Loving August

Namaste,

August may be cruel. She may be kind. 

Here in Coma-Land, somewhere below the equatorial zone it is the rainy season. Coming down. Sheets.

What it is. Two seasons. Dry and wet.

Laundry hangs itself. Why does laundry hang itself? Poverty? Lack of initiative? Boredom? For the same reason the juvenile boy facing glass across the street passively performs circular tedious rag motions on a glass door.

His decrepit grannie living upstairs waiting to die a glorious peaceful death will inspect it. If her old tired gray eyes see one dancing smudge she'll begin screaming, Clean it again, Clean it again. He will hang his head.

In shame.

Listening class is permanently cancelled.

Around and around we go. Where we stop no one knows. If he knew the end game he'd cease breathing. He'd hang with laundry. He'd go to school. Too expensive. Yeah, yeah. 

Dirt roads are now expansive expensive elaborate esoteric lakes. Welcome to the lake district. Take the long way home. Endless landscape shrines are a luminous green. Eat it with your eyes, said Saigon.

Metta.

Good Intentions

Namaste,

Hugo in France recently connected with his thoughts on the Orphan Tourism article. This is what he wrote.

Hugo met Benoît sailing over The Silver Sea to Uruguay. 

"It happened Benoit made a trip in a neighboring country named Cambodia.

"And there he saw. He saw the refugee camps on the border. He saw and he realized.

"He began the first Cambodian foundation to help children. The task was huge and often thank less.

"He had to deal with a lot of people, customs and beliefs. Blind or deaf children were considered as useless and cursed beings. You have no sight because you have a bad karma. You have a bad karma because you were evil in your previous life. You have what you deserve, so I must not care. At the time, there wasn't even a Braille system for Khmer language. They had to create it, with help from the Thai Braille language.

"He had to use his trust with great caution. Try to explain long term big projects to people more interested in small time big money.

"And however, here he is. Here they are. Twenty years later, they have their first few bachelors. Those who don't pursue studies do traditional work, earning money for their families, who don't see them as useless anymore. The foundation is recognized by Unicef, and its staff is mostly Cambodian.

"We discussed about humanitarian associations, and he said to me a lot of them are runby either unprincipled or too naive persons. Due to his financial work experience, he was able to give his own association a solid and viable structure.

"But this kind of practice is not so common in such organizations. He also told me about the complete stupidity which is called child sponsoring. Attract western compassion, but create division. I am a sponsored child, you are not. The road to hell is paved with good intentions..."

Cambodia roads are red dust.

Thank you Hugo.

Krousar Thmey

Metta.

slide your show

Namaste,

The crazy geniuses at Squarespace just made Earth a safer environment with visual impact.

They added a new dimension.

It can be revealed here for the first time in recent history, like three days ago in the long now, that SS designers, engineers and artists using electromagnetic pulsars from the Large Hadron Collider (LHC)  in Switzerland have created and released the highest energy-particle slide shows in the web community.

Here's a gallery entitled Laugh. Art. from Laos.

Enjoy.

Metta.

sun dance

I dream the Sun Dance of the Plains people.

Nations gather in late spring celebrating a four day cycle of rituals and creation dances.

Dancers choosing self torture will have their chests pierced by skewers.

They will hang under the weight of buffalo skulls for 24 dances.

Their sacrifice will be successful if they have a vision during their trial.

The sun is going home to the earth.

 One vision is all you need.

ice cries

Namaste,

Dreaming of ice a boy sawed crystals of clarity in a tropical kingdom. He saw but didn't see.

He stood in the back of a blue hyperventilation dumptruck with his rusty trusty bladed saw.

Blocks of ice disguised as solidified water were longer than a flowing, overflowing, flowering Mekong river feeding Asian lakes.

He unwrapped blocks. He sawed. He tapped a hammer defining worlds into melting scientific serious sections.

His friend loaded condensation on thin shoulders. He carried melting weight to a bamboo shack. He dumped ice into a waiting orange plastic box. A smiling women frying bananas over kindling gave him some money, Thank you for the cold.

Carver carved. Tap-tap-tap.

The woman assaulted ice with a hammer, shimmering blocks, refreshing beverages. 

Ice blocks in shadows melted latent desire. 

An old woman in pajamas sweeping dust heard ice.

Metta.

  Nam iceman cometh.