weave voice

You returned, they exclaimed with a secret JOY.

Yes, she says, my dream of you is unfolding. She caresses silk threads on her loom of time. Your sensitivity and serenity calms me, he says.

It is before dawn. The Mekong river is water. Fog obscures distance. She stands at a window looking for him. He is on the river. His net flies over still deep water. Threads and knots of jungle vine land on the surface. They sink into silence.

She hears the Mekong sing. She returns to the source.

Sleep. She dares dreams, aware of voiced whispers in silence. Silence becomes her sense of desire. She follows desire . Gratitude, her awareness, calms her tortured heart.

A leaf leaves the tree of life.

Transparent water bowls sing. A purple lotus grows from mud.

She is at her loom. Her pattern begins with purple silk. This is her base. She runs threads through thin lines of balance. Twin bobbins spin out golden threads for new diamonds.

Weaving is her meditation.

Her voice. Her heart-mind, hands, fingers, and feet.

 

alive is a miracle

Alive is a miracle.

Smile. Hunt with a camera.

Words are dancing airplanes winging southwest with orange balloon morning and hungover Mekong tourists.

Word weave shuttles. Fire. Spirit. Fog, river, a boat, current, mystery wills, orange glow coasting past a flow. A bell.

Japanese sensitivities in a cloud break.

Mekong sings new puzzling futures, passing, pulsating, wearing an umbrella to protect statues for eye glazed travel books gripped by design opticians with lost favorable vacant eyed distrust and disquiet.

The DISQUIET of chopsticks probing teeth smiling tremendous labor unrest as a character,

A wisp of porcelain skin finalities gently lowers her eyes sublime gesture.

Writing down bi-lingual laughter (a sling was the first human vehicle) a mother sang, cradling her infant from eye candy distractions.

Fleeting retinas shield eyes real eyes realize real lies.

Accelerate around a corner of a dream with a lotus blossom.

Yangon, Myanmar

move like a river

Move like a river, rest like a mirror and respond like an echo.

Create like a God, order like a King and work like a Slave.

Laughter and Orphan and characters are dazzled by the embroidery.

Help others be more human.

Clean ears of years, tears and fears after four months of hearing V road grime.

Clear hearing channels. Auditory clarity.

Silent orange robed monks pass through.

Roll along a mist river before dawn. Silver surface is quiet.

Nails trim voices, blue cotton fabric discusses threads.

A girl with bamboo baskets of sun oranges balances her long walk from a truck near boats as women pray for sustenance in fog light. Her destiny is uphill past rising smoke, villages, cooking fires, warmth, hot noodles, steaming steps in rhythmic fashion she continues...

The road is made by walking.

The void of substance.

Boua Mon - weaver, 32, once eclipsed since we met at her village loom. Absorb her illuminated smile, grace, centered way.

In her absence everything possible or improbable happened. Ghost-self dreamed her into being as Anita butterfly skimmed the joy of exile. A man on his yellow bike waved, smiled, and rode away. Afternoon sun decorated green mountains.

Shuttle music and hospitality with Boua just sitting as she weaves, aligning threads, sharing food, incomprehensible women conversations. Her smile is radiant.

grains of rice

Clean clear cold foggy dawn.

5 a.m. is shawl shadowed on a blank deserted street.

You walk in a glimmer of silence.

Smell cooking smoke. Yellow fire flames on a corner. The woman from last year.

She has a long partial memory.

Her wok oil bubbles in cast iron bowl above forested wood, glimmering bright yellow caresses orange.

Heat. Ritual of fire is repeated from mountainous Phongsali in the north to the south.

Fire & wood.

Before sunlight beams orange silent monks walk single file.

They greet worshipers offering grains of rice.

Dreamlike apparitions follow daily step by step along a path whispering their eyes seeing fire.

No attachment in this transitory visual blessing.

music muse

A word mercenary is free and roaming.
Roaming changes may apply.
Smiling is a virus.
Intuitive improvisation is a sign of genius.
Slowing down is the name. Exploring is the game.
Vientiane airport. A man pushes an empty wheelchair across airport tarmac.
Boarding pass woman does eyeliner.
The modern stainless steel global glass hair port design hasn't reached Vientiane time warp.
Laughter is the Beauty.
Transitions are radiant and clear.
One life, no plan, many adventures.
Intention. Mindfulness. Impermanence.
Ancient stories.
Music is the muse feeling alive on the ground in Luang Prabang.

Clean air, excellent light, brown scared rocks, elevations, green rolling hills, deep valleys and long visions.