My new little life - TLC 69

Whew, what a first week it was for my little existence, my little humanoid adventure. I began a new strange scary awkward weird and transforming evolutionary experience in two big human’s lives.

I begin at the beginning. It’s a start.

I fell out of my mom a female production company last week. Talk about letting go. She was big and fat and released me after pushing and pushing and she exhaled an infantile projection of freedom feeling her painful release and my pleasure with shock and awe as I came slathering, slipping through some universal ectoplasm fluid, like a gusher, whoosh, into millions of bright shining suns.

A crescendo of angels, luminous spirits, formless forms and shapes swirled like whirling Sufi dervishes in light waves and particles. Such splendor. My last nine months did little to prepare me or allow me to know anything.

I was born dead and slowly came to life.

My tiny black eyes welcomed light energy into my being. I am a galaxy.

Mesmerizing.

I am an Eagle nebula, a gathering of space dust melding, morphing into a solid state, a unified field theory. I am beside myself with wonder and delight. I joined seven billion in the stream of life.

Did you know that the world is made up of 98% helium and hydrogen?

The remaining atom particles are life and inside these atoms a very small part of that is intelligence.

The rest of the pyramid is garbage. Existence precedes essence.

What was your original face before your parents were born?

The Language Company

mask eats face

He broke down.

He returned to the bamboo shock shacks in deep rutted fields. Under cover. She wasn't there. Massage love called a sprite of 25 wearing flower ring on her finger. Silver with seven petals. Open. Consternation in his weak heart. He felt the sense of loss. Accept loss forever.

This symbol, how it transformed men's eyes into want.

This silent metallic flower only now, under a weak light as mama smiled through her destined crooked teeth, saying, Money.

Ling's 25-year young friend is beautiful, they all are, in an immature, petulant way.

Lack of confidence met betrayal.

Betrayal knew the stranger desired L.

The sensitivity of seeing the future with Awareness - Attention – Non-attachment.

Transference - emotions - an instinctual way of living objectively.

POWER

Masks - good or (d)evil?

           - money or sex

           - relationships

           - life and death

           - beauty and truth

The mask eats the face. 

Maybe, she said, being a Player. Lying in her Ling heart. No intention. Intention is karma.

She got what she needed. Money. Traded her passion for cash. You can't put passion in the bank. You can't eat passion, it eats you. Grasping is suffering.

Solvent with clear heart. Heart had nothing to do with passion. Passion sang its joy describing her minor character.

The 3-act play ran five weeks in Luang Prabang.

On opening night her love opened like a flower. It rained flowers over a lonely man.

Mutual needs were satisfied.

Intuition augured well, laughing.

It's difficult to take any of this seriously.

Posture. Breath.

Plant heliotropes. Night aroma in gardens. 

beauty has no tongue

Be the rhythm, said a woman with flaming hair.

They meditated in the weaving village. 

Lucky loved her passion for silks.

Elephants danced with zodiac symbols.

Weavers click clacked threads.

Beauty has no tongue.

Practice is allowing everything in your life to wake you up.

 

My Name is Erhan- TLC 64

I am your masseuse. I’ve lived in this Bursa hammam since 1555.

In a large domed room sunrays shafting at precarious precious angles slant along humid walls glancing off mosaic tiles singing blue, green, yellow reflections. The dome has a perfect eight-starred symmetrical hat surrounded by sixteen stars in a geometric pattern. At night stars sing their light. They give me a pleasant headache.

This is where I live and work. I raised my family here. I will die here. This is my fate in a water world where tea and conversations meet in companionship, community and conspiracy.

After the hammam and noon prayers men went to a teahouse. They whispered stories, gossip, myth, legends, fairy tales, innuendo, lies, half-truths and fabulous fictions as small silver spoons danced in glass.

Someone else writes this with a Mont Blanc Meisterstuck 149 fountain pen. He drinks thick black Turkish coffee. A silver embossed glass of water waits for fingers to leave condensation on its surface. He turned to a stranger, “Coffee should be black as hell, strong as death and sweet as love.”

“If you finish the water it means the coffee’s no good,” said a stranger.

Lucky distributed providence to oral storytellers engaging tongues, dialects, foolscap, and fading footsteps behind shadows playing cards and slurping tea. Eyelids were heavy deep visual reminders studying down all the daze.

Such a grand and glorious saga, sang Zeynep, a heroine in a vignette.

I am a short story. You are a novel.

By day I am a gravedigger, said Lucky, and a literary prostitute after dark.

We bury our successes and failures in the same grave.

On your grave are two dates separated by a dash. What’s important is what you do during the dash. Is life a dash or marathon?

Go with your flow. Flow your glow.

The Language Company

Zeynep the heroine

About Face - TLC 62

“Such a querulous quandary laundry list of regrets, what ifs, and maybes,” said a vein-veiled mother sweeping hopes, plans, and dreams down a drain-o with should, would and could tyrannies.

Turkey witnessed a long lilting laborious laughing list littered with the bones of Hunters-Gatherers, phony Phoenicians, Romans give me your ears, Greeks, Hiatus, Coitus Interuptus, Arabs, Turkmen, Templar Knights, Mongols, nomadic pastoral hoards, Sultan-A-Mets from a Botox Bronx, Uighurs and literary rascals.

“The law of fear, uncertainty, healthy doubt, adventure and surprise in real time is implicit,” said Incense feeding dead ancestors their daily diet of guilt, shame, self-loathing and remorse fortified with essential vitamins.

A Turkish slave protected by a silk scarf hiding frontal lobotomy scars after perception was removed for analysis closed her balcony door killing world music. She didn’t hear wind-spirits sing dance and drum on shattered mirrors made of sand.

Bamboo leaves shuddered inside a kaleidoscopic reflection of sky, clouds and Lung-ta prayer flags above Lhasa. They danced with drifting chorten sage smoke.

Chinese boy-soldiers marched into a blind alley next to Rampoche Monastery on March 10th, Year Zero. They were surrounded by burgundy wrapped monks chanting, “Om Mani Padme Hum, Om...The Jewel in the Lotus.”

“Lock and load,” yelled Li Bow Down. “Fire. Ready. Aim.”

They blasted chanting monks.

“About face, save face.”

The Language Company