invisible bird lament

He decided to end it. Ling was too expensive. Her heart was good yet money/greed was her basic underlying motivation. He'd been contributing to her welfare for five weeks.

"Money for mama and papa. Money for my friends. Money for the festival. Money for my motorcycle. Money for my son. Milk money."

He’s a soft touch.

They shared their desires, lust, loneliness, curled up together in the dark night of the soul as wild cats howled before a invisible tropical bird sang its long lament at dawn.

Yes, he'd had enough playing this rescuing role.

If you pay you owe.

He ended it on Valentines Day. Break my heart.

There was no emotional attachment to the sight.

It was an unpleasant fact.

Moleskine sketch #1

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.

 

Smiling is a virus

The magic IF.

Smiling is a virus.

Risk vs opportunity.

Murakami - themes - boredom, loneliness, loss.

See a situation.

Create characters.

Shame and guilt issues.

Death is the mother of Beauty.

Beauty has no tongue.

She is the mysterious light. She is a light worker. She sings with her light.

She is a fiction. A white butterfly named Psyche wings her face.

A messenger from higher realms of beauty.

She is a scale. On her scale two are two objects. One is a human heart. A feather.

Season of the witch, all the rabbits running in the ditch.

West child - where did I come from?

East child - how did I grow?

Clay exchange

Na. They met in her village on the outskirts of town down a lost long red dust road.

It’s a miracle not to save anyone. Not to be a rich foreigner in her dead hopeful eyes, who will marry, save, rescue, support and maintain an 18-year old Lolita nymphet.

A brief transitory relationship. Money and time. Passion with the mature knowledge of a young waif’s dreams of a boy, a man, a local seismographic approval allowed by parents. Is her father alive? Men and women tongue desire.

Her form, angular face, soft skin, touch yes she is experienced in the act of love, this cannot be denied, her movements, her sense of touch tactile indicates practice perhaps a moneyed man. Local boys in the dark.

Her beauty and technique allowing her new potentials, not so much about her pleasure as taking care of business in a soft slow way before rushing from bed to douche. Dressing quickly, shyness wraps its arms enveloping her. Down a lost long red dust road.

Inside light with slow fingers and long thin ivory nails they turned clay into pots. Spinning circles danced, turning on a Wheel of Time. They finished throwing them, used them for tribal ceremonies and smashed clay pots to earth.

Clay exploded into air creating volcanic ash coating everything in a fine dust.