Shanghai Interrogation

The boy soldier was silent. 

“What’s that for,” the female Public Security Bureau official said pointing to the typewriter on the table.  

“It is for writing letters.” 

They have reservations about letters. Letters, they wonder, looking at each other with jaundiced eyes. Black eyes streaked with exploding blood vessels full of fear and suspicion. 

Letters indicate political insurrection, dissent, forced labor, mandatory abortions, propaganda, civil unrest, turmoil, revolutions, tanks in the street, torture, solitary confinement and executions. 

They see party leaders wringing their pale hands, nervously pacing forbidden cities past stone lions, conducting top-secret meetings trying to figure out what to do, how to put a face on all this. How to manage and manipulate disinformation rivers, how to control floods.

The boy soldier and his comrade save face by maintaining blank, stoic expressions.

They suspect I have connections. Maybe I am a plant, a party member sent to check their unit. Assigned to monitor their methods, their questioning tactics, their subtle use of intimidation, their implications to control and influence peoples' lives for the good of the state.

For all they know I am a subversive. A word terrorist.

“Letters. We will keep an eye on this one,” she said to the soldier.

A writer in Shuangliu, Sichuan, China. 

Little People

The little people lived in Coma-land. They descended from Java man 40,000 years ago.

Like yesterday, today and tomorrow.

They lived in trees. Survival of the fittest. They were the first tree-house builders. Acrobats. Sophisticated.

Vines, branches, trunks, leaves, edibles. 

They swung down, dropping with agility. They walked on all fours. Knuckle down. 

Thousands of years later they stood up. Let's have a look. 

They peered over tall grass. O my goodness.

Many spent their lives looking back at their tree house. Like now.

Fear is a great motivator.

A big hungry predator strolled their way.

They crawled. They walked. They ran. They scurried back to their tree house. Fast. Grunting. Like now.

Fear. Run. Hurry. Hide. Help!

Yeah, yeah. Need transport?

amygdala

Namaste,

Survivors were willing victims of their fear, uncertainty, doubt, adventure and surprise.

Their amygdala, a small almond shaped brain structure validated to be involved in fear and emotional response fired up. 

Manipulated by their collective unconscious and the system of socialization control mechanisms and the subtle power of right wing conservative persuasion and media idiots, they either wanted control or approval facing this daily grinding, mind numbing, heart breaking choice.

They struggled, suffered, danced, experiencing gratitude and forgiveness in their heart.

They lived and died. 

It’s essential to die at least once while you’re alive and get it out of the way.

An engraved Zippo lighter in a dusty Saigon museum cabinet, buried under service ribbons read, “You only die twice. Once when you’re born and when you face Death.”

Metta.

Addictions

I was the only addict in detox taking notes on a yellow legal pad.

I needed raw unfiltered evidence and truth.

I was addicted to writing, photography and traveling. 

Heroin, smack, booze, pills and love addicts were wolves crying and howling in their self imposed vast wilderness of pain, hatred, agony. Looking for self love in detox, trying to get their lives together. 

Some lived as if they were already dead.

“Before I checked when I was growing tired of it all,” I said.

“I lived with a woman in a disastrous, self destructive relationship. I played the rescuer, a father figure. My victim turned on me. They always do. My writing was empty. I drank to avoid the truth facing the real work. Before coming here, I submitted to therapy.

"If I was going to survive and be healthy, I acknowledged the fact, the hard cold realistic truth that I wasn’t responsible for my mother’s death. I needed to confront this guilt at the heart level, not the head level.

“You have to break down before you break through."

“What happened?” said Tom Vodka.

"I broke down, cried, talking out old fears and self destructive behaviors, old angers and resentments. I realized my integrity, my self-reliance. I accepted more responsibility for my life.”

So it goes.

Hawk Informers

A male street hawker spoke with flair and conviction, If you don't buy my cheap cotton hat with a national flag red star, or a cheap wooden bracelet made by an orphan, then the next time I see you while I am walking hot Hanoi streets in the middle of the broiling day with sweat streaming into my eyes trying to make a living, then I won't know you.

My eyes will be dark and lost in their pitiful future. I won't remember you. Ever.

I will continue to walk. All day. In the heat. No water. No rest. To walk, work, meet tourists. No pity. This is my social and economic reality. People ignore you when they don’t have a sale.

Darwinian logic. Evolution of the species. Survival.

I’m not surprised, said Charlie. This is common throughout the country. The Central Party creates a climate of fear. Fathers report wives. Wives report sons and daughters. Daughters report their fathers. It is an evil cycle.

Charlie is a member of the Shining Path Young. This is our new generation, with a new generation of informers and spies. They make good money. They keep their mouth shut and know their place. Infamy. 

What I do today is important because I'm spending a day of my life on it.