Shame sings in Tibet - TLC 60

My name is Li Bow Down. I am in charge of the Tibetan Monastery Re-Education Through Reform Program.

My masters called me out of retirement. I was screwing concubines playing mahjong and enjoying Fujian tea with friends at Shangri-La Free Land Resort. Authority ordered me to get my old ass back to Lhasa and take care of THE problem.

They gave me a fire extinguisher to douse immolating monks. Ah, the ignobility.

Give a man a match and they’re warm for a moment.

Set them on fire and they’re warm for the rest of their life.

Li showed Lucky a grainy B&W image. Here’s an uncensored image of what happens to people in the pogrom program. See this woman. She is denouncing her family, friends and most important, herself in public. We are big on shame.

We are the masters. Peasants are the puppets.

“Shame on you,” yelled 1.7 billion puppet people. “Shame. Shame. Shame.”

This is one of our most popular and effective methods of creating a harmonious society. It works wonders because memory serves me well and it does, mind you, serve me like a slave.

We’ve been coercing people for 5,000 years. Pick your favorite dynasty.

We use to put them in wooden stocks with their crimes painted on paper necklaces and parade them through town. They confessed. We call it self-criticism. Samzen. They were denounced in public. Talk about blatant social disapproval.

Now we just shoot them down like dogs in the street.

Maybe you think I am joking, making this up. I didn't make it to the top of the egalitarian scrap heap by bowing down to big nosed foreigners telling me how to maintain Control and Power in Tibet to keep monks serfs and slaves quiet.

They are all illiterate peasants.

As you know because I say so the Lhasa monks provoked the young, naive, scared, armed and alarmed People's Reactionary Liberation soldiers on March 10th in Year Zero.

The rest is history, well, not real history because we rewrite history when it suits our propaganda purposes. It’s easy and convenient. Speak memory.

Life is cheap here. More tea?

History is the symptom. People are the disease.

The Language Company

 

move like a river

Move like a river, rest like a mirror and respond like an echo.

Create like a God, order like a King and work like a Slave.

Laughter and Orphan and characters are dazzled by the embroidery.

Help others be more human.

Clean ears of years, tears and fears after four months of hearing V road grime.

Clear hearing channels. Auditory clarity.

Silent orange robed monks pass through.

Roll along a mist river before dawn. Silver surface is quiet.

Nails trim voices, blue cotton fabric discusses threads.

A girl with bamboo baskets of sun oranges balances her long walk from a truck near boats as women pray for sustenance in fog light. Her destiny is uphill past rising smoke, villages, cooking fires, warmth, hot noodles, steaming steps in rhythmic fashion she continues...

The road is made by walking.

The void of substance.

Boua Mon - weaver, 32, once eclipsed since we met at her village loom. Absorb her illuminated smile, grace, centered way.

In her absence everything possible or improbable happened. Ghost-self dreamed her into being as Anita butterfly skimmed the joy of exile. A man on his yellow bike waved, smiled, and rode away. Afternoon sun decorated green mountains.

Shuttle music and hospitality with Boua just sitting as she weaves, aligning threads, sharing food, incomprehensible women conversations. Her smile is radiant.

open hand holds everything

A waterfall discovers a curbed grate. Grateful gravity.

A thin blue line is mindfulness.

A dragonfly hovers those words. A fragile and precious object.

Riding Mystery in LP one day before Xmas. 

Ghost-self passed: elephants, ticket agents, airlines, guest houses, women sweeping, cooking, aroma, pizza, golden wats reflecting dawn, TRIBES of sad bleary-eyed European tourists stumbling along their personal path of insight, peace, serenity, calm heart-mind.

Ghost-self sang, "oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day, everything's going my way," humans stared as words penetrated ears - sounds swirled through layers of sensation seeking meaning. ZAP!

A young orange robed monk swept the world's dust.

Cleaning the world of sensation and perception.

Dancing down days with Laughter.

Laughter's soft eyes gestured, An open hand holds everything.

Article 301 in Deep State - TLC 59

“Deep State is a system composed of high-level elements within the intelligence services, military, security, judiciary and organized crime,” said Zeynep.

*

“In summation your honor,” said a defensive attorney from the Land of Smirking Tomatoes, “my client is innocent of personal responsibility and conspiracy charges to overthrow the Deep State. We rest our case.”

 “Your discovery evidence in Article 301 while standing accused of insulting the Deep State is weak and inconclusive,” said a Turkish judge on a political payoff hiding Graft behind his back. “Your motion for acquittal and adjudication is forthwith dead and denied.”

“May I change my plea your honor? May I resume my please bargaining and negotiating hardball tactics on behalf of free speech? May I speak without fear of insulting the schizoid Turkish state, dead hee-haw headless horsemen heroes, nationalism, conservative Fascism and fundamentalism in the form of Islamic religious heroin addiction?”

“That’s a mouthful of here say. File a brief size small with elasticity.”

“Turkey has imprisoned more journalists than Iran and China,” said Zeynep. “Turkey ranks 154th out of 179 countries for Freedom of the Press.”

“Freedom is knowing how big your cage is,” said Lucky.

“Freedom is having no choice,” said Zeynep with an existential twist of sour lemon.

The Guardian

The Language Company

grains of rice

Clean clear cold foggy dawn.

5 a.m. is shawl shadowed on a blank deserted street.

You walk in a glimmer of silence.

Smell cooking smoke. Yellow fire flames on a corner. The woman from last year.

She has a long partial memory.

Her wok oil bubbles in cast iron bowl above forested wood, glimmering bright yellow caresses orange.

Heat. Ritual of fire is repeated from mountainous Phongsali in the north to the south.

Fire & wood.

Before sunlight beams orange silent monks walk single file.

They greet worshipers offering grains of rice.

Dreamlike apparitions follow daily step by step along a path whispering with their eyes seeing fire.

No attachment in this transitory visual blessing.