cement

so, said the seven-year young genius, tell me another story about lazy passive stupid people. 

that's a lot of adjectives, said traveler.

what's an adjective?

it's your father deciding to tear out the garden and plant a cement parking lot at his home-guesthouse along the mekong river.

really? i didn't know adjectives is are was were capable of so much destruction and chaos.

o my yes. your grandmother got down on her knees begging him to save the garden. he ignored her.

ignoring people here is a gentle way of life. subtle and effective. reality therapy.

he shamed her into silence.

i am building a new laos. a new cement empire, he proclaimed.

what did grandmother do? 

she rearranged her remaining trees, shrubs, orchids in a shrinking green corner.

she watered with tears. she got down on knees crying, thanking buddha for good dirt.

 

trust

Once upon a time there was a private school in Laos.

A foreign teacher faced 12 seventh graders.

Week eleven.

How many of you trust yourself? he asked.

One girl raised her hand. With confidence.

11 mutes stared blank. Weak eleven.

Thank you for your attention.

family stupidity

Ok so I'm a big seven as in 7.

My dad's not very smart. It's probably his DNA. A string theory of letters. Genetics. Gee.  Net. Icks. 

Let me give you a kind hearted example of his stupidity. It's the rainy season here in Laos. Slashing squalling delicious rain. Soft, cool, soothing. Like tears. Cry me a river.

So it's pouring like honey. What's dear old dad do? He washes his silver van in a downpour. Smart eh? Yeah, he's trying with intention, to impress dry watchers with his intelligent hose running water over rain. Cleaning.

He ignores me mostly.

He's very busy. He disappears for hours. Drinking beer with friends. Playing around with a secret squeeze in dark places. Starving for affection and cash. A poor girl from a poor family needs to make a living poor thing.

My mom's really smart also. After the rain, when it's dry and the smallest full moon of the year rises above the Mekong before a river festival filled with floating orange flowers and burning candles she burns all the plastic garbage. Yeah. Burn baby burn. Light my fire.

It's a sweet smell, let me tell you. Like that Duvall character when he said, I love the smell of napalm in the morning. Kinda like that. Smell. What's the word? Acrid. 

When she's not burning plastic trash she sweeps. Broom music. Stone cold. She cooks. She pretends to be busy. She's a baby machine. What's another mouth?

She ignores me mostly.

She's very busy. Later, she squawks. She's a soft kind later.

People here like parents and teachers and lazy passive humans love, and I mean love to pretend to be busy.

I guess it gives their short life meaning.

Their existence is one long perpetual distraction. Say what?

As Jobs said, You may as well do what you love because you're going to spend most of your life doing it.

Well, I gotta go. Feed the sparrows. Crumbs. They sing. They fly down. They eat. They fly away.

I'm too young to know much. Ain't nothing but the blues. Dust my Broom.  

after my tongue

I sat up straight, inhaled three deep breaths and exhaled far out into emptiness.

I centered my unconscious on the paper filled with nothing.

The entire world has been reduced to a blank sheet of white paper.

My wisdom mind of intent became water. It was quiet, calm and still with concentration and focus.

I listened to brush, ink and paper. I am a conduit. 

Be the brush, be the ink, be the water, be the paper.

Each essence is pure, free, clear and luminous.

My useless tongue flapped in the cold December Himalayan wind.

Stories and songs are birds. I heard children laughing and singing. They greeted each other in the babble of nothing, playing with strings of word pearls. They dreamed with their eyes open. 

When we are asleep we are awake.

Is handwriiting alive?

ecritureinfinie

visuals

Namaste,

What do you you see?

I see a boy pointing at me. Pointing at a stranger. What kind of stranger? A friendly stranger. Are you a stranger?

Yes. I am a stranger to myself. 

Why is the boy pointing? The boy is pointing because. Because why? I don't know why. I know the boy is happy. How do you know he is happy? He is smiling. What is a smile? 

It is a reflection. A reflection of what manifestation? A manifestation of joy. Facial muscles in Laos. 

Can you read a smile?

Yes I can. His smile says, Smile, we will help you practice.

Metta.