om eye, ohm my, oh my?

My dear friend Jennie asked me about my impressions of Buddhism. I sit here wondering what I can say of any significance other than I know so little of its history or ideas. I suppose I could go to Wikipedia and read a simplified version and sound knowledgeable to you. I have heard guides relate mythological stories and speak of elaborate cosmogonies filled with various spirits, jinns, gods and goddesses. I know that Buddha was a young prince who 2500 years ago who left the palace and saw the suffering of the people and then developed into the ninth emanation of Vishnu, the Hindu supreme, who incidentally will reincarnate again. Does this sound familiar? Well its all Greek to me! or Judeo-Christian-Moslem for that matter.

Again what are my impressions? One thing I know for certain, Hinduism and Buddhism are not on a noticeable decline nor does it appear that religious zeal is waning in the Third World. Even if it were, it would hardly be noticeable, Until you travel extensively, it is hard to grasp that there is just a mind boggling number of people out here and most are followers of some religion.

This sobering realization slapped me squarely in the face that the other day when I found myself in a market which had several hundred booths selling amulets,statues, and various trinkets. Bins and shelves were overflowing with at least a million images of various deities cast in metal, or carved out of wood, plastic, stone or glass. These little items were either to be worn, placed around the house on a shrine, to help in prayer or to be used to ward off spirits. If it works, don't question it!

I have already visited any number of temples and historical sites from which the above photos were taken. I have seen people lighting candles, burning incense, bringing flowers, kneeling in prayer, and placing their palms together, fingers pointing upwards, to show their devotion and gratitude before the placid visage of Buddha. He gazes peacefully outward and projects inner clarity. His expression appears All-Knowing and encourages correct thinking which includes detachment from worldly needs. Whether he could maintain that composure in rush hour freeway traffic is anyone's guess, but I find his image certainly more palatable than an altar adorned with the depiction of the gruesome suffering of Christ on the cross.

How do I feel about Buddhism? In the last analysis, it remains a muddle for me. I am a cantankerous historian. I watch and record, but can not, in clear conscience, join. My mind does not let me suspend judgment. I am told to listen with my heart and feel the energy. but the most I achieve is hearing the crooning voices of the Beach Boys singing "Good Vibrations." I am a restless, rebellious sort. Let the humble figure it out. I'd rather take the photo and my chances with the All.

The three photos were taken at Ayutthaya, a World Heritage site, a former capital of Thailand. It was built a thousand years ago but was sacked by the Burmese army in the 18th century. The last photo also from there was an original head which was discarded by looters one hundred years ago because the nose was broken. It was left on the ground and a tree grew around the remains and created this image.

Thaiming it write?

I wish I had written a post yesterday about my first impressions and experiences in Bangkok. My goal would have been to have given you a clear picture of what I saw or learned or how I felt. It would have been easier since I was fresh and my "bowl" was empty. Unfortunately, after a second full day of touring, it has filled up and is brimming. It feels like I am floating about in an alphabet soup and colliding with many different letters, some in a foreign scribble, and now lack the ability to even sufficiently describe the texture, color or odor of the broth. I am overwhelmed and tongue-tied. Perhaps this mental muddle is a result partially of jet lag and troubled sleep, but then again I'm definitely not in America.  

One of the benefits of photography is that preserving a scene helps recreate the moment and brings back memories which otherwise are damaged or lost. So, to help me recall, I have selected a few photos from yesterday. In the midday heat, I ventured out aimlessly down the busy street in my neighborhood of Banglamphu skirting the Chao Phraya River, a watercourse similar in size and depth to the Willamette in Portland, but different by its chocolate-brown color and strange-shaped longboats. After passing through a college campus, I suddenly discovered on the other side that I had arrived at a marketplace, which by size and complexity was beyond my wildest expectations.

With my camera, hanging down from my neck like a giant amulet, I began "subtly" snapping photos of working people and their goods. It was propitious that I came upon the man in the first photo. He was selling beautifully designed, scrumptious, baked goods. Unlike all the other vendors, he seemed curious about me, was willing to chat, and spoke good English. I told him of my journey and he told me of his, the importance of right disposition, a key Buddhist concept.  Furthermore he spoke of the Thais. They were a good people, reserved and intelligent, and could be engaged through the art of smiling.

Putting his advise to work, I began to stroll past vendors, taking pictures and smiling. Several ladies offered me tasty morsels and another gave me a flower. There was none of the hubbub nor filth nor begging nor pushy hawking I had experienced in so many other countries. The market was busy, but almost quiet, except for a lone guitarist who played tranquilly to the public. I listened for a while and noticed a  policeman standing nearby. It occurred to me that I had seen  neither soldiers nor police on my entire walk until then. At that moment the policeman ambled over to the musician, said something in his ear and picked up the microphone. With a soft melodic voice and, accompanied by the guitarist, the cop began to sing beautifully and gently what could have been a ballad or love song. I listened for a while and moved on, knowing that my new adventure had truly begun.

It is now morning in Oregon. It is the middle of the night here in Thailand. Good judgment says I should try and go to sleep. The distance between us vast. I sit alone, ponder, and write my story to make deadline. I want my post to be like the morning paper thrown at your door. I don't know why. I just do.  

On the Road Again

This post has nothing to do with creative writing nor artwork. My sole purpose is to let you know that I arrived in Bangkok last night. I have to admit that I found the flight here tedious to say the least. After rising at 4 AM in Portland, catching a 2 hour flight to Los Angeles, then boarding an 11 hour flight to Tokyo,and then finally, after sitting at the gate for an hour because of a sick passenger, a 6 1/2 hour flight to Bangkok followed then by a 45 minute taxi ride to my hotel, I arrived at 1 AM the following day and, of course, feel like crap. Actually, I am quite happy mentally and eager to see the sights, but have decided to rest this morning and acclimate to the incredibly humid air and the squalor.

The experience of flying with Japan Airlines was rewarding. I was one of the few non-Japanese on the plane and was fascinated by the interactions of the people. I saw much bowing and gentle smiles. People showed me great courtesy. I was playfully teased and urged by a flight attendant and old man who was sitting next to me to try a number of Japanese foods available to business class passengers. I accepted if they both agreed to let me to do sketches of them.The review of the final products generated much amusement.

As I sit here thousands of miles away from home, my nephew Mark's insight comes to mind. He asked rhetorically how a person can have any complaints with flying. He made me remember that riding on the plane's cushioned seat, which retracts into a bed, is like sitting on a magic carpet flying at pell mell speed. It wasn't that long ago that sailors spent months in unknown seas or explorers crossed strange lands in the face of countless peril from hostile people, threatened by dangerous weather or rampant disease. In a moment of frustration or despair, at least one such adventurer looked at the sky and saw a comet whizzing by and must have thought how wonderful it would be to travel distance at that speed. Today that shooting star is just one of dozens of jet trails littering the night sky. Yesterday I was in Oregon, today Thailand. I had to sit a long time. Foolish me to whine about my exhausting journey!

Get Ready, Get Set,......!

Since writing my last post I have been busy refining my itinerary and considering what to bring and how much to pack. I have decided to travel as lightly as possible,  taking only a small backpack, a carry-on bag, and my laptop. It will be important to be pragmatic since I will have several days in Thailand where I plan to leave Bangkok and travel by local train or bus out into the country to visit lesser known sites. I also may consider seeing the famous bridge on the River Kwai. This means having the flexibility to navigate from place to place with ease and without the encumbrances associated with luggage. This will also apply to my river boat journey down the Mekong through Cambodia to Viet Nam.  In any case, I will have several days where I will have no idea where I will spend the night. In spite of  much experience in that regard, the risk and unpredictability associated with finding safe, comfortable lodging still generates in me substantial anxiety.  I am only mollified somewhat by the knowledge that the unknown often provides the richest experiences.

Psychologically, I still feel like I'm on a pogo stick. I fluctuate between short moments of joy and longer moments of depression, a tempo  I am acutely familiar with and which has resonated in me already since birth. I shared this emotional dilemma in my last post and received supportive and validating comments mainly from people of my age group. Others, mainly family members, expressed themselves constructively and spoke of ways to "fix me" through various therapies. My own method to find comfort has been to immerse myself in writing and in art.  I find these pursuits useful a means to release tension. Daily I plop myself down at a table at a Starbucks, at Whole Foods or at a tea shop, put on a headset to listen to music on Pandora Radio, and jot down thoughts in my laptop on current political topics, on the timely, personal question of dynamics between men and women, and my problematic role as a parent. Likewise these locations are useful to find subjects for quick sketches. Drawing brings me great pleasure which I hope will be prepare me to do some decent drawings while I am in Asia.

My passport arrived in the mail yesterday. On a back page I found an exotically designed Viet Nam visa. Its strange script and picture set my mind swirling with visions of jungle, muddy rivers, strange Buddhist statues, large elephants and of millions of Asian people whose faces, words, and lives I will be unable to understand. On Tuesday morning I leave Portland and, by the next night, will be in Bangkok. The weather will be humid and the city noisy with motorbikes. From the airport I hope to dive headfirst into the melee by finding a small cab or local bus to take to my lodging instead of using a "safe, prearranged transfer. During those hippie days of now so long ago, such an adventure on which I am soon embarking was called a "trip". My instinct tells me that this sentiment was prescient then and is still valid today.  I am excited and as usual nervous. At least I know it is neither Heart of Darkness nor Apocalypse Now!

Trailhead?

I have neither written nor drawn since May. I am not sure why I stopped. I know I have been depressed but lots of people use art when they feel lost as a way to develop focus. Instead, I retreated and turned sullen. During many daylight hours, I withdrew by fishing and, late into Summer evenings, I worked intensely on my stamp collection. This routine guaranteed isolation and lots of silence. I didn't need to deal with issues of complicated personal and familial relationships nor angst about my mortality. The other day, during a particularly disconsolate mood at Washington Park in Portland, I looked at my sketch book and realized sadly I hadn't drawn in a long time. I remembered  how much joy sketching had given me and felt wretched that  I had squandered the progress I had made months ago. Then I remembered how several people had mentioned recently they had missed my writings. I hadn't even had the energy to explain honestly why I had stopped my posts other than by saying that I had taken a break. I still feel a paralyzing lack of purpose and dulled emotions only not as strong as before. I wanted to change. It occurred to me that the best way to rekindle a zest for life and to rediscover creativity was to  plan  a new travel adventure. In the past, the weird mixture of elation and fear resulting from visits to exotic places has been a tincture for stimulating art and joy. In the past I usually  had a particular work-related purpose  for one of these journeys. This time I am the solitary bear going over the mountain.  My job, Tapirgal encouraged,  is to record my unique vision or voice even stronger than ever before and to run with it. Raksha similarly urged me not to look for a purpose and more or less follow the Nike vision of "Just Do It!" and display my portfolio regardless. My direction will emerge without me really knowing where I am going or why. It is time to embrace the value of process more than expecting to see reason..

It is more important to publish this post than any other. I have put on my tennis shoes, found a trail, and now I have to take my first step. I feel worried. Do I have it in me to get back in shape and express myself again? In less than two weeks I leave for Southeast Asia. I will explain my itinerary later. It's the inner journey that I have begun today. "Holy Crap", I have no idea where I am going.

Southern Comfort?

I was eager to reach Ocala and meet with a City Daily Photo blogger friend whose page I had been following since 2009. I was surprised as I approached Ocala how the landscape had changed. Gone were the flat marshes, defoliated forests, and pit-mine-pocked landscape. Instead I found lush pasture fenced with freshly-painted white posts. Horses grazed peacefully near huge stables and contemporary homes. I had seen pictures of this on his website and knew that I would see some pockets of wealth. Also my friend and I had exchanged a few emails and I had determined that he was a thoughtful person who seemed to express some ideas about politics and religion that I found both intriguing and sympathetic. I was not disappointed by our meeting. We sat at a Starbucks and he related to me some of the salient events of his past life and spoke pointedly about a source of irritation in his present one. He was living in a stronghold of right wing politics and fundamentalist religion. He went so far as to say that many in the community disliked Obama. He seemed to think that his fellow citizens hid behind a veil of political excuses, like the president's poor handling of the economy, to mask their true sentiments. They disliked the president because he catered to phony liberals, sucked up to minorities, and more significantly that he was godless and black. My friend spoke about how strong the Tea Party was in Ocala, that seeing an Obama sticker was rare, and then quipped jokingly that having one might even be a liabiltiy. Ultimately he felt that he was not in tune with the mood of rural Central Florida, but enjoyed living there nonetheless in a safe, gated community along with other transplants from the big cities of the North or from Orlando who enjoyed the golf, the green landscape, and some modicum of cultural activity.

I shared with him some of my observations from my drive along the back roads before reaching Ocala. I had seen huge numbers of single-wide mobile homes, many in poor condition with junk stacked nearby. Others were in seedy trailer parks, parked in rows, dilapidated worn out sheet metal structures with an older pickup or minivan squeezed between wooden steps leading up to the door. It was my impression that these parks contained poor white people who labored in the phosophate mines or in orange processing factories or were home to folks who didn't work at all.

Then I spoke of the churches advertising their denomination on reader boards using every imaginable combination of religious words such as savior, gospel, truth and ministry. These houses of the faithful could be found in rude block buildings or frame houses, and occcasionally in more modern centers. Even though it wasn't Sunday, their parking lots usually had quite a few cars. God knows what their owners were doing there, but I'm sure it was Gawd's work, and I certainly had no intention of going in and finding myself at Bible School. I had stopped the night before at a Comfort Suites near Bartow, Florida, and was told by the receptionist there were no rooms available. She spoke with such pride that the entire place had been booked for a Children of Noah convention. The pentacostal charismatic experience seemed to have trumped handily the traditional church world which, although housed in more formidable buildings, appeared to me lonely, empty and closed, except perhaps on Sunday.  

I recalled the small towns I had seen. Those before Ocala and many that I saw along the road after my visit contained a botched up mixture of awkwardly renovated historic buildings. These stood in marked contrast to the rest of the business district which consisted of one or two old warehouses and a motley collection of stores, their names faded and some with windows boarded up. New hope and opportunity seemed to have been found along the edges of the city center. There I observed dated strip malls with a Dollar General, a larger regional super market, the usual beauty shop and other boring-looking stores anchored by a McDonalds and a Pure Oil gas station. Along the street I saw a surprisingly large number of used car lots packed with models that I felt in other geographical areas would have long been crushed.  Also pawn shops with brightly illuminated signs advertising that the owners also paid cash for gold jewelry seemed overly abundant. Likewise there were many old single level motels which might have been considered quality in their heyday and had boasted an AAA sign or a Best Western rating. Now they stood in disrepair or transformed into permanent living quarters with rusted air conditioners looking like old buck teeth protruding from their windows.

When I was hungry, I would look around specifically for the catchy phrase on a sign, "home-cooked food" or "home-style cooking." I found  this usually below the name of a restaurant named, not unsurprisingly, something like "Mary and Bud's Kitchen."  I figured that there I could find something authentic and nutritional to eat. In addition, such a restaurant could provide an opportunity to chat with  local people. Although the McDonalds or Checkers seemed to attract the main lunch crowds, I looked forward to eating in the local "simple" places. I would usually look for an empty stool at the lunch counter next to some unsuspecting fella and hope that my conversational skills would help me make a "friend."  I have to admit there were moments also when I was just plain lonely and desired to have some human contact. Before having a chance to utter a word, an 18 - 20 year old waitress wearing a cheap t-shirt which said Strawberry Fields Forever on it approached, flopped down a menu before me and asked in a friendly, but unpleasant sounding accent, if I wanted a glass of water with lemon. She clearly wasn't Mary, who I learned  had died several years earlier after she and Bud had sold the place and moved to Nebraska.  As I scanned the menu I suddenly became anxious. I was at a loss for what to order. Since I had become sensitive to avoiding trans-fats and food with high salt and sugar content, the thought of eating cheap hamburgers, chicken fried steak, or breakfasts of eggs and biscuits and gravy seemed unpalatable. After deciding to try a tuna fish sandwich, I was offered my choice of sides of either tater tots, fries, mashed potatos, potato chips or cole slaw, certainly none of these were homemade. I looked around and saw the other patrons eating what amounted to grotesque food, especially chicken nuggets with canned green beans, including a big thick piece of toasted white bread slimy from grease from the grill. Many of the men had large bellies. The women were overweight and exhibited a dull, uneducated expression,  I surmise, from spending too much time talking of the weather or about their pastor. I left feeling disappointed. I knew that economic austerity had cheapened the food. Also there was a blatant disregard for integrating more current medical and dietary information into the choice of servings.  I remembered briefly those days as a child sitting with my parents and sister at similar family-orientedeating spots and eating real fried chicken, vegetables from the garden and even a slice of homemade pie served by Ma and Pa. Now, as I climbed back into my car, I realized that, surrounded by an atmosphere where ignorance, conformity and poverty seemed so pervasive, it was imperative for me to retain good spirits. After all, how fortunate I was to be on vacation and able to explore the world..

At the entrance to one town, a tattered banner proclaimed that the high school team had earned the title of 2011 State Cheeleading Runners-up. I imagined that there had probably been a parade honoring the winners. The grandstands at the sporting events were surely full. The townspeople were proud of their children and the community. For a fleeting moment I saw the pageantry and knew their happinesss. Just as quickly the thought, like a speck of dust kicked up from my tire, was gone and replaced by my next vision. I realized I was already out of the city limits and on the road to Georgia.

Stopping in Time?

One of the best experiences on a trip is discovering special, unexpected places. So it was, as I was driving on a quiet highway, U.S. 301, near Bushnell, which is in Central Florida. It was a beautiful morning and, after driving an hour or so, I began to feel the urge to stop. Then, almost simultaneously, I spied a sign at County Road 603 announcing that somewhere nearby was Dade Battlefield Historical Park. I had heard the name Dade before and knew that Miami, which was hundreds of miles away, was in Dade County. So I asked myself who was Dade and, as I was about to put this question in Notepad on my phone to remind me to look up the answer later, I decided to follow the arrow and explore the park. I considered momentarily I would find myself at some obscure, insignificant Civil War site. As I drove up to the entrance and its ticket booth, I had hoped that there would be no money-taker to collect the $4.00 entry fee because all I wanted to do was drive in, cruise around, satisfy my curiosity, and resume my trek north. Unfortunately, a portly uniformed guard peering down at me suspiciously sat inside, informed me of the cost in a most unpleasant accent, and thrust a brochure in my hand. As I handed him the money, I found myself tongue-tied and drove off still unclear about what lay before me. The short gravel road ended at small empty parking lot nestled in a grove of magnificent trees shading a block building which appeared to possibly be a visitors center.

Near the door, a stone monument with a bronze plaque explained that this luxurious, peaceful, forested spot was, in 1835, the site of a well-calculated ambush by Seminole Indians against a column of American cavalry as it was crossing tribal lands. The massive defeat of the soldiers marked the beginning of what is called the 2nd Seminole War. Recently I had read a book about Andrew Jackson, who was president at the time, and I had  learned something of the tragic story of the Seminoles. White settlers had coveted the lush timber and the wildlife-rich tribal lands after Florida had been purchased from the Spanish and had become an American territory. They were also piqued by the Seminole tradition of harboring and then integrating runaway black slaves into their culture. In addition, the Indians had shown disdain for Christianity and had resisted conversion. The visitors center chronicled the salient events of the entire conflict with the Seminoles on signboards and also with a movie which showed reenactments of the pivotal battle that took place several hundred yards away. I learned how Major Francis Dade had been ordered to march two companies of men on an established path from a fort in Tampa through the Indian lands in order to supply an outpost, Fort King, near present day Ocala. He had been attacked here and 108 men, including Dade, had been "massacred." The Natives lost only three braves in the conflict.

I then chose to walk the original military trail and reflect on the Seminole Wars which had transpired  177 years ago. It was not hard to feel the appalling disrespect and reprehensible immorality perpetrated against the Indians in the name of progress. The war ended in the utter defeat, enslavement, and relocation of the local population to Oklahoma. Even though the tone at the visitors center was to report the sad, complicated history in a matter-of-fact manner and to avoid any critical point of view, I couldn't help being struck by the feeling that this park was no lasting memorial to the Native horror, but was established solely to commemorate the only place in this war where the aggressors had been handily defeated. I had experienced a similar park years ago when visiting the Alamo, where a minor loss for American conquerors had been heralded as a great tragedy of the time. The repercussion was enormous. It stimulated increased brutality against the Mexicans and fostered further justification for seizing their land. Similarly, every American history book focuses on the story of the atrocity perpetrated by the Seminoles on the Americans that took place here, and thereby gives a distorted impression of equivalent suffering. It portrays the eventual victorious invaders as victims who had  a justifiable excuse for revenge.

As I walked quietly across a stone bridge, the trail jogged slightly and turned into a small glen. There placed in the leaves were two large grave markers. The songbirds in the canopy above became aware of my presence in this idyllic setting and ceased chirping as I came nearer. I read the description on the stones and learned that before me were the remains of Francis Dade and one of his soldiers. I felt strangely placid and in touch with the desire to accept the sad facts without judgement. I know that questions of historical choices are important to ask, especially when events are recent. It is worth debating about what should have been or could have been, or what behavior was right or wrong. Yet the day and circumstances of the battle played out here seemed to me now like a drop of rain which had fallen long ago, had mixed with volumes of water from subsequent showers to join a river and was now far downstream into the present, bobbing as an idealized memory of the past.

I continued walking on the well-maintained path until it ended at a fence, marking the boundary of the park. I stood there for a moment, let my eyes travel across a marsh and imagined the continuation of the route, now long overgrown, a length the soldiers never reached. Beyond the marsh I knew the trail had been covered with concrete. I could hear the traffic from it on Hwy 301 and then from I-75. Soon I would be back on that trail getting gas for my car, also perhaps buying a sandwich at Subway, and then taking my turn to complete the soldiers' journey to Ocala.