A thousand hundred million feels.
A thousand hundred million feels.
Dressed for dinner. #JezzardJewelry #hairjewelry #ilovemyjob
It’s fun to have enough hair to play with again. It’s not perfect, but I haven’t braided my hair like this in 15 years. I think I did pretty good for a first (re)try. ;) #redhair #braiding #frenchbraid #ifeelpretty
A cup of kopi Bali and a quick language review before market. #travelogue #traveler #Ubud #Indonesia #languageacquisition #learningindonesian (at Dian Restaurant)
"Give yourself over to absolute pleasure."
Always reblog RHPS
I first saw RHPS when I was 8.
I got giddy goosebumps when Frankie turned around in the elevator.
I still get those goosebumps when his booted heel taps as the elevator drops into view.
I’m a twisted, kinky little fuck, and I think this movie is part of why. ^_~
If I’m able to, then perhaps I’ll be closer to portraying a true expression of love.
-Hayao Miyazaki (x)
Greg and I have been staying on Monkey Forest Rd. this whole time, but we never ventured into its namesake until today.
The Sacred Monkey Forest is 1/10 sq km of jungle inhabited by great massive hoards of wild, fat, and fearless crab-eating macaques with a penchant for stealing food, water bottles, shopping bags, sunglasses, jewelry, cigarettes, and absolutely anything else that strikes their fancy.
There is is also a smallish security force of men in traditional garb with exceptional skill in sling shot. Should a monkey step out of line, often the security guard needs only brandish the slingshot for the offending creature to scuttle away to safety.
There are signs everywhere that say ZOMG, DON’T FEED THE MONKEYS, OKAY?? Women selling peanuts and bananas sit right next to the signs, yelling ZOMG, YOU FEED THE MONKEYS, OKAY??
The forest and temple within are sacred to Hanoman, the Hindu monkey god, a central figure in the Ramayana, and considered in some texts to be an incarnation of Lord Shiva.
This morning, Greg and I met up with our friend Maia (pictured with the cigarette monkey), and we all went into the forest together. There were literally so many monkeys you had to watch your step. Tourists of all flavors would get close to a monkey for a picture, then shriek and cringe when the monkey took any interest in them. Some monkeys didn’t seem to mind hamming it up for the camera. Others seemed to roll their eyes in exasperation as they sauntered away from a too-eager zoom lens.
The one monkey I got close to seemed to appreciate that I actually asked him, out loud, for a picture. He held still for just a few moments for me, and then went on about his way. What a gentleman! ;)
Underneath a sort of temple space, there was a small gallery showcasing local artists. There was one painting that made me cry: A tired old woman in traditional dress sat on an otherwise blank white canvas facing a small end table wrapped in newspaper for shipping. The newspaper advertised, “Come to Bali!” A small Hindu offering, also encased entirely in newspaper, sat on the table. In the smoke wafting up from the incense was just the merest suggestion of a sacred dance mask. The old woman seemed to have locked eyes with the masked deity, as if bidding forlorn farewell to sacred traditions pushed aside by globalization and plundering tourism.
That painting is burned in my mind.
Elsewhere in the forest was a cremation space and a burial ground. It is our understanding that the dead are usually only buried temporarily while the family builds the necessary funds for a proper cremation ceremony.
At the rear of the Monkey Forest property was a deeply cut ravine fed by a natural spring. A wood and stone bridge flanked by sculpted serpent guardians reached through the middle of an impossibly massive sacred banyon tree. The bridge terminated in a small holy spring temple, complete with a rainbow of big, beautiful koi.
LOTS OF POCKETS!
HAIR TIED BACK!
DO YOU HAVE MONEY?
DO YOU HAVE WATER?
PUT ON MORE SUNSCREEN!
BRING ONLY WHAT YOU NEED!
DON’T BRING WHAT YOU CAN’T LOSE!
NO GLASSES! NO JEWELRY!
NO FOOD ON THE BATTLEFIELD!
PREPARE YOUR SELVES FOR THE ENEMY!
NO MAN LEFT BEHIND!
OK SOLDIERS… INTO THE BREECH!!
GO, GO, GO!
(10 elemental healing, 10 elemental healing…)
Ok, folks. I’m not a Texan. I may be from Texas, I may even be Texan, but I am simply not *a Texan.*
The difference becomes wildly apparent when I encounter my regional kinfolk in a foreign setting. I understand now why people are always floored to learn where I’m from. I always thought it was my lack of deep accent. No, it’s more. And I see it now. Nope. Not a Texan. ;)
Obsolete: wild; untamed; occurring, growing, or living in a natural state; not domesticated, cultivated, or tamed.
Etymology: from French ramage, ultimately from Latin ramus “a branch”.