Greetings,
Many thanks to Kerstin Klein for featuring my photography work on her site: What is Red for you?
Kerstin is a graphic designer, movie lover and Moleskine aficionado in Berlin.
Have a look-see and send her your Red inspirations, your visually articulate Red creativity.
People should talk less and draw more.
Metta.
Greetings,
Ostim: an industrial wasteland manufacturing zone near Ankara.
It's time to go a wandering...inside the reality magic show, welcoming the opportunity, the gift as it is to receive, shifting into another zone of influence and experiential discovery. (Bursa)
As they know you are leaving, this distant. Perhaps they have repressed, regressed into their real way. I appreciated seeing, knowing, understanding how it is, how some people feel, O so sad and withdrawn in their personal way. Their Zen: Awareness. Moment.
As usual my ghost moves through a transparent knowing. Tell me a secret. Screwing up is a virtue.
Sit by the cafe window. Sky, clouds filled with light: gray production pollution, dust, winter icicles, vapor, yellow haze, solitary birds on wing, rolling and tumbling...this small cafe and sky window, the kind Kurdish woman's hospitality, her delicious manta, a sanctuary from the chaos.
Take the 1310 metro to Ostim. Strange industrial landscape where men cannot afford gloves inside childhood's winter. Remove their hats and make monkey groom females in exchange for sex, and all the capital people slog in their struggle
remembering Rumi, how a human being is a kind of conversation, dancing down all the days of early winter clean cold silent
The art and elements of a Japanese folding placemat: shapes, designs, edges, art. Free form, free spirit. Play.
Draw, paint, sing, dance, disappear. Seize the day.
I love the smell of garbage in Cambodia.
Metta.
Human business plan.
Nature's business plan.
Greetings,
Yes, a year now a days glancing toward assessment of healthy foods. Fourth graders are teachers. Simplicity, sanctuary and serenity. Draw wisdom in red, green, blue, black.
The cosmic free writing class of curious explorers. Begin an admirable multi-hued rainbow experience. Inside/outside their small infinite portal. No fear. Dialogue of light and color spectrums.
The Little Prince. What is essential is invisible to the eye. Accepting responsibility for living things, planting new gardens, new colors, green life promise, their beauty, truth, creativity, art, dance, music, joy, kindness and compassion.
How you manifest this reality, this waking dream, this transience, this small immediate flash of lightning. Gratitude releases all the beauty.
What color are your dreams?
Why are you so relaxed when you play?
I have nothing to prove.
Metta.
Greetings,
Tell me about your future
all laid out in perfect reconciliations
of existence
overflowing with play, discoveries, exploring your labyrinth
rapacious fluidity,
exercising complexity science
where imagination tells the truth
these days before Chinese New Year
and Mr. Murakami sighs,
"Memory is like fiction, or else it's fiction
that is like memory. Human existence in absurd activities.
Right and wrong drop out of the picture. Memory takes over and fiction is born.
It is a perpetual motion machine, tottering through the world,
trailing an unbroken thread over the ground."
It is now the Year of the Tiger
believing their strength, solitary nature, nocturnal way,
running to survive
swimming in deep water
leading you into deep forests
when a shadow spirit named The Other
whispers
"It's time to go, it's time to go."
Metta.
(Editor's note - this will be published as Room For Rent on the side bar. It is also available at Scribd.)
September
“The leaves are falling fast,” I said to a ghost.
“They are falling far from the tree,” the ghost said.
“Yes, they are dancing,” I said. “Dance is about process, becoming, the passage of time. Shiva symbolizes the union of space and time and indicates creation. This is why dance is one of the most ancient forms of magic.”
“Magic is universal,” the ghost said. “People wear masks to hide their transformation, seeking to change their dancer into a god or demon. Dance is the incarnation of eternal energy. They are free. Do leaves really fall far from the tree? It’s hard to say. Did you see a diamond light off a leaf this morning? It reflected an elegant universe.”
“Yes, the diamond reflects 10,000 things.”
“What do you see now?”
“I see a circle of movement. A connected unity, a language in space.”
“It’s more than that,” the ghost said. “There are five rhythms in dance. You start with a circle, it’s a circular
movement from the feminine container. She is earth.”
“Really?”
“Yes, then you have a line, from the hips moving out. This is the masculine action with direction. He is fire.”
“Fire purifies,” I said.
“Chaos is next, a combination of circle and lines where the male and female energies interact. This is the place of transformation.”
“I see. And then?”
“After chaos is the lyrical, a leap, a release. This is air. And the last element of dance is stillness. Out of stillness is born the next movement.”
“Ah, I see language in space. The word is beauty. The Greeks said it was order.”
“Speak to me,” the ghost said. “Tell me a secret. Plant a seed in my garden. Something glorious for spring. Eternal material with regeneration potential. Turn old soil. Give me a metaphor for digging.”
“They say grief for the dead was the origin of poetry.”
“What are your choices?” the ghost asked. “Choice is a powerful word.”
“Initially I chose to feel resentment for their lack of responsibility. I had to deal with my resentment. Why did I feel resentment? It was because of deception. My lack of knowing. Clare’s lack of truth. Her mask. I was angry I didn’t see behind her mask sooner. I was blind. I forgave myself and started to see.”
“Were you really angry or were you confused, sensing the sadness? What did you see?”
“I sensed the sadness beneath the surface. How they tried to fill up their emptiness. How their containers were bland and empty.”
“Is this really true, their containers were empty?” said the ghost.
“They were filled with anger and fear. I saw how they never learned. How their destiny brought them together intheir misery. How the two of them were on this endless negative spiral of energy.”
“They forecast their death?”
“I’m afraid they may end up killing themselves. It’s the chance they’ll take when they get desperate further down the road. The choice they will make. This is the way, their nature. How I process it. How I paid attention to their pain and suffering, their loneliness.”
“What do you mean? Please don’t talk nonsense. Let’s not have this conversation in the abstract. We have no time. Turn your hourglass over and talk. Remember we are all death deferred. We are all orphans sooner or later.”
“Ok, here’s the play,” I said, “a story inside a story with a through line. The inside is the outside veiled in mystery. I made a choice inside the puzzle. I am not saving anybody here.”
“Yes, I see your CPR accreditation is up for renewal. I’ve read your relationship resume. You’ve had your share playing many rescuing roles. Ok, then, stop the bleeding and start the breathing. Three compressions near the sternum. You know the procedure. It’s not about justice, it’s about procedure. You’ve always been here, wherever here is, haven’t you?”
“Sure, I’ve always enjoyed passing through incarnations. This is my nature.”
“Tell me a story. If it ain’t on the page it ain’t on the stage. I need some entertainment, some drama with character development, arc, conflict, resolution, direction and movement. A through line,” said the ghost.
Metta.
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