Dream Sweeper

A Dream Sweeper contraption manufactured in Ha Noise, Vietnam remembered evolutionary and revolutionary Communist nightmares and B-52 bombers dropping millions of tons of ordinance on Laos, Nam and Cambodia with hallucinations and bliss evolving from a point of light traveling at 186,000 miles per second.

The efficient Dream Sweeper Machine collected unconscious talking monkey stories. From deep narrow Ha Noise alleys where death worship was a constant reminder of rapacious ancestors eating incense, dreams arrived crawling, flying, dancing, staggering, singing, laughing, weeping, and sighing into The Machine.

Dreams begged for mercy, pity, clarity, understanding and interpretation. How did I get here? What if I die here? Who will be my unconscious role model? Who will save me from ultimate absolute reality? Who will feed me in a Peoples’ Communist Paradise dream world where everyone shares toilets, kitchens, spoiled whining children and education is a waste of time and money?

Bored Asians existing with an emotional level of -7 exchanged drab artificial lives playing on Fakebook, a glorious electronic frontier of equality, equity and endless hi-tech distractions with firewalls, barbwire and rusty window gratings. Dark. Silent. Black is the night. Cold is the ground.

Turkish attitude

Adult Ankara language students said they were tired.

They loved being addicted to a phenobarbital phenomenon reality altering life, taking anti-depressants (Xanax) by mouth. He processed their fear and anxiety.

A national Turkish problem, according to a male psychiatrist is anxiety.

A clinking small musically inclined silver spoon dissolved square sugar cubes made in a factory where the hygiene conditions were abysmal.

We sat in a teahouse filled with Turkish and Iranian carpets, blue amber oil paintings and thick embroidered cushions near a well-thumbed Zen tarot deck. Fortune telling is an art and science depending on a suspicious, auspicious way. We gifted each other the state of relaxation. Reading, feeling, absorbing the future is the process.

These a-dolts eat their fear, humiliation and guilt with yogurt, said Zeynep in Bursa drawing in a Moleskine. 

Lhasa meditation

You slow down.

Each step is a breath.

As before in other planetary places you savor beginning a new day becoming in cold, isolated, strange, mysterious reality. The street blends into the circuit. Go to the main square.

Two large chorten furnaces breathing fire send plumes of gray and black smoke into the sky. Buyers collect offerings from juniper and cedar sellers and throw sweet smelling twigs into a roaring fire, finger prayer beads and resume their pilgrimage. Merit.

You join the flow, shuffling along. Feel the softness in the ageless way of meditation, a walking meditation.

It is a peaceful manifestation of the eternal now. The vast self-vibration of frequencies realizes your restless wandering ghost spirit feeling peace and serenity inside the flow.

Sky fills with clear light. As above - so below. Prayer flags lining roofs sing in the wind as incense smoke curls away. Shuffling pilgrims create a ceaseless wave - the sound of muted consistent steps, clicking of prayer beads, a gentle hum of turning prayer wheels, murmurs of mantras from lips. Everything is clear and focused on offerings, sacrifice, gaining merit in the collective unconscious. Human river flows.

Dawn light blesses eastern snow capped mountains with a pink glow. A black-faced half-naked boy throws himself down and out on hands and knees prostrating the length of his skinny skeleton. He wears slabs of wood on his hands and an old brown apron. He edges forward, pulling himself along, rises, gestures to the sky, hands together, down along his skin out and down to the ground scrapping away flesh inside shuffling pilgrims.

His eyes are on fire.

You complete one circuit after another, circling the stupa. More light and people ascending into the square - handfuls of juniper feed roaring flames, Crack! Hiss! Burn! Back to Dust!

You walk through fire.

Do this practice every day.

This is an auspicious time to be here. You are aware of the energies and practicing discernment when recognizing sensitivities and realities on the ground. This is vital.

Be wise and prudent in your actions and behaviors. You are a guest on Earth with responsibilities, remain open, vulnerable, receptive and authentic.

It is essential for you to refresh, reinforce and renew your calm warrior nature. Keep a diamond in your mind.

Allow creative instincts to guide your journey with clarity, insight and wisdom. Remain open and receptive to all the spiritual forces around you now. Cultivate, nourish and manifest your inner strength and focus accepting and acknowledging lessons and deeper meaning.

Practice dignity and restraint. Conduct yourself in mindfulness realizing your divine essence.

Source: A Century is Nothing

the distance of the moon

Here is a delightful animated magical legend of Italo Calvino's story, The Distance of the Moon.

Enjoy.

http://youtu.be/EZ9cEZhiGPw

after morocco

Well before sunrise in March 2002 on his last morning in Morocco, before seeing a sunburst orange ball on skylines flying toward Amsterdam, west to Seattle, and east over the Cascades; before leaving Sad’s family furniture factory home in Casablanca, a scribe, who’d been up all night anticipating another Exit, took a gigantic shit over a hole in the ground before sweeping a sweet smelling kid’s sanitized paper wipe over his skinny little ass.

He poured water from an old green bottle into the holy plumbing system, waking the dead on their life highway crowded with whiners, complainers and ghosts, before stumbling through darkness with Rex the German shepherd on his heels.

The toilet paper was crap in Spain. In Morocco it was nonexistent.

It felt good to blast yesterday out of his system. He knew all the bilingual time and surprises were worth it. Miniature adventures were a refreshing drink of water, a desperate invigorating breath during a climb for a clear perspective.

Slanting dawn light wrapped tentacles around an anonymous scribe gathering unfiltered and uncensored evidence of post 911 fear. Light cut the sky severing white villages, crude broken stone paths, scarred Moorish brown doors, ageless idle men, shifty eyed one-armed merchants and sad-eyed unemployed dissatisfied immigrants surviving with poverty and despair.

The scribe traversed light, space, and time intervals near sixteen blue, yellow, and green starred mosaic vaulted arches. He kissed everyone on cheeks, shaking hands, confirming an exile's flight.

All the adults were tired, wasted, beat. Moroccans walked, stopped, looked around with hesitancy, this delayed boarding card question.

Their visa stamp bled through indigo robes piercing shirts, blouses, and woven fabric designed by millions of minimum wage children in twisted alleys without a visa. They needed a bread visa, a scrap of meat visa, a tea visa and a chance visa. They craved sweet green tea to mix life’s colors with dust.

The plane taxied down the runway. Rainbows illuminated western clouds. The moon danced in cobalt blue sky. Above clouds, thunderheads formed a white billowing future infinite dream machine of air and water molecules.

Zooming over Canadian ice fields toward heightened U.S. military airport security and stateside psychosis after 9/11, global FEAR merchants had a never-ending consignment sale.

A Century is Nothing.