Phnom Penh, Cambodia
At the tail-end of six months traveling around IndoChina I was bone-spent. The wheels of my carry-on suitcase left skid marks on my soul that had leaked out my pores and got dragged along the pavement. A wise drunk said, as he puffed on his cigar, that on days he felt depressed, “I just go to bed for three days and four nights, pull down all the shades and just go to bed… I come out of that completely re-enlightened for two or three months”.
So I flew to Phnom Penh and hid. Found a cheap boutique hotel, holed up in my room and emerged only to eat, swim, and drink gin and tonics at dusk. I never left the hotel, not once, not to shop, not to try out the local cuisine, not to see the sights. The weekend I was there I took a single photograph. It was of this blue tile that wasn’t particularly striking, but which I found soothing. I stared and read and stared and showered and stared until the magic of this commonplace mandala helped thread my soul back in its proper place.