Molecules & Alex

"We drove around today seeing places, just following the road. It was really great. This is a wonderful place,” he said glancing over women and men in Ronda drinking at tables along orange walls in candlelight shadows.

“Hey,” he shouted, “I’ll give you something for your tales. Then I’ll be in it.” 

“Ok, however my editor red lines garbage.” 

“You won’t believe it but I work with a multinational company, in one of their Liverpool labs. I use computer programs to create and analyze various molecules in detergent.”

“Detergent?”

“Detergent. This is how it works. Some molecules are attracted to dirt. They adhere to it, they seek it out. Others like water. I assemble various atoms and molecules and see what they do. I introduce them to the materials and see how they react.”

“Fascinating.” 

“Yes and I get paid to have fun. They pay me to create these experiments.”

“So, it’s like you are an artist using the computer to create a canvas, painting molecules?”

“Exactly!” he yelled, blasting enthusiasm over a hip hop rap bass back beat. “You can put that in your story.”

“Perhaps. Readers may find your work interesting, especially the part about Americans being transparent. I worked in Area 51. There was a nuclear reactor. I knew physicists there.

"They were trying to reduce fifty-five million tons of leftover radioactive material like Technetium-99 from seeping through the water table into the Columbia river. Others developed hydrogen fuel cells for alternative energy sources. I’ve never met a physicist working with detergent.”

“Wow, I know TC-99. It’s deadly stuff. They’ll never get rid of it. They’ve created a hell of a problem for future generations. Anyway, yeah it’s pretty cool working with these detergent molecules. And now we’re here.”

He took a breath. 

“Did you know that the world is made up of 98% helium and hydrogen? Well, the remaining particles of atoms, a very small part, is life and inside these atoms a very small part of that is intelligence. The rest of the pyramid is garbage. Tell your editor to take that out!” 

friday the 13th

The village of Sa near Sapa.

Small steps going down. Steep trails, dirt. She identifies wild plants on the hillside used for indigo colors in their clothing.

The wild terrain. Rising rice terraces where people harvest. People cut, thresh, stack of stalks and burn them. Isolated puffs of smoke dot the valley below rising green forests and mountains.

It’s a long simple home with a dirt floor, and bamboo walls. There are some wooden walls but wood is expensive. The home is divided into a kitchen on the left, main room and bedroom. The main room has a TV and DVD machine. Under the roof is a storage area.

Outside is a faucet for water, water buffalo pen, pig pen and writing pen. 

Indigo cloth dyed in a large vat hangs to dry along a wooden wall. Stacks of straw for winter feed wait. Twenty-five kilogram bags of rice in blue, white and orange plastic bags made in Indonesia are piled in a corner.

Sa's father returns with water buffalo. Her mother smiles.

We share a simple lunch prepared by one Sa’s three daughters. She is 19, a mother, a trek leader and speaks excellent English. Rice, tofu, and greens. 

khmer life skills 101

Do you want to understand us, asked a Khmer girl. 

Yes.

Ok. Here's a story every child sees, hears, smells, and eats in school. It says everything.

     Once upon a time there was a hungry rabbit.

     It saw a woman coming with a basket of bananas on her head.

     The rabbit thought, I will play dead and see what happens.

     The woman stopped when she saw the rabbit.

     She said, “A dead rabbit. Meat. We will eat good tonight.”

      She picked up the rabbit, put it her basket and continued walking.

     The rabbit ate all the bananas and ran away.

     What a clever rabbit.

She gets home. Her family is happy to have food.

"I found a rabbit. We'll eat good tonight."

She put the basket down. "O my."

Lesson? Don't put all your bananas in one basket.

dancing weaver

My name is Gratitude. I am a weaver on Lombok. See the mountain hiding in clouds? It's Rinjani.

My village is at the bottom. Walk past the village co-op sellling cloth and sarongs. Turn right and go down the alley. Keep going.

You will pass women working. They wash cotton, hanging it to dry. Others are dying colors.

You will hear the sound of woman singing and looms clacking.  We are a community of women weavers. We do what we love. You can follow me on FACEHAPPY.

Hello July

The wet, rainy season is a lie layered with truth. 

Rain is a wild and crazy lost midnight rambler. Looking for love. Chasing illusions is aggravation in the whirlpool.

Rain returns to a room under night cover. Mystery is out. 

A sprite of 25 wore the silver flower ring with 7 petals. Consternation in Rain's heart felt the sense of loss forever. Petals transformed tears into hope.

Under a weak light money mama smiled through crooked teeth.

Flower was beautiful in an immature petulant passive way. Her lack of confidence met betrayal.

Rain blossomed her fragrance with instinctual objectivity.