Tribal voices spoke.
“Think of it as a small sacrifice, an offering, a form of suffering.”
“The river of life will wake you up,” said an elder. “You go up river and reach pools. They are as quiet as your mind in deep meditation. No people. Nada. Zip. Zero Homo Sapiens. You are water, stones, vegetation, soft green moss, animal skulls, blue sky, nature and sound. The sound is water. It is soft. It is all you know. You sit in the middle of everything pure and simple. It is all you will ever need.
"Water is the first thing an infant needs and the last thing an adult requests. To satisfy thirst for your dying father you will smash ice with tools. You will inhale his death and exhale his life. He was appointed to have you. You selected him to pay for awareness, to accept the responsibility of his life. You will memorize every silent sound and carry it with you. It is light and very portable.
"It will divide and multiply its flowing vibration around rocks in the stream. You are a rock and a stream. Amplification of clear water sound is a single bird throated song. Short immediate. It is heavy deep and real. HDR baby. It will wake you up, as I said. You pay attention.
"You fly away and we will never see you again. We know where you are and see you’re safe, blessed by the sound, pulse and flow being part of the river. Its magic spirit is strong. It’s flowing through civilizations, its adventure down, down, down. It’s distributing itself along the way. The stream is never ending, never beginning. As above so below.
“It is the stream of life.
“Listen to the energies. They will swallow you. You will be absorbed into the flow and you will be still. Stones sing with water. They sing their softness, their wildness, purity unimpeded, reflecting deep pools below open shadows. You are the flow.
“We move forward. Living in the past is time consuming. Nothing behind. Everything ahead. We pay attention. The road gives us our fate. Fire begins with one ember.”
“Funny,” said a child. “Someone along the way said it wasn’t the mountain they thought was difficult but the pebble in their shoe.”
“True. We will meet people and establish a mutual form of simple heart-mind language.”
“Is it paved?” asked one, “this so called road of language?”
“With good intentions, phrasal verbs, grammar, and simple present continuous obscure contextual meaning,” answered one.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” said someone in shadows.
“Is that a detour sign up ahead?” said a forward observer (FO). He was so far forward it scared some of the tribe. He was out there, testing frequency shifts.
They suspected he had a psychic ability to see stuff that hadn’t happened yet and they were at a loss, trying to figure it out. They had to trust him. They released their fear, healthy doubt and uncertainty. It was beyond, well beyond their comprehension. He mumbled things like, “You can’t step in the same river twice,” sharing stories, histories, legends, myths, dreams, and illusions.
Omar, Ahmed, and tribal survivors didn’t know if he just made the stuff up out of sheer boredom or if it was the truth of history. Much to their amazement while others carried a lot of stuff like emotional baggage, fear and generic uncertainty, he kept it simple.
His pen sketched and scribbled notes. Pencils and colors danced across Moleskine pages. They noticed in their simplicity and sympathy he carried a kid’s watercolor set. He used river streams and tributaries to mix paints. He splashed pigments left, right and center.
He loved making Fibonacci spirals. They couldn’t figure him out with their subjective abstract sense data perception tools so they relied on trust, instinct, blind faith and a crazy thing called love. Love, a blind whore with a mental disease and no sense of humor drove bus #11.
Passion creates and destroys.
They were blessed by their imperfections. He used life to create art and used art to celebrate life.
Many adults in the tribe being programmed and conditioned cynical skeptics didn’t get it. Indigo kids were clued in to his natural wild mind and trusted him. Implicitly. Their collective language transcended words. There were 6,912 known living languages on Earth and he spoke every one.
He was cognizant a spoken language on the planet perished every two weeks.
“We have a huge responsibility here. No language no culture,” whispered FO. “Culture is what you are and nature is what you can be.”
They sang oral traditions.
They experienced seasons, celebrations, ceremonies, rites, and magic. They created and exchanged clan and tribal myths. Children heard, memorized, chanted and recited songs of their ancestors.
Weaving A Life (V4)
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