buzz process

orphan's penned this BUZZ before. about getting your ears cleaned in china.

do you want to hear it? ok. 

so, I’ve heard but you can’t believe everything you hear. easy to say and hard to do as they say in China. 

speaking of hearing china in mandarin, you can get your ears cleaned there. 

what! really? 

yes. now it happened at the empty chinese opera one afternoon in chengdu, you sit down in a wicker chair and give the girl in a blue uniform 10Y or slightly more than a buck.

a group of chinese men in wicker chairs drinking tea stare and laugh at you. everyone stares at you in china because it is a zoo and you are an exotic humanoid species of endless speculation.

look at the funny foreigner! he’s going to get his ears cleaned. boy is he in for a surprise!

you sit back and close your eyes. she has all the tools; long steel wires, cotton swabs, ointment, a microscopic spoon on a post and a pair of stainless steel tongs.

she probes into your right ear with the spoon and digs out hard brown wax. she flicks it on the ground where it becomes part of Ear Wax Mountain, a brave new world order. she swabs and cleans out your ear with a small cotton ball on a thin wire.

while this is buried in your ear she taps the tongs creating a vibrating frequency. she touches the steel rod in your ear and you hear the WHIRLING! BUZZ! BUZZ! as 1,000 bees and cicadas invade your 

consciousness with a deafening crescendo. she has opened your aural chambers big time, taps the tongs again, you receive the echo chamber canyon of sound, the WHIRLING BUZZ like sandpaper being rasped against old fibers of skin or yes, the fast centrifugal centrifuge of heartbeat reactors, roaring rivers inside a galaxy of weightless streams. BUZZ!

she eases it out, massages your temples and your eyes are closed and you are dreaming you are in a Chinese opera playing the role of an old dramatic hero dying at his post after proclaiming his undying love for family and harmonious social order and stability in the country.

she attacks and cleans the other ear and the vibrations take you away. BUZZ, BUZZ, BUZZ! far away.

she caresses your ears with something soft, massages your temples, and scalp and when she finishes you no longer have a hearing problem. it’s all in the listening. you’ve been buzzed back to clarity.

everything that goes in the ear comes out as language. it becomes a tool for emotion and expression.

the greatest sorrow is the death of the heart.

chakra

“We’re not here for a long time, we’re here for a good time,” the Phoenix healer said from the Valley of the Sun. After 911 her body work client list expanded faster than the universe.

People fought to see her, absorb her hands, feel her strength releasing their anger, insecurity, frustration, confusion, sense of loss, and latent repressed hatred as she delved deep into tissues finding the blocks. Blocks of time’s compressed soul fire. Blocks of tension. Blocked chakra energy lines.

She opened them up. She rekindled their basic spiritual fire, their love, healing them as best she could under the circumstances. She let them go. It was hard demanding work. She was exhausted when she got home for tea and a soothing herbal bath.

He explored Cadiz. It was founded by the Phoenicians in 1100 BC. They called it Gadir trading amber and tin. The Romans established a navel orange base.

Greeks and Phoenicians introduced the potter’s wheel, writing, olive tree, donkey, and hen to Spain. They replaced iron with bronze. Metals became currencies. People developed agriculture as growing populations built walls, towers, and castles for security. More land and crops, more food, more children required to work soil.

Romans contributed aqueducts, temples, theaters, circuses, and baths. They gave the Iberian peninsula Castilian language based on 2,000 year old Latin.

Their desire, wanderlust and greed built roads, establishing communities to satisfy impulses for cuisine, sex, music, and trade expanding their nation state.

beauty

This is my Beauty.

Fear and trust dance in stillness. I meditate. Calm. Centered. I am a stone cold Apsara silent dancer dancing inside my revolutionary soul. 

I feel like screaming.

The dancing hall at Preah Khan is where dancers don’t smile. They dance. They are slave dancers. They dance for the king.

He is the god-king. He resurrected his desire and fury creating new customs and new decrees for dancers. They dance for the mighty and powerful. They dance Khmer stories about war, conquest, harvests, seasons, sun and moon. 

They are submissive dances of life/death. They dance to celebrate life. They dance the celebration of tranquility. They dance or die. They wear tinkling bands of gold around wrists and ankles. Diamond diademed crowns and shimmering silk clothing. They do not smile. Their faces are frozen in the trance of dance. 

I dance to escape the tyranny. I’ve danced all my short, sweet life. The hall of dancers is surrounded by columns, portals and broken jumbled green moss stones. Stones whisper dance.

Thick gnarled silk-cotton tree roots crawl toward dancers. They dance through exposed roots, past Shiva and Vishnu. The preserver and destroyer of life. Dance movement is motivated by emotional expression. Dance is about itself. The freedom of creation. A playful existence. Life is a silent dance.

 

family stupidity

Ok so I'm a big seven as in 7.

My dad's not very smart. It's probably his DNA. A string theory of letters. Genetics. Gee.  Net. Icks. 

Let me give you a kind hearted example of his stupidity. It's the rainy season here in Laos. Slashing squalling delicious rain. Soft, cool, soothing. Like tears. Cry me a river.

So it's pouring like honey. What's dear old dad do? He washes his silver van in a downpour. Smart eh? Yeah, he's trying with intention, to impress dry watchers with his intelligent hose running water over rain. Cleaning.

He ignores me mostly.

He's very busy. He disappears for hours. Drinking beer with friends. Playing around with a secret squeeze in dark places. Starving for affection and cash. A poor girl from a poor family needs to make a living poor thing.

My mom's really smart also. After the rain, when it's dry and the smallest full moon of the year rises above the Mekong before a river festival filled with floating orange flowers and burning candles she burns all the plastic garbage. Yeah. Burn baby burn. Light my fire.

It's a sweet smell, let me tell you. Like that Duvall character when he said, I love the smell of napalm in the morning. Kinda like that. Smell. What's the word? Acrid. 

When she's not burning plastic trash she sweeps. Broom music. Stone cold. She cooks. She pretends to be busy. She's a baby machine. What's another mouth?

She ignores me mostly.

She's very busy. Later, she squawks. She's a soft kind later.

People here like parents and teachers and lazy passive humans love, and I mean love to pretend to be busy.

I guess it gives their short life meaning.

Their existence is one long perpetual distraction. Say what?

As Jobs said, You may as well do what you love because you're going to spend most of your life doing it.

Well, I gotta go. Feed the sparrows. Crumbs. They sing. They fly down. They eat. They fly away.

I'm too young to know much. Ain't nothing but the blues. Dust my Broom.  

Shanghai Interrogation

The boy soldier was silent. 

“What’s that for,” the female Public Security Bureau official said pointing to the typewriter on the table.  

“It is for writing letters.” 

They have reservations about letters. Letters, they wonder, looking at each other with jaundiced eyes. Black eyes streaked with exploding blood vessels full of fear and suspicion. 

Letters indicate political insurrection, dissent, forced labor, mandatory abortions, propaganda, civil unrest, turmoil, revolutions, tanks in the street, torture, solitary confinement and executions. 

They see party leaders wringing their pale hands, nervously pacing forbidden cities past stone lions, conducting top-secret meetings trying to figure out what to do, how to put a face on all this. How to manage and manipulate disinformation rivers, how to control floods.

The boy soldier and his comrade save face by maintaining blank, stoic expressions.

They suspect I have connections. Maybe I am a plant, a party member sent to check their unit. Assigned to monitor their methods, their questioning tactics, their subtle use of intimidation, their implications to control and influence peoples' lives for the good of the state.

For all they know I am a subversive. A word terrorist.

“Letters. We will keep an eye on this one,” she said to the soldier.

A writer in Shuangliu, Sichuan, China.