Sam and Dave Part 4

Greetings,

Inside every family’s deep dark Hanoi space was a main room and altar for dead relatives, candles, fruit, burning incense a spirit food, and the black and white and color images reminded me of the Chinese artist in Maija, the poor pig village near the Fujian university where I lived for two years riding my bike across hills up and down narrow dirt back roads,

watching butterflies mate in the dust, old people threshing rice in fields, a woman lugging piles of white cauliflower to market in her bamboo baskets suspended on a bamboo poles, down long small tight dusty paths past athletic shoe shop sweat shop factories filled with morose girls and women hunched over threading clacking Butterfly machines making uppers, lowers, tongues and seamless survival wages until I reached a narrow street to sit drinking Chinese green tea with a man in his little shop. 

Further up the hill were small wooden shops with appliances, family market stalls, street food, electrical stores and butchers. In a small mud and brick place was an artist. His job was drawing pictures of dead people. 

After someone died a relative gave him a common small black and white image, the kind from 1949 when the country declared itself free, independent, and open with 3 Represents and benevolent Chairman Mao (our grandfather bless his heart) smiled at the masses.

Before he told the peasants, “Eat Grass.”

It was an image used throughout their life: in documents for residence, work, school and party politics. The people had the three iron rice bowls. A guaranteed living space, guaranteed work unit, and guaranteed rice rations. It was a great deal. Everyone was treated the same, wore the same clothing, said the same thing and followed the leader, like kids playing a game. No one got out of line. Comrade. 

Metta.

Sam and Dave Part 3

Greetings,

One day I’m sitting in the garden balcony. There’s an invisible guy next door and they have an infant. He raises his voice. People yell here. It’s normal like breathing. They get yelled at when they are kids, like the man yelling at his infant until the kid balls. Tears stream until mother rescues her darling from the emotional abuse. Yelling affects their self-esteem and their well being. Children will learn how to reject this yeller. How to close down. 

They, in turn will learn to raise their voice in a whining, demanding yelling overture. They will be passive, then turn on the yell. As they age they turn off. They turn off their ears. Their ears are assaulted non stop 24/7. The volume control is broken. They grow up to be non-listeners. Never engaged unless marriage and procreation reaction recreation speaks.

The adult savors this power. It’s a throwback to his parents, a generation raised with fear and intimidation and suspicion and insecurity and poverty and informers and empty promises and empty hope and loud voices. Some voices are real and some are pure nightmares.

Hope is the last thing that dies, yells his wife. Take out the garbage fat man. Lose face idiot. Hide your shame. Raise your voice like a flag of authority. Signal your displeasure with the infants. Get them in line. Shape them up because you can’t ship them out. You will raise them to yell with the best of them.

They will yell and bellow like stuck pigs bleating sheep cackling crows breaking palm branches sending shivers down your spineless self pity, with regrets and anger and fear manifesting inside narrow tight lives under long florescent lights, this shattering glare.

They will grow up to be passive-aggressive yellers. They will bury you and take your photo to the artist who will memorize your face. They will look you in the frozen face and give you offerings of fruit and water. They burn incense so your spirit has something to eat, so it will not be angry and return yelling, demanding, pleading. 

One day in the not-too-distant future your dead ancestors will learn to make sounds, then words, phrases, sentences called talk, then louder until they will achieve the decibels required to re-join the family. They will compete in yelling contests with talking monkeys.

Someone - a parent, boss, lover, stranger - will yell at them and they will ignore old yeller. Doesn’t matter who it is, family or friend. Ignore the human, beasts and gods. Old yeller will yell again, a little louder. No answer. 

I wait for them to really get their yell going, louder says the listener, hiding inside silence.

Metta.

Produce Children = Future investment

Greetings,

Yes, possible signs of intelligent life exist in Vietnam or Cambodia. Rumor control reports. Merely existing mind you. 

‘Mind yourself, how you go dearie,’ whispered an Irish ghostwriter Druid in Donegal. Well remembered.

Take my neighbors for example. Sam and Dave. Sam is the kid, Dave is the father. These are not Viet names. If they were they’d be named Binh and Thin and New Yen, like new yin instead of old yang. 

Dave had kids so he and his wife can yell at them. So they will have someone, anyone to take care of them in old age. When they are sitting on their bamboo recliners absorbing 10,000 smells from the kitchen. 

It was an arranged marriage after a three year courtship. Her parents demanded $5,000. Cash. Up front or no deal.

They pretended to need kids to support them in old age but when you’re young and naive pregnancy is always an option. 

It’s easy to have kids in the 13th most populated country on planet Earth. There are 85 million hard and fast rules of parenthood according to the wildly popular and heavily censored Party book, “Produce & Consume.” Get married early, the pressure is on. 

You do not want to be unmarried and sad, lonely and well forgotten. Loneliness dramatically increases the chances of heart attacks, strokes of genius, and arterial vestiges of debilitating forms of social upheaval and social instability in a well mannered society. 

Extreme pressure is on the girls to find a husband. Girls in Sapa, which is not part of this tale, illustrates the value for rural girls to get married at the ripe old age of 16 and start producing genetic forms of themselves. Petri dish. Wash and tear.

Metta.

Labor

Greetings,

Welcome to another edition of: how to paint a curb in Cambodia.

Part 1. Get a plastic bucket. Throw in white language. Tie a blue and white checkered scarf around your neck. It's hotter than the mid-day sun on the Tropic of Cancer. South of the Equator. Slather it on with a broom. David Foster Wallace wrote: The Broom of The System.

DFW said: "what it feels like to live, to observe, to experience in absurd detail where others lack the self-scrutiny or courage to voice them."

2. Your four emaciated brothers walk past on their way to work. Three carry shovels. One carries a sledgehammer. They will transform the small sleepy river town into: (a) a hot tourist location (b) frozen ice inside the hard cold fact:  how necessities become luxuries which happens around Earth. Consider ice. Frozen water. Necessity. Yesterday it was water. Today it is white rice. Close as white on rice. Tomorrow it's Medicine. The day after tomorrow in the long now it's Education. Life's little luxuries. Plural.

They suck on life's plastic straw. They discard the plastic straw and cup on the ground. They walk. They paint. They shovel. They slam sledgehammers.

Their daily efforts will revitalize world economies. They will speak at G-20 economic forums. They will address important powerful people. They will speak to 5% of the world's richest people who control 98% of the total wealth.

They will have a voice. They will represent millions of peasants and poor people. Their labor will wear them down. They will lose the resolve, the focus the vision to alter history. They will be replaced by new workers.

They paint. They shovel dirt. They pound sledgehammers. They suck ice. They mill around. They watch the world pass by hearing inadequate impossible language. Their DAILY language is pure, raw labor. 

A Cambodian woman carries the world on her back. 

Metta.

Sign 101

Greetings,

As I've said before in the long now, this is the land of MILLING AROUND. You are an object of endless fascination. A stranger in a strange land. 

Five boys stand around watching with their curious eyes. They are polite and friendly. They SIGN to speak. Their hands are wings in space. They are from Epic Arts. 

A boy signs to his friend, You only take this ride once.

His friend signs, Stay well grounded and do not fear risk.

Her friend signs, If you want to do amazing things you have to take amazing risks.

Her friend signs, Reveal. Bear witness. Be honest. Be visible.

His friend signs, Honor the muse in whatever way she comes.

A girl signs, They stare at you from the vacuum of their eyes and say would you like to make a deal?

He signs, Buy a ticket take the ride.

She signs, Can we find inside of us a source of inspiration?

He signs, My path is Light.

She sings, Phenomena is ambivalent.

A sign land of vacant hope. A sign people of broken distractions. Where attention span is limited to the stimuli of elastic necks. Life is an accident. A cruel joke. Riders slow down on bikes, motorcycles to survey the disaster in a clean 360 degree arc. 

What is louder than a group of voiced Khmer people? Another group of voiced Khmer people. It's a small miracle anyone can understand anything when they, Voiced Ones, are so busy all talking, speaking, asking at once. Because they are more interested in what THEY have to say the volume naturally increases exponentially. 

They don't get it. Cognitive dissonance.

Someone wants to understand before they are understood.

Two kids are talking. One from the west said, "Where did I come from?"

The kid from the east said, "How did I grow?"

A writer said, Your potential will always go unfulfilled unless it is accompanied by the daily grind of back breaking labor. Nobody wants to hear this. It is not a cheerful message. Writing is a disease. Either you can't stop it or in another case you can't start.

See with soft eyes. Signing off.

Metta.