beg Blind

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

“What! Are you completely 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 there’s no hurry.”

“Really? How can you be so sure?”

“Call it a hunch.”

The beggar laughed. School kids passed them. One dropped a coin into the bowl. “Thanks kid. Good luck on your exams next week.”

“I hate school. Too much homework. It’s so boring.”

“Your attitude sucks. You sound like one of those single pampered kids I see 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 walking away.

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

blindness

I stepped outside of myself and saw a blind man going down life’s street. Neither of us had seen each other before. 

Dressed in rags, he stooped under the weight of a torn shouldered bag. His right hand stabbed cracked cement with a crooked staff. He had no left hand. In the middle of the sidewalk he stumbled into a parked motorcycle, adjusting his way around it.

Chinese schoolgirls eating sweet junk food on sharp sticks whispering silent secrets about his stupidity passed me with empty black wide open eyes. They were changed to the earth to pay for the freedom of their eyes.

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

I followed him. I sensed a lesson in existence.

He continued scraping his staff against steps leading to shops and worked his way along a long concrete wall. At the far end sat a beggar 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! Keep moving you fool. Pay attention.”

bells

A distant bell rang. Another bell answered. 

“What day is it?” asked Raven. 

“Today,” said Orphan, “It is the day of the bells. The Day of The Dead. Celebrate life! It’s the first day of the rest of our lives. Ring low, ring high.” 

“How sweet it is.” 

“Balls of fire!” 

“Why do bells say sing ring a ding dong?” 

“It’s a code. A signal. They are calling us on a quest-ion. A journey. We will engage fear, trauma and imaginary terrorist threats of unknown origins. We will discover trust and love, companionship and community. We will evolve into our real authentic universal being.”

“What kind of journey?”

“Who knows?” said Raven. “We’ll find out. It’s the only way. Step by step. Breath by breath. The road is made by walking. Every heartbeat contains the universe.”

“Is there more than one way?” wondered a child turning a compass without a needle.

Seeing, not watching. Active awareness.

temporary

My sister put me to work with a niece washing clothes. In reality I am a happy slave. I have my sister, niece, food and a safe place to sleep. I make some money. An Australian girl gave me a scooter. I dress nice.

My sister started selling massage service. If I meet a good man, which is rare, like Thorny, I let him touch me because I trust he’ll take care of me. 

I need help. 

My job has no emotional connection. I have the power to say NO. I have a 5th degree black belt. I’ve killed more men with silence than you can imagine. I tell aggressive idiots they can get laid somewhere else. Go find a beer girl. Flash your cash honey.

I do all the washing, ironing, and massages. My sister pockets the money. I make small tips. She sits around admiring herself in mirrors, playing with her 2-year old daughter. Talking rubbish on her cell.

I am a voiceless voice of quiet resignation. 

Shhh. I have a new secret short term lover while Thorny is home in OZ. I am easy going with a willingness to share honest emotional connections. 

No commitment is a temporary abstraction. 

silent love

I am a beautiful deaf mute woman.

I speak sign love, sing, dance and laugh in Cambodia. Spoiled whining children and small adults run around screaming. I can’t hear them. It’s a blessing. I read lips screaming I want food. I want love. I want education. I want medicine.

I had a dream. A grandfather in Laos is an idiot. He runs his truck. It’s his solace. I love the smell of pollution on Sunday morning. His daughter burns plastic trash. Parents and children inhale fumes.

Ancestor worship. In Vietnam it’s incense.

In Laos it’s exhaust and burning plastic. Here it’s cow shit. Youngsters respect their elders. Shut your mouth. Do not say anything to venerable grandfather. Birds sing with hammers. I feel vibrations.

Their traditional silence kills them softly. Truth is a powerful weapon. Most people are afraid of truth. Hearing, speaking, realizing truth entails risk. Daring is not fatal. Truth is a deaf mute seer in Cambodia.

Everything here is a secret. Shhh fingers on my lips. I am secretly married to a false dream of going to Australia with Thorny. He is 50, married with family there. He works for an NGO in Cambodia. He builds fake bamboo homes. He plays my father figure and rescuer. 

I come from a poor rural Cambodian village. I was the last of 11 children. I am 28. I came here with my sister, 32. She got pregnant by a married New Zealand man. She had a daughter. She pretends to be married. It’s all show here. He sends her a monthly handout, pays the electricity. 

My sister set up a hair salon business in a temple tourist town. It fell through. Salons are a dime a dozen. Thousands of undereducated poor passive girls don’t read or dream. They cut. Do their nails. They digit phones.

Staring at mirrors is their fate. Some moonlight as beer girls and hostesses. Where is Mr. ATM? No money, no honey. 

Vietnamese plant rice. Cambodians watch it grow. Laotians listen to it grow.