your move

Amy is a shy girl. G7.

A wisp.

She feels sad because her father left to find work.

It takes courage to raise a child.

Reminds him of some adults - lost, sad, bored.

She is gradually becoming more self assertive.

She moved closer to his desk.

 

He asked about chess. Yes, she said, I can play.

Ok, he said, Let's play tomorrow.

The first day he immediately saw her thinking, planning and skill.

Now they play every morning from 745-815 before class begins.

Others stand around watching with short attention spans.

She had some opening weaknesses.

He gave her some suggestions to strengthen her play.

Castle early. Develop knights and bishops.

Now she plays with stronger confidence. 

This is a great joy.

He introduces chess to all the kids this month.

Life's lessons.

Your move, Amy said.

His heart sings hearing her voice.

mr. lucky foot

One of his secret names is Mr. Lucky Foot.

What does that mean you may ask, well let him tell you in simple, plain, clear and concise English, the language of barbarians. Just get to the verb.

It means wherever he travels because he's addicted to new adventures like meeting shopkeepers, merchants in Venice, rest-a-rant owners and nondescript sad, lonely, neurotic and well adjusted humans struggling to find their personal way inside life’s labyrinth, when he shows up, because 90% of life is showing up, their day, life, fate and glittering fortune changes. Karmic destiny. For the better. 

It happened in the Middle Kingdom or China per se, in Asia Minor, on the is-land of Amnesia in Southeast Asia, Vietnam, Cambodia, Nepal and Laos. A small journey inside life’s weaving.

Hand him down his walking stick.

spilled Ink

After they cut out my tongue I started writing script.

I found a compressed black Chinese ink stick with yellow dragons breathing fire. I added a little water to a grey stone surface and placed the ink in the center. 

Then, using my right hand, as Master Liu in Chengdu showed me, I turned the stick in a clockwise motion. Black ink ebbed into liquid as a drop of water rippled a pond.

After collecting ink I picked up my long heavy brown brush. Pure white hair. After soaking it in water for three minutes to relax it’s inner tension I spread out thin delicate paper.

I placed my right foot at an angle, left foot straight, my left palm flat on the table with fingers spread. I dipped the brush in the recessed part of the stone to absorb ink then slowly dragged it along an edge removing excess. 

I savored the weight and heft. My brush has it own personality and character. There are at least 5,000 characters in my written language. I have much to learn and a long way to travel with this unknowing truth.

amygdala

Namaste,

Survivors were willing victims of their fear, uncertainty, doubt, adventure and surprise.

Their amygdala, a small almond shaped brain structure validated to be involved in fear and emotional response fired up. 

Manipulated by their collective unconscious and the system of socialization control mechanisms and the subtle power of right wing conservative persuasion and media idiots, they either wanted control or approval facing this daily grinding, mind numbing, heart breaking choice.

They struggled, suffered, danced, experiencing gratitude and forgiveness in their heart.

They lived and died. 

It’s essential to die at least once while you’re alive and get it out of the way.

An engraved Zippo lighter in a dusty Saigon museum cabinet, buried under service ribbons read, “You only die twice. Once when you’re born and when you face Death.”

Metta.

Maybe 20

Namaste,

The demanding accusatory tone of voice is always an admonishing attitude of voice how reality is. Shanghai commands are simple and direct. 

Heels strike cold hard pavement in darkness. The sharpness belongs to a girl escaping from family for the night. Muted voices of an old couple walking through narrow concrete canyons echo as heels fade.

An elevator door opened on the 11th floor of a five-star business hotel in Shanghai. 

A beautiful Chinese girl, 20, in a white dress clutching a small black purse stared at a scuffed marble floor. Small puddles of rain water gathered around her shoes.

She raised her face from the ground. 

Deep dark brown rings circled old, tired, fearful eyes hiding her heart's knowledge, revealing her soul.

There was no place to hide, no magical cosmetic concealing the truth of everything she knew. The woman and witness instinctivily understood each other. Passing toward another temporary hope, another ethereal reality.

She was on the wrong floor and pressed another number. Doors closed. She was moving up in the world. Up to the room of a foreign businessman taking her through night into morning.

Everyone in town was making money. 

Billboards shouted, “Making Money in China is Glorious!”

She carefully folded hard earned hard currency into her black purse after a long hot shower and took the elevator down. Gliding through a revolving glass and brass door, she passed a deserted dark empty Japanese restaurant and negotiated gray stained industrial steps to Nanjing Xi Lu.  

One million serious adults in blue industrial clothing practiced Tai Chi with controlled balanced concentration.

Every methodical movement had meaning.

Dawn's collective mist breath crashed around her well worn heels skipping over cracked stones through shadows. 

Metta.