Wolf meets dog. Freedom vs slavery.
Laugh and keep moving.
Passion & peristence.
Writing like music - rhythm, harmony, improvisation.
Time, effort, patience, cooperation.
Living safely is dangerous.
Dialect of the hands.
Thread music / dancing needle / flying leaves / zone of color art magic / sewing, tea, eggs, chillis, juice /
Writing Book of Amnesia / polish monster / just sitting / rain
Northern Laos
Writing is a river with many tributaries.
Photography: intuitive, creative impulse, timeless, presence, aura of death, a diary, essence.
The Divine Comedy. A romantic dreamer wanders Earth.
Act. Find the truth. Emotional honesty. Don't be afraid.
Dance is freedom. Movement never lies.
What I want to report is that I've done nothing of value and that is my accomplishment.
What is your myth - the myth in which you live?
Now it happened one Sunday in Ankara, when streets were dead, everyone having evaporated to vote for someone special important and wealthy who’d change alter and manipulate the course of the Turkish future with panache, charisma, dedication, fortitude, and cold hard cash ...
After 4,000+ years of invasions, intrigue, bells and whistles, harems, delicate Blue Mosque mosaics, gongs, cymbals and flutes in life’s chess game, survivors said YES we have realized truth and freedom and democracy in digestible form. One size fits all.
I stood on a main artery filled with silent rusty water fountains of youth. Shuttered stores gleamed with expensive watches, clothing and exchange rates. A bundled man in stone cold shadows sold Simit, a common thick round seedy pretzel from his red and white rolling carnival circus wagon.
Five women in shimmering red, green and sea blue silk danced along shiny plate glass windows admiring their reflection. Hello Beauty. They hugged each other exploring visual perceptions. Their dark skin, sharp noses, deep black eyes complemented long hair under bright head scarves. Clothing reflected silver balls and small mirrors. They jabbered in Farsi.
Three posed in front of a clothing store to have their picture taken with a male mannequin. Men talk nonsense, make war, babies and are real dummies. A white frozen dummy wore a dark pin stripped suit.
A tall woman used a point-n-shoot digital camera to trap an image of her laughing friends. One didn’t smile because she was sad, serious and a long way from home thinking ...
How are my brothers and sisters today are they alive trying to find food while the Taliban coerces them into religious ideologies resembling spider webs composed of incessant swarming angry bees beheading and stoning and honor killing innocent women for trivial behaviors in public like walking, turning, gesturing, laughing, weeping, or pausing?
Breathing was a major crime.
Fundamentaliism is the Big H smack, said Louie, a barbarian crusader … look at world’s religions ... Christians have a booze addiction ... Catholics have faith in dope, weed, grass and ganja ... Agnostics have a library card.
Shhh ... said one woman whispering to herself, One should keep quiet, practice self-censorship. Think freedom but don’t say it. A mantra for billions.
Don’t you realize how the dying religious leaders sleep together and will shuffle your deck, rearrange their animosity, hunt you down like a dog and pick their nose in private before blowing your life, wife, strife into their rag?
Do be pious, stupid and poor in mind body and spirit swallowing religious addictions controlling your gravitational awareness with mathematical rational certainty.
Her family, praise Allah, were still alive when she returned and she wasn’t sure about their destiny or hers because life is filled with unexpected complicated and complex random surprises and inconveniences and nature is a cruel beautiful illusionary dream.
At that exact moment bi-lingual Asian orphans played hide n’ seek in secret gardens above landmines far removed from adult stupidity, regrets, indignation, jealousy and revenge-tainted anger.
The photographer finished. I gestured if she wanted me to take a picture of their group. Yes, she said, in impeccable English, Please ask your friends, your sisters to stand there, pointing to a wide area where full trees created a soft background. She sang to her friends. Two shy ones hid behind flowing skirts. They were coaxed out of hiding. Click.
I handed her the camera. Where are you from, We are from Kabul, Why are you here, We are doctors, we have been attending seminars and will return home this week.
Are you all from Kabul, No, gesturing to the women hiding behind their sisters, They are from distant provinces, I see ... How is the medical situation now in Afghanistan, do you have enough medicine … It changes we are fortunate to receive medicine from international aid agencies, our hospitals need more equipment, it’s a struggle at times especially outside the capital …
How are the children doing in your country, are they receiving medical care and enough food, can they go to school ... We are doing our best to take care of the children ... I wish you well in the future, knowing you face large responsibilities, it was nice meeting you, Thank you, she smiled, Good-bye, joining her friends passing shops, talking free.
One whispered to her shy sister, Our friends in Kabul will never believe it when we tell them we walked down a street talking, feeling free, how we had our picture taken by a man who wasn’t an immediate relative.
Her sister laughed, Yes, it’s strange feeling free to be your true self without fear of the religious police following you step by step, day in and day out like snakes ready to bite you, Someone should cut off their head, said another sister dancing her mirrors ...
My dream, said another sister, Is to be a free person in a free country ... Is that too much to ask, Freedom is a life changing experience with responsibilities, said her sister, smelling wild roses, I feel free.
When I related this encounter to a TLC student she asked, Were they open or closed, referring to veils not their liberated emotional being, They were open.
An old barbershop thrived near Plaza de San Juan de Dios, the neoclassical town hall from 1800.
It had cracked blue-white tiled walls and a yellow-blue mosaic inlaid floor. A well-dressed retired man sat outside smoking a cigar in a shaft of light.
We exchanged pleasantries. “Buenos Dias.”
An old barber in a stained white smock smiled. “Buenos Dias. What’ll it be Senor?”
I pulled a worn bilingual phrase book from a back pocket and thumbed to page 131. A trim please - showing a phrase gesturing over and down my long white beard painting a little.
Living in the Land of Gestures, Smiles and Body Language I spoke every tongue on Earth using fingers and hands. People attached meaning to gestures, facial expressions and guttural tone. Gestures were an international passport. They expressed truth-value meaning to communicate ideas, beauty and mystery. Gestures were sleight-of-hand performances. They sealed deals using people.
The dialect of hands expressed everything.
As a flying finger expert meeting tolerant people I expressed gratitude with real and imaginary sign words. A familiar forcestero, they trusted me in a vague clear way.
The barber looked at the book. He studied quick hands.
“Yes, fine, I understand what you want. Here,” gesturing to a chair, “sit here.”
I tabled my Moleskine journal, camera and glasses, faded filthy S.F. Giants baseball hat, received the cloth and closed eyes.
As the barber prepared tools I contemplated how Cadiz citizens loved balmy weather. People moved in and out of small flats like actors and directors on a set. Natives framed long telephoto shots to establish the big picture. They focused a spotlight lens tight on details and emotional truth in a long story.
See through soft eyes.
Their DNA spilled oral discourse wandering Earth looking for sanctuary. For centuries their ancestors intermarried with Berbers. Now 18% were practicing Catholics compared with 98% fifty years ago. Guilt, sin and liberation from repression ate ethics with cognitive dissonance. C’ la vie.
Scissors and comb danced in the barber’s hands. A finger tilted my head left then right.
A walking stick on tiles shattered sound. Acquaintances paid their respects to Omar. Language music floated.
Omar greeted an old friend. “Ola, we meet again,”
“Welcome back, my friend. You have been away a long time.”
“Yes, forever and a day. We were in the Sahara before, on and after 9/11,” said Omar, pointing to the man being trimmed. “Economic terrorism and fear of poverty is a hell of a never ending story.”
“True,” said his friend, “such devastation, suffering and retribution by angry, scared, poor people. Speaking of Sahara, how goes it...I know it like the back of my old veined hand. Trade caravans are moving north this time of year, carpets, silk, and spices are selling well yes?”
“Yes. Trading is good. You are fortunate my friend,” said Omar.
“Yes. I’ve been blessed with good health.”
“And your family? How are they?” said Omar.
“They are well, thanks be to God. Allah be praised. The most beneficent is shining their love on us. Have you heard from 9/11 survivors?”
“Word travels slower than a camel passing through a needle’s eye,” said Omar. “Tribes formed after nine eleven. Many migrated toward mountains and subterranean caves. Others resumed journeys along the Silk Road toward Constantinople and the Mediterranean.”
“How did they survive?”
“They created safe havens and new artistic opportunities. Eco tourists seeking simplicity, sanctuary and serenity from global tragedies and personal heartbreak supported spiritual retreats to practice meditation and compassion with healers, poets and prophets.”
“Love and the art of living reveals clear truths,” said his friend.
A woman in luminous red fabric floated through their conversation.
“The forcestero and I journey today. We have exploring, gathering and revising to do. He is my amanuensis.”
“Ah, you are fortunate having a well versed scribe. It is a long walk. Such is the life.”
“And your family?” said Omar.
“Allah and God be praised, they are in good health. Fatima Zamora is two-years old now. Learning to walk.”
“Walking is the preferred form of travel to make the road.”
“Have you learned anything useful from the barbarians?” said his friend.
“Very little. They know many words but have forgotten the essential music. In the 12th century Arabic and European languages created new forms based on 1,001 stories. They used imaginative prose, telling stories inside someone else’s story,” said Omar.
“Ah, you mean somebody in a story is telling a story about somebody telling a story about somebody?”
“Absolutely, my friend, like time’s labyrinth with a complete center. Seeing itself from the outside.”
“Fascinating. It appears you know 1,001 Nights?”
“Yes,” said Omar. “We discovered through this literary effort how people reflect art, culture, history, and myth through stories.”
“I’ve heard of this,” said his friend. “How tribes moved from India across Persia into Arabia and beyond. You are a manifestation of Naghali the storyteller meaning the transmitter.”
“Aren’t we all?” said Omar. “Your story is being retold in Arabic with 1,001 permutations.”
“Yes, from Arabic to a Latin form of learning. Scholars say the four languages with the longest tradition are Arabic, Sanskrit, Chinese and English. English is the language of the barbarians.”
“Ah, so it is,” said Omar. “Some are gentle and kind. Others behave like spoiled ill-tempered children. Rather crass and despondent types, prone to violence and whining at high decibels with abysmal ignorance. The Chinese stayed home, the English colonized and enslaved people in distant lands. Sanskrit, the most beautiful of all languages for its precise beauty evolved from India. Our Berber-Arabic tongue has been well received.”
“Magicians, shamans, Griots and storytellers have much to learn and share with you.”
“They are descendants of the Jinn,” said Omar.
“We celebrate cultures, shamans and spirit guides.”
“I am a Sha’ir, a feared and respected poet musician in my tribe,” said Omar. “Here’s a verse for you.”
Earth reflects sky
Landscape migrates
Listening wind sings spirit of Raoul
The Drummer of Death
Touareg the Blue Men of the desert
“Beautiful.”
“Poetry began as song,” said Omar. “Music and drama were grief songs for the dead.”
“Your unconscious is a deep river. Art reveals an interconnected universe. Interdependence. Sensations trigger electrical impulses, heartbeats and speech. Poem speaks.”
“My bearded friend here is Li Bai, a Shi sheng, an exiled Chinese poet sage,” said Omar. “He creates San wen, an intersection between prose and poems.”
“I am pleased for you. I wish you, your family and your companion all peace and prosperity.”
“Safe travels. Ensha’llah.” Their hands touched their hearts.
The barber handed me a Neolithic black obsidian mirror from Anatolia created in 6200 BC. My face was invisible.
“Objects in the mirror may appear closer than they are,” said Omar.
I felt lighter. “It’s fine, a good length. Gracias.”
He trimmed eyebrows, brushed off dead cells, removed the sheet, smiled and accepted Euros.
“Gracias. Adios,” I said to the barber.
“Gracias, adios Senor,” said Seville.
ART - A memoir - Adventure, Risk, Transformation
Writers are shamans.
We go into the mountains and we come back with visions for our tribes.
Our holy assignment.
Wolf meets dog. Freedom vs. slavery.
Writing is a river with many tributaries.
Empathy - Cognitive & Emotional
Mushin - no thought, no emotion, no expectation
Kafka - it's about impossible situations and ambiguity
Dialogue with an image. What / why it speaks to us. What does it say to us?
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