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Entries in attitude (41)

Sunday
May052019

Feel Experience With Camera

How many tourists see only through their phone camera? Millions, said Rita.

She is a tour quide, archeologist and author of Ice Girl in Banlung. She continued...

They feel the experience of 8th century Angkor artistic splendor only with their cameras, cold impersonal little tools. Their experience is defined by camera. Obscura.

Do you remember Li, the trek leader in Sapa, Vietnam talking about Hanoi day trippers with cameras? How she said, it’s fucking hilarious? Same here.

For the majority of tourists it’s not about understanding the Khmer people, culture, food, art, music, and language. It’s about feeling with a camera. They are in a big fat hurry.

Rita (L) and friends

They’ve learned through hard fast lessons to trust the machine. It is their weapon against mediocrity and boredom and shallow emptiness. They don’t comprehend the intricacies of the machine. They believe it can and will save them. The machine controls them. They gratefully accept this reality.

They press optical machines tight against their faces, piercing retinas, flickering lids. Point and shoot. They lower the device and stare with hard lost eyes at the image of their faded memory. They judge it. Crimping. Evaluate. DELETE.

Shoot again. Point. Shoot. Delete. Repeat. A snapshot. Snap a shot. Preserve this moment forever. Quick. They must go. They must move to the next great big thing. They are in a hurry. Death is closer than white on rice.

The tuk-tuk driver is impatient. He wants more money for his time. He waited when tourists slept, while they screwed. He waited as they stuffed eggs, watermelon and soft bread into tired bored faces. They ate like animals. They point and shoot. They delete.

Hurry. They have no time to see their obscurity. This loss, this sense of amnesia envelops them. It accompanies them through radioactive meltdowns. It is a dark cloud of forgetting. They remember to forget. They are on a Homeric quest of infinite proportions and magnitude. 

Their memory card is full. They attach electrodes to a cerebral cortex and press the DownLoad switch. Memories of Apsara dancers, elephants, monkeys, celestial deities flicker on a screen behind their eyes.

Avalokiteshvara - the Bodhisattva of Compassion smiles.

Wednesday
Sep122018

Mommy's Meltdown

“Mommy I saw you screaming and yelling at the man in the high chair. Why?”

“Yes, my darling shining star of fairness and gender equality. I was feeling unhappy, angry and cheated by life and if that wasn't enough I was playing like shit. The other girl was playing better then me.”

“Oh mommy, did you need a time out?”

“I needed more than a time out. I needed coaching from my box.”

“You mean like cereal from a box?”

“Kind of. It's a human signal thing when your coach in the box moves their hands close together meaning go to the net.”

“I've seen you go to the Internet. After you had a meltdown millions of sad, angry people went to the net to express their feelings and opinions. Most were about the mean old man in the high chair, tennis rules and something called double standards.”

“That's write honey bunny. Millions of my fans including 23,990 in the stands expressed their anger and vitriolic bitterness at the cruel tragic reality. I was going down in flames created by my inability to let it go, get focused and back in the match. I was facing elimination, loss, shame, and character assignation. I felt betrayed by the system.”

“Is that why you smashed your racquet mommy?”

“It's part of the reason, sweet. I knew I’d lose the match to a better player. She served better than me. She returned serve better than me. She moved better than me. I broke my racquet to show the world I am a strong woman.”

“The man in the high chair was calm mommy.”

“Don't be fooled my dear. He's a liar and a thief.”

“What did he steal?”

“He stole a point from me. He stole a game from me. He gave the other player my game. It wasn't fair. My actions had consequences and it wasn't fair.”

“No one said life is supposed to be fair mommy.”

“You can say that again darling. Anger and no self control is very expensive.”

“What happened to the other girl?”

“She ignored the crowd's psychotic behavior, took deep breaths, focused on her game and played one point at a time. She closed it out with Zen precision.”

“She handled the situation well didn't she mommy?”

“She had the right attitude. I was just another tennis player to her. She was cool to the end.”

“You displayed good emotional intelligence on the stage mommy. You hugged the girl and told the crowd to stop booing.”

“It's about self R-E-S-P-E-C-T and respecting others.”

“Life is a hard teacher, mommy. If you don't learn the lesson you have to repeat it.”

“It's not about tennis. It's about character. Tennis begins with love. Now get out of your high chair. I'm late for my anger management class.”

(The writer has twenty years experience as a certified tennis teacher/coach. He worked as a linesman and chair umpire for the Irish Tennis Federation Inter-Zonal Davis Cup matches.)

Monday
May212018

Riverside, Laos

Tourists passed through Riverside in north Laos.

They stayed 2-3 days exploring villages up river, crawling through deep dark unconscious caves where Lao lived for nine years when Americans bombed them back to the Stone Age; trekking through mud with leeches sucking hemoglobin, climbing vertical granite mountains overcoming unknown fears and relaxing.

Lao became refugees in Thailand. 200,000 plus immigrated to Minnesota. Colder than the Plain of Jars in Jan you wary.

This is the life, said an Italian girl morphing into a blue, yellow and white monarch butterfly with wings of light. She flew away on a soft breeze.

Tourists find. Travelers discover.

Traveling isn't fun, said a French father to his whining son, it's an adventure. Yeah, yeah, said son, smashing his fragile heart on a sheer granite stone face rising over a roaring brown river feeling loss and confusion leading to wisdom and delight.

Play.

What am I doing in this primitive natural place dancing with orange, blue, black, brown, white fluttering butterflies? I could be home playing with electronics. My dad drags me around Earth. Life's a bitch. Fat chance said dad. We are here to get out of our comfort zone. Shake rattle and roll.

How did I grow said a fluttering black and blue butterfly. White orange sunsets gathered clouds for a conference. Sky mind, cloud thoughts.

Three neurotic American women sat in the restaurant one morning. Dalao the cook said, the buffet is here, gesturing to the sideboard. Oh, said one woman, we were waiting for someone to bring us something. So it goes in their prejudicial world of expectations, sense of entitlement, profound paradoxes and innate lazy stupidity.

Ha, ha, said laughter laughing, life's fateful joke is on you. Do it yourself.

The stranger said eating well is important for a balanced diet. They found this funny. Momentarily. Time stopped.

Lapsing into personal quicksand they loaded up china with apples, bananas, dragon fruit, bacon, potatoes, eggs, yogurt, and bread. Expectations slathered their small short Laos experience with anxiety. They resumed looking at gadgets. No speak.

Lost human connection.

Isolation, alienation, boredom and fear's patience noted their neurosis.

I feel alone, said Isolation staring at a mirror seeking Beauty who had no tongue. She was the mother of death.

I don't fit in, said Alienation. Smiling talking visitors appear to know someone. Nobody talks to me or likes me.

Boredom said, don't be fooled by appearances, they are all strangers to themselves. Schizophrenics seek solace in the company of other strangers. I'm bored. Pure and simple and I need an AI electronic fix.

What's AI, said Fear's Patience.

Authentic individuality, said Boredom looking for time. I know it's around here somewhere I know I packed it. I should travel lighter being light.

Space-time folded.

 

The Yankee Doodle Dandies plugged personal electronic gadget DNA into a wi-fi signal. They ignored each other. Now we feel human.

One morning a Spanish man said, my boys love playing in the mud here. We don't have mud in Barcelona only cement. I've never seen them so happy for hours.

A relaxed European man seeing life's river flowing smiled, This is my Shangria-la. There have been a couple of places where I feel this. I don't need to go anywhere. I sit contemplating the river, mountains. I explore. I meet the people. I experience the essence of real life here. I slow. Down.

A French father of two kids said, this is a positive experience for my children. They've seen people making things with their hands; baskets, clothing, boats, bamboo walls for homes, slingshots for hunting birds. My kids' artificial world is pre-packaged junk in supermarkets and department stores with labels, "Made in China." They've seen the real world here. How people live.

One morning the English facilitator watched the man and his wife, son and daughter eating. The boy, 15, got up walked around the table and gave his father a hug. The father's right arm embraced his son. They held each other for eternity. The stranger cried seeing this love.

We are decompressing from cities, said a French mother of three, 4, 10, 12. Sharp mountains wearing forests welcomed floating clouds. Rising water above, flowing water below.

How wonderful, she said, three weeks with no electronics.

The stranger and French family with three kids sailed up the Nam Ou. They stopped near a village in a jungle. They walked through sand and up a steep path. The four-year old studied trails of black ants.

Bamboo homes, orange satellite dishes, packed earth, forests, community. Local girls gravitated to new friends, holding hands, laughing, plaiting French hair and sharing flowers. Language lived outside boundaries. Childhood. Instinct.

Village girls walked new friends to the shore to wave goodbye. Our future is now. They returned to the jungle past footprints collecting memories.

Kids sailed through narrow passages of streaked rocks, past rising karst formations, thick jungles and tenuous black gnarled roots submerged in rapid brown water to Supjam, a weaving village.

Shy women displayed their cotton and silk scarves, rainbows of color waved on bamboo poles outside homes. Soft sell smile.

Sky watered Earth. Shelter from the storm.

Rain lashed everything. Looms clacked as girls compressed threads. Black and white ducklings waddled through puddles enamoring kids. Mother bought a white diamond silk scarf. The facilitator discovered a blue piece. Children mesmerized by looms, hands and feet playing gentle treadle rhythms. Music.

Water melodies danced off PSP roofs.

Puddles muddy paths. Life.

The world is a village.

Cry me a river, I'd like to see you cry me a river.

I'm tired of crying a river over you.

Now you say you love me.

The current carried them down river through rapids. Father snapped images of jungles, trees, mountains, river, moments in time. We'll look at these memories when we get home. Freeze a memory.

They evolved in a Zen painting.

Be the water.

Be the brush.

Be the ink.

Be the paper.

River said, where are you going?

Children sang, row, row, row your boat gently down the stream, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.

Mountains, clouds, forests, spiders, butterflies joined the chorus.

A Little BS

Friday
Mar162018

Chase Money

There was a man in a poor village.

Everyday he went into the mountains searching for gold.

Everyone said he was crazy.

After forty years he found gold, returned to the village, exchanged the gold for cash, bought a rope, tied the money to one end and the other around his waist.

He ran through the village dragging money behind him.

Everyone said he was crazy.

“What are you doing?” they yelled.

“For forty years I’ve been chasing money and now money is chasing me.”

Subject To Change

North Lao Weaver

Sunday
Mar122017

Five Chinese Aliens, Bhaktapur, Nepal

Spring roll 2011. It’s dinnertime. Five Chinese aliens appear in a Bhaktapur guesthouse restaurant.

Two males and three females around 20.

They are armed with laptops, cell phones, and loud discursive language. This is their normal. Noise and confusion and interruptions and arrogant attitudes fit their life style.

One girl is dressed like a flapper from the 20’s. Daisy talks with her mouth full of rice as her red diamond tiara squeezes her frontal lobe into a shucked pea.

They are lucky to have a passport. Their parents are important Red Party Officials.

It’s all about connections.

They’ve whined their way out of manners and intelligence in public places. The new breed of The Ugly Chinese - lost, terribly frustrated never satisfied in a big fucking hurry coddled spoiled youth.

They are the new emperors and empresses in a rising dynasty. They act like they own the restaurant. They complain about the price of a meal. One girl said in a shrill voice, “Oh, it’s too expensive. I am a poor student.”

She majors in Stupidity and Callousness at Beijing Ab-Normal University. She failed Basic Courtesy 101.

 

Gated primary Chinese student in Maja village Fujian, China.

A brat boy chastises the Nepalese waiter about his pronunciation of “Menu.” The crew cut Mandarin idiot commands the boy to say it again. MenuMenu. Menu.

They are living breathing examples of the spoiled one-child political and cultural genocide legacy.

It will come back to haunt China. They have the emotional maturity of a 10-year old. They are so busy stuffing their faces and talking over each other all the European guests stare at them. They don’t care. They act and talk like this at home.

A vociferous Chinese virus has been unleashed on Earth.

Flapper Dolly jumped up on the table yelling, “Kill the Running Capitalist Dogs! Making Money in China is Glorious!”

Everyone threw steel-toed reinforced hiking boots at her. She died of Shame. Such indignity.

Her friends dragged her body out. They sold the boots to pay for her cremation at a Hindu temple.

Bhaktapur, Nepal