mask eats face

He broke down.

He returned to the bamboo shock shacks in deep rutted fields. Under cover. She wasn't there. Massage love called a sprite of 25 wearing flower ring on her finger. Silver with seven petals. Open. Consternation in his weak heart. He felt the sense of loss. Accept loss forever.

This symbol, how it transformed men's eyes into want.

This silent metallic flower only now, under a weak light as mama smiled through her destined crooked teeth, saying, Money.

Ling's 25-year young friend is beautiful, they all are, in an immature, petulant way.

Lack of confidence met betrayal.

Betrayal knew the stranger desired L.

The sensitivity of seeing the future with Awareness - Attention – Non-attachment.

Transference - emotions - an instinctual way of living objectively.

POWER

Masks - good or (d)evil?

           - money or sex

           - relationships

           - life and death

           - beauty and truth

The mask eats the face. 

Maybe, she said, being a Player. Lying in her Ling heart. No intention. Intention is karma.

She got what she needed. Money. Traded her passion for cash. You can't put passion in the bank. You can't eat passion, it eats you. Grasping is suffering.

Solvent with clear heart. Heart had nothing to do with passion. Passion sang its joy describing her minor character.

The 3-act play ran five weeks in Luang Prabang.

On opening night her love opened like a flower. It rained flowers over a lonely man.

Mutual needs were satisfied.

Intuition augured well, laughing.

It's difficult to take any of this seriously.

Posture. Breath.

Plant heliotropes. Night aroma in gardens. 

invisible bird lament

He decided to end it. Ling was too expensive. Her heart was good yet money/greed was her basic underlying motivation. He'd been contributing to her welfare for five weeks.

"Money for mama and papa. Money for my friends. Money for the festival. Money for my motorcycle. Money for my son. Milk money."

He’s a soft touch.

They shared their desires, lust, loneliness, curled up together in the dark night of the soul as wild cats howled before a invisible tropical bird sang its long lament at dawn.

Yes, he'd had enough playing this rescuing role.

If you pay you owe.

He ended it on Valentines Day. Break my heart.

There was no emotional attachment to the sight.

It was an unpleasant fact.

Moleskine sketch #1

Desire

Ling shows up. Eat. Bed. Desires. Fatigue. Joy.

Trembling breasts, her eyes closed, arms over her head.

I am buried in her forest.

Discovering blood filled purple lips and vagina.

Throbbing photons of pulsating waves allow her the bliss of love.

Slow and gentle. Touch.

Sing a song of pleasure principles all morning.

Dance in slow motion.

Senses are pure immediate and direct.

Curiosity in the purest sense.

One story - theme - small vs the big - treachery & humor, revenge, betrayal, alienation, loneliness, boredom.

                - locale

                - time

                - characters

Coffee should be black as hell, strong as death and as sweet as love - Turkish proverb

Awareness in the moment.

star's story

How slow can you go?

Slower than a breath. 

Slower than stillness.

Slow slower and slower.

One night star bright moon light senses our mutual loneliness.

Star shows me scar marks on her wrists. My father died. I lived with relatives. They beat me. I tried to kill myself. Twice. I ran away. I became strong. I decided to live.

I met a man. I got pregnant. I had my son. He is 17 now. I studied Lao massage and worked for three years.

A good fool is hard to find.

Acrobatic spine torso. Ride the pony. Flexibility. Drive it home until dawn.

We are buried deep inside narrow dark muddy passages.

We are surrounded by women gossiping, telling stories in the market. They discuss the Lao woman with a tall foreign man. She inspects green beans. With theatrical brilliance she throws them back. Disdain. Too expensive. Poor quality. She negotiates greens, bamboo, vegetables.

You don't see foreign ghost spirits in this market.

 

The Lover

Ling one night. Her smile, vivacious. Take her to another level of pleasure.

Trust your intuition.

Fish new waters. Explore, experiment outside bamboo shack zones after dark. Dark is the night. Cold is the ground.

Sweet and slow. Give her long luxurious pleasure. Return to her rose sensations feeling her need. Curl up in night's silence.

Sleeping alone is boring, said Sunflower, a blind masseuse.

Smell her fragrance. Soft connections w/o fear, haste, tomorrow. One night is all. Positive energies. Far away a bell.

Loves meditation at dawn welcomes restless dreamers. They turn, curl, embrace, soft and slow skeletons in shadows. Shadows on her breast, valley, legs, fingers kissed. No illusions of futures in the long now.

Love's meditation.

Rain. Angular clitoris stimulation's bliss, slow gentle, sunrise. Release rain inside soft fresh air along her skin.

Her skin is a meandering river of valleys, mountains rising hips, slow easy caresses memory's fascination.

Sitting posture dances ink.

Sleeping dreamers take a serene slow pedal along deserted foggy streets in mist.

Mountains across the Mekong sing Zen.

A Chinese painting is a floating world.