Mass consumption

"Culture and civilizations are so enormous,
so rich, so complex and varied,
that getting to know a fragment of them,
a mere scrap,
would require devoting one's whole life
to the enterprise.
Cultures are edifices with countless rooms,
corridors, balconies and attics,
all arranged further more,
into such twisting, turning labyrinths,
that if you enter one there is no exit,
no retreat, no turning back..."
writes Ryzard Kapuscinski,
the polish foreign correspondent.

And so the border frontiers
of Burma and Thailand go!
Here I am in this wild frontier,
refusing the plastic bag,
accepting the meal,
refusing the meat,
taking the local transport,
signing the papers,
paying the money,
taking the notes,
kneeling at the temples,
sitting in the eating houses,
pulling down the mozzie net,
rubbing on the lavender oil,
taking vitamin B2,
holding the baby,
cross legged on the bus.

In the middle of a teak forest/jungle
on the edge of the Burmese mountains,
not too far but far enough from a frontier town
full of many many influences.
A gathering of hill tribes,
Akha,
Karen,
Mon,
Lisu, Maew,
the infamous Paduang
with their gold neck stretching bands,
Thai, Burmese, Chinese
and Farang (travelers and tourists,
westerners here for what ever reason
and me).
An exercise in list writing!

And here it is that I am, writing my lists,
walking slowly,
waiting with all of the above
at the dusty market station,
sitting with bags of rice,
eggs and brooms in the back of utes,
listening to everyone with eyes open wide,
I am here seemingly in another world.

Where one can choose this:




Or this:


General store, Mae hong son.

































...Yet it is the same world
and in the still of the morning
I think of my sister who waits in hospital
for her unborn baby
to engage before she gives birth..
and Tone, who waits in the blue mountains
as his fathers body is prepared for his funeral.
I read emails with a smile.
Before I sleep and as I wake I lie under my mosquito net
as the mist fills and lifts in the teak trees
I am surrounded by
and I hear only the jungle
and think of the mistakes I made with my heart,
of the trade that goes on,
of the reasons I am here,
of the things I have to do when I return,
of the way things get done,
of the politics,
of the people, of the land.

When the mist lifts
and the other far off noises start,
the farming, the motorbikes,
I get up.
I walk up and into town and I drink strong black coffee.
I never know what time it is, until I engage with the village.

One day my words will become actions
and actions words
but for now everything
lies somewhere between being and naming,
just like leonard cohen,
just like Kapuscinski,
for what ever label and what ever reason,
" The desire to 'cross the border',
to look at what was beyond it, stirred in me still."


I quietly give gratitude
for all we receive,
for all our freedom
and all that is accessible to us
for it is not equal to all of us around the world.