family stupidity

Ok so I'm a big seven as in 7.

My dad's not very smart. It's probably his DNA. A string theory of letters. Genetics. Gee.  Net. Icks. 

Let me give you a kind hearted example of his stupidity. It's the rainy season here in Laos. Slashing squalling delicious rain. Soft, cool, soothing. Like tears. Cry me a river.

So it's pouring like honey. What's dear old dad do? He washes his silver van in a downpour. Smart eh? Yeah, he's trying with intention, to impress dry watchers with his intelligent hose running water over rain. Cleaning.

He ignores me mostly.

He's very busy. He disappears for hours. Drinking beer with friends. Playing around with a secret squeeze in dark places. Starving for affection and cash. A poor girl from a poor family needs to make a living poor thing.

My mom's really smart also. After the rain, when it's dry and the smallest full moon of the year rises above the Mekong before a river festival filled with floating orange flowers and burning candles she burns all the plastic garbage. Yeah. Burn baby burn. Light my fire.

It's a sweet smell, let me tell you. Like that Duvall character when he said, I love the smell of napalm in the morning. Kinda like that. Smell. What's the word? Acrid. 

When she's not burning plastic trash she sweeps. Broom music. Stone cold. She cooks. She pretends to be busy. She's a baby machine. What's another mouth?

She ignores me mostly.

She's very busy. Later, she squawks. She's a soft kind later.

People here like parents and teachers and lazy passive humans love, and I mean love to pretend to be busy.

I guess it gives their short life meaning.

Their existence is one long perpetual distraction. Say what?

As Jobs said, You may as well do what you love because you're going to spend most of your life doing it.

Well, I gotta go. Feed the sparrows. Crumbs. They sing. They fly down. They eat. They fly away.

I'm too young to know much. Ain't nothing but the blues. Dust my Broom.  

stormy monday

Namaste,

You know the lyrics. Remember the music.

They call it Stormy Monday. Tuesday's just as bad. Wednesday's worse and Thursday's just as sad.

The eagle flies on Friday and on Saturday I go out to play. Sunday I go to church get down on my knees and pray.

Lord have mercy.

Ain't nothin but the blues kiddies. Elementary

Metta.

T-Bone Walker

apsara

The dancing hall at Preah Khan is where dancers don't smile. They dance. They are slave dancers.

They dance for the king. He is the god-king. He has resurrected his desire and fury creating new customs and new decrees for dancers. They dance for the mighty and powerful. They dance Khmer stories about war, conquest, harvests, seasons, sun and moon. 

They are submissive dances of life/death. They dance to celebrate life. They dance the celebration of tranquility. They dance or die. They wear tinkling bands of gold around wrists and ankles. They wear diamond diademed crowns and shimmering silk clothing. They do not smile. Their faces are frozen in the trance of dance.

One dances to escape the tyranny. She's danced all her short, sweet life.

The hall of dancers is surrounded by columns, portals and broken jumbled green moss stones. Thick gnarled silk-cotton tree roots crawl toward dancers. They dance through roots, past Shiva and Vishnu. The preserver and destroyer of life. 

Dance movement is motivated by emotional expression. Dance is about itself. The freedom of creation. A playful approach to meaning. Dance allows the viewer to interpret. 

 

vapor expression

amputee teacher
on his rolling chair
eats noodles

people who may not know
how to write
watch someone scratch lines 
in the breeze of voices
clattering metal pans

laughter silence

a son leads his blind father
beating a drum
by a thread

Posture

Greetings,

Ramblings: The Chinese owner has great serene and erect posture. His family runs a busy breakfast place along the river. Great steamed buns, iced java. He walks with his shoulders firmly back. A solid reminder for slouching humans. Stand up straight. Breathe deep. Alignment. Calm way.

A second hand blue bike ran 38 bones. Bell, basket and chain guard for those hard to reach places on Earth. It's a delightful feeling moving slow. A gentle rhythm.

The previous bike was gifted to a young SIGNING girl in Kampot at Epic Arts. She needed it to get from home to work.

I sit writing at the new space. It faces a wild green garden with birds and butterflies. The family is kind and generous; Khmer meals, peace and quiet. Pagodas across the river echo with ceremonies as monks chant, and pray offering their devotions in the community. Voices and music float with gratitude.

Metta.