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.

Red dust town

Namaste,

The machine world in Banlung roared, reversed, revered and resounded with the musical machine opera.

Chugging down the street, old trucks recycled from devastating and catastrophic wars, death and suffering with bombings, genocide, insurrection, forced labor, starvation, land mines and descriptive historical footnotes blended black diesel dust, billowing forgotten memory into the breeze. It danced in swirling red dust.

The remote wild west red dust town, smaller than a city, bigger than a village welcomed smaller. The dexterity and fortitude of thousands in a flip flop world of opportunity, risk, chance, fate, and destiny ate pastries and delicious yoghurt, in many flavors. Ambiguity, contradictions, paradoxes took everything for granted.

Assumptions wore Blue Zircon seeing harlequins.

Destiny rested as noon heat reflected anxieties. A bored mistress washed her red underwear in a river. The exhilaration of washing introduced her to a cloud. Lightning flashed. 

Children in red and white dusted Santa caps dragged their expectant mothers toward dusty chrome plated display cases. 

This one! This one!

On main street a happy girl of 13 sawed ice. She sold blocks of ice from a large portable orange plastic box. Her smile and pronunciation were perfect, I am a seller. 

Metta.

88 seconds in Nepal

Namaste,

Namaste means I salute the light (god) within you.

 

It is the daily Hindu greeting between people with your palms and fingers together raised toward your eyes in a blessing. Smile. 

 

He visited Nepal for 88 seconds. First was Bhaktapur, outside Kathmandu.

No traffic. No pollution. Cool fresh air. Limited electricity access. Daily power outages are the norm. Ironic considering Nepal has the second highest water volume energy source on Earth.

 

It is an ancient town, filled with Hindu temples, daily rituals, ringing bells, flowers and incense offerings, old hand carved wooden windows, brick homes, brick streets, tiled roofs, pottery, yogurt, vegetable and fruit life street market squares, amazing flowing sari and shawl rainbows, gentle people. It's on the old trading route from Tibet to India. 

 

There is no home plumbing. If you need water you go to the community well after dawn and before dusk. You drop your plastic container down brick shafts. You haul it up hand over hand. You pour it into narrow necked brass or copper urns.

 

You drop it again. You haul it up. Repeat until urns are full. You carry them on your hips through narrow brick alleys filled with friends and families. At home you filter it.

You boil it.

You drink it.

You use it for cooking, washing clothes, brushing teeth (a popular outdoor activity) and bathing.

Recycle, reuse, refresh. You return to the well.

Women and girls do all the water hauling, heavy water lifting and daily manual labor. So it goes. 

Metta.

Good shit

Namaste,

Lasta buys a street papaya. A Nepalese bird shits on your hat.
She laughs. Good luck!

Once, in Ismit, a wild Turkish bird shit on your hat.
Birds practice.
Tibetan traders finger prayer beads. It's belief and proof.

1,000 street children live in Kathmandu. They are between 6-20.
They need food, shelter, clothing, training, jobs. 
Glue sniffing is a growing problem.

35,000 NGO's fight each other. Who can get the most donor money?
Competition or cooperation?

Metta.

 Kids find good shit.

Mandala

Namaste,

An old caretaker man lies on his back inside an erotic temple with 24 carved images of playful sexual pleasure. He welcomes devotees covered in their piety, devotion, shadows, offering flowers, oil flame light, petals, incense, foot worn stone paths. Interiors.

Ring a bell, many bells, fingerprints wear down stone. Human gestures vibrating bells across a valley.

Endless brick factories fill the Sudal valley. Humans living in brick shacks, using water, clay, wooden forms, creating gray bricks. Sand, dust, hand labor, coal fired smokestacks, piles of coal being crushed, hauled on backs to fire. Fire gray red. The scope and density of men, women and children pouring their lives into their daily effort.

This massive element of people surviving. You walk on streets made of bricks, seeing brick homes rising to blue sky. Brick by brick. 

A mandala. Centering the universe with non-attachment.

The center that I cannot find is known to my unconscious mind. I have no reason to despair because I am already there, sings a Nepalese child.

Gallery.

Metta.