Buy the ticket, take the ride

We've all heard various people say over the course of their life, "There's no such thing as a free lunch." Free. As in no cost, gratis, gratuitous, complimentary, costless. Cost nothing.

The other day I invited Nga to visit the Bookworm, an excellent well stocked bookstore in Ha Noi.

We found a couple of books. She loves politics and history and picked up one by Obama. My choice was The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz. He'd been on my list and a used copy had just arrived.

Outside as we were leaving Nga spotted a a box of books on a table. "What's this?" she asked. The owner said, "They are free."

"Really! May I take them all? My school library needs more English books."

"Yes."

A heavy thunderstorm had saturated the books. I was loading them into plastic bags and spotted a dog eared paint splattered thin bent spine rag of a book near the bottom of the pile. I picked it up and the cover stuck to my hand because of the water damage. It was an abstract paint job with black and yellow smeared with white. Pure Jackson Pollack.

I could make out part of the title, "Fear and Loath.... by Hunter S. Thom...."I smiled. An excellent find. Perfect renewal of wild rambling Rolling Stone adventures.

As Hunter said, "True Gonzo reporting needs the talent of a master journalist, the eye of an artist/photographer, and the heavy balls of an actor." He established the style and standard. Often parodied, never duplicated.

A gratis spirit.

Metta.

Jumping Thunder

"Find whatever freedom it is that you need or whatever freedom from need that you seek" - a post on Hanoian from a writer in the Botanical Garden. Everyone lives in their personal garden, visible, secret, serene and portable.

Now then. From the notebook extolling recent Hue travel. On our first afternoon in Hue, Joe, Andi, Isabella and I walked to the Citadel. It sits along the Perfume River, long walled enclosures. It's huge with many exhibits, temples and rooms filled with photographs, art objects and paintings. Old images show an arena where they staged fights between elephants and tigers. 

It rains heavy and the girls disappear. Joe and I take shelter under a pagoda roof with a young couple.

She teaches poetry. Joe asks her to tell us a poem. Thunder. Lightning. She jumps. Rain pours on fields, old marbled stone stones, inside green. Initially she is shy, then she recites a poem. It is musical and mysterious. It is about love, about two people missing each other. Her voice is strong. She feels this poem through her, it is her life, history, all the stories and songs and poetry she learned growing up surrounded by friends and family.

She gets into it. Her voice is an angel. Her melody, rhythm and voice flow as the thundering rain and lightning flashes and dances.

We applaud her performance. She is retiring, relieved. Joe and I perform "Singing In The Rain," for them, circling around stone pillars, twirling with the words, feeling the music. Rain dance. They laugh.

The intensity of the rain slows down and we all walk through the drizzle. Say farewell.

The sun comes out, reflecting diamond light on stones inside shallow water pools. Deep dark blue skies fill the air above mountains. The sun drenched fields are an amazing brilliant shade of green.

We walk over the bridge, over the river.

Metta.

220 Volts of Stupidity

Hi. My name is Mr. Electric. I am the energy driving your machines, tools, lights, music systems and biology. I am the current flowing from here to there, in and out, up and down, before and after, left and right, top to bottom, and circular momentum of gravitational forces.

I am the current surging through your left ring finger when you try to reconnect the broken adapter to the floor strip of plug outlets. I am the immediate surging supply of 220V electricity blasting, tingling up your arm through muscles, tissue, veins, tendons and flesh before petering out near your left shoulder blade.

I am the after effect of a numbing sensation near the tip of said finger and various meridian points along your left arm. This will eventually fade away into a blur like some almost forgotten face, heartbeat, musical note, dust particle or breath of air.

Yet, it will always remain with you, this charge, this bolt of flying electric buzz. The light is steady. You are now fully charged and you may disconnect from the energy source. Congratulations.

Metta.

Ben & V

Travel long enough and far enough and you become a stranger to yourself.

The expatriated broken toothed junkie from Laos spent seven years as political prisoner. Or so he said one morning after dawn, walking through an Old Quarter looking for someone to talk to, a permanent change of address.

He was one of the lost ones. He was the star of his very own highly rated REALITY entertainment program. He talked a blue streak. He ranted. He raved. He had his hand out. Looking for salvation. An exit permit. An empty hand holds everything.

Now he lives on the street of dreams at noon o'clock where a dusty grand-father clock strikes 12. Bong-bong-bong-bong-echo. He jabbered his shadow away, past travel tour shops, bored girls waiting for tourists and motorcycle hustlers.

Lives of quiet desperation. Hustle to eat. Hustle to dream. Meal to meal. A cycle. Conversations love distractions.

Where are you from? asked a motorcycle guy down at the interesection of Yes, No, Maybe, hoping we'd establish a connection, bonding through need, want and desire.

I am from heaven.

He expected a familiar place name like Europe, America, Australia.

Heaven?

Yes.

Where is it?

I point toward the blue sky. There.

It's about trust here said a Frenchman. I know foreigners who have lived here 10 years and they still express reservations about who they can, do trust. It's a problem. Be careful.

In my neighborhood women do all the work. Selling vegetables, cleaning, giving birth, nurturing, sewing, cutting hair, cooking, serving, scrubbing pots, pans, chopsticks, knives.

Thuy is 47, and a teacher in a public middle school. She makes $250 a month. Her classes number 70. Reminds me of my China teaching days. Long bland cement rooms filled with faces.

She speaks good English. She is married with two daughters, Ben, a bright and lively 20 and V, 10. Her husband is an engineer at the largest paint company in Ha Noi. He speaks Russian. Ben studies Portuguese at Ha Noi University and will go to Portugal this October for 10 months.

V is learning how to ride her bike. She is scared of losing her balance and releasing her small fear.

The grace of a finger under a white ceramic bowl. This delicate love. What is essential is invisible.

Metta.

The Spiral Foundation

In Hue I saw some colorful woven baskets.

I entered the "Healing The Wounded Heart Shop." Various baskets from Nepal were made of recycled plastic food snack wrappers. Brilliant reds, greens, blues, all the hues. Cool.

The Spiral Foundation is a non-profit humanitarian organization working in Nepal and Vietnam.

Spiral. Spinning Potential Into Resources And Love.

At the SPIRAL workshop in Hue they create bowls using telephone wires. They work with the Office of Genetics and Disabled Children at Hue Medical College.

All net proceeds from the handicraft sales are returned to Vietnam and Nepal to fund primary health care, medical and educational projects.

Projects employ 1000 participants with fair salaries and hourly wages, not based on piece work. Projects have provided for more than 250 heart surgeries and treatments for children with life threatening diseases.

Metta.