Tag / culture

I thought I had happily escaped the holiday madness by visiting a Buddhist country during the season in question.  Little did I suspect the Elephant Nature Park had a very unexpected event planned for the park volunteers:

Christmas party at Elephant Nature Park, Thaland

The volunteers of Elephant Nature Park, Thailand

Mae Lana, the rescued elephant

Read why I try to get away from the US during the holidays here: “Christmas Is Trying To Kill Me“

See more photos from this volunteer trip to Elephant Nature Park, Thailand.

We swam in a swirling sea of smoke from our water hookah at the Bangkok restaurant. Real Egyptians populated the surrounding tables, laughing slightly too loud for the casual atmosphere. He dismissed himself to the bathroom and almost instantaneously an Eastern European woman materialized in his place. “Is he a Japanese American mix?” Suspiciously; “Yes.” “I knew it! That’s the perfect mix. I want to have his babies. They will be so beautiful.”

Yes, he is that pretty. And yes, his babies are indeed beautiful. But I don’t think that is why many Thai people choose to address my travel partner rather than myself – even though it was I whom requested the directions, made the reservation, paid for the meal, almost got ran into. Why would many Thai people address the man when it is clearly the woman whom they are interacting with? Cultural differences.

Culture is the collective soul of a group of people based on climate, environment, religion, art, politics and every single thing that ever happened to their communal family since the begging of time. Culture is complex. And absolutely rich with human-ness. In an age where the machine, where the corporation, where the system sets out to dehumanize and devalue my human experience, culture is where I can find that precious pearl inside the the living being. Even when I do not get looked in eyes or spoken to directly, I wish to protect that culture. At the same time, I sure am thankful to be a woman whom calls Hollywood, CA, USA her home in the year 2010. There is no place I’d personally rather live as a woman alive today.

One of the cultural differences between Thailand and the United States is religion. The grand majority of Thai people practice Buddhism, while the average population in the United States calls themselves some sect of Christian. I am not Christian, personally, and don’t think of myself as living a Christian lifestyle, but visiting a Buddist culture, where the assumed Christian morals are notably absent, really wakes me up to how Christian my life is by default based on culture alone whether I like it or not.

For example, anthropomorphism (the attribution of human characteristics to a god, animal or object) is a valuable scientific practice that would earn a researcher dishonorable discharge from the scientific community in any Christian country. Even the scientific community does not recognize how religious they are, protecting the belief that man has dominion over other animals and therefore can kill, eat and experiment on them on the basis that they “have no feelings” while having never allowed research to be published that proved or disproved the consideration. Seems quite religious and not scientific at all.

In Thailand, however, the Buddhist religion generally embraces the emotional capacity of all beings, allowing an empathetic consideration for all life forms to be utlized in their sciences, culture and every day practices. I can see this cultural difference daily by the way people with little to eat share food with stray dogs and cats, rather than impounding them. In fact, it is considered exceptional karma to give care to other beings in need, including animals that are not pets. Vegetarianism is commonplace in Thai culture. Some Buddhist temples provide free vegetarian meals daily to the community. Chiang Mai, a city with a population of only 150,000 hosts a whopping 41 vegetarian restaurants.

One of which is the Free Bird Cafe. This Non Governmental Organization offers vegetarian/vegan Western and Thai food, a second hand clothing store, clean refillable drinking water source and an arts and crafts shop. 100% of all profit benefits the Thai Freedom House, a language and arts community center for indigenous tribe and Burmese refugee families in Northern Thailand. Talk about something that must be understood from the native culture’s perspective to understand it at all … culture is complicated. But food can be and often is our passageway in.

Here are two more ways to help you drop tourism and really travel:

Tip 4: Seek Out Cultural Arts, Sites and Ritual The community theatre production I attended on Grand Bahama Island was just as rich in entertainment and cultural appreciation as the Ballet Folklorico performance I attended in San Salvador. You do not have to pay to participate in many cultural events, but if you have a few extra dollars, experiencing a Japanese tea ceremony or Bunraku performance while in Japan will awaken an understanding of the culture that remedies any desire to Think You Know Better. Read more…

The English word “pagan” comes from the Latin paganus, which translates as “country dweller.” Over time, the meaning encompassed not just the location of these dwellers, but also the way they lived and what they believed, both of which were close to nature. Pagan began to imply a special relationship with plants, weather, seasons and other natural phenomena that “refined” city dwellers experienced less often and less directly. As modern religions swept the European continent (often by force), pagan took on a religious connotation, coming to mean “anyone not Christian” or more derogatorily, “heathen.” By extension, the linguistic and literal attacks on country dwellers—their beliefs and way of life—can be seen as an outright attack on everything natural. Read more…

Other peoples’ lives.

The kind with birds’ nests in the eves. The kind with jasmine blooming around the kitchen window. The kind with happy sounds cartwheeling from inside.

Other peoples’ lives.

The kind with promotions and raises. The kind with extra bedrooms for visiting guests. The kind with big smiles in photos tacked to the refrigerator.

Other peoples’ lives.

The kind with bare feet outdoors. The kind with family who live close by. The kind with spare time for almost anything.

I would sacrifice my own, I wish so badly to know what it’s like to live other peoples’ lives.

Another meal alone. Frozen cherries with chopsticks. That’s how I do. Dining alone.

The chopsticks had a special request from a gentlemen two rows behind this evening. “Those are gonna block my view the entire movie.” Of course I removed them from my dreadie guru bun, probably making a better door than window. Pocket chopsticks.

“Do you think about being seen at places like this?” my handsome friend said. But I don’t because … I am being seen all the time. It’s a curse/it’s a blessing. My natural personality makes people stare at me. So I guess the question is, am I thinking about it?

Santa Monica Blvd. was full of valley folk and inland emperors tonite. Not one continued tipsy conversation, but goosenecked their gaze at my petite muerte bicycle seizure from every intersection corner. Just staring at me like pant legs don’t get caught in hot pink hot rod bike chains all the time. Mine have actually never before that moment. No, I don’t think about being seen.

Midnite rider, I’m a girl ghost on wheelz. Just one man with the tarot mojo, one punk out of the oblivious cars. He sees dead people and squeaked a doggie toy out the window to attempt communication with my apparition. It brought me back to life. Like the second pant leg bike chain snag. Sudden and complete one-person crash. The time in the center of the street. I tried to force it, rip it and get out of the six lane. But the dragon is sleeping and you can’t wake her now. Shall I limp drag my cruiser at the end of my foot across the street. Please let the oncoming cars see I need help. Yes, I think about being seen.

One, two, three o’clock, four o’clock rock. Five, six green collectives on the same block. The cosmic pachyderm slapped a flat ton foot on my roof. We have touch down in East LA. Psychic boner. Sonic boom.

In my mind, I see the people in a circle – the women wear baggy clothes and look sexy as hell. Someone is dancing. Both of them are. And they are good dancers. Top of their game. Because that’s my Hollywood.

In my dream, I see the ocean overwhelming again. This time the water is Mercury, and the storm has it’s way ripping me into mid air, assaulting with wet razor blades across my skin, a man pulls me back on deck like it ain’t no thing. Like this happens … and you do it anyway.

In my mouth, I taste Mullein. A hot tea without sweetener. I remember tea in Japan and the silent, religious ceremony of it’s preparation. And I remember high tea in England and on that cruise ship to Mexico. I remember the Dominicans, the only real Rastas I’ve ever met, singing about bananas in Creole, such a majestic jungle sound, pressed that cacao bean and dried it into a thick little stick that they stuck in boiling water or in the sun to flavor their tea. And I remember that witch from Chicago’s suburbs – I learned about the mystery vine from her, but drank only the healing herbals. While laughing at the moon.

In my hands, I feel so much. I know I’m supposed to touch my world. I do so with that awareness. And I try to allow myself to be touched well, so the other might feel so much, like I get to.

In my neighborhood, I hear sirens, children, birds and leaf blowers beneath my own voice, singing often at the cross walk, into the post office – there is so much worth singing about.

There was a naked man three blocks from my apartment this Sunday morning, on the very top of the chruch’s cross for 7 hours. Gonna jump, he threatened. He covered himself in his own feces after a few hours in protest? In performance? In freedom? It’s not right for some people to have to come down. That’s my Hollywood.

The jasmine bloomed yesterday.

I think I forgot how to write.

I can’t think of a word like this feeling.

I feel unable, with joy, unable.

Just sit down and sip of the perfect temperature kukicha twig tea. Let me tell you a story, rather than compose the poetry.

There was a day once in LA with a sun gentle and soothing. The air carried moisture and the cloud cover did not lift. Not entirely. Not at all on this day. This slippery, Southern California day. It just keeps slipping through my fingers.

There was not much to do on that day, or rather, I was doing things that did not lend themselves to tangible achievements: I folded the clean laundry, I bought resale bed sheets from a lady I met on the street, I hitched a ride to an audition and chatted with a friend about dreams and passion and pride in the community we are a part of. Just livin and really being cool with it.

The rooftop called me. From there I could see all of Hollywood, including where those fires burned the hills (second occurrance) last year. I could see the Samsung sign and other peoples’ rooftops. Which no one uses. But me. I can see the real recycling man picking for cans through the blue bin. I can see him organize the recycling he can’t use and place it cleanly back in.

I could hear the stabbing taunt of a murder of crows sitting on the solar panels on my neightbor’s roof. One was louder than the other and cunvulses her body into the most raspy, supported caw of any of the 26 of them. A murder. A murder of crows.

I thought for a second about how at airport security, still to this day, so many years after 9/11, over the loud speaker I will hear a man’s voice warn about “staying close to your belongings and reporting any suspicious behavior” because we are on Orange Alert.

I want to say, “Don’t tell me when to be afraid and how much or how little to be afraid. If there is something wrong in the airport, shut it the fuck down. If there isn’t, then don’t tell me to be a little afraid every day just in case.” Have you ever heard the security voice say we’re on Green Alert?

The economy officially crashed three weeks ago and the news is shouting Orange Alert. But I’m working more than I did three months ago. I am making more money than I have in two years. In fact, my grass root entrepreneurial friends, who have built their businesses on genuinely healthy and agressively green ideals are expanding operations. This is the Green Alert we’ve been waiting for.

One crow lifted up, so easily, and these highly social creatures, in what, just today, I recognized as families of parents and children and childrens’ children, followed the first flier. The murder dotted the sky black, circular black sky, with brash unquietable voices, and flew so low over my head I thought I had been discovered.

I showed myself to the crows. And at this moment in history, I will be more idealistic, more passionate, more gracious than ever before because this is our time.

Autumn started today.

In the city, the Old Gods live, but you have to assimilate to the geography to know where to find them. Not in the wide, open, fields, plateaus, altars of nature, preferably in an Oak wood, but reigning over the underground pedestrian tunnel, link fence restricted, no light, motion – just the hollow sounds of cars accelerating over. Down where to colder air settles. And guards the openings of pedestrian tunnels or gothic tombs. In the city, the Old Gods live in LED billboards, social contortions and old trees.

She sat down in front of me and pulled out one of those long, skinny cigarettes. Waved it around with dainty grip in a way that told me her petite frame is made of iron.

I won’t ever date someone who smokes. I did once for a second. 10-year-long second (I wish I were mortal unto the aeons). But since I’m not I’m not gonna waste my mere year-tallied time kissing someone with an evil furnace boiling from their depths. That private incinerator only an intimate associate will share. The red hot devil rotting a hellion’s death in each close up breath.

Maybe this person has a bad attitude fueling their furnace. I won’t date that either. But even the best attitude does not make it pass my fresh-inside kissometer. Let them eat avocados. And love them. In front of me.

Back on track. The residents of Hollywood have made bold choices. If not only just by association. Whether it is the continually morphing street flavor of this happy-face county, Hollywood in Los Angeles in Southern Cali – I wonder why people who live here are surprised when I say I love this town. I love living in Hollywood. Ain’t no Atwater hill house or downtown ghostown loft that would compensate for the uniqueness and diversity of Hollywood East of Highland and I watch the pretty girls who take care of themselves fuel their trashy cars and I watch Mexican men jump for jobs outside Home Depot or sell strawberries, mangos and pineapples on residential street corners for $5 – talk about fast food.

That’s my Hollywood. And when I get up from this jazz amplified Euro Coffee Shoppe I’m gonna unlock my pink cruiser with racing flames, wide, white wall low rider bike tires, and peddle my athletic ass back to my apartment leaving a trail of wind blown dread locks behind me. I am someone else’s Hollywood.

Who, when the west wasn’t won, imagined from the prairie that things could be better. The unexplored virgin landscape with snow covered mountains, expanses of real, no-life-supportin desert, natives protecting their established tribes, a canyon easily deep enough to be considered one of the seven wonders of the world – who are these people who said, “Come on, honey. Pack up the house and get the damn kids, let’s see what’s on the other side.”

Western settlers believed in gold. They were rushing for gold. They were alchemists of sort, elevating spiritual and physical matter into gold. Searching for the philosopher’s stone. Some stopping at quick silver. But some … making it all the way. All the way to water. The end of their travels. This is our home. This is a pure cultural lineage. American Alchemists: We Who Travel West.

Our progressive minds. Our possible momentum. Our ability to change quickly and without attachment our power. Bless the actor and her research of the human condition. Her desire to know on the deepest and most complete of levels, exactly what it means to be someone else. Someone(s) else. Someone else’s. She began smoking because she thought it looked sexy (it did). Then she became attached. Another consumer marketing success story.

That’s my Hollywood.

If someone lights up a cigarette, every mouth on the dance floor will tell them to put it out. But if someone lights up a joint, well, that’s medicine, now, you know?