Smiling is a virus

The magic IF.

Smiling is a virus.

Risk vs opportunity.

Murakami - themes - boredom, loneliness, loss.

See a situation.

Create characters.

Shame and guilt issues.

Death is the mother of Beauty.

Beauty has no tongue.

She is the mysterious light. She is a light worker. She sings with her light.

She is a fiction. A white butterfly named Psyche wings her face.

A messenger from higher realms of beauty.

She is a scale. On her scale two are two objects. One is a human heart. A feather.

Season of the witch, all the rabbits running in the ditch.

West child - where did I come from?

East child - how did I grow?

Metro Casket Express - TLC 43

The five-car Express pulled into the central underground Ankara station every midnight.

On the Departures platform were 1,001 soldier boys in pitted iron helmets carrying black gas masks, silver water canteens, golden rucksacks and rusty rifles.

David carried a slingshot.

A sergeant-at-arms played a bagpipe dirge.

The Arrivals platform fronted 1,001 weeping women.

The women, informed by a faceless totalitarian desk jockey handed the inevitable task of notifying next-to-skin, came to claim. Wives, mothers, daughters and sisters wept for death.

Orange and black doors opened on both sides. Soldiers rammed spines to attention eyes straight ahead. Scottish notes reverberated off tiled walls.

Each car held 1,001 wooden caskets. Boy-men spit on hands hauled them out and stacked them below Big Brother Is Watching You eye-spy cameras.

Weeping mothers, daughters and sisters surged forward fighting and grasping. Women rummaged in caskets seeking clarification: an I.D., a photo, a necklace, a ring, a shred of admissible evidence, a glass eye, a visual epiphany. A memory.

A woman keened, “Where are you now my blue-eyed son...my darling young one...”

This captivated an audience of transparent inoculated passive ambivalent idle Turkish bureaucrats hiding behind piles of shredded fake treaties with ISIS, Greece, Armenia, Israel, Iraq, Syria and 49.5% of the Turkish population among falsified bills of lading for African ivory, Burmese jade, Iranian oil, Central Asian natural gas and sleeping tigers.

Men finished unloading caskets. Women scavenged.

Boy soldiers sang, “We’re off to the Kurdish/Syrian twilight zone to meet our destiny. Front and center, Sir.”

They marched into cars. Doors closed. It departed.

Despondent wives, mothers, sisters, grandmothers, daughters and strangers waved goodbye. Women dragged caskets home for a broken hearted family farewell before carrying them to a cemetery to join a woman drumming soil and watering roses with her tears.

A gravedigger spit on his hands. My job is never finished.

The Language Company

King Louis - TLC 42

In Bursa the wireless signal from the Achebadem hospital emergency room was weaker than a heart monitor in Room 101 where you confront your deepest fear.

It’s the last room you want to enter next to the Genocide Museum in Nom de’ plume, Cambodia filled with 2,000,000 skulls. Ghosts inhabit The Killing Fields.

In the 1527 hammam near Culture Park hairy muscular men using eucalyptus tree bark scrubbed soapy clients and pummeled epidermis into oblivion. Pinpoint light filtered through stain glass. Illuminated businessmen relaxed in arched cubicles. An octagon hot pool rippled reflections of mosaic light.

Across town King Louis, a native barbarian, moved into the teachers’ apartment in a 10,000 year-old neighborhood. He was green, neurotic and angry. A tall invincible insatiable invisibility corrected his mean variation.

He’d escaped to Turkey after selling Chinese appliances and silicone breast of chicken implants in Berkeley-by-the-sea. He hated women. He loved Roman history. His perpetual fantasy was to be a Roman general leading warriors from Troy to Crete to Bursa.

“Take care of my horse,” he ordered the male TLC receptionist.

“Serve my food,” he commanded the female receptionist after a day expanding his imaginary empire.

They despised his attitude and character.

He sat around the apartment watching The History Channel. He loved German U-boats, planes, bombs, destruction, concentration camps, gas chambers, the Holocaust and death. He kept the volume LOUD while eating dill pickles from a jar. He was a big, loud, sad, passive-aggressive lonely jarhead. 

He’d last a month. He made everyone’s life miserable. He expended zero effort to understand the culture because he felt like he was entitled to be stupid and paranoid.

“I’m afraid they put something in my food,” he said one day referring to a restaurant below walls covered with graffiti screaming, “Romans OUT!”

“They’d have a good reason,” said a receptionist.

He washed his plastic clothes every day. He wasted hours, days and his pitiful life in the bathroom coloring his hair, trimming nose debris and afraid of germs, washing his hands until they disappeared.

Dogen Zenshi

That the self advances

and confirms the ten thousand things

is called delusion;

That the ten thousand 

things advance and 

confirm the self is

called enlightenment

- Dogen Zenshi

The ability to be fully present yet not controlled by conditions create a stable mental and emotional foundation even in the midst of turmoil. - Dogen

Blues - TLC 41

In Fujian, China using flakey chalk Lucky wrote Blues Music Story on a broken green board for eighty classless university students.

He spoke of the African Diaspora, history and slavery in America and how indentured humans gathered to make music and dance after long hard days in the sunshine of their love.

The blues manifested stories and songs as men and women left rural villages on economic migrations for city jobs like China now. Floating people in a floating world.

The blues expressed physical and spiritual loss from family, friends and communities. It’s “feeling, emotional, deep in your spirit soul” music. He pulled out his blues harp and they said, “Oh it’s a cochin.”

“Want to hear some blues?” 

“Yes.”

He blew sweet slow stuff, picking up the tempo blasting rifts of wailing train whistles and a sense of loss forever.

“This is called, ‘If you don’t help me I’ll find someone else,’ by Howling Wolf. When you’re a wandering minstrel or a Griot - a West African performer who perpetuates oral traditions of a family or village by singing histories and tales, considered by musicologists to be a link with the acoustic blues - or a Seanachai - a traditional Irish storyteller of truths, myths and legends - or a shaman, seer and adept it’s natural. I am a conduit for music. It comes through me.”

After hearing and feeling the blues students practiced making a Western sandwich: bread, tomatoes, mayo, relish, turkey slices, mustard, onions and lettuce. How do you consume a sand wish with chopsticks?

Let’s eat, said 1.6 billion peasants. We’ll eat anything with wings and legs except tables and planes.

New music echoed outside Room 317. Students ran to painless windows. 

Across the street a young Indonesian boy sat on a piece of plywood in the shadow of a long tall Sally art deco three-story concrete building.

It towered above a gated Jakarta middle-class community filled with designer homes, wild tropical blossoming fruit trees and displaced dysfunctional spoiled offspring spinning yoyos. 

In his left hand he held a silver chisel. In his right a flat edged hammer. He slammed metal against metal on a bronze bridge between stone and iron ages.

Between knowledge and wisdom.

Between an object and a concept.

Tap-tap-tap. Music flaked dust. Wind-spirits carried his chorale and tribal memories of family, rice paddies, nature and seasons.

Accompanying him a girl using a brothel broom of tree branches whisked a gentle rhythm creating their symphony of sadness, loss and neglect. They went on tour. Standing Room Only. Sold out forever and a day.