Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Budorcas Budorcas

Dear Budorcas,


What is a taxi-color? I've been meaning to ask. You've not left the virgin pastures of the bamboo-north to wheel around a cab playing a list of the latest top of the Bhutanese charts in the urban jungle or have you? A faint memory whispers such a migration … you mentioned a capital with hills but for now, I hope the swallow finds you hale and hearty, wherever you are grazing in your languid lethargy.

How is the horse faring now that the dressage is a fading memory, a vanishing trot that will also dissolve, vaporizing in that cauldron of regurgitated stew. Or is there a saddled rider reining in the gallops? And the cranes, the cranes! Are they still black in their necks or has the five-year massage lightened up the hide? Did they did take another five-year buffet for granted? Can a bird ruffle its own feathers? Caged parrots are prone for they are natural ventriloquists who eventually go nuts on account of the repetition of inane clichés taught no doubt by delighted academicians.


From afar I plucked a few wings gone astray in that second coming of the parties. But isn't that just so expected and clichéd? You always said politics was a hopeless endeavor with a lot of promised hopes reciprocated in equal amount by those who take the cue, and queue in to legitimize this hopeful exercise in futility every four or five years. How we keep going through it is a miracle, as is the fervor, from aisle to pulpit and dais to dais. Is a politician a dainty chap with a dodgy tongue? Is his tongue the most insured part of his anatomy? Does that not make it the most vulnerable? Does one cease being a member of the human species when one becomes a politician?

Are those inked in the thumb apolitical? Don’t we usher them in those dainty little offices so we can berate them in large private lounges?
Does it even matter what rolls you are fed by that polished trap? Lou Reed just died, is that an appropriated time to sing “Perfect Day”?

If change is what drives the life of a nation shouldn't we change the course and hire alchemists? Is it just me or do you also get the feeling that no one has a clue about the change they want? Isn’t change a natural vagabond- a hobo and a gypsy, a hippie and a sage, constantly wandering?

I recall your stance at the time- that the act of refusing to vote was in equal measure as morally valid to those who propounded the virtues of the ballot. Although in your defense you did go out to cast your vote the first time around. You made the long journey and although the heat in the lower valleys caused you physical consternation, you said it was a small price to pay in the historical context of nation-building.
What happened hence? Did you feel castrated? Ostracized? Ignored?


Are we addicted to the idea of a utopian change? Is that enslavement? Is it a change of the meta-physical variety or one rooted in terra firma? The spiritual legacy we have always rants and raves about the subject of change as a state of natural existence cathartic to those living in a place called The Even-Keel. If that is true, and it does come from dead-authentic Buddhas and living claimants from that exclusive club of the brothers and sisters of awareness, aren’t we then demanding an all too obvious state of life that is constantly on the flux and the move?
Whether you change lanes or stay fixed in the middle lane isn't traffic an apt analogy to what is already mobile? Should we introduce a new sandwich and call it “Traffic Jam”?

But I digress all too easily, forgive me and let us change the subject. How are the four harmonious friends? Are they still happily hanging out or has that old familiarity bred contempt? Is that seed they planted turning rich and growing green?

I grew up seeing them everywhere, amused by the sight, spellbound and speechless at the story behind the picture. But can it be done? Could you gather them in one spot and have them climb up each other’s backs next to a cypress tree, your national colleague? Do jewels sprout out of buds? Can you call that a fruit? Has it become a tree of genie? Is it as giving as Aladdin’s Lamp?

If so does anybody know? Is it a secret the four brothers of the canvas have vowed to carry-off to their graves? Are there crackles choking that harmonic song? Do harmonium and a harmonica accompany the legendary harmony? Am I off-key? Is the tune turning flat? Is unity a phony philanderer? Is it the same artist drawing those colors all over the kingdom? Do you think he has moments of doubt… a crisis of faith? Does he dream of elephants, monkeys, hares and birds more than any other creature below the ground, above the earth and those from the skies? Or does he dream of lucid-gems and nightmarish thieves?
Should we include fish?
Insects?
Germs?

Have you ever felt the need to reassert your importance? Told your fellow creatures about your esteemed status as the national animal? Do you even care? When a raven comes around the bend do you discuss your mutual national statuses as consecrated birds and sanctified beasts? When you come across the delicate blue poppy, does it give you sadistic pleasure knowing you just devoured a bed of national flowers?


Do you take a piss at the Cypress and leave scented dung?

Are these reflections necessary?
Is masturbation a sport?
Does prostitution require experience and a degree of qualification?
Is a homophobic macho-man really hiding his inner-fairy?
Do you panic when you think about your own legacy?
Does it matter if no one bothers to read yet stacks the shelves with impressive bounds of books?
Would you accept an orange scarf were it to be offered in honor of your status as the national taxi-color? And would you drape it around your muscled hide or would you feel too conspicuous and embarrassed by the contrast in your natural foliage?

What does it say about a man when his tongue is forked but his face is straight?
Can one Google and map a writer’s block?
Is a light-hearted poem any less poetic?
Is there a real human bite in a digital relationship?
Is there meaning in the lives of those who wrote the dictionary?

Does it bother you Budorcas, when we say you are not really wholesome; that we allude your being to bits and pieces of other dead animals who are presumably inferior making you a hybrid joker of sorts with gleeful descriptions of how you came to be? Is there comfort in knowing the Divine Madman was your personal Frankenstein?
Do you find it both sacred and sacrilegious?

I remember a brethren of your ilk who made a trip to where the capital urbanites dwell- the inhabitants assumed he was either lost or had wandered off from his herd. It was a long time ago but the impact was positively reinforcing to imbalanced two-legged mammals.  Your supposedly lost brother was in town foraging expelled goods on the streets. The folks had been taken aback by the sight, with many impromptu sessions held to ascertain the startling presence of his arrival. It is now something of an urban legend you have obviously heard an enthusiastic guide narrate with pride to visiting guests at your enclosure in upper Motithang.


Or Beverly Hills as you once mentioned in passing when I asked you about your whereabouts. I now remember.
Now tell me dear Budorcas, what did he have to say?

Signing-off with burdened clicks, taunting hopes and the cursory mouse,
Yours in the sheepish realm,
Pseudois Nayaur

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