Rain forest song
Ink dances
What you don't see is fascinating
Rivers of children memorize texts
Listening/speaking predates writing/reading
I can do it. Enthusiastic. Feeling sound pre-language
Drum heart beat
Dancing Lao doctor gestures sky arms feeling free
*
Young pregnant sick H'mong wife
Husband eats soup
We pay pay pay
Me only one
Tired
You returned with secret joy
Yes she says my dream of you is unfolding
She caresses silk threads on her loom of time
Your sensitivity and serenity calms me he says
Before dawn
The Mekong is water
Fog obscures distance
She stands at a window looking for him
On the river
His net flies over still deep water
Threads and knots of jungle vine grace surface
Sink into silence
Hearing the Mekong sing
She returns to the source
Dreaming voiced silent whispers
Silence becomes her desire
Gratitude her awareness
Calms her tortured heart
A leaf leaves the tree of life
Flutters like a heart beat
Transparent water bowls sing
A purple lotus rows from mud
At her loom
Her pattern begins with purple silk
Her base
She threads thin lines of balance
She spins out golden threads for new diamonds
Weaving her meditation
Her voice
Hands fingers heart-mind
There was a man in a poor village.
Everyday he went into the mountains searching for gold.
Everyone said he was crazy.
After forty years he found gold, returned to the village, exchanged the gold for cash, bought a rope, tied the money to one end and the other around his waist.
He ran through the village dragging money behind him.
Everyone said he was crazy.
“What are you doing?” they yelled.
“For forty years I’ve been chasing money and now money is chasing me.”
North Lao Weaver
In late 2011 in Vientiane, Laos he finished another revision of A Century is Nothing.
He let it rest. He's tired of it. He's been consistent with it every morning and afternoon.
Doing the work. Polishing is the party.
He feels good about the process.
Stories inside stories.
A work of art is never finished. It is abandoned.
The 2nd edition was published December 2012.
After spraying oil on sprocket and chain he rode Mystery the mountain bike.
Slow.
He discovered a woman with her plastic box sitting in the shade doing nails on a quiet side street.
He gestured scraping callused souls. She smiled and finished another woman.
He soaked feet and hands in water. She scrubbed off dead skin.
It reminded him of murdering his manuscript darlings. She trimmed cuticles and skin with a small silver tool. She wrote him into her story and he wrote her into his. They're are mutually inconclusive.
Love is unconditional.
He is open minded, patient, positive, flexible, and friendly.
She is intuitive and creative with empathy, trust, respect and gratitude.
He paid. They smiled.
He rode away protected by a white butterfly ringing a bell.
Present and empty.
Music is the fuel.
Welcome to Planet Insane Asylum. You are released on your own recognizance.
Create a new world. Ride a bike. Explore. Life is the destination. Warrior attitude.
Understanding by design. UBD.
Your story emerges from nothing. Discover a point of departure a direction.
Only the mad ones sing with the fools.
Events, characters, setting, impressions. Energies and frequencies.
Remember Coco speaking in Fujian, China watching 15,000 university students walk past old village people. "They are all peasants."
Years later the rich Chinese man in Laos served you fresh green Fujian tea at the Luang Prabang guesthouse. "Children are tools," he said. He had two. They arrived in a Raging Rover using GPS.
Discernment with sensitivity.
Engaged by a stimulus. Disengaged from a stimulus.
Truth-Force.
Signal-Noise
High season in Vientiane. Perfect for drawing twilight as scooters mumble putt putt exhausted fear based laughter succumbing to circumstance.
Yoke said a verb is a condition.
Her insight was victorious. Word got back that all but three 8th grade students were caught cheating on their Lao exams. No surprise there. Delight in their sly cunning attitude. Oh, to be human.
Determination chopped ice, shifting passive years, gears and fears into a zonal transparency of blank eyes. Is-land tourists became localized stimuli wandering blank.
It's a meaningful coincidence.
We are literary outlaws.
Explanation is a well dressed mistake.
We connect the dots forward. Play an infinite game of chess.
Checkmate, said Death. I always make the correct move.
Existence precedes essence. Flame your life.
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