be other

Kairos - threads and looms and Three Fates.

I am afraid, the Swiss girl said, Of becoming the Stranger, the Other.

The Other. I like it, being the Other, the Outsider yet I'm afraid of always being the Other.

Why?

It's the fear I suppose, it's difficult to articulate. It's a sense of feeling apart, separate from people.

I know it, he said, I'm like that, have been for a long time. I live on the edge. I engage. I am vulnerable, open, honest yet I always maintain a sense of detachment.

How is it this sense of outside, she said.

It's objective, he said, feeling her vision escape toward the weaver at her loom, her meditation.

I am the shuttle sliding across threads, she said.

I am smooth aged wood holding two bobbins. One is golden silk thread, the other purple.

As I slide the bobbins spin at the speed of light releasing, ah all the releasing, letting go of myself trailing into, between thin black origins - the essence where I rest.

She cautions me with her fingers - purple and golden desires lie flat. She pulls her emptiness toward me, hands and feet.

I am bound to Others before and after me.

I wait for Others to join me.

I feel connected, she said.

I am part of the whole. Part of the grand design inside her dream.

I pass through. I am here and now.

weave voice

You returned, they exclaimed with a secret JOY.

Yes, she says, my dream of you is unfolding. She caresses silk threads on her loom of time. Your sensitivity and serenity calms me, he says.

It is before dawn. The Mekong river is water. Fog obscures distance. She stands at a window looking for him. He is on the river. His net flies over still deep water. Threads and knots of jungle vine land on the surface. They sink into silence.

She hears the Mekong sing. She returns to the source.

Sleep. She dares dreams, aware of voiced whispers in silence. Silence becomes her sense of desire. She follows desire . Gratitude, her awareness, calms her tortured heart.

A leaf leaves the tree of life.

Transparent water bowls sing. A purple lotus grows from mud.

She is at her loom. Her pattern begins with purple silk. This is her base. She runs threads through thin lines of balance. Twin bobbins spin out golden threads for new diamonds.

Weaving is her meditation.

Her voice. Her heart-mind, hands, fingers, and feet.

 

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.

warrior attitude

He is open minded, patient, positive, flexible, and friendly.

She is intuitive and creative with empathy, trust and respect. Money.

He paid.

They smiled.

He left protected by a white butterfly ringing a bell.

Music is the fuel.

Welcome to Planet Insane Asylum.

You are released on your own recognizance.

Create a new world. Ride a bike. Explore.

Life is the destination.

Warrior attitude.

Understanding by design.

Your story emerges from nothing. Discover a point of departure, a direction.

Mad ones sing with fools.

Ma

Ma is a Japanese word which can be roughly translated as "gap", "space", "pause" or "the space between two structural parts." The spatial concept is experienced progressively through intervals of spatial designation.

In Japanese, ma, the word for space, suggests interval. It is best described as a consciousness of place, not in the sense of an enclosed three-dimensional entity, but rather the simultaneous awareness of form and non-form deriving from an intensification of vision.

Ma is not something that is created by compositional elements; it is the thing that takes place in the imagination of the human who experiences these elements. Therefore ma can be defined as an experiential place understood with emphasis on interval.

See Wikipedia for more on this concept, and try to experience ma daily in your life.

— Shin Noguchi