Play in the water

After work as she waited for her ride they sat talking in his car, sharing a love for literature at dusk in the shadow of Camelback Mountain, Arizona. She was a young tough beautiful woman from Alaska.

“I haven’t even had one,” she said.
“What’s the problem?”

“I don’t know, it’s just that I think too much, you know, about if I’m doing the right thing.”
“What do your partners say?”

“Oh, they always say it’s ok but still, I get pretty frustrated.”
“Maybe you need a lover who is more patient, kind and understanding. Someone gentle.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”
“You know,” she said, “I even get embarrassed at the thought of taking a shower with someone else.”

“Why’s that?” He was smiling, remembering lovers and hot showers - the heat, soap, vapor, bodies, laughter.

“I don’t know,” she replied sarcastically, “there’s nothing to do. It seems boring - I can’t stand to even have someone touch me.”

“Oh it’s great fun! Think of it as two kids playing in water.”

“Yeah. That’s a new way to see it.”

Daylight faded west past a praying monk rock formation. Her ride came.

“Enjoy your book,” he said as they laughed.

She got out and slammed the door.

At the border

He cleared customs, his throat and spent shell casings. He exchanged one denomination of printed paper money for another undetermined valued added currency with a malnourished homeless child.

The child's wearing blood red ragged shorts and broken sandals. He's sticking a needle into his scrawny arm standing in the gutter of his broken down existence full of suffering and futile hope in Dhaka, Bangladesh near a sacred bull wallowing in dust.

One million starving people swarmed around my pedicab beating on fractured windows pleading for help.

They screamed, “We want charity and love. We are afraid to die, to be abandoned by our friends and family. This is our karma. We have no home, no food. We are refugees from the country. We have lost hope. We are desperate and alone.”

His heart trembles, feeling a deep sadness witnessing their poverty, suffering and pain. His karma is to absorb this horror. He is not rich. He cannot save everyone. What can one person do in this world? He swallows particles of inherited dust.

He looks at ALL the beauty and cruelty without hope or fear.

Wild Horses

“Look hard. What do you see. What do you want to see?”

“Can you feel your eyeballs exploding from the heat?”

“I am afraid to tell you what you are afraid to hear.”

Always in a programmed circle, merry go round horses always in a fashion bobbing up and down on shining steel shafts, oiled and greased and well lubricated by sexual assault in wide country where there are no boundaries, no fences, gates, impediments or ticket takers. Risk takers survived.

Wild mind horses in rhythm as the electric current flows and follows rainbows across the sky. Their desert world is blood red, mottled browns littered with sage, dry washes, discarded skins. Some horses need another coat of paint, some have worn down ball bearings and cry out for forgiveness through their pain and torture.

As if on cue they break free of coated molds rear and gallop away through the park to the amusement and horror of patrons relaxing on a day when everything is quiet and taken with a grain of salt. Salt is traded for gold. Commodities. To market we go.

They stampeded their thunder warnings to the shadows as hoofs flashed lightning bolts sending people cowering into corners. Humans were frozen mesmerized in one motion. All is still as stallions with silk coats glistened and paraded past fearful human eyeballs.

Horses remained free and find their way out of the enclosure. They take no hostages, make no unreasonable demands and are allowed to remain free on their own recognizance.

The merry-go-round operator scratches his head in wonder and surveys empty poles. His eyes follow tracks left in damp soil and he knows they are gone forever. They are shadows. He is chained to the earth to pay for the freedom of his eyes.

Ubrique

Greetings,

it was good to be on the street again. he got off the bus in ubrique just after 2. the ride down from Graz was through a long glacier valley flanked by sharp dolomite gray mountains. these stones were endemic in the area.

where the romans marched. where they set up small encampments between U and G. their road was a pale shade as moss and grass gradually took back the land but the road was clear enough in places. looking close enough you could see the footprints of old sandals, feel tired legs, aching muscles, hear screams of the wounded, the cries of thirst. it was a desperate time and they were in a desperate place. they marched on and on and on. they were miles from rome.

they imported everything. they carried their lives with them on the endless twisting stone road.

everything was closing down in U and people on bikes and taking bus #11 were heading home. school was out and mothers escorted thier kids across bridges and through their young life. the old people on their crutches, their beady eyes piercing the stranger; the man with a white beard, strange clothing, black pack, the movement. he was an outsider and passing through.

it was excellent to be anonymous. to be feeling broken erratic pavement under erractic steps. no hesitation in finding the up direction on the internal compass.

it was a small spanish city with tight apartments, flowers, laundry and residents. yellow cranes constructed new worlds.

his images took over. the narrow old part of the town was up the hill. romans came here, lived here and it was easy enough to see their settlements, the remnants of their civilization. near water they built their baths, their public washing areas.

he moved along the highest area below the mountains which faced west. the settlement had been tucked into the end of the valley. smart.

at the base of the mountains the homes and roads were narrow and old. whitewashed as always, they reflected the heat. every home he passed featured a cracked kitchen window and the sound of clattering utensils and eating.

he passed old women hunched over their bowls of soup in the small dark interiors. the doors were open. small black dogs barked. people stared. he found a fine discarded piece of bamboo and used it for a walking stick, pounding on walls, stone streets, trash cans, fences, tapping the ground.

he wandered to the top of it all and down. he'd arrive at a fork in the narrow way and point his magic bamboo stick first one way and then the other asking, “Which way?" and the stick danced in the direction he could take so he did. he wandered for hours. delightful.

Peace.

The Blue Eyed Ghost of Shuangliu, China

Yes my dear friend it is true, or at least as true as can possibly be for he has returned to the beginning - and this is where his small tale begins.

Rickshaw bells and heavy groaning green and purple pedicabs propelled by thick legged men prowl through humid traffic air. No one sees him but everyone stares at the ghost. The majority are oblivious to his existence.

He walks along a broken cracked sidewalk past men hammering their work. They are building an 6-story high extension at the high school. Cement mixers, scaffolding made of bamboo, emaciated men haul crumbling red bricks, immigrants sing in the rain. Dancing along their future. The developer drives a shiny black Benz.

Streets are congested with yellow bulldozers, lorries loaded with dirt and salvaged steel pig iron, ‘City Boat’ blaring bus horns, small red cabs, - tired students trudging to lessons inside cold cramped cement caverns where teachers arrive late, leave early, smashing wooden sticks on desks to get their attention - men pedal carts of large blue plastic barrels full of leftover restaurant slop for village pigs and emotionally abused children splash water on their dreams.

He passes brown faced women in dirty white aprons chopping vegetables with sharp cleavers on scarred wood. Single girls mop cement passageways from dawn to dusk.

Dutiful daughters sweep floors or laconically stare at deaf dumb blind televisions stacked on bags of rice, boxes of detergent, hairline fractured straw mattress bedding.

This is the entertainment capital of the world !

He passes tables of retired pensioners slapping white marble mahjong pieces into tight manicured rows of strategies as orange vested street cleaning women whisking ornate hard handled bamboo brushes paint the city’s rising dust in their wide eyed wonder.

He speaks the language of silence and this comforts them. His inability to articulate his passion and suffering is only because, like you, he is a witness to this absurd reality in humanity’s garden.

He’s been here before. He trusted you to understand. The meaning of meaning was obscured by clouds of anger, fear, desire, jealousy, ignorance and attachment and you waved him away.

You cast him into deep crystal water where he replenished his spirit reflecting another glorious revolution.