humanity correct

Humanity Correct

《sink or swim》

This is the story of how a child, a boat, a voice, and a choice found each other:

On some days, the sun shines and the wind blows.

It is on these days that boats float and children dream.

On the breath of the wind, billowing white clouds moved with silent excitement across blue skies and gazed deeply over still blue waters.

Far down below, a Child found a boat, and soon found herself floating in the boat. But for shame, as the Child would soon also find herself in a boat with a leak.

The stillness of the water slowly, but surely, greeted the shell with its silent entrance.

And so the Child did what only the Child could do, and that was to lift the water out again to the expanse of the blue.

Stymied, the Child thought, “I just wanted to go for a sail, but instead, I find myself with water to bail.”

A Voice said to the child, “It seems that would make you a plumber, not a sailor.”

The truth in these words so captivated the Child’s mind that the Child didn’t stop to question from where the voice came, but continued moving the water.

With a sigh, the Child replied, “‘Tis true -but I haven’t a choice, have I? I can only hope to stay afloat. How can I even dream of sailing this boat?”

“Oh, but you do and you can!” said the Voice. “You do have the choice to go overboard -or to give up your dream. But, either way, you must abandon the naiveté with which you first boarded this boat.”

In silence, the child continued to empty the water from the proa back into the blue.

“Shall you jump ship and learn to swim? Or shall you give up your dream?”

The Voice waited.

The rhythmic sound of water leaving the boat, ceased.

The Child peered into the water, leaning over the edge of the boat. And for the first time, the Child caught sight of her own face in the undulating mirror.

But the Child had rocked the boat, to the point that more water threatened to claim its whole. And so the Child quickly returned to the center of the boat, seeking balance and stability.

As the rocking slowed, the Child at last spoke. “I must lead with my brain, but I must also follow my heart.”

Splash! The boat rocked once more.

And the silence that ensued was followed only by a ripple so large that spread so far, that its waves reached well beyond the limits of her shore.

hotel florid

[notebook excerpt, Kathmandu, Nepal]

Sitting on *my* balcony at Hotel Florid, her vertical sign hanging just next to me with a dying vine wrapped about her.

The pigeons pull individual stalks of straw from the 2nd story roof catercorner to my room, stealing it for their nest, which they impose on another part of the same structure. They simply redesign, remodel the building erected by man, to suit their needs. And they do so freely, without anyone to prevent them from doing so. Man has built a structure that is impossible to govern -its roof even out of reach.

The corrugated tin roof, adjacent, governs itself, impervious to the pigeons, falling victim only to the leaf and litter which exercises its power as given only by gravity. The next rain will humble the litter and wash it gently to the ground.

The tall brick building with six full floors and three tiered garden-floors atop those provides shelter to man, flora, and fauna. Trees and vines and shrubs and flowers rise from its top like a mismanaged crew cut, it’s concrete, painted support beams add a simple tic-tac-toe design to its red brick matrix. A lone pigeon claims a protruding row of bricks, pacing in single-line fashion before finally nesting on the ledge.

Wires criss and cross from hotel corner to hotel corner. Name signs are fastened to walls with modeling wire and skewered with drainage PVC. The pigeons fly across the street and their feathers float freely at the will of the wind.

People stroll down the street below, it becoming a sidewalk when no vehicles are present. But the vehicles do come and honk their presence both physically and audibly. Motorcycle fights with automobile for space, and compromise is always reached without so much as a word exchanged between drivers.

The rule of the road is that there is none. Horns are tooted, more out of a warning of one’s arrival than of an insistence of one’s right of way.

Locals busy about their day and foreign tourists start theirs with a stroll. Shadows follow their masters as they walk into the sunlight.

An old man squats at a buildings ledge, leaning against the window as he reads his morning paper. Could I read Nepali, I would easily read it in the window’s reflection. The man’s shiny shoes in caramel match his skin tone and he is nicely dressed in white jeans, taupe button-up shirt, and olive canvas cap. He wears shades that hide just below the cap, as he also wears a face mask to guard against the day’s UFOs, which are inevitable in these Kathmandu streets.

A stray dog joins him, as if with familiarity as he pats the dog with uncommon affection, then leaves him only minutes later, taking with him also his shadow. 10 minutes pass and the man turns several pages of his paper before a man joins him, puffing on his morning fix of nicotine. This man moves on, too, leaving Ol’ Steady to guard the window front at Hotel Radiant, just opposite Hotel Florid.

The sounds of construction radiate upwards to my balcony from the reception of my own Hotel Florid.