For the last year I’d been wanting to check-out Low End Theory at the Airliner but every time I tried, some obstacle got in the way. The usual stuff- the line was too long or I was too tired after work or nobody else wanted to go out on a Wednesday.

This week I got to see what the noise was about.  On Wednesday I went to the event hoping to get down to some good music and take my mind off my daily trials.  The poet/rapper 2Mex brought it hard, as usual. And the furious bobbing head of Gaslamp Killer made me feel like we were always in agreement.

But then they brought on riffraff.

He’s a white rapper from Houston texas. I read that he lives in an apartment adorned like a nightclub with a banner of himself hanging on the wall.   He has a tattoo of the MTV logo tattooed on his neck.   He was eliminated from the show “From G’s to Gents” on the first espisode, season 2.

I’m not sure if his act is supposed to be a big joke or if it just comes off that way accidentally, but either way I don’t believe it’s funny enough to warrant riffraff’s existence as a rapper.

For those of you who don’t know what jumping the shark means, it’s a phrase coined in the nineties which refers to the episode of Happy Days where Fonzie has to jump a shark tank with his motorcycle. It’s meant to benchmark the beginning of a show’s decline, a moment where a show tries too hard to be new and different, and instead misses the mark and loses its credibility.

That’s not to say that Low-end Theory will never be good again, but on Wednesday night, Low-end Theory gave up it’s legitimacy as a cool event.

Riffraff spews stink nuggets such as “the bitch is tight” and “suck my mother fuckin cock with a condom” and “I’m not a rapper, I’m a musician/ I stay high like college tuition”.

These lyrics are so foul they hurt my feelings.  Yeah, tight refers to being cool and having a tight pussy…but such an obvious wordplay should remain unwritten.  What did black people do to deserve such a disgraceful appropriation of their art form?

But I wasn’t upset that low-end theory had to jump the shark my first time there by putting on this buffoon. I wouldn’t have given him another thought had he not gone out of his way to call out all the haters in the room.

At the show, a number of what I assume were actual music fans were standing still with folded arms and buzz-killed faces.  He tells his crowd, a group of inexplicably loyal fans, to brush off the haters and give them the shoulder, or something.

Seriously riff raff? Are you blaming me for hating your shit ass rap? I’m not hating on you for being a white rapper, I hate you because you’re terrible at rapping. I don’t even know you and I feel embarrassed for you.

I totally get the potential that Riff Raff has for being a fresh and funny perspective. But it’s not fresh enough or funny enough to warrant anyone watching it, especially not at the Airliner. All Riff Raff served to accomplish on Wednesday was to signal the transition of low end theory from cool, fresh, and fun to trying way too hard. Let’s hope it’s a slow decline.

I recommend the Airliner’s other event, Heart On.  Go there on the first Sunday of the month and you’ll find a down to earth party that even after three years, has managed to stay fun and inviting. The crowds, though smaller, make up for their size with enthusiasm and friendliness.  The music from the resident DJ’s and frequent live acts always manage to entertain, and the live artists and gallery and vendors provide countless conversation starters on the patio. Heart On takes place on the first Sundays of every month, and it’s a great place to hang if you’re an art/music fan.  If you hate music and art you should stick with Riff Raff.

Osama Bin Laden engineered one such historic moment, a morning of calculated terror and mass-murder, executed on a scale that I had never imagined possible in my country, one morning’s events that would act like a world-wide, pulverizing wrecking ball, turning what we thought we knew into ash and rubble.

What a tragedy we all went through. I was sitting with classmates, in school, dressed in my uniform, occupied with whatever stress or stupid joke or interesting lesson that came with high school. I remember nothing else of that day now, just the confusion, the shock. I watched my assistant headmaster first announce one plane crash into the world trade center to our students, all assembled in performing arts center.  I’m thinking, “oh wow, that’s crazy, what kind of retard would crash a plane into a building?” Then the other plane was announced.

At that time, these kinds of things seemed impossible, and implausible actually. Why??? I mean why go through so much effort for so foul a cause? What kind of heart could devote itself to such evil?

I learned that day that evil has its own will in our universe, and can empower the most rag tag of lost souls into forces of destruction.

The death of Osama Bin Laden injures the will of evil in our world.

There is no warrant for Bin Laden’s diabolical movement, and what started as an attack on the United States, our people, our economy, our flag, became an assault on the nature of human beings. It provoked the United States into taking unspeakable actions on our own part, and it jolted us into wondering, “are people really like this?”.  Many of us looked at each other differently afterward.

The knowledge that Osama Bin Laden has been brought to justice helps me process all this national trauma. It helps me to know that the world is less evil now.  I feel great knowing that innocent lives will be spared due to his death. It helps me to know that our president, a leader I trusted and fought for, made his top military priority to find this guy and take him out, because even though maybe we forgot about him, Obama knew that we needed to bring Bin Laden down.  Such evil needs an answer, by any means necessary.

Dev Das

First printed in Steez Magazine, Occidental College, 2006

Then one night a woman came to the village, barefoot and swollen with child. Her belly stretched blue with the spiraling life inside as she stood motionless at the end of the road, the only way into the village, while the moaning downpour beat the mud into a thick brown soup. Bimbi was the first to notice her. His eyes caught the lines of her jagged silhouette while he was hacking at coconuts in a palm tree. He was halfway up the trunk with a machete in his teeth when the rain started; he did not bother to stop. When he saw her he shook the wet hair from his face and struggled to climb higher for a better view.

He cast his gaze down the road while the rain fell in fat, slow swells in the dark blue murk of night. There, between the gate posts, he could barely make out a thin frame with a rather bulbous middle He had never seen anyone who was not born in the village. Bimbi’s father promised him a trip to the city once he got older. “It’s very much like our village”, he would say, “only millions bigger”.

Bimbi sometimes tried to imagine such preposterous dimensions, sometimes it would make him dizzy. But at that second the sighting of the alien seemed even more interesting to him than far off reveries of urban civilization. He scrambled down the tree and ran for a closer look, slapping his sandals in the mud. He splashed down the road all the way to the village gate, which groaned over the storm, swinging open with every monstrous gust of wind.

Like a ghost, her body appeared before him, faint and transparent. As he approached her he shot out a gasp. She stood short and crooked, curling into herself like a shriveled, black banana. Her belly bulged from underneath a thin layer of cloth draped around her body. Her face swarmed with wrinkles that writhed as she breathed, all framed within thin fibers of translucent hair which constricted into a compact, white ball at the back of her skull. He could not recall ever seeing such an old human being before. Bimbi squinted as he tried to comprehend how such a haggard woman could be pregnant. He approached her as she muttered words in an unrecognizable language. Her voice reminded Bimbi of frogs at night. “Hey woman, you need help or something?”

She turned to look at him. For the first time he could see her yellow eyes as her lips trembled. He shook his head to indicate he could not comprehend what she was saying. She paused and then ran her hands over her swollen abdomen. Bimbi nodded and motioned for her to follow him as he walked swiftly back toward the center of the village to the home of Doctor Shama.

He was awake when they arrived. Doctor Shama sat in the corner of his one room house while enjoying his musty pipe. In the room was a small cot where he slept, surrounded by piles of English novels and old clocks, which he had collected since he began his education. The dark brown room smelled damp with steamed rice and pipe tobacco, and faintly of the kerosene lamp that burned next to the bed. He stood when Bimbi arrived. He smiled through his beard. “No coconuts today?”

“No, no coconuts, but I found one better”.

Bimbi lead his ancient guest into the room. The doctor’s only perceptible reaction were his eyes widening as she carefully set her dripping foot into the door frame and entered. His pipe crackled and burned as he sucked in a river of thick smoke. His face, buried in the anarchy of his facial hair, remained still as his eyes followed the visitor. She moved Doctor Shama’s clutter aside and proceeded to lay herself on the floor, face up with her knees and ankles propped to the side. Lightning clawed at the earth outside as the crone lay on the floor, breathing in labor.

The doctor needed no explanation, and began to shuffle about his room in search of supplies. He told Bimbi to fetch some clean towels, a bucket of boiled water, and some whiskey. Bimbi quickly fetched the items and organized them on the floor next to the woman. She was still muttering to herself in her tongue. The doctor knelt down beside her and gently lifted her covering, exposing her legs and bulging belly. He took a moment to examine her face and body. He lifted a dented eyebrow. Bimbi looked up into the doctor’s eyes. “I’ll go get the midwife,”

As Bimbi started to leave, Doctor Shama whistled and put his palm out.

“Lets you and I take care of her, Bimbi. It won’t be very long now”

Many years before, Dr. Shama left the village to go attend school in the city. He wasn’t really a doctor, but he was the closest thing in the village. Some told the story of how he read every book in the entire village so many times that he could recite them all word for word. It caused many problems in the community because children would question the use of learning to read since if they had a question about a book, they could simply ask Doctor Shama to recite the answer directly quoted. When Bimbi asked however, the doctor would always refer him to the book itself, for Bimbi had a bright mind, and Doctor Shama took an investment in his education. He had known Bimbi for many years, and even helped deliver him when he was born. “Remember Bimbi, you were born in my hand”, he would say. Doctor Shama had the uncanny ability of immediately earning the liking of all those he encountered. Most people attributed his popularity to the constant calmness and peace that he carried in his demeanor. He would argue that people just liked his beard, which puffed out in a massive jungle of gray and black fur. Or maybe it was his glasses, which stayed in place within thick round frames of solid black. He admitted that he could not help but appear somewhat ridiculous at all times which for some reason, people seemed to like.

“I will need your help tonight, Bimbi. Perhaps you will learn something.”

The child nodded. The woman continued to chant on the floor. The sound of the rain softened slightly, but now even more blaring was the wail of thousands of insects. He felt strange sitting in front of this visitor, watching her blue bulge move up and down as she breathed. The composition of her bowed legs, swollen abdomen, and dark genitals gave her lower half the resemblance of a large gray spider poised for attack. Bimbi’s heart churned in his bones, slow and loud.

Suddenly the woman lifted her torso and sat upright. She moaned a long and terrible syllable and waved her hand at the two of them to examine the status of her delivery. Bimbi and the doctor crouched before their patient. Thunder cackled over the piercing insects.

“Bimbi, hand me the towel.”

The woman’s chanting grew louder now, as her head fell back onto the ground. Her body shook as she contracted. Her face showed little sign of pain, as her yellow eyes narrowed and she tried to expel the being within her. Her chanting filled the room and Bimbi grew frightened. Doctor Shama smiled. “Stay with me Bimbi, we’ll do this together”.

The woman wailed, not so much from pain it seemed, but from despair. Bimbi trembled as the room spun inward upon the point between his eyes. The woman’s vagina seemed to come alive, opening and closing like a mouth. It was then that a small fleshy orb protruded from the woman.

“There, I see something…” Bimbi uttered.

“Yes, me too”.

“Yes, there it is, it’s the head!”

“No…no, that can’t be the head…”

“Yes, of course it is, it’s the head”

Doctor Shama stayed silent. More thunder.

“It’s moving, don’t you see? It’s round and moving. Look! He’s bald, see?”

“Yes, yes I see.”

“It’s so shiny… what do we do?”

“We have to pull it out.”

More thunder. The woman’s head and neck began to shake violently. Her head hit the floor with alarming volume. Doctor Shama rushed to cradle her head in his arms.

“Bimbi, take hold of the baby, and slowly pull”.

The boy’s lip quivered. He felt dizzy.

“Bimbi my friend you’re doing just fine. She’s going to push hard once more. Hold it gently and pull it out.”

With shaking hands, Bimbi grabbed hold of the child’s head. As soon as he touched it, he realized that the doctor must be right. It couldn’t be the child’s head. It was so cold and slimy, and far too soft.

“It’s not his head, what do I do?”

“Don’t worry, just pull very gently”.

The woman continued to thrash about on the ground, wailing in her unpleasant language. Bimbi looked at Doctor Shama, who’s eye lids had never in his life stretched so far apart. Drops of sweat shone out of his bushy eyebrows. Bimbi turned back to observe the devilish mouth from which he would have to heave this slimy creature. Beneath the terror of the woman’s howls and the now deafening siren of insects outside, Bimbi could make out a faint breath. It was somehow both high and low in pitch at the same time, a thin wet gasp.

“Doctor, do you hear this?”

“Pull! Pull it now!”

Bimbi grabbed hold again of the shiny round ball sticking out of the woman’s body. He pulled, and he got more of the ball. He pulled farther and began to observe that the ball was getting longer. It was becoming more of a long egg shape, almost like a blunt cone. What Bimbi thought was the child’s head, was actually something far longer, though he could not yet make out what it was. As he continued to pull, the cone went taught.

“This can’t be the baby.”

“Of course it’s the baby, it’s moving.”

As Doctor Shama said that, the folded cone began to recede back into the woman’s body. Her legs stopped shaking. Her eyes widened. Bimbi tried to grab hold but he could not muster a grip. Her vagina closed, the baby vanished.

“Bimbi, what happened?”

Bimbi ignored the question due to its absurdity. He continued to stare into her center, into the preying spider. He could smell iron. The three went silent as all manner of crawling things hissed and whined.

Suddenly something fleshy appeared. It got longer and longer. Finally, the folded mass freed itself from the woman, revealing a long appendage. Bimbi stared at it as it wiggled. Then another one emerged and began a similar dance. Doctor Shama put his hand on his chest. The baby’s eerie gasps were louder now.

A splash.

They closed their eyes for a moment as a cold, foul smelling fluid struck their faces. Then Bimbi toppled over as a soft and heavy object hit him hard in the chest. When Doctor Shama opened his eyes he saw her laying there, twitching and chanting in a similar manner as before. Though her organs looked wounded, the woman seemed calm and very much relieved. Doctor Shama could almost swear that she even looked slightly younger.

Doctor Shama turned his head toward Bimbi. He could not speak.

Bimbi lay on his back, looking at the being that now lay on his stomach.

“Please God Doctor Shama…What is it?”

Doctor Shama, trying to hide his gasps for air, replied “What’s the matter boy, are you blind?”

A pause.

He exhaled, “It’s a squid”.

Bimbi jolted up and tossed the creature to the floor, splaying its tentacles. He ran to the corner of the room and vomited. When the contents of his body were released, he looked at the organism. Indeed, it had what appeared to be eight tentacles. Six of which were about a foot’s length, and two much longer ones with thin flaps on the ends. The tentacles connected in the middle to the base of a large cone shaped body out of which extended two thin wavy fins. At the center of the tentacles rested a small, sharp beak. Two large eyes peered out from further up the cone. The creature squirmed helplessly on the ground. Bimbi watched the creature’s skin which now rapidly changed colors and patterns like an oil slick catching the sunlight.

The bloody woman struggled to rise She examined her new baby. She picked it up and cradled it near her breasts, though it made no effort to nurse. Bimbi stared into the large visible eye of the being he just delivered into the world. The skin on Bimbi’s neck shriveled when he realized that it was staring back.

“Bimbi…Where did you find this woman?”

“She just came to the gate, right about when it started raining… What do we do?”

“Well. There is a beach not far from here.”

“You want to go to the beach? Now?”

“As far as I can tell, this creature is a squid. We should take it to the ocean.”

Before Doctor Shama finished his sentence, however, the woman was already on her way. Bimbi and Doctor Shama supported the woman as she walked with them, clutching her gasping squid baby. The old woman had no trouble navigating through the dark, and seemed frustrated with her two companions as they fumbled through the forest. They walked for a half hour, through damp trails, and arrived at the beach as the sun rose over the water.

The squid didn’t move anymore, but the woman gave no indication of concern. She simply walked herself to the water and gently placed her child in the shallow waves. The squid floated at the surface for a while, as she rinsed her body. Suddenly a large wave hit the squid and it vanished into the sea.

“Now that I see her in the sunlight, she’s almost somewhat beautiful, don’t you think?”

Bimbi made no reply as the woman gazed across the horizon, scanning the enormity of the ocean. She turned now, to look at Doctor Shama and the boy. Her pale yellow eyes projected an air of grateful perplexity, like she couldn’t quite remember who they were. She turned and walked along the coast, away from the boy and the doctor, away from the village.

“I hope you learned something today, Boy.”

“There’s much about the universe I don’t understand, Dr. Shama”.

“Me too, my friend. Reality is the experience of what is possible, which spans a wide scope indeed. But at least you tried to help”

“Yes. I’m glad we tried to help.”

With that Bimbi and Doctor Shama began their walk back  through the jungle hand-in-hand, as the sun tiptoed into the sky over the sleeping village, and the waves lapped the beach.

I don’t even know what to say about this stuff.  Check out that whole concert when you have the time.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AOKkX5bBunM

Michael as a teenager, sort of right when his voice is changing…

As a little kid, I never liked MTV or music videos really, but the second a Michael Jackson video would come on, NOTHING ELSE mattered. I would get up and start dancing my little brown ass off, probably looking like a fool trying to emulate his moves, but it didn’t matter because that was the point, we were both just having a great time. No song or video wasn’t worth dancing to! No dance move was not worth trying to mimic.

I remember learning how to moonwalk in high school, and it being one of the great accomplishments of my young life. I also do a mean 3 point kick. Where he does a front kick then bends his leg to the right, and then to the left before putting it down. Yeah, that move is sweet.

In no way is this relationship to his work unique or interesting. EVERYBODY knows these songs and has visceral memories of them. The guy could make ANYONE dance! Even people who hate music and would never be caught dead dancing can’t help but move to Michael Jackson! Little kids, adults, even white people like him!!

He was truly a world musician, performing on a scale unmatched by any artist of his time, or of any other time for that matter. Even in the boondocks of Nepal, in the tiny taverns and village watering holes where single men come to drink and hang out at night, they would play Michael Jackson tunes on the music box. He is everywhere, in a way that no recording artist alive or dead has ever been. He’s a ubiquitous symbol of having fun, one of those artists that only come out every few generations or so, an artist with a divine spark. In the same way that Shakespeare or Michelangelo or Beethoven brought a transcendent, unmatchable beauty to their work, a beauty that only appreciates with time, so too will Michael Jackson’s legacy live on.

Michael Jackson’s death is the most momentous passing of any celebrity in my life time. His fan base is uncomparable, comprised of multiple generations spanning  five decades of music. The vast majority of which is still alive, mourning his passing.

They are talking now of breaking news of his autopsy. It’s no surprise. They will cut him open, extract his chemicals, pick apart his addictions, his tragedies, his sex life- the death of Michael Jackson is far from over. They will keep chewing him up like used gum for a long time.  They’ll sell magazines, they’ll put on specials, they’ll continue to host panels and debate over the sordid mess that became his life.They will keep packaging him in different wrappers.

He will get no rest, no peace. At least not for a while.

Truthfully his autopsy began a long time ago. He’s been treated like a commodity for his entire life. He brought so much to the world, but such talent has a heavy cost.

I remember in English class, learning about Aristotle’s notions of the hero. The hero is a test drive for the human condition. When you test drive a car, you don’t drive gently, you put the car through hell, your foot heavy on the gas. That’s what the hero must do, go through the kinds of things that the rest of us would not be willing or able to tolerate. The hero will fly closer to the sun than anyone dares to go, he will drink hemlock to prove a point, she will get burned at the stake for love. The hero brings fire for the rest of us. Sometimes the hero must succumb to the dark side. The hero’s life is special, dramatic, adventurous, but often wrought with trauma and isolation. But the point of the hero’s journey is to provide a road map for the rest of us to draw courage when we ourselves are facing the brink.

Michael Jackson was pushed beyond the limits of what the rest of us could accomplish. He suffered terribly so we could dance and have a good time. I think now we should show a little gratitude for a man that never really had it easy, no matter how much money he could make or spend. Because the bottom line is he made the world a richer place. He made the world feel a whole lot better than what it really is. I think he would appreciate it if we just shut up and danced.

I really believe that if the human race ever sent out a capsule into space with a catalog of earth’s great treasures, they would have to put the collected work of Michael Jackson in it. Some aliens might come across the capsule one day, and they’d figure out how to play his albums and watch his performances, those from the start of his career to the end. And they would have a hard time believing that this work was done by one guy. But the continuity of his dance moves would erase the doubts. In that way MJ’s career would start all over again. These aliens would watch the entire sum of Jackson’s life concurrently, in the same way the Tranfalmadorians experienced their birth, life, death, and fate all at once. And they would get to know the real Michael Jackson, because unlike other artists, the real Michael Jackson was that guy on stage, dancing his ass off, making millions feel good.

He’s said in countless interviews that he’s most comfortable on the stage, that he would live on stage if he could. It’s sad that he couldn’t find that kind of comfort in the world of the ordinary, but it’s good news for his fans. The real Michael Jackson, the consummate performer, the master singer and dancer, will outlive the cartoon that his life offstage created, the one who put put himself through surgery so downright disfiguring it was as if he was trying to parade the scars of his own fame.  The real Michael Jackson is the one we know best, that lanky guy with a cool hat and ridiculous moves, moonwalking across the stage in the spotlight for millions and millions of people. And he will continue to make us dance in night clubs, on the radio, in the archives, for generations.  And one day, long from now, the real Michael Jackson will be all that we remember him for.

Keep on.

-Dev Das

I heard once that if you were to to drop an a-bomb smack in the middle of Dharavi, India’s largest slum (and the second largest in all of Asia), the shock wave wouldn’t reach any permanent home dwellers…

You’re abolutely right you smart Alec, there’s no way anyone could ever prove something like that, but the point is that Dharavi is enormous. There’s reportedly over a million people living there and it keeps getting bigger every year. I wanted to go, so we went.

As we walked through the swampy arteries of a labyrinth of shanty houses and trash heaps, children started to show up, smiling, running, following. I had reservations. I didn’t know what the politics of me entering this slum would be like. Would these people try to sell me stuff? Would they try to steal my bag? Would they ask me for money?

These kids were just laughing at us, talking amongst eachother, plotting some hi jinks that my rudimentary understanding of Hindi would never be able to grasp. What did they WANT?

They were probably thinking the same thing about us. We kept walking deeper into the slum, shimmying through narrower and darker passage ways, not knowing whether we were eventually going to end up at a dead end, or maybe find ourselves back to the main road, or maybe we’d end up in someone’s kitchen. One of the alleys was barely wide enough for me and my daypack to turn around 180 degrees. Every few feet I’d pass a threshold, and being the ever-curious voyeur, I would peer inside, maybe even stick my head in and snoop around while my eyes adjusted to the darkness. There they were, the masters of the house doing what people do, cooking their food, washing their clothes, raising their children, (many of whom had been following us). As we kept moving through the maze, I realized that I was in an insular universe, packed into these tiny holes in the walls were homes of ten people or more, but also shops and business of all kinds- tea houses, tv repair shops, leather workers, barber shops, clothes, food, you could find anything in downtown Dharavi, you wouldn’t need or want to spend your money or your free time outside the slum. I’m watching some potters work the wheel in a 3 foot wide alley when a cow and a man riding a bicycle while carrying a large jug of water on his head both need to pass eachother, and I’m in the middle. I decide that I’m better off not moving, because these characters will just know what to do. Sure enough they pass me without slowing down.

I notice that hanging from the rooftops were strings lined with flags of all kinds of symbols and religious icons. Muslim flags, Hindu, Sikh, Jain, Christian- and though I didn’t find any sign of Buddhists, I’d guess there a few hanging out there. I took my camera out to snap a few shots of some of those pretty flags, and a group of the children who were following us ran into frame and crowded together so everyone could get in the shot. They never asked for money, they never tried to sell me anything, but they did want their picture taken as often as I would take them. They didn’t ask to see the photos or anything, they just wanted to be in the frame when I pressed the clicker on my antique minolta. Many of these kids were posing for the first photograph ever taken of them. Not bad at all for their first try.

The booming markets of a mumbai slum… it just makes you realize the extent of the scrapiness of Indian culture. Most of these people make whatever they can in the city and keep their money within the slum economy, so there’s a lot coming in, and very little going out. Shanty houses with sattelite dishes and dvd players aren’t hard to find. One guy we passed posed for us leaning against his sporty Honda coupe- it looked pretty new. And right near the shiny red car were walls of year old trash, children shitting liquid into a gutter lining main street, and through the heart of it all a river of sludge running thick and black, you could smell it from a mile away.

It’s important for the traveler to remember not to pity the world through which he wanders. Sometimes that’s nearly impossible, but the challenge is recognizing the beauty of the drama, the universal stakes of human survival and all the pages of themes that come with it. Parents raising their children. Boys meeting girls. Competition among pals. The beauty of struggle. We found some of it there in Dharavi.

Das

went to meet my other families my other sisters and brothers

its a departure a flight from every day existence

everything i know, all the people I love, and live with

from the city of angels and my own sacred space

i found it necessary to change my sense of place

taste new flavors of unfamiliar territory

yet something unmistakeable stirs my cellular memory

this feels like a return to the rhythms of home

awakened by a scent a feeling a language the places I’m shown

its another way of seeing

another way of being

another philosophy

another way of believing

because the gods here are different than the ones I’ve known

you gotta switch modes decipher codes and go with the flow

sometimes you stay in luxury rooms with AC

sometimes you stay in a dump with stained sheets

sometimes you get hooked up by family or friends

sometimes you feel like the rip offs never end

you have to be adaptable and ready for whatever

stay ahead of the hustlers don’t get screwed be clever

if you have a bad experience just leave it behind

and if you have a good time keep it forever in your mind

cross over into the future

say goodbye to the past

enjoying the present moment is all we really have

the journey of life is long and the path unknown

just when you think you’re done growing something new is born

now is the time to divulge secrets

to open up vaults

cuz if you never share your soul

it’s no one else’s fault

Why am I on this strange trip?

How can beauty and evil coexist?

Why has my life taken this manifestation?

Why do people worship destruction and creation?

What pulses beneath everything

what is always there

what do I really need to exist

Who am I laid bare

From the top of an icy mountain

to the reef in the ocean deep

what do I bring with me everywhere,

what do I keep?

what is this presence I feel

watching over me wherever i go

I don’t have to ask anymore

now I just know

this is an experience that can’t be bought or sold

and I trust in whatever will unfold.

That, and Thailand’s mark- the bliss-filled greedy nature of being taken for all we’re worth.  Everyone gets hit.  No traveler spared, everyone succumbs to some sort of scam… We’ve been had.  We’re going to take care of it.  Guns a-blazing like real American heroes.

And I’ll finish with a Buddha hunt.  My Thai cultural immersion- searching through cubes and cubes of Phra Somdej Wat Rakhang amulets to find a real one.  Inspired by a Thai gentleman, a gift of protection to friendly Americans who won’t understand.  But I’ll try; a gift from the heart at least.

And home again.

Nearing the end.  Must learn to scuba dive first.  Going for broke.

jello snorkeling

there is something I have to do

Before I give my heart to you

there is a thing that I must do

see I have a secret boiling inside me

instructions and code waiting to be transposed

the buds have blossomed and ripened into fruit

ready for the plucking

ready to be devoured

like the dark red juicy center bursting with seeds

I have colorful powers

I have kaleidoscope dreams

tiny mirrors sparkle as my heart revolves round and round

now its time to turn my whole self inside out

bit by bit and day by day

step by step

each note I play

I can’t force it out or scare myself with threats

thoughts of destruction

delusions of success

I feel my soul overflowing with joy

my heart bursting and bleeding

dripping on the dance floor

acts of celebration

acts of aliveness

the opposite of death

the embodiment of bliss

manifestations of physical cultrue

emanations of a deeper power

the humming drone of a shared source

the spiritual nature of a creative force

the layers of sediment caked over with time

erosions and explosions

decay and dust

ashes blown to the wind

steel structures coated in rust

the various faces of gods in different places

the creation of a divine order

the personification of unarticulable sacredness

the permanence of carved stone temples and squares

beauty is as old as time and as new as the moment

individuals blessed with great vision.

people who have been invited to wak the path of the master.

women who have been blessed with the tools of unlimited creative action.

monuments in time that reverberate for eons.

Veiny bitten skin

wrinkles and scars

fat spots and bones sticking out

long fingers and high cheekbones

the thighs of a deer

the neck like a conch

hips and legs that want to dance

shoulders arms and hand that want to drum

a head that wants to think and dream

a heart that wants to love and trust

a body that wants to seduce and give in to seduction

extreme sexual bliss savored for a moment before it passes

giving way to the delta of evry day

brimming over with peace and contentment

so much its too much for just one

so much you have to share

replicate myself into another small population

emissarys diplomats from the embassy of my soul

he made pilgrimages to the temple of my breasts,

the sacred mountains of my thighs,

the monestary of my heart,

the shrine of my vagina,

the altar of my stomach.

I writhed and danced by myself all over the bed in ecstacy.

warmth crept in and stayed there.

I twisted turned and flailed

running my hands over my body

my skin responisve to its own touch.

myself responsible for the fulfillment of pleasure.

elements of nature in me working in synchronicity.

crystal clear frost bitten at the tips

melt and boil at the caress of the fiery sun.

breath breathing through me making my treetops sway and my pollen shakes loose.

ino the crack of the desert floor

deep where the earth shifts and makes plans.

into my core where i sit and think

where everything is black, alien, and unknown.

the thread that binds us together.

the string that the beads hold on to.

the ring that seals the promise of forever.

the symbolic gestures that add up to a life.

m. light