Current Captivation: The Disappeared

I am reading The Disappeared by Kim Echlin, and her writing is holding me captive in its street smells and descriptions of Phnom Penh. Echlin's short powerful chapters are densely calorie-packed like a decadent piece of chocolate cake with a thick layer of frosting in three to five pages. Here's a sample to whet your appetite.

"A girl wears her lover's clothes because she likes his smell and she wears his clothes because she is trying to understand why she feels both free and broken. Why does she feel whole when she has to give away her body, her mind and her heart? Why is she not tempted to escape? She wants to smell her lover on her skin, and she can not understand this feeling that imprisons, frees her. She does not guess that she will remember wearing her lover's clothes when she is old. She tells herself that what she feels is forever. But she has already observed in the world that it is not."

I see residue of Written on the Body in this love story, yet I do not want Anne and Serey to break their bond tragically. I'm on page 108: 120 pages to turn before I learn of the lovers' destiny.

The Crush Continues Today

My Crush on Jeff Bridges Spans the Decades

more medicines, but less wellness

THE PARADOX OF OUR TIMES

- His Holiness the Dalai Lama (also attributed to other sources)

Is that we have taller buildings, but shorter tempers

Wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints

We spend more, but we have less

We have bigger houses, but smaller families

More conveniences, but less time

We have more degrees, but less sense

More knowledge, but less judgment

More experts, but more problems

More medicines, but less wellness

We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values

We talk too much, love too seldom, and hate too often

We have learnt how to make a living, but not a life

We have added years to life, but not life to years

We’ve been all the way to the moon and back

But have trouble crossing the street to meet the new neighbor

We have conquered outer space, but not inner space

We’ve cleaned up the air, but polluted our soul

We’ve split the atom, but not our prejudice

We’ve higher incomes, but lower morals

We’ve become long on quantity but short on quality

These are the times of tall men, and short character

Steep profits, and shallow relationships

These are the times of world peace, but domestic warfare

More leisure, but less fun; more kinds of food, but less nutrition

These are the days of two incomes, but more divorces

Of fancier houses, but broken homes

It is a time when there is much in the show window

And nothing in the stockroom

A time when technology can bring this letter to you

And a time when you can choose

Either to make a difference.... or just hit, delete.

Watermelon Slim and Deak Harp in Memphis

Grocery Store Gigolo - Poetry in Motion

[A friend who translates poetry from Czech to English sent me this poem. Although he forgot to credit the author of the work, which could be him, I didn't care. The beauty of the message caught my breath in mid-air, juggling the carbon dioxide furiously, while stirring my senses to a hopeless frazzle. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.]

Grocery Store Gigolo

For a ten dollar bill, I will marry you
every Friday for a week.
Let me snow ball you red with laughter
on the peak of mount Fuji
and without causing any undue earthquake
let me press my lips into your life-giving topography.

In the morning I will serve you guava shake in bed,
and let Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake water the philodendrons.
For five dollars I will feed you persimmons with my fingers
and papaya slices mouth-to-mouth.
I will scrub your back with oatmeal,
cover your face with guacamole
and wash your hair in coconut milk.

After I shower you with pomegranate wine
and lick you clean,
I will pass you a towel and lie down beside the tub
to keep your feet off the cold porcelain.

Weaving the orchids of Bora-Bora into your hair,
I will tie your ponytail with the tropic of Capricorn
(when you grow one).

I will plant a nasturtium blossom above your ear,
rub two drops of rose oil behind your knees
and give you a horsie ride to the sand of your choice.
For a quarter, I will fill your purse with sand dollars,
dive for oysters with seaweed,
and culture flamingo pearls
for your ears. While you eat, I will play Water
Music on a conch.

For one more dollar I will carry you into the sunset.
In the peristyle of your temple
I will slide my tongue up the hyperbola
of your trapezius muscle,
mold it inside your abalone ear,
and eat your nasturtium.

For dinner you can sip Gelati with a straw
as it melts on your abdomen while I rub your feet
and lick the cream rivulets you let escape
to pinker places.
In the auburn light of the Florentine evening
I will braid the remaining sunrays into your locks
and send a bottle of Cinzano Rosso to your publisher.

For your last dime I will sharpen your pencil with my teeth
and bring your notebook to the courtyard.
For a chance to hear your poems in the moonlight,
I will give you all your money back.

[Author unknown at this time, but investigative work is being done.]