In chiang mai searching for meaning.

With these:

| a newfound respect for temple architecture
| intense fascination about the beliefs these buildings were funded on
| immense wonder at (usually a temple’s) time-drenched history
| quiet, tremulous awe, and a kind of infatuation, for the people living what seems to be a truly alternative existence
| a single recommendation to visit a temple poetically named “field of flowers”, by monk sombut (whose own name means something along the lines of ‘quiet mind’)

Even if without these:

| enough baht to spend on transport to-ing and fro-ing
| a local friend who could show me the inner works, of belief, of thai culture, of a monument’s past
| the bit of map to show me the way
| assurance that i would find what i was urgently hoping, praying to see and have

Plus sunblock, the crazed certainty wrought by the former was enough for me to brave these:

| 2hour (time to get lost) walk west of the old city in the sun (a 330pm sun in thailand is like a noonburn, baby, burn)
| 1.5hour walk back in a drizzle
| half a map (the wrong half)
| lingering around the compounds of this 14thC temple, wanting to see, hear, feel, more

. Thailand, Chiang Mai, Wat Suan Dok

. city of the dead

Gates. Closer, until my entire world is an undistracted focus, framed by you

Wat Suan Dok

The main stupa.

A brilliant contrast against the white and grey sky. It commanded, invited, silently.

Endless white all around drew me;
There is this eagerness to join with it,
an elevated purity, away and clear at last.

Eyes never leaving it,
I climbed over the fence, and entered through the side,
found myself in a white land of past kings and queens,
dead, quiet, and not here.

An average plot seemed a daunting portal.
I looked around at the different sameness,
mind scratching at the other language,
an uncomprehending fool wanting to join

Wat Suan Dok


On the outside, i’d waited, for the sun to relent a lil, to recall/refine a purpose. and on the outside, another monk’d paused, and took me through a rather psychedelic ride through yearnings and past pains, humourous musings and, inside. he took me within.

And we sat unfolding our thoughts to each other, a million monkey minds.

A cambodian monk, living and studying in the north of thailand, chattered about the many turns of a life, and hassled with me over the workings of how we (are used to) thinking. Formal language faltered, but his hands, glittering eyes, and a face smiling, thinking, musing, made me do those three along with him. I think you would make a good president, chenda, a one-of-a-kind.


The remnants of a past sojourn through thailand exist in embedded memories, photos, scraps of paper, etchy words, and an email:

… but you can think about Mind with me.Your friend,

Wat Suan Dok


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