I am empty

Tell me about her.
Don't repress a thing.

Humid air hung like a white shirt.
She went to the market.

He observed cloud animals flying in a blue sky.
Sweat rained his face.

Her return was elegant.
She parked her motorbike.

Angelic face, tight black pants, grey top, high heels.
Dressed to kill.
Gold bracelets, diamond rings reflected sun.
A smile creased her perfect skin.

Gesturing sign language manifestations,
She locked the door, turned on the fan, peeled cloth.
Purple orbs glistened.

Protected by orange umbrella
Two silent monks whispered a blessing
After a boy dropped monetary paper
Into empty containers.

I am an empty container she signed.

Fill me up.

Intention

My gratitude is stillness. There is a big difference between sitting still and doing nothing.

The hardest thing to do in life is to do nothing with intention as it takes the most out of you as a person mentally and physically.

Some people say nothing exists. I do nothing everyday.

I smell roses. I swallow fresh orange juice. I engage my senses in direct, immediate, raw, emotional experience. He cannot save me from my destiny. He can only allow the process to flow.

One day he brought me apples, oranges and mangoes. He spoke with non-speech. He imagines our passion is a glimmer of potential emotional security in the long now. Inside my deep-eyed mischief, strangers comfort each other without discrimination.

I am a singularity.

Sensing passion we decipher riddles forecasting speechless tongues. We accept mindfulness with gratitude in quicksilver’s desperate wandering. Boredom carves a niche in my soul.

He is a Lone Wolf with a variant of DNA comprehending my inherent instinctive needs. I hang laundry near the street.

Memory’s lie is tempered by talking monkeys. Two boys harvest trash. One barefoot boy plays silent music with a long thin bamboo fiber. The other carries a plastic bag, twirling a walking stick used for prodding garbage.

Local people mill around. Milling around is an art form. They exist with a pure innocent childlike wisdom. Passive is their inherent Buddhist nature. They’ve suppressed their ego. Ease god out.

Others voice imaginary alien freedom ideas. I am an Other. I live in my heart-mind luminous universe.

A sofa on wheels with a roof towed by a motorcycle carries fat white Europeans to see 9th century Angkor temples. A young handicapped man named Eternity wearing his new skin-tight artificial plastic left leg and foot shuffles through dust. He walks home. It is everywhere and nowhere. You can’t go home again.

I don’t know where the real ends and the artificial begins.

My lover-friend was away for six weeks. He brought me pineapples, a yellow mango and passion fruit. I washed clothes in my silent world. My hair tinted golden hued. I am ebullient. He touched my spine. Soft. I turned, smiling.

My silent world and calm joy are disguised potentials. We share a silent clear intention. Our private time contains no fear. It is a gentle passion, soft and slow. My awareness is trust and authenticity. I am resigned to remembering everything.

I paint my nails a shade of red-pink. My old thin brown fingers are tired after a day scrubbing clothes. My infinite silent no voice is all. He watches my intense angelic face focus on nails. One-by- one. My heart understands his sense of eternal loss.

I sign: I hate the French spies next door. He and his fat wife run a restaurant. He spies for Thorny. They are creeps. Before he left Thorny gave me money to stop doing massage. I agreed. The spies keep an eye on me.

In my silence only my voice is missing.

silent love

Greetings,

May this find you. Find you well, dancing in the light. Delightful fall cool winds caress the ebony of laughter.

I am an unfinished symphony. I live with visual touch holding a small spinal kiss. Feathers on my skin. Shivers along my spine, because I loves this sensation. It is all sensation in my quiet world. This wild swan lifts off skin, its wings a flower opening a petal to light warming me. 

Our love is voiceless. It is tenacious. It is the charity of lust and trust. Respect. Our silent joy is a breath. Exhaled. Released. 

He comes to me in the heat of the day. I welcome him with my bright dark eyes. I welcome him with a gesture, a fingertip on lips..."quiet." We share brief moments. My passion is deep and strong. My language - a smile, eyes, hands, fingers, rolling sounds whispering: 

• time
• relationships
• secrets
• fear
• family
• passion
• laughter
• sadness
• a heart

Metta.

Sign 101

Greetings,

As I've said before in the long now, this is the land of MILLING AROUND. You are an object of endless fascination. A stranger in a strange land. 

Five boys stand around watching with their curious eyes. They are polite and friendly. They SIGN to speak. Their hands are wings in space. They are from Epic Arts. 

A boy signs to his friend, You only take this ride once.

His friend signs, Stay well grounded and do not fear risk.

Her friend signs, If you want to do amazing things you have to take amazing risks.

Her friend signs, Reveal. Bear witness. Be honest. Be visible.

His friend signs, Honor the muse in whatever way she comes.

A girl signs, They stare at you from the vacuum of their eyes and say would you like to make a deal?

He signs, Buy a ticket take the ride.

She signs, Can we find inside of us a source of inspiration?

He signs, My path is Light.

She sings, Phenomena is ambivalent.

A sign land of vacant hope. A sign people of broken distractions. Where attention span is limited to the stimuli of elastic necks. Life is an accident. A cruel joke. Riders slow down on bikes, motorcycles to survey the disaster in a clean 360 degree arc. 

What is louder than a group of voiced Khmer people? Another group of voiced Khmer people. It's a small miracle anyone can understand anything when they, Voiced Ones, are so busy all talking, speaking, asking at once. Because they are more interested in what THEY have to say the volume naturally increases exponentially. 

They don't get it. Cognitive dissonance.

Someone wants to understand before they are understood.

Two kids are talking. One from the west said, "Where did I come from?"

The kid from the east said, "How did I grow?"

A writer said, Your potential will always go unfulfilled unless it is accompanied by the daily grind of back breaking labor. Nobody wants to hear this. It is not a cheerful message. Writing is a disease. Either you can't stop it or in another case you can't start.

See with soft eyes. Signing off.

Metta.