Heap of Empty Pockets

Within the tribal population of Papua New Guinea's Asaro valley region, there is a culturally imposed law regarding yams and growing boys. The yams and boys possess equally potent spirits. To speak the spirit's name in the yam garden or near the initiation hut is expressly forbidden. The unique nature of this situation creates an environment of guilt and shame for anyone who has difficulty holding their tongue during the imbibition ritual. During my last visit, I took note that many of the tribesmen spent days on end wearing ball gags while locked in tiger cages.

Beacon of Failure

You can't walk the train tracks anymore. A series of condominium developments abut these DNA-like strands of quiet contemplation, and the occupants have been complaining about undesireables looking in on Sunday dinners. I recall many a walk alone, each tie conjuring up dreams of travel, escape and undetermined futures. Now even just crossing the tracks may bring the law into your personal space. Unless you crave the fires of confrontation, I can't see how that would appeal to your average wanderer. So we now we'll seek alternate routes toward our mysteries, and dream out of context, while the hiss of the bread truck gliding across the wet road bears down upon our souls.