buzz process

orphan's penned this BUZZ before. about getting your ears cleaned in china.

do you want to hear it? ok. 

so, I’ve heard but you can’t believe everything you hear. easy to say and hard to do as they say in China. 

speaking of hearing china in mandarin, you can get your ears cleaned there. 

what! really? 

yes. now it happened at the empty chinese opera one afternoon in chengdu, you sit down in a wicker chair and give the girl in a blue uniform 10Y or slightly more than a buck.

a group of chinese men in wicker chairs drinking tea stare and laugh at you. everyone stares at you in china because it is a zoo and you are an exotic humanoid species of endless speculation.

look at the funny foreigner! he’s going to get his ears cleaned. boy is he in for a surprise!

you sit back and close your eyes. she has all the tools; long steel wires, cotton swabs, ointment, a microscopic spoon on a post and a pair of stainless steel tongs.

she probes into your right ear with the spoon and digs out hard brown wax. she flicks it on the ground where it becomes part of Ear Wax Mountain, a brave new world order. she swabs and cleans out your ear with a small cotton ball on a thin wire.

while this is buried in your ear she taps the tongs creating a vibrating frequency. she touches the steel rod in your ear and you hear the WHIRLING! BUZZ! BUZZ! as 1,000 bees and cicadas invade your 

consciousness with a deafening crescendo. she has opened your aural chambers big time, taps the tongs again, you receive the echo chamber canyon of sound, the WHIRLING BUZZ like sandpaper being rasped against old fibers of skin or yes, the fast centrifugal centrifuge of heartbeat reactors, roaring rivers inside a galaxy of weightless streams. BUZZ!

she eases it out, massages your temples and your eyes are closed and you are dreaming you are in a chinese opera playing the role of an old dramatic hero dying at his post after proclaiming his undying love for family and harmonious social order and stability in the country.

she attacks and cleans the other ear and the vibrations take you away. BUZZ, BUZZ, BUZZ! far away.

she caresses your ears with something soft, massages your temples, and scalp and when she finishes you no longer have a hearing problem. it’s all in the listening. you’ve been buzzed back to clarity.

everything that goes in the ear comes out as language. it becomes a tool for emotion and expression.

the greatest sorrow is the death of the heart.

chakra

“We’re not here for a long time, we’re here for a good time,” the Phoenix healer said from the Valley of the Sun. After 911 her body work client list expanded faster than the universe.

People fought to see her, absorb her hands, feel her strength releasing their anger, insecurity, frustration, confusion, sense of loss, and latent repressed hatred as she delved deep into tissues finding the blocks. Blocks of time’s compressed soul fire. Blocks of tension. Blocked chakra energy lines.

She opened them up. She rekindled their basic spiritual fire, their love, healing them as best she could under the circumstances. She let them go. It was hard demanding work. She was exhausted when she got home for tea and a soothing herbal bath.

He explored Cadiz. It was founded by the Phoenicians in 1100 BC. They called it Gadir trading amber and tin. The Romans established a navel orange base.

Greeks and Phoenicians introduced the potter’s wheel, writing, olive tree, donkey, and hen to Spain. They replaced iron with bronze. Metals became currencies. People developed agriculture as growing populations built walls, towers, and castles for security. More land and crops, more food, more children required to work soil.

Romans contributed aqueducts, temples, theaters, circuses, and baths. They gave the Iberian peninsula Castilian language based on 2,000 year old Latin.

Their desire, wanderlust and greed built roads, establishing communities to satisfy impulses for cuisine, sex, music, and trade expanding their nation state.

Clay exchange

Na. They met in her village on the outskirts of town down a lost long red dust road.

It’s a miracle not to save anyone. Not to be a rich foreigner in her dead hopeful eyes, who will marry, save, rescue, support and maintain an 18-year old Lolita nymphet.

A brief transitory relationship. Money and time. Passion with the mature knowledge of a young waif’s dreams of a boy, a man, a local seismographic approval allowed by parents. Is her father alive? Men and women tongue desire.

Her form, angular face, soft skin, touch yes she is experienced in the act of love, this cannot be denied, her movements, her sense of touch tactile indicates practice perhaps a moneyed man. Local boys in the dark.

Her beauty and technique allowing her new potentials, not so much about her pleasure as taking care of business in a soft slow way before rushing from bed to douche. Dressing quickly, shyness wraps its arms enveloping her. Down a lost long red dust road.

Inside light with slow fingers and long thin ivory nails they turned clay into pots. Spinning circles danced, turning on a Wheel of Time. They finished throwing them, used them for tribal ceremonies and smashed clay pots to earth.

Clay exploded into air creating volcanic ash coating everything in a fine dust. 

beauty

This is my Beauty.

Fear and trust dance in stillness. I meditate. Calm. Centered. I am a stone cold Apsara silent dancer dancing inside my revolutionary soul. 

I feel like screaming.

The dancing hall at Preah Khan is where dancers don’t smile. They dance. They are slave dancers. They dance for the king.

He is the god-king. He resurrected his desire and fury creating new customs and new decrees for dancers. They dance for the mighty and powerful. They dance Khmer stories about war, conquest, harvests, seasons, sun and moon. 

They are submissive dances of life/death. They dance to celebrate life. They dance the celebration of tranquility. They dance or die. They wear tinkling bands of gold around wrists and ankles. Diamond diademed crowns and shimmering silk clothing. They do not smile. Their faces are frozen in the trance of dance. 

I dance to escape the tyranny. I’ve danced all my short, sweet life. The hall of dancers is surrounded by columns, portals and broken jumbled green moss stones. Stones whisper dance.

Thick gnarled silk-cotton tree roots crawl toward dancers. They dance through exposed roots, past Shiva and Vishnu. The preserver and destroyer of life. Dance movement is motivated by emotional expression. Dance is about itself. The freedom of creation. A playful existence. Life is a silent dance.

 

ears

I can’t hear them. It’s a blessing. I read lips screaming I want food. I want love. I want education. I want medicine.

I had a dream.

A grandfather in Laos is an idiot. He runs his calibrated truck. It’s his solace. I love the smell of pollution on Sunday morning. His daughter burns plastic trash. Parents and children inhale fumes. Ancestor worship.

In Vietnam it’s incense. In Laos it’s exhaust and burning plastic. In Cambodia it’s cow shit.

Youngsters respect their elders. Shut your mouth. Do not say anything to venerable grandfather. Birds sing with hammers. I feel vibrations.

Their traditional silence kills them softly. Truth is a powerful weapon. Most people are afraid of truth. Hearing, speaking, realizing truth entails risk. Daring is not fatal. Truth is a deaf mute seer in Cambodia.

Everything here is a secret. Shhh fingers on my lips. I am secretly married to a false dream of going to Australia with Thorny. He is 50, married with family there. He works for an NGO in Cambodia. He builds fake bamboo homes. He plays my father figure and rescuer.