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Referencing the Buddah roadside in Yangon,with scented flame. Start the day palm to palm.

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Wondrous dawn cacophonies of Yangon.

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Absolute Yangon: Dawn tea, sweetened, in 42nd Street.

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Streetside chocolate of Yangon.

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On the bus at dawn, Burmese women with flowers: huge bundles of lovely flowers - and on this bus an aolian harp, jangling

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The Burmese who works the grim little tea shop before dawn - his torso gleaming in the neon light and his movements wrapped in steam from the kettles - sings all the while: then beats out the dough balls to airy discs: and it's all gorgeous

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At dawn, perched on a plastic stall, before light, a Tamil serves me tea, his gentle arm extended and the whole thing lovely.

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Each day, out into this gentle, tender emergence of Burmese life: each moment extraordinary. A wondrous welling up of cultural essences from a deep and enduring motherlode.

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Morning? Then it's mohinga. How Myanmar wakes up.

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Yangon's Italianate sidestreets.

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So the Burmese go by with their soft, lovely cheek bones; somehow, the musclature so gently animated it seems the intention of the body is only a gentle kindness, softening at each interaction.

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In Yangon, the ice lolly maker spins his disc; the tin moulds like a hive: & this gentle & wondrous encounter as the lollies are knocked free - seems something I must know: I must learn the gentle workings of this man yoked to his spinning disc.

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From bus 36 I see a shoeless child with his sack. It's 6am. He will never know a school. The wretched fate of Myanmars unschooled children.

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The Burmese are struggling: their own leaders are not their friends. But here they are: in such extraordinary loveliness - a loveliness they seem aware of. And that too is lovely.

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From 5am, in Yangon, the little street side ovens are heated and the banks of dough worked into flat bread, the boy spinning the discs to a thin ethereal thing and then sticking in to the oven wall, with a thump. Yangon: it's all glorious.

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In a village school outside Yangon, I teach student centered learning. What marvels every moment!

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Curbside wonders, of Yangon: gorgeously.

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Happy Christmas Uni of Michigan. Here's Santa with a law suit.

submitted 63 days ago • 0 comments

Yangon's boardwalk... How can it be? Other worldly and ethereal.

submitted 70 days ago • 0 comments

I know now how to sit on the curb with the Tamil boy, his torso emblazoned with tattoos - my hand on his shoulder to quieten the strange gestures - a scraping & throwing - that emerge from his disquiet, & I love him, in my desire to interpose some care in his disturbance.

submitted 70 days ago • 0 comments

In Buddhist Myanmar, he leaned towards me: an Indian, & tells me he has no religion...& in this astonishing mix of Buddhists, Muslims, Hindus & Christians, where temples, shrines, mosques & churches are everywhere at every moment, that's quite the conviction. Yangon: unreligiously on the bus.

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Yangon at the 'chitty' Indian restaurant at Sule...everything delicious.

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I meet him again: the same strange being, now sitting on the curb in some sort of internal writhing, his mind at odds with itself - but we are at the Tamil 2 metre wide barbers: some mediation from me to give him some shadow of peace: it all astonishing: me & the alien life form sitting with me.

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In the back of the tiny Daihatsu Grab, a pocket with an energy drink, water, sweets and tissues. Yangon: beautifully hospitable.

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Manchester United's Yangon buses, plying, air conditioned.

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How a table is, in Yangon.

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The laying out of things beautifully in Yangon.

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In Yangon, he tries to interpret the signs of his body: his grimy torso and arms a parchment inked upon by a tatooist...& yet he's unfathomable to me...even in our accidental proximity. Yangon: beyond anything.

submitted 70 days ago • 0 comments

All over, hieroglyphs that some one applied: his body a deciphering. But he has internal tatooings: his mind bewildered...yet now by the ministration of a Tamil barber, he's soothed: the the accident of my loving attention: which nothing in life prepared me for.

submitted 70 days ago • 0 comments

In schools, we must, by some unspoken demand, have children sing that Santa Claus is coming... But step outside. Here's the world. For countless children, there's no chance if his coming. So why this stupefying of our minds?

submitted 70 days ago • 0 comments