Feng Shui

Greetings,

Wind and water. And then she ran across the stream of broken stones. She drew in her book. Mind maps, star maps, life maps. She dreamed of new beginnings, new futures. Harmony. Balance.

This dream incorporated all her past present and future dreams. It was a simple village dream where a fan methodically played circular logic inside a rhythm of the saints, this blend of light, color, dancing children and escape from the tyranny of mystery inside and outside space.

Dancing ink. A well worn page of laughter on a hot, humid overcast afternoon in Amnesia. Amnesia is a chain of 17,000 chained green islands surrounded by clear blue sea. Life underneath.

Tartaros - Chaos. Primordial darkness. Cosmos birth. Gaia - Earth. Eros - Love.

The voice of water played forever. Be a rag and bone merchant of your heart-mind.

Metta.

 

Gin and tonic for breakfast

Greetings,

This isn't about the spoiled girl-child across the street yelling and stamping her feet and bawling her poor little eyes out as her mother tries to sell junk to schoolgirls or yellow gas from bottles to trucks, meteor cycles, broken terrific anxieties and terrorized spoiled childhood raising her hand threatening to strike the girl down, down, down. The girl cowers. Fear is a great motivator.

The woman's mother sits smothered in grief listlessly counting shredded money. Money smelling of petrol. Petrol cash.

No, it's about the Australian tattooed dude on a visa run with his comatose overweight and terribly unhappy illiterate Thai girlfriend, also heavily tattooed with flowing black lines, playing her hand held computer game at breakfast as he drinks a gin and tonic at 7 a.m. They are leaving by bus for a swinging coastal town.

Do you want some breakfast? he asks. She says no. I want to play my game. Do you want a drink to get your day started? No. Have an egg. It will give you protein for energy. No. I want to play my game. Do you have my medicine he said. She gives him pills. He washed them down with G&T. Breakfast of champions.

Metta.

Neurosis

Greetings,

I'm ok. It's the world that's in a mess.

People here love to look back. It is a passion. It is a genetic molecule of fear, doubt and uncertainty. Perhaps also just a plain childish innocent curiosity of wanting the past, needing.

Yes. Focus on needs, not wants. Needs manifesting their desire. A desire for a ghost. We are all passing through. 

They look back to see if they see, yes, in their vivid reptilian imagination a ghost. Their ghost. A ghost from a family, friend, lost. Looking for clues at their personal ground zero. 

They've arrived from distant galaxies. Java man was discovered here 40,000 years ago.

So it figures, accepting an evolutionary premise, their DNA star chart continues its genetic dance today. 

I live in talking monkey zones. They eat rice. They drink water. They wash one set of clothing and hang it out to dry on poles. They burn down the forest. They harvest brooms. Their shamans bring rain. Tropical downpours allow people the luxury to wash cars. 

They use their faint star energy to look, not really seeing, behind them wondering, all the wondering. 

Food is cheap here. Medicine and education is expensive. This has nothing to do with simians. It has nothing to do with the two women sitting in a dark warung neighborhood food joint. The warung faces a tall cinder block wall. Chickens, goats and cats prowl, peck and forage through garbage and dreams.

One woman sits quietly in a deep meditation. Her friend parts her hair gently, looking for minute insects, cleaning her scalp. They take turns cleaning and inspecting. This genetic behavior is being repeated in zoos, jungles, and rain forests. Chattering oral story tellers play the gamelan, pounding out 40,000 year old tunes.

Healing the people with music.

Males wash their little toy machines. They study the accumulated grime under long yellow curling fingernails. They play chess along the road waiting for passengers. Some visit the warung to chat up the girls or eat spicy rice mixed with tofu, chicken, veggies, green chillies and deep fried snacks.

Here's one man building a brave new world. Forging new futures with a patriotic purpose. An assessment on process in a data based star cluster.

Metta.

My name is Captain Dan. I was an interpreter at MAC V during the Vietnam War. I sail out of Hoi An.

Tags Poem

Greetings,

air ash 
bangkok
cambodia china corruption
dance
earth
economy 
education
europe
family 
fear
life
music
nature new year
people travel

Metta.

Antonio Machado

Greetings,

A poem by Antonio Machado. Translated from the Spanish by Betty Jean Craige.

Walker, your footsteps are the road, and nothing more.

Walker, there is the road, the road is made by walking.

Walking you make the road, and turning to look behind you see the path you never again will step upon.

Walker, there is no road, only foam trails on the sea.

Metta.

You can't photograph a memory. - Henri Cartier Bresson