Fat talk

Big fat American sits down to interview a young Khmer man for a one-hour teaching job with blind / deaf students ... he talks, talks, talks about his degrees and extensive teaching experience in states and China ... his attitude about China is condescending.

Shit government school, big money, I don't need the money.

His sister is a doctor in the states. She told him, "Don't come back here. You will die."

He tells the potential teacher, "If I give you all my money I will be poor and you will still be poor."

Fat man is a sad broken record. He needs more compassion.

Life is a dance. Mindfulness is witnessing that dance.

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Badkhenim: poet jesters. we cheer up the sad. the world to come, state of joy

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I am that.

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Everything we see hides another thing

we always want to see what is hidden by what we see

the interest can take the form of an intense feeling

sort of conflict

between the invisible that is hidden

and the visible that is present. - Magrittte

Iceye

Greetings,

I asked for a Vietnamese iced coffee in an alley off a main street filled with jolly plastic Santa Claus armies and tinsel. Tis the season.

The young girl opened a Styrofoam box. She picked up a chunk of white ice in her left hand, cradling it inside a blue cloth. She slammed a hammer on the ice. It cracked.

Fissures of released pressure, jagged lines, imperfect beautiful lines spread deep inside the ice. She held global warming in her hot little left hand.

She smashed it again and again creating fragments of ice, chips, particles. She dropped the small block of ice back in the box. She collected chips in a glass, added fresh thick brown coffee extract, some condensed milk, a straw and a spoon. Done.

A piece of cold sharp ice pierced my left eye. The pain was minimal, cushioned by the delicious cold feeling as the ice melted through a retina, a pupil, nerve endings, tissue, layers of perception - then my vision altered its state as light transmitted new signals from rerouted optic nerves to the cerebral cortex. 

It was the quality of ice and I began to reflect everything around me. The stimulant of ice this frozen water now becoming liquid was glass. The world is made of glass, crystals shimmering inside the kaleidoscope of ice. While the illusion appears to be smooth and clear on the surface, buried deep inside are long jagged beautiful lines filled with magic, mystery and sparkling universes, emitting glowing crystal rivers.

The world is ice. Everything you see, hear, touch, taste and feel is ice, a sibylline language of clarity.

Metta.

Before this woman became a butterfly she was a useful member of society. She is practicing here.