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.

A Griot

Greetings,

One day I write “Blues Music Story” on the board. I discuss the African Diaspora, history,slavery, working on farms for little money and how they gathered to make music at the end of long hard days.

How the blues manifested as men and women left home on an economic migration for better jobs just like China now. How the blues allowed them to express their feelings about loss, separation from family and friends. How it's a “feeling, emotional, deep in your spirit soul,” music.

I pulled out my blues harp and they said, “Oh it’s a chochin,” in Mandarin.

“Want to hear some blues?”

“Yes!”

I blew some sweet slow stuff and then picked up the tempo and blasted rifts and wailing train whistles. Gave them a real sense of the music.

When you're a wandering minstrel or a Griot - a West African performer who perpetuates the oral traditions of a family or village by singing histories and tales; considered by musicologists to be a link with the acoustic blues - or a Seanachai - a traditional Irish storyteller of myths and legends - or a magician, soothsayer and Adept this comes naturally.

“You see. I am merely a conduit for music. It comes through me.”

Then we did a lesson about how to make a sandwich.

How to assemble the ingredients; bread, tomatoes, mayo, relish, turkey slices, mustard, onions and lettuce.

Suddenly, new music began. Everyone ran to a window.

Across the street an Indonesian boy sat on a piece of plywood in the shadow of a long tall Sally art deco three story building towering above a gated community filled with designer homes, wild tropical green blossoming fruit trees, displaced dysfunctional spoiled offspring spinning yo-yo's, sleeping on broken bamboo bed springs and swimming across flooded streams of dreams.

In his right hand he held a shining silver chisel. In his right, a flat edged hammer. He slammed metal against metal. He was on a bridge between the stone age and the iron age. Tap-tap-tap. Music flaking dust. He started singing an old village song remembering his family and rice paddies, feeling the wind carry his song.

A young girl using a broom made of thinned tree branches whisked a gentle rhythm creating a symphony.

Metta.

On the next day of Christmas

My true love gave me:

dangerous goods such as,

compressed gases,

flammable, non flammable,

poisonous ideas, corrosives,

acids, an extinct volcano,

dresden dolls in matching outfits,

an eviction votive candelabra,

genetically modified food, 

the time of day,

a recycled Chinese ideogram,

a punctuation symbol,

alkalis and wet cell batteries,

etilogic agents,

a one-hour massage using a bulldozer,

oxidizing materials 

explosive bacteria,

viruses,

mutant fireworks,

flares,

a radio active box of chocolates,

a book of poetry from the reality zone,

and dark energy.

Happy satirical giving.

Metta.

Baka Beyond

Drum. Dance inside the forest. Baka Beyond. Senses engaged. 

You have a responsibility to your imagination.

"There are two kinds of people in the world," said a child playing near a construction site on Java.

"What?"

"There are people who want to blame you and people who want to distract you."

"Heavy."

"Yes, this life construction project is a heavy duty process. Pick it up, carry it around. Put it down."

"Sounds like a bag of bones, if you ask me," said a tribal musician playing a skin.

"You are a rainbow of light."

"Yes, we cut through desire, habit and fear."

"This is the beauty and clarity of music and dance. Welcome to the forest."

Metta.

 

Bird

It's the first. A number, a digit, a finger pointing at the moon. 

Curving white reflection. 8% of full.

Orchids receive water. Gnarled roots snake through charcoal.

Tyrannical brooms caress leaves and stone. Yin-yang.

Charlie "Bird" Parker's sax...read and hear more>

Breath.

Metta.