crossing a border

He talked to Irish women on a Donegal bus.

“My family, while emotionally cold, distant and abusive yet well intentioned, kind and loving were rather dysfunctional, trying to understand my vagabond nature. They had no choice in the matter. By now they’re used to receiving strange word-strings full of mysterious symbolic metaphorical tragic truths from twilight zones. They receive illustrations as I transmit between crystals and gringsing decorated with universal binary codes.”

“Really now?” said Mary.

“Yes, I gave my folks a world map for their anniversary. They loved it, inviting friends, neighbors and strangers over for trivia games using postmarks, stamps, decals, flotsam, thread, needles, bark, cactus fiber, beads, charts of tributaries, topographical maps, animal skins, hieroglyphics, and Tibetan prayer wheels with Sanskrit characters. They caressed burned broken shards of Turkish pottery, Chinese bamboo brushes dripping blood, torn out pages from esoteric Runes, Paleolithic fertility symbols, vitreous writing, and one of my favorites, a Quetzalcoatl image full of written narration based on the oral performances of myths in Central America.

“Fascinating,” said Deirdre.

stormy monday

They call it Stormy Monday. Tuesday's just as bad...

I stepped outside of myself and witnessed a blind man walking down life’s street. You breathe in. You breathe out.

Neither of us had seen each other before. Dressed in rags, he stooped under a torn shouldered bag. He had no left hand. His right hand stabbed cracked cement with a crooked staff.

In the middle of the sidewalk he stumbled into a parked motorcycle. Chinese schoolgirls eating sweet junk food on sharp sticks whispering silent secrets about his stupidity passed me with empty black wide eyes.

I remembered. If a man wants to be sure of his road he must close his eyes and walk in the dark. A blind man crossing a bridge is a good example how we should live our lives. Enlightened mind.

I followed him. I sensed a lesson in humble existence. He scraped his staff against shuttered shop steps. He massaged a long concrete wall. A beggar sat in rags made from boiled books. His skeleton supported a battered dirty greasy cap, threadbare jacket, no socks, broken shoes. He struggled to light a fractured cigarette. His cracked begging bowl was empty.

The blind man ran into him. 

“Go around” screamed the beggar. “Can’t you see I’m here you idiot!” 

“Sorry, I didn’t see you.” 

“This is my space! Pay attention. Keep moving you fool.”

“Sorry to bother you. Maybe you’re a little sad, angry or lonely? Maybe I can help you.” 

“What! Are you completely fucking crazy as well as blind? I have no wife, no children, no parents, no friends, no home and no job. I live here hoping people will take pity on me.”

“I see. I know the feeling. I’m on my own. Maybe we could work together, be a team.”

The beggar rubbed his stubble. “Hmm. Let me think about it.”

“Take your time. Knowing our destiny means there’s no hurry.”

“How can you be so sure?” 

“Call it a hunch,” laughed the beggar, “Fate’s a great teacher. Ha, ha, ha.” Kids passed. One coined the bowl. 

“Thanks kid. Good luck on your exams next week.” 

“I hate school. Too much homework. It’s so boring and tedious. I rather be home playing violent computer games or chatting online with my friends. I am an only child. I am a little Titan in my universe of want, want, want.”

“Your attitude sucks. Only 5% of the Chinese population has a university degree. Did you know every June, four million students graduate from a university. 60% will not find a job. They will work the street like us. Your so-called developing society faces hard cruel lessons.

"Reality outside your textbooks. Your people have fucked up the environment. Do you sleep where you shit? Sixteen of the most twenty polluted cities in the world are in this country. You sound like one of those single pampered little emperor kids I see, hear and smell every day. Busy, busy, busy. Get used to it or you’ll be out here with us.”

“A fate worse than death,” said the kid. “My father owns a factory. He is rich man making huge profits off the sweat of poor illiterate fools and idiots like you. Bum. My future is filled with money, a big house and a new car.

"Thank God for the one-child policy. I will buy a trophy wife. I will give her blood diamonds imported from African mimes. My country is investing huge amounts of capital around the world to export raw materials. We feed our machines of consumption 24/7.

"As you know our country was squeezed, manipulated and exploited for years by big nose foreigners. Now it’s our turn to cash in billions of T-bills and let them dance to our sweet tune. And...my family has a multiple-entry visa for Macau so we can leave whenever we feel like it. So, fuck off beggar man.”

“Yeah, begging isn’t a job, it’s an adventure.”

Rural Chinese school, Sichuan. A paradise to learn. Cradle to become a useful person.

Old man coyote

“A dream is an unfulfilled wish,” answered a kid with a Ph.D in psychoanalysis from the Jung Institute.

“What else did he say?” 

“He said, ‘There is no royal road to wisdom. To arrive in the future I must journey to the past. To attain the sanity of oneness with the One, I must risk the whirling madness of the possessed. One must confront their shadow or be crushed by it.”

“I like it,” said a seer named Rumi. “What else?”

“Well, here’s a cool thing he said. ‘”I liken the formation of a character to weaving fabric. You know what happens when you make a mistake? The whole pattern is spoiled. You have a choice, you can finish the garment, however it will always be botched and ugly, or you can unravel the weaving back to the first mistake and start again. That’s basically what analysis is about. It’s a tedious job. The patient is scared and hostile. The analyst lends patience, honesty and courage.’”

“Excellent,” yelled kids, “here’s to our being patient patients with courage and authenticity.”

“Speaking of courage, I’m looking for someone who knows reading and writing,” Rose said to the children.

“Oh, I don’t know anything about reading and writing,” a child told Rose. “I thought you said eating and fighting. I know about that.” 

“Perfect, let’s go together,” said Rose.

“Do you know any good stories?” a child asked Rose.

“A few. Would you like to hear one?”

“Sure.”

“This is a story about Old Man Coyote.”

“Old Man Coyote stood on the bank of a river with a friend. It was early spring and the river at that point was more than a mile across. After watching the sun set in the west, his friend said, ‘Tell me, Coyote, what is it that transcends everything in creation?’”

“Old Man Coyote pointed at the muddy water in the river and said, ‘When you drink all the water in this stream, then I will tell you.’”

“I’ve already done that,” his friend said. He defiantly crossed his arms over his chest.

“Then I must have already told you!” Old Man Coyote said.

“Very good,” said a child. “Know any more?”

“Ok, one more, then I need to roll along. Lots of children to see today.” 

“One bright summer day, Rabbit asked Old Man Coyote, ‘Where is the right path?’”

“The right path is the one that leads into the forest,” replied Old Man Coyote.

“I'm not asking about that one!”

“Well, what path are you asking about?”

“I'm asking about the Path of Knowledge,” said Rabbit.

“Oh,” said Old Man Coyote. “That path! That path is very clear. It is as straight as a bowstring. You can face it without hesitation. But I’m warning you, all who travel along that path trouble only themselves.”

julia writes from sweden

(This is an excerpt of a letter Juia wrote to Rita after returning home. It is reprinted with her permission.)

I am writing down the bones. 

I have learned that in Cambodian traffic one relies purely on the force. Which is easier to locate once all the buzzing stops and you start focusing on the right now. If you try to think about anything in the past or in the future you will get hit by at least one month. 

I know, I tried it. Twice. Navigating through the craziest jams becomes easy if you pay complete, relaxed attention. Life is same, same, but different as the tourist t-shirt reads. Mine reads I heart Cambodia. 

I have learned that a land mine costs $3 to put in the ground. A prosthetic limb on average $3000. I have learned that a government-employed teacher in Cambodia earns about $40 a month, a privately employed teacher can earn twice that. 

I have learned that with a little help a family can make some extra money raising butterflies. I have learned that papaya and lime is an awesome combination, that amok is delicious and sweet and sour fish soup is even better, that coconut water is best had out of a newly cracked open coconut after my new friend Mo climbs up the tree to get it for me, that Angelina has good taste in drinks and that Chin's mom can cook a fantastic feast on a nail. 

I have learned that I can be useful and that I am needed. My life is no longer an empty search for anything to hold on to. My purpose has found me. 

I am grateful I decided to go to Cambodia. 

I am grateful I went despite second thoughts. I am grateful to all the beautiful, inspiring, wonderful people I got to meet there. I am grateful that I could be of service. I am grateful for the lessons I learned. I am grateful that this happened at a time in my life when I am open to change. I am grateful that I am out of the dark. My life is the light and I am living it intentionally. All the rest is just details. I'll fill you all in when inspiration finds me. Take care, Rita.

see with camera

How many tourists see only through their camera? Millions. 

According to Orphan, They feel the experience of 8th century Angkor artistic splendor only with their cameras, these cold impersonal little tools. Their entire experience is defined by their camera. Obscura.

It's not about knowing, understanding the Khmer people, culture, food, art, music, and language. It's about feeling with a camera. They are in a big fat hurry.

They've learned through hard fast lessons to trust the machine. It is their weapon against mediocrity and boredom and shallow emptiness. They don't comprehend the intricacies of the machine. They believe it can and will save them. The machine controls them. They gratefully accept this reality.

They press optical machines tight against their faces, piercing retinas, flickering lids. Point and shoot. They lower the device and stare with hard lost eyes at the virtual image of their faded memory. They judge it. Evaluate. DELETE!

Shoot again. Point. Shoot. Delete. Repeat. A snapshot. Snap a shot. Preserve this moment forever. Quick! They must go. They must move to the next great big thing. They are in a hurry. Death is close.

The tuk-tuk driver is impatient. He wants more money for his time. He waited when they slept, while they screwed. He waited as they stuffed eggs, watermelon and soft bread into tired bored faces. They ate like animals. They point and shoot. They delete.

Hurry! They have no time to see their obscurity. This loss, this sense of amnesia envelops them. It accompanies them through radioactive meltdowns. It is a dark cloud of forgetting. They remember to forget. They are on a Homeric quest of infinite proportions and infinite magnitude. 

Their memory card is full. They attach electrodes to a cerebral cortex and press the DownLoad switch. Memories of Apsara dancers, elephants, monkeys, celestial deities flicker on a screen behind their eyes.

Avalokiteshvara, the Bodhisattva of compassion smiles.