Bell

Once upon a time in a green garden of light speckled green, shadows danced on silent red flagstones.

A bird in a mango tree sang about freedom, sky, friendship and dreams of peace.

A brown leaf departed the tree of life fluttering, singing, dancing down all the days ... reaching earth.

A green brown lizard sat quiet and calm.

A woman in yellow sitting on a cement bench stared through the quadrant of stone slats toward the law offices.

She has no concrete idea what goes on in there other than people paper and conversations about issues and matters she doesn't understand or comprehend because she showed up on the back of a motorcycle from an obliterated distant village and perhaps it's a member of her surviving family in there or a stranger from another galaxy - a time traveller disguised as a homo sapien wearing a tie ...

Another leaf leaves the tree of life in a wild flight of confusion and joy ...

Discussing Ukrainian war crimes, a slow genocide as 4,000,000 refugees struggle forward with babies and the elderly whispering, singing, telling stories about new futures all bright and beautiful in their lives after leaving everything behind, all the fear nourished by desperation and fate.

The woman on the bench feels a soft breeze and hears a small bell ringing as a woman pushes her ice cream cart along pavement. Both women smell the fragrance of purple yellow white orchids and they know everything will be peaceful. One day.

The bell's melancholy echo is long ago and far away.

Ukraine light, strength, courage, humanity, peace.

Joy

See how humans become slaves to their phones.

"Spring passing; the birds cry out and the eyes of the fish are filled with tears." - Basho 1689

Magic is a way of living.

Beginners mind. Open, there are many possibilities - freedom, peace and joy.

Return to Wat zone, drawing sketching new energies. Consistent art through 2020 and beyond wild - abstracts, memory, imagination and creative play.

Natural sitting returning to a zone of tranquility - flow.

The old monk washes his clothes, orange robe monks walk through dust, red yellow flowers, green trees blue sky, calm, sketching.

To river with watercolors.

heart sutra

Everything changes, everything passes,
 
Things appearing, things disappearing,
 
But when all is over—everything having appeared and disappeared,
 
Being and extinction both transcended— 
 
Still the basic emptiness and silence abides,
 
And that is blissful Peace.

John Lennon - 32 years ago

Here's a excerpt from a book he wrote. He was living in Ireland, the emerald green isle and preparing to move to Donegal in the remote northwest.

He met a shopowner in a Liberties, Dublin antique shop to buy mirrors for his travels. He gifted her a piece of gringseng cloth, a healing fabric from Bali.

“Wonderful," she said, "many thanks. Travel safe and look after yourself. Before you go I will reveal a small future to you,” she said.

“After Tiglin you will ramble across country to the Killarney hostel where, sadly and unfortunately, you will be awake in the predawn morning of December 8 hearing a BBC news announcer tell the world about John Lennon being shot in New York. You will turn your head to the wall and cry.

"Later you will take the black push bike down narrow wet twisted streets and meet a nun opening heavy steel black church gates and you will tell her what happened. You will push open the heavy wooden doors, genuflect, cross yourself, walk the length of a cold aisle and light votive candles in silence.

"Then you will ride into town and go to every news agent to buy every Irish paper with the screaming black tabloid headlines full of desperate black ink and grainy images of death personified before retiring to a pub to sit by a peat fire drinking, reading, and sadly, quietly remembering John’s creativity and his words Imagine and Give Peace a Chance.”

Deeper

‘Quick! Into the tunnels!’

They sat sweltering, crying, still. Hearing the dull roaring threaded whoosh as steel and iron napalm canisters thudded, this tremor, shredding forests, fields, homes danced into flames. Heat soared over tunnels bathing them in sweat. They went deeper. Deeper, following hollow carved earth trails. The earth swallowed their breath, their bones fertilized soil. Ancestor bones cried in their sleep.

The sweet silence, save all the crying and wounded after all the foreign devils packed and left, fleeing in terror as peasants streamed down from the mountains, out of caves and tunnels, poling rivers, attempting to escape, walking on water, drinking all the oceans in their creation myth, draining lands of blood, driving them into the sea. A blue green sea danced red.

This easing down of their voice flowing between crumbling sand, crushed red bricks laid haphazard. Cement walls blocked everything but the sound of their anger, frustration and repressed bitterness in life’s twisted fateful reality.

Their memory was a fiction and this fiction created their memory.