Pee-May has come and gone,
and with it the scores of revellers have quit the streets and gone
back to their shops and houses to seek out the shade.
Is it only my imagination,
or my weariness, or do the New Year's celebrations become more manic
with very passing year? The throwing of water, the drinking and
dancing on the streets, the loud crash of the hypnotizing techno
music seem to be driving everyone into their own collective tropical
oblivion.
And so it has passed and
the city settles back to normal, although the summer heat has yet to
break. Miles and miles of ugly urban sprawl dot the torrid city-scape
and temples, as graceful as felines, flower in intervals.
And the heat bears down.
On the scooter, the rushing air burns our skins and the sun is a
joyous wunderkind. The Mekong, low, waits to be delivered by the
monsoon rains and the throbbing Chinese floods.
Full moon, quarter moon,
new moon. Waxing and waning. New floral patterns are presented to
gods and spirits; old ones are thrown away. The most interesting
lives are those that have been lived, be they in continuum or in
passing: spring comes but once, but autumn is forever.
Sabadei Pee-May.
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