awake

there's a burning at 3:52 am. it has to do with the typewriter keys that he's toiled over.
the dust and love in the curls of his hair.
the cockroach he might wake tucked behind the empty bottle of bourbon.
or that drunken word he's tickling,
to keep it walking, rolling, on a crooked path. before it hits the
floor.
or the flickering of city lights. within the perfect four 90 degree corners of windows of rooms of buildings of far away distance.
now on, now blinking, now dead,
now asleep.

dance, dance, dance

left eye twitching
aama's superstitious ladle would say:
something ominous is abound
somewhere there,
over here, near
and where?
Google says:
blepharospasm.
i put a tune on
let the eyelid
jitterbug, shimmy, boogie,
two-step, tamang-selo, swing,
waltz, kathak, strut,
pelvic-twirl, thrust, tango,
bhangra, flip and twist
until it tires
and
stops.

james franco goes to my school

it's when i stop that i can start.

i've been goinggoinggoing and gone too much.

i rest here now, in the heart of harlem. post spinach penne dinner, accentuated by the marijuana perfume from my next door neighbour.

adjusting.

new york is the grimiest city. i've seen dirt and poop and maggots. but grime so thick and adhesive and gaudy that i can't scrape it off me, only in new york.

i am re-learning simple things i learnt as a kid. do you dishes. take the trash out. in other words, don't invite the mice and the roaches.

coughing now.

when i saw the light brown behind of a small mouse wiggle-squeeze -steered by its pink tail- under the stove, i didn't know how to react. to laugh with excitement or to start screaming? was it a cute sight? or a repulsive one? i still can't make out. it's rather disturbingly delightful.

i'm not killing.

i'm suffocating the bedbugs in vinyl covers. and sucking them up with my pet-hair vacuum once in a while. the orion belts on my skin have started to disappear.

the spider beatles, we have decided to name them creatively, are frozen in little sandwich Ziplocs. we are going to mail them to the entomologist tomorrow. yes, tomorrow.

the living things in my apartment, welcome or not, live.

i'm not killing.

we're all fighting for space.
and food.
and bargaining,
heavily.

(central harlem, nyc, sep 2009)

sea ms. muna

it was an offspring of betrayal. it wasn't betrayal, really, but it was very close to it. genetically.

naphat, my seven-year-old thai kid, loves trees. in science, we were learning how to identify parts of a tree. we took a walk outside. all 34 of us. i showed him the bark and told him that if we cut past the bark deeper into the tree, we will paralyse it. we will semi-kill it. induce a lot of pain. naphat asked me if he could take a piece of that bark home and show it to his mother. he put it in his breast-pocket. then he hugged and caressed the trunk of the tree, with a corrugated forehead, looked at me and said, "it is very painful for tree."

then on my second last day at school, we read "the giving tree." a tear jerker that had sent me hunched over in silence at a chicago bookstore some years back. naphat raised his hand while we were reading and he said, "ms. muna, even if i old, i still can climb trees. i not cut trees." and he shook his head in his seven-year-old conviction.

when i told the class that i was going to leave the school and subsequently leave them, i showed them a map of the world and told them where i'd be. and why i was leaving. we made jokes about it. how when i see them next they'd have three kids each. three naughty kids. or how old i'd be. or how my plane might crash (not funny!).

then we broke off for snack.

that was when naphat approached me.

naphat always raises his hand.

naphat never interrupts.

naphat cannot sit still.

naphat writes in dancing letters.

he came up to me and asked me: "ms. muna, tomorrow, you last day? you no come on monday?" and i said, "yes, naphat, I won't be here on monday." he nodded his head. and in all maturity accepted it, "oh, okay." and walked away. arms raised to the sky. covering his ears and his eyes.

i went after him, to find out that he'd been crying and didn't want to show me. in my attempt to console him, i started crying. i don't know why. but i couldn't stand it that i had sent this little seven-year old crying. i hadn't scolded him. i had just betrayed him.

well, it was an offspring of betrayal. it wasn't betrayal, really, but it was very close to it. genetically.

no loud noises. now banging on desks. no, "keep quiet!"s. it only took a whisper to break his heart.

my last day at school, i gave naphat one of my most beloved rubber objects. a blue rubber whale that my friend, anthony, sent me from australia. i wrote on it and told him to keep it. and told him about whales, how big they are. how beautiful they are. and how we should love and save them, just the way we love and save trees.

he put it in his pocket and couldn't help but take it out at every opportunity to show it to anyone/everyone he came across that day.

naphat gave me his mother's phone number and told me to call it.

i didn't call the number.

(naphat always raises his hand. naphat never interrupts. naphat cannot sit still. naphat writes in dancing letters.)

barefoot and ankle deep

it has been raining outside my computer and outside my raincoat.

on some nights, thunderclaps jolt me awake to find lightning caught in the scarf that hangs as a makeshift curtain on my window.
these nights are loud but beautiful.
the mornings can be tough.

on friday, i wake up to a heavy downpour. i put on my board shorts, my raincoat, pack a pair of fresh underwear and a towel, then head out to school. i scope out the street in front of my building. flooded. no biking today. i decide to hail a motocy-man but two zoom past me with no intention to stop. i have 20 minutes left and am going to walk. but as i jiggle in slow-motion over slippery parts of the fake 2-inch-wide pavement, i know it will take me forever to get to school.

that's when i turn around.

i fish for my back light, attach it under my seat, hop on my bike and let the tires cut water.

it's hard riding a road-bike in bangkok because of 1)potholes, 2) the mound-like shape of roads that make the non-existent bike path side slope down unto large drains, 3) wide cracks where my slim tires get wedge-locked, 4) manholes on the side of the road that engulf the tires, 5) pollution and 5) ruthless motocy-men and cars that queue up in the daily "traffic jams" that define bangkok. when it's raining hard, it's even harder.

as i squint ride down my street, i see some other teachers from school walk under flimsy umbrellas, angry at the rain. their faces are warped in frustration. people in cars, huffing and puffing, looking up at the sky. walkers cussing at drivers that spray water with their tires. food stall owners squatting under awnings, thinking about all the business they are losing. tick tick tick tick.

then amidst all this grey madness, and the music of horns and bells and screams and thunder and rain, i see the morning monk under his black umbrella, with his bowl tucked in his right armpit. his simran robe hovering over the flooded streets, barely touching the water. barefoot and ankle deep. walking, slowly. with smiling eyes.

it is by far, the best morning trip to school. after i accept the rain and pay no mind to getting wet, i thoroughly enjoy my ride. even with mud streaks all over my bag, and legs, and face...

when i get to school, i am drenched. i get into the men's (because it's bigger than the women's) and change into my school-teacher outfit. and boy, ne'er hath a dry pair of underwear felt that fresh and good.

sunday afternoonin'

there's something therapeutic about going through a container of lentils,
looking for a baby twig,
a stone,
a lentil-dweller,
or
just old lentils.

it's an important ritual.

something to bring me back here, to right now, to right Here, to STOP and really, to just s-t-o-p.

so that i listen.
so that i watch.
so that i think.
so that i wait to feel.

it's hard coming back from Home to home. it's hard coming back here to know that i'm leaving for yet another home.

lately, i've found myself wanting to write, but not doing it.
scared that as i type each word, i will make it real, and concrete.
i will give it life and a separate entity.
and all those words will form a mutiny, and rise up in a 17-foot surging crest to crash upon
me

but hand-picking through a plate of lentils on a sunday afternoon,
pre-nepali-dinner,
post swim,
in front of a fan (on number 1),
drinking iced coffee,
watching the sky turn a wavy orangepink from my 2-foot-square verandah,
hmmm,
there's nothing scary about That.

critical mass in bangkok

if you are a bangkok-eyed, and are looking for some fun, anarchy, thrill and (some may call it) a "workout," then come out to the Bangkok Arts and Cultural Centre, at 6:30 pm, Friday, 27th of Feb for critical mass.

there'll be plenty-uh cool cats and lots of darts and drinks after.

come already.
mah lyao!