dance

A young woman with delicate hands, perfect posture, a five pointed gold star painted on her forehead and scuffed white ballet slippers waiting for the train turned to me.

Did you hear Mercy Cunningham, the dancer died?

No. What have you heard?

I study dance, that’s how I know. He was amazing. Dance is all about ambiguity, poetry, and acceptance. He had independent detachment. He had creative imagination. He said dance was isolated yet cooperating and independent. And, he said, because he believed in the magic of dance, that when you dance for a fleeting moment you feel alive.

What do you see? I asked. I see a circle of movement. A connected unity, a language in space. It’s more than that, said a one legged amputee leaning against the wall, There are five rhythms in dance.

You start with a circle, it’s a circular movement from the feminine container. She is earth.

Really? said the woman. Yes, then you have a line, from the hips moving out. This is the masculine action with direction. He is fire.

Chaos is next, a combination of circle and lines where the male and female energies interact. This is the place of transformation.

I see. And then, after chaos is the lyrical, a leap, a release. This is air. And the last element of dance is stillness. Out of stillness is born the next movement.

  

Conditioning

 Greetings,

Welcome to the world of subtle pervasive conditioning. It's a bRave New World baby.

Happiness is all. Civilization is sterilization. 

Metta.

"And always, everywhere, there would be the yelling or quietly authoritative hypnotists; and in the train of the ruling suggestion givers, always everywhere, the tribes of buffoons and hucksters, the professional liars, the purveyors of entertaining irrelevances.

"Conditioned from the cradle, unceasingly distracted, mesmerized systematically, their uniformed victims would go on obediently marching and countermarching, go on, always and everywhere, killing and dying with the perfect docility of trained poodles.

And yet in spite of the entirely justified refusal to take yes for an answer, the fact remained and would remain always, remain everywhere -- the fact that there was this capacity even in a paranoiac for intelligence, even in a devil worshipper for love; the fact that the ground of all being could be totally manifest in a flowering shrub, a human face; the fact that there was a light and that this light was also compassion"

"History is the record of what human beings have been impelled to do by their ignorance and the enormous bumptiousness that makes them canonize their ignorance as a political or religious dogma."

-Island by Aldous Huxley

Ash alert

Greetings,

One cool reality being pure wind is the stuff you get to get to blow around. Like kites.

Like toxic ash from exploding Icelandic volcanoes. This natural event traps silly humans on planet Earth. They become anxious, distraught and unreasonable. Especially when they prayed in vain to take a plane on vacation. Planes never get to go on vacation. Machines grind it out, 24/7.

Wind plays. Machines, animals and humans work. They trade their time for a handful of dimes.

What people don't see is fascinating.

People don't see the beautiful cumulus clouds of flying, swimming ash. It's 20,000 - 32,000 feet above their tired misaligned necks. Many assume it's a government plot to limit their freedom of escaping villages, towns and cities. They suspect travel and ticket agents, airlines, security screeners, dead relatives and orphans in Cambodia are all conspiring to prevent their freedom.

Humans are full of hot air. Talking heads prove this unpleasant fact. Their hot air contributes to the reality. Desperate scientists want to solve the natural ash conundrum along with other absurd activities to be famous and remembered by history.

History and Wind and Nature laugh. "HA, HA, HA."

Ash has no passport, nationality or identity theory. Ash is a gypsy. Ash is not discriminated by Europeans because they originated in India in the 9th century, speak Roma and love to sing and dance and tell stories.

Ash is an illiterate traveller. Ash does not bore humans with reminiscences.
Ash is free to sing, dance and go wherever they want.

Blow wind blow, blow my baby back to me.

Metta.