Blog dance

Greetings,

Let's dance. To the sound they're playing on the radio. Under the serious moonlight. Let's blog to the dance of letter-words.

There are 30 million bloggers in the states. Various states of confusion. Let's be various. Young people prefer social networks like Facebook (Fabulously Boring) and Twitter. Faster, shorter and easier. It's so exciting to live fast, short and easy. If I suffered from Attention Deficit Disorder, and everyone suffers from something because existence is suffering, I'd be a bird practicing social twittering. Kiss and type. 

Anxiety meets the tourist. They whisper, "I'm behind in getting my images up on Where Is My Face?" Once upon a space-dance there was a humbling life changing experience. Laughter was life learning dialogue.

I arrived hoping to teach at an isolated rural school 50km from Siem Reap. HOPE, the U.K. based charity organization sponsors the proposed school; My Grandfather's House. They require volunteers to have a criminal background check. As everyone knows, all-knowing, all powerful authorities do not issue this bureaucratic paper to aliens, nomads, misfits, vagabonds, itinerant weird genius teachers or other highly dubious life forms. So it goes.

I exist outside adult time.

Metta.

Dance hall

Greetings,

The dancing hall at Preah Khan is where dancers don't smile. They dance. They are slave dancers, all the women.

They dance for the king. He is the god-king. He has resurrected his desire and fury creating new customs, new decrees for dancers. They dance for the mighty and powerful. They dance Khmer stories about war, conquest, harvests, seasons, sun, and moon. 

They are submissive dances of life/death. They dance to celebrate life. They dance the celebration of tranquility. They dance or die. They wear tinkling bands of gold around wrists and ankles. They wear diamond diademed crowns and shimmering silk clothing. They do not smile. Their faces are frozen in the trance of dance.

One dances to escape the tyranny. She's danced all her short, sweet life.

The hall of dancers is surrounded by columns, portals and broken jumbled green moss stones. Thick gnarled silk-cotton tree roots crawl toward dancers. They dance through roots, past Shiva and Vishnu. The preserver and destroyer of life. 

Two foreign dancers dance with guide books. Golden leafed pages dance past their eyes. A guide who knows everything watches them. They are blind. He dances alone.

Metta.

Phimeamakas, Preah Pithu, Thommanon, Chau Say Thevoda...

Yellow Butterfly Guide

Greetings,

Evidence of intelligent life on Earth is greatly exaggerated. It's a rumor. A myth.

I recently wandered Banteay Kdei and Ta Phrom.

Kdei is great for walking through the dust. A sun yellow butterfly was my guide. It led me around the perimeter for a feeling of perspective. Being outside gives you the feeling of space acknowledging deep green forest. I do this at every temple. It's rare to see others explore the outside. Intelligence on Earth is rare.

Tourist ants are in a highly disciplined hurry. They march in, follow others, follow the stone path. They wander around, make a lot of noise, pose for pictures and march out. Their time is limited. Many look serious and sad, especially the Europeans. They are clearly controlled by forces unknown to them. It may be a silent ticking mechanism on their wrist near a pulse. They are little robots.

I remember a Tibetan saying, "I would rather be a tiger for one day than a sheep for a thousand years."

I explored outside slowly inside gentle winds from the forest. It's a very slow walking meditation. I engaged all my senses. Thick dust underfoot is a welcome relief after stones. I am surrounded by light and shadows dancing through leaves. All nature all the time.

Butterfly leads me to interior passages and shadowed experiences. Butterfly shows me mysterious art. Deep interior space. It takes ages to reach the center. 

Prohm is where "possibly the most famous photographed tree on planet Earth exists." It entwines itself around and through soft stones. It's a zoo. Human hoards line up to take a photo. They push and shove and jostle so they can have their picture taken with this tree.

Italian, French and German tongues wag like mongrels in heat. Life is a bitch. The Japanese, as I mentioned in an earlier post from The Silk Worm Farm are total photo freaks, obsessed with posing in doorways, passages, with carvings, plants, ferns and leaves. They feel the experience with their cameras. They behave like the temples are one gigantic amusement park. 

Here's the tree. No humans. Actually there is a tiny tourist sleeping inside the third root from the center.

Banteay Kdei and Ta Phrom galleries.

Metta.