spill ink

Writers and artists know it's all about choosing your tools wisely.

In our case it's a well traveled 15-year old Mont Blanc Meisterstuck 149 piston fountain pen, with a 14K gold nib and platinum inlay. The art of writing. Language, writing, culture and civilization.

Been with us since passing through Hong Kong en route to a hotel management gig in Beijing. It's the feeling, joy of heft, ink distribution and quality. The edge on Moleskine paper, touch, sensory stimulation. Slowing down.

If you use a fountain pen you know what we mean. These days people crank out material with anything handy. Just a small suggestion to test out a fountain pen next time you're in the market for a quality writing instrument. Savor the precision.

Many Chinese students learn writing using them, especially at the pre-university level. Maybe it's the ancient influence of calligraphy and the fine arts. Before ball points and gels become ubiquitous in their lives.

An Edinburgh, Scotland school teaches students how to use a fountain pen.

"The pens improve the quality of work because they force the children to take care, and better work improves self-esteem," principal Bryan Lewis said. "Proper handwriting is as relevant today as it ever has been."

Let's have a meeting! Yes. English teachers unite!

Let's get dressed. Pack our Moleskine notebook filled with poetry, drawings, dreams, stories and visions. Let's collect one fountain pen filled with green racing ink. Remember water. You've gotta have H2O where you go. It's gonna be a hot one. Seven inches from the mid-day sun.

Let's go to a class tomb on old campus surrounded by luscious green trees straining to light. They are a canopy of welcome relief. Rose petals wither on the ground.

Smile and greet your compatriots, your stalwart educational guides. Take a seat. Look around. Engage your senses.

Gaze out the window toward the lake. It is shimmering. You hear scraping. What is it? Local workers are building a wall. A new Great Wall. Exciting. History in the making. How do they do it?

It's simple. Materials and raw labor.

Ten local village men and women - who do most of the heavy lifting - bags of cement, trowels, shovels, a few plastic buckets, water, piles of gray bricks, empty drums for support, some boards, and a couple of wheelbarrows.

Step 1. Build rickety scaffolding using drums and boards. Remove the old steel fence. Discard to side.

Step 2. One team mixes cement and water. Shovel into buckets. Another team puts bricks into a wheelbarrow and pushes it to a dumping area.

Step 3. Men wait for women to hand them bricks and buckets of cement. They slather on the goop and align bricks. Brick by brick the wall goes up. It blocks the green sward, blue lake and wild flowers.

Only the sky is safe.

Step 4. Another team coats the exterior with a bland gray mixture.

It's never going to be finished. Art is like that. It's so beautiful we feel like crying.

Someone steps to the podium and starts speaking - using exquisite language - about the value of education. Cost benefit analysis. Profit and loss statements. How we have a huge responsibility to our shareholders.

During a brief moment of silence you hear a shovel, a trowel and laughter.

Another day dawns in paradise.

Cadiz Life

After moving through Moroccan dust, chaos, beauty and impermanence since September, Cadiz was a perfect base for hunting and gathering stories and images.

My second-floor room in a neighborhood of abandoned warehouses overlooked a 200-year-old intersection. A wrought iron balcony faced a narrow cobblestone street. Benjumeda Street extended past shops, churches and plazas.

I was a translucent blue monarch butterfly gathering wing heat for future flight. Inside, outside and all around I wandered Cadiz.

I freelanced for the Bureau of Wandering Ghosts.

Burma

Outside Plaza de Las Flower stalls shoppers pulled provisions home in wheeled shopping carts. Women pushed wheelchairs filled with groceries and cement uphill in their utilitarian universe. Their rolling world was hard rubber spinning in a galaxy. Wheelchairs indicated an invalid family member sat at home in a rocking chair watching game shows and talking heads. Waiting for the goods.

Exploring visual epiphanies, I opened my aperture to f/2.8. Write with light. In exile with silence, cunning, humor and curiosity I discovered Sunday flea market images: old photos, stamps, phonographs, typewriters, dolls, tools, locks, religious paintings, seafood, books, discarded clothing, toys, glass, buttons, broken phones, watches, faces, hands and lottery tickets.

Bar slot machine games called the Wheel of Fortune flashed lights as men drank cheap sherry and pumped 100 peseta coins into hungry devices. Unemployed men and women prowled streets, corners and shops selling lottery tickets called ONCE.

The Champion grocery store across from the old market sold sixteen different lottery tickets. A city this old believing in a religious hereafter had a gambling addiction. Pay now and pray later. Poor people needed all the hope money could buy.

Hope was broke.

I exposed streets, parks, cathedrals and beaches with sun-greased white haired ladies knitting and playing bingo and children dressed in gaudy black and red sashes for religious festivals. Men cut fish, hands held creased maps or thick Cuban cigars, children grasped parental fingers.

Tourists gripped each other in lost wild desperation. Lovers slept in sunlight. Men hammered stones as pigeons fought over bread scraps. Obscure dark faces in doorways greeted neighbors. A crescent moon floated between television aerials.

Burma

Juxtapositions of hammers and crucifixes rested on red fabric. Brown nuns supporting their habit passed brass Moorish door knockers as historical debris laughed before and after Chris Colon sailed west.

I wandered the city carrying a Moleskine and piston driven fountain pen spilling Midnight Blue ink.

Businesses had signs reading, “This establishment has a book for claims and complaints.”

In a cafe I ordered a meal of nouns and verbs with a side order of flat dirty realistic cardboard character development.

“Hold the adverbs,” I told the waitress.

I scribbled seven serious mystical mischievous words. Seeing this a man behind the bar whispered to a woman. They began cleaning. They hauled out crates of empty bottles, swept and mopped the floor with determination, efficiency and fear suspecting I was from the CLEAN authorities.

Fear is a great motivator.

Kitchen women suffered a panic attack. Jabbering like irate birds they scrubbed gleaming appliances with profound intention and motivation. They feared they’d be closed down for an imperfection in their life.

After fresh tomatoes I spread my wings.

ART

Adventure, Risk, Transformation - A Memoir

Burma

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

A Chiroptera

I am an Old World bat. The family name is chiroptera. The sub-orders are megachiroptera and microchiroptera.

I am the only, yes! the only mammal in the entire known ecologically diverse animal kingdom that can really fly, sustaining myself on wind currents, up/down drafts and rough drafts of manuscripts and blog entries before they get cut down to size. I am too agile to get cut down. My size is perfect. I am a very valuable, important and productive member of the eco-system. I will explain.

It happened like this.

After a night of flying through amazing black skies illuminated by a faint moon and eating insects with delicious fruit for desert I was resting in a fifty-foot tall coconut palm tree between two squashed together homes in a Ha Noi suburb.

I've been roosting under the long thick leafy branch for awhile now. It's a temporary home until my younger brother gets his wings. Soon I hope because we need to expand our territory. It's a comfortable habitat high away from predators like snakes, cats, and creatures who enjoy tasty bat meat.

Anyway, like I said, I was roosting upside down which is the normal position for bats using my claws to grasp green fibers and I had an itch. I needed to stretch out my voluminous wingspan, my membranes. Natural enough. I rustled around and then, due my superior enhanced audio and visual systems which allow me to navigate, find food and survive, I detected a pair of eyes on me.

Yes me! I'd been seen. Discovered. I shriveled into myself. I pondered this dilemma.

After remaining as quiet as a mouse (easy to catch at night by the way if I'm feeling hyper aggressive) I peeked out from under my wings, through the leaves. Much to my surprise, sitting in his third floor room looking at me was some strange creature.

I hung on for dear life. He seemed harmless enough.

Actually, to tell the truth I am a hybrid bat, or to be really scientific about it, a CHIROPTERA. Write that down. Try and say it fast three times and you can impress your friends at parties.

I am the MEGA and the MICRO in the Bat Kingdom. Kind of like the Alpha and the Omega.

I have the most highly developed combination of DNA characteristics found in bats. The Mega has large eyes, excellent vision and claws on their second digit. The Micro has small eyes and uses echolocation to find nourishing insects. I have amazing visual and hearing genetic traits. 

Twilight's calling.

Metta.

May 1, 2007

It is early before dawn on May 1st. Today. Wild birds sing in trees, geckos slurp sounds. A snail carries it's shell through a garden. I open an old Moleskine at random. The entry is May 1, 2007 in China.

The entry reads: "188,494 A Century is Nothing edited down. 5-6,000 words "cut" since March. It may be ready to throw the monster out into the world...perhaps another? fine line edit to fine tune the beast with objective detachment...?

White winged flock, distant green hills, big formation. Wing further light. Floating white, green, orange sunset, quick trail bike ride, white moon, cloud dancer, east light, dusk

no words

vision

obscured visible

in-out breath

moon lovers

Metta.