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.

Fishtail

Namaste,

Fishtail swims in blue
Alone
Cold steep snow regions
Dances along Annapurna spine
Laughing at human's meager
Attempts to summit

Metta.

Mist

Namaste,

Cloud dance
Mist mountains
Mad woman sings
Her visibility
Vitality
Immediate voice rivers
Yellow eagles play

Metta.

Quiet

Namaste,

You gotta love a Nepalese tourist town when residents have a local transportation strike.

One day. No formula racing cars, blaring horns, buses, motorcycles, diesel belching noxious tractors, broken Chinese dump trucks, mini-vans, maxi-vans, amphibious assault vehicles, tanks, armored personnel carriers, jeeps, school buses, or any combustion engine requiring petrol. Shops are shuttered. No school. It's a free holiday.

Yoga and meditation classes are cancelled. Proceed at your own risk. 

Happy kids ride their bikes. Up, down all around. They crash and burn. They laugh. They share guiding gliding secrets. 

People stroll main street. They stare into deep dark caverns with vacant eyes. Shadows whisper, eat an apple.

Birds sing. The town's lone singing smiling mad minstrel serenades sweet tranquility. 

Metta.

electric

Namaste,

The unemployed Nepalese teacher, hustling 10 million visitors asked, "Do you know what NEPAL means?"

Big business? Economic survival? Mountains? High altitude sickness? Adventure travel? Peak experiences?
Whining, demanding Chinese?
Sitars and raga symphonic structures?
Extensive deep raging rivers?
Riding an elephant looking for extinct tigers?
An old woman collecting and loading cow shit patties into a wicker basket for home fire fuel?
Chakra, crystal healing?
A Chinese woman walking with her Nepalese lover, both measuring the ground with the eyes feeling the inevitable end of a quick painless short term physically satisfying fix?
Stoned out ragged travel casualties? 

Big fat culturally insensitive white Europeans wearing fancy expensive climbing gear as their Sherpa guide in flip flop sandals carrying the world on his back runs up the mountain, leaving them in the dust?

Young Israeli cowboys fresh from mandatory military service staring at a sacred cow shitting in the street? 15 million Nepalese women on their hands and knees mopping floors with a dirty rag because mops are too expensive?

Rolling fuel shortages because a) the government wants to increase demand b) India reduces supply?
Limited daily electricity? Nepalese must pay for electricity they do not receive. 

"Not exactly," said the teacher refreshing his lost hunger for money.
"NEPAL means Never Ending Peace And Love."

"Watch out for the land mine!" yelled a Cambodian orphan in exile.

Metta.