Chinese Peoples’ Pineapple Appliance Factory #8 - TLC 71

Good afternoon students. My name is Mr. ON.

It rhymes with song, gong and long gone.

It is 5:59 p.m. if it was 6:00 p.m. I would say good evening, however it is still afternoon. It is late in our short sweet life.

Class meets twice a week for two hours. Show up on time, stay awake, do your assignments and bribe me. Cash only. No plastic. Nothing more. Nothing less. Less is more. 

We are gathered here today in the glorious Chinese People’s Pineapple Appliance Factory #8 to begin our English lessons. Your supervisor informs me you are here by choice and chance. You don’t have a choice. This is your chance. Life gives you one chance. Am I clear? Do you understand me? Yes no maybe.

Now. I know. You have been slaving in #8 since dawn. It is the end of another long, mind numbing grueling tedious day down on the killing floor. Work is hell for people. It’s also logical to say hell is other people.

English has brought us together. You face unique challenges to acquire English, the language of noble barbarians, running capitalist dogs, curs and canines. Their bark is worse than their bite. You will try or don’t try is perhaps appropriate to say considering our passive cultural indoctrination and conditioning, to use said target language with meaning in context. To maybe baby become fluent minus accuracy. It will require your undivided attention, chemical and electrical energy.

You will practice speaking, reading, listening and writing. These are the four basic language skills.

Output: Writing and speaking are active. You do it. Yeah-yeah.

Input: Reading and listening are passive. However, reading is active if a character’s internal/external emotional conflict engenders your feeling and identification with said character’s actions.

Learning is a never-ending dramatic process. All of you will die before it’s complete. That’s a humble unpleasant fact.

Some of you clever cunning ones may use English skills to escape this dystopian existence. Get out there. Take risks. Embrace uncertainty. Daring is not fatal. Have more sex. Wear a condom in the rain. Make friends. Create art. Play with children. Never grow old or up. Stay 9 forever. Erase your shadow. Write a poem. Draw in a creative notebook.

Take a line for a walk. Play a cello in a cemetery. Dig your grave and see if it fits. Water rose thorns with tears. Drum dirt. Cultivate bamboo. Release wolves into the wild blue yonder. Dream big. Shave your head. Get your ears cleaned. Weave ikat on the loom of time. Expand your comfort zone.

Practice Zazen meditation for three centuries, three years, three months, three days and three breaths. Leaning against nothing.

Make a sandwich with baboons. Discover a sharp utilitarian knife in an Ankara display case. Operate The Dream Sweeper Machine in Hanoi and beyond wild. Explore jungles with Leo the King of Cannibals. Kill your father and marry your mother. Fly free with Winter Hawk.

Travel a lonely planet gifting luck to strangers as an aberration of their psychological insecure projections based on their imaginary expectations of greed garnished with kindness.

There is no security. It is an illusion.

Everything you know is a lie. Everything is permitted.

I am an assassin in drag.

Learning occurs in the context of task-based activities. In other words you learn by doing. You do and you understand as we say, said, do, did, done.

In exhaustive detail we will discuss four important appliances and their English A/C-D/C let’s see connections. They are: washing machines, air conditioners, vacuum cleaners and microwave ovens.

These machines are now essential and fun to operate in one’s life. They are labor saving devices. Don't ask me what that means. Maybe it’s a labor of love, like labor pains or a labor-through-reform Gobi educational experience. You don’t ever want to go there. Trust me.

I don’t know and I don’t care to know. You know heavy deep true love because it is your job to put machines together with meaning. It’s like English. Putting words together makes a sentence or phrase. Pass the syntax please.

For your final exam you will assemble a Freeze & Point Refrigerator and extraterrestrial Moon Rover named Jade Rabbit.

A simple sentence is: I NEED HELP. These are three essential English words. Or I need food or I need a job or I need water or I need sex or I need freedom from need and a need for freedom. Or I need to be a free person in a free country. A Chinese waif named Curious in Turkey, not the bird, teaching Mandarin in Ankara said that with mindfulness.

Some English sentences are brief and precise. Some are gibberish. Many stream of consciousness sentences are composites of useless idiomatic semantic syntax, which is not the same as income tax, however both are expensive.

Life is difficult. Art is easy. Make the reader/observer work hard.

Write this down. English in >English out.

More vocabulary = more speech. Use it or lose it.

Say new words three times and make a sentence to retain restrain refrain vocal volcanoes.

Open your head, heart and mouth. Eat English. Empty your vowel bowel movements.

Please open your creative notebook. Using a simple writing tool like a pen or #2 getting the lead out with a fast pencil answer the following questions using simple English. Be brief.

What is life? _______

How did I get here? ______ 

Why am I here? _____

Am I a machine? _______

Am I a tool of the factory? _______

Am I a tool of nature? ___________

What is a human machine? ________

What is my motivation to learn English? _________

(Secret answer – MONEY with a capital M)

Here’s life's equation. No English = no job. No job = no money. No money = no food.  No food = starvation. I am sorry. Bye-bye. Good luck to you and your family.

Your supervisor has instructed me to motivate you. She loves rules and regulations. She eats rules 3x day. She expects me to demand you arrive on time, complete assigned tasks and pass exams. Her authoritarian management style commanded me to use fear as a form of discipline with you.

We know how phobias motivate Earthlings. If I fail to pass you I will be executed. Survival is my fear-based motivation. It is my DUTY to push you through. You WILL pass because my life depends on it. No quest-ion about it.

Fear is a funny word. How do four little letters enable esoteric ephemeral trembling meaning and sensation? For example:

Fear of starvation.

Fear of poverty.

Fear of losing face.

Fear of failure. Fear of failing better.

Fear of humiliation or shame.

(Greater than Death – the Grime Repair)

Fear of not meeting family expectations.

Fear of speaking in public.

Fear of ancestor ghosts.

Fear of being ordinary.

Fear of success.

Fear of crossing a transcendental border.

Fear of______(free choice). Fill in your Tabula Rasa.

In our next lesson we will discuss parts and functions of a language washing machine. Oh, and one more thing.

Normal is a cycle on a wishing machine.

Doctoral students will construct, operate and defend their dissertation using The Dream Sweeper Machine.

Thank you for your short attention span. See you when I see you.

The Language Company

 

desperation calls

Muesli, fruit, yogurt.

Desperation called 18 times during the day asking, Why, What changed your attitude toward me, How did you arrive at this heart breaking conclusion to release me, to reduce my sense of responsibility and neglect burning ashes of regret?

Calm thought about Desperation's plight.

Release and letting go of passion, desire, and expectations requires a serenity, clear focus, unconditional love.

Everything dies.

All is dancing behind your tears, your questions.

Be still.

Sit with your sensations, perceptions.

Breathe deep in-out.

Her return. Small talk about respect and responsibility.

My new little life - TLC 69

Whew, what a first week it was for my little existence, my little humanoid adventure. I began a new strange scary awkward weird and transforming evolutionary experience in two big human’s lives.

I begin at the beginning. It’s a start.

I fell out of my mom a female production company last week. Talk about letting go. She was big and fat and released me after pushing and pushing and she exhaled an infantile projection of freedom feeling her painful release and my pleasure with shock and awe as I came slathering, slipping through some universal ectoplasm fluid, like a gusher, whoosh, into millions of bright shining suns.

A crescendo of angels, luminous spirits, formless forms and shapes swirled like whirling Sufi dervishes in light waves and particles. Such splendor. My last nine months did little to prepare me or allow me to know anything.

I was born dead and slowly came to life.

My tiny black eyes welcomed light energy into my being. I am a galaxy.

Mesmerizing.

I am an Eagle nebula, a gathering of space dust melding, morphing into a solid state, a unified field theory. I am beside myself with wonder and delight. I joined seven billion in the stream of life.

Did you know that the world is made up of 98% helium and hydrogen?

The remaining atom particles are life and inside these atoms a very small part of that is intelligence.

The rest of the pyramid is garbage. Existence precedes essence.

What was your original face before your parents were born?

The Language Company

Mindfulness - TLC 67

They met on the Metro. Lucky carried an aromatic red rose through green sliding doors. Z sat in a permanent change of scene.

He inhaled fragrance. He handed her the rose. “Here, for you. Everything we love dies.”

“Infinity is behind us, eternity is in front of us.”

“Nothing behind. Everything ahead.”

The National Director of Barbarian Natives at TLC resigned after pressure from Sister #1. Her father Sir Franchise was King of The Money Tribe.

The National Die Rector was wishy-washy. Making personnel decisions was a stressful heartless job. Native barbarians were transferred to Siberia with Tundra Dragon and his consort Phoenix rising from ashes of self-pity, loathing, shame, guilt and fear to regenerate, reinvent and reincarnate themselves with critical thinking skills, social intelligence, mindfulness, courage, humor, gratitude, curiosity, fairness, integrity, diligence, perseverance and discipline wearing liberal amounts of delicate compassion.

Players wrote themselves into the story. They invented plots. Plots invented players with assignations, fake artifices, palace intrigue and three-act Greek plays featuring desperate insecure and courageous thematic holistic variables.

Greed and betrayal discussed intention and motivation.

A, an, the - old article men in teahouses reading newsprint verbs whispered syllables out loud memorizing lies, myths, Soma mine disasters, political denial, unaccountability, football results and obituaries. One reader said, “Thank God. Death hasn’t found me yet.”

“Don’t worry,” said Death, “I’m busy with others. Patience. I’ll get back to you. You can begin living the rest of your rare days meditating on the process of your death. Impermanence and non-existence.”

“Tell that to the guy selling fire and knives in Ankara.”

“I will,” said Death, “when his time is up and only then.”

Bursa mountain winds seeking plains became strong, sudden and slashing. They flew across thermal bath waters after plumping mist into rain’s arranged marriage. Spirit-winds reached back circling prey without saying anything of value or meaning joining relatives and strangers floating inside fog moisture captured from distant seas like dancing children, circling, spinning out from nothing, evolving from the center of their stillness, caressing flayed onion skinned fragments inside Zeynep’s black book where people didn’t reallylisten know or care in Comabodia  - an imaginary country trapped between Nam, Siam, and Laos  - swimming with 2,000,000 genocide ghosts spreading superstition and repressed violent DNA psychosis while sleeping with wide open eyes struggling with regret, low grade anxiety, big FEAR, swallowing happy Xanax pills, wearing huge magnificent watch this time machine on thin wrists in a witness protection program using a false identity theory.

Hand-me-down my walking stick, said L. Here you are, said Z. Let’s go.

Travelers arrived in a village on the Marmara Sea. Olive orchards dressed hills. A white butterfly skimmed blue sea. It’s wings created a breeze around shadows sitting in shale shade. Feet caressed geology. Waves washing the shore day by day rolled millions of pebbles creating a gentle musical interlude.

Rinse and repeat.

Ocean waves. Earth peoples.

The soft propaganda machine selling media’s tired old lies broke down. Desperate neglected broken-hearted ADD people fingered a remote or mobile.

Tribes in remote jungles created fire with Leo. Spirit-winds sailed smoke signals across oceans, seas, tributaries, rivers, bays, fjords, streams and inlets to Anasazi, Navajo, Apache, Hopi, Tiwa, Cherokee, Ainu and Tibetan ancient ones. Flying clouds acknowledged ethereal messages.

Imaginary fears of poverty and starvation gripped humans.

Beauty dispatched monarch butterflies skimming over a cresting white wave tumbling above blue water lapping land.

The Language Company

 

Good at two things - TLC 63

 “Mind yourself,” Z said in cursive Latin as she and Lucky exploring diverse civilizations cradled a bamboo candle on their quest for an illuminated translation.

One morning while walking to the Metro he received a rose from a kind Kurdish woman who tended a small grocery below a quadrant of grey cookie-cutter Soviet apartment blocks filled with crying children and sad adults devouring emotional immaturity content in a guilt-based context between a physical object and a precise concept.

“We are good at doing two things,” sang a Turkish man swirling a silver spoon in his tea...'around and around we go and where we stop nobody knows, tinkle, tinkle little star how I wonder where you are, way down in the glass so low with processed sugar’...sitting and singing, here we go.”

“I thought you said reading and writing,” said Rita, the anarchist writer of Ice Girl in Banlung and H20 seller in Ratanakiri. To make ends meet on weekends her family of eleven rented her out to a NGO scam at an artificial orphanage.

Buy her beware.

Rita knew what was what.

“According to UNICEF, there has been a 65% rise in the number of orphanages since 2005. There are more than 300 and yet, only 21 of those are run by the state.”

“Say more,” said Lucky.

“UNICEF estimates that 72% of the 12,000 children in Cambodian orphanages have at least one living parent or close relative. Desperate poverty makes it easy to persuade uneducated families that their kids will be better off in an orphanage.”

Her Banlung machine world roared, reversed, revered and resounded with operatic overtones. Chugging down the street, antiquated ¼ ton trucks recycled from catastrophic invasions, wars, death, suffering, bombings, and genocide carried 1.7 million people dying from forced labor, starvation and execution illuminated by historical footnotes.

Ghosts said we are nothing but historical history. Memory agreed. Voices blended with billowing black diesel exhaust and forgotten cultural memory in swirling red dust.

Two barefoot mendicants walked past Rita. One content in a simple white cotton cloth shirt and pants. A red and white-checkered kroma scarf knotted his head. He carried their possessions in three white rice bags suspended on a bamboo pole balanced on a bony shoulder. A tall gaunt man followed his trail of tears.

Man #1. These bags are heavy. I am tired of carrying them. You carry them. Bags and pole crashed on red dirt.

Startled birds flew.

A brown river changed course.

A woman stopped sweeping dust.

A rich man getting out of a black SUV smiled at prosperity.

A young boy fondling his fantasy without objection paused.

A prone passive girl suffering from eternal hunger in a plywood room waiting for fake love and an easy ten bucks blinked.

An infant dying of malnutrition cried in its sleep.

A mother begging for fake medicine at a health clinic holding her child shifted hip weight.

A monk in a pagoda turned a page of Sanskrit.

An ice girl massaged cold reality with her sharp edge of truth.

The man walked over to a large water cistern. He splashed his weathered face. He drank deep. His friend stooped over, adjusted bamboo through twine, hoisting bamboo and bags onto his bony shoulder. Where are we going? Muttering to his feet wearing red dust, one said down this endless road.

The Wild West town bigger than a village welcomed smaller. The dexterity and fortitude of millions shuffled along in a flip-flop sandal world filled with joy, opportunity, risk, chance, fate, and destiny.

They devoured French pastries and flavored yoghurt.

Ambiguity, contradictions and paradoxes assumed the inevitable. Assumptions and expectations wearing Blue Zircon saw harlequins.

A boy downstream near Angkor Wat sawed crystals of clarity in his tropical kingdom. He saw but didn’t see standing tall in a blue hyperventilated dump truck holding a rusty trusty bladed saw. Blocks of ice disguised as solidified water were longer than the Mekong feeding Son Le Tap Lake.

He unwrapped blocks. He sawed. He tapped a musical hammer at precise points defining worlds of experience into melting scientific sections. His co-worker loaded condensation on thin shoulders carrying melting weight to a bamboo shack. He dumped ice into an orange plastic box. A smiling woman frying bananas over kindling gave him monetary notes, Thank you for the cold.

Carver carved. Tap-tap-tap.

Rita opened a big orange plastic box. She picked up a chunk of ice in her left hand, cradling it in a blue cloth slamming a hammer on ice. It cracked. Fissures of released refracted pressure, jagged lines and imperfect beautiful white lightning spread deep inside ice. Holding global warming in her left hand she smashed it with all her power and strength fragmenting ice, floe chips and elemental particles.

A sharp piece of frozen ice pierced Lucky’s left eye. The sensation of pain was minimal, immediate and directly cushioned by the delicious cold feeling of ice melting through a retina, cones, rods, a pupil, nerve endings, frontal lobe, cerebral tissue, and layers of perception altering his visual organic sensation as ice light transmitted new electric signals from rerouted optic nerves to the cerebral cortex following a path of synapses. 

Enhanced visual acuity reflected everything. The stimulant was all. The world is made of water seeing crystals shimmering in ice mirror kaleidoscopes. Illusions of truth, pleasure, pain and drama danced. Long jagged beautiful sparkling universes emitted glowing crystal rivers. Everything he saw, heard, touched, tasted and felt was ice.

Sibylline language.

She dropped the block of ice into the box. Collecting chips in a glass, she added fresh thick brown coffee, sweet condensed milk extract, a straw and a spoon. She handed it to him. Here, you look tired and thirsty, I am, thanks, I’ve been walking all day. It’s delicious. You’re welcome.

She assaulted ice with a hammer shattering fragments to refresh java, coconut and sugar cane juice. Ice blocks melted latent potential. She bagged a block of ice and handed it to a cycle man. He gave her crumbled Real notes.

An old woman in pajamas sweeping dust heard ice weep, “Hope is the greatest evil. Her daughter whispered, “Evil doesn’t exist. It’s a myth.”

History, war, violence and predatory politicians screwed Cambodians, said Rita handing Zeynep, Leo, Lucky cold impermanence.

“Reading and writing is for idiots,” a Turkish man said to his attachment’s delight. “I am proficient at eating and fighting. I’ve been killing people for 4,000 years little thing.”

Z said: I am a camera. Close my aperture to f/8 or f/11 for depth of field. I am a snow leopard in hot sun on Himalayan ice. I am a human mirror reflecting mud and meadows of reality. I am Winter Hawk winging free. I am resilient Bamboo.

I am love - a blind whore with a mental disease and no sense of humor. Love is in the air. Run for cover. I am Patience, your great teacher.

I am mindfulness.

I am breath.

I inhale life and exhale death in a random universe.

I am blood red ink drawing in dust and unloading words for a book called TLC to be explored, experimented and abandoned.

Wearing a burgundy pashmina shawl from Lhasa before the Chinese invaded in 1959 with Re-Education propaganda/publicity machines of terror, fear, suffering and death I smell like fresh Anatolian laundry in a gentle spring breeze.

Ice Girl in Banlung

The Language Company