So I am finally in Thailand living in a small city in the northern section. I live with a host family. Me-li is grandma, Paw-thai is grandpa, Pi-to is the dad, Pi-Pooie is the mom and she is pregnant with their first child! it is exciting.
At six in the morning the sun has not yet risen. The rooster has. Every rooster in the village joins. Every noook, (bird) has a song to sing. From my second story window I can hear the trees and the bushes light up with songs. The earth is alive. Caw, Cawk, Cheap Cheep kawk. At the head of the village, a tuneless ‘tong’ marks the hour. Tong Tong Tong. I like to imagine that at the Buddhist temple going has become warped over the years and years of six-a-clocks. It is likely a rejected piece of metal and a kitchen ladle. Tong Tong Tong. Me-Lee has already risen and set to work making breakfast. Her slow movements reveal how unusually early it is for her. The toy factory doesn’t start until eight or nine and Pe-to doesn’t arise a before it is necessary. Paw-Thai sleeps hard. Waking is not one of his strengths. I don’t believe anything could wake him. Pe-pooie sets to work—not waiting for the sun. She cleans and irons moving efficiently—slowing only a little for being five months pregnant. The world is alive before the sun has risen and everything stands still. A day is about to begun. Slowly the mechanical tick from my plastic quartz reaches six a clock. Time for school.
Monday, February 18, 2008
One week in Chiang Mai
Chiang Mai.
At six in the morning the sun has not yet risen. The rooster has. Every rooster in the village joins. Every noook, (bird) has a song to sing. From my second story window I can hear the trees and the bushes light up with songs. The earth is alive. Caw, Cawk, Cheap Cheep kawk. At the head of the village, a tuneless ‘tong’ marks the hour. Tong Tong Tong. I like to imagine that at the Buddhist temple their going has become warped over the years and years of six-a-clocks. It is likely a rejected piece of metal and a kitchen ladle. Tong Tong Tong. Me-Lee has already risen and set to work making breakfast. Her slow movements reveal how unusually early it is for her. The toy factory doesn’t start until eight or nine and Pe-to doesn’t arise a before it is necessary. Paw-Thai sleeps hard. Waking is not one of his strengths. I don’t believe anything could wake him. Pe-pooie sets to work—not waiting for the sun. She cleans and irons moving efficiently—slowing only a little for being five months pregnant. The world is alive before the sun has risen and everything stands still. A day is about to begun. Slowly the mechanical tick from my plastic quartz reaches six a clock. Time for school.
At six in the morning the sun has not yet risen. The rooster has. Every rooster in the village joins. Every noook, (bird) has a song to sing. From my second story window I can hear the trees and the bushes light up with songs. The earth is alive. Caw, Cawk, Cheap Cheep kawk. At the head of the village, a tuneless ‘tong’ marks the hour. Tong Tong Tong. I like to imagine that at the Buddhist temple their going has become warped over the years and years of six-a-clocks. It is likely a rejected piece of metal and a kitchen ladle. Tong Tong Tong. Me-Lee has already risen and set to work making breakfast. Her slow movements reveal how unusually early it is for her. The toy factory doesn’t start until eight or nine and Pe-to doesn’t arise a before it is necessary. Paw-Thai sleeps hard. Waking is not one of his strengths. I don’t believe anything could wake him. Pe-pooie sets to work—not waiting for the sun. She cleans and irons moving efficiently—slowing only a little for being five months pregnant. The world is alive before the sun has risen and everything stands still. A day is about to begun. Slowly the mechanical tick from my plastic quartz reaches six a clock. Time for school.
Monday, February 11, 2008
LAX
LAX. Giant. It is arranged with six local terminals, and at the end, towering over the others, is the international terminal. The beating heart of LAX. Every blood cell is pumped through the heart of LAX before returning back to the furthest regions of the body.
Lazily they sprawled out on the floor. Torn old hippie bags covered with dirty patches spoke of a happier time. Even their rope like dreads were sprawled across the terminal while they waited to catch a flight out of this mind washed, media controlled, consumer culture. Across from them a perfectly meticulous Asian family waited politely. Father had a white color and well-kept sweater with perfectly aligned spectacles. His four-year-old daughter keeps to herself just like her mother. Five Americans snack. Their many carry on bags piled one on another. When they are done eating, the dad plunges his hand into their mess of luggage and pulls out another baggie of food for his three. At the window they are shocked humongousness of the 747 before engaging in a three on one wrestling match to the death. Mom looks on cautiously. A vacationer looks on already smiling in his white luau shirt and sport sunglasses. The business professional looks out the window. Professionally. Adding dollars and cents, looking for profit margins while generating regression analysis. A young father sleeps flat on the floor. His wife is nervously rocking their baby to sleep.
You could say it is like being in a different country. It is not. It is heaven; people from every tribe and language, from all corners of the earth. It is not America, nor is it foreign. No country or continent could hold such diversity. It is filled with the hope. Hope that you’ll get on a flight. Hope that you can leave this secure life sucking terminal. Hope that maybe America really can fulfill your dreams.
I’m just passing through. Not like everyone else. Destination; Thailand. Well, tomorrow, maybe tomorrow I will be there. For the first time, I realize I could make it. I responded plainly to my fathers’ questions this morning. What are my expectations? What are you thinking? There isn’t an escape now. Although… my plane could loose an engine make a quick descent and be forced to spend a week in Hawaii. But it might just crash which would defeat the luau fantasy.
Foreign sounds flow harshly through the obnoxious hidden speakers. I do not know what they are announcing over the intercom. Languages are too numerous in the airport to translate every message. Some messages forget English, no one speaks it good anyway. Names amazingly diverse for any one man to pronounce. An African American runs through the list of English and English-ish names, while his counterpart runs through some Asian names.
LAX brews, It is the American mixing pot on high. If travelers were not recycled daily it might just explode flinging travelers and their baggage everywhere. Confused and pissed, they would end up with someone else’s bags, late, worse off than when they were before they left.
Lazily they sprawled out on the floor. Torn old hippie bags covered with dirty patches spoke of a happier time. Even their rope like dreads were sprawled across the terminal while they waited to catch a flight out of this mind washed, media controlled, consumer culture. Across from them a perfectly meticulous Asian family waited politely. Father had a white color and well-kept sweater with perfectly aligned spectacles. His four-year-old daughter keeps to herself just like her mother. Five Americans snack. Their many carry on bags piled one on another. When they are done eating, the dad plunges his hand into their mess of luggage and pulls out another baggie of food for his three. At the window they are shocked humongousness of the 747 before engaging in a three on one wrestling match to the death. Mom looks on cautiously. A vacationer looks on already smiling in his white luau shirt and sport sunglasses. The business professional looks out the window. Professionally. Adding dollars and cents, looking for profit margins while generating regression analysis. A young father sleeps flat on the floor. His wife is nervously rocking their baby to sleep.
You could say it is like being in a different country. It is not. It is heaven; people from every tribe and language, from all corners of the earth. It is not America, nor is it foreign. No country or continent could hold such diversity. It is filled with the hope. Hope that you’ll get on a flight. Hope that you can leave this secure life sucking terminal. Hope that maybe America really can fulfill your dreams.
I’m just passing through. Not like everyone else. Destination; Thailand. Well, tomorrow, maybe tomorrow I will be there. For the first time, I realize I could make it. I responded plainly to my fathers’ questions this morning. What are my expectations? What are you thinking? There isn’t an escape now. Although… my plane could loose an engine make a quick descent and be forced to spend a week in Hawaii. But it might just crash which would defeat the luau fantasy.
Foreign sounds flow harshly through the obnoxious hidden speakers. I do not know what they are announcing over the intercom. Languages are too numerous in the airport to translate every message. Some messages forget English, no one speaks it good anyway. Names amazingly diverse for any one man to pronounce. An African American runs through the list of English and English-ish names, while his counterpart runs through some Asian names.
LAX brews, It is the American mixing pot on high. If travelers were not recycled daily it might just explode flinging travelers and their baggage everywhere. Confused and pissed, they would end up with someone else’s bags, late, worse off than when they were before they left.
Flight
I saw a mother apologizing for having a miniature bottle of baby butt cream. The bottle was obviously half empty, and therefore much below the three-ounce minimum. But security is the law. So she threw it away. The baby seemed unusually pissed. I would be too. Imagine this, the only thing you do all day is shit. All day, that’s the entire schedule. This obviously creates some problems downstairs. I’m not claiming negligence or anything, but if they let it fester in your onesie it can become problematic. The father apologized to the security agent. He should have known better. It clearly states in the TSA and Department of Homeland Security that anyone attempting to smooth a baby’s bottom should be put on a security suspicious person list. Besides, if your babies’ bottom isn’t as smooth as, well … if it isn’t smooth you should probably be reported to the child protection agency. Although this cuts down on the risk of terrorism, it increases the chances of a baby annoying the hell out of everyone on the plane. I believe this should be amended to the TSA advisory handbook. Crying babies and kids who kick the back of your chair are not cute, they are terrorists. They use destructive force to get what want. Gosh baby let’s be a little diplomatic here, we’re all reasonable people. Except you, you baby fundamentalist. But I would be pretty upset without my butt cream too, so I’ll let this one slide, as I slide of my shoes and placed them into the X-ray bin sponsored by shoes.com. Behind me a gorgeous girl is forced to turn over some makeup to the authorities. Now that should be a crime.
I’d like to see a terrorist try and hold up a plane again. Honestly, he would get the shit beat out of him --especially after release of Rambo III; All American Kick-Ass. Every young guy is waiting for his chance to reach ultimate victory and beat up a terrorist. Here is the thing, when we were kids, our G-I Joes were killing Soviets, but now they attacking terrorists. Every movie is about Americans getting picked on by the rest of the world. Countries Americans didn’t know even existed eight years ago have become the center of a new G-I Joe collection. Terrorism doesn’t stand a chance –not because of the war on terror abroad, but the war on terror that takes place right here at home. Everyone is waiting to kick a terrorist in the face. I’m am flying China Air and I know that these Asians are waiting to go Jet Li and Jackie Chan on some terrorist. Besides. After 15 hours sitting down, what these people need is a good ole’ fashioned brawl. I would put my money on any American in combat against a terrorist. But as for me, if I had to pick my battle I’d rather fight a terrorist with some baby butt cream than a baby without.
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