Grow

draw poem
breathe zen
explore calligraphy line
play shape shadow
imprint experiment
love future

synthesize beauty
form truth dream imagine
creativity
color destiny

adventures
nature sings
ink poetry
adaptation song music laughter
potential

meditation
delight process
weave thread
needle leads a conversation
draw doodle paint

storyteller senses wisdom
focus fate
touch now
jazz improv intensity
emotion

motivation intention
formless
blues spirit intuition

wander
dancing down all the days
live moment

tranquility
salute sun smiling intention meaning
beauty white butterfly sunlight
waves & particles
walking meditation

edges
existential theatre of absurd
stars decorate your hand

flame your life

feeling sensation
meaningless universe
value, quality of life, excellence

calm mind move body
point, line shadow color
wushu movement balance composure
observing vs seeing
Beckett - futility of words

random chance
magic day

Grow Your Soul - Prose and poems from Laos/Cambodia

Kandinsky

Fishtail Mountain, Annapurna Range, Nepal

Wassily Kandinsky, the painter, had the ability to see sound and hear color.

In 1911 he founded "The Blue Rider" school in Munich, taking abstract painting to another level. Magic.

Kandinsky: The Path to Abstraction 1908-1922.

..."Synesthesia is a blend of the Greek words for together (syn) and sensation (aesthesis). The earliest recorded case comes from the Oxford academic and philosopher John Locke in 1690, who was bemused by "a studious blind man" claiming to experience the colour scarlet when he heard the sound of a trumpet."

..."If Kandinsky had a favourite colour, it must have been blue: "The deeper the blue becomes, the more strongly it calls man towards the infinite, awakening in him a desire for the pure and, finally, for the supernatural… The brighter it becomes, the more it loses its sound, until it turns into silent stillness and becomes white."

..."Despite his theories that the universe was in thrall to supernatural vibrations, auras and "thought-forms", many of which came from arcane, quasi-religious movements such as theosophy, Kandinsky's belief in the emotional potential of art is still convincing today. Our response to his work should mirror our appreciation of music and should come from within, not from its likenesses to the visible world: "Color is the keyboard. The eye is the hammer. The soul is the piano with its many strings."

Ice Man

Smile & Go

Educational shock therapy
Language is not only communication - it is a reservoir of memory, tradition and heritage.
Braid goatee...girl wears a Fuck t-shirt
NO she said laughing
Painting eyebrows

I attract a crowd

Business noodles chase market light
Long now
I am a rainbow
Trash collectors at plastic school
Mountains
Garbage in garbage out
Moon cloud
Keep staring I might do a trick
Experience is your education
Everything else is just information
Banlung, Cambodia
Respect from students HA

One month eating dust at The End of The World
Wailing kids in Muslim neighbor family
Sounds like torture neglect
Too much suffering
Blind loud little people
Look without understanding

School kids active loud no self control
They need a Command & Control Babysitter Teacher (G2 G4)

They “learn” in a rigid structured environment
Laconic teachers...by the book...systematic educational procedures

Teaching through fear

Vomit material on exams

Versus creativity, song, dance, fun positive experiences
All things considered
Lack of focus

Storyteller introduced drawing, coloring, music, writing...
some influence
Smile and GO

Grow Your Soul

Script

“The future is in garbage, I’m telling you. Be a trash collector and find all kinds of cool, interesting stuff people throw away,” said one. “They buy it, use it, forget about it, get bored with it and trash it. I’ll start a recycling center. We can exchange old stuff for new stuff. Like blood.”

“That smells nice,” the garbage collector said to the sage burner.

Yangon, Burma

“Let’s create a book,” said one, “and we’ll be in it. We can create a quest about love & survival. Like ART, adventure, risk and transformation.”

“Hey it’s a great possibility with stories or vignettes for word salad dressing.”

“We need stories, water, shelter, food and love.”

“Stories existed before food and shelter. Stories describe hunting for food and social needs. All stories are about forms of hunger.”

“Love is a blind whore with a mental disease and no sense of humor,” said a shadow.

“Will it be a man-u-script or a woman-u-script?”

“Both. If it ain’t on the page it ain’t on the stage.”

“We are authors looking for characters,” said an Italian kid named Pirandello. “I am a plot looking for a character.”

“When someone dies survivors look for a plot,” said a gravedigger.

ART

Yangon, Burma

Amazon Women

After eating, Turkish businessmen splashed aromatic tonic on their hands, patted jowls and slicked back thinning hair. One man adjusted spectacles. Eating fish fast made him sweat. Sharing a joke about bones he smiled at an assassin writing a character sketch.

Ancient serious women accepted hard mountain village life.

Young women divorced from confronting nature, soil and invisible roots, facing steep cobblestone Trabzon streets, appeared dazed and confused confronting miles of shops, window dummies and aggressive male textile hawkers yelling, BUY FROM ME. SPECIAL MORNING PRICE.

Have a look-see.

Shoppers’ visual examination loved consumption paradigms.

Lucky hung out observing the flow as cats prowled for scraps, bodies with a voice cautioned parking spaces and lost souls attempting sad cellular telecommunication connections stumbled through life inconveniences below Roman walls.

An abandoned Roman castle overlooking Giresun had a secret tunnel to a nearby is-land where Amazon women lived. They mated annually to keep the race going.

It’s a marathon, not a sprint, said an Amazon woman to her Black Sea lover. Take your time. After you make love to me, I will kill you and eat your heart.

I have something to look forward to, he said. Yes, she said, death is a new adventure. Nothing ever happens again.

Swirling exhortations of mosque mullahs calling the pious echoed down cobblestone alleys past Giresun boys riding spoke less bikes between crumbling yellow Ottoman walls and mackerel sellers discussing silver fins lying dead-eyed glossy on ice crystals melting into a refrain, The Sea. The Sea.

51 Days in Turkey