Two pale female French tourist conspirators plotted their narrative near the Khmer gardener.
Colonizing this hell hole we gave them baguettes, war, illusions of freedom, top heavy dull administrative procrastination tools, fake NGO bureaucracies, wide boulevards, legal beagle systems, an eye for an eye, corruption potential, designs of egalitarian ideals, morals, ethics, principles, values, faded yellow paint and French architecture.
Yes, said her friend, this IS the old brave new world and I am lazy and passive and my stomach comes first. I am starving.
Let’s eat our sorrow and be grateful we don’t live in this depressing country filled with compassionate Buddhist people. I’ll never understand their intention to do nothing with mindfulness.
It’s the hardest thing a person can do.
She was a super thin model of anorexia boned with stellar constellations. Her grim hawk faced rotund lesbian lover had flabby upper arms. She scribbled serious fiction-memory and sense data entitlement in an unlined black notebook with one hand while massaging her forehead to increase creative blood flow.
They examined a microscopic map of Angkor Wat filled with unconscious alliterative jungles,
gold lame Apsara dancers,
232 species of black and red butterflies,
2 million anxious tourists in a big fat fucking hurry,
Chinese, Japanese and Korean robot tour groups,
crying elephants,
super tour buses,
125cc motorcycles,
tuk-tuks,
begging children speaking ten European languages hawking gimcracks
whining predatory adults with an 8th grade education accompanied by miles of flaming plastic garbage,
narrow boned white oxen pulling carts,
14 million attention deficit disordered citizens addicted to simple minded FACELOST entertainment diversionary cell phone adolescent sex text nonsense and 1,001 laterite cosmic Hindu temples stretching across Burma and Thailand into Laos and Vietnam in a circular boomerang dance evolving from the stillness,
letting go of outcomes as the French ladies whispered,
Where have we been,
Where did we go,
What did we see,
Where are we,
How do we feel,
Did we discover the intuitive third eye of enlightenment or any wisdom in this totality of mystery, devotion, and sublime splendor?
They’re trapped in Cambodia.
One described fragments of her short life history with an animist talking stick.
The other cut out brochure glossies, ticket stubs and bleeding hearts to paste in her book. A future visual memory of her ear and snow.
Her attention span was shorter than a tour at the Genocide Museum in Phony Baloney filled with 2,000,000 smiling skulls.
Here we are.
The Language Company
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