Coming soon to an Amazon near you!
When asked if Israel had gotten its pound of flesh from Palestine yet, for perceived transgressions against the Israeli state and its people, Israeli PM Benjamin Netanyahu responded: “We are on the metric system. You have not seen the half of it.” It’s no surprise, considering that Hamas now has drones…
Group workout in Phitsanulok, Thailand
The nicest thing about coming ‘home’ after 6-7 months of continuous travel–aside from having some place to come home TO–is wearing all those pale-blue jeans that have been too small to wear for so many years. That’s why I save them, after all. But it’s not true, of course. I’ve simply been too large, the (farm-raised) product of too many meals and too much success, that is: economic success. In Darwinian evolution the only success is reproductive, though, so guess I’m down on that count (but not for lack of trying)…
In short: migrations can be good, and are a natural occurrence of biological life on any given planet, especially one with a bluish atmosphere, perfect for the proliferation of blue-green algae, perfect for those bluish jeans, perfect for nurturing those blues that come after a long run of travel. But those who gain weight from travel aren’t traveling–they’re touring. I try to work out, at least once a month, but that’s just calories that I’ll have to replace…
Travel is a discipline, and requires a few calories, and constant alertness, the only calorie problem on the road being one of getting enough. So when civilizations fall, and the migrations begin, it is not a thing to fear. Travel broadens the mind, after all, doesn’t it? And slims the belly, gotta’ love that symmetry, gotta’ think maybe this is the way it should be… Now let the binge begin: cookies, cake, and ice cream, oh my…
I’m going to splurge on May 8 and 9 and 10.
What are you going to do, Esther?
Mosque in Sarajevo, Bonia
At the mosque in Sarajevo I can hang out and meditate without being hassled.
They have nice rugs, too. I am a junkie BTW, a textile junkie.
At the mosque in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, they kicked me out, for some reason unspecified.
They never even asked me if I was Muslim or not.
There’s a word for that, I think…
Hello, how are you? I see the old cabin in the background, wonder if it is still there? R turned 71 yesterday. We are hanging on w a vengeance. L, k
I don’t know if cabin’s still there. Hang in there.
#Humanity #War #Hunger My greatest hope for the human race lies in the fact that many of the smartest people are also the nicest; that’s encouraging. Fortunately most a**holes are also stupid…
At their best Buddhism, Christianity and Islam are the head, heart and muscle of the One True Religion (as yet unnamed), the bush of which they all beat around furiously, passionately and mindfully, Buddhism with its ‘many books’ and philosophical approach, Christianity with its Sermon on the Mount and “Love Your Neighbor” One Best Commandment, Islam with its Qur’an Third Testament to the Torah, the Tales of Jesus, and much much more, maybe the greatest one book of all religions which includes all the others on a good day, whether in chapter or verse, sutra or suture…
At their worst they degenerate into Buddhist passivity, purple passion and pragmatism of the worst kind, thousands of pragmatists plying the streets of Bangkok on any given night, sucking from the rich and giving to the kids, and parents, and anyone who’ll listen to the sad tales of femmes fatales and homos erectus…
Nature vs. Nurture is one of the great debates of history and science, at least since the origin of the science of genetics, i.e. whether human lives are more the product of genetics or experience. This is closely related to the previous philosophical debate of free will vs. determinism. The subject is literally something of a ‘chicken vs. egg’ question, though, largely unanswerable and ultimately futile, that egg and that coop both necessary and more or less equal. So let’s call it a draw.
It turns out we have far fewer genes—a mere few tens of thousands—than would account for the variety of human and biological experience, and many of those only come into play when ‘turned on,’ oh baby. If the hand you’re dealt cannot really be changed (would you even want to? That’s YOU), then the hand you play is (almost) infinitely open-ended, so fair enough. If you’re lucky you may even get to throw a few cards away and request some new ones. Bottom line: get off your ass and create your life.
Depression and sadness are not the same thing. That’s a common misconception (and don’t get me started on disappointments). If there is a reason for your depression, then that’s probably not depression. That’s sadness. But if you’re sad all the time, then that may very well be depression. Drugs can treat depression, but they’re not advisable as a treatment for sadness, especially if they have names like ‘Mendocino Mangle’ or ‘Humboldt Happy’. That’s for treating something else. The best treatment for sadness is to make positive changes in your life. No, I’m not a doctor, and no, I don’t play one on TV, BUT… I’m writing this screenplay, you see, thinking Antonio Banderas for the aging Latino hottie doc…
The best thing about Facebook, and the era it defines, is the possibility for direct honest open communication, a true communion of souls in this slow cool world of infrequent frequencies. Strong silent stuff sucks (tongue-twister: try to say that quickly four times). The worst part is the LCD effect–lowest common denominators (liquid crystal displays are okay), usually in the form of family photos (mostly good), partisan politics (mostly bad), and stupid pet tricks (enough already)….
At least FB is better than other online ‘forums’ in which people can hide behind their cute little avatars, with the resultant vicious ‘trolling’. Still I prefer Highest Common Denominators, more like that yearly (monthly? weekly? daily?) trip to the museum. I mean: we all love good art, literature, and science, right? Wouldn’t it be nice if Facebook can smarten us up, and not just dumb us down? I remain optimistic, or at least, philosophical…
#Argo #Affleck Finally saw Argo, most of it anyway. They stole my line! Cranston’s line “Standing there in the airport with his d*ck in his hand…” that’s mine! In reference to credit card companies leaving you stranded. Surely it predates this 2012 film, I think. I can prove it, I think. Where’s my lawyer? I smell blood. Huh? Affleck knows Boston mafia? Hehe. Let’s be gentlemen. I’d probably settle for a couple free tix and a blurb for my book. Where’s my waiter? Can’t wait to see the rest of the movie. That’s a duck in his hand, BTW, great for playing in the tub. Quack, quack, Aflac!
Hot dates and hot steamy—but ultimately limp—noodles are two concepts that don’t always go well together, but they defined a pleasant event in my life some twenty-odd years ago. You see, I wasn’t exactly the first guy off the starting-block in the dating game way back when way back where. That’s because women scared me to death, everything they were and everything they represented, mostly ‘otherness’ written in large letters and emblazoned across the sky by out-of-work crop-dusters looking to make an extra buck in the off-season.
But then when I realized that their ‘otherness’ was not defined by their femaleness, or vice-versa, and that for the most part females were people almost just like you and me, then that opened up a whole new world of possibilities, and suddenly life became easier and less scary, too. I’d just have to find my otherness in other ways, I guess. Itinero ergo sum. I travel, therefore I am.
So I decided to put all my fancy theories to the test back in 1995 (or was it 1996?), during a visit to Sapa near the Chinese border in northern Vietnam. For those of you who’ve never been, it’s a lovely hill town probably best known for its spectacular Black H’mong and Red Dzao hill-tribes. The H’mong are known, among other things, for their hand-spun handwoven indigo-dyed hemp fabric, while the Red Dzao are probably best known for their embroideries… and ‘love market’.
It’s true. The night before the weekly market, the women hang out and hook up with guys, presumably from other villages. That keeps the species healthy, hybrid vigor and all. They even sing to each other, no accompaniment necessary. But the unique twist is that married women get in on the act, too, especially the ones whose hubbies are back home, and probably too stoned from opium to care much about their wives’ needs at the end of the day.
Yes, I was propositioned, and more than once. But no, I did not go gently off into the bushes of that good night, nor was I especially interested in applying for any of their apparently frequent openings and positions. These weren’t the young filles of the tribe, after all. The girl I was interested in was less then twenty years old, and less than half my age at the time.
My friend’s head was half-shaved, like all of them, and she was cute, dressed in full tribal regalia, something similar to what the British redcoats wore during the American revolutionary war. It’s striking. We hung out, communicating in Tieng Viet as best we could. How good is the average Thai bar-girl’s English, after all?
So I asked her to go eat pho with me, Vietnam’s famous noodle soup (pronounced ‘fuh’, with a falling tone, unless you’re in Laos, in which the tone is rising; go figure). To my surprise, she accepted. Well that caused a stir in town, you can be sure. Vietnamese tourists from the cities, who normally only take pictures of each other, were now taking pictures of us.
I think there was even one real journalist in the crowd, poking his lens up almost in our faces. The surprising thing is that my friend never flinched, out of fear of me or any of the attention, this in a modern world which scares many traditional tribal people to death. We took long walks. I showed her where I was staying. Finally I told her I’d go visit Ta Phin, the village where she and all the local Red Dzaos live.
So that’s what I did. But I didn’t find her there. Hill-tribes lack much in city planning. They had running water, though, carried in slit bamboo tubes. I left town without seeing her again. When I came back six months later on my biannual trip, I saw her again, hanging out with the group, as they made their rounds selling crafts to the tourists. Did I mention that I used to deal in crafts and folk art?
She said that she was getting married; I’ve read this script. I congratulated her. I told her I went to visit her village previously, but didn’t find her. She said she didn’t know. That’s okay. It would have never worked out for us anyway. The damp cloud-like climate turned all by papers to mush. And when Internet finally came it would have been too unreliable. I can see that now. Maybe I should go make sure…
Esther Fabbricante are discussing. 
Kc are discussing. 
streaming consciousness... 
Reply