Drone on

Greetings,

After class I am walking on green carpeted space (imagining I'm in a small sleepy Cambodian river town) listening to two Frenchmen talk about their boring travels using a Lonely Planet book,

ok, it's a lonely planet, it's Earth after all, understanding how their experience contains all the wisdom of the same-same but different philosophy - what did they expect on a beautiful blue marble dancing in space

droning on like a Predator drone zeroing in on Afghan mountains where shrouded cloth covered humans cowering on THEIR lonely planet inside remote mountain caves near impossible borders

wait for the droning tourists to assault their position with illiterate guides: Sleep here. Eat here. Go here.

Armed with the sharp attentive diamond eyes, a precious precocious girl wrote words with red ink using a new Chopin piston fountain pen on this onion skinned Moleskine paper. It is a medium. M. It has a weight, a heft, a thick solid feel to its base, the black resin manifesting the ink, visceral realists. 

Savoring a feeling of tactile sensation - this nib, this edge of finding small joy seeing ink flow, this tactility, this delightful smooth flow, she dances a singularity.

It was a joy, slow and precise dancing ink on paper. The Art of Writing.

Simple on lonely planet.

Metta.

The library at Beng Mealea on a living planet.

MK 89

Greetings,

Milling around is a way of life. Audio research indicates that milling is a cure for boredom, anxiety and creativity.

MK 89 contains all the secrets necessary to make milling around an essential part of your short life.

Metta.

MK 89...

10 year old wordream

Greetings,

Yes, a year now a days glancing toward assessment of healthy foods. Fourth graders are teachers. Simplicity, sanctuary and serenity. Draw wisdom in red, green, blue, black. 

The cosmic free writing class of curious explorers. Begin an admirable multi-hued rainbow experience. Inside/outside their small infinite portal. No fear. Dialogue of light and color spectrums. 

The Little Prince. What is essential is invisible to the eye. Accepting responsibility for living things, planting new gardens, new colors, green life promise, their beauty, truth, creativity, art, dance, music, joy, kindness and compassion. 

How you manifest this reality, this waking dream, this transience, this small immediate flash of lightning. Gratitude releases all the beauty.

What color are your dreams? 

Why are you so relaxed when you play?

I have nothing to prove.

Metta.

Dream big - draw big

Greetings,

This is the day of my dreams: The color of a hammer on brick. A trumpet, cement smoothing tool, dance.

A bike. Free wind pushing a child. A clean clear air song. High grey clouds.

Process becoming: Butterflies: yellow, white, brown, black, orange speckled. 

Closing down the connections. Absolving thieves their mysteries. Selling toys.

I am the Rocket Tourist at 20% operating capacity. 

The Marxist tools of production: knife, hoe, axe, elephant control stick, scythe, hammer.

Her daughter's card was the Master. Her card was Intensity. His card was the Rebel. After a dinner of grilled salmon, green salad, black olives, and fresh hot bread in Bursa they went to a cafe high above the smell and music of a river.

The river flowed strong and fast from Green Mountain. Dancing with stars was a silver-white crescent moon. They listened to water as the river cried. It was cold (May) and she wrapped his long soft leather jacket around her shoulders. She was happy.

Her daughter sat across from them drawing in this book (filled with transformations and great powerful understanding. Waves) and drinking hot chocolate. She was happy. Although now, only 8 and a strong willed child, she was a guest performer musician (piano) and character actor. She looked at them and said, Being correct is never the point.

Please put the blue sky on the white table. Unfold it gently. It is fragile and may be slightly creased along the horizon.  

Am I a clown searching along the ground for an appropriate mask?

Am I this or am I dreaming? 

Metta.

Art Women

Greetings,

The sewing woman returned to her guesthouse early with her girlfriend to change clothes, spit into red roses and splash water on her face.

She kick started her cycle and they went to the market, deep inside the labyrinth to her corner stall. She unlocked multiple locks, stacked wooden shutters and dragged out her sewing machine, ironing board and iron.

She lined up manikins. They wore her work: exquisite yellow, purple, blue, white shimmering silks decorated with sparkling faux-paws silver stars, moons, and small round reflecting balls. Her work was for women needing refinement, special elaborate occasions; weddings, funerals and engagements.

She did good work and stayed busy. Serious fittings and adjustments. 

Her sewing universe: process, fabric, measurement, ironing backing, a ruler, white chalk to mark pleats, cutting, sewing machine treadle, edges, pins, threads, trimming edges, hand sewing clasps, shiny connections, ironing.

Inside this slow prism threads of nets flashed light and shadow, needles danced through cloth in endless conversations. The needles talked about traditional values and the opportunity cost. They perform quick precise calculations to establish a stop-loss figure

smashing blocks of ice inside a bag with a blunt instrument creating a symphony of hips rolling outside these unspoken words as a homeless man with a pair of tired brown pants thrown over a shoulder using a solid walking stick sits down to rest and shy women avert their beautiful seductive deep pool eyes

women manipulate stacks of printed government issued paper trusting a perceived value in exchange for goods: meat, fruit, gold, fabric, counting and arranging denominations inside broken beams of light, cracked cement, lost mislaid wooden planks, debris, feathers,

jungles, jangled waves surveying commercial landscapes with the quick dispatch of dialects as Black H'mong girls far away near Sapa rivers and waterfalls express their creation story

Metta.