Twinkle

Dive deeper than subterranean unconscious dreams.

Nail girls protected by large floppy hats seeking cuticles needing a trim canvas sand sun lovers.

String theory bracelet girls traverse grains of the universe. Boys ply sunglasses. The future is brilliant.

A girl balancing a bamboo platter of pineapples, mangoes, bananas, paring knife, plastic bags and sharp sticks prowls sand from dawn to dusk.

People watch people watching people. It's the thing - look without understanding.

A narrow blue and white boat arrives on sand. A boy throws out a rusty anchor.

Backpackers from islands unload kilos of memories, dreams and reflections.

Boatman launches five large empty water bottles toward land grab.

Mid-day sun shimmers above shaded tables as massage clients smothered with oil feel muscled women knead bronze skin tone epidermis as children laugh, run and play in surf near extreme serious a-dolts and retirees wondering how they ended up in paradise removed from frozen Europe hearing dulcimer hammers at a nearby five-story Chinese hotel cement project.

Swimmers plunge into H2O covering 70% of Earth.

Couples embrace cold drinks behind mirrored sunglasses.

Fat white Russians slobber UV 30 on skin drink cold beer discussing nuclear options against NATO.

99.9 % of beach people stare at phones.

Strangers accustomed to cement pavement feel sand. Danger.

Watch your step. Cautious sensation.

Babel languages whisper a Sappho wind oracle singing iambic pentameter odes with save face time.

Spit in the ocean.

Restless orange diamond light crashes into sunset.

Red sun white waves blue sky green islands. Floating world.

Silver waves lap shore

White crescent moon hangs by a thread

Stars sing with their light

I am twinkling

Create your life sandcastle

Rinse and repeat

A brown butterfly dances with green waves singing sand

Grow Your Soul

Girl

The girl and her blind father. Music on the street. We met in 2017 and 2020.

Now he plays laments on a broken street hoping foreign eaters will put money in her orange plastic pail.

She positioned him touching the rear of a parked motorcycle for security and trust where he'd be safe.

We made eye contact, she smiled, radiant, older now, taller in a simple blouse, shorts, flip flops, smiling, Thank you.

She moved from table to table. He played a haunting refrain on his simple long neck three-string instrument.

She returned and took the strap from his waist as he played. She led him past hair salons, a closed bookstore, a high end seafood and pepper restaurant, a bar filled with drunk European males.

Music faded in the night.

Canvassing the old market.

Process

Foreign couples wearing polarizing shades of ignorance incredulous doubt and wonder stroll sand staring inland at strangers staring back.

Walking eyes survey tables, chairs, people and eateries.

Strangers all. Scarce few see sea.

No drugs. No weapons. Leave your ego at the door.

Sweating runners with pulse armbands tread grains.

Workers set up beach lounges, switch on espresso machines, fire up kitchen stoves, hack ice, replenish beer supplies.

Waves erase footprints. Sleeping canines cur into sand.

Beach orchestra builds its daily tempo.

A young Italian woman unfolds a blue towel on sand. She lies face down. Pushing up with her arms she assumes a yoga posture eyes straight ahead on a blue green sea. Her spine weaves vertebrae like a wave. Calm centered grounded and focused.

Visitors stagger from beds, walk foam, eat, stare at waves evolving from a flat lined horizon holding green island hideouts. People plan to sit or go. Yes go. Go for a walk, a swim adventure.

1) kick boxers attack mangoes, chop ice while shifting gears after school in the wind

2) six month cradle infants wail at the hospital for a blue placebo pill

3) oven fired waffles scrapes a boy pedaling his bike seeking recycled trash before wicker baskets say hello

4) spare change searches for user value collecting cardboard images in a squall

5) red ink meets onion paper at an intersection whispering secrets without speaking sparrows

 “I want to know the truth mother. Living safely is dangerous.”

“The truth,” she said, “is that life is an absurd comic process. If you laugh you last. Our illusionary insecurities and real authenticities evolve. Life is a celebration, a dance and process of becoming. It is a beautiful harsh short messy dream come true. It’s magic. We adapt, adjust and evolve. There’s no rhyme or reason. Life is not a career, it’s a game.

Celebrate

I just want to celebrate
Another day of living

Vocabulary of touch

Pleasure principle sensuous femme fatale guide

Mutual satisfaction
Release tender tension

You stash your bags in a simple bamboo room
cut through a distorted distracted disrupted deserted
zone of empty rattan chairs to the beach
It stretches from Sin City to expensive southern resorts
M/F teams rake mourning sand

Grains complement musical melodic waves
breaking the shore day after day
Enjoy a slow walking meditation on a long empty beach

Breathe in - out
Water music laps ankles
Yellow dawn streaks sky
You salute the sun

Celebrate another day of living

Three green islands float long ago and far away on an event horizon
Bright red, blue and yellow tourist boats plant anchors
Engines hum fuel songs

Day unfolds. A lotus grows from mud.

Angkor Wat

Baraka

Somebody released mad dogs and they ran howling at the crescent moon. They needed shots. Their remission hung over a small part of the world like a bad smell. It seeped into the water supply, the after taste was bitter and it did not go down well at all.

There was a run on thrift shops singing, “Goodwill to Zenmen and peace on earth.”

Death masks sold out. Humans addicted to chaos and distractions dressed themselves in clothing called Hope, the greatest evil. Torn and patched in places it needed a stronger thread. Someone suggested improving immigration standards, fingerprinting every human on the planet, bard wire and eye scan IT which were rejected with derision and contempt by human rights organizations.

There wasn’t enough wire to go around the tree of life. They’d have to call the exterminator to clean up the mess. They collected carried and exchanged heavy change.

“Get your FEAR here,” yelled unemployed people of all nationalities. “One size fits all.”

People flapped their sugarless gums at unemployed dentists while flapjacks sizzled on the grill. The heat was on. They cooked with expensive imported natural gas.

Advertising promoted: Free Fear For All - Buy 2 and Get 1 - Not Free For All.

It was fear and ignorance. The big “F” in the law of averages. Statistical studies created its own metamorphosis.

FEAR - Face Everything And Recover or Fuck Everything And Run Away.

“The fear beast is big, rambunctious, hungry and never sleeps,” Omar said. “It does not recognize rational intellectual dissertations. It demands more energy. It creates and morphs into manifestations of it’s well defined beginning. It exists in the hearts and minds of the people. The fruit is bitter and destined for export markets with no restrictions on trade barriers.”

Little Nino joined them on the story train. “Imaginary barriers went up toward children flying kites in Central Asian mountain villages at the edge of refugee camps where they received food, shelter, education and medical care.”

“Then what happened?” Point asked.

“Circumstances beyond their control, beyond their comprehension compelled them to spend days and nights watching television, tuning into cable news bulletins and meeting their strange transparent neighbors flying star flags and kites from roofs before subtle frequencies permeated their consciousness. Their daily priorities shifted in the drama of life. Trick or treat played on every corner before a spring war ran through inner city projects. It was the inevitable catastrophic event.

"The towers of Babel and world order monetary power disintegrated. Artificial time collapsed. We are in The Law Of Real Time now. This reality created the fear that people experienced. It’s been well marketed by governments after the fact," said Little Nino.

“The irony was not lost on Point surveying the Rue De Castaella in Cadiz,” Omar said. “He memorized 3,000 years of history for his friends.”

“He sent them gifts,” said Nino. “Mirrors. Mirrors, many blank, others displaying terror faces, words written backwards, images of people, places and things and a box named Pandora. Pandora became one of their favorite things by Coltrane. They never knew, from one exploration to the next what they’d find in the small packages he sent from the way.”

“One thing they knew,” Omar reflected, “was how they communicated via telepathy. They experienced an exotic flow of spirit energies bathing them in a crystal light. They slowed down. They cultivated a diamond in their mind. Baraka and silence.”

“Such a fascinating story,” said Nino. “Could it be true?”

A Century Is Nothing