The author uses all the enchantments:
language, rhythm, music and spirit.
Artistic emotion provokes thought
and gives the feeling of beauty.
A work of art is a force that attracts,
absorbs the available forces
of the one who comes close to it.
Year of the Tiger
“Those who dance are considered insane by those who can’t hear the music.”
*
A church bell tolled four. I paused writing in mid-sentence, threw on a jacket, locked Moorish doors and walked down a cobblestone alley.
A black Mercedes hearse covered with flowers waited outside a small church. Pueblo men stood with friends across the street. The bell was all. Black mourners escaped religion. Women and children scattered home.
Six men carried out a simple brown wooden casket.
He was forty and single.
They fed the hearse.
The bell ceased.
Flashing red lights, the village Guardia led the procession down a narrow winding road. 200 men followed the hearse. They crossed a small bridge above the Rio Guadalete River and past fourteen golden Aspen trees saying farewell by waving leaves.
Solemn men passed grazing sheep, horses, wildflowers and winter orange trees. They stopped at a small white church in a grove of palm trees. Pallbearers carried the casket past a black rusty gate and into a long white crypt zone. They slid it into an empty cement slot. The parish priest whispered final prayers.
Men paid their last respects and returned to cafes for sherry, thin sliced ham, coarse bread and conversations about the man who died alone.
Laughing, singing children played soccer or skipped rope in front of the main Grazalema church in the plaza. Heavy wooden doors were locked tighter than a coffin.
ART - A Memoir
Adventure, Risk, Transformation
Greetings,
Tell me about your future
all laid out in perfect reconciliations
of existence
overflowing with play, discoveries, exploring your labyrinth
rapacious fluidity,
exercising complexity science
where imagination tells the truth
these days before Chinese New Year
and Mr. Murakami sighs,
"Memory is like fiction, or else it's fiction
that is like memory. Human existence in absurd activities.
Right and wrong drop out of the picture. Memory takes over and fiction is born.
It is a perpetual motion machine, tottering through the world,
trailing an unbroken thread over the ground."
It is now the Year of the Tiger
believing their strength, solitary nature, nocturnal way,
running to survive
swimming in deep water
leading you into deep forests
when a shadow spirit named The Other
whispers
"It's time to go, it's time to go."
Metta.
What is your motivation?
What is your intention?
What is speaking to you?
I am a Camera.
A patient tiger in the sun, swimming deep waters. I sleep with the tiger.
I am cooling love, love shoved in, chewed, swallowed, digested. A 47 million-year old fossil. An Eagle nebula, swirling cosmic.
Destiny's child. A figment of your imagination speaking of memory.
I am hot red ink inside dust unloading cans of paint for a project to to abandoned,
Wearing a burgundy shawl from Lhasa, before the Chinese invaded with
Patriotic re-education pogroms, programs and propaganda machines.
I smell like clean laundry’s spring dance.
where people don’t listen
don’t really listen
don’t really care
sleeping with their eyes wide
open
struggling with anxiety
swallowing daily happy pills
by the by
hand me down my walking stick
Metta.
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