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Whisper

Laos

It's a walking meditation.

How do you spell loss?

What I called "memory" contained an entire world.

Imagination is memory.

A blind painter paints from memory. A blind writer. A blind poet. A blind musician.

Painted words of yellow laughter.

A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom.

The old monk in the shade reads to his 95 year-old blind friend resting/dreaming in a hammock.

The wailing infant gets a job as a siren on an emergency vehicle.

Once upon a rainy day Whisper paid attention to sensations.

Whisper paid Now.

Whisper is Now. Not Later.

A heavy deluge increased the density of murmurs and ideal idea voices sat quiet.

Voices heard rain bouncing off recycled Asian war PSP sheets in sheets. Steady yellow Agent Orange rain hijacked a life jacket.

He shuddered with the sensation that an entire life had ended that day.

Another unpredictable life was beginning.

Designing the charcoal elements of crisp fire as infants scream at talking heads women drive young ones crazy in out in out their tongues banging like pistons on a desultory 125cc engine propelled by virgins returning home with their unblemished shy dignity intact.

One woman fans skewered buffalo meat to a crisp.

A grandmother cradles an infant. She suffers from diabetes Type II.

Shuddering wedding photos are frozen on a wall. It never turns out like people imagine.

They breed, work and get slaughtered. They trade hands and hearts.

She skewers another hypnotic form of laughter to preserve her conversation.

Fat lost European tourists waddle past.

With an accusatory tone men get smashed on beer Lao.

A mechanic hammers one sharp line of description vs. mundane observation.

Hand Wings

She spoke with her hand wings. Short, fast and deadly.

She dreamed of writing a short story, perhaps flash fiction.

Nervous, she selected a pen. She unscrewed the black ebony summit. She opened a black notebook. She made a pot of green tea. She started with flowing calligraphy letters.

My life began in a village. I don't need to leave my village. My village is the world.

Her story emerges from nothing. Discover a point of departure, a direction.

She drew a picture. It looked like this.

An illusion of a mirage - the soul filled with silence, an abyss in which the whole world disapears beneath the pressure of a single thought, memory, look.

Meaning and Sense.

Meaning shows itself at once, direct, literal, explicit, enclosed in itself.

Sense cannot stay still radiating out in directions that divide and subdivide. The sense of every word is like a star hurling spring tides out into space, cosmic winds, magnetic perturbations, afflictions.

 

Every August

“Tell us a story,” said kids.

"I’ll do my best,” said a Zen monk. "I heard this story from a friend in The Windy City and it’s stranger than creative nonfiction. Somebody said August is the cruelest month. The hottest. A local 15-year old girl killed herself yesterday with a single shot to the head. Makes you wonder who, when, where, how and big WHY.

“Last August it was M in Chi town. The perfusionist. She called a wrong number out of desperation and I inherited the inevitable task of talking her through the drama of her life. I answered the phone in Tacoma and kept her on the suicide hot line. It produced basic peace of mind for her. I created poems and an intense piece entitled The Last Several Pages about a book she was reading. She said was going to join a procrastinators club but kept putting it off. She married a real estate salesman. They lived happily ever after.”

"Walking through fire," said Omar the blind author of A Century is Nothing.

"It was a tough one. All about listening, recognizing faces of fear, seeing truth. Letting go. Moving on. Finding balance.

"Another August rolled around. Out of curiosity I called one of those 900 relationship toll-free numbers and left a message: Independent orphan seeks open-minded spirituality adept woman for casual relationship and friendship.

"Did you get any response?" said Omar.

"Three. The Relationship Express hummed along tracks stopping at stations named Loneliness, Emptiness, Friendship, mid-life Crisis, Ticking Time Bombs, Endless Conversations, Rhapsody of the Disenchanted, Still Looking After All These Years, and Where’s The One? It zoomed past scenic views of Depression, Melancholy, Trust, Hope, Anxiety, Doubt, and Fear.

"I transited into the listening role with a couple of new women from Montana facing self-discovery, broken relationships and renewal. We're riding the range, mending fences, and setting up new parameters. Now I love women, yes sirree, well all right then this curious nature of heart-mind making new connections. I’m not saving anybody. All the stations have various levels of becoming. Passengers stuck on personal growth levels bang heads and hearts against illusions grasping their Gestalt, shattering mirrors and delusions. They work out in private emotional, physical, spiritual fitness centers. Levels replace levels. Each level has a center. The vortex is the equilibrium, the source."

"We are works in progress,” said Omar.

"I’m just doing my work.”

“That’s a powerful statement,” said Omar.

"Yes it is. Now I wouldn’t be the first person to say it’s healing work but I’ve learned to listen. Not all the clowns are in the circus. I make it perfectly clear to these kind ladies that I am not in the rescuing business anymore. Nope. No way. Honesty is the best policy and I’m not in the mood to waste our time and collective energies establishing a Heavy Deep & Real relationship. HDR.

"The emotional bottom line is they’re looking for a kind, sensitive man who won’t screw around and fuck up their lives. They’ve been cheated on, dumped on and left taking care of the kids. They need someone who will just listen to them without saying, ‘I can fix it.’ They know what’s what. They know how the world works, how the heart beats. They have their own toolbox. You’ve gotta have a good tool box."

"Tools. Couldn’t agree with you more, " said Omar.

"We’re all passengers on life’s train," said a Zen monk.

It’s the Circus Train!

A fall loon circles above schools of minnows. I stand in Puget Sound shallows as the Florida circus train rolls north. I yell and wave amid swirling dervishes. Rapid tides breath in and out.

“It’s the circus people. Step right up under the big Irish bog top.”

People wave from their moving life station. Tired eyed circus veterans stand next to clowns filming water lap land. They reload memories into instamatics. Midgets peer over the edge of an abyss next to sturdy muscular mustached roustabouts.

Everything they need in their magic portable city is on rolling stock - water trucks, tents, buses and animal cages. A bright red ‘For Sale,’ sign in a train window. Someone decorated a rolling window with a plant garden spilling into water vapor. Another displays a hanging toy elephant.

They live their dream life on rails. Caged people living with watered and fed animals. Routines: set it up, do the show with all the temerity of tenacious trainers, take it down, pack it up, load it up rolling miles this gleaming circus waving hello goodbye as ocean waves a silver fish and one sparkles skyward.

When they reach the Canadian border they reverse engines to roll east through Big Sky country toward winterized Florida.

Rare dawn light passes sleepy stations bathed in dew diamonds.

Riding the rails follows spirit journey.

“The simple way is to listen, detached, share and establish levels of responsibility, limitations and boundaries remaining open to the big picture,” said a monk.

A shadow carrying a candle passed them in the dark.

"Not too much wisdom and not too much compassion, whispered a wandering monk climbing a Cold Mountain toward a bamboo cabin sanctuary.

"Who are you?" said a child.

"I am a wandering monk."

"Where are you going?"

"To gather medicinal herbs for tea."

"Would you care to join us later?"

"Yes. We all have (a) ways to go."

"That’s a powerful story. Your friend is onto something there. She touches what people deal with in their daily lives formless form and emptiness. It’s not fiction. Or is it? Is it a lie layered with your imagination to make it true?”

"Good question. Omar speaks and writes from the heart-mind. There are people who don’t want to hear this stuff, but say hey kid, they can take it or leave it. I’m willing to take her at her word. It’s about the human condition."

"Well said. Life is something to be lived and not talked about. What say, shall we rest here awhile, enjoy some food, companionship and a siesta?"

Everyone gathered in a sacred circle. It was all light in their interior shamanistic landscape.

Weaving A Life, V2