See the Beauty and Cruelty without hope or fear.
The Middle Way - detachment and wisdom.
Our perceptions are empty.
Suffering is an illusion.
Passion and process.
It existed somewhere between an object and a concept.
King Louis’s temp visa expired. Someone conspired. Who did it? Only the Shadow knows. And then, lo and behold, the tall handsome paranoid excommunicated hulk of a Roman ruin fled.
He gifted two native teachers a used bottle of stomach medicine, an empty pickle jar and a keening Irish green bottle of olive oil.
He carried eight bags of Roman history to his lover’s car. Ms. Linguist, his x-factor for what it was worth considering their short-term tumultuous erotic relationship headed for the auto-gar bus station. Next stop – Instant Bull.
On July 5th management called THE HULK into the office.
“We are not sending you to Moscow.”
He shriveled into his seat. Whoops, I really fucked up big time.
“Yes, you did,” said the Director. “You made life miserable for Bursa staff. Your archaic cavalier chauvinistic attitude was abysmal. In other words you were a colossal jerk.”
“I need to get this down now and make sense of it later,” said Zeynep scribbling a film noir treatment.
Louis thought he was smarter than the average bear. He was Yogi-Fide, denied, stratified, petrified and ossified.
“Anyway,” continued the Director of Barbarians, an obscure title minus power, “you won’t see Moose Cow with this company. There’s no way José we’d even consider sending you to a sister company in the frozen north with your attitude.”
“What’s going to happen to me? O my goodness gracious great balls of fire. Don’t tell me I have to return to the glorious land of unemployed free Mandingo slaves hawking refrigerators, microwaves and washing machines.”
“As you well know you’ve overstayed your tourist visa,” said big D. “This is a legal problem and we can’t help you there. You are in violation of residency laws and will leave today. You will not be allowed to return to Turkey for 3,000 years. We are giving you official notice that your contract with TLC is terminated effective immediately.”
“Great Scott. I had such grandiose plans for conquests and adventures roaming ruins, scaling Byzantium towers and feeding beggars Simit as freezing dawn broke bread while eating delicious black olives, freshly sliced tomatoes, winding my big time watch out and,” pausing for dramatic effect...“I need to get to the verb.”
“You’re fired.”
Charbroiled on searing heat. Skewered. King Louis was flame grilled and basted with spice is-land juice.
My life dance is ambiguity, acceptance, independent detachment and creative imagination.
Dance is isolated yet cooperating and independent. I believe in the magic of dance.
When you dance for a fleeting moment you feel alive.
What do I see? I see a circle of movement, a connected unity, language in space. There are five rhythms in dance.
You start with a circle. It’s a circular movement from the feminine container. She is earth.
Then you have a line from the hips moving out. This is the masculine action with direction. He is fire.
Chaos is next, a combination of a circle and line where male and female energies interact. This istransformation.
After chaos is the lyrical. A leap. A release. This is air.
The last element of dance is stillness. Out of stillness is born the next movement.
I’ll dance until I die.
What is life?
Dance.
He wore a felt hat. He gripped a wooden staff. His face was long and sallow.
The girl was 11. Wearing cotton, her face was solemn, shocked.
Both wore plastic flip-flops.
She held his hand.
They came to an intersection. Small buses, bikes, lost fat Europeans, orange robed wandering monks, silver vans. Women carrying bamboo baskets spilling oranges negotiated pavement.
The girl led the man across the street.
Their pace steady, yet hesitant.
She was his eyes. He trusted her implicitly.
A stranger drawing in his notebook watched them.
He pulled a 20 Kip note from his pocket.
He gestured to the girl, Take it.
She froze.
She spoke quick Lao words to her father.
Questioning, doubt, healthy uncertainty in her eyes.
The stranger gestured the 20.
She remained still.
He got up and slowly approached her. His hand extended the money.
His hand said, take it.
Her small hand emerged with caution. Her small fingers accepted the gift.
She smiled placing her hands together.
Her fingertips touched her chin meaning, Thank you.
She whispered to her father, it's 20.
His blind eyes darted back and forth.
He mumbled, Thank you, joining his hands.
His wooden staff hung in the air like a pendulum.
She led him away.
They disappeared.
Give us the fifty daze M-F 5:30 a.m. short van trip to CAE, the private school in Mandalay where you helped 10th graders become more human with humor and curiosity. July - October 2015.
One class from 6-7, another from 7-8.
Four male teachers left starlight and climbed into the van. Three were morose. Too early.
Their dialogue mentioned sleep disorders, international menus and the quality of their shits.
One Black guy muttered about Kuala Lumpur fast food choices while cursing mosquitos and smashing them on windows.
The others talked about teaching adventures in China.
Exciting.
Yeah, I’m going to miss them like you miss a rock in your shoe.
I understand your student-teachers rearranged desks into groups to facilitate sharing. You played jazz, blues and classical music. They drew and colored their dream in creative notebooks. Daily.
Yes. Head – hand – heart.
I reminded them their creative notebooks would sustain them for years, long after the textbooks gather dust. Long after they vomited material to pass a test. Get marks.
Give me specifics.
My room was the only team-building configuration. The other teachers maintained rigid rows of wooden benches where students hearing a dull lecture stared at the back of someone’s head.
The Black guy mumbled. They replaced him with a dour scholar from Papa New Genie.
One British teacher lectured from the book and played cartoons.
A drawling American teacher projected The Star Spangled Banner lyrics on a screen and had the class recite words.
You’re kidding me. I wish I was.
You could hear the parrots…”Oh say can you see…”
Our team-groups shared ideas prior to discussing diverse topics improving their speaking confidence.
In his final class Southern Comfort had them singing “Jingle Bells.”
Boughs of folly. Oh yeah.
My geniuses played a round-robin chess tournament the final two days. Great fun.
They’d practiced chess every Thursday and Friday for a month. They focused on tactics, strategy, activating pieces off the back row, castling, attacking through the center.
They developed critical thinking skills, planning and logic, problem solving, accepting responsibility for their decisions, respecting their opponent and sharing ideas with friends.
Life skills 101.
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