Greetings,
A poem by Antonio Machado. Translated from the Spanish by Betty Jean Craige.
Walker, your footsteps are the road, and nothing more.
Walker, there is the road, the road is made by walking.
Walking you make the road, and turning to look behind you see the path you never again will step upon.
Walker, there is no road, only foam trails on the sea.
Metta.
You can't photograph a memory. - Henri Cartier Bresson
Greetings,
The opportunity of being on location, scouting film destinations is how you become native. You speak in mono-syllables and sleep forever as long as forever is. Be resilent, strong, cunning, exiled in cast off pajama clothing with floral designs and cartoon characters from dead regimes.
Especially on a Sunday near blue flowing rivers wearing tattoos along its arms climbing over sun burned shoulders as a tall Jaguar reveals her skin song. Her French big game hunter takes his time scaling long limbs, drowning inside wild black eyes exploring a thin Apsara dancer neck smelling desire unlike pleasure, a source of suffering, pain and hatred hearing rainbow heartbeat, exploring mountains, clearing brush, lighting a fire as his dogs flush prey.
What you don't see is fascinating.
Orange sun fires trees.
Six people on a cycle pass.
A voice asks for help.
A woman desperate for love/security frames her vision through SLR optic glass.
Before and now mean the same.
A neglected girl learns how to sew in a safe environment.
A silver spoon decorates glass with music.
A young girl draws portraits with poise and serenity.
A gardener waters yellow and purple orchids at dawn.
A stranger sits in a local market.
Cui Weiping, a female Chinese literature professor prevented from attending an international poetry conference as punishment for believing in free speech.
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.
Doodle drama, ah the drama, the unfolding play! Information versus entertainment. Keep them stupid and happy. Children, of all ages, are amused by the idiot box. Give up your consciousness. Use the remote.
We watch all the feelings, sensations and thoughts that arose upon having that event happen.
Absolved by rain, the deluge.
"Keep your hand moving," whispered the writing teacher. They were strange. All of them.
The teacher in Tang Dynasty clothing filled with dragons, yin-yang mysteries of balance,
becoming, a Phoenix rising, a crying crane flying through mist covered mountains while emperors danced with concubines inside Forbidden Cities' red lacquered
emotional curiosities where visions of detached ebullient phosphorus streams dove into silence,
the abstraction of tonal quality in extreme bliss, a manifestation of phenomenal superior detective analysis and forty questions of the soul examining marketing examinations at 7:00 p.m. followed by utter exhaustion.
Leo and the clown escaped into the hills.
“We know so much and understand so little. People are more affected by how they feel than what they understand."
Bright star Leo continued.
“On day one my teacher said, ‘I only want you to bring two things to class. Your ears.’”
They sharpened sticks on stones, carving paleo-Leo-lithic cave paintings on soft clay walls.
Leo edged circles, rectangles, triangles, curves, lines and dots. He carved his name backwards for future historians and archeologists to get the gist, EOL, or, as an unemployed academic financial analyst now a linguist on Wailing Wall Street would, could, should declare, “English On Line!”
Metta.
I disappear into possibilities
floating into a parallel
universe
outside 3 dimensional improbabilities
on string theories of 10-26 dimensions
drumming ancient hieroglyphics
hammering stone dulcimers
polishing Dali marble
below Snow Dragon Range shadows
breathing melting snow
dream love floods
screaming eagles
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