How am I supposed to feel? - TLC 14

A brilliant kid in his second year of medical school expressed uncertainty in a TLC encounter. “How am I supposed to feel when I see these patients?”

“It’s about objective detachment with compassion. Emotional distance. Doubt is good. Do what you can. The rest is silence.”

“I am one of them. I am a patient. It's hard being a doctor. I don't know enough to help them. I am learning from more experienced students and doctors.”

“Pay your dues. We are all terminal cases. What do they tell you in the emergency room?”

“They tell me how I will learn how to keep my perspective over time.”

“True. What do you do to relax?”

“I go out with my friends to a club. I go to movies. I want to forget about all the terrible things I've seen at the hospital. But I am happy being a doctor. When someone puts on the white coat they feel special. They help people. I thought about becoming an engineer like my father but I saw how he only worked with machines, how at the end of the day he would come home and talk about electricity. It was interesting but I wanted more out of life. I wanted to understand DNA and genetic structures. I wanted to help others.”

“Helping others with kindness is your gift. You’re doing good work. Thanks for sharing with me.”

“You’re welcome. Being a doctor is hard. I don’t know how I am supposed to feel.”

TLC

Tired - TLC 15

Ankara students felt tired. They loved being addicted to a phenobarbital reality altering sensations and emotional health with anti-depressants.

“Anxiety is a national problem,” said a male psychiatrist. His small silver spoon dissolved sugar cubes manufactured in a factory where hygiene conditions were abysmal.

They sat on thick embroidered cushions in a teahouse decorated with Turkish and Iranian carpets, blue amber oil paintings near a well-thumbed Zen Tarot deck.

The troubled shrink had endless neurotic patients. Predicting the future Lucky shared a meditative suggestion. “Heal them with metta - loving kindness. We are all extras in someone's film. You play a leading role. They trust you.”

 

Winterhawk - TLC 16

Winterhawk is his Fountain Penmanname.

He rolled past a sea and mountains toward Instant Bull in a train dining car. Snowfields stretched to infinity. Pink and green stems bloomed wild yellow flowers. Click clack. Shine your light. Be light about it.

The train trundled through starlight star bright first star I see tonight I wish I may I wish I might create a surrealistic memory. Dancing elemental rivers, sagas and oral transmissions married fallow winter fields.

Bundled children waved goodbye at a remote one-stop station.

Long ago and far away with a wisdom heart-mind of intent soft eyes lived in interior and exterior landscape languages.

Winter Hawk wingspread read cold air. I am free to fly. My only imaginary fear is leaving the sky. It protects me. As long as I stay below it I am safe. I feel free in dreams. It’s all instinct and sensation being crystal light easy gliding like smiling and laughing. I absorb steam vapors rising off blue-green rivers below me as I zoom over red mountains swooping through groves of tall Aspen trees singing their wavering bark dancing branches. In my vivid winter world strong wings brush reflections inside star trails. My destiny is to remember everything. Sky welcomes my wing song.

The overnight take the A train to Constantinople tracking along a blue sea passed freighters and natural gas orange flames burning stars under a bone white moon, rolling
click-clack.

A Turkish woman closed her drapes. Below her blindness
two veiled lovers escaping the tyranny of familial expectations cherishing shadows held hands in a deserted street.

Train whistles serenaded
invisible villages.

Long haul semi beams illuminated a black ribbon. Barb wire train stations imprisoned
sad-faced men staring at ground zero waiting
for life
to unfold
its precious fragrance. Moonlight released aromas of purple prosaic grapes.

An Istanbul commuter ferry churning blue water waves
in elemental light envisioned blue mosques, silver spire needles and crescent domes.

TLC

 

Divorce - Save face - TLC 17

“I know,” said an articulate woman lawyer in Unit 55 - Mastery level 68 - one day, “that my English is not grammatically perfect but I know my English is very fluent.”

“That’s beautiful and true,” said Lucky, seeing how she’d realized her confident nature to master a second language. He’d translate her awareness to students hoping her illumination would shine through their temerity.

He wrote on glass.

Foreign neurotic teachers lamented loss and dreams. One American’s joyful hyperactive energy regaled mentors with exhaustive stories about a stateside son. How he’d found a part-time job at Archery, a national discount chain, attended a technical school and bought a used Swedish car with a bloody knife in the trunk.

She talked a good game about writing. When it came down to the real work, she said, “I only write silly sentences.” She kept stringing word pearls on her lifeline. Positive therapy. She had a good heart.

Lucky gifted her a box of eight Honer blues harps before walking to Bursa. She was overjoyed. They were the only two deranged fools blowing.

Sometimes he blows and sometimes he sucks.

At TLC two drama queens from New Zealand and Scotland revealed personal horror stories of abandonment and neglect. Emotional histories expanded their quest for love with Turkish men confronting insecure masculine jealousies shattered by strangling mothers intent on controlling their little boys through prolonged adolescence rendering them insolvent and mute given to infantile behaviors and heartbreaking confusion in long strange fatal attractions.

Flower petals whispered, “He loves me, he loves me not.”

In Turkey divorce was seen as a failure. Shame on you, said Shame.

Marriage is a business deal with bad sex, said a heart broker, a form of volunteered slavery.

The majority of women knew their place and stayed in it. Blend in sweet thing. We’re in this for the long haul honey-bunny.

An emotional graveyard bloomed where mothers controlled and manipulated their offspring’s behavior, attitudes and counterfeit freedom with a heavy dictatorial hand called love. Working on love’s chain gang.

One was different. After seven months of marriage she filed divorce papers. She’d believed him in the beginning.

“I feel so much better. He lied to me. He courted me with sweet words and I thought, or believed I thought or thought I believed he had an open mind but I was disappointed because he wasn’t honest...so after weeks then months I saw his, how do you say, irresponsibility, how he wouldn’t contribute his heart to me, to our relationship and then, when I tried to talk to him he was closed to me, he shut down emotionally and I was working and trying to keep the flat up and work on our relationship but I saw it was difficult, then really impossible to live with everything in my brain and heart.”

She exhaled. “Now, when he saw my action to end the marriage he was filled with remorse and regret and apologies. But it’s too late. I told him to move out. Sent him home to his mama. He bothers me everyday in his childlike whining way but it’s over. I can handle it. I am strong and know what I want in my life. My family is very supportive of my decision.”

“Good for you. In China it’s about saving face. Fake face lies. Appearances. You’ve realized growth and self-respect. Some discover their courage, take control of their lives and some don’t.”

“I am not living the lie anymore. I feel free.”

“You discovered courage and accepted responsibility for your life. I am happy for you. Your heart-mind is calm. Be well.”

Puppet masters in Tibet - TLC 18

The endless Tibetan knot is the cycle of existence, said a monk. Existence is attachment, loss and suffering. Grasping is suffering. Suffering is an illusion. Let go.

Regrets and fears are monkey mind movies.

Pure joy, compassion, gratitude and forgiveness are clear.

Easy to say, hard to do be do.

Work like you don’t need the money. Dance like nobody’s looking. Love like your heart’s never been broken.

Nothing behind. Everything ahead, said Meditation.

Chinese-Tibetan puppet leaders in Lhasa informed monks they would increase patriotic re-education classes in monasteries. Re-education Through Reform, ideology, propaganda and fear-based thought control is the way comrades. We have Power and Control using fear and intimidation.

We wash your brain daily.

The Chinese, after looting and destroying 2,700 monasteries and killing millions in Tibet before, during and after the Cultural Revolution restricted the number of monks at the three major Lhasa monasteries, Sera, Drepung and Ganden. They recruited Tibetans as spies to live and work in monasteries.

This system proved effective from 1966-1976 when family members reported on each other neighbors and capitalist running dogs. It was a practical peoples’ campaign of fear and suspicion creating paranoia and ideological control.

Monks and nuns in monasteries who resisted or questioned this form of subtle or overt patriotic brainwashing risked imprisonment, torture and death. They knew what happened to monks and nuns at the notorious Drapchi Prison outside Lhasa.

“There are two kinds of suffering,” said a girl weaving wool carpets outside her yurt on the Tibetan plateau hearing wild blue rivers sing below mountains. “Suffering you run away from and suffering you face.”

Inside Drapchi, Chinese guards beat nuns and monks with rubber hoses filled with sand. They applied electric cattle prods to genitals, sending wire-cranked juice into skeletons, extracting screams.

“Denounce the Dalai Lama,” ordered an illiterate PLA soldier from Human Province. He tightened metal around a nun’s wrists until she screamed.

“Never.”

He wiped her blood off his broken glasses and increased pressure. Someone had to do this dull job.

“Save my face,” sang a Fujian university student, an innocent ignorant invisible victim of the one-child genocide policy. She wrung out a mop of spider webs creating water rainbows before swabbing a classroom. 15,001 students had failed higher-level exams for more prestigious institutions. They settled for this. No choice. She washed uneven crumbling cement floors with strands.

Operatic actors offstage fashioned animist death masks for a performance with a funeral formula.

“This is not a fucking rehearsal,” directed Altman. “Get to the verb.”

“Arrive on time, know your lines and wait for the check,” said the Tibetan weaver as radioactive light shafted mountains.

Rational speaking animals mumbled sounds, words, coalescing consonants, vowels and syllables. Etyms dancing with atoms made up everything with axioms of choice.