Thursday, June 24, 2004
Buses
Gotta love em. I would never think to catch one in Australia, too full of lonely, talkative, blue-haired pensioners, too bulky and lethargic. And no way to avoid the fare.
In Malaysia one travels in air-conditioned cocoons, reclining Buddha-style in a Muslim country. In Laos the Buddhist mantra 'life is suffering' is a more apt description of long distance travel. Eight hours perched on a couple of bags of rice, try to play cards through that, try to read through that, sleep? Nup. At best a close-eyed dance, a serenade to civilisation gone usunder, or at the very least, in a different direction.
And waiting, for another, twenty two hours long and stretching from capital city to capital city.
In Malaysia one travels in air-conditioned cocoons, reclining Buddha-style in a Muslim country. In Laos the Buddhist mantra 'life is suffering' is a more apt description of long distance travel. Eight hours perched on a couple of bags of rice, try to play cards through that, try to read through that, sleep? Nup. At best a close-eyed dance, a serenade to civilisation gone usunder, or at the very least, in a different direction.
And waiting, for another, twenty two hours long and stretching from capital city to capital city.
Sunday, June 13, 2004
A sunset I turn around for, rich and vibrant pinkyelloworange. Glitters light on the Mekong as the day gracefully secedes to the night again. Gone now, a moment later at the eternity gate. Jittering birds and jabbering boys compete with Gus, my humanising of the baby monkey on the post across the way, restrained by wide ribbon around his stomach. Gus' occasional plaintive cries, or his supreme urge to cling, from a finger to a hand to an arm, pleading (he really was) for his mother to say 'everything's all right'. Noise overtakes silence.
Later.
Sitting across from a triple flowing falling tree, on the other side of the Mekong, with Lao coffee sweet and thick in my mouth and Dharma Bums finished and friends and new acquaintances teaching Arabic and Hebrew and practising un peu francais. A day in an eternity in a day. Alone we live, all together in this precarious world, thrown together by our following of divergent paths that lead us all through what we know to be our lives. Transitory, but worthwhile and glorious. Freedom comes from desolation. Practical concerns and metaphysical considerations always run parallel, seperated only by middle-class attachments, distractions of our development, progression being nothing but aloofness. To be in Laos and realise the worth of simplicity is not unusual, I imagine, but to carry it back, hold it within and produce it without, that is an appreciation true. I could sit many days and write poetry, tell stores and be silent. There are words inside me I still don't understand.
Later.
It rained so much last night, monsoon-like. The gap between roof and wall lit up clear like a wedding photographer's flash and one-two later came the roar of the sky, bellowing like an undisciplined trombonist. Boats ply a river that is a little higher, that's all. Gus clung to my breast and watched me smoke, sip coffee, eat; content to be for a few minutes a child again with a mother that feeds from herself instead of the friend on a string, retracted at will. A bird in bamboo contraption lifts his water bowl in a skull, remaining anonymous.
Later.
Later.
Sitting across from a triple flowing falling tree, on the other side of the Mekong, with Lao coffee sweet and thick in my mouth and Dharma Bums finished and friends and new acquaintances teaching Arabic and Hebrew and practising un peu francais. A day in an eternity in a day. Alone we live, all together in this precarious world, thrown together by our following of divergent paths that lead us all through what we know to be our lives. Transitory, but worthwhile and glorious. Freedom comes from desolation. Practical concerns and metaphysical considerations always run parallel, seperated only by middle-class attachments, distractions of our development, progression being nothing but aloofness. To be in Laos and realise the worth of simplicity is not unusual, I imagine, but to carry it back, hold it within and produce it without, that is an appreciation true. I could sit many days and write poetry, tell stores and be silent. There are words inside me I still don't understand.
Later.
It rained so much last night, monsoon-like. The gap between roof and wall lit up clear like a wedding photographer's flash and one-two later came the roar of the sky, bellowing like an undisciplined trombonist. Boats ply a river that is a little higher, that's all. Gus clung to my breast and watched me smoke, sip coffee, eat; content to be for a few minutes a child again with a mother that feeds from herself instead of the friend on a string, retracted at will. A bird in bamboo contraption lifts his water bowl in a skull, remaining anonymous.
Later.
Friday, June 04, 2004
and then...
It was an epic journey
it was early morning
all of Bangkok
laid out in dawn splendour
22 baht breakfast
including coffee
now wait
at the end of the line
for a due companion
who's never heard of the messiah
and wouldn't know one
if his anthem blared
from the nearest street stall
selling blessing.
We've planned an experience
a prison visit.
Service to a criminal
on good behaviour
or desperate to proclaim innocence.
I woke this morning with a vision
Shared breakfast with her as the sun rose
thorns in the side - a six to four job.
In half a moon or so released
And expectant of good things to come.
it was early morning
all of Bangkok
laid out in dawn splendour
22 baht breakfast
including coffee
now wait
at the end of the line
for a due companion
who's never heard of the messiah
and wouldn't know one
if his anthem blared
from the nearest street stall
selling blessing.
We've planned an experience
a prison visit.
Service to a criminal
on good behaviour
or desperate to proclaim innocence.
I woke this morning with a vision
Shared breakfast with her as the sun rose
thorns in the side - a six to four job.
In half a moon or so released
And expectant of good things to come.
...sssomething else
The silence in my head is wanting to speak
I cannot focus on the sounds of my soul
Blaring through the subwoofer of my subconscious
Submerged in subtle substitution
I could not forget the subterfuge
This is too easy, myself as my subject
Subjected to all manner of surveillance
A summer lost, a sunshine found
Somewhere else, starting with a shooting star
Sending out cigarette smoke signals
And sleep, with a dream per night
Thrown in for nothing, sweet as sugar
Symmetry in symbiosis, a cemetery of sentences
Surreal, symbolic and sent away.
I cannot focus on the sounds of my soul
Blaring through the subwoofer of my subconscious
Submerged in subtle substitution
I could not forget the subterfuge
This is too easy, myself as my subject
Subjected to all manner of surveillance
A summer lost, a sunshine found
Somewhere else, starting with a shooting star
Sending out cigarette smoke signals
And sleep, with a dream per night
Thrown in for nothing, sweet as sugar
Symmetry in symbiosis, a cemetery of sentences
Surreal, symbolic and sent away.
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
www.mykeru.com
Found this site while surfing aimlessly this morning, waking from an oversleep.
On the basis of the story I read,
This Is America, this site becomes my first new link in a long time. This Mykeru also has some really kewl pictures/arty photoshop things, etc, a lot of anger and a lot of sense. As he puts it, "serenity through viciousness".
And now I'm in the mood for linking, up pops Back to Iraq 3.0, freelance journalist slash intrepid blogger Christopher Allbritton's site. He has just returned to Iraq for the third time and has much of interest to say. His independence makes a refreshing change from all that repetitive babble on CNN and yes, even the BBC.
On the basis of the story I read,
This Is America, this site becomes my first new link in a long time. This Mykeru also has some really kewl pictures/arty photoshop things, etc, a lot of anger and a lot of sense. As he puts it, "serenity through viciousness".
And now I'm in the mood for linking, up pops Back to Iraq 3.0, freelance journalist slash intrepid blogger Christopher Allbritton's site. He has just returned to Iraq for the third time and has much of interest to say. His independence makes a refreshing change from all that repetitive babble on CNN and yes, even the BBC.
