Lombok

I climbed through the center of Bali

inside magical light

past a sacred volcano at Lake Batur

with a small portable typewriter

a map carved on narwhal bone

a roll of scented four-ply toilet paper

codices or painted books and texts

on bark paper called Amate

and cactus fiber including

palimpsest animal skins and dialogue of Mayan origin.

My hair caught fire.

Gathering flames I lit a piece of bark for guidance.

I mixed volcanic ash with water creating a thick paste of red ocher, a cosmetic balm of antioxidants.

I applied this to my skin to gain entry and passage through the spirit world of ancestors.

tai dam weaving village

inee

Once upon a time Inee was a weaver in Kampot.

She wove cotton and studied English at PTC, a training center. She met Orphan. He was passing though. He helped her with educational resources.

He passed through years later. They met again. They were estatic to see each other. 

She'd graduated from PTC and worked at a real estate company.

I study electricity at a local university, she said. I teach Khmer to foreigners. My plan is to attend university this fall. I will study to be an accountant and a teacher.

Great, said Orphan, I am so pleased. You're doing fantastic. Realize your dreams.

Open palm forest

Greetings,

Fresh air behind you in open palm forest. Aquamarine blue sea. Distant Lombok is-land and Rinjani volcanic dome edges blue sky as white clouds fly north.

Tribal wind music, wandering dirt paths through an Air village. A group of kids build a new fence using live branches from a tree. A boy high above hacks them off, they sail south, grounded. A girl lays out a branch and cuts away unnecessary stems. They hollow out earth bordering other branches along a field green with grass, filled with palms.

A living fence.

Star filled sky light. Pulsating waves.

See colors and hear music. Hear sounds, see colors.

Metta.

Music between notes

Lombok images of weavers and temples.

Every feeling waits upon its gesture. Dawn clouds, east wind. 

Every morning before the tropical sun became to burning, before the skiffs deposited white tourists on white sandy beach so they could snork waving coral and eat lunch in bamboo shaded pavilions and well before the cidimo horse cart tinkling bells and weather frayed faded tassels dancing in the wind echoed through intersecting village trail dust, people opened their yawning mouths to wish each other "Happy Holidays!"

Along one trail leading from the coast in a field of grazing oxen and serrated coconut palms were a group of boys. They chattered in Sasak. One boy left the group and began climbing a palm, shimmering his way up, skinny dark arms wrapped around bark, feet at an angle supporting his weight. Push-pull-push-pull. 

He was young, agile and fast. He reached a cluster of yellow coconuts, selected one, pulled it free and dropped it. It thudded among dusty broken palm leaves and shards of wild bird songs. A boy picked it up, punctured it and drank sweet juice.

The climber selected another one. Cradling it like a newborn he returned to earth.

Metta.