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.

invent a god

Broken glittering glass edges reflecting an elegant universe magnified the tears of an Iraqi girl burying her parents in a white shroud of cloth, an old flag of final surrender.

Tree leaves blasted green to deep yellow and brown. They flew into a river. They gathered on boulders clogging the Rio Guadalete and dolomite waterfalls. One leaf could do a lot of damage. The river needed cleaning.

"See," said the Grand Inquisitor ringing his broken Spanish bell, "it’s all possible. Everything is permitted if there is no God."

"Let’s invent a God," said a pregnant nun supporting her nose habit. "We need reason and faith to believe in a higher power."

"Reason and faith are incompatible," said a logic board filled with circular flux reactors.

"Look," said Little Nino, "I found a compass and it works. The needle is pointing to magnetic north. This may help us. I am a compass without a needle."

Ahmed the Berber read the instructions. "Great Scott! It says one sharp line of description is better than any number of mundane observations."

"You don’t need a compass in the land of dreams," said a mother. "We need all the direction we can handle."

"Maybe one direction is enough," said a cartographer.

"If you need a helping hand," said a child, "look at the end of your wrist."

"O wise one, tell us another," cried a disembodied voice.

"Ok, how about this," a child said. "Our days of instant gratification are a thing of the past."

"Looks like everything is a thing of the past," observed a child sifting dust particles at Ground Earth on 9/11.

"You’re wiser than your years."

"That’s an old saw with a rusty blade cutting through desire, anger, greed, ignorance and suffering."

"Yes," said a child, "there are two kinds of suffering."

"What are they?" asked another orphan.

"There’s suffering you run away from and suffering you face,” said a child arranging leaves on blank pages inside her black book.

A Century is Nothing

shatter the blindness

"Finally I am coming to the conclusion that my highest ambition is to be what I already am. That I will never fulfill my obligation to surpass myself unless I first accept myself, and if I accept myself fully in the right way, I will already have surpassed myself."

 - Thomas Merton  Read more…

"When you sit in silence long enough, you learn that silence has a motion. It glides over you without shape or form, exactly like water. Its color is silver. And silence has a sound you hear only after hours of wading inside it. The sound is soft, like flute notes rising up, like the words of glass speaking. Then there comes a point when you must shatter the blindness of its words, the blindness of its light."

 - Anne Spollen
The Shape of Water
bufflehead cabin  Read more…

my silent resignation

My sister set up a hair salon business in a tourist temple town. It fell through. Salons are a dime a dozen. Thousands of undereducated poor girls from distant provinces can’t/don’t read or dream. They cut. Do their nails. Digit phones.

Staring at mirrors is their fate.

Some moonlight as beer girls and hostesses. Where is Mr. ATM? Who’s going to save me they cry wearing gloss in the dead of night masking their eternal loss. Unspoken questions and starvation seek short-term financial solace.

My sister put me to work with a niece washing clothes. In reality I am a happy slave. I have my sister, food and a safe place to sleep. I make some money. An Australian girl gave me a scooter. I dress nice.

My sister started selling massage service. If I meet a good man which is rarer than verbal speech I let him touch me because I trust he’ll take care of me. Short term.

I need help.

Massage has no emotional connection. Touch and go. I have the power to say NO. I have a 5th degree black belt.

I’ve killed more men with silence than you can imagine.

I tell aggressive idiots they can get laid somewhere else. Go find a beer girl. Flash your cash honey.

I do all the washing, ironing and massages. I make small tips. My sister pockets the money. She sits around admiring herself in mirrors, playing with her daughter and talking rubbish on her cell.

I am a voiceless voice of quiet resignation. 

Frame life

"The frame is like life. Life too only provides certain opportunities.

Film is like a square of life, it has the same boundaries.

I think film is more honest, because it owns up to being a limited space.

Life pretends to provide more opportunities, that's why it's a bigger lie."

-Fassbinder