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For her there were only two times: dawn and dusk.

At dusk she would take her insomnia to the old post office. She was dead tired of striving and crisis! She wanted to live in the land of Blake-light and emptiness, of PO boxes stuffed with gold doubloons, of civic hallways in which only her footfalls echoed back.

For her, the illogic and moral relativism of fairy tales had long felt true to life. The bony witch is named Esmerelda. You will find a cat that will try and scratch your eyes out–you must give it some ham. You will find hounds that will try and eat your feet–you must feed them some rolls. Having her expectations upended is what kept her moving.

Forward, backward, under, over. She had been waiting her whole life for something good to happen from which there would be no turning back.

“The creative struggle, my heart to your cause,” his text message read.

Hands were both alien and sexy. She worried she could not focus on more than one thing. She could either sleep or await his letter.

The deep lines in her face were from looking away. Suddenly, they were getting shorter. When his letter arrived it wasn’t a letter at all but a wax cylinder. There were two short lyrics penned on the plain brown wrapper: “They blew on the wax while I was singing. They blew on it and my voice stayed.”

Photography by Bethany Walter

hand of Fatima necklace: Morocco; batik skirt: vintage 70s, Jakarta; cashmere tanktop: charity shop, London; ballet flats: J. Crew; gold ring: who knows

 

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Leave it to the Welsh to have a word for it. Hiraeth: (n.) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.

In the sunset of dissolution, Kundera wrote, everything is illuminated by the aura of nostalgia, even the guillotine.

Kim Philley

It’s Thanksgiving week in the U.S., and many of us are homeward bound. We’re wrapping up work and boarding planes, trains, and borrowed cars–transmigrating worlds. Which is greater, Buddha asked, the tears you have shed while transmigrating and wandering this long, long time–crying and weeping from being joined with what is displeasing, being separated from what is pleasing–or the water of the four great oceans?

Kim Philley

This is greater, Buddha answered, the tears you have shed while wandering on.

Kim Philley

I’m still addicted to the wandering on, to samsara, to the world of fabrications. I stumbled upon this immaculate cashmere and wool coat in a Boise consignment store; when I saw it was lined in pale lavender silk with leather-cuffed arms long enough for Gumby, I had to have it.

I believe in warmth and style for the wayfaring–for the long commutes to the homes we cannot keep but are with us now.

 

 

 fabulous photographer: Bethany Walter

Wool-cashmere blend coat with lavender silk lining: Liakes (Piece Unique consignment, Boise); jeans: Rich & Skinny (Fancy Pants, Boise); batik top: Anthropologie; Cece suede ballet flats: J. Crew; snakeskin belt: Bangkok vintage; jade earrings & jade ring: vintage

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Today I steal photographic thunder from travel writer Janet Brown, author of Tone Deaf in Bangkok and the forthcoming Almost Home: The Asian Search of a Geographic Trollop. Janet told me I could crib any photo that catches my fancy off her F’book newsfeed. It’s lunchtime in Idaho and I’m cribbing away.

Last night I stayed up late in Boise, eating an Asian pear with cheddar cheese and watching Charlie Rose interview Robert Kaplan, author of The Revenge of Geography. Kaplan affirms that in our socially networked world–where on any given day thousands of Malaysian Muslims might gather to foment for Palestine–we are forging new ideological alliances across vast swathes of heretofore aloof territory.

Nevertheless, Kaplan has a quarrel with the Tweeted world: he argues that mountain ranges, space, desert, oceans, coast lines, harbors, matter. India and China are still divided by the high wall of the Himalayas. But now, Kaplan points out, they have the fly-over technology to spy on each other.

Something that hooks me about Janet’s on-the-fly photos is that, at first blush, they could be taken in Metropolitan Anywhere. Hong Kong, Mumbai, Bangkok–who’s to say? But when you look more closely, you see expertly observed signifiers of place: the tuk-tuk radiating from the man’s chest like an exposed heart in Bangkok; the crisp white shoes of Chinese dancers in what, at close range, must be Seattle. (Clues: the retro-gaming store and McKenna campaign posters winking from the backdrop.) Lean in, these photos beckon, things are not exactly as they seem.

In Janet’s snapshots and writing, I glimpse intimacy in a vast landscape. The world may be more claustrophobic, but it is not malcontent.

We take our restless desires and cravings to the Internet, but we also take our curiosity. It is no different in the streets. Janet Brown is the kind of person who goes to Bangkok not to visit the Grand Palace or Wat Pho, but to watch the harum-skarum traffic. Last night on Charlie Rose, Robert Kaplan explained how geography still defines human differences–from the hatchet blade of the Arabian Peninsula to the scattered cowrie shell nations of the Asia Pacific. In the same breath, he also claimed that maps are “somewhat retrograde” because “the map shows that there is still difference.” I disagree. I think the map is a mirror of where we are.

America stretches languorously and touches both the Atlantic and the Pacific. China tunnels away towards its Two Oceans Policy, and has begun to build a port in Burma to access the Indian Ocean. The story of a schoolgirl shot in an unnaturally partitioned landscape quivers on the world’s lips.

I aver that we will never close the deal on geopolitical or ideological concordance. What we are is resolutely different and codependent. We should remember that the Himalayas are real and their snowmelt makes storefronts in New York and Hong Kong. The world abounds in startling transferences.

To read Janet Brown’s Tone Deaf in Thailand is to be reminded.

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