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Loveliness, roadside, Yangon.

submitted 41 minutes ago • 0 comments

The British establishment suckled at the teat of Trump, wilfully, as wretched then as it always was, knowing he's a monster yet suckling all the same.

submitted 3 hours ago • 0 comments

The Indian feeds her baby on the bus: the moment wondrously beautiful: the suckling child; her lovely openness; the sari and gold earrings: her care for herself and her child. Yangon.

submitted 3 hours ago • 0 comments

The Tamil boy has a mat. A sack. His wits. No more. I share 10 minutes of my fate with him. Give a meal..ask his name. Give an orange juice. That's it. But it is all the same a moment of lovely intervention: the two of us embroiled: our flotsam lives intersecting.

submitted 3 hours ago • 0 comments

Pinks, of Yangon.

submitted 7 hours ago • 0 comments

In Bhuddist Yangon, back street calls to prayer.

submitted 7 hours ago • 0 comments

So Myanmar. In Yangon. From Shan. In Mandarin. In English. How lovely.

submitted 7 hours ago • 0 comments

In Yangon (a haven from what's happening elsewhere) the constant astonishments of beautiful flowers, stunning indigenous costumes, the longyi, and markets bursting with fresh everything. How's it possible?

submitted 7 hours ago • 0 comments

In Yangon's Downtown's 38th Street, a Shan state restaurant, in Burmese, Mandarin & English.

submitted 8 hours ago • 0 comments

On the bus, before light, the gorgeousness of it all: the women in Myanmar dress nodes of astonishing vivacity. So much gone to waste here, but such undiminishable loveliness.

submitted 8 hours ago • 0 comments

I'm on the little plastic stool. The Burmese with body of sublime beauty works the stall: & the madman comes, smoking... sits, & wordlessly I pay for his tea, drunk from an evaporated milk can, & gift him a longyi - & it's all the more perfect because there can be no thanks, from his madness.

submitted 9 hours ago • 0 comments

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

submitted 1 day ago • 0 comments

Wondrous dawn cacophonies of Yangon.

submitted 1 day ago • 0 comments

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

submitted 1 day ago • 0 comments

Streetside chocolate of Yangon.

submitted 1 day ago • 0 comments

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

submitted 2 days ago • 0 comments

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

submitted 2 days ago • 0 comments

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

submitted 2 days ago • 0 comments

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.

submitted 2 days ago • 0 comments

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

submitted 2 days ago • 0 comments

Yangon's Italianate sidestreets.

submitted 2 days ago • 0 comments

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.

submitted 2 days ago • 0 comments

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.

submitted 2 days ago • 0 comments

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.

submitted 3 days ago • 0 comments

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.

submitted 3 days ago • 0 comments

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.

submitted 3 days ago • 0 comments

Loveliness, roadside, Yangon.

The British establishment suckled at the teat of Trump, wilfully, as wretched then as it always was, knowing he's a monster yet suckling all the same.

The Indian feeds her baby on the bus: the moment wondrously beautiful: the suckling child; her lovely openness; the sari and gold earrings: her care for herself and her child. Yangon.

The Tamil boy has a mat. A sack. His wits. No more. I share 10 minutes of my fate with him. Give a meal..ask his name. Give an orange juice. That's it. But it is all the same a moment of lovely intervention: the two of us embroiled: our flotsam lives intersecting.

Pinks, of Yangon.

In Bhuddist Yangon, back street calls to prayer.

So Myanmar. In Yangon. From Shan. In Mandarin. In English. How lovely.

In Yangon (a haven from what's happening elsewhere) the constant astonishments of beautiful flowers, stunning indigenous costumes, the longyi, and markets bursting with fresh everything. How's it possible?

In Yangon's Downtown's 38th Street, a Shan state restaurant, in Burmese, Mandarin & English.

On the bus, before light, the gorgeousness of it all: the women in Myanmar dress nodes of astonishing vivacity. So much gone to waste here, but such undiminishable loveliness.

I'm on the little plastic stool. The Burmese with body of sublime beauty works the stall: & the madman comes, smoking... sits, & wordlessly I pay for his tea, drunk from an evaporated milk can, & gift him a longyi - & it's all the more perfect because there can be no thanks, from his madness.

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

Wondrous dawn cacophonies of Yangon.

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

Streetside chocolate of Yangon.

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

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

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

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.

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

Yangon's Italianate sidestreets.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

Curbside wonders, of Yangon: gorgeously.

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