Thailand

It's complete filth, complete infestation and grime, crawling with all sorts of microscopic creatures.  And you wallow in it because you don't really have a choice.  And the streets are lined with shit and pee and curry-paste and the pitter patter of tourists and locals alike.  And yes, I'm filth.  I rot into the background with all the others, somewhere in between pavement and ocean.  And it's raining again- and all that filth accumulates, grows, sucks in the moisture and it speaks to you.  And at first, it sounds like grumbling, a machine, a vacuum two houses down?  But, if you stop and it's quiet right after the rain, the heavy downfall, and then the silence that follows, you can hear it as it speaks to you, opening it's hot mouth, "Drink, sit."  And the shop-keeper glares at you, opens her wrinkled mouth and echoes, "Drink, sit."  And you do.

Outside My Window

Underneath these layers, I'm bound in white spandex bandage.  I sit still and tall, and when I lean forward, I feel the bandage tug tight against my ribs.  Last night, in the car, she takes the key out of the ignition.  "And why," she asks, "are you doing this to yourself?"  It's about my energy and my art and my person in general.
Yesterday, after my ribs cracked like knuckles, I was stuck.  Propped up in my bed with my sketch pad in front, I, lacking precision, quickly etched the view outside of my window.  It was an in-between rain, not torrential and not drizzle, just a substantial amount of water splashing down and splattering.


Who dressed in layers of classic Mexican costume to conceal her twisted ribs and limp leg?  Was it Frida Kahlo, who, bed-ridden and crippled, began to paint?