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Entries in weaving (33)

Wednesday
Dec202017

Animist Cemetery - Ice Girl

Chapter 20.

Ice Girl said: North of Banlung in a remote jungle village along the Heart of Darkness they carve images of their dead.

  The Chunchiet animist people bury their dead in the jungle. Life is a sacred jungle. Animists believe in the universal inherent power of nature world. The Tompoun and Jarai, among animist world tribes have sacred burial sites. 

  The Kachon village cemetery is one hour by boat on the Tonle Srepok River from Voen Sai. It is deep in the jungle.

  The departed stays in the family home for five days before burial. Once a month family members make ritual sacrifices at the site. The village shaman dreams the departed will go to hell. In their spirit story dream the shaman meets LOTH, Leader of the Hell who asks for an animal sacrifice. The animist belief says sacrificing a buffalo and making statues of the departed will satisfy LOTH. It will renew the spirit and return it to the family.

  After a year family members remove old structures, add two carved effigies, carve wooden elephant tusks, create new decorated roofs and sacrifice a buffalo at the grave during a festive week long celebration with food and rice wine for the entire village. New tombs have cement bases and carved effigies with cell phones and sunglasses. Never out of touch.

  See your local long distance carrier for plans and coverage in your area. The future looks brighter than a day in a sacred jungle.

  Fascinating, said Leo.

  Walking is the best form of travel, said Ice Girl. Take your time quickly.

  The paved road from Pakse, Laos to NE Cambodia is made for tourist buses, said Leo.

  A rusty red and white metal border bar weighted by rocks in a bucket netted by twisted wire hangs suspended. The VIP double-decker candy cane colored bus is packed with babbling European flash packers destined for the 9th Century at Angkor Wat. They have a long way to go to get back in time. They are doingSEA.

  The more they see the less they know, said a shaman.

  The efficient busboy hands out departure and arrival forms, collects passports, a $2 Lao departure fee, a $25 Cambodia visa fee and $2 entry fee. He takes everything to a Lao shack. The border bar goes up. The bus rolls through no-man’s land at the speed of a snail. 

  Being landless is fun, dramatic and exciting. No country, no documents, no money, no food, no medicine, no family, no friends, no chance. Abandoned on a strip of soil.   

  A female Cambodian health care worker wearing a facemask and official shirt patch gets on the bus. Pointing a small medical toy gun into each face, she registers body temperature.  

  Someone said, “If you’re sick you stay here.”

  “On the bus?”

  “No. Between countries. On the road.”

  Sounds like a novel.

  Crossing a border is a transcendental act.

  On the C side it’s business as usual. Immigration shacks, money changers, women hustling fried food, beverages, fruits, naked children, scavenging emaciated dogs, ripped cell phone umbrellas and haggard tourists drinking H2O waiting for the boy to return with passports.

An incomplete grandiose empty glass and brass Cambodian immigration building with fake Angkor temple motifs surrounded by landmines signifies exotic investment.

  Money = tourism and tourism = money. 

  Stung Treng in Ratanakiri province is 87 clicks south along the Mekong. Tourists pass through this small faded colonial town. They have a schedule. Time chases them, Hurry up! Hurry Up! You’re going to be late for an important date. Get a move on.

  Leo visited Mekong Blue, the Stung Treng Women’s Development Center. Fifty women are trained in a six-month silk weaving course. They harvest, dye and create silk textiles. It is a UNESCO award winner for superior quality, creativity and originality. 

  They have Mulberry trees for leaves. Worms eat the leaves. Their saliva makes yellow cocoons. Saliva becomes a protein and stronger than steel. They boil silkworm cocoons to extract raw yellow silk. One thread is 300 meters long.

  It is separated into soft and fine threads. Women dye the threads using natural materials: banana (yellow), bougainvillea (yellow), almond leaves (black), lac insect nests (red and purple), prohut wood (yellow and green), lychee wood (black and gray), indigo (blue), and coconut (brown and pink).

  Women also weave Ikat, a technique creating patterns on silk threads prior to dyeing and weaving. It is called HOL with 200 motifs.

  The center improves the women’s standard of living. It breaks the cycle of poverty through vocational training and educational programs. They have a primary school with thirty-five kids and two teachers. Everyone receives lunch. It is the single biggest employer in town after the government.

That’s so cool, said Ice Girl.

Ice Girl in Banlung

Monday
Dec042017

Sewing - Ice Girl

Chapter 12.

Across town a sewing woman returned to her Kampot, Cambodia guesthouse.

She splashed water on her face and changed clothes. She spit into red roses. She kick started her cycle and went to the sprawling market inside a labyrinth.

  At her corner stall she keyed multiple locks. She stacked numbered wooden shutters. She dragged out her Butterfly sewing machine, ironing board and manikins.

  Dummies wore exquisite yellow, purple, blue, white shimmering silks decorated with sparkling faux-paws silver stars, moons, and small round reflecting balls. Her skill designed fabrics for women needing elaborate sartorial refinement for engagements, weddings, and cremations.

  She stayed busy with serious fittings and adjustments. Her sewing universal process was selecting fabric, measurement, ironing backing, a ruler, white chalk to mark pleats, cutting, pushing her machine treadle, pins, threads, trimming edges, hand sewing clasps, shiny connections and ironing.

  Threads inside a slow prism flashed light and shadow as needles danced through cloth in endless conversations. Needles talked about traditional conservative morals and opportunity-value cost. Thread followed their conversation. Together they measured precise calculations establishing a stop-loss number.

All explanations have to end somewhere.

Sky darkened.

Ceremonial drum thunder sang vocal intensity.

Lonely lost suffering foreign tourists in Cambodia shuddered with fear.

What if I die here?

How will my family and friends begin to realize my intention to witness 1200 years of dancing

Angkor laterite stoned history

gnarling jungles revealed by natural strobes? 

Lightning flashed skies.

Giant flashbulbs illuminated petrified children

Buried inside cement caverns eyes eating cartoon images on a plasma scream.

Skies opened.

Rain lashed humans. Some laughed, others cried. Tears dissolved fear.

Sweet dreams, baby.

Dawn.

Two arrived. A boy is cutter. He carried rope, ladder, small axe and machete.

Helper friend is coconut palm tree scout.

Here and there, he said, pointing.

Go up.

The boy shinnied up a narrow palm.

Transferring to the towering 2’ diameter palm he climbed higher.

Roping his tools.

How’s the view, asked helper.

Sublime. A wide brown river lined by cauliflower oaks reaches bamboo huts.

Orange sunrise severs cumulus wisps.

A market woman has her nails done in blue glitter.

A boy saws crystalized ice on a red dirt road.

Girls in white cotton pedaled to school.

A woman grilling waffles along a road buys bundled forest kindling.

Saffron orange robed monks sit in meditation at Naga Wat.

One plays a drum. A heartbeat of possibility.

He climbed higher.

He chopped. Long thin heavy branches weighted by freedom danced free.

Helper dragged branches past advertisements for temples, orphanages, river trips.

He chopped.

He dragged.

He chopped.

He dragged.

He secured rope to the top. Blossoming.

He chopped.

Coconuts, leaves, bark danced down.

White interior life dust snowed.

Tree crashed.

Light escaped. 3 hours. $20/2.

Smashing blocks of ice inside a blue plastic bag with a blunt instrument created a symphony outside unspoken words as a homeless man with a pair of brown pants thrown over a thin shoulder sat down to rest.

Shy women waiting for Freedom averted black eyes.

Aggressive women manipulated stacks of government issued denominations trusting an implied perceived value in exchange for meat, fruit, gold and fabric.

Counting and arranging denominations inside broken beams of light, cracked cement, lost mislaid wooden planks, debris, feathers, jungles, and jangled light waves they surveyed commercial landscapes with dispatched dialects near rivers revealing stories with fine stitched embroidery. Needles led thread.

Ice Girl in Banlung

 

Friday
Jan222016

make it new

Blindness exchanged blue ink for a dark shade of forest green.

A hand-held dryer waved hot air over a recently shampooed head.

A mirror whispered secrets.

Elements of silence said farewell.

A series of eyes investigated decompression while swallowing fresh yogurt with peach slices near afternoon's languishing empty promises intent on discovering new, make it new day by day, make it new, explanations have to end somewhere.

Explanations are a well-dressed mistake.

In her village she threaded new beginnings as her loom waited for the pressure, the tightness between notes.

Feeling sunlight dress saliva beads blend a weave, texture, design. Hello Beauty.

 

Wednesday
Dec092015

be other

Kairos - threads and looms and Three Fates.

I am afraid, the Swiss girl said, Of becoming the Stranger, the Other.

The Other. I like it, being the Other, the Outsider yet I'm afraid of always being the Other.

Why?

It's the fear I suppose, it's difficult to articulate. It's a sense of feeling apart, separate from people.

I know it, he said, I'm like that, have been for a long time. I live on the edge. I engage. I am vulnerable, open, honest yet I always maintain a sense of detachment.

How is it this sense of outside, she said.

It's objective, he said, feeling her vision escape toward the weaver at her loom, her meditation.

I am the shuttle sliding across threads, she said.

I am smooth aged wood holding two bobbins. One is golden silk thread, the other purple.

As I slide the bobbins spin at the speed of light releasing, ah all the releasing, letting go of myself trailing into, between thin black origins - the essence where I rest.

She cautions me with her fingers - purple and golden desires lie flat. She pulls her emptiness toward me, hands and feet.

I am bound to Others before and after me.

I wait for Others to join me.

I feel connected, she said.

I am part of the whole. Part of the grand design inside her dream.

I pass through. I am here and now.

Saturday
Dec052015

beauty has no tongue

Be the rhythm, said a woman with flaming hair.

They meditated in the weaving village. 

Lucky loved her passion for silks.

Elephants danced with zodiac symbols.

Weavers click clacked threads.

Beauty has no tongue.

Practice is allowing everything in your life to wake you up.