one day

and
it's the damnedest
movie
you've ever
seen
because
you're
in it -

low budget
and
4 billion
critics

and the longest
run
you ever hope
for
is

one
day.

 -  Charles Bukowski
(excerpt) from Show Biz

a short story

Once upon a time there was a king.

The king wanted a painting. He'd heard about a famous painter in a distant village. "I don't care how much it costs," said the king. He sent a messenger to the painter.

"My king wants a painting," said the messenger. "Ok," said the painter, "give me two million gold coins and come back later." The messenger paid.

The messanger came back a year later. "It's not finished yet," said the painter. "Come back later."

Ten years passed.

The messenger returned. "Where is the painting for the king?"

The painter grabbed a canvas and painted a painting. "Here, give this to the king."

"What, you just made it!" said the messenger.

"Yes," said the painter, "but I've been thinking about it for ten years."

John Lennon - 32 years ago

Here's a excerpt from a book he wrote. He was living in Ireland, the emerald green isle and preparing to move to Donegal in the remote northwest.

He met a shopowner in a Liberties, Dublin antique shop to buy mirrors for his travels. He gifted her a piece of gringseng cloth, a healing fabric from Bali.

“Wonderful," she said, "many thanks. Travel safe and look after yourself. Before you go I will reveal a small future to you,” she said.

“After Tiglin you will ramble across country to the Killarney hostel where, sadly and unfortunately, you will be awake in the predawn morning of December 8 hearing a BBC news announcer tell the world about John Lennon being shot in New York. You will turn your head to the wall and cry.

"Later you will take the black push bike down narrow wet twisted streets and meet a nun opening heavy steel black church gates and you will tell her what happened. You will push open the heavy wooden doors, genuflect, cross yourself, walk the length of a cold aisle and light votive candles in silence.

"Then you will ride into town and go to every news agent to buy every Irish paper with the screaming black tabloid headlines full of desperate black ink and grainy images of death personified before retiring to a pub to sit by a peat fire drinking, reading, and sadly, quietly remembering John’s creativity and his words Imagine and Give Peace a Chance.”

a 4,000 year old story

After three years exploring Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia, Orphan and Elf looked at a world map.

Our creative and healing work here is complete for now, said Elf.

I agree, said Orphan. I feel restless and need renewal. Where shall we go?

Make it new day by day. Make it new. Let's see, said Elf, tracing the map. Did you enjoy Turkey four years ago?

Yes, their hospitality is kind.

Ok, how about an ancient eastern town near the Black Sea with mountains? Pine, maple and evergreen forests? Fresh air, olives, tomatoes, cheese, hot bread and pastries? The Greeks and Romans lived there.

Sounds perfect for our never ending adventure. It's on the Silk Road. Did Marco Polo visit there?

Yes. He passed through. Like us. Maybe we will meet him or a wandering relative. We will share tea dancing silver spoons with new friends.

To travel is better than to arrive.

Ok. Let's go to Trabzon.

a life of purpose

If you’re going to try, go all the way.

Otherwise, don’t even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind.

It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery — isolation.

Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you’ll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine.

If you’re going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that.

You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It’s the only good fight there is.

- Charles Bukowski