They greet worshipers offering grains of rice.

Dreamlike apparitions follow daily step by step along a path whispering their eyes seeing fire.

No attachment in this transitory visual blessing.