My work, my face, my hands

Greetings,

I work with my hands. They are my tools. I make balconies and beautiful iron and steel structures. This is my life. This is my job, my work, my passion.

I work in an area of town filled with friends, voices and hammers. Do you remember the ancient dying art of blacksmithing? I come from a long line of blacksmiths. My working environment is filled with the daily music of hammers on metal. Listen carefully to the forging of metal.

Peace.

Primitive life

Greetings Earthlings on your little amazing day,

Here's a thought for you when you feel alone.

"Primitive life is very common and intelligent life is fairly rare...some would say it has yet to occur on earth." - Steven Hawking.

He also said, "Watch out if you meet an alien. You could be infected with a disease with which you have no resistance."

Hmm, a disease. Maybe love, kindness, travel, artistic passion, 1,001 nights and laughter meets the criteria. Insert your disease here __________.

It's snowing flower petals. It's snowing flowers in April.

Or, as the Chinese hunter said to the alien using a photo machine, "You gotta hunt if you want to eat."

So simple. Amazing.

Peace.

My name is Erhan

Greetings,

I am a Camera.
I am a cool cat in the sun.
I am the cooling love, love shove in.
I am red ink inside dust unloading cans of paint for a project to to abandoned.

Wearing a burgundy shawl found in Lhasa, before the Chinese invaded with their patriotic re-education pogroms, programs and propaganda machines.

I smell like clean laundry’s spring dance.

I am your masseuse. I have been here since 1555. My name is Erhan. I work in a large domed room where, during daylight, rays of sun shaft down at precarious precious angles, slanting along humid walls, glancing off tiled mosaics where blue and green and yellow tiles sing.

At night, stars sing with their light.

The dome has a large central eight-star perfect symmetrical hat. It is surrounded by sixteen more stars in a geometric pattern. And this is where I live. I work here. I raised my family here. I will die here. This was, is and will be my fate.

In the afternoon after noon prayers the men return to the tea house.

Under the muted tones of male stories, gossip and myth, small silver spoons-dance inside glass.

I live in a world of water above ground where the tea and conversations meet in companionship and community.

Someone else is writing this. It is a Friday and he is drinking thick black coffee with a silver glass of water. It is wonderful to be surrounded by strange friendly strangers and people. Long oral music tongues - footsteps, the turning of newspapers - slurping tea and his eyes are heavy, lids of fingers down.

Peace.