Refugees
Suffering
Sacrifice
Letting go
Human dignity
Freedom
Brave New World
Memories of WWII
Survival
Beginnings
Life is discovered in a desperate situation
World wakes up from slumber
Heartbreaking nightmare
Humans help humans
Courage
Gratitude
Safety
Write FEAR & ANGER on a paper napkin.
Burn it.
Let go.
Citizen sheep believed in fear and unsustainable consumption because they were afraid of being lonely and poor.
Happiness is a myth. The wish of desire said so.
Humans were willing victims of their fear, healthy uncertainty, and doubt. Their amygdala, a small almond shaped brain structure creating fear and emotional response fired up. Fight or flight?
Are you the hunter or the prey?
Manipulated by the collective unconscious and a pervasive system of socialization control mechanisms, consumer sheep were happy. The subtle influence of right wing conservatives and media addiction bought idiots. Facing their mind-numbing daily grind with heart breaking choices sheep needed someone/something to Control them.
Accepting responsibility for their freedom was scary.
Intelligent centered ones feeling gratitude and empathy in their heart danced with Death. Everyone lives and dies.
“You work, breed and get slaughtered,” said an Asian child with a junior philosopher badge.
It’s essential to die once while you’re alive. Get it out of the way.
*
I carried a copy of Omar’s book, A Century Is Nothing from Turkey to Indonesia to Nam in 2009.
Together with Omar we used fire, this crucible of alchemical combinations, diversities, sweat, blood and tears to create it so I’d use fire to release it. Save books, build a library.
Books are universes of ideas, experiences, feelings, visions, and paths, destinations obliterated through discovery, reminding memory. They are worlds of dreams, stories, dramas, plays, songs, histories and guides into new visceral experiences.
Pages sing their laughter with wisdom, song, and poetry. Preserve memory. Live forever with paper’s tactile voice. Voices of reason, comedy, and tragedy are skintight drum stories.
They are oral transmissions recorded on parchment, vellum, and illustrated manuscripts in Irish Gaelic talking tongues, Sumerian clay and Asian scrolls.
I didn’t burn it, a way of sacrifice offering and letting go. Down the road I gifted the brick to three Asian women in Saigon. They had Chinese ancestry from Hong Kong and lived in Australia.
I said a friend wrote it so I signed it and laughed letting it travel with them. Thanks for the book. You’re welcome. I hope you enjoy it. It took all three to carry it.
They staggered up guesthouse stairs with the tome. After breaking down a wall they struggled to get it through an opening. People need to break down before they break through.
Maneuvering it into a bag they discarded cheap Vietnamese souvenirs. We’ll have to check this monster all the way to Sydney.
Dream Sacrifice
Humans dreamed their language acquisition cycle. They desire clarity and kindness with meaning.
Ironic beauty shared languages.
Hot and cold tongues rolled, spitting, parsing, and ejecting sounds from vocal chords forming English.
My 5,000-year-old Mandarin language of emperors and dynasties was filled with peacock thrones, concubines, courtiers, Forbidden City intrigue, conquest and opium warlords’ gesturing life or death with fingered deftness.
Gestures use us.
Mercenary survival skills allowed me to breath, absorbing death free from fear. Free from the small fear.
I am one with the sky.
I trimmed my claws, flaying skin from bones, grinding bones for a potion. I drank from deep unconscious wells. Hearing Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons my animistic archeologist recovered fossils with a brush.
I dreamed the Sun Dance of the Plains people. Nations gathered in late spring celebrating a four-day cycle of rituals and creation dances. Dancers choosing self-torture have their chests pierced by skewers. They hang under the weight of buffalo skulls for twenty-four dances.
Their sacrifice is successful if they have a vision during their trial.
The sun went home to earth.
One vision is all you need.
I spin, dive and dance through inner and outer landscapes. My transparency is automatic. A rock n’ roll manifesto shuttles my kairos through bark, indigo, camphor, jasmine and juniper fire inside nebulous gases of dancing electron particles and energy waves.
Meditating, my head is held by a string. I transfer delicate weight from cloud to cloud, disengaging from the stimulus. Incense rises from flames.
My muse spirit guide joined The Department of Wandering Ghosts. We design mysterious projects. We sharpen rose thorns. I felt sorrow and joy seeing two drops of blood on a finger after brushing a rose thorn. A thorn embedded in my finger flesh dissolved at dawn.
A bird pressed her breast to a thorn to sing.
A beautiful rose creates a sharp thorn.
My thorn is a claw, a sharp definitive talon for tearing meat from white bones. Satisfying my hunger.
I track rabbit’s form blending into underbrush. Floating on evergreen peak winds, I wheel. My eyes see a path you are destined to follow across helter-skelter earth. In, out, in, out, breath flashes fur. I circle above your feeling fleeting form. One eye sees where you’ve been the other knows where you are going past volcanic boulders, through valleys and dry riverbeds where you never sleep. Latent fears harbor your grieving desire. Your shelter search takes on immediacy as your energy adrenaline wanes. Wings fold with forgiveness. I dive. You take evasive action among wild berries. Their sweetness is a faint taste. My sharpness tears you from soil into air.
I rest with death. Claw thorns at your throat.
A drop of blood splatters. Pure red life floats to the surface. A finger smears one drop from skin. Small swift red rivers trickle. Veins release blood volcanoes. Red-hot meteors explode through space.
After Nam I became a regular blood donor.
“Are you allergic to pain?” asked a nurse in a mobile blood unit parked at Sunnyside Beach south of Tacoma.
“Only to pleasure.” A needle slid into a vein drawing A-.
“Writing is easy,” said Hemingway, “just open a vein. The secret is that it is poetry written into prose and it is the hardest thing to do.”
An earnest man discovered right words. Put them in the right order.
Squeezing the plastic handgrip pressure pump at the blood bank I bantered with a mother of five. Blood escaped arms down into plastic tubes out of sight out of mind into clear plastic liter bags with an identification number. Hugs from thank you clown.
I donated blood into sky.
On the shore four young men and a woman stood silent on wet rocks. One man held an earthen urn vase. He handed it to the woman. It was large and awkward. Dust and death are awkward.
Cradling it, she tipped toward water. A river of brown ash flowed over the edge. A fine dust mist dressed liquid. Her dancing arms scattered a dust trail of someone’s life. She handed the urn to a companion. He poured ash into miniature tides.
A bouquet of red, yellow and white roses with freshly cut long green stems flew from the woman’s hand into Puget Sound. The urn was offered to another man. No thanks, shaking his head.
A Vietnam veteran in shadows wearing a faded boonie hat played his weeping guitar. Seven lingering faltering notes ran through sand past an elderly couple staring at seas beyond life’s horizon. A playful father and son threw seaweed at each other. A crow’s shadow landed on a dead tree branch.
My blood flow created a cataclysmic flood. Cold mountain poems melted snow, painted forest trails, seeping to sleeping roots. Meadow petals opened to moisture. Earth lava blood carved canyons. Tributaries branched out from the Tree of Knowledge and Tree of Life.
Blood gouged out rock, cleaning earth, transforming stone to sand, to dust, erasing river bottoms, collapsing banks, overpowering everything in its path, forming new microscopic celestial arrangements.
Fingers painted blood on lips and threads. Luminous light illuminated weavers, diggers and fleischers. Shuttles click clack.
Blood dyed threads loomed stories.
Diggers rattled their blood. Brushes exploded seeds into rain. Laughing bones excavated histories.
A laughing axe split clouds into letters.
Alpha, Beta, Omega.
A thorn allows a ghost to realize a life principle.
Eudaimonia ‘human flourishing’ from the Greek means a good life.
Curious enrolled in an English class.
It was a Push Them Through English Scool, said Fool.
He was a native barbarian.
I need English vocabulary and the confidence to speak, to use it, said one.
I know my English is not grammatically perfect, but I know my English is fluent, said a student.
You are the teachers, Fool said to a room of passive dull beginners.
Brainwashed by the insert country here education system.
The less I do the fewer mistakes I make, one said. Smiling with cunning social intelligence.
The fewer mistakes I make, said another with cunning social intelligence, the less I am criticized.
You got that BS write.
Light my fire, said one.
Feed me, said another. I am not a participant. I am a willing victim.
Life is sacrifice. I sacrificed my life.
I know what you mean, said another SAD student.
See with soft eyes.
Don't think, LOOK.
I dream the Sun Dance of the Plains people.
Nations gather in late spring celebrating a four day cycle of rituals and creation dances.
Dancers choosing self torture will have their chests pierced by skewers.
They will hang under the weight of buffalo skulls for 24 dances.
Their sacrifice will be successful if they have a vision during their trial.
The sun is going home to the earth.
One vision is all you need.
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