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Entries in music (44)

Saturday
Jun262010

Root word

Greetings,

One illuminating little story about humans and their very short tribal life is carved on this Sumerian clay figment with someone's imagination.

It describes, in flowing vivid ecstatic gripping elusive detail, using as few reed strokes as possible given the parameters of clay space, their adventures wandering here and there across fertile plains, scorching deserts, through valleys, up and down mountains, along rivers and making camp. They carried water and chopped wood.

They domesticated wild horses. They memorized animal sounds, trails, tracks, smells and scat. They ate, wove clothing, traded shells, feathers and simple possessions, played music, danced, meditated, shared stories and rested. 

The female shaman dreamed. She dreamed visions of their journey. She transmitted her dreams to the tribe through poetry, drama, music and art.

Metta.

 

Wednesday
Jun022010

Andrei Voznesensky 1933-2010

FATE

 
Fate is above me. Why should I browse? 

Sleeping in dosses, an outcast, I rove.

Grief is a cellar,

that opens in every old house.

A ditch is below me and fate is above.

What did I want? Well, a life of contentment.

What did I get? Just a coffin and wreath...

Under the cradle a grave has been latent.

Fate is above me, a ditch is beneath.

Up in the sky my soul, like a hound,

howls, despaired,

the trigger to pull it was keen.

Fate has come over my family background,

and on the earth where fate is my kin.

What have I done, apart from the simple

poems I've written in passing to date?

I've been a lightening conductor for people.

Now I have broken my back. Such is fate.

+

Dear colleagues, I'm so happy:

nowadays when all is well 

I’m the only one who happens 

to be criticized like hell.

 

I’m a black sheep. No objection,

for my living does make sense

‘cause I set off the perfection

of my flawless author friends.

 

 

 read more...

Monday
May102010

Neurosis

Greetings,

I'm ok. It's the world that's in a mess.

People here love to look back. It is a passion. It is a genetic molecule of fear, doubt and uncertainty. Perhaps also just a plain childish innocent curiosity of wanting the past, needing.

Yes. Focus on needs, not wants. Needs manifesting their desire. A desire for a ghost. We are all passing through. 

They look back to see if they see, yes, in their vivid reptilian imagination a ghost. Their ghost. A ghost from a family, friend, lost. Looking for clues at their personal ground zero. 

They've arrived from distant galaxies. Java man was discovered here 40,000 years ago.

So it figures, accepting an evolutionary premise, their DNA star chart continues its genetic dance today. 

I live in talking monkey zones. They eat rice. They drink water. They wash one set of clothing and hang it out to dry on poles. They burn down the forest. They harvest brooms. Their shamans bring rain. Tropical downpours allow people the luxury to wash cars. 

They use their faint star energy to look, not really seeing, behind them wondering, all the wondering. 

Food is cheap here. Medicine and education is expensive. This has nothing to do with simians. It has nothing to do with the two women sitting in a dark warung neighborhood food joint. The warung faces a tall cinder block wall. Chickens, goats and cats prowl, peck and forage through garbage and dreams.

One woman sits quietly in a deep meditation. Her friend parts her hair gently, looking for minute insects, cleaning her scalp. They take turns cleaning and inspecting. This genetic behavior is being repeated in zoos, jungles, and rain forests. Chattering oral story tellers play the gamelan, pounding out 40,000 year old tunes.

Healing the people with music.

Males wash their little toy machines. They study the accumulated grime under long yellow curling fingernails. They play chess along the road waiting for passengers. Some visit the warung to chat up the girls or eat spicy rice mixed with tofu, chicken, veggies, green chillies and deep fried snacks.

Here's one man building a brave new world. Forging new futures with a patriotic purpose. An assessment on process in a data based star cluster.

Metta.

My name is Captain Dan. I was an interpreter at MAC V during the Vietnam War. I sail out of Hoi An.


Friday
Mar262010

Opportunity Cost

Greetings,

The opportunity of being on location, scouting film destinations is how you become native. You speak in mono-syllables and sleep forever as long as forever is. Be resilent, strong, cunning, exiled in cast off pajama clothing with floral designs and cartoon characters from dead regimes.

Especially on a Sunday near blue flowing rivers wearing tattoos along its arms climbing over sun burned shoulders as a tall Jaguar reveals her skin song. Her French big game hunter takes his time scaling long limbs, drowning inside wild black eyes exploring a thin Apsara dancer neck smelling desire unlike pleasure, a source of suffering, pain and hatred hearing rainbow heartbeat, exploring mountains, clearing brush, lighting a fire as his dogs flush prey.

What you don't see is fascinating.

Orange sun fires trees. 
Six people on a cycle pass. 
A voice asks for help. 
A woman desperate for love/security frames her vision through SLR optic glass. 
Before and now mean the same.
A neglected girl learns how to sew in a safe environment. 
A silver spoon decorates glass with music. 
A young girl draws portraits with poise and serenity. 
A gardener waters yellow and purple orchids at dawn.  
A stranger sits in a local market.
Cui Weiping, a female Chinese literature professor prevented from attending an international poetry conference as punishment for believing in free speech.

Read more... 

Metta.

 

  

Monday
Dec072009

Myth's Mask

 

Shaman's mask, Vietnam.

Greetings,

People here love to look back. It is a passion. It is a genetic molecule of fear, doubt and uncertainty. Perhaps also just a plain childish innocent curiosity of wanting the past, needing.

Yes. Focus on needs, not wants. Needs manifesting their desire. A desire for a ghost. We are all passing through. 

They look back to see if they see, yes, in their vivid reptilian imagination a ghost. Their ghost. A ghost from a family, friend, lost. Looking for clues at their personal ground zero. 

They've arrived from distant galaxies. Human habitation sites were discovered here 500,000 years ago. Primitive agriculture began 7,000 years ago. A. Go. 

So it figures, accepting an evolutionary premise, their DNA star chart continues its genetic dance today. 

I live in talking monkey zones. They eat rice. They drink water. They wash one set of clothing and hang it out to dry on poles. They burn down the forest. They harvest brooms. Their shamans bring rain. Tropical downpours allow people the luxury to wash cars. 

They use their faint star energy to look, not really seeing, behind them wondering, all the wondering. 

Food is cheap here. Medicine and education is expensive. This has nothing to do with simians. It has nothing to do with the two women sitting in a dark neighborhood food joint. Plastic chairs faces a tall cinder block wall. Chickens, goats and cats prowl, peck and forage through garbage and dreams.

One woman sits quietly in a deep meditation. Her friend parts her hair gently, looking for minute insects, cleaning her scalp. They take turns cleaning and inspecting. This genetic behavior is being repeated in zoos, jungles, and rain forests.

Chattering oral story tellers play Bronze Age drums, pounding out 3rd century tunes.

Healing the people with music.

 


Males wash their little toy machines. They study the accumulated grime under long yellow curling fingernails. They play chess along the road waiting for passengers. People eat spicy rice mixed with tofu, chicken, veggies, and green and red chillies.

One human creates a brave new world. Forging new futures with a patriotic purpose. An assessment on process in a data based star cluster.


Dream mask mirror and swimming...

She showed me how to swim with gigantic sea turtles and practice sitting.

How to dive deep exploring coral and amazing underwater life forms. How to explore below the surface of appearances.

Experiencing the Temple of Complete Reality on a Taoist mountain in Sichuan once upon a time. Climbing through primal forests with young mature smart Mountain-Nature Girl. She lives in the mountain. Some live below. Others live on. She lives in. She knows every herb, plant, flower, tree, river and medicinal process in the forest.

Mountain-Nature girl with Vivian.

How the heartbeat was an eternal rhythm.

Then we were going up. Now we are going down.

How to breath through a mask. "What kind of mask? Is it hand carved from the wood of tribal memories?" I asked her. 

"Yes," she said, "it is a manifestation of long lost symbols, a primitive culture. It is a shamanic ritual, a dance trance. When you put on the mask you become the thing you fear the most, your basic human nature."

"Does this mean I will evolve into a being filled with the ability to scheme and deceive?"

"Perhaps. This is a highly evolved trait of human intelligence. Do you remember what you wrote about J. Joyce, how he went into exile with silence and cunning?"

"Yes. He knew how to put seven little words in order. He was a cunning linguist."

"Well, this ability to scheme and deceive is your cunning, your instinctual learned behavior. It separates you from less evolved life forms like apes, plankton and sea enemies-anemone (fish eating animals) and androgynous androids in the deep subconscious."

"Are you a clown fish?"

"Look in your dream mask mirror."

Play your drum music.

Metta.