A Stranger - Ice Girl
Share Article Chapter 21.
A 53-year old stranger from Washington State arrived in Banlung.
At Bright Future guesthouse he deftly slipped in his upper dentures with his right while using his left hand to eat soft eggs. It was obvious he’d perfected this gesture with oral flair, the hand being quicker than the eye.
Gestures use people.
Balding brown hair, long nose, craggy face and deep wrinkles. He talked about selling his sawmill, distrust in the American way of life, raising two kids, and six months working in a Cambodian orphanage.
“I liked the kids,” he said. “No NGO’s fucked with us. They are a scourge like the church. Totally corrupt playing on human weakness, false hopes and sympathies.”
His well-thumbed notebook and pen sat in front of him. He was writing a short story called My Life.
“I went up The Heart of Darkness,” he said, “and disappeared into the jungle for six weeks. Sat down. Camped. Wrote about it. Now I’m back. Someone stole my wallet. I’m waiting for money. Then I’m getting the hell out of here. What I’m telling you is true, or at least as much of it as I remember. I know I have false memories. Everyone does. Imagine people in a world without memory. No past or future. No objects, no identification or attachment. Only forms and swift sensations like flowing water. Living in an eternal present.”
He talked about his former life delivering cars, planning wood, making furniture, raising kids and getting it down on paper.
“I’m going to put my personal emotions into it, make it heavy deep and real, write numerous shitty drafts, edit the sucker and independently publish this beautiful mess. Yeah, yeah. When I get back to the states I’ll put my heart in it.”
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