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.

A jungle story

Greetings,

Once upon a time in the long now there was a continent, a land mass floating on water. It was labelled Asia on dusty maps by white people. Deep inside Asia were vast lands, rivers and mountains.

Overtime, a historical bandit with a reputation for laughter, magic, fear, superstition and an insatiable appetite, people of diverse languages, customs and cultures lived in jungles and forests. Others preferred living on distant and remote mountains. 

Jingle, jangle, jungle. Using natural materials they created musical instruments, simple weapons, homes, fish traps, snares and tools like looms. The women had babies, wove cloth and prepared food while the men fished, planted crops, domesticated animals and the children played and learned life lessons with extended families and from nature. 

One day a boat filled with white men sailed down the river to a village deep in the jungle. They wore shiny clothing, spoke a language the people didn't understand and carried weapons which made a lot of noise and scared the people. They pretended to be friendly by offering gifts. The leader of the village welcomed them and they had a party.

Every day more white people came down the river on boats named Destiny. They were on a quest for gold and slaves. Owning, using and discarding slaves had proven to be an essential part of their historical evolution on other continents. Their mantra was, Cheap labor, Cheap raw material, Cheap goods, many Cheap markets and much Profit.

They said, We are civilized and you are savages. We have religion. It is called Wealth. We are on a mission from the great chief. We control fire. We control time. We control people. We control nature. We have machines. We take what we want. The village gave them hospitality and shelter. The white men were greedy. They took control of the village, the people and part of the jungle. 

Every day the white men marched their slaves deep into the jungle singing, We control Nature. We shall overcome.

They spread diseases. They planted fear. They planted envy and jealousy. They manipulated villages against villages. They divided people against people. Against each other. History had taught them well. They harvested wealth in the form of people, precious stones, rubber and every raw material of value. They were never satisfied. Their appetite grew and grew.

If we want to survive we move to a new jungle forest tomorrow, said the shaman. Far away. This is the story they told the people one night below stars singing with their light.

Metta. 

The house is built by a single male to impress a prospective bride. 

blind

once upon a time in a place
with dark mysterious scared eyes
sharp knives
and no money
poor lost blind people
from a poor lost blind village
came to a poor lost blind town
carrying their curiosity 
empty stomachs
empty pockets
and cheerful childlike stolidity 
ignorance
inside teeming markets 
spilling vegetables, clothing, steaming food
invisible naked predatory children circle, hover near smells

watching eaters eat
the quick and dead

blind people laugh
hearing gold workers hammer
ruby, diamond, sapphire, emerald jewels

scattering gem sound seeds

 

Update Makeup

Greetings,

Welcome to another edition of This Is Your Little Life. Your little life is taking on pernicious perceptual potential poetic personifications without a preamble. To amble to ramble and gamble enjoying risks with enormous ramifications. Waking up is a risk. Paying attention requires risk analysis and consequences. 

A stranger arrives in town. He wanders around with optical tools.

 

When in doubt, update your life. Put on makeup. Change your appearance. Get a new identity theory. Reinvent a corner cooking operation billowing smoke from cracked charcoal chips harvested from old trees near a woman sawing ice with a rusty see-saw as children play. Numerous forlorn stressed out drivers in huge SUV's negotiate narrow provincial streets singing their Status. Beep-beep.

The Asian Children's Driving School is open for business. Son, his father said, Someday all this will be yours. Gee, dad you're the greatest. Let's go for a spin around the block, down life's little highway and out into the lush expansive rural countryside filled with amazing green rice paddies, our essential food source. Ok, son, Let's roll. Batteries not included.

The smiling boy walks into his future. He works for a collection agency called Consume and Waste and Recycle. He found a life instruction book and put it in his bag. His bodyguard is a girlie-boy. Not too shy to try with tolerance, gratitude, dignity and self respect.

Somewhere in Cambodia a boy is carrying the world on his back.

Metta.

Mr. Neanderthal

Greetings,

Mr. Neanderthal swaggered down the middle of a no-name street in a no-name Vietnamese town with his long time little local squeeze. She was smaller than an astroid with long hair wearing charcoal pajamas and low heels. Her face was sad, neglected and resigned to her passionate and economic fate on a fair trade mission.

Mr. N wore flowered bermuda shorts and green flip flops. He was naked from the waste up. Swirling tattoos danced on his dark torso. His arms extended in heavy duty weight lifter macho style like an simian alpha male tribal posture.

Me big. Me strong. Me have woman. Her name Jane. Me her man.

They'd sold their car to buy food, diamonds and extra passports. They were on foot. They needed transport. He whistled for a motorcycle. They went to a haberdasher. They rented clothes. He found a suit of armor. She found a gown.

They went to a history museum. He accepted her arm standing on the stairway to heaven. She was radiant in her expectations. After the reception at sea level they cleaned a magnificent house resembling a wedding cake. They raised pigs and chickens and lived happily ever after. They took out the garbage and the pigs ate well. 

Metta.