tm leonardsun dance
I dream the Sun Dance of the Plains people.
Nations gather in late spring celebrating a four day cycle of rituals and creation dances.
Dancers choosing self torture will have their chests pierced by skewers.
They will hang under the weight of buffalo skulls for 24 dances.
Their sacrifice will be successful if they have a vision during their trial.
The sun is going home to the earth.
One vision is all you need.
Red dust town
Namaste,
The machine world in Banlung roared, reversed, revered and resounded with the musical machine opera.
Chugging down the street, old trucks recycled from devastating and catastrophic wars, death and suffering with bombings, genocide, insurrection, forced labor, starvation, land mines and descriptive historical footnotes blended black diesel dust, billowing forgotten memory into the breeze. It danced in swirling red dust.
The remote wild west red dust town, smaller than a city, bigger than a village welcomed smaller. The dexterity and fortitude of thousands in a flip flop world of opportunity, risk, chance, fate, and destiny ate pastries and delicious yoghurt, in many flavors. Ambiguity, contradictions, paradoxes took everything for granted.
Assumptions wore Blue Zircon seeing harlequins.
Destiny rested as noon heat reflected anxieties. A bored mistress washed her red underwear in a river. The exhilaration of washing introduced her to a cloud. Lightning flashed.
Children in red and white dusted Santa caps dragged their expectant mothers toward dusty chrome plated display cases.
This one! This one!
On main street a happy girl of 13 sawed ice. She sold blocks of ice from a large portable orange plastic box. Her smile and pronunciation were perfect, I am a seller.
Metta.
ice cries
Namaste,
Dreaming of ice a boy sawed crystals of clarity in a tropical kingdom. He saw but didn't see.
He stood in the back of a blue hyperventilation dumptruck with his rusty trusty bladed saw.
Blocks of ice disguised as solidified water were longer than a flowing, overflowing, flowering Mekong river feeding Asian lakes.
He unwrapped blocks. He sawed. He tapped a hammer defining worlds into melting scientific serious sections.
His friend loaded condensation on thin shoulders. He carried melting weight to a bamboo shack. He dumped ice into a waiting orange plastic box. A smiling women frying bananas over kindling gave him some money, Thank you for the cold.
Carver carved. Tap-tap-tap.
The woman assaulted ice with a hammer, shimmering blocks, refreshing beverages.
Ice blocks in shadows melted latent desire.
An old woman in pajamas sweeping dust heard ice.
Metta.
Nam iceman cometh.
i want More
Namaste,
A foreigner put a pile of gold on a table in Laos, turned to the old man squinting through one good eye and said, “I will give you this pile of gold for your daughter.”
“I want more,” said the old man. “Her face and body and heart is Lao. She has Vietnamese blood. It is supply and demand. Business is business. It’s all about user value. It’s about exchange value. No plastic. Cash only. See this machete?”
He waved it in the man’s face, cutting him off.
Nearby, two male tourists hadn’t decompressed. They tried to speak in complete sentences. It was impossible. One started, trying to release sounds, impressive words, phrases, sentences and, like a game of chess, war or conquest wearing stupidity and a clear lack of respect the OTHER one cut him off at the throat with sharp sophisticated annunciation.
A verbal machete.
Frustrated, he grimaced suffering severe brain damage. Short circuit. Transmission lines went down. Thud. Crash. Burn.
In their remote jungle village near the River of Darkness they carved images of their dead.
Metta.
