The following Ten Image Poladroid Series rediscovers the ancient Sun Tzu on a West Hollywood Saturday night at The Standard…
It’s a Saturday night and I’ve finally got some a sliver of a moment to hang back and chill out with my new translation of The Art of War.
I’m reading it and remembering how life changing Sun Tzu was for me when I first discovered The Art of War in 2000.
But, my friend, Ariane has invited me to the Purple Lounge Party at The Standard. I’m really enjoying the read but at the same time, I want to circulate and consequently I am all conflicted about what to do.
The lure of The Standard’s acutely self-aware retro decor pulls me in with its tractor beam.
The change of pulsebeat; the longing to circulate…
Utter the word “Lush” at the door of the Purple Lounge for free entry.
I run into a friend who wants to know what I did this evening, prior to The Purple Lounge and I tell him I was reading Sun Tzu.
He asks what Sun Tzu writes about. I explain that it is about how to co-exist with conflict in a way that is mindful and balanced. Then I add, that the most successful war is a war that does not need to be fought.
Then, several minutes later, a push and a shove. An argument. Neither of the two is willing to back down. Throwing my arms around the taller of the two, I twist him out of harms way and he graciously thanks me for the intervention. While my 5′3 height and 105 pound body weight didn’t provide a lot of physical mass to leverage, no one expected me to do what I did. Thus, the element of surprise.
Would I try this again under similar circumstances? Actively involve myself in someone else’s conflict like this? Hard to tell.
Stranger things have happened to people who’ve read Sun Tzu, I guess.
As the team at Los Alamos gets closer and closer to the actual test, the dreamscapes bleed together. Something terrifying and inevitable is moving towards them which they have no more control over than they do the desert thunderstorm.
Muscle memory kicks in. Just keep practicing. Eventually, you are ready to light. And the sound, ah, the sound. Fire whizzing past your ear, the power of your own inertia. The light, the light, the light! The 
glow inside lasts for days. In fact, once you’ve done this, you’re never the same again. My friend Charity taught me everything I know about Firedancing. She lives in Tuscon now but had a transfer in LA, we only had about an hour by the time we reached the Santa Monica Pier. 
One moment we’re trying to figure out whether or not we had enough Fiji water in the bottle to wet the safety towel and the next moment, we’re collapsed on the sand laughing. OMG, the world’s largest water supply is right in front of us!! I run to into this receding tide. My legs keep running, running, running. The Pacific’s night tide’s edge is just so far back. My toes sinking into in the cold wet seaweed and sand. I drench the towel in salt water. Jumping up, utter delight, I run back. We’re dipping the kevlar into the lamp oil now. Circling, figure eights all around. And oh, the sound! As I spin poi, Charity
stands by w/ wet towel, in case of mishap. As she spins poi, I do the same. Two guys in uniform approaching. Were we too close to the Santa Monica Pier’s Ferris Wheel? How could we possible be a threat to anyone? Here were are, dancing with fire in the middle of this ginormous kittly litter box!! “What’s going on?” We tell them the truth; that we didn’t know whether or not it was illegal to spin poi on the beach and that Charity actually has a liscence to do this (which she does, insurance as well!) The two uniformed guys are laughing. “We’re EMTs” they explain to us, pointing to their white rectangular ambulance parked way, way, back.” We show them the wet towel to legitimate that we treat our craft with respect. Standby, one another, ready, in a heartbeat, to smother flames, if necessary. “No worries” they assure us. “Just stopped by to watch the show.” Was just one of those nights where even the smallest minute detail just clicks into place. The world around morphs into timelessness macro mode of it’s own accord and everything, everything, everything, just seems to make sense.
Just finished reading it. This book; it’s so unbelievably sad and beautiful and, whoa. I mean, literally just finished with it. Trying to drive West on Wilshire with my eyes watering, nose getting all sniffley. In the midst of all this election, hype, who in the world is there to commiserate with over the tragic life of a fictional heroine who embodies the most extreme manifestations of loyalty and sacrifice. I’ll say it before; am saying it again. 
He gives insights into parts of the world otherwise inaccessible through sophisticated mellowdramatic storylines, caricature. Hope, grief, hardship and regret. Still reeling from the experience of having just read this. And in case you’re thinking this comparison between Dickens and Hosseini is a bit much, try this. Compare the excecution scenes between 
