mesmerizedbyyangon.bsky.social - Profile | ThreadSky | a Reddit-style client for Bluesky

On the sidewalk, at a tiny stall, Clark's. Mine, now.

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How I move, in Yangon.

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I bumped into him, soaked from the downpour - and we went for a haircut from the Tamil barber, and then biryani. A bit of care, in the long drawn out suffering.

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I'm thrilled to encounter moments like this in Yangon: the child's voice amplified by the narrowness of the street & pitched so sonorous I'm moved to the core.

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In dilapidated Yangon, sudden portals into vibrant & lost verdancies: the glorious trees reaching up from a gap, and ascending.

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In Yangon, the playing of the bamboo & the child's sonorous lilt. Mesmerized in symphonic Myanmar.

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Absolute gorgeousness of Yangon, daily, at the bus stop.

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Where's ONE decent leader? Just one? Where are you? And, why are you? What are you for, if not for this. Wake the fuck up.

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I pray here daily, palms pressed. Then, I give breakfast to the trans boy who waits for me. And I love this world: this manifestation of it.

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Israel: human kind's sickest dog, forever rapidly foaming at the mouth

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I'm Iranian. I'm with Iran. I'm against Israel and its co slaughterer the US. Clear? I'm with Iran.

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I'm British. But I'm far far more Iraqi. I'm absolutely Iraqi if in our stupid predeliction for violence we attack.

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Right now, I'm Iraqi. I'm.with Iraq.

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Lindsey Graham is an untitratable monster. An absolute thing of grotesque hideousness and in that sense peak inhuman. Cast him out.

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Look who the US keeps illustrious company with. Tonga! Tuluvu! Great look!

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A year in, in a tiny cafe in Merchant Road, I discovered chicken salad...& how good! Thanks, Yangon.

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When I meet trans people in Yangon, yet gentler beings among already gentle beings, in their struggle trying to preserve a scintilla of dignity, he in his cheap full length dress, I can only love them: acknowledge, ask the name, stand with a moment, give money & say in Burmese, 'see you again'.

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www.nytimes.com/interactive/... Living in Bhuddist Myanmar made me so, so alive to this: deeply attuned the Vuong's words - and to what he teaches me about sutras; about incense; about simple necessary things.

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Yangon's unbelievable gorgeousness. In suffering, serendipity.

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There is nothing moral in you; there is nothing human in you, if you count these maraudering retrograde, punch drunk cold bloodied murderers as having any cause whatsoever. They've none. They are simply monsters who murder. May vengeance rain down upon them everlastingly.

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I'm a teacher. How to teach when utter barbarians, rancid of soul & shriveled in heart systemise the slaughter of defenseless children in Gaza? How to recalibrate what it means to teach, when teaching requires me to let students know utter monsters, hideously conceived, roam amongst us.

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Good morning, Myanmar. How grateful I am.

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Nothing but white hot contempt for this barbaric and contemptible fool; a mind corrupted and a heart turned to sudden ash.

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Eat well, sweet child. Our paths crossed, long enough for me to give you breakfast.

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How days begin, in Myanmar.

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How great. The US (lol) visits upon itself the militarized violence it's generationally visited on others. Only now, everyone's complaining.

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How the Buddha comes to me, today...

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On bus 14, working men. They are playful, ribbing, noisy...but strangely tender, as is all life in Myanmar: and then, suddenly, they fall asleep, head on shoulder of their companion...and these encounters are lovely.

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Exhibit A: reckless woebegone fool with mobster mentality enjoy being recklessly violent.

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All Might Be gone Soon: The squall, Then the work is done. Put right Then, a thing or two. The one Asleep on the street, wake. Take The trouble to know His name So less terrible, his fate. Be irate, but tame It to tender regard. Not so hard Then, the life that must persist When love's thin as mist.

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In the village school, ample loveliness, but today, a scorpion. Myanmar as a teacher.

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Sweet rice of Myanmar.

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