Passions Torture Humans

From the Verba Seniorum (The Word of the Ancients): Two wise men who lived in the same chapel in the Sahara desert, were talking one day. "Let's fight so that we don't become disassociated from the human being, or we will end up not understanding properly the passions that torture him", said one.

"I don't know how to begin a fight," said the other.

"Well, we will do the following: I am putting this brick here in the middle, and you say to me: it's mine. I will answer: no, this brick is mine. Then we will begin arguing and we will end up fighting".

And so they did. One said that the brick was his. The other argued, saying it was not.

"Don't let's waste time over this, keep this brick," said the first. "Your idea for a fight was not very good. When we perceive that we have an immortal soul, it is impossible to fight over things".

Travel Makes You

My body is a living work of art.

It's for sale but it ain't cheap.

Food is an important part of a balanced diet.

Have ink will flow. Travel makes you.

All the mad ones burning like stars,

Flames of passion and suffering

Savor a visual glance toward endless speculation.

Walk slowly.

Trust your intuition

Trust your blazing intuition on a hot Saturday after walking along the green leafy river street. Walk down an old familiar broken unsaved path. You know left and right. Go forward. The road is made by walking.

Thread follows needle.

It's a small self-contained place. A room. A bed. Small kitchen.

She is in a plastic recliner watching tv. He has a feeling. It reminds him of the V woman in Kampot, with the massage sign. He stops. Steps past bamboo. She's maybe 30, lipstick, smile, good eyes. They talk money. She locks the glass door covered in old newspapers. Pulls a curtain closed. Kills the tv. She is not a chicken.

They shower. They scrub each other.

Her naked body is white. She caresses him and goes down slobbering, noisy, sensations - she moves so he can tongue her essence. He eats, saliva, lips, long luxurious. He discovers her need. She moves faster. Yes. Yes. Yes. She shudders, releases. He pulls her closer increasing the desire. She can't move, her passion flows again, again, until she's exhausted.

She turns over. He enters her, moaning her lips, her legs up, over his shoulders, her pain pleasure, joy - kissing his ears, cheeks, and he never comes. It's only about her pleasure.

She gives him mouthwash. He swishes it around and spits it out. They shower, dress and he hands her paper. She smiles. He leaves.

Tropical sun penetrates atmospheric conditions.

Trust your intuition. Yum-yum.

desperation calls

Muesli, fruit, yogurt.

Desperation called 18 times during the day asking, Why, What changed your attitude toward me, How did you arrive at this heart breaking conclusion to release me, to reduce my sense of responsibility and neglect burning ashes of regret?

Calm thought about Desperation's plight.

Release and letting go of passion, desire, and expectations requires a serenity, clear focus, unconditional love.

Everything dies.

All is dancing behind your tears, your questions.

Be still.

Sit with your sensations, perceptions.

Breathe deep in-out.

Her return. Small talk about respect and responsibility.

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